The Perfect Disguise (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Ten) Read online

  “One blink for yes and two for no,” Dr. Badalia reminded him.

  He blinked once. Jessie coughed to hide the sob of joy that rose in her throat.

  “I know this is a lot to deal with,” she said. “But we’re going to get you out of here. It’s just going to take some patience, okay?”

  He blinked again. Dr. Badalia stepped forward.

  “Ryan, would you be willing to try a little practice exercise?”

  He blinked yes.

  Jessie was slightly annoyed. She had hoped to have a little time to talk to Ryan privately. But she pushed the irritation aside. The exercise was more important. Dr. Badalia continued.

  “I’m going to ask Jessie to lay her palm flat with your palm on top of it. Then I’m going to ask you to raise a specific finger. Does that sound okay to you?”

  Ryan blinked. Jessie unclasped their hands and rested her left palm on the mattress, then put his directly on top of hers. She looked up at him and smiled. His eyes crinkled, which she took to mean he was trying to smile back.

  “I’d like you to try to raise your right index finger into the air. Can you do that?”

  After what felt like an interminable pause, he lifted the finger slightly before letting it drop back down.

  “That’s fantastic, Ryan. Now do you think you could try to do the same thing with just your pinkie finger?”

  Ryan squinted and Jessie could feel his palm pressing weakly against hers as he managed to get the finger up just a smidge before it sank again.

  “You’re doing really well, Ryan,” Dr. Badalia assured him. “Shall we try one more exercise?”

  Ryan blinked once.

  “Okay, this one is a little harder. I’d like you to try to pull all the fingers on your right hand inward to form a fist on top of Jessie’s palm. So whenever you’re ready.”

  Jessie could feel Ryan’s hand shake slightly as he tried to curl his fingers in order to ball his hand into a fist. But nothing happened. He squeezed his eyes shut, clearly straining. One of the monitors off to the side began beeping faster than before.

  “That all right, Ryan,” Dr. Badalia said soothingly. “You gave a great effort. It will come in time. Go ahead and take a break now.”

  But Ryan clearly wasn’t stopping. His eyes were still squeezed tight and his open palm was vibrating on top of Jessie’s. His eyes popped open and she could immediately see that he was furious with frustration. The beeping was getting faster.

  “Okay, Ryan,” Dr. Badalia said, his voice still as calm as always as he moved over to the bank of machines. “It looks like you’re getting a bit agitated there. So I’m going to sedate you a bit to relax you and help you sleep.”

  Ryan’s eyes darted toward Jessie. He looked panicky, as if silently begging her not to allow it.

  “It’s okay, babe,” she said, trying to hide the anguish she felt inside. “This just takes time. Rest for a while. We can try again later.”

  He blinked twice, paused, and then did it again. And again. Only on his fourth desperate attempt to tell her not to let him be sedated did the medication start to kick in. His blinking slowed before stopping completely. His eyes closed once again.

  Jessie looked over at the doctor as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “Let’s talk outside,” he said gently. “You never know what they can hear.”

  Jessie followed him back into the hall and down to the waiting room, where he took a seat. She followed suit.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked.

  “I’m getting by,” she said quickly. “You don’t have to warm me up or sugarcoat it, Doctor. Just tell me where we stand.”

  “Okay. What we just saw was promising. I know Ryan got frustrated at the end there. But having any mobility at this point, considering what he’s been through, is a positive sign. Having said that, he has a long, rough road ahead of him. Even if there’s no long-term damage, just being bedridden and on a ventilator for so long can be debilitating. He’ll require lots of physical therapy to regain basic motor skill function. Walking will be a major challenge. It could take many months. In addition, he may have permanent vocal cord damage.”

  Jessie sighed but said nothing so Dr. Badalia went on.

