Bloodprint: A Novel of Psychological Suspense - Softcover

City of Bath

Madeleine Karleigh Frank, humanistic psychotherapist, artist of modest note, expert on rare species of south Florida leafcutter ants, was behind locked doors in a prison. Not as a convict but as an OPV, official prison visitor, that noble cause by which lonely prisoners get friendly visits from equally lonely do-gooders with a dodgy conscience.

That's me wrapped up, she thought with a wry smile. Her conscience had never been clear, and after eight years of widowhood, her friends had branded her a loner.

"What are you smiling at?" asked Edmund Furie, the subject of her do-gooding. "You're miles away, my beauty. You're not getting bored with me, are you?"

Her hand was resting on the edge of the hatch and he reached up to touch it.

"Bored? Never," she said, shaking her head. "All sorts of things, but never bored." She pulled her hand away. She cared about this prisoner but didn't really want to be touched by him, considering the deeds his hands had done, and anyway, it was against the rules.

"All sorts of things?"

She laughed. "Stupid of me, thinking I could get away with that comment. All right, then: I'm fascinated, disturbed, amused, surprised...what else?" She scratched her head theatrically.

"Fulfilling your need for a charitable cause?"

Her laugh froze. It seemed Edmund could read her all too well. His lips drew back. A smile did not sit naturally on his features; besides, one's attention was drawn inexorably toward his teeth. They were most unusual, so plentiful and crowded in his lower jaw they'd distributed themselves into two rows, rather like sharks' teeth. Surely, in this day and age, some dentist would have offered to pull some of them and line the rest up properly with the use of a brace. Many a time she'd been tempted to offer to investigate such treatment, but it was, after all, something he could do for himself should he be bothered.

"You don't have to answer that, my dear. Why don't you tell me about your day?" he said.

"Edmund, no. We always end up talking about me."

"Oh, go on. I love hearing about your work. What sort of human conundrums did you grapple with today?"

"I can't think of a single one that would interest you," she said. "And you know it's not ethical for me to blabber about my patients."

She rested her weight on the other foot. It was hard on her back having to stand for up to an hour, talking to the prisoner through the hatch of his cell door. In the beginning, over a year ago now, she'd asked, first the chaplain, then the governor himself, to let her see Edmund inside his cell, or even sit on a chair in the open doorway, or in the corridor. Mr. Thompson had looked at her in amazement; she obviously did not realize how dangerous and unpredictable Edmund was.

Edmund snapped his fingers in front of her face. "Hello...You can confide in me, Madeleine, you know that. I would never, ever compromise you in any way. Remember that now. I might be a murderer, but I would never let a friend down, and you are my friend, aren't you?"

They looked at each other for a moment in silence. They knew each other quite well by now. Or, it seemed, he knew her very well. Almost too well.

"Yes, Edmund, I'm your friend." She meant it, despite the horror she felt about his crimes. She would think about this on the way home. The long drive always gave her space to question things like the sincerity, or at least the trade-off, of her friendship with a psychopathic assassin.

Edmund's face loomed closer, framed by the hatch, his eyes swiveling, trying to take more of her in. She reminded herself that psychopaths do not really fall in love with people, though of course they might think they do. He was fixated with her, but she had no particular worry on that score. That penetrating stare of his was not of a sexual nature. He told her once that he was through with that side of life, and she believed him. The ministrations of his mother had given him a loathing of his own penis, and anyhow, "It didn't work very well." He was a prematurely old fifty-two; had never been married, had no children, no siblings or relatives that he knew of.

"Look," he said, "talk of the devil...Another friend of yours." He bent down for a second, then brought his hand up to the hatch. A small yellow ant was running across his wrist. "I've seen quite a few of these buggers in my cell."

"Possibly the most hunted creature in the civilized world," said Madeleine with a smile. "It's a Monomorium pharaonis, or Pharaoh ant. They thrive in institutions, probably because it's nice and warm and there are big kitchens. These guys know what's good for them. Smart as could be."

"This little fellow wishes to say..." Edmund brought his hand to his mouth and mimicked a squeaky voice. "Happy Birthday, ant woman."

Madeleine was taken aback. "How did you know?"

"You must have told me."

"No, I never tell patients..." She stopped. "I didn't mean..."

