"I understand, but I can't offer you an opinion on Patrick without an evaluation of him. I don't venture opinions on what I haven't examined myself."
I thought quickly. "I don't want an opinion, just a hypothesis I can test out. I'm not asking for a diagnosis of Patrick but a theory about Ashley, whom no one can examine."
I was trifling with words, for it all amounted to the same thing, but I needed Dr. Parker's help. Perhaps he saw my desperation. I found it interesting that this man, who studied the mind and other unseen things, looked so carefully at my face and hands, depended on the physical to give him clues. He returned to his chair.
"Theoretically," he said, "it is possible that Patrick is tuning in to a psychic imprint left behind by Ashley."
"A psychic imprint?"
"A record of her thoughts and emotions. He is the same age as she was when she died, correct?"
"Yes. Seven."
"He lives in the same house, in the same room, and in the same emotional environment, spoiled by his parents, aware of the hostility that members of his family bear toward him."
Dr. Parker's wheeled chair edged forward. "It is possible that what Patrick perceives is not something happening now, but something that happened twelve years ago. Being on the same wavelength as Ashley, he may have access to the psychic trace of her thoughts and feelings—some very powerful ones—and is perceiving them as if they are occurring in the present.
"In a way, it is like reading an autobiography in which you strongly identify with the hero. The events happened in the past, but you, when involved in the book, experience them as if they are occurring now. Or, it is like perceiving stars that are light-years away. That light was shining eons ago, but you see it now—at least, those people with the right equipment and focus perceive it now. Others cannot. Do you understand?"
I think so… but then—then there is nothing I can do to change what he is perceiving. It was set twelve years ago."
The doctor nodded.
I rubbed my arms, chilled by the idea. Ashley's childish perceptions, selfishness, and quick anger were not a world inside which I wanted Patrick trapped.
"What about the cat?" I asked. "How do you explain that?"
"I don't explain anything. I offer theories, possibilities, nothing more."
"And one theory is?"
"Of course, you cannot rule out coincidence. A cat's life could easily span the twelve-year period, and cats, especially half-wild ones, will wander in and out of people's lives. Still, the timing is striking."
I made my fingers still, though they wanted to tap with impatience.
"In folklore, cats have long been associated with the paranormal—with witches, for instance. They may have a certain sensitivity to psychic elements. If Patrick is experiencing Ashley's thoughts and feelings, the cat may be sensitive to those it recognizes as belonging to a little girl who cared for him."
"So November won't hurt Patrick."
I don't guarantee anything. I offer theories, possibilities—
"Yes, I know." I stood up, weary of his theories now, wanting answers, needing to know exactly how to help Patrick. I walked over to one of the windows filled with artificial flowers, then picked up a box of plant fertilizer.
"Just a little joke," Dr. Parker said.
I set it down. "What can I do to help Patrick? You have to understand—Ashley was a daredevil. She was often angry and mean-spirited. If your theory is correct, it scares me to think of Patrick being imprisoned inside her thoughts and feelings. Isn't there some way to get him free of her?"
"Well, if Patrick did not have the same family problems and situation as Ashley had, his connection to her psychic imprint probably wouldn't be as strong. I believe it would fade completely with time. Can you convince the Westbrooks to get him and themselves some therapy?"
Even if I could convince Emily, the others would never agree to it. I doubted that Adrian's opinion of psychologists was the only obstacle; ugly and personal things would come out, precisely the kind of things that no one in the family wanted to admit.
"I'll try again, but I think it's impossible," I said, frustrated. "I'm afraid I don't like your theory any more than my own."
He smiled. "Good. It's when we like our theories too much that we should be wary."
Dr. Parker gave me his card and told me not to hesitate to contact him. I emerged from his quiet office deep in thought and found myself in sudden bedlam. Classes were changing. A river of people flowed down the hall. I hesitated, then took the plunge, trying to make my way to the front door.
"Kate!"
At the sound of Sam's voice, I turned around.
"Over here."
