Pulse

by Edna Buchanan

  “Would you happen to have a picture of Denise?”

  The woman scowled, then scrounged through a drawer until she found it. Denise and the little girl, standing in front of headquarters, apparently when they took the tour of the station.

  He promised LaKisha he would bring it back.

  He knew what he had to do as he drove home, then wondered what was happening there. Throw a net, what exactly did that mean? It occurred to him that Kathleen had been dogging his steps when he was there. If he went out on the patio, she followed. If he went upstairs, she was behind him. Not to be with him, but to watch him.

  He joined his family, already at dinner, acutely aware now of their attitude toward him, the pity in their eyes. How had it gone this far? Twice he saw Kathleen check her watch, expecting someone, or a telephone call.

  He had no appetite and ate little. He felt too tense. He said he was tired, thought he’d take a shower, do some reading and retire early. Kathleen followed him upstairs. While he undressed, she disappeared into her office down the hall. He stepped into the master bath, turned on the shower full blast, then slipped back out into their bedroom. The bedside phone set had one line lit, hers.

  He didn’t dare pick it up. She might hear him.

  He padded down the hall in his bathrobe, his bare feet sinking into the carpet’s thick pile. Her door was slightly ajar. He heard her voice. He stood with his ear to the door, listening. If one of the girls came upstairs now, he would be caught red-handed.

  “He’ll probably never forgive me,” Kathleen said fretfully, “but it’s the only way. Phil said I have to protect myself and the girls, as well as Frank. And he’s right, of course. I know, I know. I just want to get tomorrow over with. I’m so nervous. We’ve been through so much together in the past year. This is the last thing I ever thought I’d have to do. But the sooner the better. No, no, Ann, you haven’t seen him, heard him. There’s no doubt it’s the right thing. There’s no other way to get him under control. I mean, who knows what he’ll do next? It’s absolutely nerve-racking.”

  His stomach churned. Someone on the stairs. He hurried back down the hall and into the master bedroom just in time.

  “Mom?” He heard Shandi in the hall.

  He stripped off his robe and stepped into the shower. He let the water run hot, soaped and scrubbed his skin furiously, teeth clenched in outrage. Whatever was happening was tomorrow. She had been talking to her sister, Ann. Why didn’t Ann try to talk some sense into Kathleen? This was his house, his family.

  He was so close, but who would listen to him now?

  “Your skin is so red. Was the water too hot in the shower?” Kathleen asked. “You could have scalded yourself.” Her cool hand touched his forehead. “You feel almost feverish.”

  He lay in bed watching her.

  “Kathleen …”

  She brushed her hair, watching herself in the mirror. “Yes, dear?”

  He wanted to confess how flawed a man he was, to ask her forgiveness, to explain why he had to finish what he had started. “Was that you on the phone just now?” he asked instead, “when I came out of the shower?”

  “No.” Her eyes met his in the mirror. “It must have been one of the girls.”

  She tucked him in again, as though he were a child.

  She was restless. It took a long time, but when he was certain she was sleeping, he slipped from their bed. Her office door was locked, something she had never done before. He used the master set of keys from his study.

  Her desk was also locked. He found that key almost immediately, tucked beneath her desk blotter. Her daily journal, a shiny red book, lay in the top drawer, along with files and copies of affidavits. Kathleen was thorough. She had always been thorough. The grounds for her action were neatly delineated, laid out like a shopping list.

  Franklin D. Douglas

  • Recent heart transplant patient, on medication.

  • Experiencing bad dreams, hallucinations, hears voices.

  • Obsessed with the belief that his heart donor is still alive, has become inappropriately involved with the dead man’s widow.

  • Depleting family assets, gave more than $25,000 to a stranger.

  • High-risk behavior, witness in a murder, discovered the victim in another murder, interviewed as suspect in the latter (present newscast video as evidence).

  • Paranoid behavior, recently purchased a handgun, despite a lifelong aversion to weapons, and displayed the loaded firearm at the home he shares with his wife and two young daughters, installed security cameras and alarms at home and office, calls to police, retained a private investigator.

