The keys came out of his pocket, and he jangled them. “Did it bother her, falling asleep?”
“I downplayed it, made it sound routine. I was worried about getting into too much too quickly, but overall the session seemed to help her. She left in good spirits. Other than the dream, her main concern’s Puck. She’s well aware of his addiction, defends him as a sick guy. And thinking about him helps her forget about her own troubles. You had any thoughts on the note?”
“Not really.”
“Anything new on the copycat?”
“Not a thing, but I’m gonna check out the Bogettes very seriously.” He got in the Porsche, started it, and lowered the window.
“I went by the Sheas’ surf shop today,” I said. “Bought a pair of shorts. Gwen arrived with their son. He’s got severe cerebral palsy, needs constant care. Tom Shea drives a newish BMW 735, Gwen’s got a customized van for transporting the boy, and both Best and Doris Reingold said the Sheas have a house on the beach at La Costa. Even years ago that was serious money. Not to mention all the medical expenses. The shop didn’t look like any big cash cow, but even assuming it is, how’d they get the capital to start up a business by tending bar and waiting tables? Now that we’re thinking about Barnard getting paid off, it makes me wonder if they did, too.”
“Gwen was obviously an enterprising lady, subcontracting catering. Maybe she had other things going.”
“It’s still quite a leap from moonlighting to living on the sand. Coming into a little venture capital twenty-one years ago would have helped. Be interesting to know what transpired between the time the Sheas left for Aspen and returned. And why they left in the first place. If it was just because Sherrell Best was bugging them, that would imply some kind of guilt.”
“Well,” he said, “I gave the widow Barnard plenty of information. Malibu’s still a small town, there should be some whispering. Break a few eggs, and who knows?”
“Flushing out the prey?”
He turned his hand into a pistol and pointed it at the windshield. “Boom.”
“I may have a shot at big game,” I said. “Lucy and I decided I should accept Buck Lowell’s invitation to chat.”
His hand lowered. “Where you going to meet with him?”
“Sanctum.”
“Don’t go snooping around the dirt looking for burial plots.”
“I promise. Dad.”
“Listen, I know you.… Meanwhile, you want to talk to Doris Reingold again, or should I try?”
“I can do it; we’re already pals. If she’s got nothing to hide, another big tip might be enough to pry something loose.”
“Hoo-hah, Daddy Warbucks.”
“I expect to be reimbursed by the department.”
“Oh, sure, absolutely. Officer Santa Claus’ll deliver it to you personally. And no new taxes.”
CHAPTER
24
The next morning, feeling like a hunter, I called Sanctum. The same woman who’d answered the first time picked up. Before I finished introducing myself, she said, “Hold on.”
Several minutes later: “He’ll see you here, tomorrow at one. We’re hard to find, these are the directions.”
I copied them and she hung up.
I got Terry Trafficant’s book from the bedroom and searched for mention of his editor, but there was none. At his publisher, a confused receptionist said, “There isn’t anyone here by that name.”
“He’s an author.”
“Fiction or nonfiction?”
Good question. “Nonfiction.”
“Hold on.”
A moment later, a man said, “Editorial.”
“I’m trying to locate Terrence Trafficant’s editor.”
“Who?”
“Terrence Trafficant. From Hunger to Rage.”
“Is that on our current list?”
“No, it was published twenty-one years ago.”
Click.
A woman said, “Remainders.”
I repeated my request.
“No,” she said, “that isn’t on our roster. When was it published?”
“Twenty-one years ago.”
“Then I’m sure it’s long gone to the pulp mill. Try a used bookstore.”
“I don’t want the book. I’m looking for the editor.”
Click. Back to the same man at Editorial, very unhappy to hear from me. “I’m sure I have no idea who that was, sir. People come and go all the time.”
“Would there be any way to find out?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Please connect me to your editorial director.”
“That’s Bridget Bancroft,” he said, as if that ended it.
“Then that’s who I’ll speak to.”
Click.
“Bridget Bancroft’s office.”
“I’d like to speak with Ms. Bancroft.”
“Regarding?”
“Excerpting one of your authors. My name is Alex Printer, and I represent Delaware Press in California. We’d like to include some selections from Terrence Trafficant’s From Hunger to Rage in a—”
“You’d need to speak to our Rights department about that.”
“Could you tell me who Mr. Trafficant’s editor is?”
“What’s the author’s name?”
“Trafficant. From Hunger to Rage. Published twenty-one years ago.”
“I have no idea. People come and go.”
“Would Ms. Bancroft know?”
“Ms. Bancroft’s on vacation.”
“Would you please ask her to call me when she gets back?”
“Certainly,” she said. “Would you like to speak to Rights?”
“Please.”
Click. Voice mail. I left another message and hung up.
Ah, fame.
Lucy arrived precisely on time for her afternoon appointment. She looked energetic, and her eyes were bright.
“I got plenty of sleep last night—no dream—so I shouldn’t doze off. It’s a little weird sleeping in someone else’s bed, but Ken said I’d get used to it; he does it all the time.”