I struggled to make my way toward him but was swimming upstream. He reached out and grabbed my hand, towing me to a wall of lockers.
"Looking for me?" he asked, smiling, propping an arm against a locker, framing me with his body. He was so good at it—getting close without touching.
"No."
He dropped his arm. "Well, maybe you could pretend."
"Sam, we're going to be late," a girl called to him.
"Go on, Sara," he answered. "tell Campbell I'm finishing a test."
"tell him yourself," the girl said, sounding annoyed.
Sam turned back to me. "So why are you here?"
"I was talking to Dr. Parker."
Sam grinned. "No, really."
"Really. Why would I make that up?"
"Because the man is flake-o, Kate."
I shrugged.
"You went to see him—like a counselor?"
"Yes. Joseph suggested him." The bel rang; the hallway cleared and grew quiet. "Dr. Parker has not only a background in psychology, but an interest in the paranormal."
Sam hooted softly.
"Just because you are unwill ing to keep an open mind and consider all the possible causes—"
He interrupted me. "The problem with keeping your mind open to impossible causes is that it distracts you from chasing down the real ones, from talking to the people who can definitely help you."
"Like who? If you have a suggestion, tell me. I'll follow up on it."
"Your mother."
I took a step back.
"I want to talk to her, Kate. I need her phone number or e-mail address."
Five years ago, my father had given me the contact information that she had sent for me. I had attempted several times to tear up the slip of paper but never succeeded. As if he had guessed I might do that, he'd also left the information with his attorney.
"Do you have it?" Sam asked.
"Not with me," I said brusquely.
"When you get back to your room, call and leave it on my voice mail, okay?"
I don't remember hiring you as a private investigator."
"You didn't."
"What makes you think you have the right to interfere with my family?"
His eyes narrowed. "You forget, this involves my family too."
"So you're picking up where your father left off, solving his case—"
"Maybe."
"Proving my mother did it."
"No! That's no fair, Kate. You're jumping to conclusions."
"But it's a possibility, isn't it? Isn't it? And as much as I may despise my mother, I am not going to help you hang her."
I turned quickly to walk away. He grabbed my hand.
"Let go!"
He did, but he stood very close. "Listen to me, Kate. I am definitely interested in solving my father's case, and it is possible your mother is guilty, but that's not my main reason for pursuing this. You've gotten yourself mixed up with a vicious group of people, and I'm not going to stand by waiting for something to happen to you. You know that Patrick is in danger, but when it comes to yourself, you just don't get it."
The intensity of his eyes and voice made me feel shaky inside. There wasn't a nerve in my body unaware of him. "I get it. I'm scared."
Then let me help."
"Help Patrick, okay?"
He threw up his hands. "You just can't trust, can you?"
"Not easily," I said, and left.
Chapter 16
When I picked up Patrick that afternoon, he handed me a note from his teacher addressed to his parents. I quickly parked the car and brought him and the sealed note back into school, hoping I could speak with the teacher. While Patrick stood in the pet corner of his classroom, silently watching a hamster in its cage, Miss Crichton explained that the rule that applied to counselors applied to teachers as well. Without permission, she could speak only to the parents.
By the time I got Patrick home and into his play clothes, I could guess what was in the note that I had placed in Adrian's mailbox: Patrick showed no interest in what was around him. I didn't know if it was Ashley or the hostility of the others that was draining him of his energy, but I found the seeping away of his spirit more frightening than the recent dares and danger he had encountered.
Since he didn't appear to be physically ill, I gave him a snack and took him outside, hoping the sunlight and fresh air would help. The melting snow was ankle-deep now. To my relief, when Patrick spotted his snowman, he ran toward it, kicking up the sloppy snow, acting like a normal kid. He snatched up the hockey stick and gave it a swing.
"Goal!" I shouted. "Westbrook scores!"
He raised his arms in triumph, as Sam and the other hockey players did, then froze in that pose, his mouth opening with surprise. He dropped the stick.
"November! November!" he cried.
