CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Lennon sipped at her cup of coffee as she gazed out the window of Ambrose’s hotel room. It was a plain room even by economy-hotel standards, but to Lennon, even that looked inviting and ... safe. Yes, it was just a room, but it was comfortable and secure, and she felt gratitude for the fact that Ambrose had invited her here to recover from the experience she’d gone through, the one she was still processing. But though she was still allowing the time she’d spent in the belly of her trauma, so to speak, to settle in, she felt deeply changed by it. It’d been life altering, empowering. And she’d come away with a peace and an ... understanding that she felt but still couldn’t quite explain. Maybe she’d never be able to. Or perhaps that would take time.

The most shocking thing was that Lennon had only been in Dr. Sweeton’s chair for five hours. Five hours that had seemed like a lifetime. Others completed seven days, or even two. But the doctor had determined that she needed far less than that. It wasn’t necessary to bring her to the scene of an event that had lasted months, or years, as was the case with abused children or many soldiers suffering from PTSD. And it definitely hadn’t been necessary to take Lennon all the way to her base and build her attachment centers and central nervous system back up again. “You formed bonds,” he’d said. “You learned to love and trust. We don’t need to rewire you.” He’d said it with a smile, but it had caused Lennon’s heart to speed, proved by the quickened beeping from the heart monitor connected to her chest.

Ambrose had glanced at it and squeezed her hand, and her heart had slowed, certainty replacing her momentary fear. It said quite a bit about her trust in Ambrose, she knew, who had agreed to be by her side, along with two women she’d met who had also gone through the process. Even so, Lennon had wanted a video recorded on her phone, and once that had been set up, she’d signed consent forms, and then she’d willingly taken the cocktail of hallucinogens and sedatives.

She took in a big cleansing pull of air and then sipped some of the hot coffee, the mug warming the palms of her hands and sending another trickle of gratitude through her body. The rain outside drummed on the pavement, streaking the glass, and everything was just so clear and beautiful. She felt more herself than she ever had, this wondrous, shimmering hope making everything brighter. The only thing she could compare it to was when she’d been a child watching a bubble grow and grow on a wand her mother held. Such wonder had filled her as rainbows appeared in the shifting translucence, her mother laughing as it detached from the wand and floated up into the sky.

Lennon had the mind of an adult now, not a child. But the treatment had brought back that feeling of awe of the world that had been covered over by years and fears and all the other things that life delivered and that she’d taken on. She didn’t know if this would last or if it was the residual effects of those drugs still tapping pleasure centers in her mind, but she’d hold on to it while she could. If nothing else, it was a reminder of what she should strive for, even if it could only be achieved for moments at a time.

What must it be like to live with hopelessness and pain every day of your life and then to suddenly feel this ? The way Ambrose must have felt. It made her want to cry.

She suddenly remembered that story of the man jumping off the bridge and the sea lion that saved him. She’d looked that story up in the days after he’d told it. At first, she’d wondered if it might have been Ambrose’s story. But it wasn’t. It was true, though, and in the aftermath of the experience, that man went around the country and gave motivational talks. It was inspiring, and she understood now why Ambrose had remembered all the details. Because it was somewhat ... magical. It was a confirmation about how mysterious the world really was. How many layers there were that people couldn’t see.

I think it’s important to be able to determine when answers are necessary and when they’re not, Ambrose had said to her a few days after she’d met him.

She hadn’t known how to interpret that then. But she understood now. She knew exactly what he’d meant. She’d seen beneath the surface. She’d spent five hours there.

Her gaze moved down to the street, where a man and woman laughed as they ran through the rain. She smiled, tilting her head as they splashed out of sight, picturing the block where they’d turned. God, she loved this city. She knew its every nook and cranny, from the wide streets of the avenues where she’d grown up to the narrow neon blocks of Chinatown. This city of her heart was filled with artists and entrepreneurs, rebels and dreamers, and featured every culture under the sun, and had once, very literally, risen from the ashes. You could be anyone in San Francisco and be embraced not despite your differences but because of them. It was eclectic and beautiful and classy and funky. It was home , and it would be part of her heart and soul until the moment she took her final breath.

She cared deeply about the people who shared her city, not only as fellow humans but as a sort of extended family too. She wanted them to be well. She wished for them to thrive.

The door opened, and Ambrose came in, holding several to-go bags, his face breaking into a smile when he saw her out of bed and standing by the window. He’d brought her here after the treatment, and she’d slept for—she glanced at the clock—three hours while he’d watched over her. When she’d woken, there was a note on the bedside table that he’d gone to get dinner and would be back.

He held up a bag. “Italian.”

“Oh my God, I love you.” He grinned, but their eyes met. And she thought maybe she did love him, even though it was far too soon and she really didn’t know him. But then again, maybe she did, and God, but life felt so full of possibilities.

“This is going to taste like some of the best food you’ve ever had,” he said. “Some of that is because you haven’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours, but you also might still have some of the narcotics in your system.”

