Compound Fractures

by Stephen White

  “Sometimes you can be patronizing even when you don’t want to be patronizing. Might want to keep an eye on that around Simon. I bet he gets tired of it.”

  66

  ALAN

  I THOUGHT I’D WEAVE THROUGH downtown on residential streets hoping to be invisible. My tentative route was Tenth to Spruce to Eleventh to Pine and then across Broadway until I got a better idea. I made it as far as Spruce Street without the better idea. My brain was too crammed with thoughts about Carl Luppo and deserved ends.

  I paused at the corner to call Amanda from my burner, hoping to arrange to hide out in the incall. While I waited for Amanda to pick up, I spotted my ex-therapist on foot, turning the corner from Spruce onto Eleventh. She entered the door of some old brick row houses. I knew the building was full of therapists’ offices. But not hers.

  Maybe my ex-therapist is in therapy. No big deal. Many young shrinks are.

  I spun away; I didn’t think she had spotted me. If she did? So what?

  Amanda answered my call. I asked if she had a minute. So many things could go wrong with my impromptu plan. Amanda not having a minute was only the first.

  “I’m heading into a business meeting. Not an ideal time,” Amanda said.

  Ideal time? Ha. “Quickly? I would like to, uh, use the apartment on Pine Street,” I said. “Now. Is it available?”

  “You’re sure? You didn’t seem very comfortable there.”

  I could have explained that my options were constrained. I didn’t. “I’m sure.”

  “How long do you … want it?”

  “I don’t know. A while. What’s possible?”

  “A couple of hours?”

  “Of course. Sure. I’m not far away. Is the key still—”

  “Yes, where I told you.”

  “I can count on your discretion?”

  “I’ve always counted on yours,” she said.

  WHEN AMANDA AND I were considering locations to meet the previous afternoon, she had texted me instructions so I could find the spare key. After we ultimately agreed to meet at the nearby pizzeria, I deleted that text. I thought it had said that I should walk behind the stairs that led up to the second-floor apartment where I would see a fake junction-box cover at chest height.

  The faux j-box was precisely where a faux electrician would put it.

  The futon was gone from the apartment along with almost everything else except the beat-up leather sofa. All that remained in the bedroom was a queen-size box spring and mattress in desperate need of linens. I wasn’t counting the upside-down wine-box bedside table on which sat a bottle of lube.

  It was apparent that the incall was being retired earlier than planned. For my purposes that was a fine thing. I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator—the only other items in it were two containers of Noosa yogurt and a box of condoms—and I collapsed onto the sofa. I had a couple of hours to figure out what to do next.

  I knew I shouldn’t drag Kirsten any further into my mess. Sam had done what he could. Andrew had risked plenty on my behalf. Although I was tempted to view Izza as more of an ally than an adversary, I didn’t see anything she could do that would save me from whatever Elliot was planning.

  I accepted that I would need to turn myself in to the police. And soon. The question I hoped to answer during my time in the incall was whether I could accomplish anything useful before I did.

  I was grateful that my new lawyer’s number was already in my burner’s call history. I would need his help arranging my surrender. As the call to his office was being completed I revisited the morning’s monetary arithmetic in my head. I not only needed to find five figures of cash I didn’t have to give to my new attorney as a retainer, I also might need to find five or ten times that much to post bond to get myself out of jail.

  That was if Elliot arrested me and if—the second if was a large-size if—Elliot failed to convince a judge that I should be held without bond.

  The attorney’s receptionist answered. I identified myself and asked to speak with my lawyer. She didn’t offer an update on her boss’s daughter’s condition. She said, “Just a moment, Dr. Gregory.” I heard a key slide into the lock of the incall door. I hit END.

  I cursed under my breath. My two hours at the incall were not up. Not even close.

  67

  DOCTOR LILA

  THIS IS MY FIRST time in this building. It’s lovely,” I said to my new supervisor.

  “Thank you. We like it.”

  “So much charm. My office has no charm. Not like this.”

