She led me past the front part, the work area full of power tools—table saw, band saw, drill press—piles of wood, instrument molds, chisels, gauges and templates. As usual the room smelled of sawdust and glue. The floor was covered with shavings.
She pushed open swinging double doors and we were in her living quarters: sitting room, kitchen, sleeping loft with bath, small office. Unlike the shop, her personal space was uncluttered. She had made most of the furniture herself, and it was solid hardwood, simple and elegant.
She sat me down on a soft cotton couch. There was coffee and pie set out on a ceramic tray, napkins, plates and forks.
She sidled next to me. I took her face in my hands and kissed her.
“Hello, darling.” She put her arms around me. I could feel the firmness of her back through the thin fabric, firmness couched in yielding, curving softness. She worked with her hands and it always amazed me to find in her that special combination of muscles and distinctly female lushness. When she moved, whether manipulating a hunk of rosewood around the rapacious jaws of a band saw or simply walking, it was with confidence and grace. Meeting her was the best thing that had ever happened to me. It alone had been worth dropping out for.
I’d been browsing at McCabe’s, the guitar shop in Santa Monica, looking through the old sheet music, trying out the instruments that hung on the walls. I’d spied one particularly attractive guitar, like my Martin but even better made. I admired the craftsmanship—it was a hand-made instrument—and ran my fingers over the strings, which vibrated with perfect balance and sustain. Taking it off the wall I played it and it sounded as good as it looked, ringing like a bell.
“Like it?”
The voice was feminine and belonged to a gorgeous creature in her mid-twenties. She stood close to me—how long she’d been there I wasn’t sure; I’d been lost in the music. She had a heart-shaped face topped by a luxuriant mop of auburn curls. Her eyes were almond-shaped, wide-set, the color of antique mahogany. She was small, not more than five-two, with slender wrists leading to delicate hands and long, tapering fingers. When she smiled, her upper two incisors, larger than the rest of her teeth, flashed ivory.
“Yes. I think it’s terrific.”
“It’s not that good.” She put her hands on her hips—very definite hips. She had the kind of figure, small-waisted, busty and gently concave, that couldn’t be camouflaged by the overalls she’d thrown on over her turtleneck.
“Oh, really?”
“Oh, really.” She took the guitar from me. “There’s a spot right here—” she tapped the soundboard “—where it’s been sanded too thin. And the balance between headstock and box could be better.” She strummed a few chords. “All in all I’d give it an eight on a scale of one to ten.”
“You seem to be quite an expert on it.”
“I should be. I made it.”
She took me to her shop that afternoon and showed me the instrument she was working on. “This one’s going to be a ten. The other was one of my first. You learn as you go along.”
Some weeks later she admitted it had been her way of picking me up, her version of come up and see my etchings.
“I liked the way you played. Such sensitivity.”
We saw each other regularly after that. I learned that she had been an only child, the special daughter of a skilled cabinetmaker who had taught her everything he knew about how to transform raw wood into objects of beauty. She had tried college, majoring in design, but the regimentation had angered her, as had the fact that her dad had known more about form and function intuitively than all the teachers and books combined. After he died, she dropped out, took the money he left her and invested in a shop in San Luis Obispo. She got to know some local musicians, who brought her their instruments to fix. At first it was a sideline, for she was trying to make a living designing and manufacturing custom furniture. Then she began to take a greater interest in the guitars, banjos and mandolins that found their way to her workbench. She read a few books on instrument-making, found she had all the requisite skills and made her first guitar. It sounded great and she sold it for five hundred dollars. She was hooked. Two weeks later she moved to L.A., where the musicians were, and set up shop.
When I met her she was making two instruments a month as well as handling repairs. She’d been written up in trade magazines and was back-ordered for four months. She was starting to make a living.
I probably loved her the first day I met her but it took me a couple of weeks to realize it.
