by Alan Russell
“I won!” said Stella.
“I demand a rematch,” said Cheever.
And this is what I waited for, thought Froke. He tried to maintain a pleasant expression on his face. “Perhaps you’ll teach me how to play,” he said to Stella, extending his hand in greeting. “It’s nice to meet you, Stella. I am Dr. Froke.”
It had been a long time since Froke had felt any true excitement at the onset of a session. But this time he felt butterflies. Whatever was going on seemed big. And the riddle of Stella Pierce’s missing seven years intrigued him.
“How are you feeling, Stella?” Froke asked.
“Fine,” she said, “but tired.”
“It’s been a big day for you, hasn’t it?”
She nodded.
Cheever waited with the Pierce family for Stella’s session to finish. He looked at the time again. The shrink’s session with her was now pushing an hour.
Even though he’d only met the other man for a minute, there was something about Froke that got under Cheever’s skin. It was probably his supercilious attitude. There had been a time when Cheever hadn’t thought much of mental health professionals, but that was before he’d fallen in love with one. Rachel Stern had taught him more about disorders and phobias and behavioral science than he ever knew existed, and he had come to realize the importance of these practitioners.
Eleanor yawned, but apologized with a smile on her face. Her daughter was home. Duncan had also had a long day, but you wouldn’t know it by how he was acting. He kept patting Cheever’s and Michael’s shoulders and hugging Eleanor. The Pierces, thought Cheever, were behaving like professional athletes in the aftermath of winning the championship game; the hooting and hollering was done, and they didn’t quite know what to do with all their happiness.
More than anything, he suspected, they just wanted to hug their daughter.
“If you want,” said Cheever, “I could go tell him enough is enough.”
Eleanor looked more than ready to take him up on his offer, but Duncan spoke for the couple: “We’d better give him a few more minutes.”
Five minutes later the shrink trudged down the stairs to the living room. From the gravity of Froke’s bearing and expression, he looked like a surgeon who’d performed a life-or-death operation and was ready to deliver news of the outcome.
“Stella and I had a good talk,” he said. “Now she needs to unwind, and sleep.”
Cheever bit his lip to keep from telling Froke he’d said the same thing an hour earlier.
Eleanor said, “Michael, can you go upstairs right now and sit with your sister? Tell her I’ll be up in a little while.”
Froke turned to Cheever. “I am afraid what I have to say is for the family only, Detective.”
“We’ll waive your confidentiality concerns,” said Duncan. “We want Detective Cheever to hear everything you have to say.”
Froke shrugged and said, “As you wish.” He took out some paperwork and his notepad, consulting both before speaking.
“In therapy, the notion of a breakthrough is frequently misunderstood,” Froke said. “Most individuals have this mistaken idea that there comes this grand moment when the therapist yells, ‘Eureka.’”
Froke’s preamble, thought Cheever, didn’t sound original.
“The real breakthroughs,” continued Froke, “are rarely even noticed. They are accomplished through small, incremental steps, with each session building upon the last. It would be unrealistic to expect immediate results. Still, Stella and I had a very fruitful session tonight.
“As you are aware, Stella says she has been with the Travelers, a name she says that the extraterrestrials call themselves. As you were also told, Stella says these aliens go around traveling the universe.
“The more Stella talked, the clearer it became that her Travelers story is an elaborate avoidance mechanism. It might even be a metaphor for the way she has lived these last seven years, always traveling from place to place. Or it might be that she’s dissociated to avoid very painful memories.
“Based on my initial session with her, it’s clear that Stella will need intensive therapy. Given the circumstances, I’m sure you don’t find that surprising. My recommendation is for both individual and group sessions. Stella’s readjustment is likely to be very painful, both to her and the ones who love her. Everyone here needs to remember that Stella is not the same little girl who left. Half of her life has been lived away from home, and we don’t yet know what her experiences have been during her time away. After the initial euphoria of her return diminishes, conflicts will certainly arise.”
The shrink again referred to his notes, and then continued. “In pioneer days, there were instances of white children being taken in raids and raised by Native Americans. Years later, when those children were returned to their families, there were usually terrible problems. The children had been raised in another culture, with different ways. For them, acclimation was not easy. Blood was not thicker than culture and experience. Sometimes love alone could not surmount these barriers.
“Judging by Stella’s tale, in her own mind she compares herself with those displaced pioneer children, although it wasn’t Indians who raised her, but aliens. That’s her way of telling us how different she now is. I would take it as a warning as well. Stella feels displaced. In order to ameliorate her readjustment to the family, you will need to offer her unconditional love. The more comfortable she feels, the faster she will heal.”
Froke looked around the room after he finished his summation. From the way he was preening, thought Cheever, the shrink seemed to think applause was in order.
In a little voice, Eleanor said, “She still seems like our Stella.”
“There is a part of her that is,” said Froke. “But you will have to be accepting of the part that isn’t.”
“How long do you think she’ll be holding on to this Travelers story of hers?” Duncan asked.
