Burn Out

by Marcia Muller

  “Are you licensed therapists?”

  “No, just amateurs who’ve learned from our past mistakes.”

  So they couldn’t legally claim therapist-client confidentiality.

  “Ms. McCone,” Dana Ivins said, “what is your interest in Amy Perez?”

  I told her the same story I’d told Bud Smith, explaining my relationship to the Perez family.

  “I see.” She pushed away from her desk and swiveled slightly to her left, toward the front window that overlooked the street. “Are you sure Amy is missing?”

  I wasn’t. Right at this moment she could be with Ramon and Sara, but some instinct made me doubt that. I’d formed a tentative connection with the young woman the first time I looked into her eyes in the Food Mart parking lot, and it had been strengthened by the fear and defiance I saw in them after Boz Sheppard threw her out of his truck.

  I said, “She didn’t contact her family about Hayley or go to work today.” Then I described my encounter with Amy alongside the highway.

  Dana Ivins took off her glasses and chewed thoughtfully on one earpiece, still looking toward the window. “I knew your husband’s first wife. Julie was a wonderful person; in spite of her health problems, she did a lot for the community. After she died, I was sure Hy was done for—the environmental protesting with a nasty edge, being thrown into one jail after another. Then, because of another special woman, he settled down. That, apparently, was you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m inclined to trust you. And I will tell you about Amy Perez.”

  Amy, Dana Ivins said, was highly intelligent but struggled with low self-esteem. “Her home life is chaotic—it’s not easy being the daughter of the town slut. I know, because that’s what my own mother was. Amy’s response was the same as mine: she dropped out of school and set about creating the kind of life she thought she deserved, which included alcohol, drugs, and bad choices when it came to boyfriends. She was arrested once for underage drinking and put in an alcohol education program, which did no good whatsoever. There was another arrest for possession of marijuana, but the charges were dismissed because the quantity was so small and Amy claimed it must have been her mother’s.”

  “Great family dynamics working there.”

  “I’m inclined to think she was telling the truth: the jacket she was wearing belonged to Miri. Anyway, the home situation became intolerable. Amy stopped living there, began moving from one boyfriend’s place to another’s. She had two abortions in as many years. The boyfriends invariably abused her and then threw her out. When she came to us, she was squatting in one of the cabins at Willow Grove Lodge.”

  “And how did she come to you?”

  Dana Ivins smiled. “Very directly, if unintentionally. I went to my car one morning and found her passed out in the backseat. If there was ever a candidate for Friends Helping Friends, Amy was the prototype. I woke her and took her into the house. Got her cleaned up—she’d thrown up on herself—and loaned her a pair of my sweats. We talked.”

  “And then . . . ?”

  “I found her a place to stay with a friend who rents out rooms. Talked the manager of Food Mart into taking her on part time as a shelf stocker. And she began to work on getting her GED. She stayed clean and sober and didn’t see any of her old boyfriends. But then she started to backslide.”

  “When?”

  “It’s difficult to pinpoint, because it was subtle at first. A month ago? Maybe even six weeks. At first she’d miss scheduled appointments, but she always had a good excuse. Then she slacked off on her work for the GED. She kept working at Food Mart, but the manager told me her attitude wasn’t good. And finally she moved out of her room at my friend’s house without giving any notice.”

  “To go where?”

  Ivins shook her head. “My friend didn’t know. When I asked Amy, she said she’d moved home because her mother needed her. But she never would have done that; she hates Miri.”

  “People like Miri are good at emotional blackmail. Maybe—”

  “No. Amy had come too far for that. I know; I’ve been there. Besides, I could tell she was lying. When she lies she gives it away by letting her eyes slide away from yours so they’re looking at your left earlobe.”

  Everybody, except for the most accomplished sociopath, has some mannerism that gives him or her away in a lie. Not every lie, but if the stress level is high enough, it’ll manifest itself. I’ve seen it thousands of times: eye movement, facial tics, changes in vocal pitch, tapping fingers, crossing and recrossing of legs—you name it. Once you pinpoint it, you have a better tool than a lie detector.