  “That’s the best-case scenario. But you need to be prepared for others. He may have other damage that we’re not yet able to ascertain.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like nerve damage from the knife wound. Also, there could be permanent lung damage. Some people recover completely from this sort of thing. Others require constant assistance—oxygen tanks, breathing tubes, that sort of thing. And there’s always the chance that he suffered some degree of brain damage.”

  Jessie looked at him, startled. This was the first time anyone had mentioned that.

  “Do you see any sign of that?”

  “It’s too early to tell at this point. I know you started performing CPR soon after he was attacked but there was at least some time when he had limited access to oxygen. His reactions last night and just now show promise. He seemed to understand what we were saying and respond accordingly. But we were asking simple questions and requesting he perform basic tasks. It’ll be a while before we can test if he suffered any kind of loss in higher brain function or memory.”

  “Memory?” Jessie repeated. The hits kept on coming.

  “Yes. Sometimes traumatic injury, medically induced comas, or oxygen deprivation can lead to short-term or even permanent memory loss. He’s endured all three, so we can’t rule it out.”

  Jessie sat silently, trying to process all the terrible permutations.

  “Look, you asked me not to sugarcoat it, so I didn’t. But none of these outcomes are assured. He could be back on the force, good as new, in eight to twelve months.”

  “Or?” Jessie pressed, sensing he wasn’t done.

  “Or he could require permanent, ongoing care in a long-term facility. And there’s always the chance he could backslide and we’d face the worst-case scenario. We’re in a very fluid moment right now.”

  “Wow,” Jessie said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I got to hold his hand and look into his eyes. I guess I didn’t expect things to take such a dark turn.”

  They were both quiet for a moment.

  “Ms. Hunt, may I give you a piece of advice?”

  Jessie looked up. His normally stern face had softened slightly.

  “Sure.”

  “I know what you do for a living so I know you’re used to methodically working the problem at hand and having at least some degree of control over your situation. As a doctor, I embrace that feeling as well, being on top of things. But the truth is, in this situation, you have very little control. You can show up, be supportive, and let Ryan know you love him and are there for him. But at this stage of the process, it does you no good to worry about what might happen. It’s out of your hands. And all that worry will wear you down, making it hard to be there for Ryan the way he needs you to be.

  “So here’s the advice: when you’re with him, be fully present in the moment. But when you’re not, lead your life. See friends. Have a glass of wine. Take a hike. And don’t feel guilty about it. Those moments away will help give you the strength to be there for him when he really needs you. In my experience, taking care of yourself really is the best way to take care of him.”

  He smiled, almost warmly.

  “Thanks, Doctor,” she said.

  “You bet. I have to go but I’ll be in touch.”

  He left the waiting room. Jessie stayed, looking around absently. There were a half dozen other people there, all with the same shell-shocked expression she was sure she had. She wondered briefly what personal horror had gotten them to this point. Had any of them lost their mentor and nearly lost their soul mate in the same week? Before she could brood over it further, her phone rang. It was Captain Decker, her boss until three days ago. She declined the call as she got up and walked to the parking garage.

  She was getti
ng into her car when she felt the buzz indicating she had a voicemail. She was tempted to delete it without listening but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. That would be outright rude and besides, some part of her itched to know what he wanted. She played it.

  “Hi, Hunt. Hope you’re well. I’m planning to stop by the hospital this afternoon to visit Hernandez. I hear he woke up briefly last night. That’s positive. But that’s not the only reason I’m calling. I know you just left us on Friday and I apologize for even asking, but I need help. A huge case just dropped in my lap, incredibly high profile. Normally, I’d assign Hernandez. But since he’s not available, I’m going with Trembley, who’s never had a case this big. And the department’s desperately low on qualified profilers with you gone and, you know…Moses. If you could just help me out on this one, even in an advisory capacity, I’d be eternally grateful. Let me know.”

  Jessie deleted the message, put the phone away, and pulled out of the parking garage.

  She felt bad for Decker. But there would always be another big case that needed solving. For Jessie’s own sanity, her days of doing it were over.