She let out a breathy laugh. “I’m surprised you’re not tempted to take this cocktail on a regular basis.”

He gave her a quirk of his lip. “They have their place in treatment, but hallucinogens aren’t great for your brain, or your body, on a regular basis. And I value my brain and body. I’ve been an addict, and I have no desire to live that life again.”

“Point taken.”

He set the bags down and began opening them and pulling out the fragrant boxes of food, her mouth literally watering as the steamy scents of basil and cheese wafted her way. “Help yourself,” he said.

She did, any shyness she might have felt overtaken by her body’s craving for food. She picked up a container of spaghetti and a plastic fork and started eating, moaning as the food hit her tongue. She ate in earnest for several minutes, and when she looked up, he was watching her, a smile tipping his lips. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked around a bite of garlic bread.

“I’ll eat what you don’t want.”

She laughed. “I can’t possibly eat all that.” She nodded down to the six containers, four still filled with food.

“You might be surprised.” He shot her a wink, then turned and gathered two water bottles out of the minifridge and set them on the desk.

She looked up at all the clippings and notes he’d taped to the wall, chewing as she considered each piece of evidence from the case. “Real life,” she said, the first unpleasant sensation she’d felt since she’d woken up taking hold. “We have to figure out who’s using Dr. Sweeton’s formula against people.” She turned to him. “Tell me what you’ve learned so far or come up with while we’ve been apart.”

His expression softened as he looked at her. “You’re not going to expose the project.”

She took another bite, chewing more slowly before swallowing. “I mean ... I’m still probably just a little bit high, so I’m not making any definitive decisions at the moment.”

“Wise,” he said, with a cock of his head.

She smiled, but it quickly dwindled. “But I think ... I think we have to protect the project. It’s ... the most incredible thing I’ve ever experienced, and I didn’t consider myself damaged.” She thought for a moment about the stories she’d listened to on The Fringe , about the way so many people suffered. And she didn’t know how to make something like this available to more people, but the fact that it was being given to any seemed like a small miracle she refused to deny to anyone. “The problem, Ambrose, is that it’s been corrupted. We have to figure out how—and why—or it won’t be up to us whether it ends. It will have to.”

“Agreed.”

Lennon opened a container of lasagna and took it over to the bed, where she sat against the propped pillows, eating and considering the wall again. Ambrose was obviously experienced with investigations. “How’d you become a bounty hunter anyway?” she asked. “I read about the crime you helped solve in Kentucky,” she said, feeling a moment of apprehension that he’d be angry that she’d looked him up.

But he just nodded, as if he’d already figured out that she’d looked into his past. Of course he had—he’d possessed this uncanny knack for figuring her out from the get-go. Instead of being annoyed by it, like she’d been at first, now it made her want to smile, though currently her mouth was too full of food to do that. “Well, like I told you, I started out as a correctional officer. After going through Dr. Sweeton’s treatment, and what happened in Kentucky, I knew I wanted to work in law enforcement. When I returned to San Francisco, the quickest way in was a job at San Quentin.”

“Wow, you started in the prison big leagues.”

A smile flitted across his lips. “That’s one way to put it. Anyway, long story short, I made some solid connections in the law enforcement community, and then I went into business for myself. There was a prison break a year later, and I was called in and ended up apprehending both prisoners within days. After that, a few agencies contacted me to assist on cases, and I proved beneficial on those as well. It snowballed from there. Over the years, I had to turn down more jobs than I could take.” He looked at the curtain-covered window for a second. “I seem to have this sixth sense for locating people, especially once I have a profile. Maybe I’m just naturally good at the job, but I think the treatment I went through sort of ...”

“Honed your instincts?”

“Yes. Others have said similar things. I think you’ll find it’s true of you as well,” he said.

She took another bite, and he watched her for a moment. “Speaking of which, do you want to talk about your experience?” he asked somewhat tentatively.

She thought about that. “Not yet, but I will. I’d like to let it settle for a little while longer. But I’d like to tell you about it, and I’d like to hear about your experience, too, if you’re willing to share.”

“I’d love that,” he said before walking to the bed and sitting down on the edge.

She focused back on the wall, going over the victims and the crime scenes. Her mind felt both slightly foggy and clearer than she could remember it feeling in a long time. She recalled all those illuminated but also translucent lines that had connected one thing to the other while she’d been under the influence of Dr. Sweeton’s drug cocktail, and something told her she should take advantage of any connections the residual effects of that might allow her to make. “I think our killer somehow found out about the project and is using it for his own purposes,” she said.

“His purposes being terror and death.”

“Yes.” Terror and death. “The exact opposite of what Dr. Sweeton intended.”

“Who hates the people who need that therapy enough to turn it around on them? Not to cure them, but to make them suffer further, and suffer horribly?”

She shook her head as she placed the empty container on the bedside table, finally satiated. “Someone very sick. He hates them. He blames them for something.”

