Compound Fractures

by Stephen White

Damaged? I didn’t quarrel. She sounded more compassionate than accusatory. Was it possible that she was, just maybe, relieved that I was not undamaged?

  She said, “I do like that you like them. Truly.” She rocked her hips again. Physics being physics, the sway followed, just a little. She knew that would happen.

  Truly. I began to feel buoyant, a familiar sensation of intoxicating lightness, as though I could begin to float away.

  She may have sensed the danger. She reached down between her legs and grabbed me in a manner guaranteed to keep me from drifting anywhere.

  THE BIG BOUVIER BEGAN BARKING AGAIN—rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat—five times in quick succession.

  Those were Emily’s automatic-weapon barks.

  My dog was seriously unhappy about something.

  I am fluent in Bouvier. The deep ominous claps, roared without nuance, were Emily’s I’m-going-to-maim-you-if-you-take-one-more-step warning shots. When Emily barked that way—she did it rarely—she first bared her fangs and lowered her hindquarters so she was prepared to leap.

  No matter how distracted I was by other things—and at that moment I was maximally distracted by other things—those barks captured my attention.

  I held my breath and I listened. At my five-count the big dog’s initial warnings were chased by three barks of a slightly higher pitch, each one finished with a hint of vibrato. The barks’ trailing rumbles were the result of hollows created when Emily’s loose cheeks dropped to cover her fangs.

  Vibrato barks indicated an all-clear. Once I heard the rumble I knew the alarm, whatever it was, had passed. The rumble meant that Emily had shifted her weight from her haunches and that her nub of a tail had begun its approximation of a wag.

  I exhaled. Within moments I heard heavy footsteps on the hardwood floor and then the sounds of Sam Purdy’s voice at an unexpectedly high volume: “Alan! You back here? You in the shower? Get out. We—”

  “Sam, wait. Don’t come in—”

  The bedroom door was open. He walked in. He said, “Oh. Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know you had— I didn’t know you were—”

  I was facing the doorway. She was leaning into me, her head buried at my neck. I said, “Bad timing, Sam. Go, Sam.” He didn’t. I said, “Turn around. Leave.”

  He turned around. He didn’t leave. “This can’t wait. We have a problem.”

  “Are the kids okay?”

  “It’s not the kids. The other thing.”

  God. The other thing is over. We won. Didn’t we?

  “It can wait, Sam.”

  “It can’t wait, Alan.”

  “Go to the kitchen. I’ll be right there. This better be important.”

  I pulled on some sweatpants and joined Sam at the counter.

  “Did you really just bust into my house?”

  “Bust in? The door was unlocked. Is that a good idea?”

  “I live in the middle of nowhere. My neighbor is a cop who picks locks. What’s your point? And what the hell is so important it couldn’t wait?”

  “I said I was sorry.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Is that the beguiler in there? I couldn’t tell from the back.”

  I shook my head. I opened my mouth. I shook my head again. I closed my mouth.

  “Was that a no-don’t-ask headshake or a no-that-isn’t-the-beguiler headshake? Tell me. Who is it?”

  “Move on, Sam. The emergency?”

  “Kirsten? Jonas thought you and she were—”

  Jonas? I shook my head again. “The emergency? Please?”

  “Raoul’s … friend? She didn’t leave town?”

  Sam’s eyes were frowning, apparently at the thought I was with Amanda. He was not beyond a reflexive moral judgment.

  “Or—holy shit,” he said. “I-z-z-a?”

  I didn’t know why he felt compelled to spell Izza’s name. I shook my head once more. “I’m not going there. What the hell is so important?”

  Sam said, “We’re seeing the same therapist. Did you know that?”

  “I did not.” Damn. “That is awkward.” Other than awkward I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. It did not feel like critical news. It was a problem that had an apparent solution, which made it one of my favorite kinds. I asked, “Why did you choose her for your therapist? She’s young and inexperienced.”

  “I called a bunch of therapists for late appointments. After work. She was the only one with an opening.”

  I could have told him that was not an ideal screening tool for therapists. I didn’t. Sam wasn’t fond of water-under-the-bridge advice. “What am I missing? Why is this news worth busting into my house?”

  He took me by the arm and led me as far from the bedroom as we could get. “Because she knows. Our therapist knows.”

  “She knows what, Sam?”

  His eyebrows jumped. “That.”

  Oh God.

  It was my turn to whisper. I said, “Frederick?” Sam nodded.

  I said, “Haziq?” He shook his head. “You’re sure?” He nodded. I looked him in the eyes. “Did you tell her about Frederick, Sam?”

  “No. She added stuff up. A little from you. A little from me.”

  And some from the Bing, I thought. “Does she have it right?”

  “The details? Not at all. The big picture? Enough to cause trouble. She thinks we have another one planned. And that she has some obligation to stop us. Ethically.”

  “We don’t have another one planned.” Do we? Sam? “Who’s the other one?”

  “She thinks it’s Elliot,” Sam said.

  I remembered the phone number I saw on Elliot Bellhaven’s caller ID in the incall. It was Lila’s number. Our therapist’s number. She had called Elliot. Fuck.

  My knees felt weak. “How do you know all this? What she knows and what the hell she thinks? Did she tell you?”