  Besides, right now she had another task to focus on, one she’d been dreading.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hannah had decided. There was something wrong with her.

  She’d been stalling for a while, lying in her bed, trying to ignore the thought by debating how to spend this last week of vacation before she had to go to summer school to catch up on everything she’d missed in her junior year. There were no good movies to see. The beach was too far a drive from Kat’s downtown apartment. Besides she didn’t have a car. All her old friends, the ones she’d lost touch with, lived in the San Fernando Valley. And she hadn’t made any new ones since her life turned into a cautionary tale.

  But despite her attempts to keep her brain occupied, her thoughts kept returning to the conclusion she’d reached. Finally she decided to look at the web page again. The Mayo Clinic page was specifically about antisocial personality disorder, or sociopathy. They described it as a mental disorder “in which a person consistently shows no regard for right and wrong and ignores the rights and feelings of others.” It also said they “tend to antagonize, manipulate, or treat others harshly or with callous indifference. They show no guilt or remorse for their behavior.”

  Sounds kind of familiar.

  Even before Dr. Lemmon started asking her questions in their therapy sessions that led down this road, Hannah had wondered why she behaved certain ways. Why had she reacted to her adoptive parents’ murders with curiosity more than horror? Why had seeing a serial killer slaughter a man in front of her and try to get her to do the same not filled her with the revulsion she would have expected? Why did the murder of Garland Moses, an old guy who had only been sweet to her, leave her with no strong reaction other than generally missing his curmudgeonly presence?

  Then the last question, the one that ate at her the most, popped into her head again. How would she feel if something happened to Jessie— her half-sister, the person who’d assumed guardianship of her, her fierce protector? She’d be “sad,” of course. But would it be due to the loss of a loved one or just because of the loss of someone who made her life easier and more stable? Would she mourn the relative who was gone or merely be put out because it would make her own life harder?

  Is there something truly wrong with me?

  She resolved to find out. She’d taken enough science courses to know the basic rule: any theory needed to be tested in order to validate or disprove it. But how best to go about it?

  There was a knock on the door and Kat poked her head in.

  “Whatcha up to?” she asked casually.

  “Oh, just looking over my summer reading requirements so I don’t get surprised when I start up at school next week,” she lied sunnily.

  “Okay,” Kat said, apparently satisfied. “I have to head out for a case. Are you good here by yourself for a while?”

  “No problem. I’ll probably just watch TV. That or see what’s flammable in your apartment.”

  Kat swallowed whatever comment she intended to make.

  “Sounds good,” she replied instead. “See you later.”

  Kat closed the door again, leaving her with her thoughts.

  That was easy.

  She had lied with ease and without thought or purpose.

  Is that normal?

  She decided then and there that some more formal experimentation was in order. Before she could determine if her limits were standard stuff, she needed to find out what those limits were.

  I wonder if I can get extra credit for this.

  *

  Jessie was stalling.

  She’d been sitting in her car in front of Garland Moses’s quaint, one-story, mid-century Mid-City home for ten minutes. Finally, reluctantly, she got out and walked to his door. She’d been avoiding this chore for days.

  Garland Moses, her mentor and friend, who was murdered by her vengeance-seeking ex-husband, had only one living relative. His niece was a pleasant enough woman whom Jessie had met at his funeral. But she and Garland hadn’t been close and she’d only come out to Los Angeles to pay her respects.

  She had no interest in going through his personal effects or dealing with his estate. So she’d asked Jessie, who she knew was close to him, to take over that duty. Jessie had unenthusiastically agreed, mostly out of a sense of obligation to the man who’d taught her how to be both a criminal profiler and a semi-functional human being.

  But as she stood on the man’s porch and prepared to follow his elaborate security measures to get in, she felt the urge to bail on the whole thing. The last thing she wanted to do after visiting her incapacitated, potentially brain-damaged boyfriend was go through the private possessions of a man whose death was directly attributable to knowing her.