“Yes. But what?”

“That’s the question,” she murmured. One of many.

She glanced at Ambrose, and she saw that he was looking over the wall, too, his expression deeply troubled. “This is what I’ve concluded so far. From the evidence, from what I experienced in my treatment, it looks like he or she used Dr. Sweeton’s cocktail but tweaked it until they got it ‘right.’ Let’s call him a he for ease. He accesses their trauma center, and then he triggers it. He makes them think they’re back there and that it’s happening again. But this time he makes sure they have the tools to fight back. And they do. All of them at once. It’s why he forgoes the sedatives that Dr. Sweeton uses. He wants their body to be active while their mind is submersed in their past.”

Her shoulders drew up as a cold shiver blew through her. Who would do that to a fellow human being? Who hated that deeply? “If that’s the goal,” she said, “he seems to have achieved it with the last two killings. I don’t have the details on the most recent murder, but Lieutenant Byrd says the murder weapons were all there, which I’m assuming means our killer or ... whoever’s setting these poor souls up, didn’t have to be part of it.”

Ambrose nodded distractedly. “I think he’s using items that trigger their trauma,” he said, pointing to the list of seemingly innocuous items at each scene. He mentioned the wine coolers and the cigarette brand and why they felt off.

“I see what you mean,” she murmured. “They don’t quite fit, do they?” She scratched her head, remembering that she’d had the same gut feeling about the belt but hadn’t been able to explain why. “So ... he’s accessing their trauma center with the drugs, then he’s triggering them with a physical item that connects to that trauma. It’s serving to give the experience texture and weight and maybe sometimes a visual, too, the same way Dr. Sweeton uses dirt under your feet and a drumbeat to ground you.”

“Yes. These people are the opposite of grounded, though. They’re left to flail, seemingly indefinitely, in the worst moment of their life.”

“Hell,” she murmured. “It would be like hell. God, no wonder their faces look like that.” She pulled in a breath and let it out slowly. It was gruesome.

“It is. We have to stop it.”

“How, though? He knows the recipe now, and access to victims who’ve experienced trauma of that depth is practically limitless.” Not only that, but people like the ones they’d found murdered often went unreported. Those who lived transient lives weren’t always missed. He might have killed hundreds of them already, and they wouldn’t even know. He might have been “experimenting” for years.

Ambrose was quiet for a few moments, and as she watched him, a sweep of affection moved over her. They were a good team after all. He looked over at her as though something had just occurred to him. “He knows their triggers, though. How does he know these particular people’s triggers? If we’re right and the items listed aren’t random, then he knows exactly what to place there to use as triggers—but ones that the police will miss. A belt. A type of drink, a specific cigarette brand.”

“The podcast,” she said. “That could be how it fits.” At least in one case.

“What podcast?”

She turned more fully toward him. “I talked to Cherish Olsen’s roommate. I know you found her after she overdosed, but ... I had talked to her a few days before that, and she told me Cherish had done this podcast called The Fringe . I watched her interview. It was awful, but ...” She put her hand on his arm. “Yes. Oh my God, the toys at the crime scene.” She stared off into space for a moment, feeling ill as she worked out what had happened. “The killer used those toys to trap her in the hotel room of her mind.” The one where her six-year-old self had set her toys up on the edge of the bathtub before the monster in the other room came for her. Oh God, she wanted to weep. She wanted to tear this room apart at the thought of that scene, and it was only a scene in her mind.

“The thing that doesn’t fit is that the other victims—Ambrose, why do you look like that?” He looked stupefied.

He gave his head a small shake. “I was on that podcast. The Fringe. Years and years ago. Before I underwent treatment.”

“You were? But ... I didn’t see you. I scrolled through the thumbnails of all of them.”

“My God, I barely remembered,” he murmured.

“You must have looked very different—”

“I did, but that’s not why you didn’t see me. I called later and asked the podcaster not to share it. He honored my request, like he said he would.”

“Oh.” She thought about that. Could Jamal Whitaker have others, then? Of people that had asked he not post their interview because they’d changed their mind after the fact? If that was the case, she’d certainly have to consider him a more serious suspect. And she would, despite that he had an alibi for at least one of the murders. But ... his empathy for the people he interviewed seemed so genuine. She’d watched dozens of his interviews, and she could tell by the way he treated them that he cared deeply and was personally affected by their stories. Still, people could be deceptive ... and she hadn’t had reason to check the alibi he’d casually tossed out.

“Unfortunately, it’s too late now to contact Jamal,” Ambrose said. “I’ll take you home, and then I’ll meet you bright and early.”

She was tempted to request to stay with him here. It wasn’t necessarily that she didn’t want to be alone, but she desired his presence. She wanted him near her. But she nodded and stood. She was still delicate in any number of ways from what she’d gone through, and some time to herself and a full night’s sleep in her own bed were probably a good idea. And then, tomorrow, they’d resume their partnership that had first ended and then begun again under the most unusual of circumstances.