Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

“I’m Doctor Bright.”

Eve just kept speaking. “On the matters of case numbers . . .” She reeled off many as she took a seat across from him. “Mr. Ravenwood, you’ve—”

“I prefer Doctor Bright.”

“You’ve been read your rights,” she continued. “Do you understand your rights and obligations in these matters?”

“I understand perfectly, and so much more. How are you feeling?”

“Better than you will. A hell of a lot better than your two pals are. They’re getting jittery. That’s what happens when addicts don’t get their fix. I figure they’ll roll on you within twenty-four, but I don’t need them. Peabody, why don’t you list the illegals found in our guest’s home?”

Peabody took out her PPC and crisply read off the report from Illegals.

“Quite a collection.” She kept her eyes on his, actually felt him try to probe her thoughts—and pushed her will against his. “That alone’s going to get you a nice long stay in a cage. Add in using said illegals on individuals without their consent or knowledge—”

“They come to me.” He played his fingers in the air. “They come seeking my help. I give them what they seek. We cross the bridge together, and the crossing requires peace. A quiet mind, quiet, relaxed, still.” His fingers played, played, as if stroking a purring cat. “Imagine drifting under a blue sea, under a blue sky. See the clouds, white and soft.”

He had something, she thought, and it pulled. But it wasn’t enough without the kick of his herbs and chemicals. She leaned closer. “You think you can mesmerize me? You’re a fraud. You’ve been a fraud your whole life. You just figured out how to use a mediocre talent to get rich and feel important.”

“Mediocre!” He slapped his hands on the table. “My gift is beyond. My beyond is genius!”

“Your gift is bullshit, Ravenwood. Or should I call you Niles Carroll? Maybe Angus Roland or Anton Zacari or François Simon?”

Something flickered in his eyes—the first hint of fear.

“I have many names. My gift demands it.”

“Gift.” She snorted. “I’ve seen carneys with more than you have. That’s where you started, right?” She pushed up, moved around the table, coming at him from behind. “Telling fortunes, getting people to quack like a duck at some two-bit carnival? You and your sister.”

His body jerked. “Be quiet.”

“Golly.” Peabody widened her eyes. “You’re pissing him off, Lieutenant.”

“Am I? Does it piss you off to talk about your sister? Did you feed her the drugs that hooked her, or did she do it to herself? Why did she try to kill you? Did one of your sessions go south? Or maybe you’d just had enough of her, drugged her up good, faked the whole thing so you could kill her.”

“She killed herself.”

“Like Darlene Fitzwilliams? Like—wait, let me read your mind.” She held her hands over his head, swayed. “I feel their spirits reaching out to me. Marian Beechem in London, Fiona MacNee in Edinburgh, Sylvia Garth in Prague.”

“Get away from me.” He shrieked it, but Eve continued to list names. “All women, like your sister.”

“I bet he couldn’t bring her back,” Peabody said. “She wouldn’t come. Not after what he did to her.”

“Shut up! Shut your mouth! You can’t speak. Your tongue is tied, your throat is closed!”

Peabody’s lips clamped together, her eyes widened as she lifted her hands to her throat. Choked and gasped. Then dropped them. “Nope, I can speak just fine.”

Good one, Eve thought. She glanced at her ’link, read Roarke’s text. Smiled. Then walked around the table again. “Jesus, the guy believes his own shtick. No good without the tea party and the mists, the lights. The hats? What is it with the hats?”

“Carneys like props,” Peabody suggested. “Maybe he’ll pull a white rabbit out of one.”

“Or a March Hare. But her name’s really Willow Bateman, and she’ll do all kinds of flips on you.”

“Ms. March is loyal.”

“To your illegals cocktails, sure. But without them . . . You shouldn’t have pitched your pathetic ability against someone like Dupres. She’s the real deal, and she gave us everything we needed to shut you down.”

“Impossible.” He flicked his hands in the air.

“Why? Because you slipped your ugly little mix into her tea leaves? Because you went to her, drugged her, then picked Fitzwilliams out of her client list? And while she was drugged, you planted the order for her to kill herself if she remembered, if she was questioned? Jesus, she lives over a restaurant. Did you really think no one would see you go up to her place?”

“I didn’t go! I sent Ms. March.”

“Right.” Eve sat again. “You sent Bateman posing as a client, and she laced the tea. And Mouse—that’s Maurice Xavier—brought them to you. Fitzwilliams now, such an easy mark, and such deep pockets. Wait.”

Eve pressed a hand to her temple. “I’m getting another psychic flash. Nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars. Cash. Such a fat fee for you. But . . . there’s more. That well-heeled foundation. Millions to pump from that. What’s that? What? Yes, I can almost see it. There! The Looking Glass Fund.”

“Get out of my head!” The madness was back in his eyes. “You can’t see! I want my hat. Get me my hat.”

“You really think your stupid hat can stop me from seeing? The Amazing Dallas sees all, knows all. You had to get rid of them both. Push Darlene to make a twelve-million-dollar bequest to your shell charity, and get rid of them both. For the money, and the satisfaction. Sister, brother, just like you and Alice.”

He bared his teeth, all fury now. “I can make you beat your head against the wall until you’re dead!”

“Try it.” She reared up, pushed her face into his. “Just try it. I’m not drugged and grieving like your victims. You sent Darlene to kill her brother. You gave her the shears. What did she think they were? Candy? Wine? Flowers? Flowers,” she repeated when she saw his eyes shift. “‘I’m so sorry we argued, Marcus. I brought you flowers.’ And she stabbed him in the heart, then she jumped off his terrace, hallucinating, thinking what? She was walking on the beach, stepping into her own house? It doesn’t matter, you killed her, killed them both. And for what? For money. For money and entertainment. And to feel powerful.”

“I am powerful. I gave her what she wanted, didn’t I? She’s with her parents. I gave her what she asked for. I deserve the money. I want my money! I want my hat!”

He beat his fists on the table, his feet on the floor. “You’ll kill each other before the night is through. I can make you, like I made all the others. You’ll cut each other to ribbons. Ribbons of blood. And with blood we’ll paint all the roses red.”

He took a deep breath, and the shoulders that had come up to his ears relaxed again. “Now, have Ms. March fetch the tea.” His fingers played in the air again as he stared into Eve’s eyes, smiled. “We’re having tea. It’s my tea party, and it never, never ends.”

“I’ve got news for you. The party’s over.”

When they’d finished with him, at least for the night, Eve had him taken down to where he’d be held in the psych section, on suicide watch.

“Mira’s going to have a hell of a time with him,” Eve said. “We’ll take the other two in the morning. We’ll see what kind of mood they’re in after a night without their particular brand of tea.”

She watched Roarke come out of Observation.

“I regret to say, I do believe he’s mad as a hatter.”

“Probably,” Eve agreed. “That’s up to Mira, and I don’t give a rat’s ass if he spends the rest of his life in a concrete cage or a padded room. Either way, he’s done.”