  Enough of this. You made a commitment. Keep it.

  Shaking her head in frustration with herself, Jessie stepped up to the front door of Garland’s small but immaculate home. Once there, she followed the detailed instructions the lawyer had given her before her initial visit here.

  She punched a six-digit code into the keypad next to the doorbell. A metal cover pulled back to reveal a small scanning device. Jessie bent down slightly and the device scanned her eyes. Then she placed her palm on a plate of glass below the scanner and waited while it read her fingerprints. After that, she whispered the words “Nickel Diner black coffee” into a speaker. Only then did the front door lock click.

  Jessie stepped inside and looked around. She had conferred with Garland’s lawyer and they’d agreed that the house would be sold at whatever was close to market value. The furniture would be donated to several women’s shelters in the area.

  She only had to go through his papers and personal items. Still, it was a daunting task. The last time she’d been here, a week ago, she discovered that he’d kept records on every case he’d handled, both at the FBI and later as an LAPD consultant. There were multiple banker’s boxes’ worth, most of which hadn’t been converted to digital files.

  There were a few exceptions. In his safe were thumb drives with material on approximately two dozen unsolved cases, ones that clearly still troubled Garland. There was, however, only one case in which all the material, both paper and digital, was kept inside a fireproof lockbox within the safe. That case was the Night Hunter.

  Jessie was intimately familiar with it. The case was taught at the FBI and in local police departments everywhere. The Night Hunter was a notorious serial killer who killed and dismembered over fifty people along the East Coast in the 1990s before Garland caught up with him. Unfortunately, the Night Hunter got the upper hand, capturing and torturing Garland for two days before the profiler was able to free himself and use the killer’s own machete against him before the man ran off into the night.

  Because his identity was never determined and there were no more killings that fit the Night Hunter’s profile after that, most folks thought t
hat he must have died from his injuries. But clearly Garland wasn’t among them. He’d never mentioned the case to Jessie but his notes on it were as recent as three months ago, suggesting that he thought the guy might still be out there somewhere. She decided that she wouldn’t be tossing any of that material.

  She sat down at Garland’s desk, imagining how many times he must have settled into the comfy leather chair to muddle through a case in his head. Suddenly she felt an unexpected rush of emotion.

  Since the funeral, she’d largely blocked thoughts of Garland out of her mind. It was just too painful. Her birth father was a serial killer who’d disappeared after murdering her mother when she was six. Her adoptive father and mother had been killed by that same serial killer father just a few years ago. And now, the closest she had to a paternal figure was gone too, again at the hands of someone she was supposed to have been able to trust.

  She pushed away thoughts of how he left the world and tried to focus on how he’d lived in it. A profile in the newspaper had calculated that Garland Moses was responsible for catching at least 1,200 murderers in his career, including over a hundred serial and spree killers. And those were just the ones in the public record.

  But his life wasn’t defined exclusively by the cases he solved. Jessie was more inclined to remember other, less celebrated moments. Her thoughts drifted to breakfasts with him at the Nickel Diner—the origin of the voice password to unlock the door—just blocks from the Central Police Station where they both worked.

  She recalled how Garland was the one person who seemed capable of making Hannah smile, no matter how foul a mood she was in. The man projected an image of being standoffish and curt. But both sisters had learned it was a front to hide his surprisingly gooey insides. Jessie summoned up memories of the myriad times when he’d bucked her up, expressing confidence in her abilities even when she doubted them.

  Feeling tears well up in her eyes, Jessie reached for a tissue in the box on the desk. As she dabbed at them, she noticed something that had escaped her attention the last time she was here. It was a small, metal paperweight in the shape of a coffee mug. On it was a tiny inscription. She picked it up and turned it over in the light to better read the little letters. The words were familiar to her but not ones she would have expected to find on the desk of a man as seemingly unspiritual as Garland Moses. It read: