Authors: Mary Jane Clark
N
ice work, Anastasia. Your story was great and the pictures and video were terrific. We’re blowing everybody away on this thing.”
Still in her terry-cloth robe, Anastasia lounged on her bed, propped up with a pile of down pillows. There was a copy of the
L.A.
Times
on her lap. She had already read her story on the murder of Esperanza Flores three times. She held the phone to her ear and smiled with satisfaction at the praise coming from her editor.
“Glad you’re pleased, Tim,” she said. “I have to tell you that it’s a thrill to see my byline on the front page. That’s a first for me.”
“Yeah, well, keep up the good work and it won’t be the last,” said the editor. “And don’t forget our Web site. We’ll post any good video you get. Who knows where else it will end up!
Good Morning America
used some of it today.”
When she ended the call, Anastasia congratulated herself on having the foresight to register at Elysium using a different last name, with a credit card she’d kept active after her divorce from Jeff Wilcox. If the Abernathys knew that it was she who was responsible for the press coverage, they undoubtedly would have asked her to leave. She had to remain on the inside to cover the aftermath of the murder as well as to finish her research on the story that had brought her here in the first place.
Anastasia picked up the spa directory from the table and perused the contents. She ached to take a yoga class or get a massage to relieve the tension in her neck and shoulders. But she decided it would be in the best interest of her story to call the skin-treatment room for an appointment.
“Is Kyle Quigley available to do my facial?” she asked. “I hear he’s the best.”
M
onday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons at three, Wendy Ellis had a standing appointment. The sessions with Dr. Ben Dixon were the focal points of her week. Those were virtually the only times she ventured out of her cottage. If she could have talked Dr. Ben into coming to her instead of going to see him in his office, she would have. But he insisted that she come to him.
Wendy suspected that it wasn’t really essential that the therapy be conducted at his place in the main building. Dr. Ben just wanted her to leave the safety of her cottage. He was always encouraging her to get out more and telling her that she would feel better if she interacted with the world. It wasn’t healthy to be alone all the time.
“But I’m not alone,” Wendy protested as she sat in his office Friday afternoon. “My father comes to see me every day. Dr. Abernathy comes to check on me during the week, the kitchen people bring me my food, and I see people once in a while when I walk over here to see you.”
“Do you talk to any of them?”
Wendy looked down at her lap. “Not really,” she said. “I only talk to my dad, you, and Dr. Abernathy.”
“You’re living a very isolated existence, Wendy,” said Dr. Ben. “That was fine for a while. You were wounded.”
“I still am,” said Wendy, reaching up to feel the cotton mask she wore to cover the place where her nose had been. “I have to face the fact that I always will be. I don’t want anyone to look at me.” Her brown eyes filled with tears.
“What exactly are you afraid of?” he asked.
Wendy thought for a moment, her eyes focused on the painting on the wall. “I’m afraid people will be disgusted, that they’ll think I’m a monster,” she whispered. “
I
think I’m a monster.”
“Let me ask you something else, Wendy. Say you were walking down the street and you saw someone approaching who looked like you—how would
you
react?”
“With the mask or without?” she asked.
“Both,” said Dr. Ben.
Wendy shrugged. “I guess if I saw somebody walking toward me with a mask on, if they weren’t dressed like a lowlife or I didn’t get the feeling that they were going to attack me or something, I’d think that they were wearing the mask because of the smog or because they were afraid of germs or something like that.”
“And if you saw somebody without the mask?” asked Dr. Ben.
“I’d be grossed out.”
“Would you think the person was a monster?”
“No, I guess not,” said Wendy. “I guess I’d just feel sorry for the person and be glad it wasn’t me.”
“So you’d feel compassion for that person, right?”
Wendy nodded.
Dr. Ben leaned forward in his chair. “Wendy, do you think you can try? Can you give your fellow human beings the benefit of the doubt and trust that they will react as you would?”
