Waysider (The Voyants Book 1)

Chapter 1

December 2nd, 1984

Deadwood, Oregon

Lane County Security Hospital

4:26 p.m.

“This is a bad idea, Cassie.”

“Relax. It’s not like we’re meeting for brunch. It’s a maximum security hospital.”

“Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

This time, Cal’s words were met with silence.

A gust of wind slammed into Cassandra Ryan as she stared up at the gray, brick building looming into the sky. Feeling Cal’s eyes on her, Cass pulled a tendril of short hair from the corner of her mouth and kept her focus on the hospital. She hoped he didn’t see the goosebumps that had risen all over her entire body. Maybe the leather skirt had been a mistake.

No, she told herself firmly. The leather skirt was never a mistake.

Even though, this morning, Cal had taken one look at her and said, “Do you actually want him to kill you?”

Cass hadn’t dignified this with a response.

Lane County Security Hospital was exactly how she’d imagined a place like this would be. Mysterious. Gloomy. A little frightening, if Cass was being honest, which she certainly wasn’t right now. But the whole thing did look like a scene right out of a horror movie, and any normal person would be freaked out. The narrow windows were visibly barred on the inside. There was a single, barren tree to the left of the front doors, and its dozens of branches reached out like skeletal arms.

Cass let out a breath and reached up to muss her bangs. She reminded herself why she’d come here—to get some answers. Answers to questions that had haunted her for months.

Ever since the night the person she loved most in the world had died in the Hudson River.

This thought was exactly the motivation Cass needed. Before the boy at her side could make another attempt to reason with her, she launched forward and started up the stairs leading to a set of double doors, her black boots squeaking from the abrupt movement. Cal made an exasperated sound and went after her, quickly catching up in just a few long-legged strides. The white sleeves of his letterman jacket and his sandy hair stood out starkly against the bleak building.

At the top of the steps, Cass yanked one of the doors open and gave it a hard shove, allowing Cal enough time to slip inside behind her. The room was smaller than she expected, hardly more than four plastic chairs, a door, and a clear wall on the opposite side of the dim space. A woman sat behind it, her head down. Her short, permed hair was dyed red and she wore a sweater that was striped like an Easter egg. As Cass and Cal approached, the woman took a long drink from a coffee mug with an image of Mickey Mouse along its side. Then she set the mug down and put a lit cigarette between her lips.

Cass went right up to the counter. The woman still didn’t notice her, somehow. Cass waved, and when that didn’t work, she loudly tapped the clear barrier between them. “Hey. I’m here to see Patrick Doyle,” she said.

The woman finally lifted her head and squinted through a cloud of smoke. With heavy-lidded eyes, she took in Cass’s Clash T-shirt, the worn leather jacket, and the dark roots peeking out from the white-blond color Cass had picked out at the drug store one night while she was drunk on her mother’s Babychams.

After another moment, the woman took the cigarette out of her mouth. The sound of her voice was tinny through a speaker as she said, “Yeah, they told me you were coming. I thought it was a joke at first. He hasn’t been allowed to have visitors for fifteen years, you know. Ever since he bit that last girl’s ear off.”

It felt like the temperature in the room dropped.

“Then why make an exception now?” Cass asked, not daring to look at Cal. She knew he was probably contemplating whether to throw her over his shoulder and carry her out of this building.

“No idea, honey. That’s above my pay grade.” The woman put a clipboard through a small opening in the wall. Cass caught the pen that nearly rolled off it. “I’ll need to see a form of identification. Are you another fan, then?”

Cass’s stomach rolled, and her grip on the pen tightened. She remembered the pictures she’d seen. The waxen, naked bodies. The images were fresh in Cass’s memory, since she’d spent most of yesterday doing research. “No. Not even close. I’m… I’m just a student,” she said.

The woman’s eyebrows rose. Cass busied herself digging out her driver’s license. “All of this for a grade? Well, you’ve got balls of steel, I’ll give you that.”

“Or all the drugs she’s done just turned her brain to mush,” Cal said tersely, leaning on the counter beside her.

“Is that it?” Cass asked the redhead, ignoring him. “Do you need anything else?”

The woman sighed and took another drink from the coffee mug. Her voice took on a monotone quality, as if she were reading from a script. “Please do not wear clothing that exposes any of your chest, back, stomach, or underarms. No hats, gloves, scarves, or outer garments allowed either. The only jewelry permitted is a wedding ring or a religious pendant. On the other side of that door, your personal items will be inspected for contraband, and you are also required to submit to a pat search. During your time at Lane County, please refrain from speaking to any patients other than the individual you’re scheduled to visit. Oh, and don’t touch the glass.”

