A sharp pain shot up Walter’s right leg, like a needle to the ball of his foot, and he tried not to think about the bottle of Percocet in his pocket. Barely an hour had gone by since the last pill. He needed to get off his feet.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Consistently, for a week now. Prior to that, I only heard him mention your name twice in our regular sessions.”

  Walter shifted his weight from his cane back to his left leg. The pain that had become as constant to him as breathing dulled for a moment, then began to build again on the opposite side of his body. When his pelvis screamed, he shifted back again.

  The man they were watching appeared to be in his late fifties. His gray hair was cropped short and his face showed the lines of someone who had lived a hard life. He wore loose-fitting beige scrubs and scruffy white canvas shoes.

  “Why is he here?”

  “Mr. Larson joined us for the fourth time about three months ago,” Dr. Frazer explained. “He’s been in and out of facilities like ours since returning from Vietnam.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “Only if you put a rifle in his hands. He was a sniper in that past life. Red Larson simply wants to forget, and his mind will not permit him to do so. Over the years, we’ve found delicate mixes of medications able to put up a wall strong enough for him to leave us, function out in the world, but over time that wall crumbles and he returns to our doorstep. Like I said, this being his fourth visit with us, one of his longest—going on three years now. We will always welcome him back here with open arms with the hope of finding the means to set him free again.”

  Here being Bakersfield. A private psychiatric facility located in Bumass Nowhere, Michigan, just outside a small town called Broken Creek.

  “You weren’t an easy man to find,” Dr. Frazer continued. “There are a lot of Walter O’Briens in the world.”

  In the one-way glass, Walter’s reflection stared back at him, the thin scars diffused by time. The white hair bothered him most. He’d tried dying it over the years, but the color—black, brown, blond—never took. In a day or two it always went white again, changing as quickly as it had all those years back.

  “How exactly did you find me?” Walter asked.

  “Sister Mary Susan spotted your name in a story about a fire back in Detroit some time ago. Realized you were with law enforcement.”

  “I haven’t been with Detroit PD for some time.”

  “Yet of the dozen or so Walter O’Briens we contacted, you’re the only one who dropped everything to come here after our call. That tells me all I need to understand that you are the correct Walter O’Brien. The others either politely dismissed us or outright hung up.”

  In the cell, and there really wasn’t a better way to describe it, Red Larson continued to write on the third wall, his handwriting surprisingly neat, steady, and quick.

  Fuck you, Lilin—I am not Walter O’Brien

  Fuck you, Lilin—I am not Walter O’Brien

  Fuck you, Lilin—I am not Walter O’Brien

  “I’d like to speak to him.”

  The doctor nodded. “I assumed as much.”

  Chapter

  69

  Dr. Frazer led Walter down a wide hallway with a steepled brick ceiling. Beneath the scent of bleach and floor wax was the smell of urine and decay.

  “This was once a single-family home,” the doctor told Walter as they walked, “the summer home of a well-known textile manufacturer who helped fund the automobile industry. His daughter suffered from mental illness, so upon the patriarch’s death in 1911, the family donated the home to the care and well-being of those suffering from similar ailments. There was a trust once, but it’s long gone now, so we survive on a budget strung together from donors and government handouts. The hope is to one day restore the house to its previous glory, but taking care of our patients comes first, of course. Here we are…”

  Dr. Frazer gestured into a room not unlike the interview rooms back at Detroit PD.

  “Take a seat. I’ll have Red brought in.”

  Walter carefully lowered himself into one of the chairs, doing his best to ignore the pain screaming from every mended bone and muscle and failing miserably. The metal pins in his right femur were worst of all. He wouldn’t take another pill, though, not yet.

  Larson arrived in restraints, which Walter found odd considering the doctor had just finished telling him the man was harmless.

  “Are those necessary?”

  The orderlies helped Larson into the chair opposite Walter and fastened his restraints to an eyebolt in the center of the table. “Procedure, sir.”