He raced forward, then crouched in the snow. I saw the strip of orange fur lying still on the ground. My heart tightened. Don't let it be, I thought.
"November, wake up! Wake up! Move! Come on, you can."
I hurried forward and knelt next to Patrick. The cat lay motionless, his eyes staring ahead, his mouth open. Piles of vomit had gelled in the snow around him. I glanced about for an empty food dish; no evidence had been left behind, but I suspected that someone had poisoned the cat.
I put my arms around Patrick. "I'm so sorry."
His small frame felt rigid.
"I'm so terribly sorry."
His bottom lip quivered, but his eyes were dry. "Why did they do it?" he asked. "Why do they want him dead? Was it because of me?"
"Of course not. November was very old, and old cats die naturally," I replied, unwill ing to admit the truth, wanting to spare Patrick as much pain as possible. I sounded like my mother when she'd told me the "deer" weren't harmed.
Patrick wasn't fooled. "When Tim's cat ate weed killer, he threw up and died. November ate poison."
"Well, yes, he could have. It does look that way."
Patrick's fists tightened. "He killed him. He killed November!"
"Who did?" I asked, taken aback by the certainty in his voice.
"Daddy."
"What?"
Patrick trembled with anger. "He didn't like him."
"But your father loves animals."
"He didn't want me to keep him."
"Because wild cats can't be pets," I said.
Patrick's shoulders sagged, his sorrow greater than his anger. He took off his mittens and gently touched the cat, petting around his torn ear, softly stroking the whiskers. Large tears rolled down his face.
I wanted to rip into whoever had done this. I wondered if Brook had graduated from tormenting Ashley's pets to killing Patrick's. Or was it Trent? I thought. He had disliked and feared the cat when Ashley had loved it, and it would be a painful reminder to him now. Because of Robyn's love for animals, I had trouble imagining her doing it, though perhaps Patrick's animals didn't count to her, or perhaps she had asked her son to handle it. Mrs. Hopewell also could have done it—it wasn't hard, it wasn't messy, putting poison in food.
I watched as Patrick ran his fingers down the back of the cat. He rubbed around its ears again. "November didn't like to have his paws touched," he said, honoring that even in death.
I ached for him.
"Did he hurt a lot?" Patrick asked. "Did his stomach hurt bad?"
I could hide behind a half-truth and say that I didn't know how it felt to be a cat.
"Does your stomach hurt you when you throw up?" I asked back.
"Yes. But sometimes I feel better after I do."
I nodded. "I would think it's the same. If there is a cat heaven, November feels much better now."
The cat needed a larger and deeper hole than the hamster, so I asked Roger to help us bury it in the cemetery. Afterward Patrick and I took a back route up to the third floor, successfully avoiding the others. He didn't want to talk and didn't want to play. I put on a video, a superhero story that, as far as I could remember, didn't have any animals in it, then went downstairs to speak to his parents. Emily was still at the college that afternoon, working on an art project, so I talked to Adrian alone.
Perhaps because I was shaking with anger, he remained very calm when I told him about the cat's death. But when I warned him that Patrick believed he had poisoned it, Adrian looked incredulous, then hurt.
"Why would he think that?" he exclaimed, like a stung child. "Because I wouldn't let him keep it as a pet?"
"Patrick has blamed me for things, as well. Sometimes he pull s away from me and tell s me that I can't hurt him. Did you read the note from his teacher?"
Adrian nodded.
"I don't know what she said, but I would guess he is withdrawing at school, too. It's dangerous, Adrian. He is separating from those of us who care most for him and want to help him. I haven't told anyone but Roger about my suspicion of poisoning. I can't handle it yet. I'm furious that someone would do this, knowing how deeply it would hurt Patrick."
"Don't worry, I'll see to the others. And I will fill in Emily as soon as she gets home."
"Adrian, what about having a vet do an autopsy?"
He shook his head. "It would do nothing more than prove what you and I already know."
An hour later, Emily arrived and came upstairs. I left her alone to talk with Patrick, tell ing her I'd be in my room if she needed me. "Stay upstairs," she advised me. "Adrian is having a word with the family and staff."
