Ashes Page 28

  Madeline

  The poker tournament was now a day away, and while it was set that we’d be leaving for New Orleans on Thursday morning before the first round scheduled for Thursday night, Patrick’s recent invitation had my current attention. It was probably a good decision on his part that he didn’t give me more advance notice. Had he, I’d no doubt have overthought what I would say or do.

  With Garrett as our driver, multiple Sparrow men about, and my hand in Patrick’s, the two of us approached a long-term care facility in Downers Grove, west of the city of Chicago. I inhaled the fresh air as we stepped away from the car. Despite the time of year—late January—sunshine streamed down, providing an unusually warm day. Snowmelt and dripping icicles left the sidewalk wet, dampening the leather of my boots as we walked closer.

  We were a handsome couple: Patrick in his suit, Italian loafers, and wool topcoat. Beneath my coat, I wore black slacks and a silk blouse. My hair was pulled back and styled in a low twist. Upon my ears were earrings that appeared in our bedroom during my fog. With my husband beside me, there was nothing I lacked.

  “May I help you?” the woman at the front desk asked after we entered.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Kelly,” Patrick said. “We’re here to see Wilma Adkins. I called a few days ago.”

  A few days ago?

  I turned to Patrick, yet the woman was speaking.

  “Yes, Mr. Kelly,” she said with a smile. “I’m Becky. I’m the one you spoke with. Unfortunately, Ms. Adkins wasn’t up for visitors until today.” She smiled. “Today she is a bit more lucid.” Becky’s gaze met mine. “Your husband told me that you two were old acquaintances. That’s why her medical team agreed to your visit. Sometimes people from the past can trigger memories.”

  “Thank you,” I said as my hand trembled in Patrick’s grasp.

  “Let me show you to her room.”

  Taking off my wool coat, I folded it over my arm as Patrick and I followed Becky.

  The scent of disinfecting cleansers filled my senses as well as the offending odors the cleaners were hoping to disguise. My boots tapped along the tile floor. The hallways were clean, and the flooring gleamed with coats of wax. On the walls were pictures of flowers and wildlife. With the passing of each door, I peered inside, seeing some rooms with male patients and others with females. It appeared all the rooms were private. Most of the patients were either sitting near the window in a chair or lying upon their bed. Orderlies and aides hurried about.

  Becky came to a stop before a closed door. “As I warned your husband,” she said, “Ms. Adkins is restrained for her own good. Please don’t think it’s about punishment. She has been known to fall and injure herself if she attempts to get out of her bed without assistance. There’s a chance she’ll ask you to help her. Please don’t loosen the restraints.”

  I nodded. “I won’t. I only want to ask her a few questions about mutual friends.” That wasn’t completely accurate, and it wasn’t totally false.

  “Mrs. Kelly, patients such as Ms. Adkins are unpredictable at best. If she speaks to you, her answers may not make sense.”

  “I’m not well experienced with dementia.”

  “Dementia is a syndrome comprised of a group of symptoms,” Becky explained. “Alzheimer’s is a type of dementia that progressively worsens. Unfortunately, that is Ms. Adkins’s diagnosis and relatively speaking, she was diagnosed younger than most. While she has good days and not-good days, we can’t expect her to get better.”

  “Thank you for explaining.”

  “If she answers you at all, it will be her truth. I am not saying it is the truth.”

  Her truth.

  Patrick’s hand came reassuringly to the small of my back.

  “Are you saying,” I asked, “that she might lie or that she might not know the truth?”

  “Part of the disease and often an early symptom is the loss of the ability to conquer language. Everyone forgets a word from time to time. This, however, is more extreme, for example, using a totally inappropriate word in place of another. “I want to eat baseball for lunch,” is a rather simplistic illustration. We don’t eat baseball. The patient doesn’t mean baseball. He or she may mean anything from spaghetti to ice cream. There’s no way of knowing. And yet the request to eat baseball is said with full conviction. In the mind of that patient, they aren’t saying baseball but their chosen food. I’m telling you this because if she says something that makes no sense, it isn’t her fault, and she may become agitated at your lack of understanding.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “We can only allow the two of you to visit for a short time, and if Ms. Adkins becomes agitated, we will ask you to leave.”

