Child Of The Night

by Lee Karr

  Her apartment was on the twelfth floor of a high-rise apartment near downtown Denver. She had a spectacular view of the front range of the Rocky Mountains stretching across the western horizon and she loved watching the ever-changing panorama of colors and clouds playing upon wooded hillsides and jagged peaks.

  The apartment was small but it was home, and she had become content living alone. Her live-in affair with the handsome Dr. Ken Roderick seemed a lifetime ago. His unfaithfulness had been devastating, and she had thought she’d carry the emotional scars for years. But twelve months ago she’d left California and settled in Denver where, much to her surprise, she rarely even thought about Ken anymore. When she did, it was with a neutral detachment.

  Once inside the apartment, Tyla kicked off her shoes, poured a glass of white wine and went out on her small balcony. Denver’s skyline stretched out before her, tall buildings at its center and sprawling urban growth to the west, where the jagged mountains cupped the city. Even though the late afternoon in early June was soft and refreshing, the vista of mountains and sky failed to soothe her the way the scene usually did.

  Sighing, she sat down in a deck chair, stretched her long legs out in front of her and leaned back. She tried to relax but for some reason she couldn’t put the brief encounter with Clay Archer out of her mind.

  Professional apprehension wasn’t like her. She knew her job. Recognized as a successful clinical psychologist who could bring about positive changes in a child’s personality and behavior, she’d worked with difficult parents many times but had never experienced such conflicting emotions about a case before. Something about Clay Archer threw her completely off stride. She had felt hostility and negative vibes when she talked to him, and when he was leaving, a dark presentiment had engulfed her. She shivered, remembering the cold, penetrating ugliness.

  As a child, she’d often picked up messages before they were delivered through normal channels. She told her parents who was going to call before the telephone rang and often predicted an unexpected letter before it arrived in the mail. Always close to her father, she’d grown up with a close psychic bond between them. She’d experienced a shattering telepathic shock the day a train accident claimed her parents’ lives. At the time of the train derailment, she’d been bombarded with cries of pain. She knew something horrible had happened even before the tragedy was announced over the news. Never again would she willingly open herself to that kind of devastation.

  Tyla sighed as she thought about the little girl who’d solemnly told her that Jimmy shouldn’t play with matches. How much of Cassie’s insecurity, fears, frustration and anger were linked to the way her family had reacted to her psychic abilities? Tyla’s thoughts whirled with speculation. She’d never been drawn into a case so quickly. She would need all the expertise at her command to handle this one.

  She wasn’t hungry but she forced herself to eat. After a simple meal consisting of tired leftovers, she showered and brushed her straight dark hair until it fell in a soft frame around her face. She stood in front of her closet a long time, trying to decide what to wear for her evening appointment. She finally chose white summer slacks and a soft yellow blouse, and added a linen jacket to give her outfit a tailored look.

  When she gave herself the once-over in the mirror, she debated whether or not wearing a dress would be better. Take it easy, gal, she schooled herself. Who are you trying to impress? Not Clay Archer, she told herself. Remembering the way his brazen look had assessed her from head to toe, she doubted if any woman could impress the arrogant, conceited Mr. Archer.

  As she put some papers in her briefcase, her mind continued to sift through the data she had already gleaned in the case. The grandmother didn’t like Clayton Archer. That much was obvious from the short conversation she’d had with Harriet Millard.

  Tyla’s hand wavered slightly as she closed the latch on her case. Was the nervous tightening in her stomach due to apprehension…or something else? Was she identifying too closely with the child? Maybe she should turn the case over to someone else. Reluctantly she admitted the truth. Clay Archer fascinated her, and she wanted to explore the secret thoughts that lingered behind those compelling eyes.

  She sighed as she walked to the door. Her mother always had accused her of foolishly tempting fate.

  Chapter 3

  Tyla kept looking at her watch. Seven-thirty came and went. At five minutes to eight, she was ready to lock her office door and walk out of the building. If she’d been waiting for any other client, she would have been so busy catching up on her case studies that the time would have passed without her notice, but she found that Clay Archer’s tardiness built emotions that wavered from uneasiness to anger.

  A nervous warmth made her discard her jacket. Once again she wondered if the soft yellow blouse and white slacks had been a good choice. Oh, what did it matter! She shoved back her chair, picked up some folders and filed them in a corner cabinet. She slammed the drawer shut and instantly chided herself for such childish behavior.

  She turned around and there he was. He moved through the doorway with a tension that snapped like a live electric wire. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  The force of his presence filled the room. He stopped in front of her desk, and for a long moment his eyes stabbed her with such intensity that she put her hands on the back of her office chair to steady herself. She drew in a deep breath. “I was about to give up on you.”

  The heat of his nearness radiated across the desk. He had changed into dark pants and a knit pullover. The casual attire added to the male magnetism of his welltoned body. “There was an emergency…with Cassie.”

  “An emergency?” His words broke the mesmerizing spell that had nearly destroyed her professional bearing. Her voice was surprisingly strong and firm as she asked, “What happened?”

