"What did you say?"
"I'm s-s-sorry!"
"Okay then. That's all I needed to hear. You want pancakes, sweetie, or scrambled eggs? After all that thinking you must be starving."
I turned off the recorder feeling sick to my stomach. If Joel had been off beating Roy to a pulp, it certainly hadn't done much to fortify him against his beast of a mother.
I apologized to the cats, giving them each an extra treat, and took off for Rocky Point, a sleepy little town, forty miles southeast of Cedar Hills. I hoped it wasn't too late to track down Harriet Bombay. If it was, I'd have to spend the night in my Jeep, something I'd done before but didn't relish.
The drive there was uneventful, save for being slowed down by a road crew that seemed to be doing nothing more than practicing for actual roadwork. The orange cones were out and flaggers enthusiastically waved cars around imaginary obstacles, but for the life of me, I couldn't see any actual work being done. I arrived in Rocky Point around three and located the Bombay residence on the edge of town.
She and her husband lived in a triple-wide mobile home. It was a nice piece of property, with other mobiles scattered about among the myrtle trees and evergreens. It was the sort of place retirees inhabited. I wondered if Mrs. Bombay had married an older man.
After driving past twice, trying to ascertain if they were home, I parked across the street in a clearing about three houses away and watched her house in the rearview mirror. I'd seen someone through the kitchen window but couldn't tell who it was. The station wagon in the carport, however, was the same one I'd seen in Maggie's parking lot, so I was hopeful. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, I dialed their number. She picked it up on the second ring and I immediately hung up.
Now what? I thought. I'd had half a dozen ideas on the way over, but they all depended on when and where I'd see her. For the time being, I'd just have to wait her out, even if it meant spending the night. If a cop came by, I'd have to give it up. Hopefully, none would.
My eyes started to close around six and I was almost asleep when the station wagon backed out into the street. Jerking awake, I threw the Jeep into gear, waited until the wagon was halfway down the street and then turned around to follow. I had no idea if Mrs. Bombay was in the car. I hadn't had time to notice.
The station wagon pulled into a Kentucky Fried Chicken and I followed suit, concocting a plan on the spot. When she climbed out of the wagon alone, I was almost disappointed. I'd wanted to see what kind of man a woman like Mrs. Bombay would marry.
I waited until she was through ordering, then walked inside and studied the array of choices from the menu board on the wall. I was still looking when she wheeled around and practically bowled me over.
"Oh, Lord," she said, stumbling backward, trying to keep her box of chicken from tumbling. She was wearing a bright yellow blouse tucked into blue denim pants with an elastic waistband that had been stretched to the limit.
"My fault," I said, looking embarrassed.
"Well, look who's here. Cassidy, right?"
"Yes. What are you doing here, Mrs. Bombay?" I looked around as if expecting others from the group to materialize.
"Why, I live here, darlin'. What are you doing in little ol' Rocky Point?"
"Just looking, for now. There're a few places for sale around here I might be interested in. I've got it narrowed down to a few towns now. Something small and out of the way." I looked around again. "I need a change of scenery."
"I understand, doll. We all do, sometimes. Say, if you're not in any hurry, why don't you join me for dinner? I can't say much for the ambience, but the chicken's a hell of a lot easier than frying your own."
"Uh, isn't there a rule about not fraternizing outside of group?"
"Oh, hogwash. That's just to discourage romantic entanglements between group members. Trust me, darlin'. You're safe with me." She winked lewdly and I actually blushed.
"Besides, Saturday night's Mr. Bombay's bowling night. I let him out once a week, whether he likes it or not. Gives me a chance to breathe a little. I could use the company." She laughed heartily and headed for a table in the corner while I ordered.
"So, what do you think of our little group?" she asked before I'd even sat down.
"It's weird knowing there are so many others, you know, in similar situations."
"This your first time? In therapy, I mean?"
"In group. I had a therapist before, though. How about you?"
"Ha! I've been shrunk from this side of hell to the other. Psychotherapists, psychologists, psychiatrists, you name it, I've seen 'em. Carradine's not bad, as they go. She handled that hoopla yesterday pretty smooth, I thought. You sure picked a good time to join us. Man, the poop really hit the fan!"
