Part 8 (1/2)

”Glad to see you,” he said. ”I was beginning to wonder if you were going to stay all night. Where to next, back home?”

”Let me check.”

I called the number Mel had used much earlier when she had left her message. I could tell from the prefix that it was her cell. I wasn't at all surprised when she didn't answer.

”Sorry it took so long to get back to you,” I told her voice mail. ”I've been busy. I'm heading home now. Give me a call there later if you still want to see me tonight. Otherwise, we can talk tomorrow.”

”Home, then,” I told Mohammad.

Lots of people had evidently taken the day off. It was the middle of rush hour, but traffic was much lighter than usual. When we reached Belltown Terrace, I paid Mohammad what was on the meter and gave him another sizable tip. Jerome had another eager customer lined up and waiting the moment I stepped out of the cab.

I went upstairs. My body, especially my s.h.i.+ns, were feeling a little worse for wear after my uphill run earlier in the day. I was looking forward to spending some quality clicker time in my recliner. Grateful to be rid of my boots, I tossed them into the entryway closet and pulled on a ratty but well-loved sweater. Naturally the phone rang the moment I sat down. It was Freddy Mac.

”What gives?” I asked.

”The roads are so bad up on Whidbey that Sister Mary Katherine decided to stay over last night, tonight, and maybe even tomorrow if things don't improve,” he told me. ”She had already checked out of her room before we had lunch yesterday. Most of the hotels were booked solid, but I was finally able to get her into a room at the Westin downtown. Since she was still around and since I had several weather-related cancellations, we went ahead and did another session today. I have one more tape to add to your collection. I think we're making real progress now, Beau. She exhibited far less resistance this time around, and she was able to uncover a few more telling details. Would you like to see the tape?”

”Absolutely.”

”Where are you?”

”Belltown Terrace,” I told him. ”Second and Broad.”

”I'm just now leaving my office up on Pill Hill. I could drop it off on my way home.”

You won't find the name Pill Hill on any official map of the Seattle area, but it's what we call the area of First Hill that's full of hospitals and clinics. For all I knew, the place could have been crawling with hypnotherapists as well.

”Sure,” I said. ”I'll wait down in the lobby. That way you won't have to park and come in. I have some news as well.”

”What's that?”

”The murder victim's full name-Madeline Marchbank. She was found stabbed to death in her bed in May of 1950.”

”But Sister Mary Katherine said...”

”That it happened outside. I know. But she also said that the body and the blood were both gone when she came out of her hiding place. All that means is the killers moved the body and made it look like the attack happened inside the house.”

”So it really did happen then!” Fred MacKinzie breathed.

He had been acting as if he believed Bonnie Jean Dunleavy's story all along, and he had convinced me to believe it as well, but right up until I told him Mimi's real name, Fred must have been hanging on to the tiniest shred of doubt.

”Yes,” I said. ”It really did.”

”Did they ever solve it?” Fred asked.

”They may have,” I said, ”but there was no indication of an arrest or even a prime suspect in any of the material I read today. I'll be able to get into the official records tomorrow. My question to you is: Should I tell Sister Mary Katherine?”

There was a long pause before Fred answered. ”I'm not sure what the best course of action is on that,” he said. ”Let me think about it on my way down the hill.”

I shoved my aching feet into a pair of loafers and headed for the lobby. For the next twenty minutes or so I sat there listening to Belltown Terrace's weather wimps come and go, complaining all the way. When a sand-dollar-colored Lexus LX 470 pulled up on the street outside, I figured it had to be Freddy Mac's, and I was right.

I went out to the curb and stood under the canopy as Fred opened the pa.s.senger-side window. ”When I called the Westin, Sister Mary Katherine was on her way down to the coffee shop for dinner. What say we go there now and tell her together-unless you're busy. If that's the case...”

”No,” I said. ”It's fine. Wait here while I run back upstairs and get a coat.”

”Don't bother,” Fred said. ”The car's warm. And I'll bring you back here when we finish.”

So off we went-him in his snazzy brushed camel sports coat and me in a disreputable sweater that I would have been embarra.s.sed to donate to Goodwill. I was feeling grungy as we followed the hostess through the Westin's brightly lit Corner Cafe, where Sister Mary Katherine was already seated in a booth.

She smiled at Fred as he walked toward her. When she saw me trailing along in his wake, the smile faded. ”You didn't say you were bringing Beau with you,” she said.

”That's because I didn't know I was,” Fred said. ”He has some news I thought you'd want to hear from him directly.”

Sister Mary Katherine looked at me gravely and then said to the hostess, ”I believe I'll have that gla.s.s of wine after all. Chardonnay, please.”

The hostess looked questioningly at Fred and me. He ordered coffee with cream. I shook my head. ”Nothing, thank you.”

”What is it?” Sister Mary Katherine asked.

There was no point in beating around the bush. ”Mimi's real name was Madeline Marchbank,” I said. ”She was murdered-stabbed to death-in the middle of May of 1950.”

”And I watched it happen,” Sister Mary Katherine confirmed quietly.

”I believe so.”

”Were the killers ever caught?”

”That I don't know,” I said. ”Tomorrow I'll be able to access some of the official records I wasn't able to get to today. The material I've located so far came from newspaper archives, and it covered the story for only the first several weeks after it happened. During that time the investigators had developed no leads in her death.”

”That must mean that I didn't tell anyone what I saw. Why on earth didn't I?” Sister Mary Katherine demanded accusingly. ”Not telling is inexcusable.”

Fred and I exchanged glances. No one who had heard the frightened little-girl voice of Bonnie Jean Dunleavy would have wondered why she had kept quiet or blamed her for her silence. ”Have you viewed the tapes of your own sessions?” I asked.

Sister Mary Katherine shook her head. Fred was the one who answered aloud. ”I still want what she remembers to be what she remembers,” he replied. ”I didn't want to layer in what she had already related on the tapes.”

”You were scared to death,” I said. ”The woman threatened you. She said you'd end up like Mimi if you told anyone what you had seen.”

But Sister Mary Katherine wasn't satisfied. ”Still,” she said disapprovingly, ”keeping quiet about such a thing is unforgivable.”

The wine and coffee came. Sister Mary Katherine took a careful sip before asking, ”What do we do now? Clearly this Marchbank woman was once my friend. I want to know whether or not her killers were ever brought to justice. Certainly I owe her that much. It's the only way to atone for my silence back then.”

I wanted to tell her to give the poor little kid she had once been a break, but Fred cut me off before I had a chance.

”What do you know about forgotten memories?” he asked me.

”Not much. It usually happens with kids who have been s.e.xually molested, right?”