by Ellery Kane
“Doctor Keely!” The voice belonged to Cullen. He waved to her from the basketball court. He took a shot, swished it, and let the ball bounce, bounce, bounce, and roll. Great, Clare muttered. He’s coming this way. It wasn’t so much she didn’t want him to come over—he was her favorite patient, after all—more she didn’t want him to know she wanted him to come over. And she certainly didn’t need anyone else to see them talking. It was part of her curse. Talking equaled flirting, especially if you were talking with Cutthroat Cullen. Especially if Cutthroat Cullen was shirtless and sweaty.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” Clare said, hoping that would stop him.
He laughed, and the thick muscles across his stomach tightened. It was hard not to look with his body flushed and radiating heat. There’s nothing wrong with looking. Unless you get caught looking. Cullen folded his arms across himself, and her cheeks warmed. “This is a prison, remember, Doc? Nobody’s in a hurry around here.”
Clare shrugged, then half-smiled, outwitted. She realized too late they were not alone. Lurking in earshot, one of the men from the picnic tables. His arms were all brawn and ink. Clare recognized one of the tattoos—an M on his bicep—from the prison-gang training last week. La Eme (EME), the Mexican Mafia. This was their bench. Well, at least the ones who hadn’t been validated as gang members and shipped off to solitary at Pelican Bay.
“Sí, I’ve got all day for you, mamacita. Si la belleza era un crimen, tendría una sentencia de cadena perpetua.”
Like poured concrete, Cullen’s face hardened in an instant. “Get out of here, Ramirez!”
“Or what, Guero? She ain’t your novia.”
“Yeah, well she ain’t your novia either. Show some respect.”
Ramirez stepped in front of Cullen, chest to chest. When he spoke again, he spit each word like a poison dart. “Respeto, ese? Were you respecting those broads when you sliced and diced them up like Freddy Krueger?”
Everyone looked now. Even Robocop. Clare felt featherlight. All the blood drained from her, and she wished she could float away. Over the wall and the barbed wire, out into the ocean.
“I think both of you are getting a little heated. Maybe we could all take a time out.” Clare practically laughed at the ridiculousness of her own words.
“That sounds nice,” Ramirez oozed. “As long as you promise to keep your mouth closed . . . ” He directed a pointed glance at Cullen. “ . . . and your legs open.”
Fists clenched, Cullen stared at Ramirez. Clare’s mouth turned to cotton. It wasn’t possible, but Cullen’s heart seemed to move like an animal under his taut chest. She held up her hand to stop him. A please was all she could manage.
Cullen turned toward her, his eyes softening, and he started to walk away. Relieved, Clare closed her eyes and took a breath. Mid-exhale, something wet splattered against her cheek. Her hand went there as her eyes opened wide. Cullen’s blood on her fingers, running in teardrops from his nose. He smeared it away with the back of his hand. Ramirez was waiting, fists still raised. And just like that, the yard erupted. Like the air had changed frequency. The alarm blared, and the inmates followed protocol, dropping to the ground on instinct.
Clare stumbled back. Her knees weakened, and she thought she might fall. But a large hand encircled her forearm, steadying her. “Are you okay?” Robocop asked.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? Don’t apologize for those goons.” He pulled her away, and she let him. But she glanced over her shoulder to see Cullen, chest to the pavement, still watching her.
For the next hour, Clare was elbow deep in paperwork, documenting the incident on the yard. Mouth closed, legs open. She wrote Ramirez’s words until her hand hurt—form after form—until they sounded like a campaign slogan. Trite. Annoying. But impossible to forget. Robocop didn’t leave her side. Clare couldn’t decide if his coddling was endearing or pathetic.
“What happens now?” she asked him, letting her hand rest.
“Don’t worry.” Robocop’s assumption, true as it was, irritated her. “Ramirez is in Ad Seg. He’ll get a 115. Probably be transferred. You won’t have to see him again.”
Clare nodded to mask her surprise. She never considered he’d be sent away. He, Cullen. She couldn’t care less about Ramirez. “And Cullen?”
