Page 12 of Go Home (Kate Valentine #1)

According to its website – all soothing blues and earth tones - The Sanctuary offered a “person-centered pathway approach to addictions and unhelpful habits,” a phrase that tickled Marcus a great deal on the drive over there.

“So can I get cured of picking my nose? That’s an unhelpful habit.”

“I guess it means there are things that might not be a straightforward addiction, but are still not doing you any good.”

“Like following the Yankees.”

“I don’t know,” Kate said, not in the mood for jokes. “I’ll be interested to know what Mr. Sullivan checked in there for.”

A search of Ray Sullivan’s records had revealed an assault charge – seemingly involving a stranger in a bar – a scattering of police call-outs to his home address, with no further action taken, and, in wake of the assault, completion of a court-ordered anger management program.

“The bar fight suggests booze was involved, no?”

“There’s more to it,” Kate said. “Someone must be watching Ray’s back. He’s been signed off from his job for health reasons, for most of the past year. You’d have thought the education department would have washed their hands of him.”

“That’s public departments all over, Vee.

It’s impossible to get rid of people. The guy’s Deputy Chief Inspector of Schools for the whole state.

And this is someone who gets in bar fights.

Probably knocks his old lady around, if all the call-outs mean what I think they mean.

And his employers just sign him off as sick. ”

“Shall we maybe not decide we know everything about the guy before we’ve met him?”

Marcus grunted, which meant that he didn’t agree but wasn’t going to push it.

Kate gripped the steering wheel, counted backwards from five.

Reminded herself that it wasn’t Marcus’s fault.

It wasn’t her fault either. Mood swings and irritability were part of the whole delightful palette that was PTSD.

What was her fault, however, or at least her responsibility, was the way she dealt with the problems that the condition brought up.

She could – she should – have caught an early night last night.

Instead, after a quick bite with Marcus, she’d returned to her motel room and sat up until the small hours, ostensibly working on the case, but in reality churning around the same handful of thoughts and doubts, without reaching any clarity.

She still didn’t understand what the killer wanted from her.

She still wasn’t sure if Father Thomas’s fairly ordinary human failings were a sufficient motive for the savage revenge inflicted on him.

The only concrete difference between yesterday and today was that, today, she was considerably more tired and fragile.

She pulled off the road onto a long, tree-lined driveway. The Sanctuary had a look of the Old South about it: shuttered windows and a broad verandah. A small group was practicing Tai Chi on the manicured lawn, while on the opposite side, an old, gray donkey chewed grass in an overgrown field.

“And you realize it’s the tax-paying citizens of Maine who’ll be paying f-”

“Marcus. Please.”

She sensed him looking at her, part-offended, part-concerned, but she ignored him and concentrated on parking the car, close to the steps. A gardener looked like he was about to say that they couldn’t park there, but he saw Kate’s face and returned to his pruning.

The reception area was full of flowers, and behind the desk was a nervous young man in faintly medical clothing. They showed their IDs and asked to see Ray Sullivan.

“Um, I think he kinda checked out.”

“When?” Kate asked.

“Um… Monday.”

Kate and Marcus exchanged a glance. “Any idea where he went?”

The young man scratched his nose. “Hospital?”

“Why are you saying it like a question? Are you not sure whether he went there or not?”

The man looked awkward. “Uh, they said he kinda went in, and then he checked out.”

Kate sighed. “Who’s they? Actually, never mind. Where’s your boss?”

The young man looked even more lost. “It’s my first day,” he said, apologetically.

After a quick call and a short wait, a dark-haired lady, sporting a lavender-colored suit and an air of authority escorted them to Ray’s former room on the first floor.

It was virtually empty: a small, weekender type of suitcase, a crime novel on the bedside table, a few toiletries in the adjoining bathroom.

“He didn’t arrive with much,” said the lady. “Typically people don’t.”

“They’re at an especially low point when they check in, I guess,” said Kate. “But what exactly has happened to Mr. Sullivan?”

The lady – whose badge read “Elena Mendoza, Care Manager” – took a deep breath.

“From the top? He was having palpitations. This was on Monday, directly after lunch. Feeling faint. That’s what he told us, anyway.

We don’t take any chances, particularly not with middle-aged ex-coke and meth users, so we called an ambulance and it took him to the hospital.

We were short-staffed that day, so nobody was available to go with him. ”

“Which hospital was that?”

“Zion Cedars. Middle of Brunswick. Eventually, I got sufficient cover organized so that I could go over there myself. That would have been about six in the evening. By which time, they’d lost him.”

“Lost him?”

“They ran a few tests, determined that there was nothing serious going on. As I said, they have to be extra-cautious with anything heart- or blood-pressure-related. But they thought, in this case, he maybe had a few too many espressos. They told him to rest up while they got in touch with us.”

“And when did they get in touch with you?”

“They didn’t. I don’t mean to say that they’re incompetent assholes. But they are, actually, incompetent assholes. Nobody got in contact with us. And it was only when I showed up there, like I said, around six, that they realized he’d gone.”

“So the last time you had any contact with him was when the ambulance came, just after lunch. Can you be more specific about the time?”

“It was two o’clock, dead on, because I heard the news.”

“What steps have you taken since discovering that he left the hospital?”

“I’ve reported him missing to the local PD, but he’s deemed to be an adult with capacity, so they’re not going to be looking for him too hard. He’s free to leave if he chooses. Though I must say, I’m surprised by it. He was really making progress this time.”

“So he’s been in rehab before?”

“Middle of last year, and again this year. That’s at this institution. He may have been at others before then. He can certainly talk the talk, but that’s true of a lot of our patients. They’ve usually spent hours in various 12-step groups and meetings before they go residential.”

“But he seemed to be making progress this time,” Kate prompted.

“Participating in all the programs. Contributing in group. Helpful and compassionate towards others. Leading light of our puzzle and crossword circle.”

Kate remembered the cryptic clue left at the crime scene.

“And no sign that he was thinking of throwing in the towel?”

“None at all. But when you’ve got complex addictions like Ray’s… well, anything can trigger a slip.”

“Complex addictions?” Marcus echoed.

“Mr. Sullivan wanted everything on the menu, if you get my drift. Booze, drugs, sex, gambling. It’s a heavy load to carry.”

They sat in the car afterwards, comparing notes. The gardener kept a close eye on them, tinkering with his lawn mower under the trees.

“What do you reckon,” Marcus said. “He invents his symptoms, gets a lift into town.”

“Slips out of hospital, lies low for a few hours.”

“Gets the supplies he needs, then kills the priest.”

“It works,” Kate said. “And we know he’s got motive.”

They looked at each other, each aware that this was the first real break in the case. It was like being handed something precious, something they couldn’t squander or misuse. The killer was no longer a shapeless presence in their thoughts; he had a name, a face, and he’d been right where they were.

But where was he now?