After three months we started to talk about living together, but it didn’t happen. There was no philosophical objection on either side, but her place was too small for two people and my house couldn’t accommodate her shop. It sounds unromantic, letting mundane matters like space and comfort get in the way, but we were having such a good time with each other while maintaining our privacy, that the incentive to make a change wasn’t there. Often she would spend the night with me, other times I’d collapse in her loft. Some evenings we’d go our separate ways.
It wasn’t a bad arrangement.
I sipped coffee and eyed the pie.
“Have some, babe.”
“I don’t want to pork out before dinner.”
“Maybe we won’t go out for dinner.” She stroked the back of my neck. “Ooh, such tension.” She began to knead the muscles of my upper back. “You haven’t felt this way in a long time.”
“There’s a good reason for it.” And I told her about Milo’s morning visit, the murder, Melody, Towle.
When I was through she placed her hands on my shoulders.
“Alex, do you really want to get into something like this?”
“Do I have a choice? I see that kid’s eyes in my sleep. I was a fool for getting sucked in, but now I’m stuck.”
She looked at me. The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile.
“You are such a pushover. And so sweet.”
She nuzzled me under my chin. I held her to me and buried my face in her hair. It smelled of lemon and honey and rosewood.
“I really love you.”
“I love you, too, Alex.”
We undressed each other and when we were totally naked, I lifted her in my arms and carried her up the stairs to the loft. Not wanting to be apart from her for one second I kept my mouth fastened upon hers while I maneuvered myself on top of her. She clung to me, her arms and legs like tendrils. We connected, and I was home.
8
WE SLEPT until 10 P.M., then awoke famished. I went down to the kitchen and made sandwiches of Italian salami and Swiss cheese on rye, found a jug of burgundy and toted it all back upstairs for a late supper in bed. We shared garlicky kisses, got crumbs in the bed, hugged each other and fell back asleep.
We were jolted awake by the telephone.
Robin answered it.
“Yes, Milo, he’s here. No, that’s all right. Here he is.”
She handed me the receiver and buried herself under the covers.
“Hello, Milo. What time is it?”
“Three A.M.”
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Through the skylight the heavens were black.
“What’s going on.”
“It’s the kid—Melody Quinn. She’s freaked out—woke up screaming. Bonita called Towle who called me. Demanded you get over there. He sounds pissed.”
“Screw him. I’m not his errand boy.”
“You want me to tell him that? He’s right here.”
“You’re over there now? At her place?”
“Certainly. Neither rain nor hail nor darkness stays this trusted civil servant and all that shit. We’re having a little party. The doctor, Bonita, me. The kid’s sleeping. Towle gave her a shot of something.”
“Figures.”
“The kid spilled to her mom about the hypnosis. He wants you there if she wakes up again—to rehypnotize or something.”
“That asshole. The hypnosis didn’t cause this. The kid’s got sleep problems because of all the dop
e he’s been shoving into her system.”
But I was far from certain of that. She had been troubled after the session on the beach.
“I’m sure you’re right, Alex. I just wanted to give you the option to come down here, to know what was going on. If you want me to tell Towle to forget it, I will.”
“Hold on a minute.” I shook my head, trying to clear it. “Did she say anything when she woke up—anything coherent?”
“I just caught the tail end of it. They said it was the fourth time tonight. She was screaming for her daddy: ‘Oh Daddy. Daddy, Daddy’—like that, but very loud. It looked and sounded pretty bad, Alex.”
“I’ll be down there as soon as I can.”
I gave the sleeping mummy next to me a kiss on the fanny, got up, and threw on my clothes.
I sped along Pacific, heading north. The streets were empty and slick with marine mist. The guide lights at the end of the pier were distant pinpoints. A few trawlers sat on the horizon. At this hour the sharks and other nocturnal predators would be prowling the bottom of the ocean floor. I wondered how much carnage was hidden by the glossy black outer skin of the water; and how many of the night-hunters lurked on dry land, hiding in alleys, behind trash bins, concealed among the leaves and twigs of suburban shrubbery, wild-eyed, breathing hard.
