The searing hot engine grumbled and shook like a wild beast barely containing its primal anger. The bikeβs driver, keeping the vehicle on standstill with one foot on the pavement, glanced to her right, scanning the house numbers to make sure she was in the right place. Satisfied that she was, but shaking her head with disapproval, she killed the engine with a twist of the key. Just like that, the furious growling died and only the sound of rain spattering against the hard exterior of her helmet remained. She dismounted and disabled the vehicleβs front wheel with a disc lock that she produced from a small bag on the rear of the seat. Imperfect security, but it was better than nothing; either way she hadnβt planned on being gone for too long.
Removing her helmet, she left the bike behind and leisurely followed the sidewalk. It was evening β long, wet shadows crawled across the street, pushed back only by the fluorescent light of lamp posts. No pedestrians in sight; some women would feel rightly afraid of being alone in such a place, but not her. She had grown accustomed to walking in dangerous places on her lonesome long ago. Whether it was bravery or foolishness, she could not say.
Trisha entered the door code and, after waiting for a few moments, pushed open the door when a buzz signaled the release of the locks. She stood in the lobby for a while, letting the door shut behind her, and took in the sight with distrustful eyes, as the rain dripped off of her black leather coat. One could still hear the downpour outside battering against the building, muffled but immutable. The absence of a receptionist β even just the janitor β bothered her. When she cocked her ear to listen, she could hear no sound coming from anywhere besides the rain. It was altogether too quiet. Frowning, she approached the elevator and the adjoining information board. Every step of her solid outdoors-boots echoed across the empty room. The sound unsettled her. She preferred being quiet when possible. Scanning the board quickly, with eyes trained through the analyzing of lengthy documents for years, she spotted her mark: the psychiatric office on the sixth floor. She scoffed. Is this what she has come to now? Does she really need a shrink to deal with her life? No, she reminded herself. Sheβs doing this for Abigail. And only for her.
Taking a mental note of the other noticed posted on the board, she called the elevator and rode it to the sixth floor. Inside the elevator was a mirror where she could catch a glance at the presentation she would make. Wet, black hair tied in a bun. Dull grey eyes framed by a dark coloration β mascara at a first glance, though in truth just the mark left by exhaustion. No lipstick or other make-up. She wasnβt that kind of woman. Not anymore. A knee-length leather coat and thick leather pants protected her not only on her bike, but would also prove useful in a scuffle. She had tested knife cuts against them.
The door opened, accompanied by the ring of a bell. Before leaving, she looked ahead into the corridor. Seeing it was empty, she stepped out and looked to the left and right as well. Nothing. Ahead, an open door permitted light to shine into the otherwise dim hallway. Must be it, she thought. Slowly she headed for the light, this time taking care to step softly. The whiteboard next to the entrance caught her eye and, compelled by her detective nature, she tried to read not only the things written on it now, but the things erased and barely visible. Nothing too interesting, until she saw it β a faded glyph in the upper right corner. She did not recognize it, but she has seen things like it in the past. The Violator often left occult symbols at the scenes of his crimes. It was enough to bring it all back.
Mothers devastated. Children mutilated. Bound bodies, their faces contorted with unspeakable pain. DNA traces. Autopsies.
They had him by the balls so many times. Cornered him in a hotel once, all exits blocked. She even caught a glimpse of him as he rushed into another room, closing the door behind him. But then they breached the room and it was empty. No other exits. The man just vanished without a trace. Fucking magician.
Trisha closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Breathe in, breathe out. She suddenly felt very drained. Every heartbeat felt like a laborious, conscious effort. Fumbling on the inside of her coat, she produced a packet of pills. Without second thoughts, she swallowed one and put the rest back where they came. Breathe in, breathe out. Her eyelids felt so heavy.
Again she focused on the symbol on the whiteboard. There was no way this was just some kidβs doodle β too unusual a place, and too high to reach. Somebody deliberately put this there once, and they knew what it meant. It was an omen she would have to take seriously. But at least, she thought, there was now a good reason to go to this therapy after all. Perhaps she could implicate the doctor with the Violatorβs crimes. Perhaps he had a clue. She put her hand over her coat, across where her left-side ribs would be, and felt the comforting contour of her gun underneath. If push came to shove, she always had this.
Waiting for a few moments for the caffeine tablet to kick in, she eventually took heart and stepped from the shadow into the light. A dozen chairs arranged in a circle β she really was in the loony bin now. She had to swallow her pride and submit to this, she reminded herself. It was for a good reason. For Abigail and, as it turned out, perhaps for herself. She just had to stay sharp and make sure that nobody else caught on to the fact that she was ready to pounce.
βEvening,β she muttered, βShrink therapy, correct?β
She took a seat that was equally distant from her two nearest neighbors β a considerable distance, as there were very few attendees. Shortly afterwards, the doctor began his opening speech. Lovely, she thought. Rehabilitation? He made it sound as if she was still on probation, with one foot in the madhouse. He did not even offer a cure of any kind. Just talk. Well, talk was cheap. It was exactly what she had expected: a waste of time.
While McCoy spoke, she took the time to assess his profile and that of the others in the room with her. McCoy looked to be a man in his sixties or seventies, superficially benevolent and friendly. But everybody knows psychiatrists choose their job first because they want to understand the madness within before they want to understand the madness without. Trisha had no doubt that his friendliness was a well-trained act. She knew how to do it too. Besides, it would take someone truly strange to become one of the only psychiatrists in their field to specialize in, what the information board below called, βobscure eventsβ. Obscure sounded about right, at least. The Violator was no normal human being. The disappearances, the occult nature of his crimes, none of it was normal. Obscure, like that symbol by the door, isnβt that right, old man?
Besides herself, there was a younger girl in the session, perhaps in her teens or early twenties. Trisha could not fathom what she could be doing here. Superficially she was quite ordinary, perhaps a bit on the nerdy side with those thick glasses of hers. Hard to say if they were a style choice or if she really did need glasses. Maybe she was here out of curiosity. Or maybe she was really good at not showing outward signs of distress. Well, what did it matter to her, anyway? The girl was not involved in her case, she had to remind herself. Not yet.
Trisha crossed her legs and leaned back, taking note that the chairs, at least, were quite comfortable. For now, she let other people talk; she had never been the best talker, her talent was with observation. Even when she was interrogating suspects, she ultimately based her assessments less on the exchange of words and more on the suspectβs body language and reactions. Besides, she was none too eager to tell a bunch of unrelated strangers about the worst criminal in Americaβs tragic history.