  “When was the last time you saw Amy?” I asked.

  “At least a week ago.”

  “And how did she seem?”

  “I didn’t really speak with her. She was stocking the bins in the produce area at Food Mart, and I was in the checkout line.”

  “This was someone you’d been counseling and had cause to be concerned about, and you—”

  “One of the philosophies of our organization is that the clients must be motivated to come to us; otherwise the process doesn’t work.”

  I wasn’t so sure that was such a good approach, but then, I had no real background in their brand of therapy. Look at how miserably my own recent attempt had failed. “Okay, the time before that . . . ?”

  “Weeks before. Amy came here, and we talked in the parlor. She was having trouble with one of her GED courses—algebra—and it was frustrating her. I’m no whiz at math myself, so I advised her to reread the materials and go slowly. I told her if she was still having trouble, I’d locate someone who could tutor her.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes. I referred her to Bud Smith. Anyone who can figure out insurance-rate tables should be able to explain algebra.”

  But Smith hadn’t mentioned that to me when he spoke of Amy.

  “Did she contact him?”

  “I don’t know. I never heard from her again.”

  Bud Smith’s office was closed. A sign on the inside of the door said he wouldn’t return till two. I considered my options, then headed for Zelda’s for a burger and a beer, where the owner, Bob Zelda, and I caught up on our personal current events. Afterward I went back to Smith’s office. The sign still said back at two, but he wasn’t there.

  The provisions I’d bought for the Perezes’ casserole had been sitting in the Land Rover too long; I drove back to the ranch and cooked. The process of grating cheese, slicing ham and mushrooms, and blending a sauce soothed me. I put the casserole in the oven along with a smaller one for my own dinner, set the timer, and went to the living room to read. After a few pages I dozed off in the comfy oversized chair. It was almost time for the casserole to come out when the phone woke me.

  Sara. “Sharon, how are you?”

  “Doing splendidly, thanks to you. How’s Miri?”

  “Going through the d.t.’s. The seventy-two-hour hold is still on; they want to evaluate her and recommend treatment.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “It’s happened before, and nothing’s worked.” She paused. “Ramon wants to talk to you.”

  Ramon sounded weary. “You’re all right?”

  “Yes. Did you talk with the sheriff’s deputy about Hayley while you were up there?”

  “Yeah. There’s somebody new in charge of the case—Kristen Lark.”

  “So she’s still with the department. How come I didn’t see her at the scene the other night?”

  “You know her?”

  “From a long time ago.”

  “Well, she was on vacation. Got handed the case this morning.”

  “If you like, I can contact her and try to find out more about the investigation.”

  “Sharon, you’re up here for a vacation—”

  “It’s no problem. I just fell asleep reading. I think I’m getting bored.”

  “Well, then . . .”

  “Ramon, have you heard from Amy?”


  “Uh-uh. Don’t know where she’s gone off to and, frankly, I’m worried. Her sister’s murder has been all over the news; she should’ve called us by now.”

  “Did Lark ask you about her?”

  “No. Why?”

  “She probably will.” I explained about the life-insurance policy.

  Ramon groaned. “Little Amy. She couldn’t’ve—”

  “No, I don’t think so. But I’m worried about her, too.” To change the subject, I told him about the casserole I’d made and said I’d bring it over.

  “Sharon, thank you. Sara’s in the kitchen trying to defrost some chicken in the microwave, but it’s not going so good. But don’t bother to bring the casserole over; I’ll come get it when I feed Lear Jet.”

  “No, let me feed him and then bring the food over.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.

  “You sure you want to?”

  I couldn’t back down now. “Yes.”

  “Okay. But take him a couple of pieces of carrot if you have any. Treats are the best way to make friends with a horse.”