  • Due to mental state, may not self-administer his life-sustaining medication as directed. Due to this and all of the above, he presents a danger to himself and others.

  Persuasive. Had Frank read all this about a stranger, it would convince him that the individual should be committed.

  His hands shook as he shuffled through the files. Kathleen had been seeking sworn affidavits from other parties. That had to be how Lucca found out, he was sure. She must have approached him, seeking either an affidavit or information about the work he had been hired to do. A black line was drawn through Lucca’s name. He apparently did not cooperate. But Dr. Lassiter had, advising hospitalization. Sue Ann’s name was followed by a question mark.

  With or without an affidavit from his secretary, there appeared to be more than enough to persuade a circuit judge to issue an immediate pickup order in an ex parte proceeding. The room felt icy cold, the chill coming from within him. Kathleen’s notes, her crisp copies of legal papers, made it clearwhat to expect. Deputies would find him, then take him in custody to either Highland Park or Dodge Memorial, expensive, private locked-down psychiatric hospitals.

  A note from Phillip Grayson assured Kathleen that should the court balk, resulting in some unforeseen delay, she could resort to the Baker Act, an emergency procedure. Local police would take Frank into custody and involuntarily commit him to Jackson Memorial Hospital’s psychiatric unit for a seventy-two-hour evaluation. “Not as pleasant an atmosphere as the private hospitals,” Phil wrote, “but a very viable alternative.”

  Fury overtook him. Grayson must be enjoying this. How many people had the son of a bitch told? How much was he charging Kathleen? How could she listen to him?

  He arranged the papers back the way they were, locked the drawer, the door, and crept back to bed. Kathleen still slept, her back to him. He wanted to shake her awake with bellowed recriminations, reasonable explanations, and pleas for remission of sins unmentioned on her misleading and damning list. He took deep breaths and he tried to think clearly. He had to get through the night first, then find a lawyer, a damn good lawyer, in the morning. How could this happen now? Time was running out, he had none for a court battle trying to prove himself competent, a battle he might initially lose. He had more urgent priorities, what he owed to the man in the photograph. Follow the trail, find the answers now, something told him, or no one will ever know the truth.

  What if they came for him in the morning? He could be led off in restraints, in pajamas, in front of his daughters and his neighbors. But no, had the order been signed, he thought, they would have come already. The hearing must be set for this morning. He still had a few hours.

  He was drinking coffee in the kitchen when Kathleencame down. “What are you doing today?” He smiled, afraid that she would see what he knew in his eyes.

  “Early meeting, the museum board.” She smiled ruefully. “What are your plans?”

  “That real estate proposal, probably spend the day in the office on the phone. It looks good.”

  Kathleen dressed in an elegant business suit, then went into her study. She emerged snapping the locks on her slim leather briefcase. He noticed she had taken great pains with her makeup this morning. Even wore mascara. Did she hope to impress the judge, or Phillip Grayson?

  Shandi hugged him tightly before leaving for class. “Love you, Daddy.
”

  He read it in her eyes. She knew.

  He kissed Casey when the van from school honked outside. “ ‘Bye, punkin,” he whispered. “Be good.”

  “ ‘Bye, Dad.”

  She ran down the driveway without looking back. She didn’t know.

  “Kathleen?”

  She turned, her face a mask.

  “Why don’t we just both take off, the hell with everything else. Spend the day together. How about it? You and me.”

  She paused. “Tempting, sweetheart, but no can do. This meeting is important.”

  They walked out to their cars together. She kissed his cheek. He followed her Catera out to the causeway and tooted his horn as she turned west, toward the city. He turned east toward the Beach and his office. The moment she was out of sight he braked, made a U-turn and doubled back to the house. Upstairs, he dragged a duffel bag from the back of the guest room closet where they stored the luggage. He movedswiftly through their bedroom and bath like a thief, sweeping toiletries, his toothbrush, underwear, shirts and socks into the bag. He wanted to take sweaters and a warm jacket, but that would leave a clue. He could buy garments as he needed them. Nobody could stop him now.

