“Yeah, Tom. The museum is the focal point so far. Maybe something about it—how people are drawn to it—sparks his anger. He could easily find out we go there, but maybe it was simply the perfect backdrop for the murder of Kip. Whether Kip was a ‘Jeptha Wade’ Wade or not, it would tickle Tito’s sick fancy to shoot a Wade by the Wade Lagoon in Wade Park.”
“That’s Otis’s Stage Two Tito. Again. He did a high-profile thing in a high-profile way. In a high-everything location. The elaborately orchestrated public spectacle of the killing of a guy who could be me. He picked a very large canvas. University Circle. But it’s not pragmatic. It’s not smart. The timing is the slightest bit different? Sniper shoots me and not Kip? Game over.”
Otis’s cell phone went off.
His ringtone told you one thing: “Someone is calling.” It sounded like a phone. Ringing. As a fan of playful musical self-expression, I found Otis’s unimaginative relationship to ringtones disappointing. Sad, even.
He picked up. “Otis Johnson.” His face was set to unreadable. “Yes. Uh huh. Okay. Sure. Go ahead.” He listened. “Uh huh.” He clicked off.
I knew what was coming.
“They opened it,” I told him.
“Yeah.”
“They read it to you.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to share it with us?”
“I suppose. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Tell us, Otis. C’mon. The suspense is killing me.” Tom. Annoyed. Resigned.
The subdued lighting in the greenhouse was plenty bright enough to show me the shock on Otis’s face.
“How did you—Tom? That’s what it says.”
“You’re kidding. It actually says,‘The suspense is killing me?’”
“No. It says, “The suspense is killing you.”
“Killing Tom?”
“No, Allie.” Tom’s face was set. “The envelope was addressed to you. He’s saying the suspense is killing you.”
“What does that even mean?”
Otis answered me. “We’re guessing on dangerous ground now, but maybe he’s saying that this time the suspense is about killing you. That you’re his target this time.”
To my surprise, Tom laughed. It wasn’t the happiest sound I ever heard but it made the top ten most confusing. I was stung. “You think that’s funny, Tom?”
“Oh, quit, Allie. It’s a joke. A bluff. He’s messing with us. You’re his ace and he knows it. Even Otis’s ‘Stage Two Tito’ would never play that one now. If he killed you, I wouldn’t give a shit what else he did. This is nuts. I wish we knew how his mind works. What he’s all about.”
I thought I might be able to get us some answers. “Toss me your boring phone, Otis. I’m making a call.”
* * *
I needed a shrink, but not for me this time.
In the wake of D.B. Harper, and before Tom, I’d found myself a wonderful therapist. She was a full-fledged psychiatrist too—which was probably overdoing it, but I was hoping for a prescription. Or two. Which I never got. She kept me on for a few extra months even after I couldn’t afford her anymore. As a parting gift she offered me her “operating instructions for the solo flier.”
“Breathe,” Ruth told me. And she showed me how.
“Stop that, Allie. Don’t just suck in air, blast it out, and go right back to being frantic. Do all this. The way I tell you. Do it five times. Don’t be a dope about it.”
It was an exercise she called, “In/Out. Deep/Slow. Calm/Ease. Smile/Release.” A famous monk, Thich Nhat Hahn, taught it to children, she said. When I told her the smiling part was dumb and would make me feel silly, she told me to shut up and smile. “It’s part of the practice. Stop shortchanging yourself by trying to be cool.”
Then she’d told me to meditate too, and recommended an app—An app. Holy crap—to provide instruction. “Don’t look at me like that. Pretend your little boat is sinking and I’m offering you those floaty things for your arms. I know you’d prefer a monastery in India, but sweetie, those are hard to get to and right now you don’t even have the cash for therapy.”
This pulled me up short. “Am I sinking? Am I that bad?”
“Allie Harper. Look at me. You’re fine. You are a tough, resilient young woman. I wouldn’t cut you loose if you were a sinking boat. But every soul on this Earth needs a refuge. This is my gift to you. Take it and use it. Like your life depends on it. It does, you know. ‘Part-time bogus librarian’ is not your calling. You have a terrific self to get to know. Now, get out of here before I cry too.”
