“Hello, Jim,” Harriet said as she came up behind him.
“Hi,” he answered, not turning. “There’s a spurious rumor that this lake has been stocked with trout.”
“But no luck,” she inferred.
“No luck.” He reeled in the line and cast again. “I got four eighteen-inchers last year.”
“Maybe it’s the wrong time of day.” She had the good sense to stay back from the rock where he sat, though only part of her reason had to do with fishing. “I hear that you’ll have to make your stay short this year. There’s that trial in Denver …”
“There is indeed.” He looked down and saw the remains of his sandwich, which he kicked away.
“Mustn’t litter,” Harriet admonished him lightly.
“Who’s Uttering? I’m supporting the ecological chain by providing a feeding niche,” he shot back. “I don’t know why I bother. Nothing’s going to bite today.”
Harriet selected the least-rough part of a fallen log and sat on it rather gingerly, and was pleased when if held. So much fallen wood was rotten, no matter how sound it appeared. “I’ll buy you a drink if you’d like to come back to the Lodge with me.”
“A very handsome offer. How can I refuse.” He began to reel in his line. “You in cabin 21?”
“As usual. And you?”
“Cabin A42. As usual.” He caught up his leader and held it carefully, inspecting his hook and bait before turning to her.
“Then we’re almost neighbors.” That was a polite fiction: a steep pathway connected the two wider trails on which their cabins were located, and the distance required a good ten minutes after dark.
“Perhaps you’d like to come by.” She was careful not to sound too wistful.
“Sounds good.” He faced her now, and came up beside her. “Don’t worry about me, Harriet I do take a reasonable amount of care of myself. We’re neither of us children, anymore.”
She put an arm across his back. “No, we’re not children.” They were much the same height, so their kiss was almost too easy. “I miss that.”
“So do I.” They started up the trail together, walking side by side. “Anyone new in your life?”
“No one important,” she said with a shrug. “And you?”
“There was one woman, very sensual, but … I don’t know. Like covering a disaster. Everything afterward is an anticlimax.”
They had reached the first turning in the road and were startled to see the strange guest from cabin 33 coming toward them. Mr. Lorpicar nodded to both Harriet and Sutton, but did not speak, continuing down the path with an expression at once determined and abstracted.
“That’s one strange duck,” Harriet said as they resumed their walk.
“He’s the one in cabin 33, isn’t he?” Jim Sutton asked, giving the retreating figure a quick look over his shoulder.
“I think so.” She dug her hands deep into the pockets of her hiking slacks, watching Jim Sutton with covert concern.
“I saw him after lunch with that Harper girl. I’ve seen her before, I know I have. I just can’t place her …” They were at the crest of a gentle rise and through the pines they could see the back of the Lodge. “I hate it when I can’t remember faces.”
Harriet smiled gently. “You’ll think of it. Probably it isn’t this girl at all, but another one, equally colorless. Both her parents look like frightened hares.” She thought about this as they approached the Lodge. “You’d think one of them would be a tyrant to have the daughter turn out that way. I thought that one of them might be pious or invalidish, but they’re as painfully ordinary as the girl is.”
“Such language for a psychiatrist,” Jim Sutton admonished her, and then they went up the steps into the Lodge, into the lounge, and they did not talk about Emillie Harper or the peculiar Mr. Lorpicar any more.
Nick Wyler was a hale sort of man, whose body and gestures were always a little too large for his surroundings. He enjoyed his own flamboyance, and was sincerely upset if others did not enjoy it, too. His wife, Eleanore, was a stately woman, given to wearing long skirts and Guatemalan peasant blouses. They had taken cabin A68, right on the lake, one of the largest and most expensive cabins at Lost Saints Lodge.
“Rogers, you’re outdoing yourself,” Nick Wyler announced as he came into the dining room. “I’m impressed, very impressed.”
Mr. Rogers made a polite gesture which was very nearly a bow. “It’s good of you to say so.”
