The Ninth Session

by Deborah Serani

  “This leads outside?” I asked, heading to a sliding glass door.

  “Yes. See? The lock is right here.” She showed it to me as though it was mine.

  I stepped out from the bedroom onto the massive rectangular patio. The Colorado air was smooth and dry, and the mountains in the distance were a colorful mix of sienna, purple, and green. The clouds floated above, feathery and light, layer upon layer upon layer.

  I'd miss the amniotic feel of Oyster Bay, but it was beautiful here in Colorado in its own way. The house was bigger than I needed, more than I wanted to spend, but there was something healing about it from the moment I saw it.

  “What’s the rent again?”

  “Two thousand a month.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “I’ll call the office and get the papers drawn up.”

  “Great. I’ll have a look around while you do that.”

  My transition to Colorado was going well. I arrived a week ago, taking up residence at a local hotel in University Village. The faculty position I accepted at the University of Colorado involved teaching psychoanalytic theory and personality testing—something I knew well. The psychology department welcomed me warmly, as did the students. Within days, I settled into my small, yet practical office on campus.

  I left the practice of psychotherapy behind with the knowledge I'd never go back to it. I had no intention of taking the licensing exam in Colorado, and I'd eventually let my New York license lapse. University life was a way for me to still be part of the field I loved. My passion for psychology and keen diagnostic ability would be harnessed for teaching students, not for treating patients. My clinical experience and analytic training would highlight lesson plans, not treatment plans. All in all, it was a good fit.

  I applied for the teaching position a few days after seeing Luke in jail. And when the job was offered, I put my Brookville house on the market. Though I grew up and lived on Long Island my entire life, it was no longer a place for me to be. Losing Ryan was hard enough, but what was set into motion with Luke made life even more traumatic. I couldn’t escape the cutting edges of my transgression, but, with distance, maybe I could manage the crushing burden of it.

  My decision to move was hard for Nicole, but she and Keith, and the few friends I had, thought the change might be good for me. The toll of the Sheridan murder was visible to anyone who knew me. Even Dr. Prader supported going to Colorado.

  Turning my attention back to the house, I looked at the mountain range of the Flatiron foothills from one of the windows, taking in its striking rustic landscape and thought of Ryan. He visited Colorado as a teenager and always wanted to take me there—to see a concert at the Red Rocks Amphitheatre, whitewater raft down the Colorado River. During one of our last conversations, he made me promise I'd come here someday. I told him I would, helping him pass with a sense of closure. It felt fitting to be here.

  “Dr. Reese,” Toni called from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m gonna head over to the office and get the lease ready. Why don’t you meet me there in a little while?”

  I walked down the stairs. “Great idea.” I smiled and shook her hand. “Thanks so much.”

  “You’re going to love it here.”

  I strolled along the property, which was lined with colorful wildflowers, white yarrow and fringed sage, rugged shrubs, and sturdy trees. From the backyard, I saw the grandeur of the mountains again.

  Gazing skyward, I wondered about Luke. He was always on the edge of my mind, and the custom of contrasting my life with his was a common occurrence. The reality of what happened was always with me, and I didn’t expect the experience to fade with time. The phenomenon of rage and ruin would forever bind us together.

  I toed a nearby rock and felt a wave of sorrow wrench within me. I remained quiet for a while and thought about the past few months of my life and the changes that continued to occur. The contradiction that I had become.

  I sat down on the edge of the patio and set my handbag near my side. I reached for my wallet. In one of the accordion style compartments were two neatly folded faxes ADA Clark sent to me the day before. One was a short section of the court proceedings. The other was a letter saying that my testimony at the turn of the New Year would not be necessary because a plea deal was arranged with the DA’s office and Luke’s Defense Attorney, Lauren Kubrick.

  “It was an unlikely turn of events,” Clark wrote, “and one that certainly serves justice.”

  The court proceedings read as follows:

  On August 22, 2015, The Honorable Judge Jonathan Greene of the Criminal Court of Nassau County rendered his sentence of defendant, Lucas R. Ferro, for the charge of intentional murder—murder in the second degree, which is a class A-I felony, in violation of New York Penal Law §125.25, and for a count of rape in the first degree, a class B felony in violation of New York Penal code §130.35. As arranged in the plea agreement, Lucas R. Ferro would serve a concurrent sentence of 25 years to life in jail.

  The plea arrangement offered concurrent sentences—a perk for not wasting the county’s court time and money. And with that comes a chance that he’d have some kind of life. If Luke served his time, without incident, he’d be in his fifties when he got out. It was a smart decision.

  I had no plan to further betray Luke, though. He couldn’t harm anyone anymore.

  No more murder.

  No more death.

  It was an ending to all of that.

  Syosset

  Wednesday, January 3

  A

  s soon as the fall semester ended at the university, I flew to New York to spend Christmas and New Year’s with Nicole, Keith, and the twins. I also arranged for the closing of the Brookville house to happen at that time—making it easy for me to tie up all those loose ends.

  I arrived at New York’s LaGuardia airport, taking the red-eye in from Colorado and rented a minivan to get around town. I needed a roomy vehicle to lug all the things I left in the house. Pictures. Clothes. Precious trinkets. A moving company would ship the big pieces of furniture. Then there was my library of psychology books. Which ones to keep. Which ones to give away to colleagues.