“Wow.” I laughed to hide how touched I was. “Yoda. All this time I didn’t know it was you.” The tears kept spilling over. She handed me her box of tissues one last time and gave me a number I could call in an emergency. Plus a few tips on how to identify one of those. We hugged and said goodbye. I was on my own. Flying solo. Breathing as best I could.
Last summer, I called her for a consult. At least these days I could pay my way. That conversation was interesting but not all that shocking to Ruth. “No, Allie. Based on what you’ve told me, you do not have a so-called split personality. Lee Ann is a well-integrated part of your self-image. A strong, resourceful part. She’s—spontaneous like you. She pops up and shoots off her mouth when you need access to the more…let’s call them extemporaneous qualities of your younger, less-civilized self. She says the things you need to hear. She helps you be a powerful advocate for yourself. Listen to her sometimes. Only not in the cosmetics section of the drug store.”
Tonight was an emergency. She said it was good to hear my voice which I doubted. It was late and she sounded tired.
“How can I help, Allie?’
“I need you to tell me what brand of crazy a guy is.”
“Would you ask Lee Ann to give me a break. It’s been a long day.”
“Sorry. But this is actually for me. I think.”
“Girl, you do know that ‘brand of crazy’ thing was a disaster in about a thousand different ways? Okay. Start over. Be specific. And, while you’re at it, don’t denigrate my other clients. And possibly yourself.”
I was chastened. “Sorry, Ruth. Sometimes my mouth outruns my better nature.”
“Sometime your feet do too, but I’m so happy to hear from you. Now. Rephrase. Start at the beginning. I happen to know I can charge you ten thousand dollars an hour these days so you might want to be concise.”
“Okay. First of all, I’d be dead, maybe literally, without that breathing thing. So, thank you.”
“Me too, as it turns out. You’re welcome. Go on.”
I filled her in on the new Tito. As we understood him to be. From the beginning. All the way to his latest message.
“How can we survive his—is it politically correct to call it his personality disorder? What is he? Like a sociopath or something?”
“Ah. Allie.” She sighed. “This is a talk we should have face-to-face. Come to my office tomorrow morning? Seven or so? I don’t have anyone on the books until ten.”
“Oh, Ruth. I can’t. This is—I don’t know how to describe—. House arrest, maybe. There’s security, but it’s not—I’m stuck here.”
“I’ll come to you.”
“No—You—”
“Allie. Shut up. I’m coming. I’m charging you ten thousand dollars an hour, but I’m coming.”
“I’ll send Otis. And he’ll drive you to your office when we’re done.”
“I don’t need—”
“Yeah, Ruth, you do.”
A slight hesitation. “Okay. Have him pick me up at seven. I expect coffee. And probably donuts.”
“Make him let you sit up front. It’s a giant black Escalade. Leather seats. New car smell and everything. Like a high school make-out rendezvous.”
A knowing grin in her voice. “And I thought Lee Ann wasn�
��t around tonight.”
Chapter Twenty
Saturday, March 3
At six a.m. on Saturday—after a long, upsetting day and a short, restless night—Tom nudged awake me at by sliding his bare arm down over my naked back.
Carpe arm, Allie Harper.
“Want to go take a shower together?” he murmured. “Get this day off on the right foot?”
I skootched around to present my bare front to his naked arm.
“Is that a euphemism?”
“I guess you’ll find out.”
His arm cleverly repositioned his hand. I slapped it. Lightly. “Stop it. Give me a second to mull this over. A lady wouldn’t just—”
“Oh? Wouldn’t she just.”
“Okay. Yeah. She would. Beat you there. Do you need any assistance, sir?”
“Nah. I can do this with my eyes closed.”
* * *
He kissed me under the torrent of our “oversized-square-rainfall-showerhead.” It was a fraction of an inch shy of twenty-four square inches. I was amazed the real estate agent hadn’t led off her description of the house with that. For anyone who ever fantasized about making love to an irresistible man under a pouring waterfall on—oh, let’s say Maui—without a lot of tourists gawking, this was the ultimate getaway.
