The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(100)

In spite of a nurse’s best efforts, earth from the grounds of the Walters Institute still lined his nails. From his reclining position he saw something under the small dresser, something that could easily roll away from vacuum cleaners and mops. He crouched and stretched his arm until he could wrap his fingers around it. He retrieved it and opened his hand. What a treasure—a green crayon barely two inches long, dusty from its stay on the floor but otherwise perfectly intact.

The memory floated up through the mist of sedation; it carried a sense of urgency and the illusion that Ronald was close by and speaking to him. Vincent reached up as high as his arm would go and traced a single green line. It snaked around the room and curled around the door. It traveled over paint and brick and wood. It traveled from the coils of Vincent’s mind out into the world.

By the time Vincent was back on the bed and had whispered the “. . . my soul to take” part, five lines crept and twisted around one another.





Chapter 44





Madison closed her eyes. In the late afternoon the street below the windows of the detectives’ room was already a haze of headlights and flashing signals. So many times on Alki Beach, pausing after her run and breathing hard with her hands on her knees, she had gazed at Seattle across Elliot Bay: the water seemed to capture each and every light and throw it back up into the air for those who cared to notice. Where was Conway’s car? Madison thought of it as a dot of light moving among the other identical dots along the highways, the overpass, and the busy city streets. Just one dot among thousands, carrying death and destruction.

Kelly’s words had hunkered down and shot out roots. Even her perfectly reasonable reply now seemed paper-thin and inadequate. She didn’t particularly care about his good opinion; however, that accusation had cut to the quick. She considered herself neither naïve nor arrogant, and yet there was a connection to the two men in question that she could not explain away as sensible strategy and good planning. Maybe it was Harry Salinger’s true legacy, and it couldn’t simply be filed and dispensed of in a police report.

Madison sipped her coffee, hours old and reheated beyond all recognition. Maybe, if they were lucky, the water would catch that one dot of light that was Conway’s car and single it out for them.

Madison dialed Dr. Peterson’s cell number. He picked up on the second ring. She already knew where Vincent Foley was: a cell in a secure wing inside an institute for the criminally insane, checked in under an assumed name. It was an observation cell and as comfortable as those could be. The sequence of walls and locked doors around him were for his protection. With luck, he wouldn’t have to stay there long.

“My patients have been spread about a dozen or so institutions, my staff is in shock, and I have no idea if and when we’ll ever be able to go back . . .”

He didn’t say “home,” although that was what it sounded like he was about to say.

“I’m really sorry,” Madison said, and she meant it.

“I know. And here you are calling me about one patient in particular.”

“Yes, Doctor. In spite of what happened, I have to ask you this. When will Dr. Takemoto be able to interview Vincent Foley again?”

“Did you speak to him before we arrived? When you were alone with him?” The stress was on “alone.”

“Yes, I did. He was digging, and I asked him about it.”

“Anything useful to your investigation?” Peterson’s tone was bitter and felt entirely unlike him.

“I don’t know yet, Doctor. Possibly.”

A beat of silence on the line.

“Thomas Reed had two daughters in middle school. He went back into a burning building to search for Vincent.”

“I know.”

“Your Dr. Takemoto could go back in a couple of days if Vincent continues to improve and doesn’t need sedation.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll let her know.”

“He can’t stay in that place forever; you understand that, right? He needs to be able to walk about, have other people around him, look through windows and see natural light.”

“I understand.”

Nevertheless, if there was a good place for Vincent Foley in this world, Madison sure had no idea where it might be.


The call came in at 8:17 p.m.: the black Subaru had been picked up on I-90 driving east toward Bellevue, coming off Exit 10. Not hours earlier but just now. Madison and Dunne were already putting on their coats when Lieutenant Fynn stopped them in their tracks.

“No time to run after them. It’s Bellevue PD’s patch; they’re dispatching a SWAT team to assist their plainclothes officers—not a uniform in sight.”