Self-Defense Page 6

I nodded and walked her to the door. She opened it and thanked me again.

  “I don’t want to add to your load,” I said, “but you’re going to see it on the evening news. A body was found today that matches the Bogeyman victims. There may be a copycat out there.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, leaning against the doorpost. “Where?”

  “Santa Ana.”

  “That’s Orange County—so Milo won’t be in on it. Too bad. He could solve it.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  Phil Austerlitz called me the following day at five.

  “Clean bill,” he said. “Healthiest person I’ve seen in a long time, except for her anxiety. Even with that, her blood pressure was great. Wish mine was as good.”

  “What kind of anxiety did you notice?”

  “Jumpy. Nervous about being touched—wanting to know exactly what I was going to do to her, how, when, why. Want to know my guess? Extreme sexual inhibition. Is that what she originally came to you for?”

  “I’m not dealing with her sex life right now, Phil.”

  “No? What kind of shrink are you?”

  She didn’t call for an appointment that day, or the next. The murder down in Santa Ana was a page-ten story, the victim a twenty-one-year-old prostitute named Shannon Dykstra who’d grown up a couple of blocks from Disneyland and had gotten addicted to heroin while still in junior high. The media had fun with that—lots of ironic comments about the Magic Kingdom gone wrong.

  That night I cooked a couple of steaks and made a salad, and at seven Robin and I sat down to dinner, with Spike begging for sirloin. When we were through, Robin said, “If you’ve got no big plans, I thought I might do a little work. The time I’m spending at the house is crimping me.”

  “Want me to take a shift?”

  “No, honey, but if I could catch up, it would help.”

  Spike watched her depart with longing, but he decided to stay and finish his table scraps. He hung around as I washed the dishes and followed me to the couch when I played guitar, settling next to me, loose lips blowing out B-flat snores that missed harmony by a mile.

  Shortly after nine, Milo called and I asked him if he was involved in the Dykstra case.

  “Involved but not committed—know the difference? In a ham-and-egg breakfast, the chicken’s involved, the pig’s committed. Santa Ana called me to compare notes, and they’re driving down tomorrow to look at the Shwandt file.”

  “Is it that similar?”

  “Damn near identical. Body position, wound pattern, decapitation with the head put back in place, shit smeared all over the body and stuffed in the wounds. But all that came out at the trial; anyone could have copied it.”

  “Another monster,” I said.

  “The press made such a goddamn celebrity out of Shwandt, they pump this one up as Bogeyman Two, we’ll really have fun. Anyway, glad I’m not on it. Keeping busy with some nice old-fashioned drive-bys. . . . So how’s Miss Lucy?”

  I cleared my throat.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “You can’t get into clinical details. Just tell me she’s basically okay. ’Cause she left four messages at my desk today. Called her back but got some lazy-sounding guy on a machine.”

  “That’s her brother. I haven’t heard from her for a couple of days. When’d she call you?”

  “This morning. I was just wondering if some problem had come up—you are still seeing her—no, scratch that, you can’t even tell me that, right?”

  “Let’s put it this way,” I said. “If a patient’s in imminent danger of self-injury, it’s my ethical duty to call the police and/or appropriate medical personnel. I haven’t called you or anyone else.”

  “Okay, good. So I’ll try her tomorrow. How’s everything by you?”

  “Rolling along. How’s Rick?”

  “Cutting and suturing. With our schedules, there ain’t much quality time. We keep talking vacation, but neither of us is willing to make plans.”

  “Commitment,” I said. “Men have such a problem with it.”

  “Bullshit,” he said. “I’m totally committed. I’m a pig, right?”

  She called on Friday morning. “If you have time today, I could come in.”

  “After work?”

  “Any time. I’m home.”

  “Sick?”

  “No, I haven’t gone back since the . . . fall. Dr. Austerlitz was very nice, by the way. He says I’m fine.”

  “I know. I spoke with him. How’ve you been sleeping the last couple of nights?”

  “Pretty well, actually, since I spoke to you. No dream, and I wake up in my bed, so maybe it was just a short-term thing and I needed to get things off my chest.”

  I recalled the last session. Lots of questions, no answers. “Did you ever reach Detective Sturgis?”

  “He told you I phoned?”

  “He called me last night wanting to know if some sort of emergency had come up. Said he hadn’t been able to reach you.”

  “The two of you are close friends, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “He talks about you as if you’re some kind of genius. Did you tell him I was okay?”

  “I didn’t tell him anything. Confidentiality.”

  “Oh. That’s okay; you can talk to him any time. I give you permission.”

  “There’d be no reason to, Lucy.”