With that, the woman handed Cass’s driver’s license back and reached downward. She must’ve pushed a button, because there was a buzzing sound, followed by a loud click. Cass’s stomach flipped. She still didn’t look at Cal, but she could feel his dread.

The buzzing was still grating in her ears. It felt strange to thank the woman, so Cass just turned away, pocketing her license. She grasped the long door handle and pulled it open. The buzzing finally stopped. At the same moment Cass stepped over the threshold, the woman’s voice stopped her.

“You want to know the fucked up part? I mean, more fucked up than him eating her ear?”

“Jesus,” Cal muttered.

“I guess,” Cass answered, ignoring him again. She stood with one foot on each side of the doorway, her head turned toward the waiting room and the woman behind the glass. The redhead took another puff of her cigarette, her eyebrows drawn together. Smoke floated around her face and made her eyes hazy as she said, “Even after that happened, she kept sending him letters.”

Cass’s expression didn’t change. She lingered there for another moment, looking back at the woman too calmly for someone that was about to do what she was. Anyone that knew Cass would’ve recognized this for the tell it was.

She was terrified.

But Cass still turned away from the woman and her warning. From Cal and his silent worry. She went through the door and walked deeper into the shadows. Cal slipped in behind her, and the door closed with a resounding thud.

A doctor awaited on the other side, a small, dark-skinned man wearing thick glasses and a white coat. The lights were even dimmer here, gleaming weakly on the tiled walls. The doctor murmured a soft greeting. The name tag on his chest read, DR. HARPER.

“Where is Dr. Phillips?” Cass asked, scanning the tiny room. It was practically empty except for a metal table. “He’s the one that called me, right?”

The doctor’s expression remained neutral. “Dr. Phillips left for the evening. He asked me to extend his apologies—he had an unexpected family issue arise. May I see your bag, please?”

Unexpected family issue? Cass thought, frowning as she handed over her backpack. As promised, Dr. Harper rummaged through all her stuff and conducted a physical search, as well. The man’s touch was light and efficient, but Cal was still stiff, his eyes zeroed in on every movement. Cass rolled her eyes at him.

Overprotective ape, her expression said.

Reckless idiot, his said back.

Thankfully, Cal didn’t interfere while the doctor finished his task. Once the man had straightened, his hands tucked firmly in his pockets, he bid them to follow. Cass’s fingers twitched, fighting the urge to muss her bangs. She propelled herself forward, leaving the safety of the lobby behind. Cal’s long legs matched her stride effortlessly.

They went through a set of barred doors, then down more stairs. At the bottom of these, there was a second set of barred doors. A long walk after that, and they arrived at an even bigger set of barred doors.

If Cass had been nervous before, she was fighting the impulse to turn around now.

The lights were red in this part of the hospital. The walls were brick, and at the end of this hallway, the next set of doors was completely metal. The three of them stopped again. They waited in silence, no one uttering a single word. Cass struggled not to fidget. She traced the metal grooves in the door with her eyes, noting the rust, the scuffs and marks. As if someone had clawed at it.

Thankfully, they’d only been standing there a few seconds when there was a piercing sound, and the enormous doors opened. Fans circled lazily overhead as the doctor led Cass and Cal down a wide, sloped hall. At the bottom of this, there was yet another barred door. They halted here, too. The doctor finally spoke again.

“Last cell on the left,” he directed, pulling the door open. His meaning was clear—he wouldn’t be going in with them. His expression was neutral, as it had been from the first moment they saw him, and yet… Cass couldn’t shake the sense that he was afraid. The fine hairs along her arms stood on end. Her mouth was as dry as a dead leaf skittering over concrete.

For the hundredth time, Cass thought of why she’d come to this horrible place.

She forced herself to turn and face a long, narrow hall. Florescent lights shone down from the stained ceiling, one of them flickering and buzzing. Cass moved forward, her ears filling with the sound of her own heartbeat.

She’d only taken a handful of steps before the door closed behind her with a menacing clang. The breath hitched in Cass’s throat, and Cal’s hands clenched into fists. But Cass kept going. Her footsteps were loud in the stillness, as if she were the only person in here. She knew that wasn’t true, though.

Because Cass could see the prisoners.