For a full minute, Wendy said nothing. Dr. Ben waited for her answer. Finally she spoke.
“Maybe I can try to go out,” she said slowly. “With my mask on, of course.”
Dr. Ben smiled. “Good,” he said. “That’s a start. When you come next time, you can tell me about what you did and the people you talked with and what you thought their reactions were. Try to go out and talk to someone new at least once today, tomorrow, and Sunday. You’re ready, Wendy.”
W
hen Piper returned to Elysium from the convent, she went to her suite and checked the spa directory to see if there was some sort of class she could take in the late afternoon. There was a yoga class at four o’clock. She washed her face, changed quickly, and headed out again.
Forgoing the elevator, she hurried down the staircase to the ground floor. As she opened the door, she almost bumped into the person coming out of the office across the hallway.
“Oh, sorry,” said Piper. “I shouldn’t have been in such a rush.”
“No problem,” murmured the young woman, keeping her head lowered.
Both of them walked down the hallway alongside each other. When they got to the door, Piper leaned forward, opened it, and held it.
“After you,” she said, smiling and trying to make eye contact.
“Thank you.” The girl didn’t look at Piper as she passed through.
They continued walking in the same direction.
“I’m going to try one of the yoga classes,” said Piper. “Have you been?”
“No.” The girl hesitated. “I’m going back to my cottage.”
“Oh, I’ve seen a couple of the cottages. They’re really amazing. Do you love yours?”
“It’s fine, I guess.”
“How long are you staying?” asked Piper.
“I don’t really know.”
Piper wondered what was under the girl’s mask. Had she had some sort of treatment that needed to be covered as it healed? Was she allergic to something? Though curious, Piper wasn’t going to ask.
As if anticipating the question and bracing herself for it, the girl straightened up and looked directly into Piper’s eyes. “I had some surgery that went really wrong,” she blurted.
“That’s terrible,” said Piper. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” The girl sighed with relief. “Now that that’s over with, I don’t have to talk to anyone else till tomorrow.”
Piper looked at her, puzzled.
The girl’s eyes crinkled at the edges. Piper could tell she was smiling beneath the mask.
“My therapist says I have to talk to someone every day. You just filled my assignment for Friday.”
“Oh, well, I’m glad I could help,” said Piper. “You know, I’m here by myself. If you want, I’d love to have some company. Do you want to have dinner together?”
The girl answered swiftly. “Oh, no, I couldn’t go to the dining room with all those . . . people.”
“Well, how about the patio? I had breakfast there this morning, and I was the only one out there.”
“That’s really nice of you to ask.” The girl hesitated again. “What’s your name?”
“Piper.”
“I’m Wendy. Anyway, I don’t think dinner is a good idea for me.”
“Okay, but if you change your mind, or if you want to have breakfast or lunch or whatever, I’m in room 307. Just call me.”
A
pretty brunette sat across the dinner table from Jack. Her blue eyes were focused on him alone. She was clearly intelligent and a good conversationalist, up on what was happening in the world. She laughed at his humor. There was nothing wrong with the way she held her fork or chewed her food.
Why couldn’t he just like this girl? Why did he keep thinking about Piper?
Jack downed a second glass of wine. Then another. By the time the waiter came to take their dessert orders, the brunette seemed more appealing.
“After we’re through here, want to go downtown for a nightcap?” he asked.
“Downtown where?” asked the young woman.
“There’s a comedy club in the Village that’s fun or . . .” Jack hesitated.
“Or what?”
“We could go to my apartment.”
The brunette leaned back in her chair and smiled. “You know what, Jack? I think I’ll pass.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. I’m a big believer in chemistry, something you feel, right from the start. No offense, Jack, but I’m not feeling it tonight. I’ve gotten the sense that you weren’t even really here. Your mind was somewhere else.”
L
ights were out at nine-fifteen.
