Chapter 16
After nearly an hour of searching through the news articles and websites that the search engine had discovered, Ashe rode both the highs of irritation and lows of self-punishment. He thought about his wife. He thought about how much he honestly missed her, even after all the years she had been gone. And he also thought about Steven Reynolds, a man that he had never met face-to-face, yet had changed his life in more ways than could be imaged by the human mind. Steven Reynolds was a man that seemed to exist in the shadows of Ashe’s worst fears and nightmares. The man existed in that place side by side with his grief and blame, emotions that he has been fighting for 4 years. The blame for what happened was with the psychologist and it will always remain there.
Taking his hands from the computer’s keyboard, Ashe rubbed his eyes, which felt dry and strained. Why had Franklin Barrett mentioned Steven Reynolds? Was it simply a way to get into his head, to lash out? Or were there other motives behind the words? Was he sending a message? Did Steven Reynolds put him up to it? What happened to Susanne was not a mystery by any means, however, and once the anger had subsided he became suspicious. Anyone could do a Google search, as he had just performed, and pull up information.
Was that it? Or not? How could he be sure?
Once it was determined that Franklin Barrett was going to be sent to Wilson, there was no doubt that he would be in Ashe’s office at least once, especially considering the circumstances of the crime. Steven Reynolds might have considered this a chance to remind Ashe that he still thought of him and the unfinished business that may still exist between them.
Was there still unfinished business? No. If anyone was even, they were. In fact, Ashe felt that he still owed Mr. Reynolds a little more from his end. Even? Not really, he figured. Ashe would love to see the son of a bitch tied to the back of truck and drug down a gravel road until his flesh began to tear from his bones. The truck would only stop when a bloody, mangled corpse was all that remained.
Even? Not even close. At least not in the mind of the psychologist. But did Steven Reynolds feel the same? Was he sending a warning, letting Ashe know that he wanted another pound of flesh?
Paranoid thoughts of conspiracies and plots swirled around Ashe’s brain, but he quickly and swiftly calmed the cyclone. Assumptions and anxiety would get him nowhere but in the visiting chair on the other side of the desk. He had nothing but the words of a convicted criminal, murderer of his own wife and son. He knew better than to let them wreak havoc on his less than stable mind. Barrett would say anything to get back at Ashe. The psychologist had tried to get him to face his demons and the violent death of his family by his own hands. It opened wounds. Wide. And then a pound of salt was dumped into the cracks. The psychologist forced himself to see the words as nothing but an empty threat, said to him by a pathetic human being. They didn’t mean shit.
He closed out the internet browser. He then clicked on an icon that brought up his schedule for the rest of the day. Some days were packed, crammed with meetings and interviews and sessions, but luckily that Wednesday was lacking in the usual clutter. Normally, Ashe would fill those free moments with research or business calls, because no psychologist could properly assess or diagnose or even treat a patient or client or inmate off the top of his head, he didn’t care what faulty television programs wanted their viewers to believe. It involved a lot of man hours over top of a book or in front of a computer screen or on the phone.
But that wasn’t to be how the rest of his morning played, Ashe concluded.
Ashe glanced at Scott’s dream journal again. He began to fume. While Oscar and the other members of the YPD force were actively following leads, all he had was a journal of dreams and a mystery powder at the bottom of a lipstick container. He suddenly felt foolish. He didn’t want to decipher dreams. He didn’t want black and gold containers. He wanted solid witnesses and evidence. He wanted to stand beside Oscar while they searched for his son…together. But he didn’t have that. And it was pissing him off.
Reopening the internet browser, Ashe made a quick search and retrieved a phone number. The psychologist jotted it down on a small yellow sticky note. He then folded the paper and stuck it in the pockets of his pants. Grabbing his brown carrying case, he packed up his laptop and all the files pertaining to Franklin Barrett. He might want to look them over again, later on. He looked hard at the dream journal. Instead of opening it up, Ashe tossed it into his leather satchel and got up from his chair. He was not going to sit at his desk any longer. He had to be careful, but there were things he could do, thing he needed to be doing. He had to begin the actions that might lead him to something solid, something real. These things, he knew, were not at his desk.
He rushed out of his cage.
Ashes to Ashes Page 17
