Fool's Ride (The Jenkins Cycle Book 2)

by John L. Monk

  Off to the side, next to the sink, was a big and beautiful coffee pot filled all the way up. There was a stack of paper cups next to it, but they were too tiny for my coffee needs. I checked the little cabinet above the sink and found an actual coffee mug, which I cleaned out and then filled to the brim. I reached for the non-dairy creamer and—

  “Hi, Dr. Schaefer!” a loud voice said behind me.

  I was so startled I seized up and spilled coffee everywhere.

  “Oh, jeez, I’m sorry,” the woman said.

  She grabbed a bunch of paper towels and started cleaning up the counter and the floor.

  “No problem,” I said. “You scared me, is all.”

  She was very young—about nineteen or twenty—with long blond hair and fair skin. She had a wonderful smile, and when she stared into my eyes it was as if we were sharing a very special and important connection. And let me tell you something—we weren’t.

  “Thanks again,” I said, and raised my cup to her.

  I headed back to Scott’s office. When I got there, something made me glance back—causing the girl to collide with me and making me spill more coffee.

  “Sorry again, Dr. Schaefer,” she said, smiling and shrugging and bobbing her head and biting her lip and giggling all in the span of about two seconds. Any two of which would have rendered her merely a cute kid, respectful of her elders. Sometimes less is more.

  “No problem,” I said.

  She followed me into the office and I closed the door. She didn’t ask where the attendance sheet was or go looking for it on my desk or get irate like Monique. She went over and sat down in one of the soft chairs without being asked to. Not the couch, thank goodness. After seeing Scott’s other girlfriends or prostitutes or whatever they were, what it needed was a good cleaning.

  The girl sat with her hands folded, smiling at me like I was the most important person in the world.

  “Right,” I said and sat down across from her.

  She wore a knee-length skirt, white blouse, black flats, and red-and-white striped knee socks. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail. No braces, no lollipop.

  “So how have you been?” I said.

  “Just great, Dr. Schaefer. I worked on asserting myself on Saturday. My brother wanted me to come over for dinner at six, and I suggested six thirty. He agreed!”

  I nodded. Impressive stuff.

  “What did you have for dinner?” I said, and then popped a peanut butter cracker into my mouth.

  As an afterthought, I offered her one. She accepted.

  “Let’s see,” she said, looking at the ceiling and biting her lip. “Peas. Mashed potatoes. Chicken. And I drank water. My brother had the same thing, except he had his dinner with soda. I think it was Pepsi, but I’m not sure. My sister-in-law had water.”

  “Did you have dessert?”

  “Yes!”

  “My favorite meal,” I said. She was sunny and upbeat, if a little weird. “What kind of dessert?”

  “Ice cream.”

  “I love ice cream,” I said, smiling. “What did you do after dessert? Movies, games?”

  “I cleaned the house, of course.”

  “Huh?”

  The girl put the whole cracker in her mouth and started chewing—then began violently coughing up cracker dust.

  I ran over to the drawer with the water bottles and brought one back. She tried apologizing while opening the bottle but all she did was cough more. Finally, she took a sip. Her face was red from choking and she kept wiping her eyes.

  “Thanks…” she said and coughed again. “…the water.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Just take your time. Don’t want people thinking all my patients are crackers, do you?”

  She just nodded, coughing a little more and wiping her eyes.

  I opened my mouth to ask why she’d been cleaning her brother’s house on a Saturday night when she suddenly checked her watch, stood up straight, and said, “Oh no!”

  Then she rushed over to the couch, pulled her skirt up over her waist, and lay back.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  For a brief, disheartening moment, the needs of my inner college kid struggled against the demands of my outer grownup, and then I turned my head.

  “Hey, listen,” I said.

  “Yes, Dr. Schaefer?”

  “Can you do me a favor and say your name for me?”

  “Beth,” she said. Helpful, compliant, blonde, pretty, ready…

  Shut up, inner college kid!