  She had the impression that he was carefully orchestrating what he was going to say. The muscles in his lean cheeks tightened. “I’m not sure exactly.”

  “Shall we sit down?” She motioned toward the furniture arranged to encourage conversation. Unless she handled the situation deftly, she’d have little chance of getting anything but superficial responses to her questions. Intelligent and shrewd, a successful financier like Clay Archer wouldn’t be unwarily led into any confidences. He gave every impression that he was used to being in control, and if the interview was going to be of any value, she’d have to quickly lower his guard. She’d never had a session that held so many challenges. Her intense physical awareness of him only added to the heightened need to conduct the session on a strictly professional level.

  She took her usual chair, and he sat down on the end of the sofa nearest her, almost in the same place where Cassie had sat so rigidly that afternoon. His dark blue eyes appraised her, traveling from her face, full breasts and narrow waist down the lines of her white slacks that molded the shape of her long legs. There was only a slight flicker of his eyelids as his gaze came back to her face.

  There was an undeniable resemblance between father and daughter, thought Tyla. The same penetrating, deep-set eyes, the same guarded hostility in their body language. Once more she felt the building urgency that had assaulted her at their first meeting. Why didn’t he say something that would give her an opening?

  Take it slow, she cautioned herself, and leaned back against her chair, pretending a relaxation she didn’t feel. Success depended upon masking her own impatience and letting him set the pace. Demanding information from him would only throw up a barrier as strong as a brick wall.

  She waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, she nodded to a coffeepot and cups she’d placed on the coffee table earlier. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  He shook his head. The muscles in his taut cheeks tightened, and a deep furrow appeared above the bridge of his nose as if he were being pulled in two directions, caught between a reluctance to speak and a need to share his worries with her. Suddenly he met her eyes directly. “I don’t understand my daug
hter.”

  That’s a start, she thought. She casually picked up her notebook and pen from a small end table before looking at him expectantly. His eyes narrowed as they fixed on the notebook, and his mouth tightened. Whatever he was about to say never left his lips. For a moment she had the impression that he was about to get to his feet and walk out of the room. Her heartbeat quickened. She’d better get control of the situation, and fast.

  “I believe I’ll have some coffee,” she said casually, not looking at him, but she was conscious of a widening distance between them. Leaning forward, she deliberately placed the notebook on the coffee table and poured herself a cup of coffee. She leaned back in her chair and, after taking a sip of the hot liquid, she repeated evenly, “You don’t understand your daughter.”

  He glanced at the notebook still lying on the table. As if reassured that the climate of the situation had somehow changed to his satisfaction, he shifted his long legs and settled back against the cushions.

  “I was getting ready to leave tonight and she threw herself at me like a wildcat, scratching and screaming.” His eyes narrowed as if wincing with pain. He seemed to visibly crumple before her eyes, and then the impression faded as quickly as it had come. A flash of tensile strength hardened the jut of his jaw. “She’s been like that since her mother died. I’ve tried to do my best, but her behavior has become impossible. She’s not the same child at all.”

  Tyla knew that death affected children in a lot of different ways. One child might easily accept the religious concept of a loved one having gone to heaven to live with the angels while another would be filled with terror and obsessed with questions like “Why do people die?”

  Tyla had worked with a child who was afraid to go to sleep after her grandmother died, because she was convinced that the same thing would happen to her. Taking catnaps during the day, the little girl refused to go to bed at night. Her exhausted parents were beside themselves when they brought her to Tyla. Once the fear was verbalized by the child, Tyla was successful through therapy in eliminating the obsession. If the death of Cassie’s mother caused personality change, the little girl must have been traumatized by it in some way.

  “I understand your wife was killed in a car accident.” The information on Cassie’s records had been confined to empirical data.

  He nodded.

  “How long ago?”

  “About eight months.” Shadows darkened his eyes to almost black. He sighed. “Lynette and I had gone to a party. A fancy dress affair at the Regal Hotel. Some charity bash. I didn’t want to go, but Lynette raised enough hell that I finally agreed. Most of the time she was happy to choose among several attentive and willing escorts.” He gave Tyla a pointed look and seemed to weigh how much he should say. “We hadn’t had a real marriage for a long time.”

  “I see.” Tyla took another sip of coffee and waited, mentally making notes. A marriage in name only? Not a healthy atmosphere for a sensitive child like Cassie, especially if the little girl had witnessed a lot of quarrels between her parents. Was Clay relieved to be out of an unhappy situation? Had both of them agreed to have other relationships? Did he feel guilty about what had happened? “You went to the party,” Tyla offered. “And what happened?”

  “About ten o’clock Lynette picked another fight, accusing me of hiding out in the bar so I wouldn’t have to spend any time with her.” His mouth tightened as if the memory of the scene was churning his insides. “Lynette never lacked for attention. But she was right, I had deliberately made myself scarce and left her to her own devices. Anyway we exchanged words, and she flounced out of the bar, took the car and left.”