“Cutthroat?” Robocop’s laugh sounded exactly as she imagined it. Methodical. A little maniacal. “He’ll be living that one down for a while. Poor guy. I almost feel sorry for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He got called out. And by the EME, no less. When you turn your back on that kind of thing in prison, it makes you a punk.”
“So him not fighting back was a bad thing?” She lowered her head, shuffling through the papers in front of her. Anything to avoid his condescending smirk.
“I guess that depends who you ask. But I’d say Cullen got exactly what he wanted.” He was baiting her, and she knew it. Capping her pen, she stood up and headed for the door. Take that, Robocop. I’m not biting. “Be careful out there, Dr. Keely. You’re not in Kansas anymore.”
“James?” Clare kept her distance from the bars as she’d been instructed. She didn’t need any more problems today. “Mr. Dumas?”
An unsteady voice answered her. “That’s me.” A tall, gangly man unfolded himself from the bottom bunk and waved. The gesture didn’t say hello. It was more of an acknowledgment, a reluctant I’m still here.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Keely.” Finally, she’d gotten the hang of it. “I’m here to check on you. To see how you’re doing.” Dumas gave a small, pained shrug of his shoulders, as if the weight of them hung too heavy for him to bear. Even from here, she could see the yellowing bruises on his neck where a paper-thin, prison-issued bedsheet had almost squeezed the life from him. “So how are you doing?”
“Better.” He tried to smile, the effort of it obvious. “All things considered.”
“Are you . . . ” Clare’s training—all six years—failed her. She’d never been face-to-face with someone back from the brink. “ . . . still thinking of . . . ”
“Suicide?” he offered. Just another word to him. “No. There’s something about being that close to six feet under that makes you rethink things. I guess I’ve got somebody—a few somebodies—to live for. I’d forgotten that.” He reached behind him, pulled a picture from the wall, and held it up to the bars for her to see.
She wanted to ask more. The smiling woman with a chubby-cheeked toddler on her hip demanded it. But a cell-front visit meant listening ears. So instead, she nodded and refocused.
Stick to the script, Clare. Fitzpatrick reviewed the standard procedure that morning when he assigned her the case. Got a new guy for you. Bank robber. Just got released from the crisis bed. Tried to do the dutch, he’d said. She had to ask Dr. Lauer, another recent hire, what he meant.
“How would you describe your mood?” That question bored Clare. It sounded like something a shrink would ask.
“I ain’t happy, if that’s what you’re getting at. But I’m not sad either. I suppose I’m just here.” Flat, indifferent, Clare scrawled on her notepad.
“How have you been sleeping?”
“Decent. At least three, four hours a night.” He gave a rusty chuckle at Clare’s raised eyebrows. “This ain’t the Ritz. Plus, you’ve gotta keep one eye open around this place.” Poor sleep, anxiety, she wrote.
“And your appetite?”
“Prison food still tastes like crap. Just like it always has. I’d kill—I mean I’d give anything for a Big Mac and fries right now.”
Two boxes left to check. The C.Y.A. boxes. That’s what Fitzpatrick called them. Cover your you-know-what, he’d said, glancing a little too long at her you-know-what as she shuffled out the door. “Are you intending to hurt yourself today, Mr. Dumas?”
“Nope.”
“And what will you do if you start to have those feelings again?”
He managed his best smile yet. “Steer clear of the bedsheets
for starters.”
“I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
Dumas’ green eyes brimmed, and he flopped back on his bunk to hide his face from her. “Dr. Keely, was it?”
“Yes, that’s right.” She jotted tearful but not hopeless.
“Well, Dr. Keely, it’s just about the only thing I’ve got left.”
September 30, 1996
“Clare-Bear, I’m worried about you.” It’d become a familiar refrain. Her therapist. Neal. And now her best friend, Lizzie. “These creeps you’re working with—”
“You mean, my clients.”
“Yeah, your clients—whatever—they’re predators. This guy, Ramirez, you said he’s in a gang. They could find out where you live.” Lizzie pursed her lips and blew onto her steaming coffee.
