Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She’s really beautiful. Despite the scars . . . Sweet. In a vulnerable way.

  Sounds like you learned a lot from a brief visit.

  The color rising in Eileen’s cheeks. One tries.

  Her embarrassment a puzzle. So clear, now.

  More than a brief visit had taken place.

  A lot more than medical consultation.

  Melissa had sensed something out of the ordinary, without fully understanding: She’s my mother’s friend. . . . She likes my mother. . . .

  Jacob Dutchy had known, too— made a point of portraying Gina’s avoidance of me as a generic fear of doctors.

  I’d questioned it: She met with Dr. Wagner.

  Yes. That was a surprise. She doesn’t cope well with surprises.

  Are you saying she had some sort of adverse reaction just to meeting with Dr. Wagner?

  Let’s just say it was difficult for her.

  Would it be easier for her to deal with a female therapist?

  No! Absolutely not! It’s not that at all.

  Gina and Eileen . . .

  The stirring— the inclinations— that each had fought for so long. Cravings Gina had dealt with by marrying a physically grotesque man who played the role of father. The second time around choosing a bisexual man— an old friend with a secret of his own, whom she could turn to for companionship and mutual tolerance and the outward appearance of married bliss.

  Separate bedrooms.

  Eileen . . . coping with the self-loathing she’d felt after Sussex Knoll by abandoning her practice, leaving town, and traveling the world as a care-giver, unpressured to defend herself. Devoting herself to saving lives as she waged war with her pain.

  Losing too many battles and choosing another strategy— one so many other bright, troubled people have taken: the study of The Mind.

  Child psychiatry. Because let’s get back to the root of it all.

  Harvard. Because let’s learn from the best.

  Harvard and a blue-collar lover. An electrician with no patience for soul-baring.

  Then, rotation on Ursula’s service. The mischief gods must have been chortling heartily.

  Rap sessions.

  Confessions.

  Pain and passion and confusion— someone who’d listen to all the things Sally Etheridge never wanted to hear about.

  Ursula heard. And was changed herself.

  Burying it by playing doctor.

  A behavioral nightmare becomes real. The mischief gods beside themselves with glee.

  Treatment failure. Of the worst kind.

  Bye-bye, Boston.

  Time for a move.

  California, in search of the princess . . .

  In search of the idea of the princess. Wealthy phobics Ursula knew she could help.

  Playing doctor.

  Fee for service. Big fees.

  All is well.

  Then, the child calls. Again . . .

  “Opportunities,” Gabney was saying. “Yes, that’s basically the way she put it. A business decision. I preferred Florida— less expensive; the air’s a hell of a lot better. But she pushed for California, and not knowing what she was really after, I relented. It’s when I relent that things go wrong.”

  He looked over at Gina, his face befouled with rage— the flailing, mind-searing fury of a man blocked from possessing what he craved.

  Because of another woman.

  The ultimate insult to the feeble thing known as Maleness.

  Suddenly, I was certain Joel McCloskey had been insulted, too.

  Thrown over by another woman.

  Dirty joke.

  Bad joke. Burrowing through his dope-softened brain like a spirochete.

  Rejection festering. The hatred of homosexuals . . .

  Dealing with it by demolishing Gina’s beauty— blotting out criminal womanhood.

  Too cowardly to do it himself. Cowardly about exposing his motives as well, for fear of what that would say about him.

  Had Gina ever understood why she’d suffered?

  Gabney emitted a low, angry sound. Staring at Gina. Then at his wife.

  “I’ve never been deceptive with her, but she chose to change the rules—both of them did.”

  “When did you first suspect?”

  “Shortly after that one’s treatment began. It was nothing specific— just nuances. Subtle variations that a man who knew less— or cared less— might never have noticed. Spending more time with her than all the other patients. Extra sessions that weren’t necessary from a clinical point of view. Changing the subject and showing odd resistance when I challenged her. And abandoning the ranch— she used to come up here regularly. Despite the allergies. Took antihistamines and tolerated the pollens in order to spend peaceful weekends with me. All of that stopped as soon as she came into our lives.” He smiled. “This is the first time she’s been up here since then. All those stupid excuses for staying in the city that she thought I didn’t see through . . . I knew damn well what was going on. Wanted hard data to preclude any more lies. So I made a few modifications to our office intercom and began listening in. Heard them”— the round face trembled—“making their plans.”

  “Plans for what?”

  “To leave.” He pressed his free hand over his face, as if ironing out grief. “Together.”

  Giant steps . . .

  Melissa, sensing the truth. Feeling edged out by Ursula’s possessiveness . . .

  Gabney said, “This is how low it sank: My wife accepted a piece of art from her— an extremely valuable etching. Now if that’s not an inexcusable breach of ethics, I don’t know what the hell is. Don’t you agree?”

