Heaven and Earth by Nora Roberts Page A

With a little cooperation he could have generated a series of solid features on the family and their spook-chasing son.
    But nobody, particularly Booke himself, cooperated.
    And that stung.
    Still, it was just a matter of finding the right crowbar and knowing the correct amount of pressure to apply. Harding was confident that Remington himself would help him ease the lid off.
    After that, he could take care of the rest.
    Harding walked down the corridor of what he thought of as the loony bin. Remington had been judged legally insane, which had saved the taxpayers the cost of a long, detailed trial and cheated them out of the meaty morsels the media could have dispensed had there been one.
    The fact was, the weapon used against the island sheriff had Remington’s fingerprints on it. The sheriff, and two witnesses, including the island’s deputy, had given statements that Remington had held that knife to his wife’s throat and had threatened her life.
    Even more damning, Remington hadn’t simply confessed, he’d screamed about murdering her, babbled about till death do us part, and carried on about the need to burn the adulterous witch.
    Of course, he’d screamed about a lot of other things, too. About glowing eyes, blue lightning, snakes crawling under his skin.
    Between the physical evidence, the witness statements, and his own rantings, Remington had copped himself a room in the barred and guarded section of the nuthouse.
    Harding’s visitor’s badge flapped on the lapel of his tailored suit jacket. His tie, the exact shade of charcoal as the suit, was perfectly knotted.
    His hair was dark, shot with silver and meticulously cut to suit his square, ruddy face. His features were blocky, and his eyes, a dark brown, tended to vanish when he smiled. His mouth was thin, and when annoyed he appeared to be lipless.
    If his face, and his speaking voice, had been marginally more appealing, he might have wormed his way into television news.
    He’d once wanted that, the way some boys want that first touch of female breast. Lustfully, gleefully. But thecamera was not his friend. It accented his features and made his short, stocky build resemble a tree stump.
    His voice, as some smart-mouthed tech had once told him, sounded like a wounded goose when miked.
    The cruel loss of that childhood dream had helped turn Harding into the kind of print reporter he was today. Ruthless and iceberg-cold.
    He listened to the echo of locks being released, heavy doors opening. He would remember to describe them when he wrote of this visit, of the eerie clang of metal on metal, the impassive faces of the guards and medical staff, the oddly sweet smell of madness.
    He waited outside yet another room. There was a final check here, an attendant beside the door with a bank of monitors on his desk.
    The inmates in this section, Harding had been told, were under twenty-four-hour surveillance. When he stepped in with Remington, he himself would be watched as well. That was, he admitted, a comfort.
    The last door was opened. Harding was reminded he had thirty minutes.
    He intended to make the most of it.

    Evan Remington didn’t look like the man Harding was used to seeing in the glossy pages of magazines, or in sparkling color on the television screen. He sat in a chair, dressed in a violently orange coverall, his posture ruler-straight. There were restraints on his wrists.
    His hair, once a golden crown, was dull yellow and cut short. His handsome face was puffy now, from the institutional food, from medication, from lack of salon treatments. The mouth was slack, the eyes dead as a doll’s.
    They had him sedated, Harding imagined. Take your average sociopath, toss in a few psychoses and violent tendencies, and drugs were everyone’s best friend.
    But he hadn’t counted on trying to wend his way through the chemical maze to Remington’s brain.
    There was a guard at the door to Remington’s back who was already looking bored. Harding sat on his side