"I'll say. Especially after what happened to that Roy."
"You mean him thinking it was an abortion clinic?
Lord, I damn near peed my pants, laughing over that one.
"No. I mean later. Getting beat up and all."
I watched her reaction. Her painted eyebrows arched and her eyes widened. "Beat up? When was this?"
"Last night. The receptionist told me when I went in today."
"No kidding." She took a healthy bite out of a chicken leg and looked wistfully into space. "I'll be goddamned," she said, her mouth full.
"Yeah. It was just like you told Donna."
"Like what?"
"You told Donna Lee. You said ol' Roy better watch his back or something like that, and sure enough, someone beat him up."
"I did, didn't I? I'll be damned." She started to laugh.
"What?"
"Don't you get it? Someone is out there kicking hell out of the bad guys. I love it!"
"You think so? But how? I mean, who?"
"Well, it ain't me, and you haven't been around long enough for it to be you. I'm pretty sure the doc is clean. So who does that leave?"
"Harold?"
She turned gray eyes to me, studying me closely. "Why him?"
"I don't know. It seemed like he was awfully mad yesterday. And he did threaten Roy."
"So did little Joel," she said. "Sort of. Hell, for that matter, so did I. That doesn't mean anything."
"Well, who do you think it was then?"
She chewed thoughtfully, taking a swig of lemonade to wash down the chicken. "That's the problem, darlin'. I don't see any one of them having the balls to do it. I mean, I can see Stella finally offing that turd she was with, and I can see Maylene shoving her granddaddy off the cliff, and hell, I can even see Donna Lee hauling off and beating ol' Roy Boy. But all three of them going off half-cocked? The only thing harder to imagine is any one of them responsible for the whole thing."
The idea that all three attacks might have been perpetrated by different people intrigued me. Could one attack have inspired the next? Could Maylene have gotten the idea after hearing what Stella had done? Could Donna Lee have been inspired by the first two? I shook my head. If so, then who in the hell was sending the "dreams" to Maggie? And to me?
"You ever been psychic?" I asked, my heart thudding. It was a brazen tactic, one that could easily backfire.
"Yeah. Some. I used to sense when Mommy dearest was about to go into one of her episodes. Sometimes, that little inkling would buy me the time to escape. Not often enough, though. Why? You psychic?"
"Lately I've been feeling that way. I've been having dreams. I can't shake the feeling that someone's trying to tell me something. Almost like they're crying out for help."
"That's part of the group thing, doll. You're just being empathetic. You hear all these other problems and pretty soon you start identifying with them. Of course you want to help. That's why group therapy works. We help others where we wouldn't know how to help ourselves."
"You think that's what someone is doing? Helping others in a way they couldn't do for themselves?"
Her eyes narrowed at me and she started clearing her Styrofoam containers. "Your guess is as good as mine, darlin'. Listen, as much
as I've enjoyed this little chat, I've gotta skedaddle. Mr. Bombay gets home by seven and he'll have a conniption fit if he finds me gone." She checked her watch. "Damn Sam. He's probably already called out the cavalry." She bustled toward the door and then turned back. "See you Tuesday!"
I waved, watching her go. If she was the killer, she was a good actress, I thought. But then, if she was the killer, she'd have to be.
That night I slept fitfully and woke late, still bothered by the dream I'd just had.
The Bad One was at it again, working himself into one of his fits. He was upstairs, throwing things out of the closet, searching for something. Some favorite torture device, no doubt. I swallowed hard, no longer a child, no longer as afraid. My hands shook, but it was as much from excitement as fear. They were almost adolescent-sized hands, I thought. The nails were bitten to the quick.
The smell of the gasoline permeated the steps as I shook the can, liberally dousing the stairs. I'd wanted to drag something in front of the Bad One's door to block the exit, but I had neither the courage nor time.