  “Thank you,” Patrick said, “for allowing us to visit.”

  Becky smiled as she reached for the door handle. “We’ll keep the door slightly open. Wilma also becomes agitated if doors are left open wide. She seems to feel more secure when they’re closed.”

  I nodded as Patrick and I entered the room.

  Unlike the rooms we’d passed, the curtains were drawn and the only light was coming from overhead. The television was playing an old episode of a sitcom from the 1980s. My attention went to the patient lying in the bed.

  Sparse short white hair covered her head. Her small frame was covered by a bathrobe with a nightgown visible beneath. Blankets covered her legs, and her wrists were attached to the sides of the bed with what appeared to be a Velcro restraint. Hanging from the bed frame was a large bag filling drip by drip with her urine.

  The bed was elevated so she could see the television across the room. She didn’t seem to register our arrival. Her eyes stayed fixed on the rerun.

  “Wilma,” Becky said, “you have visitors.”

  Wilma didn’t move.

  My certainty of her identity from before began to fade.

  How could this frail woman be the monster of my past?

  “Wilma.” Becky touched her arm. “Remember, I told you visitors were coming.”

  Wilma’s head shook. “Where’s Billy? When is he coming?”

  My gaze snapped to Patrick’s. He’d told me that her brother William was deceased.

  “Lewis will be here,” Becky said.

  Wilma’s head shook. “I want to see Bill. He said we’d see a movie.”

  “Today, Mr. and Mrs. Kelly are here to see you,” Becky said, pointing our direction.

  I took a step forward. “Hello, Wilma.”

  She looked up, her nose scrunching. “I don’t know you.”

  “My name is Maddie.”

  “No, I don’t know a Maddie. You have the wrong person.”

  “Did you ever go by the name of Miss Warner?” Patrick asked.

  Her head shook. “That’s not my name. Go away.”

  Becky looked at us pleadingly.

  “Wilma,” I said as calmly as possible, “I had a friend named Cindy. Do you by chance remember her last name or where she went?”

  Her eyes were focused back upon the television.

  I looked at Patrick with a shrug, no longer certain this was the same woman. The clues were there, but now seeing her, I couldn’t be sure. “Maybe we’re wrong. We should go.”

  “Don’t know no Maddie or Cindy,” Wilma mumbled.

  “Maybe it would be best—” Becky began when Wilma interrupted.

  “Go. Now, girl. Walk faster.” Her voice grew louder. “On. Move, girl.”

  My body began to tremble as she turned my way. A penetrating stare focused on me.

  “Go on upstairs.” Lines formed around her eyes as she squinted my direction. “Did your ass heal?”

  Patrick wrapped his arm around me. “We need to go.”

  “This is what I mentioned about nonsensical statements,” Becky whispered. “I’m sorry. We thought she was more lucid.”

  No longer looking our way, Wilma’s attention was back on the television.

  “We will be going,” Patrick said.

  Turning to
ward the door, I held on to Patrick for strength before I turned back. “Why? Why did you do it?”

  Her expression didn’t change as she continued staring at the sitcom.

  “Come on, Maddie,” Patrick said.

  “Maddie,” Wilma said.

  “Yes, Miss Warner,” I replied.

  Her eyes closed as she continued to peer forward.

  We waited, but there was nothing else. It was as if she had fallen asleep.

  Patrick and I stepped from the room, leaving Becky within with Wilma.

  “It was her,” I said.

  Patrick’s blue eyes searched my face. “Are you all right?”

  “How long has she been a patient?” I asked.

  “I think about four years.”

  My head shook. “My hell with her was four months.” I looked around at the facility. “It seems that her hell isn’t ending anytime soon.”

  As we walked out to the car, Patrick continued his hold of me. “I’m sorry you didn’t get your answer.”

  “I think I did. She was an angry woman back then, and she’s no happier now, waiting day and night for her dead brother and tied to a bed. I feel bad for her.”

