Michael Prescott: Riptide

“Jennifer.”

She turned. Casey was there. She managed a smile. “What, I’m not Half-Pint, or Small Change, or Pixie?”

“Not tonight,” he said soberly. “I’m headed over to the station. I’d like you to come along.”

“What for?”

“So you can give me a full statement. We need you to go over the whole story from the beginning.”

“I can do that here.”

“No, you can’t. This place is a zoo. And it’s only going to get worse. We, uh, we have word the media’s on the way.”

“Oh.”

“Once this hits TV…”

“I know.”

“Let’s get going, then.”

They got out before the first TV crew arrived. Jennifer caught sight of a KABC truck rounding the corner just as Casey pulled away. She had watched the news on many nights, feeling vaguely guilty as she snatched voyeuristic glimpses of other people’s tragedies. Now the rest of the city would be watching her.

The ride to the station house was brief and quiet. The only words were the crackling transmissions on the cruiser’s radio. As Casey turned into the parking lot, Jennifer asked, “Shouldn’t you be off-duty by now?”

“Guess I’ll put in some overtime. I can use it.”

“Sure, you’re just in it for the money.”

He shut off the engine. They sat in the sudden stillness.

“He’ll get help now,” Casey said.

“Unless he gets killed first.”

“My people are professionals. They’ll make every effort to see he isn’t hurt. And once he’s off the street, no one else will be hurt, either.”

He opened the door, but she made no move to unbuckle her seatbelt.

“I should have come to you sooner,” she said.

“Before the library? You still weren’t sure.”

“I was sure enough.”

“Without proof, we might not have listened.”

“I’d have made you listen.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Yes, I can. I was trying to protect him. And now this has happened. And it’s my fault.”

“No one would ever say that.”

She lowered her head. “I’m saying it.”

Casey left her in the break room of the station house, suggesting she get herself something to eat. It seemed odd to think about sustenance. She rummaged in the cabinets and found Saltines. Crunching the dry crackers, she thought about guilt.

Casey was right; no one would blame her. Yet she blamed herself. Maybe she was just obsessive by nature.

She remembered the long hours she’d spent in the Santa Monica Library-the old library, not the modernistic palace that replaced it-scrolling through newspapers on microfilm, researching her father’s suicide. She’d done it in secret, telling no one, not her mother, not even Richard. She talked to the neighbors who had known him. She learned everything she could, though the task was painful and pointless.

Yet not entirely pointless. She had a purpose, one she had scarcely admitted even to herself. She was driven by fear of inheriting her father’s insanity. And so she needed to know all about it, to know the warning signs, the timetable. From her late teens onward, she’d been on guard against the onset of schizophrenia, relaxing only when she entered her late twenties and statistics said she was at minimal risk. She had been spared.

Then Richard had been taken. It was Richard the disease wanted, not her.

And part of her-part of her had felt grateful .

Even as she grieved for her brother, part of her had stood back, thinking, Thank God it’s not me.

She had never quite admitted it to herself-how thankful she’d been. How selfishly pleased that the hand of fate had passed her by and fingered Richard instead.

She wondered why the revelation would hit her now, of all times. Maybe because her defenses were down, all rationalizations stripped bare.

If she could change places with him…if she could be the crazy one…would she do it? Would she make the trade?

No point in thinking about it. Thoughts like that would only-she shook her head-would only make her nuts.

The cell phone in her pocket let out the special ring tone that signaled an SMS alert. She had a text message.

From Abberline.

She stared at the phone, reading the words on the display screen.

Need to talk.

For a moment she couldn’t react. This was just a new facet of her nightmare. It wasn’t real, and even if it was, she couldn’t deal with it.

But this was Richard. Reaching out to her.

She had promised herself she would always be there for him. And yet she couldn’t break that promise, even now.

Her fingers trembled as she tapped a response. I’m here.

You chased me. You brought the police after me.

I have to stop you, Richard. I don’t want you to kill anymore.

There was a long pause. She feared he’d gone away. Then he answered, I don’t want to, either.

She needed to believe him. But she forced herself to be analytical, to approach the communication the same way she’d approached the threat letter to Marilyn Diaz. To follow the red thread wherever it might lead.

He’d already noted her association with the police. If the police were his enemies, then so was she. Why would he open up to someone working against him?

That’s good, Richard , she wrote cautiously. That’s the right way to feel.

Can’t run forever.

OK.

Need to turn myself in.

OK.

They’ll put me in a hospital.

She couldn’t dispute this. He was too smart to tolerate any lies. In the hospital you can get better , she answered.

I’ll never be free again. I’ll be alone.

Not alone. I’ll come see you.

You’re just telling me what I want to hear.

She wondered about that statement. He’d already said he wanted to stop killing. Was he just telling her what she wanted to hear? It wasn’t uncommon for a writer to project his own state of mind onto others.

I’m telling you the truth , she typed.

You’re a liar. Setting me up.

I’m being honest, Richard. The next move is up to you.

Another long pause. Genuine, or for dramatic effect?

I’ll surrender to you , he wrote. No one else. Just you. At the house.

He wanted her alone behind closed doors. He’d said she was setting him up. It looked more like it was the other way around.

Unless he was sincere. She couldn’t rule it out.

We’ll have to go to the police , she told him, just to test his reaction.

I know. You swear you won’t let them hurt me?

I’ve always looked out for you. Haven’t I?

You should have looked out for yourself. (Was his subconscious telling her to look out for herself now?) You would have lived a better life. (Look out for herself if she wanted to live?) You wouldn’t have been trapped in that old house with those old bones. (Look out for herself or be trapped like those victims from long ago?)

That’s all in the past , she wrote. We have to work together now. Will you come to the house?

I’ll come. 10 PM.

She checked her watch. It was after nine already. I’ll be there , she wrote.

Just you.

Just me.

There were no more messages. She slipped the phone into her pocket and stood thinking.

Yes, she might feel guilty. Maybe she had good reason to feel that way. But she couldn’t let guilt skew her judgment or stifle her intuition.

If anyone but her brother had sent that message, she would have read it as a threat, a trap. That was how she had to read it now. After what he’d done to Maura, she could give him no benefit of the doubt.