Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 7-9: Buried Alive, Her Last Scream, The Killing Game

“Crayline’s got one of those personalities that sucks everything to him. He started getting into people’s heads and causing all sorts of trouble. He was never meant to be a permanent resident. Dr Prowse sent him back to prison. Then the appellate judge set him free.”

“I figured he’d be back in the system,” I said. “Took a couple years and a kidnapping – and maybe a few bodies pulled from the dirt in Alabama – but here he is.”

“Doc Prowse thought a lot about hypnotizing Bobby Lee when he was here, Carson, but decided against it. She ever tell you why?”

I nodded. “Vangie was afraid he’d decompensate. That direct contact with his past might create conditions in which he’d become even more dangerous.”

“He’s barely wrapped as it is.”

“He siphons off the worst impulses by beating the hell out of others, Theo. It’s an escape valve.”

Theotis shook his head and retreated down the hall. I led Mix-up to a small meeting room, tossed a biscuit on the floor. When he was rolling on the biscuit, his curious pre-chow ritual, I closed the door and turned down the hall toward the conference room.

I knocked and stuck my head inside. The room was spare, the lighting indirect, the cool air tinted with false lemon. Two men were at the table, one resembling country singer Porter Wagoner, hound-dog features beneath a white pompadour. He had a booth-built tan and looked in his late fifties. Theo was right about the threads: Where Wagoner would have worn ten pounds of sequins, this guy was tucked inside three thousand bucks’ worth of sedate gray silk.

Beside Pomp’n’tan was a tall and broad-shouldered guy in his mid-thirties. His eyes were deep-set and dark and when added to his thick eyebrows suggested a Neanderthal on steroids. His black suit was cut large, allowing easy access to the Glock he’d had to surrender.

A penguin-bodied man sat to the side with a briefcase in his lap. Bald with side fringes, pencil mustache, soft blue eyes behind thick trifocals. He was sixty or so, dressed in a formless suit. The hypnotist shrink.

“Where’s Dr Wainwright?” I asked.

“The restroom,” the Neanderthal said, eyeing me like a bum who’d stumbled into a wedding. “Wait outside and you won’t miss her.”

“I’ll wait in here,” I said, stepping into the room.

“This is a private meeting.” He stood, hand blocking entry further than two steps. It was a bouncer’s move and I’d never liked bouncers.

“I’m on the VIP list,” I said.

“I said this is a private meeting.”

When I started toward a seat the Neanderthal stopped me with a stiff finger at my sternum. Another bouncer move. I jammed my leg in front of his, grabbed his wrist and rotated like an ice skater starting a sit-spin. The Neanderthal went sprawling across the floor, sending two chairs tumbling. He was up in a half-heartbeat, fists clenched, flashing I’m-gonna-kill-you eyes. I whipped out my badge wallet and ID.

“Not recommended,” I said.

“What’s going on here?” Doc Wainwright appeared at the threshold, looking between the upended chairs and my ID display.

“A get-acquainted session, Doc,” I said.

“Sit, Bridges,” said a voice behind me. Scarcely louder than the hum of the air conditioning, it was a command. Pomp’n’tan was studying me with interested eyes. He held a business card between index and second finger, as if slipping a tip to a bellhop.

“Read it to me,” I said.

“Arthur Slezak, of Dunham, Krull and Slezak. Counsel of record for Robert Crayline. The gentlemen with me are Charles Bridges, who you just, uh, met. And this is Dr Walter Neddles, psychiatrist and certified hypnotist. May I see your identification, please?”

Slezak donned reading glasses and studied my particulars as I studied his hands: pink with perfectly manicured nails, on his left wrist a Rolex that cost as much as I made from January through June. I saw him frown, as if trying to grasp a memory.

“Mobile?” he said. “Aren’t you a bit far from your jurisdiction, Detective?”

“I’ve asked this man to be here,” Wainwright said, taking her chair at the head of the table.

“Why’s that, Doctor?”

“Detective Ryder knows the danger Mr Crayline represents. He’s against the hypnosis as well.”

Neddles cleared his throat. “I assure you, Dr Wainwright, that I’ve hypnotized dangerous people. Terrence Crump, Ernesto Vasquez, Rhonda Sue Bolz—”

“I’ve met them all,” I interrupted. “I tracked and arrested Crump, who attacked elderly women. Bolz was a hospital poisoner. Vasquez killed winos or railroad bums. Have you studied Bobby Lee Crayline, Doctor? His capacity for violence is on another level.”

Slezak had a butter-smooth smile on his face. “If Mr Crayline is resistant to hypnosis, we’re gone. All I’m requesting is the opportunity.”

“What do you want to know?”

“That’s private, except to say that Mr Crayline might know things he may not know he knows.”

“That’s suitably vague,” I said, “You going to ask Bobby Lee about the three bodies found in his old home-town?”

“Purely circumstantial,” Slezak pooh-poohed. “Never tied to Mr Crayline.”

“So far,” I said.

“I’ve decided this is too dangerous,” Wainwright announced, finding her courage. “I’m sorry for your trouble, Mr Slezak, but I refuse to allow the hypnosis.”

Slezak plucked out a sheaf of paper from the briefcase at his feet. He slid reading glasses over the lengthy nose and tapped the pages. “Did you know, Dr Wainwright, that the land beneath the Institute is leased from the state for a dollar a year? And there’s a clause stating if the Institute poses a threat to the well-being of the local citizenry, the deal can be revoked?”

“We’ve never posed a threat to anyone,” Wainwright said.

Slezak feigned confusion. “Did not a patient escape from this very institution just two years ago? A man who murdered his father and five women? Wasn’t he a prime suspect in the death of Evangeline Prowse, the former director of this institution?”

“Jeremy Ridgecliff,” Wainwright said, leaning forward, her voice tight. “The man was never loose in this area. And no one really knows what happened after his escape. Surely you heard the rumors regarding Ridgecliff’s supposed role in the hotel explosion during the—”

Slezak cut her off mid-sentence. He snapped his fingers and turned to me.

“I know why the name Ryder sounds familiar. You were the cop sent to New York to stop Ridgecliff. Don’t tell me you think the man is anything but a vicious killer.” Slezak raised a white eyebrow, as if Ridgecliff’s guilt was written in the sands of Time and anyone thinking otherwise was moronic.

“I do question Ridgecliff’s guilt. Revisiting the women’s murders could have different findings this time around.”

“But isn’t Ridgecliff still in hiding?” Slezak countered. “No effort to proclaim innocence? Never contacted anyone?”

My face grew hot and I looked away. I’d spoken to Jeremy Ridgecliff a week ago, the seventeenth conversation I’d had with him since his escape. I actually spoke to him on a fairly regular basis, though I never knew where he was calling from.

It’s said everyone has one big secret. Here’s mine: Jeremy Ridgecliff is my biological brother, our kinship concealed by my long-ago name change and other obfuscations. Those who knew could be counted on one hand with digits to spare. I’d spent years hiding my ties to Jeremy and our childhood, only to be slammed into him in New York and made part of his escape mechanism. I had no idea where he was, only that he was brilliant enough to develop exacting mechanisms to avoid capture.

“Detective Ryder?” Slezak prodded. “You’re not answering my question. Is Ridgecliff on the run from the law?”

“Yes,” I said. It was all I could say.

Slezak gave me a lizard smile and turned to Wainwright. “A mad killer set loose, Doctor? Imagine if that fact was presented to the citizens who allow prime taxpayer land to be leased for a paltry sum. A funding backlash might ensue.”