The Girls He Adored

84

“Calling Doctor Will. Doctor Will to Live.”

Irene, lying on her side on the damp indoor-outdoor carpet, ran her hand over her stubbly scalp, then opened her eyes to the same nightmare she'd shut them against. The emaciated imp in the army blanket was squatting in front of her, silhouetted against the white glare of the ceiling, spouting nonsense, patting Irene's hand. Irene realized with a weary sense of resignation that the comforts of traumatic withdrawal were not for her: her mind was woefully clear.

She sat up. “Which one are you?”

“I'm Dolores-that's Donna.”

“Dolores Moon and Donna Hughes.”

“He told you?”

“I'm his psychiatrist.” Irene looked around the room, struggled to compose herself. “Was his psychiatrist. He murdered a girl down in Monterey. I was assigned to evaluate him-he broke out of jail and kidnapped me.”

“And now you're just another strawberry blond,” Donna pointed out. “Welcome to the drying shed.”

Dolores shushed her. “Donna, don't you see-if they caught him and he broke out of jail, at least they know he exists. They're probably looking for him.” She turned back to Irene. “Right?” she said hopefully.

“I'm sure they are. They don't know who he is yet-”

“Oh.” A dismayed sound.

“-but they have to be closing in,” Irene hurried on. “He killed a highway patrolman in northern California on Saturday morning.”

“What day is it now?” asked Dolores.

“Tuesday, the thirteenth.”

“What month?”

“July.”

A pause. Reluctantly, Dolores asked one last question: “What year is it?”

“Nineteen ninety-nine.”

In the silence of the drying shed, the echoes of both question and answer lingered for all three women. Dolores realized that she was well into her third year of captivity-one way or the other, she knew it would be her last. Donna understood that the first anniversary of her disappearance had come and gone. She wondered if they were still looking for her. Or if anybody missed her, for that matter. Not Horton, that was for sure. Nor that treacherous, husband-stealing Edwina Comb, either.

As for Irene, she was struggling to hold on to the last shreds of her composure. At no time during his interminable recitation of atrocities this morning had Maxwell hinted that any of his victims was still alive, much less only a few hundred yards away, underground. What year is it? Oh dear Jesus, what year is it?

Dolores broke the silence. “Have you had anything to eat today? We have a little grub left.”

“No, I'm fine,” Irene replied. “We had a picnic down by the creek. Wine. Ladyfingers.”

“Christopher took me down by the creek when I first got here,” mused Donna. “Fed me and fucked me silly. I was so happy. At long last, I thought-at long last I'd found true love. Next day I met Max.”

“Then you know about the DID?” Irene was mildly surprised- Maxwell could have hidden it from them if he'd cared to.

“Dee eye what?”

“DID. Dissociative identity disorder. They used to call it multiple personality.”

“Oh, that,” said Donna. “Sure. Didn't know they changed the name. Didn't know it had a name-we just figured he's nutty as a fruitcake.”

“Well, there's that, too,” said Irene. Then she surprised herselfshe actually giggled. It was either a sign of returning mental health or incipient hysteria. She was trying to decide which when the door burst open.