  “God no. During my session last week she said some stuff that made me uncomfortable. Couple of things I should probably admit first. One, I have trust issues in relationships—so shoot me. And, two, the picking-lock thing? I’m getting good. That’s the how. What do we do?”

  “You broke into her office? Her files?”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Amateur hour. Cheap locks. No security. In and out.”

  Jesus. “You looked at my file?”

  He shook his head. “I looked at mine. She has notes about some supervision meetings she had. And a cover-my-ass letter from her supervisor. There’s a lot of detail in that. He thinks she’s off base. What is supervision, exactly?”

  “For us? Not a good thing. I thought we were finally in the clear with Elliot. If she has already talked to him, though—” I began to war-game the potential outcomes in my head. This could get ugly for Sam and for me, fast. I asked, “Did you see any indication she’s been in touch with Elliot? That they’ve spoken about us?”

  “In her notes? No. Can she talk to him?” Sam asked me. “You never talk to anybody.”

  “Ethically? She can’t talk. But ethics aren’t black-and-white. She may view things differently than I do. She may have told Elliot her concerns. It’s not like we can sue her, right? Let me think on this. Did you take her records?”

  “Course not. I took photos with my burner. How bad is this for us?”

  “Depends on what she knows. Who she tells. Damn. You know I fired her?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I got suspicious, too. I developed concerns about her judgment.”

  “Wish I’d known that. What do we do?”

  “Well, termination probably, but it may make sense to wait.”

  “Termination? Yeah?” Sam showed instant consternation at my suggestion.

  I recognized the problem might be semantic. “It doesn’t mean that; it means you stopping therapy with her. I’ll meet you over at Ophelia’s in a little while. We’ll walk and talk. Don’t forget to lock the front door, you know, on your way out.”

  He whispered, “You going back for mulligan sex?”

  “After this? I doubt it.” Over my s
houlder I added, “And next time, knock.” I took one more step before I pivoted back. I lowered my voice to hushed-secret volume. “When you walked in on us who did you think I was with? Which woman?”

  “I really couldn’t tell from the door.”

  “Be honest. Let’s say I was a … lucky guy and I got to choose from the women you named, which one do you think I picked?”

  “You’re serious with this?”

  I nodded. “Yes. It’s important to me.”

  Sam’s eyes got sad. “You want the truth?”

  “I do.”

  “Whoever it is in there”—Sam gestured toward the bedroom—“I figure you chose the wrong woman.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A note about some not-so-factual facts in Compound Fractures: I take intentional liberties with geography, time, and jurisdiction in this book. Although readers outside Boulder County are unlikely to notice anything amiss, be forewarned that if you find yourself in need of law enforcement help near Eldorado Springs, the person who shows up to lend a hand will likely be an employee of the county, not the city of Boulder.

  I have tried to present the early twentieth-century history of Eldorado, and especially that of Ivy Baldwin’s remarkable accomplishments, with a nod to the truth. I apologize in advance for errors or omissions. Any mistakes are mine.

  The staff of the Carnegie Branch Library for Local History provided assistance navigating the library’s collection, as well as with that of the Boulder Historical Society. Philippe Petit, funambulist extraordinaire, inspired me to rediscover Ivy Baldwin. M. Petit also graciously permitted me to include a quote from his poetic On the High Wire.

  For their help with this book, I thank Jessica Renheim for her guidance and patience, and Robert Barnett for his representation and for his wise counsel.

  Jane Davis has long managed my presence on the Web, but I’ve come to rely on her instincts and judgment about my work and about crime fiction. Invaluable is an overused word, but it describes Jane. Elyse Morgan and Nancy Hall each brought a sharp eye and a sharp pencil to the manuscript. I am, as always, grateful for being saved from myself.

  Compound Fractures marks the end of an accidental, unlikely series of crime novels. Although I am tempted to thank again everyone who was instrumental in assisting me over the last twenty-two years, I won’t. Please know that the appreciation and affection I have already expressed has only deepened with time.

  I close the series cognizant that I have the opportunity to write these final lyrics of acknowledgment because, at a time when my dreams required angels, a few people believed in me. The list of early advocates started with Patricia Limerick and the late Jeffrey Limerick. Their faith propelled my first manuscript—unagented, unsolicited—into the hands of the man who became my mentor and guide on this journey, Al Silverman. Dozens—no, hundreds—of writers will attest to what an extraordinary editor and publishing professional Al is, and I am thrilled to lend my voice to any chorus that sings praises about his skills or the quality of his character. But as the twenty-book adventure we started together comes to a conclusion, I find that I am primarily grateful that I still get to call Al my friend.

  Two other groups of believers from those early days proved essential: the independent booksellers who hand-sold the first book, and the readers who took a blind-faith flier on a debut novel by an unknown guy with the misfortune of being born with a pseudonym. My deep gratitude to all. Without you, I am not here today.

  I’VE WRITTEN ALMOST EVERY one of the ten thousand plus pages of this series alone, with a dog or two at my side. Working in isolation for so long has been possible for me because my family has been there when I step away from the keyboard. I have relied on and treasured their support and love while I’ve pursued this solitary passion.

  From my heart, with my love, mahalo.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Stephen White is a clinical psychologist and New York Times bestselling author of nineteen previous suspense novels, including Line of Fire, The Last Lie, The Siege, and Dead Time. He lives in Colorado.

  For more information, please visit authorstephenwhite.com.