As I drove I developed a new theory of evolution. Evil had its own metamorphic intelligence: The sharks and the razor-toothed serpents, the slimy, venomous things that hid in the silt, hadn’t given way in an orderly progression to amphibian, reptile, bird and mammal. A single quantum leap had taken evil from water to land. From shark to rapist, eel to throat-slasher, poison slug to skull-crusher, with bloodlust at the core of the helix.
The darkness seemed to press against me, insistent, fetid. I pushed down harder on the accelerator and forced my way through it.
When I got to the apartment complex, Milo met me at the door.
“She’s just started again.”
I could hear it before I got to the bedroom.
The light was dim. Melody sat upright in her bed, her body rigid, eyes wide open but unfocused. Bonita sat next to her. Towle, in sports clothes, stood on the other side.
The child was sobbing, a wounded animal sound. She wailed and moaned and rocked back and forth. Then the moan picked up volume, gradually, like a siren, until she was screaming, her thin voice a piercing, shrieking assault upon the silence.
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”
Her hair was plastered against her face, slick with sweat. Bonita tried to hold her but she flailed and struck out. The mother was helpless.
The screaming continued for what seemed like forever, then it stopped and she began moaning again.
“Oh, Doctor,” Bonita pleaded, “she’s going at it again. Do something.”
Towle spotted me.
“Maybe Dr. Delaware can help.” His tone of voice was nasty.
“No, no, I don’t want him near her! He caused all of this!”
Towle didn’t argue with her. I could have sworn he looked smug.
“Mrs. Quinn—” I began.
“No. You stay away! Get out!”
Her screaming set Melody off, and she began calling for her father again.
“Stop it!”
Bonita went for her, putting her hand over the child’s mouth. Shaking her.
Towle and I moved at the same time. We pulled her off. He took her aside and said something that quieted her down.
I moved next to Melody. She was breathing hard. Her pupils were dilated. I touched her. She stiffened.
“Melody,” I whispered, “It’s Alex. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
As I talked she calmed down. I blabbed on, knowing that what I said was less important than how I said it. I maintained a low, rhythmic pattern of speech, easy-going, reassuring. Hypnotic.
Soon she had slipped lower in the bed. I helped her lie down. Her hands unfolded. I kept talking to her soothingly. Her muscles began to relax and her breathing became slow and regular. I told her to close her eyes and she did. I stroked her shoulder, continued to talk to her, to tell her everything was all right, that she was safe.
She snuggled into a fetal position, drew the covers over her, and placed her thumb in her mouth.
“Turn off the light,” I said. The room became dark. “Let’s leave her alone.” The three of them left.
“Now you’re going to continue sleeping, Melody, and you’ll have a very peaceful, restful night, with good dreams. When you wake up in the morning you’ll feel very good, very rested.”
I could hear her snoring ever so slightly.
“Goodnight, Melody.” I leaned over and gave her a light kiss on the cheek.
She mumbled one word.
“Da-da.”
I closed the door to her room. Bonita was in the kitchen, wringing her hands. She wore a frayed man’s terrycloth robe. Her hair had been pulled back in a bun and covered with a scarf. She looked paler than I remembered as she busied herself cleaning up.
Towle bent over his black bag. He clicked it shut, stood and ran his fingers through his hair. Seeing me he raised himself up to his full height and glared down, ready to give another lecture.
“I hope you’re happy,” he said.
“Don’t start,” I warned him. “No I-told-you-so’s.”
“You can see why I was reluctant to tamper with this child’s mind.”
“Nobody tampered with anything.” I could feel tension rising in my gut. He was every hypocritical authority figure I’d detested.
He shook his head condescendingly.
“Obviously your memory needs some polishing.”
“Obviously you’re a sanctimonious prick.”
The blue eyes flashed. He tightened his lips.