  He left the house in a hurry, stowed the bag in the trunk and stopped for a moment in the driveway to drink in the bougainvillea and the sweet scent of the island, a blend of salt air, flowers and fresh-cut grass. He wondered when he would see it again, then got in his car and drove out the gate.

  He went to the bank first, carried his briefcase inside and filled out a withdrawal slip for twenty-five thousand dollars. While he waited for the teller to bring the money, it occurred to him that he and Daniel Alexander were becoming more and more alike. Both bought guns, both made love to Rory, and both walked out of banks with cash-filled briefcases. To where? That was the question.

  “Sir?” The teller looked troubled, nervously adjusting his glasses. “Could you step this way?”

  “Look, I’m in a hurry,” Frank said sharply. He checked his watch. “I just want to make this withdrawal.”

  “That’s what the manager would like to speak to you about. There’s a problem.”

  The manager, a woman he had done business with for twenty years, was embarrassed. His accounts, she said, both business and personal, had been temporarily frozen by order of the probate court, pending a competency hearing. The papers were on her desk.

  She threw up her hands. “I don’t know what to tell you, Frank. I’m sure you’ll straighten this out. I’m sorry.”

  He felt light-headed as he walked out of the bank. He called the pharmacy on Alton Road, then drove there. “Did a stupid thing,” he told the pharmacist, who had a two-month supply of his medication ready. “Lost the bag I carry my pills in. Thought I’d stock up. We may do a little traveling this month.”

  He had to stock up, here, now. His prescription could be traced.

  “You don’t want to run out of this stuff,” the pharmacist said cheerfully. “Gotta tell ya, you look great. Nobody would ever know.”

  Frank handed over his American Express card. The man ran it on the machine. Frank fidgeted, checking the time. The pharmacist came back, his expression odd.

  “Mister Douglas, there’s a problem with your card.”

  “What? It must be a mistake. There shouldn’t be anything wrong.”

  “I put it through twice.” He looked uncomfortable. “The company said to confiscate it. There’s been a stop put on it.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  But it was.

  Kathleen was thorough. She and Grayson had been busy. He searched his pockets, but found only a few hundred dollars. It wasn’t enough. “Will you take a check?”

  “It’s against store policy,” the pharmacist said slowly, “but hell, I’ve known you all these years. I know you’re good for it.”

  This was a man who had once opened his store at midnight to fill a prescription for Casey, then a sick and feverish baby. Frank smiled gratefully and wrote the man a bad check, committing a felony. Under the circumstances, he thought, he could always plead insanity.

  He called bank officers he knew personally at two other institutions. His accounts there, too, had been frozen. One told him that it appeared that Kathleen was instituting a procedure to be named sole guardian of their assets.

  “It’s a mistake,” he assured them. “It will be straightened out.” Bank machines ate his two remaining credit cards when he attempted to make cash withdrawals.

  He called her from a phone booth.

  She answered at once. The hearing must have been brief.

  “What have you done?”

  “Darling, where are you?”

  “Kathleen, you know me better.”

  She paused. “No, I don’t, sweetheart. But”—her voice took on the soothing tone she so often used lately—“everything is going to be all right. It will just take time. This is for your own good. We’ve got some wonderful doctors, they’re—”

  He hung up.

  “Good morning,” Sue Ann chirped. She looked relieved to see him.

  He brushed by, into his office, then watched the monitor. She picked up the phone immediately. He took the videotape of his conversation with Bowden from his desk, slipped it into a manila envelope, then rummaged without success through the drawers for cash. Unlike other men he knew, he had never kept a secret cash stash or a private credit card. Kathleen and Sue Ann knew everything, had everything.

  Sue Ann was off the phone. He hit the intercom. “Would you bring me the McAllister file?”

  “McAllister?”