  “Beth, we’re gonna do something different today. If you can, uh … pull those, that is, your skirt. Pull it back up … uh, I mean, down? Please?”

  “Is something wrong?” she said.

  A quick glance revealed the first frown I’d seen from her that day.

  “Just do what I said, okay?”

  “What did I do?” Beth said loudly.

  She shook her head and bawled at the top of her lungs, her skirt still hiked up around her waist. Then, pounding the fluffy couch, she got louder, frightening in her intensity.

  “Beth!” I shouted, to get her attention. “Come on. Get up and fix your skirt. It’s okay, I promise you’re not in trouble.”

  Beth stood up and let her skirt drop back. She was still crying, though more quietly. She wouldn’t look at me. She stood there ashamed, staring down and a little to the right, with her hands stiffly by her sides. She seemed like she needed a hug. Just not by me.

  The door to Scott’s office flew open and Pam poked her head in.

  “What’s going on in here?” she said, her gaze sweeping from me to Beth, who stood sniffling and hiccupping and refusing to make eye-contact with anyone.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “I thought I heard…”

  “I’m with a patient—get the hell out!”

  Beth flinched at my tone.

  Pam threw me a poisonous look and shut the door.

  An angry red haze swept over me—at Scott, at Melody, and at Pam. I was even angry at this poor, screwed-up girl for making me feel like the real Scott, if only for a moment. And then I was mad at myself, Dan, for thinking she’d had anything to do with my failings.

  “How did you get here today?” I said.

  “M-my mother b-brought me.”

  “How old are you?”

  “N-nineteen,” she said, glancing at me and back down again.

  “I want you to relax, okay?”

  Beth nodded and sat back down.

  I went over to Scott’s desk and got his cell phone, then asked Beth, “What’s your mom’s phone number?”

  Dutifully, Beth rattled it off. She seemed to perk up at the opportunity to help out.

  I entered the number and waited.

  Moments later, a woman answered. “Hello?”

  “This is Dr. Schaefer. Beth’s therapist.”

  “Oh hello, Scott. How lovely of you to call.”

  “There’s been a development with your daughter,” I said. “I was hoping you could come by and discuss it with me.”

  “Oh dear, what is it?”

  “I’d rather discuss it in person, if that’s okay.”

  “Oh, well I … certainly,” she said. “I’ll come over right now.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and hung up.

  Over on the couch, Beth sat watching me, a small, hopeful smile teasing around the edges of her mouth.

  “Maybe come sit over here,” I said, and pointed to one of the chairs.

  Nodding, her smile back in full bloom, Beth got up and switched seats.

  Man I hated Scott. I hated being in his horrible body. I never liked any of my rides, except maybe Nate. The truth was, I didn’t want any more of those rides, either. Why mess up a good person’s life? Give me a normal bad guy any day of the week, preferably someone who liked to rob banks or beat people up. Easy slam dunk stuff.

  On the next half-hour mark, while we were waiting for Beth’s mom to show, there came a knock on the door. W
hen I opened it, the woman in the first video I’d seen was there. She wasn’t like my ever helpful and smiling Beth. She didn’t seem unhappy either. Kind of in the middle.

  “Teresa,” I said. “How are you?”

  She shrugged. “You know.”

  “Hey,” I said, “we have to cancel our session today. Developments. Ok?”

  She peered over my shoulder at Beth sitting in the chair watching us. Beth offered a small wave.

  “Developments?” Teresa said, then barked a cynical laugh. “Good for her. Just sign the form for me, will you? Don’t forget, either, or no more nookie for you.”

  Before I could reply, Teresa turned and walked out with her head tilted a little to the side, almost like nothing was wrong. Maybe for her nothing was.

  About fifteen minutes later there came another knock. When I answered it, a woman was there, late forties, with a low cut top, thigh-high skirt, stiletto pumps, and a shiny gold handbag. She wore a silver crucifix sinfully close to her yawning cleavage. Her hair was teased, primped, colored, highlighted, curled, straightened, swished, whooshed, wrapped, and strategically all over the place. Lots of makeup, too, and her lip-gloss made her mouth look like strawberry jelly.

