Just as she was about to roll over and hopefully get a little more sleep, her cell phone played “No Ordinary Love,” Al’s exclusive ring.
“You must be a mind reader,” Sami said, sitting upright and swinging her legs to the side of the bed. “Please tell me you have good news about Aleta.”
“It’s not good.” His voice sounded weak and raspy. “She’s been in a coma since the accident and she suffered a massive concussion. Her brain is severely swollen. She’s on a respirator and the only good news is that she has strong brain activity.”
“What are the doctors saying?”
“Only that they’ve done everything they could. Now it’s just a wait-and-see situation.” Al breathed heavily into the phone. “How you holding up? How’s your mom?”
“I’m pretty much a basket case but my mom is doing okay. Her surgery is scheduled for nine tomorrow morning.”
“Send her my love.”
It wasn’t the ideal time, but Sami had to ask. “Can I run something by you, Al?”
“As long as it’s not too heavy. Don’t think I could handle much more.”
Sami gathered her thoughts. “Emily slept over last night and we got to talking about mom’s surgery and recovery. Remember when we talked about her moving in temporarily while my mom recovers? You still okay with that arrangement?”
“Absolutely. It would be good for your mom, good for Emily, fantastic for Angelina, not to mention that it would keep us out of the looney bin.”
“Thanks for being so supportive.”
“Hey, we’re a partnership. Remember?”
“Please call me if anything changes with your sister.”
“And call me after your mom has her surgery.”
“I will.”
She could hear him breathing into the cell phone. “You still there?”
“I don’t think I can deal with this without unraveling. It all seems so surreal. I look at my sister lying in that hospital bed, tubes coming out of everywhere, and I can’t believe it’s her. I can’t believe this is happening. What am I going to do if she…doesn’t make it? How will I function? Aleta is my only living relative. If she dies…”
“I wish I had the answer for you. But all I can tell you is that you have to be strong for her. You have to keep the faith for her. Otherwise you’re going to self-destruct.”
“Love you,” Al said.
“Love you more.”
Julian tried to focus his attention on Connor and the impending experiments, but found himself too distracted for surgical procedures that required his undivided attention and a rock-steady hand. No matter how hard he tried, he could not free himself from disturbing visions of Genevieve or the events soon to take place with Connor. The internal struggles were beyond anything he could deal with on his own. There had to be a way for him to cleanse his mind and concentrate on the task at hand. There was too much at stake.
Julian walked over to the bed, gave Connor another mild sedative, and walked out the door.
Saint Thomas Aquinas Catholic Church was only a fifteen-minute drive from Julian’s loft. Born and raised Catholic, he, like so many other young people, drifted away from God and his faith when he was a teenager. But through his life experiences, he had learned that he could always find solace in the quiet solitude of church. Faith or not, it was spiritually therapeutic, like salve for the soul.
When Julian walked into the church on this cloudy Saturday afternoon, he expected it to be nearly empty. But surprisingly, he noticed a dozen or so people scattered about. Some knelt in pews desperately praying for God to heal a loved one, others sat quietly, lost in their own misery, and a few stood in line just outside the confession booth.
Confession?
Julian hadn’t been to confession in decades. He always thought it was a silly ritual designed for the truly naïve. How could a priest—a flesh and blood human—forgive your sins by telling you to say ten Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers and blessing you with the sign of the cross? The arrogance of this so-called sacrament bothered Julian even as a child.
As he sat there, trying to sort out his troubling thoughts, something occurred to him. He’d been taught that a priest is bound to secrecy regarding sins revealed to him in sacramental confession. He cannot divulge them directly or indirectly by giving information based on what he learns through confession.
Silly ritual or not, perhaps this was the sanctuary Julian needed to purge his guilt without the risk of consequence. In the shelter of confession, Julian could tell all, without editing or whitewashing the details. And the priest would go to his grave with Julian’s confession. Maybe confession was just what he needed to deal with his troubled conscience. He didn’t care about divine forgiveness; he just needed a sympathetic ear.
Next in line for the confessional, Julian anxiously waited. As much as this exercise violated everything that he believed to be true about religion, God, and the hereafter, Julian felt it was the only possible way for him to continue with his research without distraction.
He glanced at the woman standing behind him. Bent forward, her wrinkled hands clutching rosary beads, a kerchief covering her head, she paid little attention to him.
Guessing that the old woman had a difficult time standing, he asked her if she wanted to go ahead of him.
“Thank you, Honey, but no.” She held up the rosary. “I’d like to finish praying before I go in.”
The door opened on the confession booth and a young man stepped out and headed for the front door. Julian took a couple of steps toward the booth but stopped.
Who am I kidding? I can’t do this.
Now facing the reality of kneeling before a priest and pouring out his heart, Julian realized it was foolish and self-destructive. Just because the priest had made a vow of secrecy, how could Julian be certain he wouldn’t contact the police? How many altar boys had been victimized by priests who had taken the vow of chastity? Confession was not the answer. This was a problem he had to resolve all alone. More determined than ever to complete his research regardless of the emotional shockwaves, Julian left the church like a man fleeing a burning building.
