Don't Look In (Gus Young Thrillers Book 1)

by Tom Saric

  Part of me wondered whether Sheila was jealous of Wanda receiving favorable treatment with me. Sheila and I had gone on a couple of dates shortly after I moved to Bridgetown, but she called it quits. I was too much in my head, she told me. It was for the best, I think, because we now had a solid working relationship.

  "You've got a new guy coming in at one-thirty, so don't be late for that one."

  "Any background on him?"

  "Nope. Just that his name is Doug Steele and he paid up front for ten sessions."

  That was good. Sheila handled all the payments for my practice. She was constantly after me to raise my rates, because they were less than half what other therapists in the area were charging. But I just needed enough to get by. And that way more people who needed help could get it. The deal was that I worked only in cash. I didn't want insurance companies getting between me and my clients.

  "Here's last week's billings, after overhead. Keep some for yourself. You don't need to keep sending it to her."

  Sheila didn't approve of my sending money to my daughter Karen. She hadn't spoken to me in three years, and Sheila thought she was just taking advantage of me by accepting my money.

  Sheila began counting out the bills by laying them on the table like a bank teller, the way she always insisted. I put my hand up to stop her, as I always did. "I trust you."

  Sheila stuffed the pile of bills into an envelope. I reached over to take it when I heard, "Where is he?"

  The voice came from the front of the store. I could hear Linda, the cashier, say, "Who, sir?"

  "Don't pretend. The shrink. That quack. Ah, forget it."

  I could see the top of a man's head over the stack of paint cans as he stormed up the main aisle. He wore a black trucker hat with the words “Support East Coast Militia no. 14.” I still couldn't believe there were at least thirteen other militias. His shoulder-length white hair fluttered behind him.

  "There you are." He locked on me and marched forward.

  He wore a down-filled vest with no shirt underneath, leather pants, and motorcycle boots. He carried a stack of papers in his right hand.

  "Thought you could get away with this?"

  "Hi, Ned."

  "I'll see you later," Sheila said, raising her eyebrows and mouthing “good luck” as she turned and walked away.

  "You're here, pushing these drugs to people—government-funded drugs that came from Johnson & Johnson. And Dave Johnson, up the road, has been working with the deputy mayor to get these drugs handed out, making us zombies so that Buddy Getson and his boys could run roughshod over us."

  "Ned."

  "And we gotta live with them because we ain't going for at least another sixty years. You know who predicted that?"

  "Yes." Ned had told me about his end-of-the-world theories before.

  "Newton. Anyway, I'm out here this morning on the 59, scraping a deer off the road into my truck, and who do I see?"

  "I don't know."

  Ned glanced over both shoulders, then leaned in and whispered with cigarette breath, "Davey Johnson at Buddy's place."

  Ned leaned back, arms crossed as though he had just closed the case.

  He gave himself the moniker “Night Hawk” Ned and he sees it as his duty to patrol the county roads overnight, looking for roadkill to clear off the asphalt. It was a good public service too, as it likely prevented a lot of accidents. Ned would then incinerate the carcass and make decorative pieces from the antlers.

  He also had a paranoid personality disorder. He'd never met a conspiracy theory he didn't like, and he was constantly adding to the list.

  The sad truth is that this paranoia was just him attributing his internal fear outwardly onto others and the world at large. While he seemed angry and in control, inside, Ned was a terrified man.

  "Gee, Ned, that's scary."

  "You're damn right you should be scared." Ned motioned to the door. "Just saw that whistle-blowing whore leaving here. Getson's got you marked." He made the hand gesture of a gun.

  "I'm not that scared."

  "Why not?"

  "’Cause it sounds like he'll come for you first, Ned."

  Ned looked at me with suspicion and then shook his head. I'd taken Ned on as a client two years ago and had seen him on and off ever since. He had gotten into an altercation on the highway because he was directing traffic so a family of Blanding’s turtles could cross. A tourist got frustrated and tried to drive through Ned's makeshift road block, so Ned chased him down and pulled the man out of the car before putting the car in neutral and rolling it into a ditch.