  “That shopping center deal we did about five years ago?”

  “Right.” He watched the screen as she walked into the small file room. He stepped out into her office, took the petty cash box from her top right-hand drawer and emptied it. Three twenties, a ten, a five and small change.

  “Where are you going?” she asked as she returned with the file.

  “Just out for a bagel, be right back.”

  “I’ll get it for you,” she offered eagerly, but he was already down the hall.

  He emerged from the elevator and walked through the lobby toward the parking lot. Two brown-shirted deputies were walking in his direction; one held an official-looking document in his hand. They stopped at his Mercedes; the one with the document checked the tag, then spoke to the other, who nodded.

  Frank fought the urge to run. They didn’t know him by sight. Half a dozen other passengers had disembarked from the elevator with him. He turned to a woman a few steps behind him. Plain, in her thirties, slightly overweight, she carried a postal meter, a bulky purse over her shoulder and an armload of oversized envelopes.

  “You know,” he said, speaking cheerfully though his stomach churned, “we pass nearly every day and never say hello.”

  “That’s true.” She smiled, obviously flattered. “Everybody is always in such a rush.”

  “One of these days,” he said, “we should stop to smell the roses and share a cup of coffee or a sandwich. Here, let me take that.” He took the heavy meter from her and pushed open the door.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve noticed you, too.” They walked out, chatting, into the sunny parking lot, a couple. “I’m from Arkansas,” she offered, “a small town where you know everybody and they know you. I was just saying the other day that Miami is the strangest place, everybody is from somewhere else. It’s not a community, it’s just a crowd. Nobody’s friendly.”

  He laughed a bit too heartily as they passed the deputies on their way into the building. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  He walked her to her Chevette, parked three slots down from his car, and set the meter on the front passenger seat.

  “I’m glad we crossed paths today,” he told her, hoping the deputies were aboard the elevator by now.

  “See you soon,” she called as he walked away. She waved as he slid into the Mercedes and wheeled out of the lot. There was only one place left to go
.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The dimples deepened as Rory opened the door. “Hey,” she murmured. “I didn’t know if you were ever coming back.”

  He had no idea what to say. He closed his eyes as she hugged him.

  She stepped back after a moment and studied his face. Her smile faded. “What’s wrong?”

  He couldn’t trust her. But without her, he was lost.

  “I’m in so much trouble.”

  “You? What?”

  He told her what Kathleen had done. Her reaction was shock and indignation.

  “Froze your bank accounts! Cut off your credit cards! Is she crazy! Let me call Kathleen right now,” she demanded.“I’ll explain. Tell her it was all my fault.” She hesitated. “She doesn’t know, does she? That we …”

  He shook his head hopelessly. She surely suspected.

  “You were only helping me. I’ll give back the twenty-five thousand dollars right now! I wanted to give back the money!”

  “It wouldn’t change anything.” He paced the room as she sank into a chair watching him. “It’s only a small part of the picture. This is turning ugly, fast.”

  “Hire a good lawyer and we’ll stop it all before it happens.”

  “There’s no time to do that now. There’s something else I have to do first.”

  “What could be more important? You can’t—”

  “I’m close to the truth, Rory.” He stopped in front of her. “Remember that puzzle we talked about? It’s real and I’m this close to solving it.” He watched her eyes, bewildered and innocent.

  “Do you remember a woman named Denise Watson?”

  She denied it.

  He explained who Denise was, then opened his briefcase and spread out the pictures. “You remember her now?”

  She studied them intently, then shrugged. “Can’t say for sure. I ‘member that the person who came out to dust for fingerprints was a woman detective, or whatever, and she was talkin’ to Daniel ‘bout security and alarm systems. Fallin’ all over him, but that wasn’t unusual. Women always found him attractive. She wore a badge and a police ID hangin’ from her belt. But I was so upset and bumfuzzled that day, comin’ home from vacation and everythin’ gone, they coulda sent Charlie Manson out and I wouldn’t've noticed.”