Monday morning came quicker than Sami had thought. Her therapist had made a special concession for her and scheduled an early-morning appointment, so she could get to the hospital an hour before her mom’s surgery. Sami hadn’t wanted this appointment with Doctor Janowitz. In fact, she tried everything to postpone this session. But Doctor J, as Sami affectionately referred to her, convinced her that it would be beneficial for them to talk before her mother’s surgery.
Before getting ready for a day that would be a true test of her sanity, Sami looked in on Angelina, and then Emily. Both were sleeping soundly. Emily was such a blessing. Sami turned on the TV and listened to the local news channel. From the bathroom she couldn’t see the screen but could hear the audio clearly. Just as she was about to brush her teeth, she heard a familiar voice. She ran into the living room and turned up the volume. Police Chief Larson stood on the front steps of City Hall addressing the media. At this early hour, whatever he was about to say must be significant.
“At approximately four a.m. this morning,” Chief Larson said, “some early-morning joggers discovered the body of a young man at the Mount Hope Cemetery in La Mesa. We have not yet identified the body, but we’re working around the clock to determine who it is.”
The reporters fired a barrage of questions at the police chief. Most of the questions he could not or would not answer. Then a reporter asked, “Is there any connection between this murder and the murder of Genevieve Foster?”
“There are similarities, but I’m unable to give you any details at this time.”
Sami grabbed the remote and turned off the television, her hand shaking uncontrollably. A million thoughts flashed through her mind—all of them revolving around the possibility of another serial killer stalking the streets of San Diego. Maybe another Simon. At this particular point in time, Sami had to focus her attention on he
r mother’s surgery. But forcing these disturbing thoughts out of her mind could prove to be a challenge for which she was not prepared.
Sami pulled into the parking lot on La Jolla Village Drive, and as she’d done dozens of times before, she sat in the car for a few minutes mentally psyching herself up for a mind-draining conversation with Doctor Janowitz. Of course, it was difficult for Sami to call their get-togethers a conversation. They were more like Sami pouring out her heart and Doctor Janowitz asking the same question: “And how do you feel about that, Sami?” So many times she wanted to say, “I don’t know how the fuck I feel, Doctor, that’s why I’m lying on this cold leather sofa.”
The fiftyish PhD had been divorced twice, was as thin as a pencil, and had perfect teeth. Her office walls were covered with accreditations and wall plaques from umpteen universities, and had she chosen law as a career, she would have been a ferocious litigator. The veteran therapist had heard it all over the last twenty-five years—every argument, every excuse, every pretext. And Sami felt certain that no one ever got the best of her.
Instead of riding the elevator to suite 605, Sami walked up the six flights of stairs, struggling all the way, proof positive that her body was trying to tell her something. The frequency of her power walks had dwindled to once or twice a week. And the pace had slowed from heart pounding to little more than a Sunday afternoon stroll. Like anyone falling short of a healthy exercise routine, she kept her little bag of excuses close by. “It’s too hot.” “It’s too cold.” “My back is ready to go out.” “I have to study for a test.” “Still got that blister on my foot.” She could bullshit her classmates with the best of them. And Al? No contest. Even her mother, who redefined the word suspicious, bought her excuses now and then. But she couldn’t lie to herself. She just wasn’t motivated right now. So what if she carried a few extra pounds? Would anyone really care?
Of course they would, stupid. You care. Who are you trying to kid? And Al most certainly cares. Maybe that’s why he had refused sex. Not a good time for this psycho-babble.
As usual, when Sami walked into Doctor J’s office, she found the doctor sitting at her desk, reading glasses resting on the tip of her nose, engrossed in paperwork. Today, the impeccably dressed therapist wore a forest-green business suit, a white silk blouse, and a pearl necklace. Sami had been coming to Doctor J for almost a year and could never remember seeing the same outfit twice. She could only imagine the size of her closets.
Considering Doctor J’s stature and reputation with high-profile patients, many of whom were wealthy, her office wasn’t at all impressive. It was functional and adequate, but modestly furnished and frugally decorated. If dollars and cents measured a therapist’s success, however, at a rate of three hundred fifty dollars for a fifty-minute session, one could say that Doctor J was indeed successful. Sami, of course, didn’t pay these exorbitant rates. How could a college student with a dwindling savings account and negligible income dole out this kind of money? After she’d resigned, the San Diego Police Department offered to pay a generous portion of her therapy expenses. Sami never confirmed it, but felt certain that this generous perk came directly from Mayor Sullivan.
“Good morning, Doctor J,” Sami said. “Lovely suit.” Familiar with the routine, Sami fell heavily onto the worn leather sofa.
“Give me just a minute, Sami.” Doctor J shuffled some papers and made some notes. After a few minutes, she glanced at the clock, wrote something on the yellow pad, and dropped her reading glasses on her desk. “Now you’ve got my undivided attention. What’s the latest in your life?”