If the Bad One came out before the flames took control, it was all over. I fumbled with the matches, cursing my trembling fingers. Finally, one lit and I tossed it onto the steps, watching for a moment in awe as the orange flames licked the steps, gaining momentum as they spread upward. I should have run. My heart was pounding and my legs trembled, but still I stood, watching as the fire burst up the stairs.
The Bad One's door opened and a terrifying shriek pierced the air. I watched, transfixed as the flames engulfed him. His eyes were wild, panic-stricken, looking for a way out. He spotted me and pointed an accusatory finger, the sleeve of his arm already ablaze.
"You!" he shouted.
I smiled, then, the first smile I could remember ever making, and turned toward the front door.
"You're saying the perp killed his or her parents?" Martha asked. It was Saturday morning and the three of us were in Maggie's office, sipping coffee.
"At least one parent. Maybe the father, but from the beginning I haven't been able to tell if the Bad One is male or female. For that matter, I can't be sure about the child, either. The forms seem almost surreal. Of course I've been seeing all this through the eyes of the child, who always seems to see the parent as something more than human."
"Jeez, Cass. It's not that I don't appreciate these psychic dreams, but I wish they'd have a little more detail." Martha grimaced.
"Well, someone is sending us just exactly what they want us to see," Maggie said. "They're manipulating this whole thing. For all we know, that never even happened. Maybe they just want you to think it did."
"Maybe," I agreed. "But let's say it's true. If we knew where each of your clients grew up, we could find out if their house burned down when they were a teenager."
"Why don't we just rule out those whose parents are still living?" Martha suggested.
"But how do we really know?" I said. "Sure, Mrs. Bombay says her mom's in a mental institution, but all we have is her word on that. It should be easy to check, though. Joel's mother is alive, but what about his father? We know Harold's dad is dead but we really don't know how he died. And any one of Maggie's clients could have recreated an identity."
Martha sighed. "Could we put this on hold for a minute and get back to what we found out yesterday?"
I'd been so anxious to tell them about the dream that we hadn't even had a chance to share our findings. I got up and poured us all more coffee. "What happened with Donna Lee?" I asked.
"If she's lying," Martha said, "I sure as hell couldn't trip her up. I questioned her ten different ways and she had the same answers every time. I think she's telling the truth."
"I talked to Joel," Maggie said. "You were right about one thing, Cass. He is on the brink of something. The poor kid is just now figuring out his sexual orientation. He says he spent the evening over in Eugene sitting in the parking lot of a gay bar. Didn't have the courage to go in, but at least he got to see other guys go in and out, and it gave him hope."
"Naturally, no one saw him, right? So there's no alibi," Martha grumbled. She was clearly growing frustrated with our lack of progress.
"Afraid not. What about Mrs. Bombay?"
I told them about my encounter with the woman and her response to Roy's beating.
"I just don't see all three attacks committed by different perps," Martha said, pushing her brown hair off her forehead.
"I know. Somewhere along the line, I've just assumed it was the same person," I admitted. "Otherwise, how do we explain the dreams?"
"So, we're back where we started," Martha said. "And now it looks like we can officially add Maynard Ferguson to the list, too. The autopsy report ruled out heart failure. Either the old man wheeled himself off that cliff, or someone pushed him. Either way, it was the fall that killed him, not his heart. He was alive when he hit the rocks."
"I knew it," Maggie said, shaking her head.
Martha went on. "Meanwhile, Grimes is perfectly content to hang Roy's attack on Bone. The fact that he verbally threatened to harm the guy in front of eight people doesn't help. And Donna Lee did see him driving by her place that afternoon. Mrs. Bone swears Harold was home all night, but what wife wouldn't? I'm surprised Grimes hasn't started questioning the other group members yet."
"He tried," Maggie said. "Right after you two left yesterday, I went out for a while. When I got back, Grimes and Officer Dale were here waiting for me."
"Oh shit," Martha mumbled.
"That's what I thought. Buddy was handling them pretty well, though. They kept trying to sweet-talk her into giving them last names, but she held them off until I got here. I was afraid she'd mention the missing file and the fact that someone had conked her on the head to get it, but she came through like a trooper."