  “Beth’s mom?” I said.

  “It’s been too long,” she said, breathing out heavily and smelling faintly of alcohol. “What seems to be the trouble?”

  “Please come in,” I said.

  When she walked past, I saw she had an angel tattoo on one shoulder and a devil on the other. I escorted her to Scott’s desk and offered her a seat, which she accepted with a demure smile.

  Beth came over and sat next to her mother. I took my seat across from them.

  Beth’s mom said, “Dr. Schaefer, what’s all this about?”

  “Ma’am, I’m not sure how to begin.”

  “You used to call me Joan.”

  I took a deep breath and folded my hands in my lap. The poor woman. What a mess. She’d sent her child to a place of healing and gotten the exact opposite.

  “Joan,” I said. “I’ll just say it. I’ve been having sex with your daughter. Here in my office, whenever she comes in for treatment.”

  Just barely, I held off saying I’m sorry. The real Scott wouldn’t be sorry, and I wasn’t trying to get him off the hook.

  Joan looked at me without expression, then at Beth. “What did you do?”

  “I’m sorry,” Beth said quietly, leaning away.

  Joan raised her hand to strike her and Beth flinched.

  “Hey, stop!” I said. “What are you doing? She didn’t do anything. I’m trying to tell you, it was me.”

  “I told her to do everything you wanted,” Joan said, sighing theatrically, her face a mask of disappointment. “I’ll straighten her out, Dr. Schaefer, don’t you worry. She’ll be back here in no time and ready to please, I promise.”

  Next to her, Beth was crying again. This time more quietly—staring ahead, looking at nothing while big fat tears ran down her sad confused face.

  “Hold on,” I said. “You knew about this? What we were doing?”

  Joan laughed like we were old friends sharing an inside joke.

  “Dr. Schaefer, please. She’s a little small, granted, but she’s got that nice hair. But maybe you want a fuller-figured woman. I don’t normally go for red-headed men, but you’ve grown on me since we first met.”

  The moment stretched between us—her looking at me and me looking back.

  Beth was a troubling case. I’d seen a lot of messed-up people on my rides, but never anyone like her before. She spoke eloquently enough, used multi-syllabic words. And her inflection was that of an adult. What’s more, she was a physically mature woman. But there was something about her … the way she looked at me, hanging on my every word and doing her best to keep from getting in trouble. Like a ten-year-old inside a nineteen-year-old’s body.

  “Beth?” I said.

  “Yes, Dr. Schaefer?”

  “Your mom and I are going to play a game,” I said. “You like games?”

  Beth laughed a high, happy laugh. “Boy do I.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Do me a favor and go over to that couch and lay down. Don’t look up, no matter what. Cover your ears with your fingers and hum until I tap you on the shoulder. It might be a while, so you need to have patience. Can you do that?”

  “All the way over there?” she said, her smile wavering.

  “Yep, just lie down, close your eyes and put your fingers in your ears. And don’t forget to hum.”

  Beth nodded, got up, and went over to the couch. Then she lay down, put her fingers in her ears, and hummed tunelessly. Across from me, Joan licked her jelly lips in an expression of overripe seduction. I got up and walked around the desk. I noted her legs had parted slightly, and she was breathing more heavily.

  “I might actually like this,” she said, looking me up and down through lidded eyes.

  “Me too,” I said, and punched her dead in the jaw as hard as I could.

  Beth’s mom yelped and fell out of her chair. I took the opportunity to kick her in the stomach, then her back, and then one more time in the back for good measure. She gasped on the carpet, trying to breathe. I reached down, grabbed that snake’s nest haircut of hers and pulled her back into the chair. Then I went to the nearest bookcase, took down a video camera, and returned to my seat.

  After figuring out how to make it record, I’d positioned it toward the desk so I could confess my crimes and get Scott arrested. Now it was a completely different kind of confession.