  The court sentenced him to community service (which, Ned argued, he was already doing) and anger management classes. We were still working on the anger bit.

  Every month or two, Ned would barge into Buck's and launch into some sort of tirade. It’s gotten to the point where I can usually defuse the situation with some lighthearted humor.

  Some people might fear the six-foot-five giant. I don't. At least not anymore.

  "Let's have a look at what's got you concerned."

  "Like you don't know."

  "Ned, let's stop dancing around the issue here. Because, frankly, I don't know what the hell you're talking about. You haven't told me."

  He laid the papers on the customer service desk and took a deep breath. "Last month, you charged me for four sessions, but that couldn't be. Because I was away for one week, at the boat show, so I missed that session."

  I looked at his receipts and indeed saw four from last month.

  "How many people are you doing this to? Corruption, corruption everywhere."

  I called Sheila and eventually she came in from her office, holding a half-eaten salami sandwich and shooting daggers at me for dragging her into this.

  "Sheila, it looks like we have overcharged Ned here. He was only here for three sessions last month, but we charged him for four."

  Sheila took one glance at the receipts and turned them around so that they faced Ned and me.

  "Gus, Ned. You'll notice here at the top, there is a date. What does it say?"

  Ned and I exchanged glances.

  "Gentlemen, these invoices are two years old, they're not from last month. But Ned, you are right, you still owe on this invoice, so thanks for bringing that to my attention."

  Ned quickly piled up his invoices.

  "You two just make sure you stay honest. There's crooks all over this town."

  Ned walked out and I picked up my envelope of cash.

  "Just make sure you're back by one-thirty," Sheila reminded me.

  "Danny, right?"

  "Doug," Sheila said. "Oh, and the pharmacy called, they need you to call about a script." She handed me a sticky note with a phone number.

  I made my way to my truck, hopped in, and turned up the music. The Highwaymen blared from the ten B&O speakers surrounding me. Before I moved to the cabin, I realized that getting rid of my '89 Volvo would be a good idea, especially during the winter, as getting through the snow-filled backcountry would be near impossible. My initial thought was to get a simple, small, used quarter-ton pickup.

  But just before I went to the dealership, I ran into my ex-wife's current man, her former personal trainer, at the grocery store. We had an awkward exchange, him in his muscle shirt, his veiny biceps taunting me as he stuffed a bunch of organic kale into his basket. I stood there with a box of ready-made chicken wings from the deli. I felt emasculated standing next to him. Small.

  So I went to the dealership and bought the biggest fucking truck I could find.

  A black Ford F-450 XL 6.7 V8 engine, 400-horsepower gas-guzzling beast that was so heavy it required two extra rear tires just to move it. With my new baby I could drive over boulders, up cliffs, through streams. I could rip out stumps, haul tree trunks, and run over anyone who got in my way.

  Maybe one day muscle man would step in front of it.

  Johnny Cash's baritone filled the car, singing something about how the desert was his brother. Some
how it made sense.

  I took the envelope of cash, counted out half, and put it in another envelope marked Karen. No return address. I still had no idea if Karen knew it was me sending her the money. Or if she even got it. Sheila thought I was silly, sending a grown woman money. Call it parental guilt.

  I noticed the sticky note to call the pharmacy. I assumed it had something to do with the antipsychotic for Wes Tate. He was one of my patients with chronic schizophrenia, who spent his days roaming through the county collecting scrap metal. Pharmacy often called to clarify because he was on such a high dose, but it was the only dose that kept him functioning. I picked up my cell phone and dialed.

  "Hello, this is Renee."

  "Hi there, Renee. This is Dr. Gus Young, I got a call regarding a prescription?"

  "Oh, yes. It's regarding - wait, are you a Waylon Jennings fan?" She sang along with the radio for a verse. "I'm sorry. So sorry, that's unprofessional."

