Gabe actually did make it home early that night. We drove into Morro Bay, ate lobster tails and filet mignon, walked along the Embarcadero and talked about everything except the sniper. I told him about Dot Haggerty, Daddy’s secret girlfriend, which gave him a good laugh. We speculated what the girls would do when they eventually found out about Dot. We watched the sun set behind Morro Rock and listened to a blues guitarist at the Bayou Blues Club.
While I watched the fishing boats bob gently in the waves, Gabe’s arm around my shoulders, his breath soft and warm in my ear, in that moment, despite the sniper, despite Lin and Tessa and the changes they might bring into our life, at this very moment, I was happy; I was content. And I was old enough now to appreciate the rarity of that feeling, knowing enough to enjoy it and to wrap the memory carefully in tissue and save it for later, for the hard times that would, as certain as the setting sun, descend upon us.
CHAPTER 16
WHEN WE GOT HOME FROM MORRO BAY THAT NIGHT, WE MADE love, the perfect ending to a perfect evening. Except it wasn’t the real ending. The real ending was when he kissed me one last time and left our bed, making that long walk down the hallway to the guest room.
“Stay,” I said.
“Wait,” he replied.
Our marriage problem in haiku. Though Gabe had a good night, that is, one free of troubling dreams, I’d decided the next morning that was enough. We needed help. After Gabe went to work, I called Dr. Kaplan. I had the perfect excuse: my need to interview him for Isaac’s book. While I was there, I’d casually ask him about post-traumatic stress in veterans. If he couldn’t help me, maybe he could point me in the direction of someone who could. At least I wouldn’t be sitting around doing nothing.
“Do you have any free time today?” I asked him on the phone. “I’m sorry for the short notice, but I happened to be off work today. I’m trying to do my part of this book in between my real life.”
“Fortunately, you caught me on an off day. That is, I’m off from work. Not off as in crazy.” Dr. Kaplan’s laugh was deep and full; it seemed to fill up the phone. “Though there are some who know me who might beg to differ.”
I couldn’t help laughing with him. “Do psychiatrists actually use words like crazy?”
“Only when we’re not using the word nuts or cuckoo,” he said. “How about two o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
That meant I had the morning to kill since it was only nine a.m. Though I knew it was probably useless, I tried Hud’s cell phone. Voice mail again.
“You are in big, big trouble, Detective Hudson. Mucho big trouble. It was somewhat amusing yesterday, but I am pissed now. Call me back.” I punched the off button with vehemence, though he’d never know it. It was something that was completely unsatisfying about cell phones. It was hard to make a dramatic point like slamming down a receiver. This younger generation had no idea what delightfully dramatic gestures they were missing.
I spent the rest of the morning getting our physical house back in order. This last week, Gabe and I had both neglected household chores while he was dealing with the sniper and I was supervising the Memory Festival. Last night I’d used the last clean bath towel. It was time for someone to do laundry. Normally we did chores together or split the work. Despite his macho Latino male tendencies in some areas, Gabe had always done his share of household chores. He liked order and was willing to pitch in to make sure our house was neat and clean.
So this would be my gift to him today—Mr. Neatnik Marine Corps. When he arrived home tonight, he would find a clean house, clean towels and, if I got back from Dr. Kaplan’s in time, maybe dinner on the table . . . or warming in the oven, since his schedule was so unpredictable.
I did draw the line at wearing a frilly apron.
I turned all our radios and the downstairs stereo on to our local country-western station—KCOW—and let Brahma Bob and George Strait encourage me in my housework.
Before I knew it, it was one p.m. and the house sparkled. I took a quick shower, gave Scout a dog chew and headed for Pismo Beach. I pulled up in front of Dr. Kaplan’s house with two minutes to spare.
He had his front door open before I closed my truck door.
“Right on time!” he called.
“What does that say about me?” I gave a nervous laugh and tucked my notebook under my arm.