Suddenly, she clamped her lips. Her eyes misted.
“Anything wrong?” I said.
“Nothing.… I was just thinking of the summer I worked for Raymond. Sleeping in that bed.… I used to have to put on stuff for the customers: lots of makeup, skimpy outfits, sometimes wigs. Costume jewelry, so they could pretend they were rich.”
She hunched and dropped her head. Each hand gripped a bicep and she hugged herself very tightly.
“They had their fantasies,” she said.
The ocean roared. She didn’t move.
“I hated it,” she said softly. “I really hated it. Being invaded, hour after hour, day after day! I put myself somewhere else—like hypnosis, I guess. Maybe that’s why it’s easy for me.”
“Cutting yourself off.”
Nod.
“Where’d you go?”
“To the beach.” She laughed. “How’s that for karma? Usually it worked. But sometimes I’d come back to the real world, lying there—someone on me. I don’t want ever to lose control like that again.”
Straightening her back, she said, “No offense, but no man can ever really understand. Men don’t get invaded. Maybe that’s why the dream’s coming back. All those years ago I saw Karen invaded and it stuck in my head, and somehow …”
She reached for a tissue.
“So,” she said, “time for hypnosis? I won’t go bananas on you, I promise.”
“Scout’s honor?”
“Scout’s honor.”
I had her relax and stare at the ocean as I explained that age regression wasn’t always effective or accurate. How some people couldn’t get in touch with childhood memories, even under the deepest hypnotic trance. How others imagined or manufactured false memories.
She nodded, dreamy already.
I began the induction and she went under almost immediately, achieving waxy limbs and surface anesthesia to
a pinprick.
I had her go to a “favorite place” and left her there for a while. She looked serene.
I said, “Lucy, can you talk to me?”
Her “yes” was low and throaty, nearly inaudible over the waves.
“You can,” I said, “but talking’s hard work, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re comfortable.”
“Yes.”
“And you want to communicate with me.”
“Yes.”
“Talking’s hard work because you’re so relaxed, Lucy. That’s good. To make it easier for you to communicate, you can answer yes or no with finger signals. If the answer’s ‘yes,’ raise your right index finger. If it’s ‘no,’ raise your left index finger. Do you understand?”
She mouthed something. Then her right finger rose.
“Very good. Put it down now; from here on, you just have to leave it up for a second. Now, let’s try a ‘no’ for practice—good. You’re going to stay deeply relaxed and be able to say what you need to say. Understand?”
The right finger rose and dropped.
“Do you want to stop our hypnosis right here?”
Left finger.
“You want to go on.”
Right finger.
“Do you remember what we discussed about age regression?”
Right finger.
“Would you like to try that now?”
Right finger.
“Okay, take a nice deep breath and get even more relaxed, more and more peaceful, very much in control, hearing the sound of my voice but staying totally in control of your own feelings and perceptions. Good.… Now I’d like you to picture yourself in a room with a giant TV screen. A very pleasant, comfortable room. You’re in a comfortable chair and the screen is in front of you. You’re watching the screen and feeling very relaxed. On the screen is a calendar with today’s date on it. A desk calendar, the type with pages that flip. Can you see it?”
Right finger.
“Good. This calendar is special. Instead of each page being a day, this calendar holds the same date and changes years. The top page is today’s date, this year. The one under it is today’s date, last year—watch as I flip it.”
Her right hand twitched and her eyes moved.
“Can you see last year’s date?”
Right finger.
“Now I’m going to flip the next page.”
Twitch.
“What date is it?”
Her lips moved. “Two … years ago.”
“Right. Today’s date, two years ago. Let’s stay with that date for a minute. Take a deep breath and count to three, and at three you can go to where you were on that date. But you’ll be watching yourself on the screen. As if you’re watching someone else. Seeing what you need to see. But no matter what happens on the screen, it doesn’t have to bother you. Understand? Good. Okay, ready: One. Two. Three.”
She inhaled and let it out through an open mouth. The faintest of nods.
“Where are you now, Lucy?”
Pause. “Work.”
“At work?”
Right finger.
“Where at work?”
“Desk.”
“At your desk. Good. Now tell me what you’re doing at your desk.”
She tightened her face; then it loosened very slowly.
“Simkins … Manufacturing … accounts receivable.”
“Doing the books on Simkins Manufacturing. Is it a big job?”
Right finger.
“A big accounting job. How do the books look?”
Pause. Her brows knitted. “Sloppy.”
“Sloppy.”
Right finger.
“But that doesn’t bother you, because you’re just watching it, you’re not experiencing it.”
Her brow relaxed.
“Good. Do you want to stay there for a while, working?”
Left finger. Smile.
“No?”
“Boring.”
“Okay, let’s go to another year. Take a deep breath, count to three, and we’ll return to our calendar on the screen. One. Two. Three.”
