“Are you going to call him?” Lizzie asked, peering in the windows. “It’s locked.”
She shook her head. “I’m sure he’ll bring the key by tomorrow.”
“What about the urn? I don’t see it in here.”
“Knowing Neal, he probably took it with him for safekeeping. Like someone would want to steal a vase of ground-up bones.” She forced a light-hearted chuckle to hide the ugliness of the truth. The urn waited in the first stall of the truck stop bathroom where she’d abandoned it. She couldn’t tell Lizzie how good it felt to leave her mother behind. Or how bad.
“Oh my God,” Lizzie said, pointing inside the car. “That guy has it so bad for you. I feel sorry for him.” Clare pressed her face to the glass and followed Lizzie’s finger to the cup holder, where the ruby ring glinted in the streetlight. She suppressed a smile and shrugged.
“I should probably try to give it back. Nicely this time. Or sell it or something.” After Lizzie left, she’d find the spare car key and come back down. She would slip it back on her finger. That ring was hers. It always would be.
november 29, 1996
The answering machine picked up the first of Neal’s calls at 6 a.m., but Clare was already gone, halfway to San Quentin. She admired her hand on the wheel, relishing the contrast of the blood-red ruby against her skin. Though she would never admit it to Neal—to anyone—it made her proud to be claimed by someone. Someone painfully normal like Neal. It was a statement. Pretend Clare was lovable. If only she could hold on to her.
But already, real Clare was in charge. She’d set her alarm for 5 a.m., gotten dressed in darkness, and floored it to the prison. She usually spent at least ten minutes circling the rows to find a parking spot. Not today. A bare-bones staff handled Black Friday. Even Briggs had the day off. Clare imagined him camping out to be the first in line for a new TV or VCR. Maybe even a Nintendo 64, if he played video games. Of course he did.
She took the stairs to her office two at a time. The hallway deserted and pin-drop quiet, Fitzpatrick’s office dark. At her door, she paused. Looked right, then left. No one. She had every right to be here, but her flip-flopping stomach told her otherwise. She slipped inside, locking the door behind her. Fitzpatrick had cleaned out her notes folder on Wednesday, leaving it empty. It sent a hot knife of rage through the center of her, but she wouldn’t be distracted. Take that, Neal. She’d come for one thing.
Dumas’ file was stacked with the others at the corner of her desk. She opened it and flipped the pages with urgency. Each turn cranked her nerves, winding them a little tighter. What if Bonner took it out? Baited her here? Just when she convinced herself he was waiting outside the door, listening to her breathe, she found it.
In case of death notify: Eliza Dumas
She scrawled the address and phone number on a Post-it she buried in her pants pocket for later. Then she sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, relieved. It only lasted a moment until something else gnawed at her. An urge. An urge with sharp, determined teeth. It sank in and wouldn’t let go until she relented.
“Mullins, South Block. What can I do for you?”
“Uh, yes. Hi. This is Dr. Keely. I was wondering if you could send an inmate to my office.”
“Today?”
“Yes. Right now.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at home eating leftovers, Doc?”
Clare laughed. “Probably. But I need to see Clive Cullen. He’s in 128 Low. It’s important.”
“Alright. I’ll send him over. Happy Thanks—”
She dropped the phone in its cradle before he could finish and stood up, her legs shaking a little. It’s fine, she assured herself. A legitimate request. Cullen would know if the inmates were talking. He would tell her if her theory about Dumas made sense. Their cellblocks were close. Maybe they knew each other. Asking an inmate for advice was definitely not on the list of professional behaviors, even ethical ones. But technically, she was on vacation. She didn’t have to be a doctor today. You can be a woman. The thought came in a man’s voice she recognized as Cullen’s. It surprised her, but she didn’t push it away.
When he knocked ten minutes later, Clare ran a hand through her hair and smoothed her sweater, suddenly self-conscious. She’d never been this alone with Cullen. It terrified her in one way, thrilled her in another.