  In the time that passed while I was in Colorado, the newsworthiness of AJ’s murder faded. I no longer felt nervous being in New York.

  I was yesterday’s news. Of no interest to anyone but my family and a few friends.

  And it was easy for me to fade away, becoming secluded in my own world in Colorado. I slipped into the quiet isolation of life there just as I did living as a Coda in the hearing world or in the Deaf world.

  The house closing was scheduled for today, so a lot was happening. The movers were coming at noon, the buyers would arrive for a final walk-through around 2:00 p.m., and the closing was at 3:30 p.m. After the closing, I’d have dinner at Nicole’s and spend the rest of the week there before going back to Boulder.

  A stop at Mae’s Bakery for a much needed coffee and pastry was first on my morning agenda. Then I’d go to the UPS Store. Before I left New York, I rented a large post office box to get the mail that didn’t make its way to me in Colorado.

  I pulled into a parking space on Jackson Avenue near the bakery and noticed that nothing had changed in the three months since I had left. Except for the weather. The warm colors of summer were traded for gray skies and crisp wintry air.

  I took the concrete sidewalk to the bakery and pulled the door open. The sweet smells of confections were glorious. I pulled a number from the ticket machine and waited my turn.

  “Is that you, Alicia?”

  “Sure is, Mae.”

  “I didn’t recognize ya,” Mae said, her Irish brogue still as thick as ever.

  “Happy New Year.” I reached over the glass counter to kiss her. “So good to see you.”

  “How’s Colorado, darlin’?” she asked.

  “It’s a nice change. I miss New York, though.”
/>   “Well, it takes time.” From head to toe, Mae looked me over. “Are ya eatin’? Ya wouldn’t even make a shadow t’were the sun out.”

  I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t sleeping. I was a mess. I felt lost, depressed, and angry. But I’d never acknowledge that to her. Or anyone.

  “Oh, I’m fine. Just busy getting settled in.” I moved our conversation to the display counter. “Mmmm. These look delicious.”

  “The raspberry ones?”

  “Yes. I’ll take one now, and give me three chocolate ones to go. Oh, and a couple of those rainbow sprinkled cookies. I’m heading out to Nic’s later.”

  “She was in a while ago. The kids are growin’ like weeds.”

  “I know. Time flies,” I said making myself a cup of coffee.

  “Sure does.” Mae smiled and turned away to start putting together the order.

  Mae’s Bakery was in business in Syosset over 50 years. It was well known not just only in town, but on Long Island. Old world traditions. Handcrafted delicacies. Award winning cakes and pastries. I came here as a kid, worked here as a teen, and made it a frequent habit as an adult. I knew Mae my entire life, just as she knew me.

  And we both knew I wasn’t at my best.

  “Twelve-eighty, dear.”

  “I’ll see you again when I come back for Easter—in April.”

  “Great. I’ll expect to see ya then.”As she passed me the boxes, she patted my hand. “Take care,” she signed, making the letter k with her fingers and tapping them on top of one another.

  “Same to you,” I signed.

  I smiled to her through the window as I left and walked back to the minivan. I set the boxes of pastries on the passenger door seat and started toward the UPS Store, which was a few yards away.

  I drank my coffee and finished the raspberry croissant along the way. A few times, I caught my reflection in the store windows. Mae was right. I was thin. And it troubled me that I hadn’t really noticed.

  The door to the UPS Store chimed as I walked in. I singled out the key on my keychain, looked for the post office box, and opened the door.

  Peering in, I saw a pile of letters, papers, magazines, and flyers filling the entire space. I reached in and pulled out as much as my hands could hold, but there was more than I realized. I needed something to carry the mail.

  I walked to the back of the store and asked the young clerk if he had any unused boxes I could use. Without moving from his seat, he nudged a nearby carton my way with his foot. “Use this,” he said.

  I walked closer to him, almost behind the register, and picked it up. I didn’t thank him or look at him, but I allowed my annoyance to trump his indifference.

  I was almost near the minivan when my eye caught a patch of handwriting on an envelope that dipped and shifted in the carton as I walked. I’d seen the handwriting before. It was familiar. I’d seen it before on a check. But it took a second for my mind to make the connection. When I saw the postmark from Ossining Jail in New York, I realized it was from Luke.

  My hands trembled as I rushed to the minivan, pressed the key fob, and opened the door. I balanced the carton on the console between the two captain’s chairs, plunked myself down in the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut.

  I lifted the seal of the envelope with my fingers. I pulled out the lined sheet of yellow paper and opened the neatly creased folds.

  Sometimes the hard thing to do and the right thing to do are one and the same. 2.8 miles east. 143 steps. Wax Murtle Tree. Perembrooke.

  “Perembrooke.” I recognized the name, reading it in Luke’s newspaper article—and the others that were written in The Miami Free Press newspaper.

  Sheriff John Perembrooke was in charge of the Donald Gallin investigation.

  He wants me to let Perembrooke know where Gallin is buried.

  I read the note again.