I took her back in time, gradually, careful to avoid the summer in Boston. She remembered her sixteenth summer, playing gin rummy with a cleaning maid in her summer school dorm room, no other children around. Twelve was similar isolation, reading Jane Eyre in a room with a single bed. As she felt herself younger, her posture loosened and her voice got higher, more tentative, displaying an occasional stammer.
I brought her back to the age of eight—a summer at yet another boarding school. Riding horseback with the headmistress but unable to remember any other children.
No mention of Puck or any other family member.
The loneliness she’d grown up with became more vivid. I felt sad and made sure to keep that out of my voice.
She sat very low in the chair, nearly supine, ankles crossed, knees slightly apart, a fingertip on her lip.
I changed the date on the calendar to August 14. Took her back to age six. Her eyes moved very fast and her voice assumed a slight whine as she told me about losing a favorite doll.
Breathing deeply and peacefully.
“Okay,” I said, “now let’s flip two more pages, Lucy. You’re four years old.”
Her breath caught and she knuckled her eyes.
“Deeper relaxed, Lucy. So, so peaceful. Watching the screen, so it doesn’t have to bother you.”
Her hands fell to her lap. Her legs spread more, the feet turned on their side.
“Four years old,” I said. “What are you watching?”
Silence.
“Lucy?”
“House.” Very soft, very high, almost a squeak.
“Watching a house on the screen.”
“Uh-hu-uh.”
“A nice house?”
Silence. “House.”
“Okay. Do you want to keep watching that house?”
Left finger.
“You want to watch something else?”
Silence. Confusion. Then: “Dark.”
“It’s dark outside.”
“Go out.”
“You want to watch yourself going out.”
“Lights. Far … go out.”
“It’s dark and you want to go to the lights.”
“Uh-hu-uh.”
“Have you been sleeping?”
“Uh-hu-uh.”
“You can also tell me ‘yes’ with your finger.”
Right finger.
“Very good. So you’re in the house and you want to go out. Why don’t you just tell me in your own words what’s going on.”
She fidgeted and touched her nose. Sniffed and blinked and opened her eyes. But she wasn’t seeing me.
They closed again.
“Sleep … walk. Sleep … walk. Door … wood. Out … out, out … out …
She grimaced. Her breath quickened and her chest heaved.
“Relax, Lucy. Deeper and deeper relaxed, remembering what you need to remember, seeing what you need to see.… Good, very good. Just keep breathing deeply. No matter what you see or hear or touch or smell or remember, you’ll stay deeper and deeper relaxed, watching yourself from the TV room, so safe and calm and in control … good. Okay, go on.”
“Out … lights. People yelling.” Puzzled look. “Not my fault …”
“Deeper and deeper relaxed.”
She sighed and her head drooped. Said something I couldn’t hear.
I moved my chair right next to hers. A carotid pulse was beating slow and steady. Her cheeks were pink. I touched the top of her hand. Warm. Her fingers curled around mine and squeezed.
“Walk,” she said. “Trees—pretty.”
She said nothing for a long time, but her eyes kept moving and her head bobbed.
Walking in place.
Her head moved from side to side.
Taking in the scenery?
Suddenly, I felt her hand go cold.
“What i
s it, Lucy?”
“Father.”
“You see Father on the screen?”
Long pause as she gripped my hand. Then her right index finger rose but the rest of her fingers stayed clamped.
“Deeper and deeper relaxed, Lucy.”
Slow breathing, but louder and harsher.
“You can leave this place, Lucy. You can turn off the TV any time you want to.”
She made a growling sound, and the left finger stayed up in the air for several seconds.
“You want to stay here.”
Right finger.
“Okay, that’s fine. Go ahead, do what you want to do and tell me what you want to tell me.”
A long silence. “Father … men … carrying lady. Pretty. Like Mama … dark … hair. Pretty … carrying.”
More silence. The pulse in her neck quickened.
I said, “Other men, too.”
Right finger.
“How many?”
Concentration. Her head moved from side to side. “Two.”
“Two besides Father?”
Right finger. Her hand remained cold. Sweat flowed from her hairline, trickling down her cheek. She seemed impervious as I wiped it.
“You’re just watching it,” I whispered. “You’re safe.”
“Two,” she said.
“What do they look like?”
Silence.
“Can you see them?”
Right finger. “Carrying the lady.”
“Is she saying anything?”
Left finger.
“What’s she wearing?”
“Blouse … white blouse … skirt.”
“What color skirt?”
“White.”
“A white blouse and a white skirt. Any shoes?”
Left finger. “Toes.”
“You see her toes.”
Right finger.
“Is she moving them?”
Left finger. “Not moving.”
“Can you see her face?”
Silence. “Pretty. Sleeping.”
“She’s sleeping.”
Confused look. “Not moving.”
“She’s not moving at all?”
Right finger.
“So you think she’s sleeping.”
Right finger. “Carrying her.”
“The men are carrying her. Is Father carrying her?”
Left finger. “Hair … hairy lip.”
“A man with a hairy lip is carrying her?” I thought of Terry Trafficant’s bearded, skeletal face.
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