  My new supervisor was not chatty. He said, “I assume you’re not here to talk about décor. You said on the phone you have a pressing issue, something about two patients knowing each other. Should we start there?”

  “That’s correct. I only realized that they were acquainted after the initial few sessions I had with the second patient. When he mentioned the first one’s name.”

  My supervisor shrugged away the news. I expected him to do that. He said, “Boulder is a small town. Patients being acquainted happens more often than any of us would like. What kind of relationship do they have? Does it present a conflict for you to treat them both?”

  I said, “I do anticipate some conflict. But I should also let you know that coming here to see you presents a different problem for me. I made a commitment to one of the patients, the one I saw first, that I wouldn’t seek supervision without notifying him.”

  He smiled, I thought, condescendingly. He said, “May I call you Delilah?” I nodded. “He asked you not to get supervision, Delilah?”

  “He has concerns about other people knowing things. Content.” With damn good reason, I thought. But I didn’t say that.

  “Did you tell him you were coming here? Does he have my name? That is not how this is supposed to work, Doctor.”

  “I did not tell him I was coming here.”

  “That is an odd request from a patient. I take it he is a therapist?”

  “It wasn’t a request. He made it a requirement for continuing treatment. I shouldn’t have agreed. But I did. I also made another commitment to him—about anonymity. For that reason I am not comfortable saying anything to you about him, including what he does for a living, that might provide a clue to his identity.”

  “This patient has you tied up every which way. Whose therapy is it, Delilah? Have you thought about that?”

  My supervisor and my patient were contemporaries. It seemed my new supervisor was the more patronizing of the two, by a nose. Also the less dangerous, by a mile.

  I didn’t respond to his taunt. I did rethink my intention to disclose Alan Gregory’s insistence about shredding and torching and rewriting my notes. Along with the fact that I had promised to do that, too. And the fact that I had not done it.

  He crossed his legs and his arms. “An observation? You are rather cavalier about rationalizing away the first commitment you made to him—the one about supervision—but you seem to be squeamish about breaking the second, the one about his anonymity? I’m trying to understand the parameters of your sense of therapeutic fair play. They seem … elastic. Though I can’t decide whether that is good, or bad.”

  “I’m aware of the inconsistency. I know. The first patient is no longer in my care. He terminated … abruptly. Regardless, I don’t intend for this visit to be case consultation, per se. Of either therapy. I am hoping this can be supervision about a broader therapeutic issue.”

  “Per se?” he asked.

  “It’s Latin. It means—”

  “I know what it means. Consider it a confrontation. I, not you, will be the one who decides the nature of this consultation.”

  The room suddenly felt too warm. “What I was saying? The patients know each other well. Their relationship goes back many years.”

  “Friends? More than friends?”

  “Friends, but not only friends. Other things, associations not typical of friendship.”

  “I don’t mean to be difficult, Delilah. B
ut you are mincing words. I won’t. I’m a supervisor, not an oracle. You may be comfortable with your patient dictating ground rules with you. But I am not comfortable with you doing it with me. Do you understand?”

  “I apologize. I’m— I am seeking ethical guidance. I’ve been reading ethical casebooks and I’ve been unable to find a situation even remotely similar to the one I’m in. Your experience and your reputation in the community about ethical issues? That is what I hope the supervision can be about.”

  My flattery softened him. It had never softened Alan Gregory.

  “Let’s try that then,” he said. “What is the ethical dilemma? Specifically please.”

  I didn’t hesitate. “I think my two patients killed someone. Together.”

  68

  SAM AND JONAS

  JONAS TEXTED MORE TO SAM. Sam was back at his side in a minute.

  Sam said, “You have something with the hijackers?”

  “No, not them. You ready for this? The woman is related to a Saudi prince. I found a photo of her family with him in 2000. Distant relative—not sure she would be invited to the Saudi version of Thanksgiving at the prince’s palace.” Jonas spun his laptop toward Sam. The family tree was immense. Jonas had highlighted her name in the bottom third.

  Her surname rang no bells for Sam. “What are you thinking this means?” Sam asked. He was certain that Jonas had digested the facts and reached a conclusion.