  Tyla heard the strain in his voice. Guilt, remorse and anger were all there. He leaned forward and stared at the floor. “She must have driven up Clear Creek Canyon to cool off. I was in the hotel bar about midnight when the police came and told me that her car had gone off the road and she’d been killed.”

  “Receiving such horrifying and unexpected news like that must have been devastating,” she offered quietly, watching his long, dexterous fingers tighten. He seemed lost in a labyrinth of dark thoughts, and she waited for a long moment before she murmured, “A terrible shock.”

  He straightened, and from the set of his mouth she knew that he wasn’t going to talk any more about his marriage or the night his wife was killed. He reached over and poured himself a cup of coffee. When he added two packets of creamer, she automatically made a note of it. Then she smiled inwardly. Not exactly the kind of relevant data a clinical psychologist needed to record. Deftly she led the conversation back to Cassie. “Until her mother’s death, Cassie’s behavior had not been troubling?”

  “Not as far as I was concerned. We got along fine. Oh, the usual discipline problems.”

  “What kind?”

  “Oh, you know…wanting to stay up after bedtime…refusing to eat anything but junk food. Most of the time nothing important.”

  “But other times?”

  His expression was grim. “Lynette used the child as a pawn when the situation suited her. And she caused Cassie to develop some bad habits.”

  “Bad habits?”

  “Lying. My wife was a pathological liar.”

  The flat statement took Tyla by surprise. When he didn’t qualify or expand the accusation, she asked evenly, “What kind of lies did your wife tell?”

  “You name it.” He gave an impatient gesture with his expressive hands. “All kinds. Big and little. It didn’t matter. Lynette made a game out of lying. She’d buy things…and lie about the cost. Go one place and claim she’d been somewhere else. Even when I caught her in some preposterous tale, she’d shrug and laugh as if she’d played a joke on me. Even when her lies turned ugly, she wouldn’t stop.”

  The word ugly jumped out at Tyla. What did Clay mean by that term? She wanted to dig further, get some specifics and ask some questions that would clarify the statement, but she knew better than to confront him directly. “Did Lynette ever get professional help?” she asked, hoping that he’d reveal more of what he meant.

  “Without any positive results,” he answered curtly.

  “Then she did undergo therapy?”

  He shrugged. “If that’s what you want to call it. Lynette flitted from one psychiatrist to another, but her behavior never changed. I could see that Cassie was beginning to follow in her mother’s footsteps. My daughter doesn’t know the truth from fiction. You can’t believe half of what she says.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t,” he flared, and put his cup down on the coffee table with such force that the liquid spilled over the side. “I can tell from your tone that you’ve already decided that I don’t know my own child.”

  “That’s not true.”

  He ignored her denial. “You’ve spent one hour with her. Don’t sit there and tell me you have some marvelous insight into Cassie or her problems.”

  Tyla chose her words carefully. “It’s true that I’ve only seen Cassie in one session, and I will need a great deal more time for evaluation but—”

  “But you’re ready to offer your learned opinion and professional advice,” he finished abruptly. A sardonic twist touched his lips.

  He’s afraid. She could feel it. Like someone waiting to hear the results of a vital test, he was braced for what she might say about his daughter. She hesitated as she searched for the best way to approach his daughter’s extraordinary clairvoyance.

  “Don’t bother with a lot of psychological jargon, Dr. Templeton. I’m sure you’re very adept at phrasing the most unpleasant revelations in medical double-talk.”

  His aggressive manner didn’t cover up the hurt and desperation in his voice. Help me. Help my child.

  “Well?” he prodded, and she saw a cord in his neck tighten.

  “I wouldn’t presume to offer any in-depth analysis of Cassie’s emotional or mental state on the basis of one session. Lots of time will be needed to uncover slowly and with great care the depths of her ang
er and fears. Nevertheless, I’m confident enough in my assessment to ask you one question.”

  He glared at her, and once again she was aware of a disguised plea for help in his hostile tone. “And what would that be, Dr. Templeton?”

  She almost retreated because she had qualms about introducing an inflammatory subject when she didn’t know what his reaction would be. Maybe more time and more groundwork were needed. How much time? And what assurance did she have that any future session would be better? A persistent sense of urgency challenged her hesitation. She took a deep breath and locked her eyes with his. “Are you aware of any extraordinary psychic abilities that Cassie might possess?”

  If she’d hit him in the stomach, he would not have drawn in his breath any sharper. He just stared at her. She couldn’t tell if he was surprised at the question or the fact that she had already identified his daughter’s psychic powers.

  He quickly collected himself and gave a dismissing wave of his hand. “Like every family, we’ve had-some interesting coincidences. It’s amazing how some people are ready to put supernatural connotations on chance happenings.”

  “What kind of chance happenings?” Tyla prodded, relieved that he had responded instead of bluntly rejecting the question.

  “Nothing bordering on the occult, I assure you.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  He settled back against the cushions as if some of the tension had gone out of his bearing. “Well, I remember once when we were on a trip, Cassie piped up from the back seat that she was hungry. I explained that we were on an unfamiliar road and I didn’t know how far it was to an eating place.