  I turned down the sound and found myself smiling. "It's okay, it's a great song."

  "Not as good as ‘Silver Stallion.’"

  "‘Good Hearted Woman?’"

  She chuckled. "I'm sorry, I'm just a big country fan."

  "‘I'm a Ramblin' Man.’"

  "Are you now?" She cleared her throat. "Sorry, Doctor. You're probably busy. I was calling about a prescription."

  "Yes, sorry. Who is it regarding?"

  "Oh, it's just your pregabalin renewal. It’s ready for pick-up."

  "Great, thank you. You can call me Gus."

  "Okay. Gus."

  "Renee."

  4

  Buck's parking lot had filled up by the time I got back after lunch, so I had to park at the far end to find a space big enough for my truck. I looked at my watch. I was already five minutes late.

  I took a quick sip of my coffee and bite of my sandwich and ran across the parking lot, narrowly avoiding a few trucks backing up without looking. I hated being late for sessions, especially the first meeting with a client. Every move in a therapy session sets norms and expectations. Every motion, every darting glance, and every sigh are deliberate forms of communication from our unconscious mind. There are no coincidences. Everything means something.

  As I walked past customer service, Sheila didn't look up.

  "He's already inside."

  "Thanks."

  "It's Doug."

  I had been treating an eighty-year-old client for an almost lifelong history of panic attacks that started after her brother died in front of her after falling off a horse. Her name was Violet. Except I had called her Rose. She never corrected me. After six months of weekly sessions, she called Sheila to tell her that she was no longer coming in. She said she was insulted that after nearly thirty visits I had never gotten her name right.

  Since then Sheila reminded me of clients' names every single time.

  I pushed through the swinging door into the back hallway. Beside my office door was a mop and bucket full of dirty water that smelled of chlorine.

  I took a breath, still winded from the run inside, and opened the door. Doug stood by the wall, his back to me, looking at a framed print of an old world map. He was about five foot eight, shaved head, and had a long earring dangling from his right ear. He couldn't have been over fifty-five, but he had the thick skin and deep creases of a person who lived hard. He turned around, chin down, and looked up at me with his hand on his belt buckle.

  "Neat map."

  "It's from 1440," I said. "A print, of course."

  "Half the world's missing."

  "They didn't know that back then. I find it a good reminder that we never know as much as we think we do."

  "About what?"

  "About anything."

  "Like me?"

  He leaned forward, as though by getting a closer look at him I would suddenly recognize him. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his jean shirt and began rolling them up like he was readying himself for a fight. His arms were covered in tattoos. Judging from his tough-guy facade, Doug was testing me. He wanted to know if I could handle myself in front of him. Or if I was weak.

  "I know even less about you. Except that your name is Doug." I smiled. "And that you've paid for ten sessions."

  "Always about the money, ain't it?"

  "Hey, we've all got to get paid."

  Doug wasn't done testing me for weaknesses. In his world, it seemed, people only did things for selfish reasons. Judging from the way he dressed, the way he carried himself, the way he spoke so directly to me in only our first session, I realized he was trying to home in on any vulnerability that he could detect. So that he could exploit it.

  Doug was a psychopath.

  He held my stare for an unnaturally long moment, but I didn't flinch. Then a big smile broke across his face.

  "Ain't that right, brother."

  He sat down in my chair, which would have been obvious to him because my notepad and prescription pad rested on the stand next to it. Beside the opposite armchair was a box of tissues. Doug was testing again.

  I stood, lips pursed, until he looked up at me and feigned surprise.

  "Oh, this is yours?"

  I nodded.

  He hopped up with his hand raised deferentially and sat across from me. Doug shimmied into the chair and sat with one leg across his lap, his elbow on the armrest, and his chin in his palm.

  "They say you're the best."

  I had to give it to him. Beaming smile. Eyes alight. The man had charisma. But I could sense that something lurked below the surface.

