He turned to the other man. “And this, I take it, is your husband, Sally? That famous deal-maker, Scott Brainerd? Who worked for your father? Who probably married you because your father ordered him to?”
“Her name’s Susan,” the man said. ” ‘Sally’ is a little girl’s name. I never liked it. I call her Susan.” He took a step forward, then stopped. “You’re looking a bit on edge, Susan, and no wonder. What are you doing with him? Noelle just told me he’s an FBI agent-”
“Special agent,” Quinlan said, wanting to goad this damned man until he gnashed his teeth. “I’ve always been a special agent.”
“He caught up with her,” Noelle said, “and he brought her back. I don’t know why he’s here, but we must convince him that since Sally isn’t well, she wasn’t responsible for killing her father. We can protect her. Doctor Beadermeyer can take her back to the sanitarium and keep her safe.”
“Since Father’s dead,” Sally said, staring her mother right in the eye, “that raises a whole lot of questions. For example, since he’s no longer with us, then who will come and beat me and fondle me and humiliate me every week?”
Her mother stared at her, her mouth working, but no sound came out. Her face was leached of color. She looked sick now, and uncertain. “Oh, God, no, Sally, that’s not possible. Your father and Scott and Doctor Beadermeyer, they all told me every week how well you were doing, what fine care you were getting. No, this can’t be true.”
“She shouldn’t speak of her dead father like that,” Dr. Beadermeyer said.
“He’s right. This just proves how ill she is,” Scott said. “She’s making this up. Amory beat his own daughter? Fondled her? That’s crazy, she’s crazy, she just proved it.”
“It’s classic,” Dr. Beadermeyer said from his staged pose by the fireplace. “Some patients fantasize so strongly that they begin to believe what their minds dredge up. It’s usually things that they’ve always wanted, deep down.
“Your father was a handsome man, Sally. Girls have sexual feelings about their fathers. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. The only reason you fantasize that he’s come to you is because you wanted it so badly. The beating part, the humiliating part, is just so you can forgive yourself for these feelings by making yourself helpless so that you couldn’t prevent it.”
“What a bunch of shit,” Quinlan said. “You’re Doctor Beadermeyer, I take it. Such a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Sorry I can’t say the same about you. I’m here to take Sally back with me, and even though you’re FBI there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“Why did you try to kidnap her from the Bonhomie Club three hours ago?”
“Alfred? What’s he talking about?”
“A mere misunderstanding, my dear Noelle. I found out where Sally was. I thought I could simply take her with no fuss, no bother, but it didn’t work out.”
“It didn’t work out?” Sally repeated. “You tried to kidnap me and shove a needle in my arm, and all you can say is it didn’t work out?”
He merely smiled at her and shrugged again.
“He brought two goons with him, Noelle,” Quinlan said. “All three of them grabbed Sally when she came out of the bathroom and tried to give her a shot.” He turned back to Beadermeyer. He wanted very badly to wring the bastard’s neck. “We nearly got you, you miserable excuse for a human. At least you have to have your rear window replaced.”
“No problem,” Beadermeyer said. “It wasn’t my car.”
“What is going on here?” Scott said. “Noelle told me that Sally escaped. Now she’s with an FBI agent. Doctor Beadermeyer told me Sally met this man in this hick town in Oregon and they’re lovers. That’s not possible. Sally, you’re still my wife. What’s going on here?”
Quinlan smiled benignly at all of them. “Why don’t you just consider me a sort of lawyer for her? I’m here to see that you don’t run all over her or that the good doctor here doesn’t try to shove another needle into her.”
He eyed Scott Brainerd. Tall, slim, beautifully dressed, but that handsome face of his looked haggard. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. He didn’t look happy about any of this, and more, he looked scared. He should. Quinlan could tell that he wasn’t carrying a gun. He was nervous, part of him always moving, his hands fidgeting. He pulled a pipe out of the pocket of his lovely English jacket. A shoulder holster would ruin the line of that jacket. The bastard.