“That you’re punctual?” He gave a hearty laugh, setting me at ease. “Forget I’m a psychiatrist, okay? I’m just a guy you’re interviewing for your book.” He opened his front door, sweeping his arm out in front of him.
“I’ll try,” I said, feeling foolish.
“Now, don’t feel silly,” he said, causing me to give him a surprised look.
He laughed again. “No, I’m not psychic. I’ve just been a psychiatrist for a long time. I’ll tell you a secret.” He lowered his voice as if there were a crowd of people straining to hear his words. “Sometimes I tell people I’m a mailman. Then all they ask is if I’ve ever gone postal. I lift my eyebrows slowly and then they immediately change the subject.”
“That’s so bad,” I said, laughing.
He grinned, looking as impish as a twelve-year-old boy. “Fun, though.”
“I’ll bet.”
Inside, he asked me what I’d like to drink, giving me a list as long as a Starbucks menu.
“I know, I know,” he said, holding up his hands. “I sound like I was a barista in a former life. It’s how I relax, learning to make new drinks.”
I chose a chai tea latte.
“Good choice,” he said, making me feel oddly like I’d gotten an answer right on some imaginary test. “I’ll have one too.”
He talked the whole time he made our drinks, his deep voice booming from the kitchen. He’d taken his boat out this morning and had seen what he thought might be a blue whale. His grandma used to collect whale knickknacks. He once tasted whale blubber while on a trip to Japan.
“It doesn’t taste at all like chicken,” he said, carrying our drinks into the living room on a teakwood tray. Cardamom and honey scented the air, intermingling with the smoky scent from the oak wood fire.
When I didn’t react, he said, “That’s a joke. Admittedly, a lame one.”
I gave another nervous laugh, took a sip from my drink, then set it on the ceramic coaster on the coffee table. “I have some more questions and also need to recheck some of the things you told Isaac and me when he took your photo.”
“Have you seen the proofs?” he asked.
“No, things have been a little . . . busy in my life.”
He nodded. “Isaac came by yesterday with the contact sheets. I have to tell you, I felt as excited as a teenage boy on the first day of football practice. It’s a real honor to be photographed by your grandfather.”
I almost corrected him. Not because I was ashamed of being mistaken for Isaac’s granddaughter. There wasn’t anything that would be more wonderful than to be actually related to him by blood. I just didn’t want it to look like I was trying to be someone I wasn’t.
Dr. Kaplan took a sip of his drink. “Don’t worry, Benni, I know he’s not your natural grandfather. But he obviously loves you like you were his own.”
My mug of tea stopped halfway to my lips and I stared at him. “How do you do that?”
One eyebrow lifted just a fraction of an inch. “I’ve been observing people for a long time. Most of us wear our whole lives on our faces. Psychiatrists and dogs know that.”
“Now, that’s an interesting observation.” I sipped my tea and set it back down. “You’re right. I think our dog, Scout, knows what is happening between Gabe and me before we do. It’s scary, sometimes.”
“Not so much, when you really think about it. They spend their whole lives watching us, trying to decipher our moods, figure out our intentions. They depend on us for everything—food, shelter, affection—so it is definitely in their best interest to know us very well.” He held his mug up to me. “So, let’s cut to the ch
ase, shall we? You didn’t actually come here to interview me for the book. What’s going on with you and Gabe? I’m assuming it has to do with this sniper. Has it set off his PTSD?”
I didn’t immediately answer. My first thought was, Thank you. Tears suddenly stung my eyes. “He has nightmares. Bad ones.”
He nodded and sat back in his chair, holding his mug in both hands. “Tell me about them.”
For the first time in a week, I completely let down my guard about Gabe’s nightmares. Though I’d talked to Emory and the Coffin Star Quilt Guild ladies, I’d tried to keep a positive spin, tried to hide my fear.
But with Dr. Kaplan, because of who he was, because I didn’t feel the need to “keep Gabe’s cover,” I was absolutely candid. He let me talk and talk and talk, gently prompting me with questions, until hot tears were flowing like a mountain stream down my cheeks. He silently stood up, fetched me a box of tissues, and let me cry and talk, cry and talk. The only thing I could not bear to talk about was Lin Snider and Tessa.
