The man, who’d watched the entire exchange, walked over to the young woman while she peered inside the bag to make sure that whatever she’d just risked her life for was in there.
“What is it?” the man asked, stopping only a few feet away from her.
The young woman looked up, appearing even younger than the man had initially thought. She didn’t have the tired, strung out appearance he expected. Her skin was smooth and without any blemishes, eyes soft and without any bags or broken blood vessels.
“The bag,” he asked, his curiosity piqued. “What’s in it?”
She didn’t answer, probably assessing whether he was a cop or not.
He could feel her energy as he stood in front of her, feel it waiting to replenish him. It was difficult to not take her right then, to stop himself from just soaking it all in. Someone looking at them standing there would see an addict all right, but it wouldn’t be her.
“I’m not a cop,” he said. “I just heard the conversation and I’m curious to know what’s in the bag. That’s all.”
“Why?” she asked. Her feistiness, while reckless given the time of night and surroundings, impressing him for the same reasons.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just am.”
She looked at his bloodshot eyes, eyes that looked exactly like what he had expected to see in her—tired, yet determined, glassy, but crazed. Eyes of an addict. Eyes she knew to avoid.
She turned away without another word, finally trying to do the smart thing and leave.
But she wouldn’t be leaving.
He couldn’t let her. He needed what she had.
So he let himself go, let his body draw down on the energy it so desperately craved.
The young woman’s body stiffened, but he barely noticed. He was too consumed with the overwhelming rush of energy. It was as if his body was given new life. He soaked it in like a sponge, refusing to miss a single drop. Since her back was toward him he couldn’t see the shock in her eyes, couldn’t see the expression she must’ve had as her mind reached unimaginable heights before crashing from the withdrawal that quickly followed. But he did hear the cry of pain right before she dropped to the ground.
Right before she died.
The swelling energy brought a sharp, crisp focus to his sight, a jump to his step, a profound sense of awareness. He knew he should leave, that he shouldn’t risk any type of connection by staying there. But he was still curious.
He wanted to know who she was, and what was in the brown bag.
He bent down and went through her pocketbook, using the end of his shirt to cover his fingers to avoid leaving prints as he pulled out her wallet. He looked at her license. She lived in Manhattan on Sixteenth Street, just a few blocks away. Probably with her family, as she was only seventeen years old. He poked around some more and pulled out her school ID. Tisdale Preparatory School. One of the city’s most prestigious. He put the cards and wallet back in the bag.
He now knew what was in the brown bag without even having to look, but he looked anyway. And it was just what he thought it’d be. Little round blue pills, each marked with an A and a D.
Adderall.
The girl wasn’t looking to get high, she just wanted an edge in school. She wanted good grades. That was all.
He put the pills back in the bag and stood up, looked around. No one was paying any mind.
He glanced at her still, lifeless body one more time then turned and left. Keeping his head low and hiding his face with the cap’s brim, he crossed over to University Place and walked a few blocks over to where his car was parked, looking around for any noticeable signs of someone watching him. There were a few people mingling around, wrapped up in their own thoughts and conversation, but no one paying attention to him. He ducked into the car, started the engine and drove away, dialing a number from his steering wheel.
Corin.
He heard the man’s voice answer through the car’s speakers. “You did it again, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Shit,” Corin said, his voice suddenly more alert. “You can’t keep doing this. You’re going to bottom out. They’re too close together.”
“I’m fine,” he lied. “I just wanted you to know so you can handle them if they call.”
“If? Oh, they’ll call all right. You know they’re going to call. And they’re going to want you to stop.”
“I know. So just put them off again.”
“It won’t be that easy this time,” Corin said. There was a pause before the next sentence eased through the speakers and echoed throughout the car. “There are rumblings now that they may have found someone else. So they won’t be as timid in their request this time.”
“There are always those rumblings, and they’re probably just that. Rumblings. Rumors. But even if they’re true, they can never have enough. They know that.”
“I’m not so sure. They’re uncomfortable with the attention you’re drawing.”
“Attention? What attention? No one knows.”
“How about the two with the broken necks?” Corin said.
“Isolated incident. No one’s connected them to the others.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Why?”
“Just a sense I got when I last spoke with them.”
“Then it’s something they’ll have to deal with. I’m not stopping.”
“You really want me to send that message?” Corin asked.
The man turned onto Third Avenue and succinctly said that, yes, he did, and then hung up. But the conversation had rattled him.
Would they try to stop him?
Would they be willing to lose him?
No, he calmed himself. There was no way. They still needed him. They had to leave him alone. His talents were too unique, regardless of whom else they had.
He was sure they would realize that.
Just like they had before.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It was twenty minutes after ten when the mediation started, which was twenty minutes later than it was supposed to have started. But Kyle didn’t mind. He wasn’t looking forward to the process, not in the least bit. His focus was also still on the night before, on the fact that they’d followed and confronted the hottest pitcher in the Major Leagues and accused him of killing people with his mind just so he could get an edge in his starts. Kyle still couldn’t believe he’d been a part of it, but was thankful no one was hurt, and grateful Hillier hadn’t decided to press charges.