"What did you do?"
"I read them the riot act on confidentiality and asked them to leave. Grimes said he could get a warrant, and he and I went head to head for a while. I was starting to think I'd won, but the way he was smiling when they left made me feel like it wasn't over yet."
"Where did this conversation take place?" Martha asked.
"In here. Why?"
"And were both men with you the whole time?"
"Yes. Why?"
"How about before you arrived? Did they ever leave Buddy's sight?"
"I don't know, Martha. Why are you asking me this?"
"Because I know Grimes. Wait here." Martha walked out to the reception desk and when she returned a few moments later, her face was flushed. She grabbed a pen off of Maggie's desk and scribbled on a piece of paper. Then she held it up for us to see the words: We're fucked!
"What?" Maggie asked.
Martha held her finger to her lips and scribbled again: Bugs!
Maggie furrowed her brow but I was already on my feet. I grabbed the pen from Martha and wrote my own question: Where?
She shrugged and wrote hurriedly. Buddy says Officer Dale asked to use the restroom. He could've ducked in here or into the group therapy room. Come on, let's check.
We started with her office, working our way silently around the room, looking under chairs, crawling beneath her desk, searching inside lampshades, beneath her sculptures and behind the pictures on her walls. Martha was taking the phone receiver apart when I clapped my hands. She and Maggie looked up sharply and I pointed to the bottom of an earthenware flower vase in the corner, lifting it up for the two of them to see.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" Martha mouthed, motioning us to join her in the hallway. "I knew he'd do something like this! The man has no scruples. What a scumbag."
I didn't want to remind her that I'd recently employed a similar device myself.
"Why would he bug my office?" Maggie whispered, even though we were in the hallway.
"Because Grimes thinks Harold confessed to you and he's probably hoping that he'll tell all in your next session. If he does, Grimes can get it all down on tape."
"But it would be inadmissible,"
Maggie said. "Wouldn't it?"
Martha shrugged. "Grimes would figure out a way to use it, Mag. Come on. We better check the group therapy room."
This time the job was far easier, because there were fewer objects to search. I started with the paintings on the wall while Martha began rolling back the Persian carpet in the center of the room, then checking underneath the chairs in the circle. It was behind the fifth picture that I found the tiny device. Before I could even get her attention, Martha was waving me over excitedly. I pointed to the bug and her eyes grew wide. Then she tipped over the chair that Maggie usually sat in and it was my turn to look shocked.
"Two?" I mouthed, holding up my fingers. We examined the two devices side by side. Mine matched the one found in Maggie's office, but the other one was a different model, size and shape. Quickly and silently, we resumed our search, overturning every stick of furniture and object we could find until we were satisfied there weren't any others.
Martha motioned us out into the hallway, past the waiting room to the front door. None of us spoke until we were well outside.
"I don't get it," Maggie said. "Two bugs in the therapy room?"
Martha frowned. "Exactly. It doesn't make sense. One bug is more than ample to project anything said in there, even in a whisper. With your office and group therapy room covered, there was no need for the third device."
"Then why?" Maggie looked miserable.
"Someone else," I said.
Maggie looked at me oddly. "Not you?"
"Oh, come on. Of course not me. Someone who wants to be privy to what's said in your sessions."
"Damn!" Martha muttered. "Here we've been concentrating on ruling group members out, when we should have been opening it up!"
The three of us stood in the parking lot, staring at one another.
"Like who?" Maggie finally asked.
"What about Buddy?" I asked.
Maggie frowned, shaking her head. "I don't think so. It doesn't make any sense. Besides, what about the missing file? Someone hit her on the head to get it."
"What about that Toby Cane?" Martha asked.
I had no trouble picturing big Toby sneaking up behind Buddy to steal the file. In fact, I could easily imagine her hoisting Roy up on the hook. I nodded. "You know, I've thought it was possible that Stella was telling Toby what went on in therapy. That maybe Toby has this Zorro complex and she uses the information to fulfill her needs, or whatever they are. But maybe Stella wouldn't tell her anymore, and Toby decided to take matters into her own hands."
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