“That mysterious owner of yours does things right. You may tell him I said so.” He gave a sweeping gesture that took in the entire dining room and implied the rest of the building. “Really beautiful restoration. None of the schlock that’s turning up all over the place. I’d bet my eye teeth that the lowboy in the foyer is genuine. English, eighteenth century.” He beamed and waited for his expertise to be confirmed.
“Actually, it’s Dutch,” Mr. Rogers said at his most apologetic. “It was built at the Hague in 1761.” Before Nick Wyler could take issue with this, or embark on another round of compliments, Mr. Rogers had turned away and was leading Mrs. Emmons and Mrs. Granger to their table by the window.
“The chefs special this evening, ladies, is stuffed pork chops. And in addition to the usual dessert menu, the chef has prepared a custard-filled tart. If you’ll simply tell the waiter, he’ll see that your selections are brought promptly.”
“I like him,” Mrs. Granger confided in a loud, gravelly voice. “He knows what service means.”
Mr. Rogers had signaled for the waiter and was once again at the door of the dining room. All three Harpers were waiting for him, and smiled ingratiatingly, as if they were the inferiors. Mr. Harper was solicitous of his wife and daughter and respectful to Mr. Rogers.
“Our table there, Doris, Emillie. Mr. Rogers will lead the way.” He was so eager to behave properly that he was infuriating.
As Mr. Rogers held the chair for Doris Harper, he saw, with real pleasure, Harriet Goodman and Jim Sutton come in from the lounge. He hastened back to them. “A table together, I assume?”
“Why make more work than’s necessary?” Jim asked magnanimously. “Harriet’s got the nicer table, anyway.” His voice dropped and he stared once more at the Harpers. “I know I’ve seen that girl. I know it.”
“It’ll come to you,” Harriet told him patiendy as they followed Mr. Rogers. She was growing tired of hearing him speculate. They saw each other so rarely that she resented time lost in senseless preoccupation with others.
Franciscus appeared in the door to the lounge and motioned to Mr. Rogers, and when the manager reached him, he said, “Where’s Lorpicar? I saw him out on the trails today. Has he come back?”
“I haven’t seen him,” Mr. Rogers said quietly. “Oh, dear.”
“I’ll go have a look for him if he hasn’t turned up by the end of dinner.” He was dressed for playing in the lounge, not for riding at night, but he did not appear to be put out. “I saw the Blakemores come in this afternoon. I think he might be wiling to play a while, and he’s a good enough pianist for it.”
“Last year he did an entire evening for us,” Mr. Rogers recalled, not precisely relieved. “I’ll make a few inquiries here, in case one of the other guests have seen Lorpicar.” He watched Franciscus return to the lounge, and then went to seat the Browns and the Lindholms, who waited for him.
Dinner was almost finished and Mr. Rogers had discovered nothing about the reclusive man in cabin 33. He was about to return with this unpleasant piece of information when he saw the stranger stride through the doors into the foyer.
“Mr. Lorpicar,” Mr. Rogers said as he came forward. “You’re almost too late for dinner.”
The cold stare that Mr. Lorpicar gave the manager was enough to silence a lesser man, but Mr. Rogers gave his blandest smile. “We were concerned when you did not return.”
“What I do is my own business,” Mr. Lorpicar declared, and stepped hastily into the dining room and went directly to the Harpers’ table.
At the approach of Mr. Lorpicar, Emillie looked up and turned even paler than usual. “Gracious,” she murmured as the formidable man bore down on her.
“I wonder who this is supposed to impress?” Harriet said very softly to Jim.
“Shush!” was the answer, with a gesture for emphasis. The rest of the dining room buzzed with conversation, and then fell silent as many eyes turned toward the Harper table.
“You did not come,” Mr. Lorpicar accused Emillie. “I waited for you and you did not come.”
“I couldn’t,” she answered breathlessly.
Mr. Rogers, watching from the door, felt rather than saw Franciscus appear at his elbow.
“Trouble?” Franciscus asked in a low voice.
“Very likely,” was the manager’s reply.
“See here …” Emillie’s father began, but the tall, dark-clad man cut him off.