  For years, I'd been flown across the globe for court-ordered assessments of some of the most notorious serial killers to poison the earth. None had the sophistication and eloquence of Hannibal Lecter; quite the opposite, in fact. But they all had one thing in common: an utterly compelling appetite for controlling others. To work with a psychopath, I had to show that I couldn't be exploited.

  "They lie."

  Doug laughed, but it was hollow. He looked at the floor.

  "I used to be the best," he said.

  "Used to be?"

  "Life catches up to us."

  It finally felt like Doug was getting into what brought him in. I decided to press him a bit to see how much confrontation he could tolerate.

  "Life caught up to you."

  "Fuck, yeah." Doug put his hand to his forehead and shook his head slowly.

  "That's what brought you here?"

  "That's why I came to see you. Hoping to resolve this shit."

  "This shit?" He was being vague, circling around whatever the issue was.

  He sighed deeply, then threw up his arms.

  "How do I know I can trust you? I'm just supposed to tell you everything and trust that you keep it secret. Just unload here?"

  "That's sort of how it works."

  "And then what? You just keep all these secrets. Write 'em down on your notepad? Where does that go? Who sees that?"

  Doug's hand was shaking, his voice too. He had something to share. Something shameful. Maybe something illegal.

  Psychopaths don't show shame. They don't show guilt. My initial impression of him might have been wrong. Perhaps Doug was simply being guarded.

  "Let's be clear here. This won't help you if you don't trust me. And you won't be able to trust me if you think I can't keep a secret. So, Doug, listen to me. What you say in here, stays in here. I don't repeat it. My notes are kept in a safe. Only I know the combination." I tripped over those last words.

  "This holds with only three exceptions."

  Doug nodded in anticipation.

  "If you tell me you are going to leave here and kill yourself or someone else."

  "That's it?"

  "Or if you tell me you will hurt a child."

  "Of course," Doug said quickly, then hesitated. "What if I tell you I killed someone?"

  I treated this as a hypothetical. Immediately questioning him on that would cause him to shut down. If I was going to get him to open up, I had to keep things light.
"Doug, you could tell me you're the Zodiac Killer. As long as you tell me you're done, it stays here."

  "Jesus, you must've heard a lot of shit."

  "Don't worry, I have a shitty memory anyway."

  That made Doug laugh. The truth was that I have had people tell me they had killed their mistress, carried out a hit, and committed war crimes. Holding these secrets ate away at their psyche, like a cancer of the mind. Talking about it was the only cure. Sunlight is the best disinfectant.

  "So, can we cut the crap and you tell me why you're here?"

  "Just, I guess I've just been running. And it stays, you know? In here." He tapped his forehead.

  "For how long have you been running?"

  "Forever. Dad died, maybe after that? Yeah, maybe then."

  Doug dove into his life story as patients often felt the need to do. His dad died on their farm while building a barn; one of the trusses collapsed, crushing him as Doug looked on. Doug slipped into petty crime, then started stealing cars, then started running with a biker gang. Each time he alluded to drug running, assaults, or “taking care of” someone, he glanced up at me, as though he was checking to see if I would rat him out.

  But he was avoiding a topic. He was describing all of this hard living but offering very little emotional material to hold on to.

  "Doug, you said you're here because you want to stop running away. But for the past twenty minutes you've been running in circles, telling me your life story. I get the sense that you're still running from what you need to tell me."

  Doug glanced up at the ceiling. His eyes quivered and then welled up. His jaw trembled and he doubled over, sobbing.

  After a minute, he sat up and looked at me with hurt eyes. "I feel like I killed her. My baby girl."

  I let his words sit inside of me, like a lead weight in my gut. I was wrong about Doug. He was no psychopath. He was experiencing immense grief.

  "Your daughter died?"

  He nodded.

  "I didn't actually kill her. She took care of that. Three years in May." He bit his lower lip. "I met a good woman, and we moved to this nice cottage with a big property that backed onto a beautiful creek. And then we had Maddie. She was everything to me. But that life never left me, you know? I didn't protect her, didn't teach her right.