Froke shrugged. “It would be impossible to guess. She has obviously constructed an elaborate paradigm, and I find it unlikely that she’d give up such a deep-rooted defense mechanism easily. Among severely abused children, these types of imaginative scenarios are not uncommon.”
“Dr. Schmitt didn’t find any evidence of physical abuse,” said Cheever.
“I’m sure, Detective, that you’ve seen examples of mental abuse that were as debilitating as physical abuse.”
“I know this sounds selfish as hell,” said Duncan, “but would it be wrong if for now I asked Stella to keep her little green men story to herself?”
Froke stroked his chin. He was glad the congressman had made this request. If he hadn’t, Froke’s handlers had instructed him to make it. “I don’t see a problem with that. Not everything has to be public. You and Stella can choose what to divulge and what to keep private.”
Duncan turned to Cheever. “Do you have any problem with that, Detective?”
Cheever shook his head. “Not on my end.”
“In that case, when I talk to the media tomorrow, I’ll say Stella’s under a doctor’s care and that I can’t offer any particulars of her time away because that might impact the police investigation. Does that work for both of you?” Duncan asked.
Froke and Cheever nodded.
“Did Stella talk to you about being taken by the Travelers, Doctor?” asked Cheever.
“She called it an invitation,” said Froke. “She said the Travelers invited her to be a part of their incredible journey. When they first communicated with her, Stella said she thought they were angels. In hindsight, I am sure that’s how she justified her going off with strangers.”
“Are you saying Stella knew she was doing something wrong?” asked Cheever.
“I wouldn’t categorize it in the rubric of right or wrong. Individuals justify their actions through a variety of means.”
Froke took note of the cop’s skeptical expression. It was hard for him not to. “Is something bothering you, Detective?”
“
Yes, Doctor. The facts as I know them.”
“And what facts are those?”
“The sins of omission,” said Cheever. “And there are plenty of those: seven years’ worth, in fact.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the little time I had with Stella, I found it interesting that she didn’t know the name of the president. I also brought up a lot of recent kid-favorite music and movies, as well as entertainers and celebrities who have become famous during the last seven years. Time and again Stella had no idea what I was talking about or who I was talking about. It was the same thing with major world events. She drew a blank. As for language, my work keeps me up on current slang. Words and phrases that every American teenager knows were lost on Stella.”
The longer Cheever spoke, the more strained Froke’s smile appeared. When the detective finished, Froke shook his head. “So what are you suggesting, Detective Cheever? Are you implying that for the last seven years, Stella has been off traveling the cosmos with aliens?”
“That wouldn’t be my first guess,” said Cheever.
“What would?”
“I don’t usually engage in guessing games.”
“Perhaps you will humor me.”
Cheever shrugged. “My best guess is that Stella was held captive in a remote location where she was denied access to television, radio, and magazines.”
“And given such a sterile environment, do you find it surprising that Stella constructed an alternate universe?”
“No, that wouldn’t surprise me,” said Cheever. “What does surprise me is Stella’s returning from that kind of captivity and still appearing to be the happy, gregarious girl that she apparently is.”
“Or that she’s trying to appear to be. I don’t think it’s too surprising that today, of all days, Stella is overjoyed to be home.”
Froke let the Pierces absorb the full impact of his little smile. “I am glad to hear, though, that you won’t be spending time investigating aliens.”
Cheever offered up the smile of the unamused. “Actually, I always like to find whatever facts I can, and let them guide me. Facts are very stubborn things. They tell a story whether you like it or not.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Froke opened the door to his Solana Beach condominium. He was a renter, but he told the women who visited him there that the ocean-view dwelling was his. The reality was that it would be a long time, if ever, before he could afford to buy a place like this. His medical-school debt was daunting, even though the windfall he’d received earlier in the day would help with that. He’d actually hidden the $25,000 in the laundry hamper, waiting until he figured out the best way to spend it.
Maybe he could milk this thing for a lot more money. Whoever wanted him to treat Stella Pierce had deep pockets and resources. They’d swung him the referral and provided him with a detailed guide to treating her.
He wondered if her disappearance had something to do with her father being a congressman. It was possible, he supposed, but the time frame made it unlikely. The girl had gone missing before Pierce had been elected. And the congressman seemed to be as much in the dark about what had happened to his daughter as everyone else in his family.
They weren’t the only ones in the dark, thought Froke. He was supposed to be the Pierce family’s answer man, but he couldn’t make sense of the situation either. The girl had gone missing for seven years and then come back with a story about being away with aliens. That was crazy enough, but what was even crazier was his being paid big bucks to discredit her story with the family, and control the girl through supposed therapeutic sessions. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to believe what she was saying anyway.
Froke approached his wet bar and decided to go old school, making himself a gin and tonic. He had waited all day for his chaser, and went to the kitchen cabinet and pulled down a vitamin bottle. It was time to get his daily dose of Cotton, one of the street names for OxyContin. He swallowed the pill and knew in a few minutes he’d be feeling much better.