“What if I bring you up before the ethics committee of the State Medical Board?”
“You do that, Doctor.”
“I’m seriously considering it.” He looked like a Calvinist preacher, all stern and tight and self-righteous.
“You do it and we’ll get into a little discussion on the proper use of stimulant medication with children.”
He smiled.
“It will take more than you to tarnish my reputation.”
“I’m sure it will.” My fists were clenched. “You’ve got legions of loyal followers. Like that woman in there.” I pointed toward the kitchen. “They bring their kids to you, human jalopies, and you tinker with them, give ’em a quick tune-up and a pill; you fix them to their specifications. Make them nice and quiet, compliant, and obedient. Drowsy little zombies. You’re a goddamn hero.”
“I don’t have to listen to this.” He moved forward.
“No you don’t, hero. But why don’t you go in there and tell her what you really think of her? Piss-poor protoplasm, and let’s see—bad genes, no insight.”
He stopped in his tracks.
“Easy, Alex.” Milo spoke from the corner, cautiously.
Bonita came in from the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” she wanted to know. Towle and I were facing each other like boxers after the bell.
He changed his manner and smiled at her charmingly. “Nothing, my dear. Just a professional discussion. Doctor Delaware and I were trying to decide what was best for Melody.”
“What’s best is no more hypnotizing. You told me that.”
“Yes.” Towle tapped his foot, tried not to look uncomfortable. “That was my professional opinion.” He loved that word, professional. “And it still is.”
“Well, you tell him that.” She pointed at me.
“That’s what we were discussing, dear.”
He must have been just a little too smooth, because her face got tight and her voice lowered suspiciously.
“What’s to discuss? I don’t want him or him—” the second jab was at Milo “—around here no more.” She turned to us. “You try and be a good Samaritan and help the cops and you get the shaft! Now my baby’s got the seizures and she’s sc
reamin’ and I’m gonna lose my place. I know I’m gonna lose it!”
Her face crumpled. She buried it in her hands and began to cry. Towle moved in like a Beverly Hills gigolo, putting his arms around her, consoling her, saying now, now.
He guided her to the couch and sat her down, standing over her, patting her shoulder.
“I’m gonna lose my place,” she said into her hands. “They don’t like noise here.” She uncovered her face and looked wet-eyed up at Towle.
“Now, now, it’s going to be all right. I’ll see to that.”
“But what about the seizures!?”
“I’ll see to that, too.” He gave me a sharp look, full of hostility and, I was sure, a bit of fear.
She sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
“I don’t understand why she has to wake up screaming Daddy Daddy! That bastard’s never been around to lift a finger or give me a cent of child support! He has no love for her! Why does she cry out for him, Doctor Towle?” She looked up at him, a novitiate beseeching the pope.
“Now, now.”
“He’s a crazy man, that Ronnie Lee is. Look at this!” She tore the scarf from her head, shook her hair loose and lowered her head exposing the top of it. Giving a whimper she parted the strands at the center of her crown. “Look at this!”
It was ugly. A thick, raw red scar the size of a fat worm. A worm that had burrowed under her scalp and settled there. The skin around it was livid and lumpy, showing the results of bad surgery, devoid of hair.
“Now you know why I cover it!” she cried. “He did that to me! With a chain! Ronnie Lee Quinn.” She spat out the name. “A crazy, evil bastard. That’s the Daddy Daddy she’s cryin’ out for! That scum!”
“Now, now,” said Towle. He turned to us. “Do you gentlemen have anything more to discuss with Mrs. Quinn?”
“No, Doctor,” said Milo and turned to leave. He took hold of my arm to guide me out. But I had something to say.
“Tell her, Doctor. Tell her those were not seizures. They were night terrors and they’ll go away by themselves if you keep her calm. Tell her there’ll be no need for phenobarbitol or Dilantin or Tofranil.”
Jonathan Kellerman - [Alex Delaware 01] Page 8
