“Oh, that’s easy if you accept the basic premise,” Ralph said. “If the guy is replicating Holmes, so to speak, he’d probably have access to all of Holmes’s memories. Have I got it right, Ms. Gibney? Is that how the story goes?”
“Let’s say it is, at least to a degree, but let’s not get hung up on it. I’m sure we’re all tired, and Mrs. Maitland would probably like to get home to her children.”
Hopefully before she passes out, Ralph thought.
Holly went on. “The outsider knows he’ll be seen and noticed at the Heisman Memory Unit. It’s what he wants. And he’s sure to leave more evidence that will incriminate the real Mr. Holmes: hair from one of the murdered girls. But I believe his most important reason for going there on April 26th was to spill Terry Maitland’s blood, exactly as he later spilled blood from Mr. Claude Bolton. It’s always the same pattern. First come the murders. Then he marks his next victim. His next self, you could say. After that, he goes into hiding. Except it’s really a kind of hibernation. Like a bear, he may move around from time to time, but mostly he stays in a pre-selected den for a certain length of time, resting, while the change takes place.”
“In the legends, the transformation takes years,” Yune said. “Whole generations, maybe. But that’s legend. You don’t think it takes that long, do you, Ms. Gibney?”
“I think only weeks, months at the very most. For awhile during the transformative process from Terry Maitland to Claude Bolton, his face might look like it was made out of Play-Doh.” She turned to look at Ralph directly. She found this difficult, but sometimes it was necessary. “Or as if he had been badly burned.”
“Don’t buy it,” Ralph said. “And that’s an understatement.”
“Then why wasn’t the burned man in any of the footage?” Jeannie asked.
Ralph sighed. “I don’t know.”
Holly said, “Most legends hold a grain of truth, but they’re not the truth, if you see what I mean. In the stories, El Cuco lives on blood and flesh, like a vampire, but I think this creature also feeds on bad feelings. Psychic blood, you could say.” She turned to Marcy. “He told your daughter he was glad she was unhappy and sad. I believe that was the truth. I believe he was eating her sadness.”
“And mine,” Marcy said. “And Sarah’s.”
Howie spoke up. “Not saying any of this is true, not saying that at all, but the Peterson family fits the scenario, doesn’t it? All of them wiped out except for the father, and he’s in a persistent vegetative state. A creature who lives on unhappiness—a grief-eater instead of a sin-eater—would have loved the Petersons.”
“And how about that shit-show at the courthouse?” Yune put in. “If there really was a monster that eats negative emotions, that would have been Thanksgiving dinner for it.”
“Do you people hear yourselves?” Ralph asked. “I mean, do you?”
“Wake up,” Yune said harshly, and Ralph blinked as if he had been slapped. “I know how far out it is, we all do, you don’t need to keep telling us, like you’re the only sane man in the lunatic asylum. But there is something here that’s way out of our experience. The man at the courthouse, the one who wasn’t in any of the news footage, is only part of it.”
Ralph felt his face growing warm, but kept silent and took his scolding.
“You need to stop fighting this every step of the way, ese. I know you don’t like the puzzle, I don’t like it, either, but at least admit that the pieces fit. There’s a chain here. It leads from Heath Holmes to Terry Maitland to Claude Bolton.”
“We know where Claude Bolton is,” Alec said. “I think a trip down to Texas to interview him would be the logical next move.”
“Why, in God’s name?” Jeannie asked. “I saw the man who looks like him here, just this morning!”
“We should discuss that,” Holly said, “but I want to ask Mrs. Maitland a question first. Where was your husband buried?”
Marcy looked startled. “Where . . . ? Why, here. In town. Memorial Park Cemetery. We hadn’t . . . you know . . . made plans for that, or anything. Why would we? Terry wouldn’t have turned forty until December . . . we thought we had years . . . that we deserved years, like anyone leading good lives . . .”
Jeannie got a handkerchief from her purse and handed it to Marcy, who began to wipe at her eyes with trance-like slowness.