“Ramirez is not my client.” Clare regretted telling Lizzie about the dream she’d had last night. And the night before. And the night before that. The one with Ramirez breaking her body against that picnic table, choking her until she was too limp to fight back. Then he took what he really wanted. What all men wanted from her. “And the whole thing was my fault anyway. I shouldn’t have—”
Lizzie raised her hand in front of Clare like a stop sign. “Now you sound like your prick supervisor. I can’t believe he blamed you.” Don’t fraternize with your clients, Dr. Keely, and this kind of thing won’t happen. His exact words. “And don’t even get me started on what’s his name.”
“Clive Cullen.” Clare knew she wasn’t supposed to talk about her cases, but she couldn’t help it. Cullen was famous—or infamous, as it were. His story had been in all the papers. Besides, Lizzie didn’t count. She worked as a travel agent in San Francisco, as far from San Quentin as anybody could get. And she was Clare’s oldest friend. The only one who knew everything. Well, almost. “He’s really not that bad.”
“Seriously? Even his name sounds evil.” Lizzie lowered her voice. “Doesn’t it scare you? Knowing what he’s done?”
Clare rolled her eyes. “I can take care of myself. I’m twenty-seven years old, remember? Not a little girl anymore.”
“I know, Dr. Hottie.” Lizzie chuckled. “That’s what worries me.”
“Speaking of hotties . . . ” Clare held the words in her mouth. She knew once she said them, there was no going back. She was admitting something to herself. “Cullen is actually sort of good-looking.”
Lizzie nearly spit out a bite of blueberry scone. “Oh, Jesus. You are hopeless, girl. Don’t you shrinks have a name for that?”
“Countertransference.” Clare owned at least three books on the subject. “But it’s not like anything is going to happen.”
“Well, you’ve always had a thing for the unavailable ones,” Lizzie teased. “But this is taking it to a whole new level.” Except for Neal, Clare thought. He was too available. Boring her with every little detail of his semi-charmed life, expecting her to do the same. No, Neal, I don’t want to talk about how your pretentious mommy didn’t hug you enough. I’m not your therapist, thank God. She’d never said that aloud, of course. She felt vile just for thinking it.
Clare glanced at her watch. Her fourth session with Cullen started in thirty minutes. “I’m just saying, I can see why those girls fell for him. You know I’d never . . . ”
“I know you wouldn’t. Just remember who you’re dealing with, Clare. You’re the mouse. He’s the cat.”
It was 9:37 a.m. The cat was seven minutes late. Not that Clare was counting. In fact, she dreaded this session. She knew they’d have to talk about the incident on the yard. The sucker punch from Ramirez and the sick things he’d said to her. Mouth closed, legs open. Ramirez didn’t know a thing about her, and yet he knew the most important thing, like she’d been marked somehow.
At 9:40 a.m., Fitzpatrick urged her to call Cullen’s unit to tell them he hadn’t responded to his ducat, the slip of paper allowing him entry into the building. He’s testing the limits, Dr. Keely. Show him who’s boss. Clare held off. After he stood up for her, she didn’t want to get him in trouble. Maybe he wouldn’t come at all. But when he finally appeared in the doorway, wearing a Cheshire cat grin, Clare felt a relief she couldn’t explain.
His face flushed, like he’d been running. “I’m so sorry. I got held up at the gate.”
“If it happens again, I’ll have to call and report you,” she said. “It’s important you get here on time.”
“Believe me, Doc, this is the only appointment I look forward to. I won’t be late again.” She opened her notebook, signaling she was ready to begin. Before she could prompt him, Cullen spoke. “About what happened last week with that asshole, Ramirez—it was my bad. I shouldn’t have called you over. For a minute, I think I forgot where I was.”
“Me too,” she admitted, grateful he brought it up first. The seriousness of Cullen’s face surprised her, his mouth a thin dash.
“I may be out of line for saying this, but you have to be careful around here.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, knowing perfectly well what he meant.
“You’re a beautiful woman.” He made the pronouncement so matter-of-factly, Clare almost agreed.