His eyes smiled. It was the first thing she noticed. The way they crinkled at the corners, softening his face. “Well hello, Dr. Keely.”
“Just Clare today.” He stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind him. “Lock it,” she said. The words, the authoritative click of the latch, turned her on. Pretend Clare would’ve been repulsed. “I’m sorry to bother you. I just—”
“I heard what happened with your client. I’m so sorry. He was a good guy.”
“So you knew him? James Dumas?”
Cullen stood close to her. Close enough to suck her in. But he smelled clean and strong, and his skin radiated heat. She didn’t move away. “A little. I talked to him a few times on the yard—and that one day when you let me monopolize his session.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny. If I remember correctly, you didn’t seem to mind.”
“I didn’t. I’ll monopolize you as often as I can. Speaking of which, did I pass the test? Letting go? Is this my reward?” His gaze spotlighted her. So intense, she looked away. He stepped back, letting the cold air in between them, and sat down. “Just kidding. What do you need?”
What do I need? Her mind went blank. She couldn’t say she didn’t know. That she simply wanted to see him, talk to him, be near him. “They’re saying it’s a suicide, but I’m not sure I believe it. Has anyone said anything?”
“Not to me.” He frowned at her. “This isn’t your fault. I hope you know that.”
“I’m not so sure Bonner would agree with you.”
“Are you serious? What a prick. He’s probably just mad you won’t sleep with him.”
Clare stuck out her tongue in distaste. “I’m fairly certain he’s not interested in sleeping with me. At least I hope not.”
“Trust me, Clare. Every man at Quentin is interested in sleeping with you.”
She leaned back against her desk, laughing. Giddy almost. She could’ve been anywhere. A bar. A park. A prison. Cullen made it easy to forget, easy not to care.
“You’ve got a great laugh.” On his feet again and an arm’s length away, that same force field opened up around him. She let it draw her in. Pretend Clare never had any fun. It felt good to let go. It was a holiday, after all. “I’ll keep my ears peeled about Dumas and let you know on Monday if I hear anything.” He reached for the door. He was leaving.
“Wait.”
****
The message light blinked at her. Three missed calls. Two from Neal and one from Lizzie. But there was no hurry. Clare flopped onto her bed and giggled. She would regret it in the morning—all of it—that much she knew. And she hadn’t even done anything wrong. Not really. So I asked a serial killer for a hug. It’s not like I kissed him or anything. That’s what she would say to Lizzie … if Lizzie knew, which she didn’t. Wouldn’t. Ever. But I wanted to kiss him.
Clare wrapped her arms around herself, pretending. It wasn’t the same. The length of his body—warm and taut—wasn’t pressed against hers. His breath wasn’t tickling her ear. There was no one whispering, This feels good, but I don’t want you to get in trouble. No one pulling her in closer when she said it was okay. And it was more than okay. But only once. I won’t do it again.
She reached into her pocket, found the number she’d written, and cradled the receiver in her hand. Now was the time to do it, while she was still feeling brave and alive. Before pretend Clare took over and made her loathe herself all over again. She dialed and waited. The rings seemed endless, so many Clare lost count. So many, she almost gave up.
“Hello.” The
woman’s voice was flat and cold. The way Clare imagined it would sound, but worse. Maybe this was a mistake.
“May I speak to Eliza?”
“That’s me. Who’s this? If you’re selling something, it’s not a good time.”
“My name is Clare Keely. I’m not selling anything. I work as a psychologist at San Quentin. I was your husband’s therapist, and I wanted to express my condolences for what happened to him.”
“What happened to him?” There was anger there beneath the ice. “He offed himself. Suicide didn’t happen to him. He happened.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I shouldn’t have called.”
Clare expected her to hang up, but she didn’t. “Well, why did you, then?” She sounded more exhausted than angry now.
