The Book Doctor: A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  She puts up a fight, but her second wind is no match for mine. Deftly, I push her up against the wall and place my hand at her throat, my fingers holding her chin in place. “Do you want them to put you back in that place?” I scream, spittle coating her face. Not only am I angry, I’m hurt. And I’m tired. “Because if you want to kill me, that’s how you do it.”

  She glares at me through widened eyes as though I’m the crazy one.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” I say. “For fuck’s sake, Eve, you almost burned the house down. How many times are you going to do this before it ends up being the last?” I’m yelling in her face, years of white-hot anger spilling over.

  Tears spring to her eyes, but that means nothing. When Eve is in this dark of a place, nothing gets through to her.

  I shake my head slowly, careful to exaggerate my movements. I need the message to sink in, even if I know deep down it won’t. “We have to get you help.”

  Eve’s knees buckle and she slowly slides to the floor. The mania takes a toll on her. When she starts to come down, it often happens quickly.

  Her expression has morphed from a cornered animal to concern, her eyes softening and welling with tears. When she looks at me this way, it’s hard to believe what just happened. It’s as though she is seeing me for the very first time. “You’re going to send me back there, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not sending you anywhere—”

  She starts to weep—full-on sobs.

  “It’s just…we need more doctors. The medication isn’t working anymore.”

  “If only you didn’t have to make me so angry.”

  I look down the hall toward the front of the house and then back at my wife. “What is it now?”

  The sobbing stops just as quickly as it started. “You know I hate parties.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’m betting that the cut to the center of my foot is not a clean one. Under normal circumstances, there is no doubt this would warrant a trip to the ER. But with Eve locked in that room, and our houseguest God knows where, I don’t want to chance leaving her alone. That, and it’s my driving foot. Even if I could manage, it is one more variable I don’t need.

  I take a deep breath in and hold it. Then I peel back the dish towel to take a peek at the damage.

  Instantly I wish I hadn’t.

  I can see bone. Trying to assess the depth, I poke around a little bit. The flesh looks like raw meat, red and angry. Unfortunately, I was right: it’s a jagged cut. Eve likes to go for the bread knives. With six attempted suicides under her belt, she’s hardly a novice.

  They were supposed to be locked away and hidden, but I’m guessing she managed to sneak one past Joni yesterday as she prepared lunch.

  It’s not so bad, I tell myself, opening and closing the slit down the center of my foot. I pull the skin together taut, until it meets and hold it in place. I’ll just grab my fishing kit, down a couple of drinks, and hope for the best. With a little luck, it’ll turn out like any other night.

  After rewrapping my foot and securing the bandage in place, I hobble around the counter and flip on the monitor in Eve’s room. She walks in circles, fingers trailing the walls. When she reaches the door, she presses her ear to it and then jiggles the handle. Obviously, she knows it’s locked. Still, there is defeat written on her face.

  As I survey the mess, I comb the cabinets in search of the alcohol. I’m going to have to clean the wound and wrap it, temporarily, before stitching it up, just until I can get this place cleaned and restored to normal. Once the drinks start, anything goes, and the last thing I want is for Joni to walk into this tomorrow morning. She’s seen a few things in her time, for sure, but nothing to this extent.

  The following morning the doorbell rings early. Early enough that Joni hasn’t arrived, early enough that I haven’t even made it out of bed, much less downstairs. Liam’s car is parked in front of the cottage. He got back late; it was nearly 1:00 a.m. when his headlights pulled through the gate. I was still scrubbing the kitchen.

  I can’t imagine he’d be coming over to borrow milk at this hour, nor is his work ethic favorable to such an early start, which is how I come to the conclusion that it isn’t him.

  I’m not expecting anyone in particular, but I’m surely not expecting to open my front door to see uniformed officers staring back at me. Good God, what now?

  They look like Harry and Moe from The Three Stooges. The scene would be almost comical if it weren’t so early and I weren’t as hung over as I am. I can see on their faces that I am not what they were expecting either.

  “Morning, Mr. Dawson,” the shorter of the two says. He leans forward and balances on his toes before falling back on his heels.

  Pulling my robe around me tightly, I tie it in place. I’m sore all over, like I’ve been hit by a freight train as opposed to my five foot two inch wife. I’d hardly managed to pull the robe around my shoulders when I swung the door open. Aside from it being haphazardly thrown over me, I’m shirtless and in boxer briefs. My hair stands on end, and my busted lip is caked in dry blood. If the officers take offense to my appearance, they’re good at not showing it. “We wanted to speak with you about a boy who has gone missing.”

  “Goddamn it,” I say, looking past them, over their shoulders, out at the road. My mind flits to the kid with the dandelion. To his crooked smile and broken-down home. “Is he dead?”

  The two exchange a glance.

  “Why do you ask?”

  I shake my head. “I just assumed that’s why you’re here.”

  “Well, actually, we were hoping any information you can provide might help us determine his whereabouts.”

  I should have done something when I had the chance. I shouldn’t have taken the kid back there. “Have you checked with his father?”