  Larson didn’t seem to mind. Judging by the blank stare in his bloodshot eyes and the glisten of drool on the corner of his mouth, it was clear the man was heavily medicated. He swayed slowly back and forth in the seat.

  The orderlies left, followed by the click of a heavy lock.

  Walter wondered if anyone was on the other side of the one-way glass.

  He pointed toward the cup of water near Larson’s hand. With the restraints, the man wouldn’t be able to lift it to his mouth on his own. “Are you thirsty? I can help you.”

  Larson only stared at him. The drool worked down the side of his chin and dripped to his shirt.

  Walter took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it away.

  Larson remained still, those eyes of his looking more through Walter than at him.

  Walter settled back in his chair. “Do you know who I am?”

  When Larson finally spoke, the words came slowly, a gruff drawl. A mix of medication and a deep Southern accent. “You’re the one Lilin wants. The one she talks about.” His eyes dropped to the restraints on his hands. “I’m not good enough for her.”

  “Who?”

  “Lilin.”

  “Who is Lilin?”

  “Her. She is Lilin.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know that name.”

  Behind the dull eyes, Walter could see the man’s mind attempting to work, trying to fight through the haze. “Lilin…Preta.”

  “Is that her last name? Preta? Lilin Preta?”

  It wasn’t a name Walter had ever heard before.

  Larson’s head slowly shook. “Preta…a Vietnamese word. Hungry ghost. Eater of life. Preta.”

  “Is that where you first heard the name? In Vietnam?”

  Larson nodded. “In Vietnam.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “She speaks of you. Her Walter. Her Walter O’Brien. We’ve spent many hours talking about you. You’re all she ever wants to talk about. All she ever…wants. Doesn’t matter how hard I try, always, Walter, Walter, Walter.”

  “Is she here? In this place?”

  “Always. Here. Everywhere. Always.”

  “I’m not sure what that means. Can you describe her for me? What does she look like?”

  What does she look like…to you?

  Larson’s gaze dropped to the burn scar on Walter’s wrist, and his eyes filled with a brief moment of clarity. “She misses you, Walter. Told me to tell you she wished it was just the two of you. The two of you forever in your place.”

  Our place, Walter. Don’t you remember it?

  A heavy hand knocked on the door.

  When it opened, Lincoln Sealey was standing there. He motioned for Walter to step back out into the hallway.

  Chapter

  70

  Walter rose and stepped back out into the hallway. There was no sign of Dr. Frazer.

  Sealey closed the door behind him and twisted the dead bolt. When he spoke, he kept his voice low. “I’m not sure what to make of this place. You think she’s here?”

  “Good spot to hide.” Walter gave a sidelong glance to a nun standing silently in the hallway, still enough to be part of the shadows.

  “Better than Albuquerque, that’s for damn sure.”

  They’d nearly gotten her in Albuquerque. She’d been living in student housing near a large community college with twenty-plus other girls. A constant rotation of new students in, older students out. They weren’t exactly sure how long she’d been there, but the first body they found on record was a male student, nineteen, dead of a massive brain tumor behind a small convenience store in 2003. Under the black light, his lips lit up the room. Their team had found seven others, and they were still looking for more. The last had been an English professor, though, three years ago. They lost her after that. She’d stopped using the female serial killer aliases back in the late ’90s, probably knew they were watching for that now. Despite 24/7 surveillance, she’d never been seen returning to her dumping ground in Georgia, either. Walter was certain she had others; they just hadn’t found them yet. There were too many bodies.

  “She’s gotten downright obsessed with you, cowboy,” Sealey said.

  “It’s just another one of her games.”