  Patrick cupped my cheek. “She doesn’t deserve your pity.”

  “She also doesn’t deserve your revenge. Killing her would set her free. I feel bad for her, but knowing she’s lost in her mind and at the mercy of others, even kind caretakers, seems like karma.”

  Our lips brushed each other’s. “I agree,” he said as Garrett pulled the car up to the sidewalk. “We’re taking you home.”

  Once we were in the car and the streets of Chicago were passing by the windows, Patrick reached for my hand. “Maddie girl, I’m sorry.”

  I took in his handsome face, his blue eyes focused on me. “Don’t be. The nurse said that you called a few days ago?”

  “You said you wanted to talk to her.”

  “And you made it happen.”

  Cupping my cheek, he pulled my lips to his. Within the back seat of a sedan with the world passing by, everything else disappeared. The warmth of my husband’s touch and tenderness of his kiss pulled me closer. When we pulled away, I smiled. “I’m not her.”

  Patrick sat back. “Of course you’re not.”

  “No, I thought I was. I was afraid I was. I did similar…” My cheeks lifted as my smile grew. “I’m not.”

  “No, Maddie, you are not her. She’s a lonely old woman who is damned to living her horrific memories. That’s not you. You have memories, but you also have an entire life ahead of you, and I will spend every day and night ensuring that you’re not lonely or sad.”

  “I’ll be sad, Patrick. That’s part of life and that’s all right.” My head shook. “I won’t be lonely because of you, Ruby, and the friends and even family I found through you. Miss Warner was the cat. I was another mouse, one who had a child to protect. That doesn’t make what I did right. I’ll never have the opportunity to face those women or ask for their forgiveness, but in a way, I forgive Miss Warner.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I don’t,” I agreed. “But why hold onto hate or fear or any of those emotions when I have so many other positive emotions to fill my life. I no longer have to worry that Miss Warner is out there hurting other girls, facilitating their torture, or subjecting them to ongoing humiliation. I can forget her because that’s what she’s done to all of us, forgotten us. Like the Ortizes and Millers, they no longer deserve a place in my memories.”

  “I fucking love you,” Patrick said as our lips again connected, twisting my core with the possibilities for later.

  “I wish we could go back to our apartment.”

  His lips curled into a knowing grin. “Me too. However, Reid dug deeper into Elliott, and I need to find out what is happening.”

  “Will you tell me?”

  “Anything you ever want to know.”

  Patrick

  Leaving Madeline in the elevator, I stepped out at 2. Her head came forward as she peered around the concrete hall.

  “Well, this is exciting,” she said. “I can see why you spend so much time here.”

  “It’s in there.” I tilted my head toward the steel door. “I’ll be up when I can.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m good.”

  After a chaste kiss, the elevator doors shut and my wife was whisked up to the apartment level. Taking her out today was against lockdown, and I knew it. I also took every precaution. The nursing home facility was fully checked prior to our arrival, physically, for any type of problem as well as cyber-wise, for any signs of monitoring beyond the normal.

  Over the last few days and nights, Madeline had confided that her purge or meltdown or whatever title it was given was her first one. As I’d suspected, she’d spent the last seventeen years surviving. She never had the time or opportunity to reflect.

  Ivanov knew the circumstances of her acquisition, yet he never asked her for details about her previous captivity other than to promise to not hold food or other staples against her.

  What a great guy.

  Due to his lack of specific knowledge, I had little concern that Wilma Adkins was monitored on the off chance that one of her former victims would find her whereabouts. I also didn’t take my wife out of lockdown without the knowledge of the others I’d momentarily be seeing on 2.

  Allowing the scanner to read my palm print, I waited for the door to open.

  “What did you learn?” Reid asked as I entered. “Was it her?”

  “Yeah, Madeline’s pretty sure.”

  “Pretty sure? Is that enough?”

  I came closer and looked up at the screen. “I’m not doing anything to her.”

  “You told us about that cell house, the calling of names, and shit. You’re giving that woman a pass?”

  “Madeline is. The woman is living in a delusional world, and she’s not getting better.” I met Reid’s stare. “Alzheimer’s.”