  The horse was in his stall, looking dejected. I approached cautiously, and he whickered. When I offered the first piece of carrot, he looked at it for a moment, then reached forward and gently took it from my fingers. I waited, then offered one more. Again he was gentle.

  “I’ll feed you in a minute,” I told him. “I suppose I should clean your stall, but I’d better leave that to Ramon. Tell the truth, I’m afraid of you.”

  The horse regarded me solemnly.

  “Who spooked you?”

  Lear shifted his feet, thrust his head forward. And then he nuzzled my hand. After a moment’s hesitation, I stroked his nose. He nuzzled some more. Probably hungry, I thought.

  I fed him and left to deliver the casserole to Ramon and Sara.

  This dozing off is dreadful.

  It was the first thought that came to me when I woke an hour after I’d eaten and sat down to read the book I’d been trying to get through for over a week. I’d dreamed. . . .

  Not of the pit or Amy this time—something else, a line of poetry over and over again. It still reverberated in my mind. . . .

  I tossed the paperback on the floor. To hell with the former alcoholic and his non-midlife crisis!

  In the kitchen I grabbed the keys to the Land Rover from the counter, took down the shearling jacket from its peg in the mudroom. Then, heeding an instinct I’d many times before recognized to be sound, I went to the bedroom, where we kept a .45 automatic—Hy’s weapon of choice—in a locked cabinet. Checked its clip. Put it in the jacket’s deep pocket, and set out for Willow Grove Lodge.

  Home is the place where . . .

  The line from Robert Frost’s “Death of a Hired Man” was what had echoed in my dream and now filled my mind as I drove.

  Amy hadn’t had a real home in years—maybe ever—but Willow Grove Lodge, where Dana Ivins had said she’d been squatting in one of the cabins, was the place she’d be most likely to return to after giving up her rented room. And it was only a short way up the highway from where Boz Sheppard had pushed her out of his truck.

  I pulled into the driveway there, coasted down the slope, and cut off the headlights as I tucked the Land Rover out of sight behind the main building. Dark and silent there, no lights showing in any of the cabins, not even exterior security spots. I leaned over to take a powerful flashlight from the pocket behind the seat.

  The outside air was chill. The moon had waned, but when I looked up I saw a thick cluster of stars that were part of the Milky Way. The wind rustled the leaves of the cottonwoods and willows. I began walking upslope to the lodge’s entrance.

  It was solidly padlocked, the windows secured by shutters. I walked around the main building, shining my light, then went to the first of the cabins, the one where I’d stayed years ago. Also padlocked and shuttered. Silver phosphorescent letters were sprayed on the wall next to the door: APRIL & KEITH 4 EVER.

  I wished the couple luck, whoever they were.

  I shone my light around, picking out the shapes of the other cabins. If I were going to squat here, I’d choose one far from the road, but not too near the lake, where passing boaters might spot evidence of my presence. A tiny one-room cabin surrounded by trees stood right over there, not thirty yards away. There was no outward sign of habitation, but that didn’t mean anything. Amy would hardly make a fire in the woodstove or open the shutters if she didn’t want to be detected.

  Slowly I moved toward the cabin, flashlight in my left hand, right hand on the .45. I doubted Amy would be any threat to me, but if someone, say Boz Sheppard, was with her—

  Screech!

  I started, heard the flapping of wings. An owl speeding away with its prey.

  Laughing softly at my edginess, thinking of how such a sound wouldn’t begin to penetrate my consciousness in the city, I went ahead toward the cabin.

  The shutters were secure, and there was a hasp and padlock on the door, but when I touched the lock, it swiveled open. I removed it quietly, slid back the hasp, eased open the door—

  A dark figure rushed at me. I tried to dodge, but the person came on too fast, hunched over, head slamming into my chest so hard that I expelled my breath with a grunt and reeled backward. My feet skidded on the layer of slippery fallen leaves. And down I went on my ass.

