I tried not to laugh or scream. “Getting to know you will be her therapy.”
“Not therapy, you limited gowk. Therapy is for moral anencephalics and hamstrung aerobi-geeks. I’m talking about salvation.”
Leaning forward. “Tell her.”
“I’ll let her know,” I said.
He laughed and raised the pitch of his voice. “Does she hate me?”
“I’m not free to talk about her feelings.”
“La da la da la da la da. You claim you read Dark Horses. What was the point there?”
“The racetrack as a mini-world. The charac—”
“The point was that we all eat horseshit. Some dress it up with béarnaise sauce, some nibble, some hold their noses, some stick their faces right in it and wolf, but no one plays hooky. Best novel of the millennium. Flew out of me; my cock tingled every day I sat down at the typewriter.”
He looked at the glass on the floor. “More.”
I obliged him.
“Pulitzer capons thinking they were giving me something.” He finished the whisky. “She hates me. I don’t give a shit about her feelings. Hatred’s a great motivator. I’ve always hated writing.”
I looked over his shoulder at the animal heads, the leering warthog.
He said, “No attention span, Veal-chop? They came with the place. I considered adding to the collection—critics with glass eyes. Know why I didn’t?”
I shook my head.
“No taxidermist would take on the job. Too hard to clean.”
He laughed and demanded another drink. The Chivas was gone, and I poured him cheap scotch. With his body weight, his blood had to be pickled, but he showed no effects of the alcohol.
“Have you ever looked into the toilet after you’ve shat?” he said. “The bits of crud that are left sticking to the porcelain? Next time, scrape some of that off and place it in a dish of agar-agar. Feed it more shit and anything foul you can find, and in no time at all you’ll have cultured yourself a critic.”
More laughter, but strained. “A criminal—the vilest child-fucking inchworm of a mother-raper—is entitled to a trial of his peers. Do you know what kind of justice artists merit? Trial by cretin. Dickless, decorticate, petty-ante pissbladders who’d give their glands to have the gift but don’t, so they take out their frustration on the blessed. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach. Those who lack the tongue motility to lick the arseholes of teachers, write reviews.”
He’d finally produced saliva. A strand trickled down the side of his mouth.
He stared at me. I readied myself for another outburst.
But he grew very quiet and his eyelids started to droop.
Then he fell asleep.
I listened to him snore. Nova came in, as if summoned by the noise. She’d changed into a filmy, collarless white blouse that barely reached her waist and black shorts that showed off beautiful legs. Her breasts were large and soft and unfettered, the nipples darkly evident through the thin fabric.
She said, “No sense in your staying, he’ll be that way for a while.”
“Does he do that often? Just nod off?”
“All the time. He’s tired all the time. It’s the pain.”
“Is he on painkillers?”
“What do you think?”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Everything. His heart and his liver are bad, he’s had several strokes, and his kidneys are weak. Basically, he’s just falling apart.”
Her tone was matter-of-fact.
“Are you a nurse?”
She smiled. “No, his assistant. He won’t accept nursing, would rather drink and do things his way. You’d better be going.”
I walked to the door.
“Are you bringing the daughter back?” she said.
“That’ll be up to the daughter.”
“She should meet him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Every daughter should meet her father.”
CHAPTER
29
“A caricature,” said Lucy, trying to smile. But there was fear in her eyes.
Outside, the sun hid behind a cloud bank and the ocean was a restless gray curdle. Very low tide. I heard the breakers die far back, slapping the sand like slow, monstrous applause.
It was eight in the morning; I’d just finished telling her about my visit. Nicolette Verdugo’s murder was all over the news. Jobe Shwandt was giving death-row interviews, lecturing on astrology and utopianism and the proper way to cut up a side of beef. One of the Bogettes had told the Times the day had come for all victims to rise up and slaughter the oppressors. Lucy had come in holding the morning paper, but she hadn’t wanted to talk about any of that.
“So what’s his angle?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “In his own bizarre way, he may be reaching out. Or just trying to regain some control.”
She shook her head and smiled. Then her mouth turned down. “See any lacy trees?”
“There are trees all over the place. The house is set into a forest.”
“A log house.”
“Yes,” I said. “Like a giant log cabin. Ken told me that’s where you and Puck slept. You were being cared for by a nanny. Any memory of that?”
“I know,” she said. “He told me, too. Some woman with short hair, and he remembers her as being grumpy. But that didn’t trigger anything for me.”
“Has he come up with anything else about that summer?”
She shook her head. “Apparently we had nothing to do with each other. It’s frustrating. Why would I block out something like a nanny?”
“Maybe she wasn’t with you very long. Not every memory registers.”
“Guess not.” The tendons in her neck were stretched tight. “Maybe I should jog my memory directly—go up there. From what you’ve told me, I should be able to handle him.”
“Let’s not rush things,” I said.
“I need to know the truth.”
“He’s old and feeble but far from innocuous, Lucy. Remember how manipulative he was with Puck.”