  Outside Nashville in 1999 they had found the body of a missing accountant covered in dead roses in an old fishing cabin, a Valentine’s card in his fingerless palms. Inside she had written, For my lovely Walter. I miss your touch. Do you miss mine? In Oakland, California, there had been an entire biker gang. Nine altogether, five men, four women. They’d been handcuffed to chairs in a warehouse, no doubt a nod to Sealey and his tent back at the Garden. She’d taken her time with them. A few weeks at least, draining them of life in slow increments—a touch here, a longer hold here, a kiss there. There’d been a security system and she’d covered the cameras, but the audio had captured every scream. Between the cries of these men were her desperate whispers—Why didn’t we just go to Iowa, Walter? If you wake with a nightmare, is there anyone there to dry your tears? The victims had been unrecognizable by the time the bodies were discovered. Sealey had said she was getting sloppy, disorganized. Walter had thought, how long can anything survive in isolation before the loneliness begins to eat at whatever is left? That had been in 2005.

  “If she’s here, why hasn’t she just killed this guy like the others? Sounds more like she’s been confiding in him,” Walter said. “Keeping him alive so she has someone to talk to.”

  Lonely.

  Sealey just shrugged. “I’ve given up trying to understand her. I didn’t see any marks on him, did you?”

  Walter shook his head. “We know she can dial it back when she wants to. There’s something here. Did you hear him? He called her a preta.”

  “‘Hungry ghost. Eater of life,’” Sealey quoted. “Not an inaccurate description, although most pretas are believed to be invisible to the human eye, unless…”

  “Unless drugged, fevered, or in a hallucinatory state,” Walter finished for him. “I’ve seen that report, too. Tell me he doesn’t fit that bill. Legend has pretas eating their victims to replenish their strength and reverse aging, particularly body parts associated with the senses—eyes, ears, and—”

  Sealey cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I’m not saying it’s wrong; I just don’t get why he’s not dead.”

  Same reason I’m not dead, Walter thought. She found something she liked. Only difference is she kept this pet in a cage.

  Walter didn’t want to go there so he changed the subject. “What’s Lilin? Ever hear that name?”

  “Sure.” Sealey scratched at the scruff under his chin. “It’s a play on Lilith, a name that appears in all sorts of religious texts. In ancient Mesopotamia, the lilin were hostile night spirits that attacked men. Wraiths, sirens, banshees, that kind of thing. Means a similar thing in Hebrew. In Targum Sheni Esther 1:3, King Solomon commanded Lilin to dance before him.”

  “Dance?”

  Sealey waved a hand. “You can’t take that stuff literally. In context, I think it meant bow down, obey him, do his will, a subservient thing. His way of proving he was stronger than her.”

  “Her, though. Not it, or them? A person, not a thing?”

  “It’s been a while since I read all that, I’d have to look it up, but if I’m remembering correctly, I read it in the Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible. Something about Lilin and her children, they were called the lilim, I think.” Sealey paused as a little more came back to him. “There’s a couple stories, but the gist is King Solomon captured Lilin and tried to bend her will, use her for his own gains. I don’t think it worked out well for him.”

  Walter looked back at Larson through the small window in the door. He was hunched over the table. Still awake, but barely.

  Sealey continued. “Lilith is apocryphally considered to have been Adam’s first wife in the Bible, too.”

  “Adam’s first wife?”

  “Before Eve, yeah. Lots of nasty lore tied to that name and different takes on it, like Lilin. Numerous cultures link both to variations on succubi.” He followed Walter’s gaze through the small window and studied the man inside for a moment. “Larson is a Scandinavian name, and Sweden has a larger Jewish population than you might expect. If his parents or grandparents were from there, that may be how he picked it up. We’ll know when his background comes back. The name Lilin might just be some word floating around in the back of his head, something he heard long ago and plucked out to fill some fantasy. We don’t know this man’s mental state. Sounds like he was a complete wreck when he came in, and now he’s hopped up on who knows what. Just because he believes it doesn’t make it real. This might be a delusion based on some story he heard.”

  Because he’s alive. She wouldn’t let him live.

  “He’s not delusional. Red’s not like that.”

  This came from the nun. They’d barely spoken above a whisper, but she had heard them anyway.

  She took several steps closer. “Red is a deeply disturbed individual, but he’s not prone to delusions, fantasies, or hyperbole.”