While she truly loved being with her sisters in community all day long, Sister Mary Noelle also treasured her time alone at night. Her monastic cell was spartan, with a single bed, a table, and a desk. Only the necessities for rest and prayer, meditation, study, and individual work. A crucifix hung over the bed. The other walls were bare.
Sister Mary Noelle was relieved that the day was over. Whenever she had to deal with seeing her father’s wife, it sapped her of energy and caused inner turmoil. She struggled with her complicated feelings about Irene.
The nun removed her veil and took off her habit, hanging it up carefully. She slipped on a simple white nightgown. Taking her rosary from the desk and sinking to her knees beside the small bed, she bowed her head and began to pray.
Heavenly Father, please help me. I strive, but I always come up short. Help me make my peace with my father and Irene. You know how much I love my father, Lord. Please, help me to forgive him. I know it was an accident. My father loved my mother; he would never have intentionally hurt her. I want to let go of the anger I know I still harbor toward him. Dear God, please help me to do that.
The floor was hard beneath her knees. Sister Mary Noelle didn’t mind the discomfort; she could offer it up for the poor souls in purgatory. She continued her prayer
.
Help me to accept Irene, dear Jesus. I know she loves my father and does her best to make him happy. Please, help me to stop judging her. Release me from the unkind thoughts I have about her. I am ashamed of myself that I continue to dwell on things that happened years ago.
The nun let her rosary beads dangle from her fingers. Her mouth moved intermittently as she recited the Hail Marys and Our Fathers. When she finished her prayers, she crossed herself and kissed the crucifix at the end of the beads. Then she remembered one last prayer.
Help Jillian see, Lord. Help her understand how important it is that she and Ben be married in a church by a priest. A gazebo at Elysium isn’t the place to receive the holy sacrament of matrimony.
Sister Mary Noelle got up from her knees and pulled back the blanket on top of the bed. Though bone tired, she hesitated before getting in.
Why do I feel compelled to look at it again?
She went to the desk and slid open the bottom drawer. Beneath the paperwork she was required to do for the gift shop, she found the long white envelope. She pulled out and reread the letter she just couldn’t bring herself to rip up or throw away.
SATURDAY, JANUARY 8 . . . SEVEN DAYS UNTIL THE WEDDING
J
illian is just a week away from being a bride. And a beautiful one she’ll be unless she’s stopped. If that gorgeous face is marred, if that blond mane is scorched, all bets are off. The wedding probably won’t take place at all.
The acid didn’t find its mark, but fire can be equally destructive and horribly maiming. Burns can produce the most grotesque scars. Sometimes, if the burns are too severe, the victim dies.
Maybe death should be the aim after all. If Jillian is merely disfigured . . . that might not be enough.
The turpentine is ready and waiting. All that’s needed now is the opportunity.
P
iper woke up early, her internal clock still on East Coast time. She showered, dressed, and went down to breakfast. Afterward she stopped in the communications room, where computers were set up for the spa’s guests.
Her conversation with Irene Abernathy and their trip the day before to the Monastery of the Angels had piqued Piper’s interest again in the death of Caryn Collins Abernathy. She’d been meaning to find out more about it since she first saw it mentioned in the online article about Jillian. But with the rush to get ready for her trip and the busy first days at Elysium, she’d forgotten.
With the stroke of a few keys and a click of the mouse, Piper was engrossed in a flurry of stories that had run in newspapers, trade publications, and even a medical journal. She read that Caryn, forty-five, had died of complications following plastic surgery performed by her husband, Vernon Abernathy, M.D. An autopsy had been performed, indicating that the otherwise very healthy female had died of cardiac arrest suffered while she was in the recovery room.
An article that ran in
Variety
focused on Caryn, listing her professional accomplishments, mostly commercials and smaller roles in episodic television. The picture that ran with the article showed a beautiful blonde with high cheekbones and expressive eyes. Piper observed that Jillian’s and Sister Mary Noelle’s resemblance to their mother was unmistakable.