Of course, Liam still thought Hillier was behind the killings. Even after watching Hillier do nothing but listen to his iPod the entire trip back to Manhattan, and even after Liam and Eddie continued the stakeout at Hillier’s apartment while Kyle went home, Liam still thought Hillier was behind the strokes. The text he sent Kyle earlier in the morning updating him was clear on that. But Kyle didn’t think so anymore, nor did he have any more confidence in Liam’s “siphoning energy” theory.
As he sat in the mediator’s conference room on the twenty-eighth floor of the New York Times’ building staring out at the sweeping views of the Hudson, his mind quickly turned away from his thoughts about Liam and Hillier as the Trotters’ attorney, Braden Ricker, stood up for his opening presentation and started to crucify Kyle as if he were Charles Manson.
Not that Kyle hadn’t expected it. It was going just as his attorney, Paula Leighton, had said it would go. Ricker was coming after him hard and laying it all on the line, trying to convince everyone in the room that Kyle was responsible for the death of Henry Trotter, trying to convince them a jury was going to look at Kyle as someone whose mind and focus were anywhere but where they were professionally obligated to be when treating Henry Trotter during their first and only session.
Yes, Kyle thought to himself as Ricker delved deeper into his opening presentation, the man was definitely not holding anything back.
“Did Mr. Vine want Henry Trotter to die?” Ricker bellowed while standing at
the head of a long, oval glass table, his thinning hair short and tight. “Did he want to see him shot by the very woman whom he’d been cheating with?” Ricker let the questions linger before shaking his head and lowering his voice. “Well, consciously I think we can say probably not. But subconsciously?” Ricker shrugged. “Who knows? Mr. Vine here will be the first to say that the subconscious mind operates on a level over which we have no control. It contains thoughts and desires most of us would never even dream of acting upon.”
Actually, Kyle thought, he’d probably say the unconscious mind acted that way, not the subconscious mind.
“But none of that really matters,” Ricker proclaimed. “All that matters is the plain fact that Mr. Vine had a professional responsibility. He had a professional obligation to Henry Trotter and his family to realize that such an outcome was possible. That it was foreseeable this tragedy would happen if his mind and thoughts were anywhere other than where they should’ve been.” Ricker glanced at Kyle, just long enough to make Kyle shuffle a bit in his chair, but not long enough to make it too awkward for everyone else. The man was definitely a pro.
“A therapist, especially a well-schooled and specially licensed one like Mr. Vine, wields an enormous degree of power, and signs up to be the sole caretaker of unquestioned trust. And it’s a responsibility that isn’t to be taken lightly. Mr. Vine knows that. And he knows he never should’ve treated Henry when his own life was in such shambles. When his own psyche had just been shattered. It’s like asking a surgeon to operate without the use of his hands. His tools of the trade were down.” Ricker shook his head. “No,” he said, “they weren’t just down. They’d been turned inside out. They’d become weapons. In Kyle Vine’s mind, Henry Trotter and his philandering ways had become the enemy.” Ricker returned his focus to Kyle. “And if Mr. Vine had allowed himself to realize that, he would’ve done the right thing and never treated Henry—just like he said in his letter to the Board—and these deaths would’ve never happened.”
Ricker turned his attention back to the rest of the room. “But he didn’t. And because of that fatal lapse in professional judgment, Mr. Vine caused the deaths of two innocent lives.” He held up one finger and wagged it in the air. “Dana Basking—a mentally ill woman who desperately needed professional help rather than be used as a psychological pawn in Mr. Vine’s bitter battle with his own failing marriage.” He held up a second finger. “And Henry Trotter—a forty-four-year-old man who was battling his inner demons while trying to keep his family together.”
Ricker turned and nodded to the assistant he’d brought with him and the lights dimmed and a projector hummed to life. All eyes turned to the screen against the wall.
It was the moment Kyle had been dreading, the moment Paula had prepared him for: the PowerPoint presentation. The photos of Henry’s children. Paula had told him to distance himself when he saw the photos, to not think of Bree.
The first photo that flashed was of all three of Henry’s children at Disney, the smiling faces of his twin four-year-old boys and eight-year-old daughter hugging Mickey. The rest were more of the same, snapshots of vacations on the beach, playing ball in the park, opening presents Christmas morning, intimate times at home lounging around.
And despite Paula’s warnings, Kyle couldn’t help but tear up when he saw Henry’s kids, knowing their dad would never be there again.
And he wasn’t alone. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.
It was just what Ricker wanted, to show them how a jury would react to Henry’s death and how those emotions would get the best of them regardless of what legal grounds they may be bound by. And he was smart enough to stay away from including photos of Henry’s wife, knowing it would tug them in the opposite direction, reminding them of what a cheating son of a bitch Henry was.
When the last photo appeared, one of Henry and his kids smiling wide in football jerseys at a Jets game, Ricker let the image linger, remaining silent for a good minute while the room absorbed the moment.