An hour later, I sat hiccupping and emotionally drained, an embarrassingly large pile of tissues covering my lap.
I looked down at them in dismay. “Do you . . . where can I . . . ?”
“Trash is under the sink in the kitchen,” he said. “Bathroom is down the hall to your left. I’ll make us both another chai latte.”
Once I’d used the bathroom and rinsed my swollen eyes, I went back out to the living room. Dr. Kaplan was standing in front of the picture window, his back to me. He turned around and smiled when he heard me enter the room.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
I nodded. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Kaplan. I did mean to ask you about Gabe, but I didn’t mean to totally fall apart.”
“No worries,” he said. “And call me Pete. Or Dr. Pete, if that makes you more comfortable. I asked and you responded. Healthiest thing you could have done. For you and, ultimately, we can hope, for Gabe.” He gestured at me to have a seat. He sat down across from me on a matching love seat. “Tell me, do you think Gabe would talk to me?”
“I doubt it. He’d probably kill me for even mentioning the nightmares to you.” My hand came up to my mouth. “Metaphorically speaking, of course. He has never been violent with me. I mean, not consciously.” I’d told him about Gabe striking me in his sleep.
Dr. Pete waved his hand. “That wasn’t you he was lashing out at. Though there’s nothing simple about PTSD, it definitely sounds like that is what is going on with him, likely set off by this sniper situation.”
“That’s what I thought.” I took another tissue, twisting it in my fingers. “What do you think I should do?”
He gave a wry smile. “Are you asking what can I do about it?”
I nodded mutely.
“Well, talk therapy can help. Maybe some antidepressants or sleep medication as a temporary measure. He and I can do many things. However, the magic words are, of course, he and I. You can’t do this for him.”
I looked down at my hands, clenched around the wad of tissue. “Yes, I know.”
“Is there any way you can convince him to talk to me?”
“I can try. But I can almost guarantee he won’t while this sniper is still out there.”
“Fair enough. Let me give you my card.” He stood up, went over to a door next to the entry and opened it. From where I was sitting, I could see it was an office with a desk, two easy chairs, a credenza and a couple of bookshelves. He came back out and handed me a cream-colored card with simple raised black letters—Peter Kaplan, M.D. Psychiatry.
He turned it over and jotted something on the back. “That’s my cell number and my e-mail. Let Gabe know he’s free to use either one.” He handed it to me. “You too, for that matter.”
“Thank you,” I said, sticking the card in my back pocket. “I’ll talk to him about it as soon as . . . it’s possible.”
“You’ll know the right time. I have a feeling that Gabe knows that this is more than he can handle this time. Sometimes a person in trouble just needs someone else to do the footwork for them. Please, don’t give up hope.”
“I won’t. The fact that Cy Johnson thinks highly of you . . . that’ll go a long way in your favor.”
“Cy’s a good man. He has helped many troubled veterans. He kind of sees it as a mission from God. I like him a lot.”
“Me too.”
I stood up and picked up my backpack. “I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time.”
He held up a hand. “No apologies. I was glad to help.”
“I feel like I should pay you something. This is what you do for a living, after all.”
“Then make a donation to a veterans’ charity. They always need money.”
“I will. I promise.”
It was four thirty when I started home. By the time I reached the turnoff for Port San Patricio, I realized that I was going to need another hour or so before seeing Gabe, to allow my swollen eyes to calm down. I drove the winding, two-lane road to the pier and parked in front of the Fat Cat Café, a local twenty-four-hour diner that was a favorite of late-night drinkers and fishermen. I called Gabe at the office, excuses for being late forming in my head. Maggie answered.