  “We have. He shared with us that the boy had been upset over something you said.”

  “Huh?”

  “His father said there was some sort of misunderstanding…a joke or something that was made when you gave a talk at his school?”

  Rubbing at my temples, I exhale. He continues. “His parents said he seemed to perk up not long after the incident. Other than that—”

  “Other witnesses,” the tall cop pipes in, “have confirmed that you warned him he should be careful. Something about serial killers and whatnot.” He turns and looks around the yard. He clears this throat before turning back to me. “His father said the boy threatened to pay you a visit, he was that bothered.”

  “Really?” I swallow hard. This is the last thing I need right now. I say a dozen Hail Marys and then silently pray that I’m still fast asleep in my bed upstairs and that this is all a dream. It’s the only thing that comes close to making any sense. In front of me stand two cops inquiring about a missing kid. And here I am assuming I know who they are talking about, because it would take both my hands to count the number of times I’ve found him on the highway and have taken him home, only to realize we aren’t even talking about the same kid.

  The short guy looks at me all funny-like. “Mind if we come in?”

  “Actually, yes.” I glance over my shoulder. “My wife is still asleep and, as you can see, I’m not dressed.”

  The tall one fishes a card from his pocket. “Give me a call. We can set up a better time to chat.”

  With a nod, I take the card from his hand. I’ve written enough crime fiction to know better than to say anything more than what has to be said.

  Chapter Twenty

  I deliver Eve’s breakfast to her room: two dry pieces of toast and a protein bar. It’s probably not the breakfast of champions, but I don’t have much more in me. I doubt she’ll eat it anyhow.

  As I unlock the door and enter the room, she doesn’t stir. Sleeping in the fetal position, her dark hair matted around her head, she snores quietly. She almost looks peaceful. Better not to wake her.

  Softly I place the plate at her bedside and tiptoe toward the door. It r
eminds me of when the kids were young and would fall asleep in the car. I’d carry them to their beds, stealthily making my way down the hallway and into their rooms, moving heaven and earth, silently, praying they wouldn’t wake.

  It’s like this now as I decide to let Joni give Eve her meds later, making it clear that I can’t have Eve out of her room. Not today.

  Today I need to focus. My deadline is barreling down, speeding at me like a bullet train. On top of this I need to put in a call to Eve’s physician. And while I’m at it, I need to find some time to consider my predicament. If they don’t find the kid from the school, my life is about to become a little more unpredictable.

  I shove the sedatives into my pocket, pull the covers up around Eve’s shoulders, and lock her back in. Afterward, I retreat to my bedroom to shower, and by the time I have finished, Joni has arrived.

  Joining her in the kitchen, where I have cleaned the blood and reorganized everything that was upended in the struggle, we both notice that the smoke still lingers. We both sense that something is off.

  “Burned dinner last night,” I say as she peers at me over her thick- framed glasses.

  She cocks her head letting me know she doesn’t buy it. “I left the casserole in the fridge.”

  “Felt like eating something else,” I say. “Fried chicken.”

  She presses her lips together and then nods. She never comments on my personal life. She doesn’t have to. “How’s Eve?”

  Opening the refrigerator, I peer into the abyss. “Rough night.”

  “I can stay late,” she replies. “If you need me to. My daughter is with her father.”

  “That would be nice.” After grabbing a bottle of water, I go over and stand at the window. Liam is making his way up the drive toward the back door. I glance back over my shoulder. “Oh, and Joni—”

  She’s scrubbing at a grease stain on the stove I must have missed. She looks up. “Can you make sure Eve takes these just as soon as she’s up?”

  Joni looks down at the horse pills I have placed in her hand and then back up at me. “Sure thing.”

  Liam arrives late for work. He sits on the couch across from my desk and sulks. Aside from the sulking, even though I attempt conversation, he’s quiet and not his usual self. When I ask him about his trip into town, he finally spills the beans. He tells me the girl left. She went back to her fiancé.

  I don’t have the heart to tell him they usually do. He’s droning on: he’s not sure if he wants to stay here any longer; it’s terrible being out in the cottage all alone; he hates sleeping by himself. “You can’t imagine what it’s like,” he says, although he has to know I can. “This is severe emotional pain.”

  “It will pass.”

  He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “It took every ounce of will in me to get out of the bed and walk over here. You have no idea.”

  I give him a look that assures him I do. But I don’t say much. Mostly because he doesn’t let me get a word in edgewise. “If I’m not in love I cannot be happy.”

  “You’re one— maybe two—one night stands away from feeling better. Promise.” I tell him this, even though deep down I know it is not essentially true.

  “You can have all the pussy in the world, George, and still not be happy,” he retorts, looking affronted.

  “I bet most young men your age—hell, even the old ones, for that matter—would beg to differ.”

  “You know what it’s like being in my apartment in the city, in that cottage, to hear footsteps echoing down the hall and no one there? The spot in the bed next to you empty? Who could possibly be happy in a situation like that?”