Edmund looked fiercely at her. "So we are not really friends."

He slapped his wrist, making Madeleine jump back. The blatant aggression in his gesture made her remember that taking life meant nothing to him. They stood in silence for a while. Edmund shook his head, perhaps regretting squashing the ant. It was not in his interests to alienate her; she was the only person ever to visit him.

"What the hell. I'll settle for being your patient. It's better than being a charitable cause," he said.

"Oh, come on, Edmund. You're neither." She knew there was really no point in trying to deny or take back what she'd said, though it had been a genuine slipup.

He looked at the floor, pensively; the wicked twinkle in his eye was gone. The craggy lines in his face contrasted incongruously with the smooth, chalk white dome of his skull, which shone like a peeled egg under the harsh strip lighting. If he let his hair grow (if indeed he had any hair) it would undoubtedly be white, judging by the snow white eyebrows and lashes. He was as close to an albino as she'd ever seen, at least in Britain, where they were rare. She'd asked him once about his coloring, and he'd told her that as a punishment for wetting his bed, his mother had made him drink a bleach solution and it had made him all white. (Was that really possible?) He'd had a horrific upbringing and a rough life, so no wonder he looked so ruined.

Remembering that particular conversation about his mother, some eight months previously, softened her. Hidden inside that podgy, bleached man was a little boy who'd suffered terribly. There was no doubt his mother had applied some cruel and unusual punishments, and to cope with them he'd developed an early obsessive-compulsive disorder that was as crippling as it was necessary for his emotional survival. Madeleine's punctual visits had become his mainstay, and his ritualistic preparations for her arrival took all day.

Edmund broke into her train of thoughts. "OK, now we've broached the subject -- why the hell do you do it? Why are you wasting your precious time 'befriending' me, especially in view of the fact that you see dozens of screwed-up people every week? Why do you put yourself through this, the drive and all?"

Madeleine paused, knowing he was giving her an opening to put right her blunder. There was a long answer to this question, involving too much of her history, but there was a short one too.

"I'm not sure why I started," she said. "But now I do it because I genuinely look forward to our meetings. I only work part-time and get paid lots of money, so in comparison, this feels more real." She looked him in the eye. "Besides, I've got a nice life, rich in variety and choices. It does me good to see how the other half lives." She raised an eyebrow. "As you can see, my motives are purely selfish."

"Purely selfish. Yes, I like that. Modern culture is pervaded by a taboo on selfishness. I'd say it's the most powerful and legitimate drive in man, and by following this elemental drive he also does the most for the common good."

"My God. One of these days I'll ask you to explain that to me," Madeleine exclaimed, knowing she never would. It was too closely connected to his justification of his crimes: the common good -- ridding the world of scum.

He placed his hands on either side of the hatch and leaned into the hole between them, fixing her with his pale gray eyes. "You and I have an unusual human relationship where we can be more than honest with each other. We can't get involved except through this little hole in the door, so anything goes...Isn't that right?"

"Not really, Edmund." Where was this leading? "We've defined our boundaries. I've told you mine, at any rate."

"Will you take a piece of personal advice?"

She gave him a stern look. "I have a feeling you're about to offer it whether I want it or not."

"Get rid of that boyfriend of yours." He paused, searching her face with sharp eyes. "Whatever you say, you don't look happy."

She blinked. "I'm perfectly happy," she said coolly. "I don't need advice on my love life."

"I think you do," he countered, smiling a little. "You might have all those fancy qualifications and diplomas hanging on your wall, but as you know, I'm a bit of a psychologist myself. I understand quite a lot more about you than you think, and I can tell there is a problem. I see it in your face."

"He suits me just fine," Madeleine said edgily.

Edmund shook his head dismissively. "Listen now. If you can't get rid of him...that is, if he won't go...I can teach you a few things."

Madeleine looked away. Bet you can, she thought. Something to do with vats of quicklime, or big lumps of concrete.

"My sweet Madeleine." His voice became soft, hushed, like a caress. "Don't look so worried. I'm only trying to help. You and I must look out for each other. I know you feel as out of place in your own skin as I do."

"Oh, come on. You assume it because I'm American." She let slip a nervous laugh. "I don't feel...