“If just one more crisis rears its ugly head, I think my brain’s going to shut down.”
“Well, I’m aware of your mom’s surgery this morning and Al’s situation with his sister in Rio, but talk to me. What’s going on?”
“The nightmares have returned.”
“Simon?”
Sami nodded. “I was okay for a while, but as soon as Al left for Rio…”
“Same as in the past?”
“Worse. More vivid.”
“Tell me about them.”
“As I’ve mentioned, in the past I could never see Simon’s face clearly, and when he nailed me to the cross, I didn’t feel any pain in my dream. Well, now I see his face clearly and swear I can feel those spikes going into my wrists.”
Doctor J made notes. “Are you still taking Valium every night?”
“I miss a night every now and then, but—”
“You have to take this medication every night, Sami.” Doctor J stood, walked over to the chair adjacent to Sami, and sat down. “You’ve made it clear how much you hate to medicate yourself, but the benefits outweigh the side effects.” Doctor J paused for a moment. “Does Simon say anything to you in these nightmares?”
“Not a word. But he has this hideous grin on his face. The sinister look of a madman.”
“Tell me about the pain. Does it wake you?”
“Bolts me upright as if a rush of electricity was surging through my body. I’m cold and clammy. My hands shake uncontrollably, and my heart is pounding. Feels like I’m going to have a coronary.”
“Classic anxiety attack. We’ve discussed them before.” Doctor J lightly tapped her index finger against her temple as if she were deep in thought. “When you suffer from an attack like this do you immediately start the breathing exercises we discussed?”
“I do.”
“And do they help calm you down?”
“Most of the time.”
“When you go to sleep at night, what’s usually on your mind?”
“Everything. The minute my head hits the pillow, my brain is bombarded with thoughts—all coming at me like a machine gun.”
“What dominates your thoughts?”
“That all depends on what issue is on top of the heap on that particular evening.”
“What have you thought about most recently?”
“My mom’s surgery. Al’s sister. What I’m going to do with the rest of my life. If I made the right decision resigning from the police department. Al’s unusual behavior. Should I go on?”
“Talk to me about Al. What’s changed?”
“Nothing I can put my finger on. It’s just that he doesn’t seem invested in our relationship like he used to be. We’re disconnected.”
“Has he done anything to make you feel this way?”
“Well, among other things, he refused sex the other day. Considering his past appetite and the fact that we rarely make love anymore, I’d say that’s significant.”
“You mentioned the last time we met that Al was leading the investigation in the Foster homicide, correct?”
Sami nodded. “Until he left for Rio, he was.”
“When did his behavior change?”
“Within the last few weeks.”
“Maybe he’s been preoccupied with this case.”
“But his behavior changed before he was assigned to investigate the Foster homicide.”
“And what was he working on prior to this case?”
Sami thought for a minute. “He was investigating the Jenkins homicides, the teenager that butchered his whole family—mother, father, and four-year-old sister.”
“I’m sure that each homicide investigation comes with its share of riled emotions and stress. But I would guess that some affect you more than others, no?”
“Absolutely.”
“Maybe Al is merely absorbed with his job. It’s not uncommon for even the healthiest relationship to experience setbacks from career pressure.”
“Never thought of it that way. But if you live on planet Earth, when do you not have stress?”
“Everyone has their limit, Sami. Stress is cumulative. Ever heard the saying, ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’?”
“I see your point.”
Dr. J fiddled with her pearls. “Any word on Aleta’s condition?”
“It’s not looking real good.”
“How long do you thin
k Al is going to stay in Rio?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Under the current situation, there is no accurate way to measure the solvency of your relationship with Al. Both of you are way too distracted. When things settle down—and I promise they will—sit down with him face-to-face and tell him how you feel. A little candid communication goes a long way.”
Sami sat quietly and processed Doctor J’s advice. Today, for some reason, the doctor seemed much more expressive than in past sessions. Sami hadn’t heard the words she dreaded most: “Tell me how you feel about that.” Why was she so gregarious today?
“So,” Dr. J said, “you’re still wrestling with your resignation from the homicide division?”
“Every day.”
“What happened to your passion for becoming a social worker?”
“Reality happened. I think maybe I was living in a utopian world.”
“You’ve invested nearly two years in school. Are you ready to abort your plan and forfeit all your hard work?”
“That’s the compelling question, Doctor J.”
“What would you do if you dropped out of school?”
“Pray that the department would reinstate me.”
“Really? Is that even possible?”
“Not sure.”
Doctor J stood, leaned her backside against her desk, and folded her arms. “Until today, you’ve been firm on your conviction that you were simply not cut out to be a cop and that the reason you pursued a law enforcement career was because of a promise you made to your father, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“What has changed? How can you suddenly reverse your position? What happened?”
“People change their minds every day, don’t they?”
“Yes, but you survived a near-death experience, an event that altered your entire paradigm. Are you really prepared to deal with violence and murder every day of your life?”
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