Their cells lined the left side of the hallway. From what Cass could see at the edge of her vision, they were all men. All of them hollow-eyed and pale, like creatures that had lived in the dark too long. Almost every inmate turned at the sound of Cass’s boots. She didn’t look over, but she could feel the press of their attention. Like an oily touch upon her skin. One of the men started muttering, and it startled her—Cass’s gaze darted to the side. She saw the man’s pronounced spine curve like the edge of a seashell as he hugged his knees and rocked. The bedsprings beneath him squeaked, faster and faster, and the sound followed Cass down the corridor. Another prisoner rushed to the glass wall and smashed his face against it as she passed. He didn’t utter a word, or make a single noise, and somehow that was more chilling than anything he could’ve said.

Cal stuck so close to her that Cass felt the brush of his sleeve. The soft contact made some of the tightness inside her ease, and she could breathe again. After that, Cass kept her gaze fixed forward, her chin raised, and she walked steadily all the way to the end, where a single chair awaited. Cass slowed in front of it and faced the clear wall, shutting out the voice inside screaming to run.

The room was small but clean. There was a bed on one side, with a black frame, the covers neatly made. There was a toilet on the other, along with a square sink. Between the bed and the sink, there was a wooden desk, and the chair matched the one behind Cass.

A figure sat at that desk.

“Please, Cassie,” Cal said under his breath, trying one last time. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

But it was too late. The figure at the desk turned around, and only then did Cass’s calm facade crack.

Patrick Doyle looked different from his pictures. Granted, the ones Cass had seen were from the sixties. Decades in this cell had changed him. The round, baby-like cheeks he’d been known for were gone now, replaced by dark hollows. His hair, which had once been dark, was streaked with gray. It was longer than he used to keep it, too.

But the eyes were the same, Cass thought as they landed on her. An icy breath exhaled down her spine.

No matter how much time passed, from the school portrait Patrick had taken when he was nine, to the newspaper clippings covering his murder trial at twenty-six years old, one thing about Patrick Doyle remained the same—his eyes. They were so blue and so completely, chillingly empty.

The eyes of a killer.

His guileless smile disguised it, most of the time. It was how Patrick had hidden in plain sight for so many years. He was the boy next door. He grew up in Minnesota, the papers said over and over again. Then, after a brief stint in California, where he married his college sweetheart, he went to Oregon and bought a house in the woods. He and his wife had one son together.

A wife who divorced him shortly after his conviction.

He’d never seen his kid again, either.

Patrick stood up from the desk and walked over to the wall, flashing that infamous smile. Dimples appeared, in spite of his gaunt cheeks, and Cass felt like she’d seen a ghost of the charming man he’d once been. The man who had managed to coax so many young female hitchhikers on Highway 20 into his car, even when their instincts might have whispered that something wasn’t quite right.

According to the many, many articles written about Patrick, that charm melted away within minutes once he had them. As soon as the women were unconscious, he drove back to his house, opened the storm doors, and threw them into the cellar. Where his family wouldn’t hear any of the muffled sounds. Where he could do his dark, gruesome work without being disturbed.

You’re safe, Cass told herself desperately. Still needing reassurance, she glanced down quickly, hoping the man in that cell wouldn’t notice. The holes along the bottom of the barrier were too small for him to reach through. The frame between each sheet of glass looked like iron.

But if that was true, why did she want to bolt so badly?

“Miss Ryan,” Patrick said, his warm voice penetrating the icy haze around Cass. She blinked and refocused. “You came. I’m glad, I was hoping we’d get to meet.”

Rage and terror gripped Cass’s heart, both urges pulling at her. Rage won. She went up to the wall—she heard Cal swear behind her—and smacked a piece of paper against it. The abrupt gesture visibly startled Patrick, and he blinked.

“Ricky Ramirez. That’s the only reason I’m here. What the fuck do you know?” Cass snarled.

Patrick paused. He studied the paper for a moment. Cass had scribbled Ricky’s name on it during the call with Dr. Phillips. After another moment, Patrick walked back over to the desk, where he grasped hold of the chair he’d been sitting in. The legs scraped against the floor as he dragged it across his cell. Then he sank onto the chair and gave Cass an appraising look.

“Tell you what. I’ll answer your questions if you answer some of mine. That seems fair, right?” he said pleasantly.

Cass’s first instinct was to tell him fuck you and walk away. But she’d gotten on a plane to get here. She wasn’t going to blow this chance to learn the truth, no matter how much she wanted to tell this psychopath where he could shove his games.

A voice echoed from her past, bringing a memory along on its coattails. I’m so sorry. Eyes darkened with guilt. Screaming. Darkness.

“Fine,” Cass said through her teeth. She’d play along. For now.

Still refusing to look at Cal—she had his grim expression committed to memory, anyway—Cass sat down, too. She raised her head to face the killer across from her.