  Stunned, I took a few seconds to realize that my assailant had run off, was thrashing around in the dark grove. I pushed up, and—holding the gun in both hands—ran toward the source of the sounds. My breath tore at my lungs and sharp pains spread out from my tailbone.

  Suddenly the sounds stopped.

  I stopped, too, looking around. Nothing moved. The only thing I could hear was my own panting.

  Whoever it is, they’re hiding. That’s all right; I can wait them out.

  I crept over to a thick tree trunk, leaned against it, getting my breathing under control. My lower back throbbed, and so did my head. What if I really had sustained a concussion last night, and my heavy fall to the ground had made it worse?

  It was frigid under the trees: I could see my breath. Staying still was an invitation to frostbite. After a few minutes I moved in the direction where I’d last heard the thrashing sounds, placing my feet carefully, as silently as possible. I’d dropped my flashlight back at the cabin, but that didn’t matter; using it would have given away my position.

  The woods are lovely, dark and deep. . . .

  Frost again. But these woods weren’t lovely. They were silent, full of potential hazards.

  The hell with it.

  I retraced my steps to the cabin, where I located the flash and shone it through the open door.

  What I saw made me raise the .45.

  More wreckage like that at Boz Sheppard’s trailer: overturned furniture, broken glass, linens pulled from the bed, pillows and mattress slashed, drawers in the tiny galley kitchen emptied. A door to the bathroom stood partway open.

  I slipped inside and across the room. In the bath I found more broken glass and a torn shower curtain, its pole slanting down into the tub. The lid of the toilet had been removed and smashed on the floor. Otherwise the cubicle was as empty as the main room.

  No one here, dead or alive.

  I tried the light switch beside the bathroom door. No power, of course. My flash’s beam was strong, but it wouldn’t allow me to examine the place thoroughly. Besides, that was a matter for the sheriff’s department.

  I moved back into the other room. Stepped on something soft. When I looked closely I saw it was the quilted jacket Amy had been wearing the day Sheppard had thrown her out of the truck. My light illuminated other objects that had been strewn around: T-shirts, costume jewelry, makeup, jeans, underwear, other teenage-girl attire.

  And on the wall above them, a blood spatter.

  I leaned against the Land Rover, bundled in the shearling coat, watching Lark’s team examining what she’d termed a “possible crime scene.
” For a remote county that was probably operating on an insufficient salary budget, the deputies seemed well coordinated and knowledgeable. I’d seen less thorough initial investigations in the city. Not that that was any surprise: the SFPD has been through up-and-down cycles as long as I’ve lived there.

  Lark finally approached me—a slender woman in her mid-thirties with blonde curls, worn long now, and freckles on her upturned nose. We’d spoken only briefly when she arrived and entered the cabin, not at all since her backup showed minutes later.

  Now she said, “McCone, this scene looks bad. The place was tossed, there’s blood in the main room, the girl’s gone, and you say she’s Hayley Perez’s sister. How come you came here?”

  “Someone told me—”

  A man called out to Lark, and she held up a finger. “My forensics guy wants me. When I’m done with him, I’m going off duty. Let’s meet at Zelda’s, knock back a couple, and you can tell me what I need to know.”

  The cavernous interior of Zelda’s was strangely quiet for a Thursday night. A couple of late diners lingered over coffee in the room to the left, and only a few drinkers gathered at the bar. Bob Zelda was absent—he’d told me he’d turned over the weekday-evening shifts to his son Jamie; Bob worked the weekends because he liked to listen to the country-music bands he employed.

  I took one of the tables by the lakeside windows in the bar area and waited for Kristen Lark to arrive. After ten minutes I went to the bar and got a glass of white wine. Sipping it, I realized why I usually ordered beer at Zelda’s. Five minutes later Lark came through the door.

  She pointed questioningly to my half-full glass. I shook my head, and she went to the bar; a minute later she was seated across from me with her own drink—a double bourbon.