  A lot of people stuck in unhappy marriages, I almost say. I keep my mouth shut because I know it won’t help, and I understand his point. Finally, I just shrug.

  “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

  “Love doesn’t care about right and wrong,” I say. “Love is blind.”

  He looks over at me with exhaustion written across his face and the kind of blanketed pain that tells me we’re never going to finish this book. “What am I going to do?” More than once, he sighs heavily. “How can I fix this?”

  Seeing how broken-up he is, how close to the deadline we are, I tell him the truth. “If you want her, you have to trap her.”

  “What?”

  God, this kid, he has so much to learn. He’s smart, but not nearly as smart as he thinks he is. “Why do you think we have so many animals hanging out in zoos?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Because they make money?”

  “We tell ourselves these animals cannot survive in the wild, but that’s a bit far-fetched, don’t you think? They’re animals, and instincts are very powerful.”

  “Yeah,” he says, and I can see he doesn’t get it. “But how can you make someone love you, if they don’t?”

  “You can make a person believe anything, Liam. After all, you’re a writer, aren’t you?”

  After lunch, which I eat with Liam in the formal dining room, he asks if I’d like to work outside on the balcony for a bit. It’s been a few days since I’ve felt the sun, and I could use a change of scenery. Fresh air will do us both some good.

  He brings along a small notepad, he paces the length of the space, stopping every once in a while to jot something down. He appears to feel better after our talk, which is good, because it meant he actually got some work done. At one point, he writes a beautiful line, proving grief can, in fact, be profitable. My heart still has her fingerprints on it, should she ever change her mind.

  “George?” He stops pacing and stares in my direction of the cottage.

  “Yeah.”

  “You asked me why I don’t write my own book. Remember?”

  Our eyes meet. “Yes.”

  “They won’t give me a book deal,” he says. “That’s why.”

  “It takes time. You’ll get there.”

  “You ever play sports?”

  I shake my head. “Never.”

  “Well, hopefully you’ll follow this analogy anyway.” He stuffs the notepad and pencil in his pocket and then gestures wildly with his hands. “Let’s say you play soccer and you’re great at defense. They say it’s your strong left foot. But you know you’d be really great as a forward just the same. Only because there’s no one better than you that can step up on defense, you don’t have a chance in hell at moving up the field.”

  “Okay?”

  “That’s why I haven’t written my own book.”

  “Perhaps,” I say, “you should stop being so damned good on the defensive end.”

  Later that afternoon, we’re wrapping things up, when on his way out, Liam stops inside the doorframe and turns back. His brow pinches together. “What happened to your face?”

  “We’ve been together all day and you’re just now asking me that?”

  “I was waiting for you to tell me.”

  “You’ll have to keep waiting, I’m afraid.”

  He looks partly amused and partly like he doesn’t really care one way or another. “Where’s Eve?”

  “She’s not feeling well.”

  “I see…” He shuffles from one foot to the other. “Maybe I could talk to her—you know, cheer her up.”

  “Maybe,” I lie. “By the way,” I say, scooting out from my desk. “Remember that kid at the school?”

  “Which one?

  “From my talk…the smartass.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re going to have to be more specific. There were a lot of smartasses. They’re teenagers, George.”

  “The one who stood up and said I was a hack.”

  “Oh, sure...” His eyes narrow. “I think.”

  Now that I can see for sure that he is lying, I glance back at my screen and add the item to my cart. For less than fifty bucks, I am about to become the proud owner of a Mobile-200 GPS tracker. The reviews look great—“A great tracker for cars and assets!”—not that I put too much weight into those.

  Nev
ertheless, according to the specs, it should serve the purpose for what I need. It appears easy enough to use and most importantly it touts a long battery life. Two to three weeks between charges. I should be rid of him by then. And I can track him straight from my dreaded phone, receiving real-time alerts if the tracker enters or exits an area, with updates to its location every thirty seconds.

  The toughest part will be finding the time to install the damn thing to the underside of his car, but I’m sure I can think of something.

  I could kick myself for letting Eve allow him to stay here—for not paying more attention to his comings and goings. I suppose I was too preoccupied with my own.

  “Earth to George—hello?” When I look up I can see that he is annoyed. Liam doesn’t like people who start things they don’t finish. “What about him?”

  “He’s missing.”

  “Oh.” He rubs at his chin as though the truth has just come to him. “Wait—the one you told you might be a serial killer and that he should watch his back? That kid?”

  “I didn’t say that last part.”

  His eyes don’t blink for forty seconds. At least. “Are you sure? You’d had a lot to drink.”

  “I’m sure. I checked the video. See for yourself. It’s all over the internet.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah.” I one-click the tracker. “Anyway, the cops came by. They’ll probably want to talk to you, seeing as how you were there with me.”

  “No problem.” He sighs. “You’ve got my number.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘The Book Doctor’

  Journal Entry

  I wasn’t ready for another, but everything happened so fast. When you love something, you don’t have to have a reason to do that thing. You enjoy it. It becomes second nature. Plain and simple. Like I said before, it’s like cake.