When She Was Bad

2

Irene Cogan had suffered two brutal blows in her lifetime. Six years earlier, stunned by the unexpected death of her husband, she had more or less shut down emotionally, while her kidnapping and subsequent ordeal at the scarred hands of the serial killer Ulysses Maxwell three years later seemed to have had precisely the opposite effect.

With death imminent, Irene had promised herself that if she did by some miracle survive, she would spend less time working and more time smelling the roses. Unlike most such promises, that one had been kept-the second part, anyway. Her recovery from post-traumatic stress disorder hadn’t exactly been a picnic-three years after her kidnapping she still suffered from the occasional PTSD flashback-but in general she had come through it with a renewed sense of possibilities, stronger where she was weak, less brittle where she was strong, a good deal kinder to herself, and an inveterate smeller of roses.

“You’re just in time,” she greeted Pender upon his return to the cabin, which resembled a long, narrow hospital room. Lily lay strapped into the adjustable bed, fully clothed, tossing restlessly in her sleep. “I think she’s starting to come out of it.”

“Which she would that be?” asked Pender.

“Hard to say. Stress, trauma, periods of unconsciousness as opposed to natural sleep all tend to trigger alter switches. But as to which alter comes out the other side, that’s a crap shoot. Or I suppose I should say a game of roulette-you know, round and round she goes, and where she stops…“

“…nobody knows,” Lily said sleepily, opening her eyes. “Oh, hi, Dr. Irene. Boy, am I glad to see you. I just had the strangest dream. I dreamed I was home alone, and the phone rang, and it was this policeman, and he, he said…“Her dark eyes widened as she took in her surroundings; she sat up, looking around dazedly. “Am I still dreaming?”

“Not at all.” Irene took Lily’s hand in one of hers and patted it with her other hand to help Lily ground herself. “We’re in an airplane-it’s like a flying ambulance. You’ve had a rather severe dissociative episode-I’m afraid I had to sedate you.”

“Was it Lilah?”

“No, a new alter-she called herself Lilith. She was quite a character-something like a biker moll in training.”

“Speaking of flying.” Pender stepped to the foot of the bed. “Pilot says everybody needs to buckle up-we’ll be landing in just a few minutes.”

Seeing Pender made Lily feel a little like smiling in spite of…well, in spite of everything. “Hello, Uncle Pen.”

“Hi, doll.” He and the doctor helped her up and led her over to one of three swiveling chairs bolted to the starboard wall; Pender buckled her seat belt for her as the jet began a sharp leftward bank.

Lily rubbed her palms against the soft upholstery, continuing the grounding process. So many questions crowded her mind: how much time had passed? What had this “Lilith” been up to with her body? Any harm done-to herself or others? And where were Grandma and Grandpa, how come they had sent Dr. Irene and Uncle Pen instead of-

Suddenly she moaned.

“What is it, dear-are you all right?” asked Irene, lowering herself into the chair to Lily’s left. “Do you need anything? A glass of water or something?”

Lily turned her head. Her eyes swam with tears, blurring and brightening the silvery glare filtering in through the oval windows. “The phone call from the policeman-that wasn’t something I dreamed, was it, Dr. Irene?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“How-how long has it been?” The plane straightened out again; Lily felt the pressure of the descent in her ears.

“Not quite three weeks.”

“Did I miss the funeral?”

Thud-the cabin trembled briefly as the landing gear let down. “The memorial service, yes, I’m afraid so. But your uncle Rollie said to tell you that he’s saving the ashes until you get home so the two of you can scatter them in the bay.”

Ashes, thought Lily. Ashes, ashes, all fall down. “Dr. Irene?”

“Yes?”

“When we get home, can I stay at your house for a while? I don’t think I could handle being alone in the hacienda.”

Thwwwwt-it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the cabin, replaced by a shivery silence. The white-striped black tarmac rushed by on either side of the plane. Then, as the wheels hit the tarmac at the shallowest of angles, rebounded into the air, and skipped along the runway for a few dozen yards like a stone skimming across a pond, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

“We’re not going home, are we?” she called, over the whine of the braking engines.

“I’m-No, no we’re not.” I’m afraid not, Irene had started to say, before it occurred to her how frequently she’d used the word afraid in the last few minutes.

Now why is that? she asked herself, as the plane taxied toward the terminal. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that in about twenty minutes she’d be in the same building as Ulysses Maxwell, could it?

Well, yes, actually it could. But there was nothing to be afraid of, the psychiatrist reminded herself, unconsciously rubbing her forefinger over the burn scar on the back of her hand where the alter known as Max had held a cigarette lighter to her flesh. Because he can’t hurt you anymore, she told herself firmly. He can’t hurt you ever again.