by Laura Crum
"Mares?" I asked.
Once again, Clay shot me a curious glance. "One mare, one gelding."
A mare. Damn. I was quiet. For some reason, I just didn't want to talk to Clay about this. It wasn't that I didn't trust him, I assured myself. It was just ... I just didn't, that was all.
Clay was looking at me very curiously now; I felt impelled to give some sort of explanation for my questions.
"I was wondering if I knew the woman. As a client," I said lamely. "I couldn't place her name, but I thought I might remember her horses."
This unlikely statement actually contained a grain of truth. I did frequently remember people's horses and problems-that bay mare with a stone bruise-when I had no recollection of their names.
"Did you know her?" Clay asked. "Her name was Marianne, Marianne Moore."
"No, I don't think so."
We were quiet, the somber subject of the murdered woman seeming to hover over us. Inwardly my thoughts were racing noisily. Had this other person been a victim of the horse rapist, too? Surely this was something I should bring up with Jeri Ward.
The thought of Jeri Ward brought another wave of discouragement rolling over me. I just didn't feel up to being grilled by the woman.
Clay was pulling into my driveway now. In another minute I was unloading Plumber. Putting the horse in the corral, I fed him and Gunner and Daisy. When I was done Clay glanced at me inquiringly.
Politeness dictated I ask him in for a beer, but I just couldn't do it. I was too tired, and I had too much on my mind.
"Thanks, Clay," was all I could come up with. "I appreciate it."
"No problem." Clay heard the farewell note and responded with his usual grace. "Anytime." He climbed back into the pickup. "I'll call you," he said. And waved good-bye.
I trudged up the hill to the house, wondering what to do. Call Jeri Ward? Call Kris? It all seemed like too much.
In the end I did nothing. Poured myself a glass of wine and curled up on the couch with the dog by my feet.
I didn't want to deal with this weird situation anymore. For once in my life I was going to take the advice I'd been given so often. This time I was going to mind my own business.
TWENTY
Monday morning did not begin auspiciously. I arrived at work to find that a call from the woman with the mysteriously recumbent gray gelding had arrived there before me.
"She's pretty unhappy with you, Gail," Jim said.
"She is?" I was quite honestly surprised. "Why?"
"Well, she hauled that horse up to the veterinary hospital at Davis, and after three days of very expensive care, they told her that the only thing wrong with him was an HYPP attack, and she could just as well have left him at home and given him rest and fluids."
"You're kidding." I shook my head. "Damn. It sure didn't look like that was the problem."
"No," Jim agreed. "And believe me, I'm not blaming you. One thing about this business. You'll go through weeks, months even, where everything you touch turns to gold. And then you'll have times when everything you touch turns to shit. It's just the way it is. It's happened to me, plenty of times."
"Right," I said. And headed out for the first call of the day-yet another colic-with an outwardly detached demeanor. Or so I hoped. Inwardly I was reeling.
I'd felt pretty good about the way I'd handled that case. I'd spent an ungodly amount of time and done my best to help the woman with a difficult and puzzling problem. To be told she was angry with me was a real blindside.
This seemed to be my season for dissatisfied clients. The timing couldn't have been worse. Despite Jim's words my heart just kept sinking farther and farther. My job, often a source of comfort and distraction, was loading more bad feelings on my already overburdened shoulders. Sooner or later, I thought, would come the proverbial straw.
But there was nothing for it but to keep plugging away. Life currently felt like a long, blank corridor with no doors, no escape. Perhaps it was taking me somewhere; I was no longer sure. All I knew was that I felt trapped. I couldn't quit. I had to keep going.
I made it through a day of more or less routine calls and arrived home in the evening hungry and tired. Not a thing in the refrigerator but some half-limp lettuce, a little cheese, and the obligatory bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Oh well. That and a tomato out of the garden would make a dinner of sorts.
First of course, I had to feed the animals. And then, I told myself, before the glass of wine I had some phone calls to make. Sitting down on the couch, I dialed Kris's number. Her "hello" was so subdued I barely recognized her voice.
"How's it going?" I asked cautiously.
"Not so good, Gail. I can't seem to get over being afraid."
"Are you sure you don't want to come stay with me?"
"I don't know." Kris sounded confused. "What I think I really want is to get away from here. School's out next week; I'm thinking about going down to visit my sister for a while."
"Oh."
"She lives in San Diego," Kris went on. "It would be a real change for me. And that's what I feel like I need. A complete change."
"What about Jo? And Dixie?"
"Jo's all right with her dad. And I could board Dixie for a while. Maybe turn her out where I have Rebby. I just really want to get away."
"All right." I could understand why she might feel that way. "Let me know if I can help."
"I will, Gail. And don't worry, I'll be okay. Your life's tough enough right now, you don't need to add me to your problems."
To this I had no ready answer. In a sense it was true, as no doubt Kris knew.
"I just wish I could be a little more help," I said.
"I know you do. And I appreciate your offer. But I don't want to be driven out of my own house. What I want is a vacation."
"I understand," I told her.
"Thanks," she said. "I'll let you know what happens."