“I am not speaking to you. I am speaking to Emillie and no one else.” His burning gaze went back to the girl’s face. “I want to see you tonight. I must see you tonight.”
The diners were silent their reactions ranging from shock to cynical amusement to disgust to envy. Jim Sutton watched closely, his face revealing nothing, his eyes narrowed.
“I don’t know if I can,” she faltered, pushing her fork through the remains of her meal.
“You will.” He reached out and tilted her head upward. “You will.”
Doris Harper gave a little shriek and stared at her water glass as her husband pressed pleats into his napkin.
“I don’t know . . Emillie began, but got no further.
“Excuse me,” Franciscus said with utmost urbanity. “If Miss Harper wishes to continue what is obviously a private conversation in the lounge, I’ll be glad to offer you my company so that her parents need not be concerned. If she would prefer not to talk with you just at present, Mr. Lorpicar, it might be best if you take a seat for the meal or …”
Mr. Lorpicar failed to shove Franciscus out of his way, but he did brush past him with a softly spoken curse, followed by a declaration to the room at large. “I’ll eat later,” and added, in the same breath to Emillie Harper, “We haven’t finished yet.”
Franciscus left the dining room almost at once, but not before he had bent down to Emillie and said quietly, “If you would rather not be importuned by Mr. Lorpicar, you have only to tell me so.” Then he made his way back to the lounge, and if he heard the sudden rush of conversation, there was no indication of it in his manner.
There were five people in the lounge now and Frank was smothering a yawn at the bar.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you all evening,” Harriet said to Franciscus, “that was a masterful stroke you gave in the dining room.”
Franciscus raised his fine brows in polite disbelief. “It seemed the best way to deal with a very awkward situation.” He looked at Jim Sutton on the other side of the small table. “Do you remember where you’ve seen the girl yet?”
“No.” The admission bothered him; he ground out his cigarette in the fine crystal ashtray.
“You know,” Harriet went on with professional detachment “it was most interesting to watch Emillie. Most of the people in the room were looking at Lorpicar, but I found Emillie the more interesting of the two. For all her protestations, she was absolutely rapt. She looked at that man as if he were her salvation, or he a god and she his chosen acolyte. Can you imagine feeling that way for a macho nerd like Lorpicar?”
“Is macho nerd a technical term?” Franciscus asked, favoring her with a delighted, sarcastic smile.
“Of course. All conscientious psychiatrists use it.” She was quite unruffiable.
“Acolytes!” Jim Sutton burst out, slapping his hand on the table top and spilling his drink. “That’s it!”
“What?” Harriet inquired in her best calming tones.
“That girl. Their last name isn’t Harper, it’s Matthisen. She was the one who caused all the furor when that religious fake in Nevada brought the suit against her for breach of contract He makes all his followers sign contracts with him, as a way to stop the kind of prosecution that some of the other cults have run into. She, Emillie, was one of Reverend Masters’ converts. She was kidnapped back by one of the professional deprogrammers. A man by the name of Eric Saul. He got himself declared persona non grata in Nevada for his work with Emillie. Reverend Masters brought suit against Emillie for breach of contract and against her parents and Eric Saul for conspiracy.” His face was flushed. “I read most of the coverage of the trial. Loren Hapgood defended the Matthisens and Saul. Part of the defense was that not only was the girl under age—she was sixteen then—but that she was socially unsophisticated and particularly vulnerable to that sort of coercion.” He took his glass and tossed off the rum with a tight eager smile.
“Didn’t Enid Hume serve as expert witness?” Harriet asked, thinking of her illustrious colleague. “She’s been doing a lot of that in similar cases.”
“Yes, she and that guy from LA. I can’t remember his name right off. It’s something like Dick Smith. You know the one I mean. The psychologist who did the book a couple years back.” He leaned toward Harriet, and both were so caught up in what Jim was saying that they were startled when Franciscus put in a question.
“Who won?” He sat back in his chair, hands folded around the uppermost crossed knee.
“The defense,” Jim Sutton said promptly. “The argument was that she was under age and that the nature of the agreement had not been explained to her family. There was also a demonstration that she was more gullible to a con of that sort than a great many others might be.”