“I understand that. I’ll go in expecting a total monster. And no matter what he tries, it’s not going to work. Because I’m not Puck. He doesn’t have anything I need. I just want to look for those trees.”
The tide broke thunderously and she jumped.
I said, “Humor an overcautious therapist, Lucy. Let’s take our time.”
She was looking at the water. “Does it get that loud often?”
“Once in a while. Is there anything else you want to talk about?” I said.
“I want to talk about putting together a battle plan. Going up there and learning what happened.”
“Going up there doesn’t mean you’ll learn anything.”
“But not going up there means I definitely won’t. He’s a crippled old man. What can he do to me?”
“He has a way with words.”
“That’s all a writer ever has.”
“The point is, he may be reaching out to you because he’s dying.”
Her eyes flickered but she didn’t move.
“I’ve seen it plenty of times, Lucy. The most abusive, neglectful parents wanting some sort of relationship before they die. You need to sort out your own feelings about that very carefully. What if you go up there expecting brutality and he turns tender?”
“I could handle it,” she said. “He can’t collect debts that aren’t owed to him.”
She fooled with her hair and looked out at the ocean.
“I just thought of something. It’s horribly mean, but it’s funny. If he really gets obnoxious, I’ll handle him by falling asleep. Doze right off. That’ll get the message across.”
More hypnosis.
I took her back to two days before the Sanctum party, Thursday morning. Despite my attempt to cushion her with the TV screen technique, she lapsed into a child’s voice and began muttering about trees and horses and “Brudda.” Questions about a nanny or baby-sitter o
r anyone else elicited puzzled looks and an upstretched left index finger.
Further questioning revealed that “Brudda” was Puck, whom she called Petey.
Petey playing with her.
Petey throwing a ball.
The two of them tearing leaves and looking at ladybugs.
Petey smiling. She smiled, as she told it.
Then her own smile melted away, and I sensed that the present was beginning to intrude.
“What’s happening, Lucy?”
Frown.
I took her forward, past the dream, to Sunday. She remembered nothing.
Back to Saturday night.
This time she described her walk in the forest calmly. Even the “scared” look on the abducted girl’s face didn’t ruffle her.
I zeroed in on the three men.
Talking about her father made her eyes move frantically under her lids. She thought he looked angry. Described his clothing: “Long … uh … white … like a dress.”
The caftan the society column had described; she could have read it.
I asked her if there was anyone else she wanted to talk about, waiting to see if she’d move on to Hairy Lip without prodding.
Left finger.
I repeated my question about mustache versus beard, using simple phrasing a four-year-old could understand.
“Is it a big mustache or a little mustache?”
Pause. “Big.”
“Real big?”
Right finger.
“Does it hang down or go straight out?”
“Down.”
“It hangs down?”
“Dig …”
She grimaced; I thought she’d shifted forward to the burial.
“Now they’re digging?”
Left finger. Anguished head-shake.
“What is it, Lucy?”
“Dig … Diggity Dog.”
For a second, I was thrown. Then I remembered a cartoon character from the seventies. A lazy, slow-talking bassett-hound sheriff with a twenty-gallon hat and a drooping walrus mustache.
“The mustache hangs down like Diggity Dog’s?”
Right finger.
“What color is it?”
“Black.”
“A black mustache that hangs down like Diggity Dog’s.”
Right finger, rigid, jabbing upward. Hard.
“Anything else about the man with the mustache, Lucy?”
“Black.”
“A black mustache.”
She grimaced.
“Good,” I said. “You’re doing great. Now is there anything you can tell me about the other man, the one with his back to you?”
Contemplation. Eyes moving under the lids.
“He … he’s … says … says, In there. In there, in there, dammit, Buck. Hurry. Roll it, roll it. Hurrydammit rollit inthere!”
CHAPTER
30
After she left I sat thinking about her sudden change of heart.
Courage competing with self-defense.
Maybe courage was her self-defense.
No matter, I couldn’t allow her to face him. I’d hold her off, try to get her to discover as much as she could on her own.
I thought about what she’d seen today.
Hairy Lip. Maybe someone other than Trafficant.
The third man, always with his back to her.
In there, dammit, Buck.
Was he Trafficant? Barking at his patron? From what I’d seen of Lowell I couldn’t imagine his tolerating that. But maybe his relationship with Trafficant had been more complex than mentor and protégé.
As I thought about it, Ken Lowell called.
“I’m a little concerned about Lucy, doctor. She told me about this dream she’s been having. Now I understand what’s been getting her up at night.”
“She hasn’t been sleeping well?”
“She thinks she has, because when she asks I tell her she has. But she gets up two or three times every night and walks around. Usually she goes out onto the landing, stares at a wall for a second or so, then returns to her room. But last night was a little scary. I found her at the top of the stairs, about to step off. I tried to wake her, but I couldn’t. She let me guide her back to bed, but it was like moving a mannequin. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to upset her. Aside from that, I guess I’d like to know if you think there’s anything to the dream. I mean, he was no great shakes as a father, but a murderer?”