  I nodded.

  “Money changed hands as well,” he said. “To her, money means nothing because she’s a spoiled bitch, never been deprived of anything. But it was bound to corrupt my wife— she came from a poor family. Despite everything she’s accomplished, pretty things still impress her. She’s like a child that way. The bitch understood that.”

  Pointing at Gina: “She gave her money on a regular basis— enormous sums. A secret bank account! They called it their little nest egg. Giggling like stupid schoolgirls. Giggling and plotting to abandon their responsibilities and go gallivanting off to live like whores on some tropical island. On top of the perversity, what a disgusting waste! My wife has a brilliant future. The bitch seduced her and attempted to lay everything to waste— I had to intervene. The bitch would have destroyed her.”

  He pressed a button on the remote. Gina flopped. Ursula watched and made whimpering noises.

  Gabney said, “Shut up, darling, or I’ll grill her synapses right now, and to hell with the goddam treatment plan.”

  Tears ran down Ursula’s cheeks. She was silent and still.

  “If this upsets you, darling, blame yourself.”

  His finger finally lifted. “If I were a selfish man, I would have simply killed her,” he said to me. “But I wanted to give her worthless, spoiled life some meaning. So I decided to . . . apprentice her. As a stimulus, as you’ve so profoundly pointed out.”

  “In vivo conditioning,” I said. “Home movies.”

  “Science in the real world.”

  “So you abducted her.”

  “No, no,” he said. “She came willingly.”

  “Patient to doctor.”

  “Exactly.” He gave a wide, satisfied smile. “I phoned her in the morning, informing her of a scheduling change. Instead of group therapy, she’d be having a one-on-one session with me. Her beloved Dr. Ursula was ill, and I was filling in. I told her we’d make special progress today— surprise her beloved Dr. Ursula with outstanding progress. I instructed her to drive her car out of the gates of her estate and pick me up two blocks away at a precise time. I specified the Rolls-Royce— told her something about consistency of stimuli. Because, of course, it has tinted windows. She arrived right on the dot. I had her slide over to the passenger side, and I got behind the wheel. She asked me where we were going. I didn’t answ
er. That elicited visible symptoms of anxiety— she wasn’t even close to being ready for that kind of ambiguity. She repeated her question. Once again, I said nothing and continued to drive. She began to get twitchy and to breathe rapidly— prodromal signs. When I sped onto the freeway she burst into a full-blown anxiety attack. I handed her an inhaler that I’d doctored to contain chloral hydrate and instructed her to take a nice deep breath. She did, and passed out immediately. Which was elegant. I was driving at fifty-five miles per hour, didn’t want her thrashing around and creating a hazard. Unconscious, she made a lovely traveling companion. I drove to the dam, where my Land Rover was waiting. Transferred her into the Rover and pushed that ostentatious hunk of junk into the water.”

  “Pretty strenuous work for one man.”

  “What you mean to say is strenuous for a man of my age. But I’m in excellent shape. Clean living. Creative fulfillment.”

  “The car didn’t sink,” I said. “It caught on a flange.”

  He said nothing, didn’t move.

  “Poor planning for someone as precise as you. And with the Land Rover up there, how’d you get back to San Labrador?”

  “Ah,” he said, “the man is capable of rudimentary reasoning. Yes, you’re correct, I did have help. A Mexican fellow, used to work for me up here at the ranch. When we had more horses. When my wife used to ride.”

  To Ursula: “Remember Cleofais, darling?”

  Ursula shut her eyes tight. Water leaked out from under the lids.

  Gabney said, “This Cleofais— what a name, eh?— was a big, husky fellow. Not much in the way of brains, no common sense— he was essentially a two-footed beast of burden. I was getting close to firing him— only a few horses left, no sense wasting money— but the transfer of Mrs. Ramp offered him one last chance to be useful. He dropped me off in Pasadena, then took the Rover up to the dam and waited. He was the one who pushed the Rolls-Royce in. But he miscalculated, hit that flange or whatever.”

  “Easy mistake to make.”

  “Not if he’d been careful.”

  “Why do I feel,” I said, “that he won’t be making any more mistakes in the future?”

  “Why, indeed.” Exaggerated look of innocence.

  Ursula moaned.

  Gabney said, “Oh, stop. Spare me the dramatics. You never liked him— you were always calling him a stupid wetback, always after me to get rid of him. So now you have your way.”

  Ursula shook her head weakly and sagged in her chair.

  I said, “Where’d you take Mrs. Ramp after the Rolls was disposed of?”

  “On a scenic drive. Through Angeles Crest Forest along the backroads. The precise route was Highway 39 to Mount Waterman, Highway 2 to Mountain High, 138 to Palmdale, 14 to Saugus, 126 to Santa Paula, then straight down to the 101 and onward to the ranch. Circuitous but pretty.”