“I’m not sure. I guess I wanted to try to understand a little better. I liked your husband. He had a kind heart. I wish I could’ve known him longer.”
“Did they tell you I talked to him that day?”
“Yes.”
“They made it seem like it was my fault. The way they kept asking what we talked about. And I already feel guilty enough. Hell, let’s face it, I am guilty. James is the one who told me a divorce would be best for the kids. He didn’t want me waiting around for him. He’d said it before, and I always talked him out of it. It wasn’t what I wanted.”
“So you didn’t ask for a—” Clare heard a child’s soft whimpering. It grew louder, more insistent until it was the only sound in her ears. Like it was coming from inside her own head.
“Do you have children, Ms. Keely?” Eliza shouted over the crying.
But Clare wasn’t on the phone anymore. She’d been transported back to that day in her mother’s bathroom, her mother gone God-knows-where. Her legs spread. The worst pain she’d ever felt pinning her to the ground. Blood everywhere. More blood than she knew was in her body. And it was all over her hands. Under her fingernails. Sticky and warm. It was dead—it had to be. It came too soon.
And she didn’t go to the doctor, didn’t take those vitamins Lizzie always said would make her hair shiny. She never felt a kick. She didn’t even gain much weight. But still the dead thing inside was strong. Strong enough to kill her, to rip her open from the inside out. She pushed hard one last time to finally be rid of it. To be rid of the thing that tethered her to the foulest parts of herself. It was dead—it had to be. Then, it cried. So loud. Too loud. Loud enough to issue insatiable demands. To twist her soul inside out.
“Ms. Keely? Hello?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m here.” Clare doubled over like it was still happening. She focused on the Post-it note clutched in her palm and breathed. In and out. In and out.
“Do you have children?”
I did, but I killed her. I smothered her with my mother’s hand towel. The one embroidered with her initials. And then I buried her in the woods in a shoebox. “No. But, Mr. Dumas—James—told me you have a little boy and a girl on the way. Levi and Katie, right?”
Eliza went quiet for a while, not answering, and mercifully, the child did too. “I don’t know how to go on without him. Why would he do this to me? Why?”
That was a question for a professional. Pretend Clare would recite a few lines from the chapter on bereavement. Maybe recommend a book or two. But the Clare who sat alone and barelegged on the linoleum with a scrub brush, scouring the floor with bleach until her hands were raw, that Clare couldn’t give lip service. The Clare who lugged the heaviest stone she could find to mark a grave she dug herself owed a penance she could never pay. “I’m going to do my best to find out.”
december 6, 1996
It wasn’t only once like she’d promised herself. Already, it had happened twice more. At the end of Monday’s session and again today. Cullen showed up for no reason, fake ducat in hand, just to say hi. To check on her. Clare knew what he wanted because she wanted it too. And she gave it to him. Tingling, she locked the door as quietly as she could. In the stillness of her office, that small sound seemed to expand. To take on a life of its own. To travel down the hallway. She waited for the knock, for Fitzpatrick, for someone, anyone to stop her. She needed to be stopped, but there was no one to do it.
“I heard something on the yard about Dumas,” he said. “He owed money to the EME for some legal work. An appeal or something. Do you think it’s possible they were involved? Trying to get to you, you know?”
She felt a rush of relief. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. But I felt crazy. Paranoid. Bonner wants me to let it go. So does Fitzpatrick. I’m meeting with him this afternoon. I don’t know what to do.” And then, just like that, Cullen’s arms were around her, and her body pressed to his. Each time, he took their embrace a little further, upped the ante. But she couldn’t blame him, because she didn’t mind. You want this, Clare, as Rodney always reminded her. Even now. She felt Cullen’s expert hand slip under her sweater to the small of her back. It was cool against her flushed skin.
“You’ll do the right thing,” he told her. “You always do.” Clare nearly laughed at that one. The right thing. Whatever that was, she was light years from it. And then she said the most pathetic thing. Pathetic because she didn’t mean it. But mostly because she’d said it twice already. Twice promised, twice broken.
