By keeping these men prisoner here, by drugging them and holding them against their will, someone had committed a grievous crime. But it was not the work of a serial killer. Not the work of any kind of killer at all. Every one of these men was blessedly alive.
We had all been looking for the wrong kind of criminal. Of course we hadn’t found him.
I moved among the men and, one by one, felt for their pulses and undid their gags, rushing, my fingers fumbling. There was too much to do at once. Triage was all about quick decisions. First, make sure everyone is alive. Check to see if anyone is in a life-threatening crisis. Then worry about their comfort.
None of the men appeared to be in acute danger.
Yes, sedated, but clearly not dehydrated or starved.
And not dead.
Not at all dead. I needed help now.
I pulled out my cell phone again-there was still no signal. We were too deep in the bowels of the earth.
I had to get to Jordain. As soon as possible.
“I am going to go and get you help,” I said to the men, and then turned to go back up the dark, steep steps.
Sixty-Five
Nicky stood in the doorway, blocking my way, but he wasn’t looking at me. His mouth was open and he was as pale as the men lying before him. Except some of their paleness-that dead look we’d all seen in the photographs- was paint. I’d seen the palette and the brushes upstairs. Daphne was an artist. She had used her talents to create the impression of death, disguising their flesh tones with a light gray paint before she took their photos.
As Nicky took in the scene, I knew, because I had just been through the process, that his brain was trying to understand and accept what he was seeing. It was clear from his reaction that he was not involved in this abomination.
“We have to call the police,” I said. “Now. Quickly. Can you get me to a phone?”
He didn’t move. A vein on his temple throbbed to the beat of some atonal tune.
“Did Daphne do this?” His voice wavered with the question.
“I don’t know.”
“How…” His voice broke.
He was still in my way. “Nicky, we need to call the police. Please, let me go upstairs, let me call an ambulance. The police.”
He was not listening. “My wife. Did she do this?”
“I don’t know, Nicky.”
“Are they dead?”
“No, but every one of them is in danger. We are in danger. You and I. Daphne is, too. Please, we need to go upstairs and call the police.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“No.”
“You know she did this, don’t you?”
I nodded my head.
“And you know why she did this, don’t you?”
I hadn’t been able to imagine why anyone would have done it when I’d first arrived in the dungeon. As I was bending over those living cadavers and listening to their hearts, it was impossible to guess. But now, seeing Nicky’s sad, sick eyes, I did.
“Yes,” I said as I tried to get past him.
“It was to scare me away from the society, once and for all. To make me think that if I kept going I would be next.”
“Nicky!” I yelled at him. “Stop. Not now. We can talk about all of this once I call the police.” But we didn’t get anywhere. Daphne had found us.
“Nicky?” Her voice was strong and certain and commanding. “What do you think you are doing down here?”
Sixty-Six
Officer Butler carried the enlargements of the fifth victim’s right thigh, and as she walked she flipped through them, watching as the area in question got larger and larger and larger until it filled the whole sheet.
Her mouth opened in astonishment just as she crossed the threshold into the room where Jordain and Perez were waiting.
“You are not going to believe this. It’s like he’s got a splotch of living flesh here. Is it possible the rest of him could be painted?” She looked up. Neither detective had even heard her.
Jordain and Perez were on the speakerphone, listening and struggling into their jackets as the conversation hurried on.
“Yes, yes, he has the number 1 written on both feet” came the disembodied male voice.
“Okay. We’re on our way,” Jordain started for the door.
“Greenwich Hospital, that’s what exit?” Perez shouted.
“Exit three on I-95.”
Butler hurried along with them, getting the story as they rushed through the halls, out of the station house and into Jordain’s car.
“A man was brought to the emergency room at Greenwich Hospital about thirty minutes ago. Heart attack. Naked. And, like you heard, with red numbers on the bottoms of his feet.”
“Have they confirmed it’s Philip Maur?”
“He’s conscious. Says that’s who he is. Wife is on her way up there, too.”
Jordain pulled the car out of the parking spot.
“There’s one odd thing,” Perez told Butler. “The doctors found streaks of grayish white paint on his legs.”
“I know,” Butler said, handing him the photographs.
Sixty-Seven
Philip Maur’s wife was sitting by his bedside. The heart attack had been Thorazine-induced and had done only minor damage. She held her husband’s hand and wept silently, muttering the same five words over and over.
“I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead.”
Jordain and Perez stood in the doorway, finishing up their conversation with the doctor.
“We won’t stay any longer than we have to.”
“I’m going in with you, just as a precaution.”
“That’s fine,” Perez said.
“Do you know where you were?” Jordain asked after he and Perez had identified themselves and told Mr. Maur how happy they were that he was alive.
Phil nodded. “At her house,” he said in a hoarse voice. He licked his lips. Once, and then again. His wife handed him a glass of water. He drank from it slowly. All the way down.
Jordain was impatient but didn’t show it.
“You were at her house?”
“We were all at her house.”
“All?”
“Five of us. Tied up like…” His voice cracked and he started to cry. Damn. But he could no more stop the tears than he could let go of his wife’s hand.
“You and four other men. Are all of them dead?”
He shook his head. His shoulders heaved.
The doctor moved in, ready to stop the interview if the monitor showed any change in the man’s heartbeat, but the pattern stayed consistent.
“I know this is terrible, Mr. Maur, and we are very sorry to have to ask you to talk about what happened, but we need to find the house. We need to find the people who did this to you.”
Phil was shaking his head vehemently.
“Everyone is alive. Drugged. But alive…” A sob escaped. “I’m sorry…never meant to…” The tears flowed. His wife was staring at him.
Jordain figured that Phil was not going to say anything with his wife sitting there. He sought out Butler’s eyes and motioned to Mrs. Maur with a slight incline of his head. She walked over, gently took the woman by her arm and said, “Mrs. Maur, could you just come outside with me for a few minutes? I have some questions I need you to help me with.”
Once she was out of the room, Jordain took her place by Phil’s bedside.
“All that matters right now is finding out where you were. Where the other men are. So we can get to them in time. Do you know whose house it was?”
He nodded.
“What is her name?”
“I didn’t mean to…”
“There is time for that later, Mr. Maur. Right now, we need to know where you were and where those other men are being held.”
“I only know her first name. The name she used.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know if it was her real name. A lot of them didn’t use their real names.”