He gave a comforting nod over to Henry’s parents—his wife wasn’t there—then narrowed his eyes as he turned to Kyle’s group, which consisted of Kyle, Paula, and the representative of Kyle’s insurance carrier, a forty-five-year-old executive with no children of his own, someone purposefully sent to try and convey a defiant posture.
Ricker returned his focus to the mediator, Morris Seybert. A short man with neatly parted thick gray hair, Seybert was a Yale educated, former practicing attorney who was now a full-time mediator.
“That is what a jury is going to hear,” Ricker said, “and what a jury will see.” He swallowed back his emotions. “Normally, this is the time I tell you what our demand will be. But I honestly don’t even know if it can be done. How do you put a value on a father’s life?” He turned and looked back at the photo of Henry with his three children, their wide smiles still hovering over the assembled group. He looked down, again swallowing back either real or fabricated tears, then lifted his head and knotted his brow. “Mr. Vine has a two million dollar policy. If he’d had a policy ten times that amount, I would say the same thing. It’s not nearly enough to replace what was lost. No amount is.” He stole one more glance at the photo and sat back down, not saying another word.
Paula was next, having the unenviable task of counting down all of the defenses they had: the strength of their pending motion to dismiss the case on lack of legal grounds, the lack of any criminal charges filed against Kyle—let alone a conviction—the respected psychologists who were scheduled to testify in Kyle’s favor, the depth of the girlfriend’s pre-existing psychological condition even Henry hadn’t been aware of, the lack of a proximate cause, and the lack of foreseeability.
They were strong arguments, convincing arguments.
If anyone was listening.
If the image of Henry’s children bawling at the news their father had been killed wasn’t dominating everyone’s mind.
But it was, and most were still staring at the blank screen, as if the image of the three kids was still there and not just burned forever into their retinas.
Kyle thought of Bree, remembering her at the same age as Henry’s boys, recalling their own first real vacation. It was out in Montauk. They had rented a house for August, wanting to enjoy the beaches of Long Island’s famed south shore. He remembered the little fluke they caught off the party boat, and how upset Bree was when she watched the fish struggle and flop around on the deck. “Why’s he doing that?” she cried as the fish continued to flail and fight for its life. “I think he’s hurt. Make him better. Make him better, daddy. Make him better!” Kyle saw the horror in her innocent eyes and frantically unhooked the fish and tossed it overboard. Bree continued to cry as she watched the little fluke quickly descend into the ocean and swim away. “Why did you hurt him?” she asked, her head still over the side looking down into the water. “Why did you take him away from his home?” Kyle didn’t know what to say, and promised her they could just “pretend” fish for the rest of the trip.
But she was too inquisitive to let it go and wouldn’t stop asking. He tried to explain that the fish were just excited when they came on the boat, that it was how they got when they saw so many people. But she didn’t buy it. She knew. And it killed him that he’d poisoned her innocent mind. So he let her do whatever she wanted for the rest of the vacation. Spoiled her rotten. And she knew that too. She knew he felt bad, and told him so a few days later. “It’s okay,” she said. Kyle didn’t make the connection at first and asked her what was okay. “The fish is home with his family now,” she said. “So it’s okay. He’s all better.” He smiled when she said that, so proud of the compassionate little girl his toddler was becoming.
But whether the others were thinking about their own children or not, Ricker had accomplished his goal—he diverted their attention away from the legal issues and had them focusing upon their humanity, their compassion, and what a jury would do if Paula’s legal defenses failed.
To Kyle,
the tactic seemed pretty damn effective.
After some remarks from the mediator, the two camps broke into separate conference rooms. Seybert met with Ricker’s contingency first, while Kyle and his group waited to hear their real opening monetary settlement demand, something Paula said happened at all mediations. The opening presentation was the big dog and pony show, but it was really just the appetizer. The real meat of the process was what happened afterward, when the mediator went back and forth trying to convince the plaintiff to come down from their number and the defendant to come up. That’s where cases settled, and the good mediators pulled out every trick in the book to get the not so easy task accomplished. But Kyle was hopeful that wouldn’t be too difficult in their case. He was more than ready to move on.
After more than an hour of waiting, Seybert knocked on the door and stepped into their conference room. The insurance representative, Dan O’Brien, spoke first. “So what’s their demand?”
Seybert softened his gaze, readying for the outrage that always came from defendants after he exchanged the first numbers. “They want the full policy limits of two million dollars,” he said, then turned to Kyle, “and an additional million from you, personally.”
Paula jumped up from her chair and started to pack her things. “Well you can tell Ricker to go to hell and thanks for wasting our time, because we’re leaving.”
“It’s just a starting number,” Seybert said, motioning for her to sit back down. “You know they’ll come down.”
Kyle looked up, feeling a little woozy from the statement. “A million dollars personally?” he said. “I don’t have a million dollars. I don’t have half a million. Not even close. I was a practicing psychologist and now teach at a city college, how much do they think I make? I can’t afford that.”
“Your ex-wife is wealthy,” Seybert said. “In common property alone, Ricker says you should have received enough from the divorce to cover the excess.”
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