  His expression changed. “Oh shit.”

  “Yeah, she’s no threat. At first, I wasn’t sure how Madeline would handle it, but damn, she keeps surprising me at every turn.”

  “What about Lewis Adkins? We can tie him to the place Madeline called the cell house?”

  “After what he did, what he orchestrated, he’s going down,” I said confidently, looking up again at the screen. “What am I seeing?” The writing was small and grainy for the size of screen where it was projected.

  “Down?”

  “Sparrow is right; right now, we need to concentrate on the war.” My grin returned. “When the time comes, Mr. Lewis Adkins will suffer, of that I’m sure.”

  “I wondered,” Reid began, “if Elliott confided in Madeline the entire story about the death of his wife and daughter.”

  My eyes squinted. “Is that a restraining order?”

  “Yes, dated thirty-two years ago and filed by a Mrs. Trisha Elliott against her husband, Marion Elliott.”

  “Hmm.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Domestic?”

  “Nope,” Reid said, “care to try again?”

  “Marion Elliott buries his wife’s and daughter’s death. There’s a restraining order…the daughter?”

  Reid nodded. “Filed by the wife, claiming her husband was an endangerment to their fourteen-year-old daughter. There is even a doctor’s statement documenting the abuse. No wonder he didn’t want this out there.”

  My skin heated and my gut twisted as the information registered. “He molested his own daughter and thought he could adopt mine? Did Ivanov know?”

  “I can’t answer that. This information wasn’t easy to find. If Madeline hadn’t told me about their deaths, I wouldn’t have continued to look. The doctor’s information is damning, but nothing ever came of any of it. The restraining order was dismissed after the plane carrying Mrs. Elliott, the daughter, and a pilot crashed. No survivors.”

  “Do you think he killed them? Seriously, this man has more skeletons than we do.”<
br />
  “Uglier skeletons.”

  He was right; the quantity was debatable.

  “The crash was ruled accidental by the NTSB,” Reid said. “No further investigation was done.” He changed the screen. Above was a picture of a younger Marion Elliott and on his arm a lovely young brunette with doe-like eyes. “I found this from a movie premiere in Dallas.”

  “Is that Trisha Elliott?”

  “No again.”

  “Not his daughter?”

  “No, this was taken five years after Trisha’s and his daughter’s death, and this woman is only listed as a possible love interest. She doesn’t come up anywhere else, but look…” He changed the screen again.

  We were now looking at a listing of missing persons from over twenty-six years ago.

  “Jennifer O’Brien, last seen in St. Louis, Missouri, sixteen years old at the time of her disappearance.”

  “Show me the other picture.” The one with Elliott appeared on one side of the screen. The one of Jennifer’s missing-person poster on the other. “Damn, I don’t know. She looks older with Elliott.”

  “I can’t prove anything,” Reid said, “but what if he bought Miss O’Brien at one of the auctions his friend Wendell helped him attend?”

  “I’m convinced he’s a creep, and he’s getting nowhere near my daughter or wife, but we need more proof to accuse him of that.”

  The door behind me opened and Mason entered. “Proof of what?”

  Mason came to stand shoulder to shoulder by me as Reid filled him in on what he’d learned. Once he was done, I turned to Mason. “You’re quiet.”

  “Just thinking.” He pulled out his phone. “I finally got word from the penitentiary where Wendell Hillman is staying. He and McFadden have worked to insulate themselves, but we had a man get through.” Mason grinned. “Our connection is in for fifty plus twenty. He has nothing to lose, and his cooperation gave his family some much-needed cash.”

  “He—our guy—questioned Hillman?” I asked. “About…?”

  “Specifically, the auctions at the McFadden mansion. After a little persuasion, Hillman’s memory returned. This is all hearsay, but our man said the auctions happened frequently over the years. There were also parties with new acquisitions.” Mason shook his head. “This crowd was as sick as the assholes that we discovered through McCrie. Anyway, Sparrow and Madeline were right. Madeline was one of many auctioned off while surrounded by buyers, food, and alcohol.”