  Sometimes the hard thing to do and the right thing to do are one and the same.

  I remembered saying that to Luke many months ago. It was one of many phrases I used a lot in therapy. It highlighted the complexity of conflict. How choosing to do something right can also be hard. Very hard. But that doing so, leads to redemption.

  Luke was clearly reaching out for some kind of emotional deliverance.

  I picked up the phone and dialed 711 to make a relay call.

  I’d be getting to Huntington later than expected.

  Oyster Bay

  Thursday, January 4

  F

  rom Main Street, the office building was quiet except for the lights in the chiropractor’s first floor office.

  I looked up to where my office used to be. It was dark with the shades drawn.

  Security was provided for the office building until dusk. Since night fell fast in October, Steve would be keeping shorter hours at the helm. He was a retired New York City Police Officer and never complained of the hours being too long or too short. He was happy to be working. And whenever Carruther’s Realty needed him, he was there.

  Now I needed him.

  I looked for Steve at the kiosk as I pulled in; it was almost five o’clock. Since he was a man of strict habits, he'd likely be closing the two side entrances and the back doors. Making them secure for the night.

  I drove slowly past the right side door and then around to the back. As I turned the second corner of the building, I found him making his security loop in his truck. I slowed the minivan as I approached and flicked my lights. I knew he didn't recognize the car or me behind the wheel as I drove closer. Everything was out of context.

  I lowered my passenger window as I pulled up next to him.

  “Steve, it’s Alicia,” I said.

  It took him a second, and then he blurted, “Doc!”

  “Got a minute for me? I need your help.”

  “Lemme get to the booth, and we can talk there,” he said, and drove off toward the office lot entryway.

  I followed and parked alongside his security truck.

  Steve waited for me to get out, and together, we walked over to the kiosk and stepped onto the platform’s ledge.

  “What's doing?”

  “I need to know how to make a phone call that won’t be traced.”

  Steve was quiet and stared at me hard. “Well, the best way is to buy a burner phone. In cash.”

  “Okay. Where do I do that?”

  “In the city. You can find burners on the street. And I know a few areas where big brother ain’t looking.”

  “Security cameras.”

  “Right. This way, if you stay on long enough for a trace, your face won’t—”

  I interrupted him. “Should I use gloves?”

  “You could. Or you could just wipe the phone down.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Yeah.” Steve regarded me seriously. “Tell me you’re not in any trouble, Doc.”

  “I’m not, Steve. But I have to make a call, and it needs to be private.”

  In the fifteen years that our paths crossed, our connection was always one of affection and regard. He was fatherly in his ways, and I welcomed his interest and concern, as he did mine. But the tone of this exchange was different from any of our conversations. I wasn’t sure if Steve wanted to know more before he gave me what I needed.

  He walked into the booth and began writing.

  “Go here, near The Garden to find a burner—and head to the corner of 1st Avenue and 10th Street for a camera free zone.”

  “Night is better than day?”

  “Always better at night.”

  “Thanks. I knew I could come to you.”

  “You need me for anything, you call me. Still got my number, right?”

  “I do.” I touched his cheek as I turned to leave.

  “You goin’ there now?” Steve asked, stepping off the platform.

  “No rest for the weary.”

  Steve watched me get in, crank the engine, and pull out of the parking space.
As I drove up to the exit, I stuck my head out of the window.

  “Stay outta trouble now,” I said.

  “You know it, Doc.”

  A moment later, I turned out onto the road and headed for the Long Island Expressway. I took it West all the way into Manhattan.

  I turned right on 35th Street and took it cross-town to 7th Avenue, where I found a parking space two blocks from Madison Square Garden. I walked to where Steve said I'd find the guys hawking burner phones, and within minutes, I purchased one for thirty dollars.

  I hailed a cab to the corner of 1st Avenue and 9th Street. I strolled slowly up to 10th and found little pub, named Watson’s, to make the call. I walked to the back of the bar, into an empty restroom, and slid the lock.

  The day before, I bought a top of the line voice scrambler at the local spy store, paying for it in cash. It would change the voice, pitch, and timbre of my own voice. A way for me to stay protected. I put the setting on so that my voice would be a man’s voice.

  I turned it on and dialed 1-305-555-1212 on the burner phone.

  “Welcome to Bellsouth information. What city and listing please?” a computerized voice asked.

  “Miami, Florida. Miami-Dade Police Department.”

  “I’m sorry, what city and listing?”

  “Miami. Miami-Dade Police Department,” I said. This time louder.

  I heard a click and thought I was disconnected.

  “What city and listing?” a man asked.

  “Miami-Dade Police Department. Florida.”

  “I have Non-Emergency or Administration Offices?”

  “Let’s try administration offices.”

  “Please hold for the number.”

  “The number is area code 3-0-5-5-5-5-6-6-4-0.”

  I wrote it down and waited for the cell phone carrier to connect to the number. The phone rang once, then twice. My heart stuck in my throat as it rang again. And then again. Five rings now.

  No one’s there, I thought to myself. A quick look at my watch showed 8:42 p.m. Then, a click.

  “Hello, Miami-Dade Police Department. How can I direct your call?”