“Mr. Cullen—” She’d never called him that before, and it sounded strange. Overly formal. In her head, he was Clive or Cullen. Never a mister.
“But not only that. Some people like to step on flowers just because they can.” Cullen avoided her eyes. “I know because I used to be one of them.”
Somehow, he saw the invisible mark, just like Ramirez. Clare hid her shame behind a question. “With Emily?”
He nodded. “With all of them.” Clare caught her breath. It was the first time Cullen had spoken about the others. He’d been charged with three murders. Convicted of only one. Enough to land him in prison for life. “But Emily especially. God, I loved her. I loved her too much. See, that’s the problem. I could never love anyone just a little.”
Clare scribbled furiously in her notebook, the one where she wrote the real stuff. Not the sanitized Fitzpatrick version. “And Emily was vulnerable?” Like me. Clare already knew. She had read the detective’s interview with Susan Pierce, Emily’s mother, and committed it to memory.
“Yes. I told you last time how we met.” Emily stripping her way through UC Berkeley. Cullen visiting the club with a business colleague. That was the lie he’d told her. “And she trusted me so easily. I didn’t have to work for it. She told me what her stepfather did to her. I used it, Dr. Keely. I used it against her without even trying to.”
“How did you use it?”
“I turned into the monster she feared the most. No, I take that back—it wasn’t me. It was like my love grew so big, it became a separate person. A needful person.”
Clare stopped writing. The world stood still. “What did that person need?” What did you need, Clive?
“Control.” As if on cue, the alarm blared, and she jumped. Her pen fell to the ground and rolled beneath her desk.
“Dammit,” she muttered. “It gets me every time.” Head down, searching for her pen, she heard Cullen sigh.
“Emily was like that too. Jumpy.” He’d already sprung to his feet, heading for the door. Protocol required him to stand outside anytime that alarm bell sounded. Proof he was out there, harmless. Not in here, doing God knows what to her. “I promised I’d protect her, but . . . ” Before he closed the door behind him, Cullen snuck a look back at her, his eyes more gray than blue today. “I couldn’t.”
“So, how’s it going, Clare?” The worst hour of the week began. Supervision with Fitzpatrick. He crossed his leg, revealing the pale, hairy skin between his sock and his pant leg. Clare smiled to disguise her disgust.
“Fine.”
“I know it’s been a rough couple of weeks.” She watched in horror as he extended his small hand to pat her forearm. “You can talk to me. That’s what I’m here for.”
“I think I’m finally starting to get the hang of it,” she offered. “I’ve never worked
in this kind of place before.”
“Prison is not for everyone. You’ve got to have solid boundaries. Rock solid.”
She nodded, knowing her boundaries were more like Swiss cheese. Mr. Taylor guaranteed that the moment he told her thirteen-year-old self she made him hard. “I’m working on it.”
“Are you?” His lips curled up over stained teeth. “I’m aware it’s been a problem for you in the past. During your postdoctoral fellowship.”
Clare swallowed, then removed the burgundy scarf she’d laced around her neck that morning. Suddenly, she felt way too hot. “That was not the issue. As I explained to HR, I was sexually harassed by one of my clients. I don’t think it’s fair to criticize my boundaries when somebody else clearly violated them.”
“Of course not, Clare. But sometimes we give people permission—unintentionally, I’m sure—to cross the line. Ted Bundy said that, you know. That he could spot his victims a mile away. They invited him.”
Clare wished she had a gun to put a bullet in Fitzpatrick’s skull. Or maybe just in the soft, doughy flesh of his stomach. She pushed the thought away, recoiled from it—where did that come from? “Actually, I believe Bundy’s exact words were, ‘I have known people who radiate vulnerability.’ But we’re not taking advice from a serial killer, are we?”
A deflated Fitzpatrick fiddled with his tie. “Shall we talk about your clients?”
7
LIARS
Levi still hadn’t answered my question. “Clare Keely?” I reminded him as we walked side by side down Stockton toward the Embarcadero. But he told me one thing that made all the difference. If it means you’ll trust me, you can carry the gun, Texas. It was jammed uncomfortably in the elastic of my sweatpants.