The point of the medical journal’s article was about the ethics of physicians treating family members. The American Medical Association maintained that “physicians generally should not treat themselves or members of their immediate family.” Yet, according to the article, a survey showed that a significant number of doctors did just that, prescribing medication, diagnosing illness, and doing physical examinations. A small percentage even admitted to performing surgery on someone in their family. The Abernathy case was noted as a cautionary tale. Vernon Abernathy himself had been interviewed for the article.
“Even as I agreed to do Caryn’s surgery, I knew I shouldn’t. I was too close. But Caryn was determined to have her face lifted. She said she trusted only me, that I was the best. I shouldn’t have given in, but I suppose I liked believing that I would do the best job. I wanted to be her hero.
“Now I wonder. If somebody else had done the surgery, would Caryn still be alive? Would she have suffered the heart attack anyway? I’ll never know, but I can’t help feeling responsible. It eats away at me.”
Hearing the door to the communications room open, Piper turned. She recognized Anastasia, the woman she’d met at the pool the first afternoon, the woman she suspected might be a reporter. Piper clicked the mouse to make the story on the computer screen disappear.
“Hey, Piper. How’s it going?” asked Anastasia as she took a seat in front of one of the other computers.
“Fine, thanks,” said Piper, impressed that the woman remembered her name. “You know, I realized I didn’t get your last name when we met the other day.”
“I didn’t give it.” She reached out to shake Piper’s hand. “But it’s Wilcox. Anastasia Wilcox.” Sliding over to her computer, she said, “I heard there was a piece on the Esperanza Flores murder on
Good Morning America
yesterday. I missed it, and I want to see it.”
“My father told me about it, but I didn’t catch it either,” said Piper. “I’d like to see it, too.”
The ABC News Web site came up on Anastasia’s screen. They waited while the fifteen-second commercial ran before the story began. Piper glanced at Anastasia and noticed the slight smile on her face as the somewhat shaky video that led the piece started to run.
“It looks like somebody shot that with a cell phone, doesn’t it?” asked Piper.
Anastasia nodded, still concentrating on the story.
“Man, the people who own this place must hate this,” said Piper.
“You think so?” Anastasia asked absentmindedly.
“Sure,” said Piper. “I mean, think about it. Somebody who works here or is staying here took pictures that don’t exactly cast Elysium in the best light and then went ahead and sold them. It must be humiliating.”
“I don’t know,” said Anastasia as the piece ended. “It’s news. If something happened, it happened. There’s nothing wrong with reporting it. In fact, the public deserves to know.”
“Sure,” said Piper. “But they have a no-cameras policy thing here. At the very least, whoever took the pictures violated that.”
Anastasia held out her hands and shrugged. “Yeah, well, what can you do?”
The expression of satisfaction on her face gave her away. In that instant, Piper decided to go ahead and say it.
“I have a feeling you’re the one who took that video, Anastasia.”
“You do, huh?”
Piper nodded. “Are you a reporter?” she asked.
Anastasia sat back in her chair. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Because I overheard you on your cell phone at the pool. You were talking about amazing pictures, and then I saw you typing with that wire in your ear. So when I heard that a video showed up on
GMA,
I thought you might have taken it.”
Anastasia was silent as she considered Piper’s words. Finally she put her finger to her lips and slid closer to Piper. She answered, her voice low. “If I tell you, will you promise to keep it to yourself?”
Automatically, Piper nodded.
“Yes, I am a reporter. My real name is Fernands. Anastasia Fernands. I’m here working on an investigative piece. I’m not sure if it’s directly related to Esperanza’s murder or not. But when I heard about what had happened at Cottage 7, I hurried over and instinctively wanted to cover the story.”
Piper was a little surprised that Anastasia had been so forthcoming. “And you’re telling me this because . . . ?”
“I’m telling you for two reasons,” said Anastasia. “One, you practically had it figured out already, so there was no point in denying it. And two, I might need a little help.”