  Joan sat there staring at me in shock with her hand on her jaw. Her makeup was smudged from where she’d landed on the carpet, and her upper lip was swelling by the second.

  “That’s your confession,” I said, and tossed the camera on the desk. “Mine too.”

  “What do you want?” she hissed. “Money? I don’t have any. That’s why the little twit’s here. We need the money.”

  Ignoring her, I said, “If you ever do this again, sell her out like this to someone, I’ll do more than just hit you. I’ll cut out your ugly black heart and make you eat it. I’m sure it tastes like shit. Nod if you understand. I said nod!”

  Joan jerked her head up and down.

  Over on the couch, Beth was humming away.

  I needed to do something about Joan, but I worried what would happen to Beth. When the state found out what was going on, who would take care of her? She’d be easy prey for other opportunists.

  And then there was Tara. I wondered if I could soften Tara’s heartbreak from when the truth finally came out. Maybe if I confessed to her first, before I went to the cops?

  Confess … confession. Yeah, okay.

  A sliver of hope, but I’d take it.

  “Take your daughter and go,” I said.

  Casting me a quick, scared look, Joan went over and pulled on her humming daughter’s arm to get her up.

  “Bye, Dr. Schaefer!” Beth said happily, stumbling after her mom.

  “Shut up,” Joan said, and hurried her out the door.

  * * *

  It was only three thirty, and doubtless I had more patients. My guess was Scott kept a few legitimate cases for appearances—like Will Dingle, with his fear of talking birds, or anyone like Beth who came his way. The rest, I figured, were just scammers.

  I left the office and shut the door, then walked to the front desk. Pam and Melody were both there. Melody was smiling at me and Pam was pretending to read a novel.

  “Pam,” I said. “Anyone who comes in, tell them I’m sick.”

  Pam looked up from her novel, which I noticed was upside down, and stared at me like I had to be joking.

  “I’m not your secretary, asshole!”

  Ignoring her, Melody said, “Oh honey, what’s wrong?”

  “You and I are through,” I said. “Tara’s a thousand times the woman you’ll ever be. Tell your brother if he has something to say about it, I’ll be here tomorrow waiting for him, regular hours.”<
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  Then I strolled out of there feeling good about myself for the first time since stepping into Scott’s life.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  When I got to the house, the garage door opened for me and the house key still worked. The doorjamb was still chewed-up, but I’d worry about it later.

  I felt famished. Pop-Tarts and little orange crackers weren’t doing it for me, so I made myself a sandwich.

  Tara came down from upstairs, folded her arms and said, “I want a divorce.”

  If I acted like I wanted one too, that might hurt her. If I acted like I didn’t, maybe she’d worry I’d cause problems and wouldn’t sign the papers or whatever. Or worse, she’d feel relief that Scott wanted to fix the relationship. It wasn’t fixable, but there was no way I could tell her that. If she ever learned of those recordings, she’d be crushed.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “What’s that’s supposed to mean?”

  “We should get a divorce,” I said.

  Tara wiped her cheek.

  “What about the house?” she said. “I … we can’t live here together. And you’re not staying here while I’m stuck at my mom’s. I deserve better.”

  “I’ll move out,” I said. “You stay here until we sell it.”

  Tara was quiet for a time. “You’ll be with her.”

  If I said yes, that’d seal the decision, give it permanence.

  I shook my head and said, “I’ll get a room somewhere inexpensive.”

  Tara nodded.

  “Good,” she said, then turned and went back upstairs.

  * * *

  With all the sadness I’d seen in the last few hours, I decided it was time to get back to my roots. Dan Jenkins liked fun. Dan Jenkins hated evil moms who exploited their kids for money, and that’s why I went online looking for a Borders Bookstore somewhere in Toledo, because I’d never seen anyone evil in a bookstore even once.

  Imagine my surprise: Borders had gone out of business.

  It was like when I’d found out about 9/11 a month after it happened, except way less important.