Tom kissed me more, pulling me against him, letting the rush of warm water close us in. My knees stopped holding me up. I clasped my arms around his neck to stabilize the kissing and bring us into alignment.
“Tom, could we…lie down in here. It’s supposed to be seven feet by four, and I want—”
“Yeah, me too. Let’s see how it works.”
It worked. Every which way. And far beyond expectations. Nobody drowned.
“Tom, it’s better than Fiji. It’s even better than the old mansion-y mansion.”
“Agreed. I can’t believe I mocked the former owner’s fancy heated shower floor. Talk about blind. Let’s stay in here until at least tomorrow.”
“Nice try. Otis is bringing Ruth. And you need to wipe that look off your face.”
“Is it a good look?”
“Uh huh. And a handsome face.” I let my gaze travel down over him. Head to toes, he was perfect. “And a seriously great every-single-thing else.”
I stomped on my judgment about how Tom was Italian-master gorgeous, and I was an unremarkable watercolor of an ordinary girl. Wet, frazzled, nothing special.
He had radar for that thought. Stood, smoothly, easily, and lifted me up against him. Buried his face in my tangled-up hair. Breathed me in as if he meant it. “I see you, Allie. Like sunlight.” He reached behind us and turned off the rain.
“Go talk to Ruth. Meet me back here in a couple of hours.”
“In your dreams, Thomas Bennington III, PhD.”
“Always, Alice Jane.”
* * *
No question in my mind, you could count the number of psychiatrists in Greater Cleveland who’d make a house call at seven a.m. on a Saturday on the finger of one finger. I was waiting for Ruth with a fresh cup of coffee. Otis had delivered her first cup—and, in spite of his no-crumb-in-car regulation, her donuts—in the truck. It was an extraordinary moment all around, and I was feeling exceptionally mentally, emotionally—and physically—well-adjusted.
She looked me over. “Better today? You look like—” Comment sidelined. “You look a lot happier than you sounded last night.”
“Thank you, Dr. Freud.”
“I imagine I’m not the one you should be thanking. Let’s go for a walk. It’s an amazing morning, and this is a spectacular place you’ve landed in.”
“You sure? We have a sniper now.”
“Did you look outside? It’s snowing. Big. White. Fluffy. Visibility nil. Otis told me about your team.” Concern flashed in her eyes. Quick and gone. “I think we can manage a walk. Let’s go.”
Outside, Ruth’s big, white, fluffy flakes were coating the world. Our pine trees, already rimed with ice, had picked up a new layer. Our boots made a lovely crunch on the path. The trees smelled of pine.
We came out of the woodsy stuff at a line of widely spaced rocks, arranged for lake view appreciation in the warmer months. We brushed a couple off and sat, watching snow meet water and dissolve in a mist.
“Isn’t this nicer than your gloomy old office?”
“Gloomy is in the eye of the beholder. You brought yours with you most of the time.”
“Yeah. I know.” I wanted to re-ask my question of the night before. Politically reword it. I was stalling, examining her face for land mines. The cold had blushed up her cheeks and brightened her eyes. I’d assumed they were brown but out here they matched her hooded wool coat. A sophisticated loden-ish green. The hood framed her hair, the reddish, brownish, gold I’d always admired. I figured Ruth Becker to be Margo’s age. Apart from a healthy dose of feisty, she was the anti-Margo.
“What do you put on your hair to make it that color?”
“Genetics. Do you like it?”
“Yeah, it’s unique.”
“Nope. Look in the mirror. It’s a half-shade off yours.”
“Seriously. No way. But how do you make it lie down?”
“Professional secret.”
“Psychiatric?”
“Cindy’s Cut & Curl. You’re deflecting, Allie. And the meter is at $4,000. Tell me what you want to talk about. I believe last night you were interested in brands of crazy.”
“That was wrong. I’m sorry. We’re trying to figure out what the new Tito is up to. What he’ll do next. He’s threatening to kill me, but Tom laughed.”