“We can’t do this again.” And then, he left, sentencing her to the next three hours of purgatory. Muddling through her Friday afternoon appointments, barely listening.
At five o’clock, she stood outside Fitzpatrick’s office summoning her courage. “Come in, Clare.”
He seemed already halfway gone for the weekend. His shirt sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened. “I just spoke with the Lieutenant. The official investigation has been concluded. James Dumas died by his own hand.”
“But—”
Fitzpatrick sighed as he held up his hand to interrupt her protest. “That’s not all we need to discuss.” Her insides took a nosedive. He’d heard the click of the lock. He knew what she’d done with Cullen. “Did you contact Eliza Dumas?”
“Yes. I wanted to offer my condolences.”
“Did you really think that was appropriate?”
She shrugged. “I’m sorry. I should’ve consulted with you first. It was an emotional time, as you can imagine.” Play the sympathy card. That should do the trick.
“I can imagine. Lieutenant Bonner, not so much. Need I remind you, you’ve still got four months left in your probationary period. And he’s not a guy you want to cross.”
“I think it’s too late for that,” she said, chuckling. “Just for the record, I don’t agree with the results of the investigation. Mrs. Dumas said James was the one who brought up the divorce, and today, Cullen told me there’s talk on the yard he owed money to the EME.”
“You saw Mr. Cullen today?” Dammit. She wished she could make a joke about a Freudian slip, but Fitzpatrick wouldn’t buy it. He knew how much she detested his constant references to Freud. “You’ve been talking to him about this?”
“Of course not. He brought it up. He knew Dumas was a client of mine.”
“I see.” Fitzpatrick’s code for bullshit. “Well, it’s best you don’t speak with anyone about this—especially the inmates. I would think that goes without saying.”
“It does,” she said, with as much assertiveness as she could muster.
Fitzpatrick loosened his tie the rest of the way and tossed it onto the desk. “Any plans for the weekend? Want to grab that drink?”
****
She never thought she’d be thankful for a date with J. D. Briggs, but she was. So thankful. If the choice came down to him or Fitzpatrick, she’d take Robocop any day of the week. Besides, she planned on going fishing again. Surely, Briggs had heard something about Dumas. So yesterday she suggested the same dive bar because it was a lot easier to catch a drunk fish.
Clare eyed J.
D. as soon as she walked in. Her dress—a short, red number—was riding up, but she didn’t dare pull it down. She sauntered over to him like he was the only too-big-for-his-britches guy in the place and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Whoa,” he said. “You look way too good for this place. Let me take you somewhere nice.”
“Next time.” A wide grin parted his lips. “What?”
“Sounds like you just guaranteed date number three.” He squeezed her knee and left his hand resting there, taking a swig of his beer with the other.
“Easy there, cowboy. Let’s take it one at a time.” She winked at him and watched his cheeks turn rosy. This whopper had already swallowed the bait.
“So I hear you’re public enemy number one with Bonner … ”
“Am I?” She flagged down the bartender and ordered a shot. No harm in loosening herself up a little. “He thinks I watch too much Law and Order.”
“Well, there’s talk going around you told him to kiss your you-know-what.”
“Seriously? That never happened. But at least I’m on the right end of the rumor.”
“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me, bad girl.”
She clinked the edge of her shot glass against his beer mug. “To being bad then,” she said.
****
Robocop was a horrible kisser. Not that she was surprised. Most men kissed the way they acted—and he was no exception. Pushy. Aggressive. And totally unaware. But she couldn’t stop now. Inside his Jeep, she’d hooked her fish. Now to reel him in one sloppy kiss at a time. If only she could get Rodney Taylor out of her head. Put your tongue in my mouth when I kiss you. She shouldn’t have downed that shot. It made the thoughts harder to stop, his voice impossible to silence. And that damned Aqua Velva didn’t help.
Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set Page 18