As she met Patrick’s gaze, the corner of his mouth quirked. It was there and gone in an instant, so faint and fleeting that Cass wondered if she’d imagined it. But then she looked into his cold eyes, and she remembered what he was. She knew she hadn’t imagined anything.

Cass’s mouth flattened into a hard, thin line. She didn’t look away.

Patrick caved first. He leaned back in his seat, resting his elbow on the back of his chair. Gotcha, Cass thought viciously. But he spoke with his usual ease as he asked, “What have you learned about me, Miss Ryan?”

Her voice was flat. “The newspapers call you The Taxidermist.”

“Do you know why?”

“Because you tried to preserve the bodies of your victims.”

“I did preserve them. I didn’t just try.” Patrick leaned forward and tapped the wall between them with the tip of his middle finger. Cal tensed. But the man behind the barrier wasn’t making a threat; his expression was wistful. Distant. His voice dropped to a murmur as he said, “Glass eyes. That’s what I used.”

Cass’s skin crawled. Unbidden, she thought of the pictures again, and there was one in particular that she wished she could forget—the one that had been in all the papers.

They’d found his collection in the woods. The victims Patrick had preserved. He couldn’t exactly keep them in the house, so the killer had arranged his gruesome creations in the trees, far away from any houses or roads.

It had only been found by sheer dumb luck. Well, if anyone could call that luck, randomly stumbling upon a horror scene while you were supposed to be on a fun camping trip. The campers called the police, who set a trap for Patrick. That was how he’d finally been caught.

There was no documentation of what those campers had discovered, save for one image. Before he’d gotten hauled away for crossing the crime scene tape, a reporter had managed to take a single, eerie photo with his camera.

That photo would haunt Cass until the day she died.

Even now, she could remember it perfectly. Patrick had made a clearing in the thickest part of the woods, assuming the seclusion and the trespassing signs would guard his grisly collection. The girls were arranged in ways that made it look like they’d frozen in time. One peered around a tree, her fingers buried in the bark. Others were sitting on the ground or curled in the soil. Two of them were dancing, their thin, pale arms locked together.

Cass quickly refocused on the monster sitting in front of her. Her lips felt stiff as she said, “You asked for this meeting, Mr. Doyle. What the fuck do you want?”

His eyes narrowed, and Cass’s instincts began to hiss, even more urgently than before, Danger, danger. Nothing about Patrick’s posture changed, exactly, but tension radiated from him. Like a predator on the verge of attack. “You’ve got a real mouth on you” was all he said.

“Okay, I’m done with this. You clearly don’t know anything, and I don’t make deals with murderers.” Finally giving in to the compulsion, Cass started to rise from the chair. She couldn’t wait to get out of this hallway, this building, this fucking state.

“Not even to help Michael?” Patrick called after her, his voice bouncing off the cold stones.

Cass froze. She turned, slowly, and her heart was beating so hard it felt like an earthquake in her chest.

“What the fuck do you know about Michael?” she said. Low. Quiet.

“Ignore him, Cassie,” Cal urged, tugging at her elbow.

But Cass wrenched free and stormed back to the glass wall.

“Goddamn it,” Cal growled. But he stayed right on her heels, ready to do whatever he could when this inevitably blew up in their faces. Just like he always had.

Patrick watched Cass return to him, and this time, he did nothing to hide his smile. His real smile, and most certainly not the one he used to lure those poor women into his snare.

Because if they’d seen this smile, they wouldn’t have put one foot into Patrick Doyle’s car.

“Answering that would require a longer conversation,” he said. Patrick tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “Then there’s also the matter of Ricky. So my offer stands, but I’ll make it even simpler. I will answer your questions, Miss Ryan, in exchange for one thing—your story.”

The words echoed through Cass like a clap of thunder in a canyon. She stood frozen, her thoughts racing. Not just from fear and confusion, but also… hope. How the hell did Patrick Doyle know about Michael? How did he know anything about her? It was impossible. She hadn’t told people about Michael, other than Cal and Professor Harkens, and they didn’t know the whole truth. Not even close.

The serial killer stared at Cass calmly, waiting for an answer.

She didn’t need to think about it.

“Fine.” Cass said it with the finality of someone signing a contract with the devil. She imagined her heart as a thing made of bolts and steel, knowing that she’d need to feel nothing if she was going to do this. Relive the past seven months.

“Cass,” Cal said. His voice was full of warning… and pleading. His fingers curled around hers. “Please. Let’s get out of here.”

“It started with the boy on the bridge.” Cass forced her gaze back to the monster behind that wall. She didn’t pull away from Cal. Instead, she held him tighter. “His name was Ricky.”