With his drink in his hand, Froke opened the living room curtains. It was too dark to see the ocean very well, but he could hear it. The waves were loud, making their form of tubular thunder. He liked it when the big drums came out; it stirred in him the notion to invite over some company. But even booty calls had their price. He’d have to listen to some woman blathering, and at the moment he felt blathered out. Froke took a sip of his drink, then loudly chewed on a piece of ice as he considered the pros and cons of tendering such an invitation.
His musings were interrupted by the sound of loud organ music. Froke reached for his pocket. He had set his phone on mute so he wouldn’t be disturbed by incoming calls or messages. But it wasn’t his phone that was ringing. It was the cell phone Scarecrow had given him. The phone’s ringtone was Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Froke delayed a moment, not wanting to answer it, but then did.
“It used to be thought that those who chewed on ice were sexually frustrated.”
Froke jumped back, swallowing the ice. He heard the sound coming from two places—the receiver and the living room. His hands, one holding the glass and one the phone, rose in fright—or perhaps surrender. In the shadows of the living room, sitting in his easy chair, was Scarecrow.
Scarecrow must have disconnected the call; now his voice was coming only from the living room: “But now they say that those who frequently chew on ice might be suffering from anemia. Do you have an iron deficiency, Dr. Froke?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Froke said, pocketing the phone.
“I am here to expound upon our last conversation. And I am here to discuss today’s session with Stella and her family. Are you lucid enough to converse with me on those subjects, or has your chill pill already addled your thinking?”
Froke took another step backward. “I’m not impaired,” he said.
“That better be the case,” said Scarecrow. “We expect you to be mindful of your drug use. And consider this fair warning: if you ever use before one of your sessions with Stella, within twenty-four hours the California Medical Board will be notified of your many violations of the Hippocratic Oath, as well as state laws.”
“I never use when I’m working . . . ,” began Froke.
One of Scarecrow’s eyes emerged from the shadows, and the scrutiny unnerved him. Of late, there had been a few occasions when he had used during his workday. Somehow Scarecrow knew that. Somehow they knew that.
“I’ll make sure never to do that,” Froke promised.
The flinty eye nodded, then disappeared once more into the shadows.
“I thought today’s session went well,” said Froke. “I took a family history and—”
“There is no need to recapitulate what was said. I know what was said.”
“You were . . . listening?”
“You were being monitored.”
The tone of Scarecrow’s voice, and the word he used, suggested something more insidious than electronic eavesdropping. By now the Cotton should have been making Froke feel better, but he was feeling anything but.
“I did as you instructed,” said Froke.
“When you followed the script, you did well.”
“You didn’t prepare me for the cop. When he started talking about ‘sins of omission,’ I wasn’t sure where to go.”
“It was clever of the detective to take a read on Stella’s knowledge of popular culture in the last decade,” said Scarecrow. “That wasn’t foreseen, and it should have been. But you won’t need to worry about the cop in the future. Within the week he will be satisfied as to Stella’s whereabouts during much of the seven years in question.”
“It’s difficult to treat someone,” said Froke, treading carefully over what he perceived as thin ice, “when you don’t know the full story.”
“You are not treating Stella. You are managing her. And you will proceed on a need-to-know basis.”
Scarecrow produced his phone again, and stabbed the screen
a few times with his index finger. “There,” he said. “We have laid out tomorrow’s session for you in the e-mail that you just received.”
Froke heard the sound of a doorbell ringing. He opened his phone’s e-mail app and saw that a file had been sent to him. Judging by the sender, Froke had sent the file to himself.
“Any file we send to you has a life span of two hours,” said Scarecrow. “The file can only be opened by your phone or by your laptop. It can’t be copied, forwarded, or printed.”
“Two hours?” asked Froke.
“Minus the minute we’ve been chatting.”
Froke started scanning the e-mail. It was detailed, which probably shouldn’t have surprised him. There was a critique of how he’d handled that day’s session, and questions and topics he was supposed to cover with Stella and her family during their next session.
“And the file disappears?”
“Into thin air,” said Scarecrow.
“How am I supposed to remember everything that’s here?”
“I suggest you read, study, and take notes.”
“That will take hours.”
“You have one hour and fifty-eight minutes.”
Froke finished reading a paragraph that suggested ways he could best manipulate Eleanor, Duncan, and Michael. It crossed his mind that Scarecrow most certainly would have been advised on the best ways to manipulate him.
“What if I need more time?”
Scarecrow shook his head.
“What’s the harm in giving me a copy of what I’m supposed to discuss, just like you did today?”
“We don’t like paper trails,” said Scarecrow. “We don’t like any trails.”
Froke scrolled further into the file. There were tests he was supposed to administer to Stella starting tomorrow. The results of those tests would show Stella needed socializing, with the strong recommendation that she be mainstreamed into high school as soon as possible.
“I’ll do my best to comply,” said Froke, “but I hope you realize what a difficult position this puts me in. I’m being asked to proceed, while at the same time not knowing what all of this is about. That’s like an actor being told to play a role, but not being given a complete script.”