  “You have your Middle East connection. Maybe not the one you expected, but most of the 9/11 crew were Saudi. Open minds? My father used to tell me to see, not to look.”

  “Peter? Regarding … what?”

  Jonas said, “Rock climbing and lumber picking.”

  “He died when you were really, really young, Jonas.”

  “Your point? You want to argue with me about my memories?”

  Sam demurred. “Peter gave you good advice,” Sam said. “We can put a Saudi prince’s distant relative at the fund-raiser in Boston the weekend before September eleventh. So what?”

  “You wanted a connection. She’s there on September eighth. Elliot is there on September eighth. And you said to watch for a banking link. Her family is in banking. Big-time.”

  “The Habib Bank Limited in Pakistan?” Sam felt hope.

  Jonas said, “Nothing ties Habib Bank Limited to terrorist funding for 9/11. I did a search of the text of the report of the 9/11 Commission.”

  Sam exhaled. “Okay. We strike that off our list. That’s how this process works.”

  “The prince has ownership in two Saudi banks. Big players in oil and transport.”

  “Lots of rich families are in banking. We need to find a straight line that connects Elliot to something beyond that fund-raiser. Maybe the guest list for the event has another Arabic name. Maybe she was there with someone from home. The guy next to Elliot in the photo? We need to know who he is.”

  “I looked for an attendance list. The records aren’t online. I could hack the organization’s server but there’s no guarantee the list is there. Hell, 2001 was the dark ages.”

  Sam said, “You have her name and her family connection. Is there a way to use that to get a lead on the man next to Elliot, our maybe-Arabic John Doe?”

  “I thought John Does had to be dead. Not true?”

  “No, just unidentified.”

  “Huh,” Jonas said. “I’ll go at it that way. See if she shows up with him. Elliot could have been at the event with her, not with the guy. I’ll look for both couples.”

  “Elliot is gay, Jonas. We should assume if he’s there with someone, it’s a man.”

  “Oh. He’s not allowed out with women? Is there a rule I don’t know about?”

  Sam took a deep breath. “Sure. Okay. Look for both couples. She and Elliot could have been together. But I’m staying here. I’m tired of running back and forth.”

  Sam sat on the sofa, his back to Jonas, his eyes on the Rockies. Is the woman in the photo HBL? Or is John Doe HBL? Another leap too far, he told himself.

  Jonas stopped typing.

  Sam said, “Can I ask you something? Unrelated.”

  Jonas said, “My connection is dragging. Shoot.”

  “You ever heard of Ivy Baldwin? Guy in Eldorado Springs a long time ago? I’m asking everybody lately.”

  Jonas’s voice brightened. “Hell yeah. Ivy was one of Peter’s heroes. My father. He loved Ivy Baldwin and Philippe Petit. He left me the book Philippe wrote.”

  Jonas’s father, Peter Arvin, had been a legendary free-solo rock climber. Sam knew rock-climbing cops who remembered watching Peter work without ropes in Eldorado Canyon. They considered him to be the finest nontechnical climber they ever saw. “Who’s Philippe Petit?” Sam asked.

  “The guy who crossed between the towers of the World Trade Center on a wire.”

  “Your father’s heroes weren’t rock climbers?”

  “No, funambulists. High-wire guys who worked in the wild. The rarest breed. There have only ever been a few dozen great ones. My mother said Peter tried and tried but he couldn’t walk a wire.”

  “I’d forgotten all about the World Trade Center thing,” Sam said. “That was a long time ago, too. Is that a real word you just said?”

  “It was 1974,” Jonas said. “Funambulist? Yeah, it’s a real word.”

  “Which was harder to do? Did your dad—your father—ever say?”

  “Petit was up higher by far, on the World Trade Center. But Ivy Baldwin went a greater distance by far. Both had to deal with wind and weather. A fall meant instant death for either. Ivy crossed Eldorado dozens and dozens of times. Philippe got only the one chance, but he nailed it. Adrienne said that Peter would tell me stories about what they did when I was a baby. He’d turn pages in books, pretending that he was reading about them.”