Fifteen minutes later she came to my room, her face drawn. "He would barely talk to me."
"To anyone, it's not just you," I assured her.
She twisted a handkerchief in her hands. "You see, Kate, this is another reason why Patrick should not have pets. They can break a child's heart."
"It's people who are breaking his heart," I replied.
"He refuses to eat dinner."
"I'll have my dinner up here and maybe he will discover he is hungry."
Two trays were brought up, but Patrick didn't touch his. I retrieved a pack of crackers from my purse, and he ate two. Henry came upstairs to clear our dishes, then brought back dessert.
"Just one piece?" I asked, as he handed me the fruit pie.
The old man looked embarrassed. "Mrs. Hopewell says that Patrick cannot have dessert until he eats his dinner." He glanced at Patrick. "I'm sorry. She makes the rules."
She doesn't make them for us, I thought. When Henry was gone, I offered Patrick my pie, but it didn't tempt him.
We sat side by side on the sofa in his playroom, watching the tell y. I edged closer to him and finally put my arm around him. For a moment he gave in, leaning against me, then he pulled back, as if suddenly remembering a reason to keep his distance. I hated the thought of all the pain bottled up in him. I decided to call Sam. Though we had parted on a bad note, I counted on him to ignore that when it came to Patrick.
"Stay right here, Patrick," I said, then fetched Sam's number from my room. I stood in the hall, where I could keep my eye on the door to the playroom, and punched in the digits.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Koscinski? This is Kate, Kate Venerelli."
"Oh, hello, Kate. It's nice to hear from you."
"Is—uh—Sam there?"
"Well, no, dear, not at the moment. May I take a message?"
She sounde
d so cheerful, so normal. I hadn't realized how cold and oppressive life seemed at Mason's Choice.
"Do you know when he'll get home?"
"It may be late. You sound concerned, Kate. Is something wrong?"
"No. Yes. I'm worried about Patrick. A cat that he loved"—I hesitated—"uh, died today. Patrick is upset."
"Oh, poor child! I'm very sorry."
"Sam is good with him. I thought maybe he could drop by, tonight or tomorrow."
I have the number where he can be reached—it's somewhere here—give me a moment to put my hands on it. Practice should be over now. Afterward, Sam was going to study at Sara's house."
Sara, the girl who had called to him in the hall; I got a hollow feeling in my stomach. "Never mind. We'll talk tomorrow."
"Wait. Here it is." She read the number to me. "Did you get it?"
"Yes, thanks."
"Be sure to call him, Kate," Mrs. Koscinski added. "Sara's parents won't mind. They're very nice."
"Right. Bye."
He must go there often, I thought, if Mrs. Koscinski knows the parents don't mind being called. Well, even Sam couldn't make Patrick's pain go away tonight. I'd try to reach him tomorrow—perhaps take Patrick to the ice rink so he could talk to him after practice.
When I returned to the playroom, I saw that Patrick had taken a bite from the pie.
"It smells delicious," I said encouragingly. "How does it taste?"
"Good. I think it's raspberry."
"Have some more."
He ate another spoonful.
"Eat all you want. Raspberries are good for you."
He took one more spoonful, then pushed the pie away. I sat next to him again and watched the cartoon. Just when the hero was about to storm the castle belonging to the evil wizard, Patrick announced, "I want to go to my room."
"Don't you want to see what happens?"
No.
I looked at my watch. "Patrick, it's not even seven o'clock. Let's try another channel."
"I want to go to bed."
"How about this—we'll put on your pajamas and read a while."
"I want to sleep."
He was probably exhausted from the accumulation of things that had been happening. But what if he planned to slip out and see Ashley as soon as his bedroom door was shut? Perhaps he imagined that she alone could understand how he felt about November. Adrian had promised to turn on the alarm system before retiring, but I wasn't taking chances; I planned to spend the night in Patrick's room.
No Time to Die & the Deep End of Fear Page 31