“He’s in another meeting,” she said. “The FBI is getting antsy, trying to take over. Chief is getting territorial, growling back, ready to bite somebody’s balls. It’s a jungle in there. The mayor has called three times. If something doesn’t break soon, I’m going to find that sniper my own self and twist his or her little head off with my bare hands. I’m sick of this.”
“In other words, I shouldn’t bother making dinner?”
“My guess is he’ll be in the boxing ring for another couple hours. I’d say don’t bother cooking, but have a Prozac milk shake ready.”
“I wish,” I said, thinking about what Dr. Pete had said about drug therapy in tandem with talk therapy. Would Gabe ever agree to either?
“You take a sip too, sweetie. And save some for me.”
“Hang in there, Maggie. Try to make sure he eats something.”
“I’m doing my best.”
Then I tried to call Hud again. This time he answered.
“Hey, Señora Ortiz, what’s new?”
“Haven’t you gotten any of my messages? Where have you been? Why did you say you’d help me and then just take off? I should have known better than to trust . . .”
“Hey, hey,” he broke in. “Calm down, ranch girl. I’ve been working hard on our case. I was just getting ready to call you, as a matter of fact.”
“Liar.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say to someone who just might have solved your mystery woman dilemma.”
I straightened up, my heart pounding. “What did you find out? Where are you?”
“I’m closer than you think. I’m at the airport walking out to my truck. Are you at home?”
“The San Celina airport?”
“No, Bangkok International. Of course the San Celina airport.”
“Where did you go?”
“Seattle. And have I got some interesting things to tell you.”
“What?”
“No, I want to see your face. Where are you?”
“I’m not at home. I’m at Port San Patricio.”
“What are you doing there?”
I stared out my truck’s front window at the peeling, dry-docked boat in front of me. Someone had named it Wishful Thinking. “Long story.”
“Do you have dinner plans?”
“No, Gabe is working late.”
“Then I’ll meet you at Fat Cat’s. I can be there in twenty.”
Fortunately, Fat Cat’s on a Tuesday evening was not crowded. The fishermen tended to eat here either early in the morning or late at night. And the college students, who loved the huge three-cheese omelets and home-fried potatoes as a way to counteract an overindulgence of beer, tended to patronize the café more on the weekends after two a.m. Tonight the café was quiet, with only a few booth
s filled with what appeared to be local residents. I chose a booth by the window so I could watch Hud drive into the parking lot. True to his word, he was there in just under twenty minutes.
He waved at me when he stepped out of his truck and was sliding across from me two minutes later.
“Did you order yet?” he asked.
“No, I’m not really hungry.”
“Well, I’m starving. Let me order and then I’ll tell you what I found out.”
I waited patiently, drumming my fingers while he perused the menu, whistling softly under his breath. After ordering a cheeseburger, French fries, a chocolate shake and a dinner salad, he took a sip of his water, looked up at me and grinned like a maniac.
I slapped the table once. “Tell me what you found out.”
He pulled a photograph out of the top pocket of his leather jacket and placed it carefully down on the table between us. He pushed it toward me with one finger. It was a photo of a woman wearing a black sweater and long, dangling silver earrings. It was Lin Snider. Except she had shoulder-length hair.
“So?” I said. “You have a photo of Lin Snider before she cut her hair.”
“Look closer, ma petite jolie blonde.”
I leaned closer and peered at the photo. It wasn’t Lin Snider, but looked enough like her to be her sister. The face was a tad narrower, the cheekbones more pronounced. And, if you looked closely, there was a Marilyn Monroe–type mole next to her lip.
“So, who is it? Her sister?”
He grinned again. “Benni Harper Ortiz, meet the real Linda Snider. Of Seattle, Washington. Linora Snider’s coworker and friend.”
CHAPTER 17
“WHAT?” I GRABBED THE PHOTO AND LOOKED MORE CLOSELY. “I don’t get it. Linora Snider? Linda Snider? Who’s the woman here in San Celina?”
“I know it’s weird, but here’s the story in a nutshell. The woman staying at the Spotted Pelican is Linora Snider posing as Linda Snider.”
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