  Sealey narrowed his eyes. “And you are?”

  “Sister Mary Susan.” She nodded at Walter. “I’m the one who found you.”

  “Do you have anyone on staff here who goes by a name that sounds like Lilin?”

  “No.”

  “What about another patient? Any patients named Lilin, Lilith, or some variation?”

  She shook her head. “We currently have twenty-seven female patients, none who go by that.”

  “Who specifically has access to Mr. Larson?” Walter asked her.

  “He stays in his room by choice. I’ve never seen him in the community room or the outdoor spaces. He takes his meals alone. If he’s had contact with other patients, I’m not aware of it. His interactions are limited to staff.”

  “What is he on?” Sealey asked the nun.

  “Clonidine, Prozac, and propranolol.”

  “We need him clearheaded,” Walter told her. “Can you discontinue his meds?”

  “Not without Dr. Frazer’s approval, and I seriously doubt he’d authorize that.”

  “Okay, can you delay his next dose? Buy us an hour?”

  To this she didn’t reply. That was better than saying no.

  At the opposite end of the hallway, Walter caught the shadow of one of the orderlies who had brought Red Larson to the interview room—a large Black man, at least six four and probably pushing three hundred pounds. Their eyes met for a moment, then the man rounded the corner and disappeared again.

  The nun said, “That’s Canton Brown. He played pro ball for the Bills until his knee blew out about eight years ago.”

  “Shit,” Sealey muttered. “Thought he looked familiar.”

  Walter said to her, “You’ve been here awhile, then?”

  She nodded. “I was on staff the last time Red Larson came in. Something has changed within him, and not for the good. I can also tell you that change occurred after he arrived. This business with Lilin presented recently and has only escalated since.”

  “We’ll need access to patient and staff records, visitor logs,” Walter told Sealey. “Everyone in and out of this place over the past year, maybe more. I can write off the biblical references as coincidence, but not knowing my name. He got that from somewhere.”

  Sealey agreed and looked up and down the hallway. “Where did that administrator go?”

  “Dr. Frazer returned to his office,” the nun said. “I was told to bring you there when you finished with Red.”

  “We need to lock this place down. Nobody in or out.” Taking a cell phone from his pocket, Sealey gave Walter a resigned glance. “I’ll move our people into position and get a warrant.”

  Chapter

  71

  “This is a medical facility, first and foremost,” Dr. Frazer spouted from behind his large oak desk. “I can’t allow you and your people to traipse around in here upsetting our staff and patients any more than I can grant access to confidential records. Not without a warrant. We could lose our license. The state could lock our doors. I can only imagine how our donors would view such an intrusion.”

  Sealey was out in the hallway, still on his phone, working on the warrant, but he hadn’t gotten one yet. Sister Mary Susan stood silently, her back against the administrator’s door.

  “We’re working on it, but it takes time,” Walter told him. “If the person we’re looking for is here, and she realizes we’re searching for her, we may lose her. Speed and surprise are key.”

  Dr. Frazer’s face grew red. “Let’s talk about that. I just got a call from our front gate. There are two men out there claiming to be federal agents turning away deliveries and visitors—not allowing anyone in or out. Two more at our main entrance, and several more around our perimeter. Care to explain who authorized all that? I know it wasn’t me.”

  “There’s an urgency to—”

  “My chief of security phoned not two minutes ago,” Frazer interrupted. “He said someone waved a badge at him and demanded access to our camera footage, our logs.”

  “I don’t think you fully understand the—”

  “What I understand is that, badge or no badge, you’re taking actions here without the authority to do so.” Frazer picked up his phone and quickly dialed a number. He looked down at the receiver, thumbed the disconnect several times, and glared at Walter. “It’s dead. Did you cut our phone lines?” He tugged open a drawer and took out a cell phone, tried to place a call, then frowned at the display. “I’m not getting a signal. What’s going on? Are you doing this?” He gestured toward Sealey, visible through the window overlooking the hallway. “How did he dial out?”