She chuckled too. I wasn’t getting a whole lot of respect around here. “Tom was right. Did he say you’re the ace in Tito’s hand? Whatever he’s up to he’s not dumb?”
“Yes. He said almost exactly that. But, given everything I’ve told you about Tito, what can you tell me about—his state of mind?”
“Almost nothing, Allie.”
“But wouldn’t it help us to know—”
“It might. And if I knew, I might tell you.”
“But you’re—”
“I’m what? A mind reader? You’re asking me what this guy—whom I’ve never met, never laid eyes on—is going to do next. I know this is a disappointment, but I’m not psychic.”
“But—” I must have been radiating despair because she softened up.
“I know. You’re looking for help and I would love to help you. Allie, I would do just about anything to make you safe. And the people you love. So I’ll tell you what I can and you’re going to be awfully disappointed.”
“No. You—”
She raised a loden-green mitten like the bouncer at a bar.
“Hold up. Here goes. Listen. You already told me everything you need to know. You understand this Tito better than I ever will.” She glanced behind us through the fog of snow. “Allie, is that your guy? With the dog? Like a sentry in a war movie? Patrolling?”
“Yeah. Kinda like that.”
“God.”
“Yeah. You were explaining what I already know.”
“Okay. If I said Tito is bipolar or schizophrenic or whatever—which I am not saying. Not now. Not ever—you wouldn’t be a bit safer. This man had a childhood, Allie. He had parents, whether he knew them or not, whether they were kind or cruel. Things happened to him. Terrible. Great. Things changed him. In moments you might not have noticed if you’d been right there beside him, he made major decisions about himself. What he wants and needs. What he fears. Now he’s obsessed about you and Tom. He is the sum of all that. All. That.
“As are you. You’re the sum of your life’s experiences and the thoughts you’ve had about them, just like Tito. You’re at least as obsessed with your Tom Bennington III as he is. In a healthier way. I think.”
Her truth
hit home. Talk about childish. I’d come running to her in desperation. As if I’d skinned my knee.
“I see. I do now. I’m sorry, Ruth. I—”
She, being an expert, read my voice. “Allie. In my unprofessional opinion, you are way too hard on yourself, and I do have words of wisdom for you. Because you’ve given them to me.”
She turned to get another look at our free-range security dude + dog, making their rounds through the pines. The dog was a big handsome German shepherd, more cop than pooch.
Her expression was troubled. “You weren’t kidding about ‘house arrest.’ This is an armed camp. Sentries. Patrols. What’s the dog’s name?”
I shook my head. “Nobody but the trainer knows. He’s not a dog-dog. They won’t even let me ask him, ‘Who’s a good boy?’”
We watched the man and the dog for another minute. A war movie is not a movie if it’s in your yard.
“So Ruth, what were my words of wisdom? I don’t remember any.’”
She shivered and brought herself back.
“This man whose true name we do not know, shows himself to us with his alias. Ricci is obvious. Money is huge for him. Tito? Who knows? It probably means more to him than a trendy vodka.” Her signature humor snuck into her voice. “And in my professional opinion, he did not name himself after the manager of the Cleveland Indians. Maybe it has something to do with that Yugoslavian strong man. Although how—Maybe his real first name is Josip. It’s crapshoot. You may never know.
“You do know he has a gigantic ego. You and Tom hammered it like crazy last summer. He styled himself as a formidable villain and you foiled his ass. He wants to pay you back. Double.”
Not an answer I’d been hoping for. She noticed. “Hang in with me, Allie. I believe you nailed it when you told me about the guy he killed last year—sacrificed in front of you. Maybe as a lesson for you. The dead man whose body you told me he wanted to kick, but stopped himself. Too late for a second thought. By now he’s had plenty of time for ‘this was stupid.’ It wouldn’t be too far of a stretch—since we’re stretching here anyhow—to say he sometimes feels sad about it.”
“Huh. I have a hard time, Ruth, picturing him sad. He seems bulletproof to me.”
The Devil's Own Game Page 10