We said good-bye, both of us a little regretfully. I would miss her if she was gone, I knew; she was the one person I currently counted as a close friend.
Staring at the receiver in my hand, I tried to make up my mind about the next call. It ought to be to Jeri Ward. But every time I tried to picture myself talking to the woman, my brain froze up. How could I refuse to talk about Nico and mention the suspicious circumstances surrounding George Corfios? Should I bring up the issue of the murdered woman-what had Clay said her name was? Marianne? The police knew a lot more about that than I did, anyway.
I vacillated, torn between what seemed at times to be my civic duty and the notion that the police neither needed nor wanted the help of a meddling amateur sleuth.
"Mind your own business, Gail," I said out loud.
The dog cocked an ear at me and I picked up the phone book. Sure enough, the number was there. I dialed-not Jeri Ward, but Blue Winter.
He answered on the first ring. "Hello?"
"Hi. It's Gail. Gail McCarthy." Already I felt stupid. Completely tongue-tied.
"Hi, Gail. How are you?" Blue sounded cordial; I could read nothing more into his tone. That was the trouble with the damn phone.
"I'm fine. I wanted to thank you for coming by, and for bringing me that rose."
"My pleasure."
Now what, I wondered. Should I launch off into a speech about how Clay wasn't my boyfriend? That would really make me look stupid.
Instead I went with, "I'd like to invite you over to dinner; the trouble is, I'm on call this week and the coming weekend. How would next week be?"
"Fine," Blue said quietly. "I'd like that."
"Would next Saturday work for you? The problem with week nights is that I never know when I'll get home."
"I understand. Saturday's fine. It's a long way away, though."
This time I could hear the smile in his voice. I smiled back. Maybe this phone call wasn't going so badly.
"It is that. Give me a call in the interim if you'd like."
"I might do that. Thanks for calling, Stormy."
"You're welcome. See you later."
This time I hung up the phone with the last vestige of a smile still lingering on my face. No doubt about it, I was really attracted to this man. That was a good sign, anyway. Surely I couldn't be as depressed as I sometimes feared if I still felt even a little of the old sexual draw? I made my salad and poured myself a glass of wine, still thinking about Blue. When the phone rang, I jumped.
Picking the receiver up off the table, I said, "Hello?"
"Gail?" the voice was female. "It's Jeri Ward."
"Oh, hi." Now I was in trouble.
"Have you given any thought to telling me about the other victim?" Jeri was nothing if not direct.
"Lots," I said honestly.
"Well?"
"I can't talk about her. I promised I wouldn't, and I feel I need to keep my word."
Silence greeted this statement. Then, "I understand why you might feel this way, Gail, but I think you're making a mistake."
"I know you do. I have plenty of doubts about it myself. I do have a couple of things I'd like to tell you."
"All right."
I took a deep breath and explained as briefly as I could that George Corfios had recently moved into the area and ridden his horse to Kris's, and I wondered if this wasn't a little too much of a coincidence. "I have absolutely no other reason to suspect the guy," I finished up. "I just thought I ought to mention it."
"All right. What else?"
"Well, you know there was a woman murdered in Harkins Valley not too long ago? Marianne something?"
"Umm." Jeri Ward sounded noncommittal.
"She had horses. A mare. And she was found out at her barn, hit over the head with something. I was just wondering ..."
"I'm not in charge of that case," Jeri said briefly. "However, we'll look into it. Anything else?"
"No, not really." I thought about telling her that the horse rapist's horse undoubtedly ate alfalfa hay and gave up the idea. She probably wouldn't think it was useful.
"Give some more thought to telling me about the other victim, okay?"
"I'll do that. And I'll try to convince her to tell you herself. Have you learned anything helpful in your investigation?" I asked tentatively.
A moment's pause. "He definitely wore gloves," Jeri said crisply. "The semen, and it was semen, shows him to be O negative. And we have his DNA profile. We think he hit the girl with a shovel. That's about it." Her tone seemed to rebuff any more questions.
"Thanks," I said.
"We'll be in touch," Jeri replied, and hung up.
Once again I was left staring at a quiet receiver. This time without a smile. It was true, then. Some strangely warped man was having sex with horses. Despite the fact that it had been on my mind for over a week, I was still shocked at hearing the incontrovertible evidence. Once again I tried ineffectually to imagine what sort of man would do such a thing. Or would even have the faintest desire to do such a thing.
Nothing came to mind except the notion that, if it wasn't kids, it must be someone with deep psychological problems. What, after all, was the typical psychological profile of a sex offender?
I hadn't a clue. But there was someone I could ask. An absolutely appropriate authority. I had an appointment with a shrink tomorrow.
TWENTY-ONE
I presented myself at Dr. Alan Todd's office punctually at five o'clock. All was as it had been the last time-the empty waiting room, the switch on the wall, the stack of New Yorker magazines on the end table. I flipped the switch and sat down on the couch to wait, ignoring the New Yorkers.
What should I say today, I wondered. Various thoughts chased in and out of my brain-no consensus.
Then a step outside the door and the click of the doorknob turning.