“What do you remember about that night?”
“Nothing, really. There was a party; it was loud and wild. Jo and I were stuck in our cabin, not allowed to come out. I do remember looking out through the curtains and seeing people laughing and screaming and dancing around. Some had paint on their faces. A bunch of rock bands were blasting.”
“Sounds like a love-in.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s what it was.”
“So you never saw anything resembling Lucy’s dream?”
“Three men carrying off a girl? No. Just couples slinking off together. I remember Jo telling me, ‘Guess what they’re doing?’ She was eleven, really into the facts of life.”
“Can you recall anything about Lucy and Puck’s nanny?”
“I’ve been trying to. Actually, she might not have been a nanny. Because I think she was wearing the same kind of uniform the waiters and waitresses were wearing—all white. So maybe she was just a waitress. To be honest, I don’t trust my memory on any of this. But if something really happened … Is there anything I can do to help Lucy with her sleepwalking?”
“Just keep her bedroom as safe as possible—no sharp objects, lock the windows. If she doesn’t object, have her lock the door before she goes to sleep.”
“Okay,” he said doubtfully.
“Is there a problem with that?”
“Not really. Just the thought of being locked in. I’m a little claustrophobic. Probably because they did it to us that summer: put us in a cabin and bolted the door from the outside. It was like being caged. We hated it.”
Robin came home at six, kissed me, and went into the shower. I sat on the floor tossing a ball to Spike, going along with his retriever fantasies, until the phone got me up.
Sherrell Best said, “Sorry to bother you again, Dr. Delaware, but is there anything new?”
“Nothing concrete yet, Reverend, I’m sorry.”
“Nothing concrete? Does that mean you’ve learned something?”
“I wish I could give you some real progress, but—”
“Could I please meet your patient? Maybe the two of us can put our heads together. I don’t want to cause any problems, but it might even help ease the burden.”
“Let me think about it, Reverend.”
“Thank you, Doctor. God bless.”
Robin and I took Spike for a chicken dinner and a drive. He wedged himself between her legs and the passenger door and stared out the window with a determined expression on his flat face.
Robin laughed. “He’s guarding us, Alex. Look how seriously he’s taking it. Thank you, Spikey, I feel so secure with you.”
“Joe Stud,” I said.
She put her hand on my knee. “I feel secure with you, too.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but he takes up less room and he doesn’t get emergency calls.”
The night sky turned violet. I’d driven north and, just like last week, ended up near Ventura. This time it was more than chance. Best’s call had gotten me thinking about Doris Reingold and the Sheas. The discrepancy in their lifestyles. I turned off the highway and entered the city limits. Robin looked at me but didn’t say anything.
We cruised the empty, quiet streets. The first thing open was a gas station. The Seville had a quarter tank left. I pulled in, filled up, washed the windows, then told Robin, “One sec,” and went to the pay phone. The directory was on its chain, but half the pages were gone. The R’s remained, though, and Reingold, D., was listed on Palomar Avenue.
The cashier told me that was ten block
s up.
When I got in the car, Robin said, “Home?”
“Please indulge me for a second. There’s something I want to check out.”
“Is it related to a patient?”
“Indirectly.”
“You’re going to drop in on someone?”
“No. I just want to see how someone lives. It won’t take long.”
“Okay,” she said, stretching.
“Yeah, I know I’m a real fun date.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “If you don’t behave yourself, he can drive me home.”
The address was a one-story bungalow court on a treeless street, three units on each side of a U. Security floodlights washed the stubble lawn. Some of the streetlights were out.
Six or seven college-age boys sat on the grass in folding chairs, drinking beer. Bags of potato chips and Fritos lay at their feet. They had long hair and, though the night was cool, all were shirtless. When I got closer, a couple of them mumbled, “Evening,” and one of them gave me the thumbs-up sign. The rest didn’t move at all.
I walked up to the thumber. His hair was dark and down to his nipples. His cheeks were hollow above curly chin whiskers.
“Hey, man,” he said, in a slurred voice. “Police?”
I shook my head.
“ ’Cause we been quiet after that time, man.” He flicked hair out of his face and stared at me. “You with the management?”
“No,” I said. “Just someone looking for—”
“We paid the rent, man. Cash to Mrs. Patrillo. If she din’t give it to you, tha’s not our fault.”
“Doris Reingold,” I said. “Do you know which unit is hers?”
He digested that. “Five. But she ain’t here.”
“Do you know where she is?”
He scratched his head. “She packed up some stuff and split.”
“When was this?”
Frown. Another head scratch. “Yesterday—yesterday night.”
“What time?”
“Um … I was just comin’ home and she was leavin’. It was at night. I said, You wan’ me to carry that stuff for you? but she i’nored me.” He belched and I could smell the hops. Taking a swig, he said, “Why you looking for her, man?”
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