Harriet pursed her lips. “Enid told me about this, or a similar case, and said that she was worried about kids like Emillie. They’re always seeking someone stronger than they are, so that they don’t have to deal with their own fears of weakness, but can identify with their master. Reverend Masters is fortunate in his came,” she added wryly. “I’ve seen women who feel that way about domineering husbands, kids who feel that way about parents, occasionally, adults who feel that way about religious or industrial or political leaders. It’s one of the attitudes that makes tyranny possible.” Harriet had a glass of port she had been nursing, but now she took a fair amount of the ripe liquid into her mouth.
“Reverend Masters,” Jim Sutton repeated the name three or four times to himself. “You know, he’s a tall man, like Lorpicar. Not the same type. A blond, fallen-angel face, one of those men who looks thirty-five until he’s sixty. He’s in Arizona or New Mexico now, I think. Some place where the locals aren’t watching him too closely.”
“And do you think hell continue?” Franciscus inquired gently of the two.
“Yes,” Harriet said promptly. “There are always people who need a person like Masters in their lives. They invent him if they have to. He’s a magnet to them.”
“That’s damn cynical for a woman in your line of work,” Jim Sutton chided her. “You make it sound so hopeless.”
For a moment Harriet looked very tired and every one of her forty-two years. “There are times I think it is hopeless. It might be just because I deal with child abuse, but there are times I feel that it’s not going to get any better, and all the work and caring and heartbreak will be for nothing. It will go on and on and on.”
Jim Sutton regarded her with alarm, but Franciscus turned his dark, compassionate eyes on her. “I understand your feeling—far better than you think. Harriet, your caring, your love is never wasted. It may not be used, but it is never wasted.”
She stared at Franciscus astonished.
“You know it is true, Harriet,” Franciscus said kindly. “You know it or you wouldn’t be doing the work you do. And now, if you’ll excuse me …” he went on in his usual tones, and rose from the table. “I have a few chores I must finish before the bar closes up for the night.” He was already moving across the dimly lit room, and stopped only once on his way to speak to the Wylers.
“We
ll, well, well, what do you know,” Jim Sutton observed, a laconic smile curving his mouth. “I’m beginning to see why you have dreams about him. He’s got a great line.”
“That wasn’t a fine,” Harriet said quietly.
Jim nodded, contrition in his face. “Yeah. I know.” He stared into his glass. “Are the dreams like that?”
Her answer was wry but her expression was troubled. “Not exactly. I haven’t had one yet this time. I kind of miss it.”
“You’ve got the real thing instead. Your place or mine tonight?” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Look, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Erotic dreams, who doesn’t have them? Franciscus is a good guy.”
“I only have the dreams when I’m here,” Harriet said, as if to explain to herself. “I wish I knew why.” Her laugh was sad. “I wouldn’t mind having them elsewhere. Dreams like that …”
“It’s probably the proximity,” Jim Sutton said, and then, sensing her withdrawal, “I’m not jealous of the other men you sleep with, so I sure as hell am not going to be jealous of a dream.” He finished his rum and cocked his head in the direction of the door. “Ready?”
“God, yes,” she sighed, and followed him out of the lounge into the night.
For the last two days Emillie Harper had wandered about listlessly, oblivious to the stares and whispers that followed her. She had taken to wearing slacks and turtleneck sweaters, claiming she was cold. Her face was wan and her eyes were fever-bright.
“I’m worried about that child,” Harriet said to Franciscus as they came back from the stable.
“Victim’s syndrome, do you think?” Franciscus asked, his voice carefully neutral.
“More than that. I can’t imagine that Lorpicar is a good lay.
Men like that almost never are.” She was sore from the ride, since she had not been on a horse in eight months, but she walked energetically, doing her best to ignore the protesting muscles, and reminding herself that if she walked normally now, she would be less stiff in the morning.
“Do you think they’re sleeping together?” Franciscus asked. They were abreast of the enclosed swimming pool now and could hear Mrs. Emmons’ familiar hoots of delight.
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