"Greetings," said Dr. Alan Todd with a cheerful smile.
"Hello," I more or less muttered, somewhat disconcerted by his perky form of address. Once again I preceded him down the hall to his office.
We seated ourselves in the same chairs as last time; Dr. Todd picked up a manila folder from his desk, opened it, and placed it in his lap. Folding his hands on top of it, he looked at me.
"How are you today?" he asked.
"All right, I guess." The words echoed untruthfully in my head. "The same as I was," I amended. "I'm still depressed. Sometimes I feel like I'm dealing with it all right, but a lot of the time I feel overwhelmed. "
The doctor nodded encouragingly.
"Any criticism bowls me over," I went on. "I feel devastated. And I feel lonely all the time, like I need some support I'm not getting." I looked at him. "And that's not me. I've always been comfortable being solitary; I liked feeling that I didn't need anyone."
"Have you ever felt close, connected, as if you were getting the support you're currently missing?" he asked.
I thought about it. "Yes and no," I said at last. "I had a boyfriend when I was in college who I think I felt close to. And I felt very safe with Lonny, the man I was in a relationship with for the last five years. But no, not really connected. I think I wouldn't let myself feel too connected. "
"Why?" he asked.
"It didn't feel right, I guess." I thought about it some more. "I suppose it felt too scary. After my parents died, I was very conscious of wanting to create a security for myself that rested on no one but me. I definitely did not want to be emotionally dependent on anyone else, ever again." This last came out more vehemently than I intended, and I stopped, surprised at the depth of emotion in my voice.
"So you felt dependent on your parents for security and closeness?" he asked.
"I suppose. I mean, doesn't every child feel dependent on his or her parents?"
"Of course. Was it a comfortably close feeling?"
"I don't know," I said slowly. "I can barely remember, to tell you the truth. I have images in my mind of myself as a little girl playing on our family apple farm, and I can remember my parents quite clearly, but I don't have any memories of feeling close to them. Or of being cuddled. No warm fuzzies," I said flippantly, and a little defiantly.
The shrink watched me quietly. We both let the silence grow.
"Are you telling me," I said at last, "that what's wrong with me is just that my parents weren't nurturing enough? Isn't that the standard diagnosis?"
"Perhaps. What happens to us when we're children does tend to shape our emotional makeup."
"So I'm to blame my mom and dad for my current depression?" I knew I sounded cynical; the truth was that this whole conversation was making me uncomfortable.
"I don't know that blame is the right word," Dr. Todd said. "Most parents try to be as loving to their children as they can be. Usually, if they are unable to be very nurturing, it's because their own parents weren't able to be very nurturing with them."
I shrugged. "All right. So what happens now? I can understand that I was a lonely child and my parents were probably unable to be very nurturing, so I never felt close to anyone. Where does that get me?"
The shrink regarded me steadily. "An intellectual understanding is only so useful," he said at last. "Generally speaking, your problem is about feeling, not thinking. As we discussed last week, I tend to think that you need to be able to get in touch with those feelings of sadness and anger and fear, be able to feel them, rather than just intellectually acknowledging that they might be there."
I took this in. "And how do I do that?" I asked.
"The awareness that you want to do it is helpful. Often it takes some time, but will happen on its own, as long as the awareness and the willingness to feel are there. Therapy can help. And sometimes it can happen suddenly, in a kind of catharsis, usually linked to some sort of traumatic event."
This didn't make a whole lot of sense to me. Still, I thought about it. "Are most emotional problems in adults caused by what happened to them in their childhood?" I asked carefully.
"I suppose you could say that. The emotional wounds we receive in our childhood go very deep. A young child has no defenses. He or she
is completely dependent on the parent."
"So can sexual problems, perversions, usually be traced to a person's childhood?"
The shrink kept his eyes on my face and said nothing.
After a minute I realized he thought that I was talking about myself, and was waiting for me to say more.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I've shifted subjects. There's an ongoing problem in my life right now that doesn't have to do with me; my question's related to that. I don't think I have any sexual aberrations. Not that I've noticed, anyway."
The shrink looked at me with his hands folded; I wondered whether he believed me.
"What's the nature of the problem?" he said at last.
I sighed. "There's this guy who's been sneaking into people's barns at night, having sex with their mares. Have you had any experience with, urn, bestiality?"
Dr. Todd looked startled. "No," he said.
That was the thing. This particular problem was so weird it surprised even psychiatrists. It was just so far outside the normal run of human behavior.
Or was it really?
As if he could read my mind, the doctor said, "Of course, it's not that uncommon historically, or in literature. I haven't come across it in my practice, though. I would think it might be more common in, um, isolated rural areas."
Well, that made sense.
"But you have had experience with people who have other sexual problems? Flashers, maybe? Or rapists? Child molestors?"
"Occasionally," he said.
"Are there any common denominators?"
He thought about this a minute. "Well, sexual crimes tend to be committed by people who were in some sense abused when they were young. Sometimes physically, sometimes emotionally. Such people are usually very frustrated and angry inside, and find release in the inappropriate act."