  “Nothing like that in Florida,” I said.

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Why the dam?” I said.

  “It’s a rural spot, comparatively close to the clinic, yet remote— no one goes up there. I know, because I’d been there several times. To sell off horses my wife no longer wanted to ride.”

  “That’s all?”

  “What else should there be?”

  “Well,” I said, “I’d be willing to wager you studied your wife’s clinical notes and knew Mrs. Ramp didn’t like water.”

  He smiled.

  I said, “I understand about the tinted windows providing cover. But wasn’t it risky using a car that conspicuous? Someone might have noticed.”

  “And if they had, what would they have seen? A car that would have been traced to her— just as it was. The assumption would have been made that a mentally ill woman drove up there and either had an accident or committed suicide. Which is exactly what happened.”

  “True,” I said, trying to look thoughtful.

  “Everything was considered, Delaware. If Cleofais had reported being spotted, we would have moved on to another spot. I’d earmarked several. Even the unlikely chance of being stopped by a policeman didn’t worry me. I would have explained that I was a psychotherapist with a patient who’d had an anxiety attack and passed out, and shown my credentials to back it up. The facts would have backed me up. And when she regained consciousness, she would have backed me up, because that’s all she would have remembered. Isn’t that elegant?”

  “Yes,” I said, causing him to look at me sharply. “Even traveling the back roads, you had plenty of time to set her up here, wait for your wife to call and report she hadn’t shown up for group therapy, then fake concern, drive back to Pasadena and make your appearance at the clinic.”

  “Where,” he said, “I had the not altogether salutary experience of meeting you.”

  “And trying to find out how much I knew about Mrs. Ramp.”

  “Why else would I bother to talk to you? And for a moment you did have me concerned— something you said, about her having plans to make a new life. Then I realized you were just jawing, knew nothing of any importance.”

  “When did your wife find out what you’d done?”

  “When she woke up to find herself in that chair.”

  Remembering Ursula’s hurried exit from the clinic, I said, “What’d you tell her to get her up here?”

  “I phoned her, pretending to be ill, and begged her to come up and take care of me. Good wife that she is, she responded promptly.”

  I said, “How will you explain her absence to her patients?”

  “Bad flu. I’ll take over their care, don’t expect any complaints.”

  “Two patients gone from the group, now the therapist— given the kind of anxiety you’re dealing with, it may not be so simple to reassure them.”

  “Two? Ah.” Knowing smile. “Bonny Miss Kathleen, our intrepid girl reporter? How did you come across that?”

  Not knowing if Kathy Moriarty was alive or dead, I said nothing.

  “Well,” he said, smiling wider, “if you think your evasiveness is going to help her, forget it. Bonny Miss Kathleen won’t be reporting anything anymore— nasty little bull-dagger. The arrogance, thinking something as complex as agoraphobia could be faked in my presence. Trying to bluster her way out when I caught her, with threats and accusations. She sat right in that chair.” Pointing to Ursula’s. “Helped me refine the technique.”

  “Where is she now?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “In the cold, cold ground, next to Cleofais. Probably the first time she’s been that intimate with a man.”

  I looked over at Ursula. Her eyes were wide and frozen.

  “So everything’s tied up,” I said. “Elegant.”

  “Don’t mock me.”

  “Mocking you isn’t my intention. On the contrary, I had the greatest respect for your work. Read all your publications— shock avoidance and escape paradigms, controlled frustration, schedules of fear-induced learning. This is just . . .” I shrugged.

  He stared at me for a long time.

  “You wouldn’t,” he finally said, “be trying to bullshit me?”

  “No,” I said. “But if I am, big deal. What can I do to you?”

  “True,” he said, flexing his fingers. “Fifteen seconds to deep-fry, you couldn’t bear being a party to that. And I’ve got other toys you haven’t even seen yet.”

  “I’m sure you have. Just as I’m sure you’ve convinced yourself it’s okay to use them. On scientific grounds. Destroy the person to save her.”

  “No one’s being destroyed.”

  “What about Gina?”

  “She wasn’t much to begin with— look at the way she lived. Insular, selfish, corrupt— of no use to anyone. By using her, I’ve justified her.”

  “I didn’t know she needed justifying.”

  “Then know it, idiot. Life’s transactional, not some fluffy, theological fantasy. The world’s getting sucked dry. Resources are finite. Only the useful will survive.”

  “Who determines what’s useful?” />
  “Those who control the stimuli.”

  “One thing you might consider,” I said, “is that despite all this high-minded theorizing, you may not be aware of your true motivations.”

  The corners of his mouth turned up. “Are you applying to be my analyst?”