  Sam said, “I still can’t believe Ivy Baldwin walked across Eldorado on a wire. Look at that canyon.” Sam pointed at it. “That’s nuts.”

  Jonas said, “I like that you know about Ivy Baldwin, Sam.” He didn’t look up from the keyboard.

  They were both quiet for a while. A few minutes later, to Sam’s back, Jonas said, “You are way too concrete about this gay thing, Sam. You need to chill. Don’t forget my mother. Straight, bi, gay. People are what people are. Have to give him room.”

  Sam would never forget Jonas’s birth mother. Adrienne had been straight and married before she was lesbian before she was bi before Sam lost track of what the hell she was. He knew Jonas had a point. Sam felt he had done a lot of chilling about the gay thing, but acknowledged that he might have more to do.

  He was about to admit to Jonas that there was probably some truth in what he was saying when he had a sudden awareness about exactly what Jonas was saying.

  Have to give him room.

  Jonas isn’t talking about Elliot. He’s talking about Simon.

  My hockey-playing, weightlifting, zombie-loving, wall-punching, shoplifting, brooding, hulking adolescent-boy-in-all-ways kid?

  Is gay?

  69

  ALAN

  AMANDA WALKED IN THE DOOR. I was surprised that I was not unhappy to see her.

  I considered explaining that I could be picked up by the police in the next little while, but I couldn’t discern a way to share that news without jeopardizing the outcome I desired. Which was solace, and a clear head. Definitely not panic.

  “You startled me,” I said. “Your meeting ended early?”

  “It’s a consulting gig with one of my private equity contacts. I bill hourly so it was a short meeting.” She sat beside me on the old couch. She frowned. “I didn’t expect to hear from you again. Tough day? Or tough life, at least lately?” she asked.

  I didn’t answer. The question seemed too cumbersome.

  “Hey?” she said. “You in there? Hello?” She gestured at my water. “Are there any more of those?” I nodded. She went to the kitchen.

  I asked, “Why are there condoms in the refrigerator?”

  She sa
id, “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

  Yeah? I couldn’t tell if she was messing with me. I was immediately distracted by a noise outside. “Did you hear that? Out front?”

  “The wind. There’s a storm coming. Don’t worry—this place is over. My friend has a new one up and running on Bluff near Folsom.” She sat beside me again. “My question before? I’m curious why you called.”

  “Sorry. For me? Yeah, a tough day and a tough life lately,” I said. “I needed to get … away. This seemed good.” I smiled. “No one will look for me here.”

  “People are looking for you?” she asked.

  I didn’t want to explain. “I need a break. Let’s leave it there.”

  “What would help?”

  I didn’t have an answer. That’s how messed up things felt. I said, “This is fine.”

  She sipped water. I sipped water. Seconds later she stood. She faced me. She locked eyes with me, apparently saw something that looked to her like affirmation, and then in one graceful provocative motion she hiked her skirt up to her waist, wriggling her butt back and forth as she did, and lowered herself to her knees, straddling me.

  She leaned forward, crossing her arms behind my neck. Her breasts were, literally, in my face. She smelled like spicy floral elsewhere. I will admit that in that instant it was as enticing an aroma as I could imagine.

  Amanda had my complete attention. I had my break from my reality. She was offering me a potential solution to a lot of problems. Just not the ones I was having. In retrospect, I recognized I could have spared us both some awkwardness had I been a little less vague about the reason for my presence in the incall.

  I managed to say, “Amanda,” but before I could complete an explanation that I wasn’t there for sex, someone else said “Amanda,” too.

  My “Amanda” had been muffled and soft. Apologetic. The other “Amanda” was firm. Demanding. If Amanda hadn’t already succeeded in raising my heart rate, that voice from outside the front door certainly would have caused my pulse to jump.

  “You have to go. Now!” she hissed into my ear. “That’s— He’s here!”

  She hopped up and tugged down her skirt.

  He who?

  70