  “Oh. Okay. All I’m saying is I trust him, and after what I’ve been through, I’m a good judge of men. Anyway, I reached him. The reason I wanted to talk to him is just, I’ve been getting some phone calls over the last few weeks.”

  “What kind of phone calls?”

  “Hang-ups. I’m sure it’s no big thing.”

  “How many?”

  “Couple a week, maybe four or five in all, mostly when I’m cooking dinner or watching TV. For all I know it’s some screwup with the phone lines. Milo didn’t seem that concerned. Said I should hang up right away, and if it didn’t stop there was a machine I could get from the phone company that would record the caller’s number.”

  “Sounds like a good plan,” I said, keeping my voice calm. The killer who’d burned down my house had worked up to it with harassment. “Would you like to come in at noon?”

  “Oh,” she said, as if she’d forgotten she’d called to make an appointment. “Sure. Noon would be perfect.”

  She was five minutes late and breezed in wearing a snug white cotton turtleneck and red bandanna over jeans, white socks, and moccasins. Tiny ruby studs in her ears and her hair was loose. First time I’d seen it that way. It flattered her.

  She said, “Everything’s really pretty fine.”

  “Glad you’re feeling better,” I said.

  “I really am. Maybe it’s taking a break from work. I always thought my job was so important to me, but after being away from it for a couple of days I don’t miss it.”

  “Are you thinking of quitting permanently?”

  “I’m not much of a spender, so I’ve got enough saved up to last awhile.” She gave an embarrassed smile.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve also got a trust fund—not enough to live rich, but it is a thousand a month, so that’s a pretty good cushion. That’s what I meant by others having things a lot worse.”

  “Are you uncomfortable having a cushion?”

  “Well,” she said, “I didn’t do anything to earn it. And it comes from his side of the family—his mother. A generation-skipping thing, they call it. To save taxes. I generally give a big chunk of it away to charity, but if it can help me mellow out a little now, why not take advantage of it?”

  “I agree.”

  “I mean, I’ve got nothing to prove. In three years I’ve never taken a sick day—do you think it’s irresponsible? Quitting, just like that?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “So . . . like I said, everything’s fine. . . . I also talked to Milo about the new murder. The Sa
nta Ana police are consulting with him, which is smart. I remember how impressed I was when he testified. All those details at his fingertips, he never let the defense lawyer intimidate him—I guess his size helps; what is he, six-four?”

  “Six-three.”

  Her color was high and her fingers were knitting an invisible sweater.

  “There’s something I want to tell you,” she said. “I’m highly attracted to him.”

  Keeping my face neutral, I held eye contact.

  She crossed her legs and touched an earring. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way about a guy.” Looking away. “Except for a few mistakes, I’m basically a virgin.”

  I nodded.

  “Big mistakes,” she said, “I grant you. But I’ve put them behind me.”

  “Is that what you meant this morning when you said after what you’d been through you were a good judge of men?”

  She muttered something I couldn’t make out.

  “Lucy?”

  Another mumble that sounded like “Take a look.”

  I leaned closer.

  Her mouth continued to work. She closed her eyes.

  “I hooked. Okay?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Just for a summer,” she said.

  Remembering the ulcer, I said, “The summer you taught in Boston?”

  “I was a bona fide virgin. Then I met someone at Head Start, the uncle of one of my students. Gorgeous, very charming, bright black guy. He used to come and pick the little boy up, and we started talking. One thing led to another. I thought I was in love. After we were together for a while, he asked me to be with a friend of his. I didn’t like the idea but I agreed. It ended up not being as bad as I’d thought—the friend was okay and he gave me a gift, some shampoo. L’OrÉal. I still remember that.”

  Her eyes opened. Tears filled them.

  “I was able to put myself in another place and get through it. And Raymond was so proud of me. Telling me he loved me, I was showing real love for him. Next week he brought another friend over.”

  She threw up her hands.

  “It was bad, but it could have been a lot worse. His other girls were all working on the street. He let me work out of a room. Clean, warm, color TV. He made sure I didn’t get any violent ones. The men came to me. It was almost like being popular.”

  She let out a dead laugh.

  “That’s it. My sordid past. Ten weeks of white slavery and mortal sin, and then I went on to Belding and Raymond found some other gullible idiot.”

  Pushing hair away from her face, she forced herself to look at me. “I haven’t been with a man since then. Do you think I’m still too sullied for your best friend?”

  “It took courage to tell me,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about my having evil designs on him or being some freak-case co-dependent. When I say I’m attracted to him, I mean psychologically. His kindness, his solidity. I’m working up my courage to let him know how I feel. Is that okay with you?”

  “You don’t need my permission, Lucy.” Thinking of the complications that were sure to come.

  She stared at me.

  “You don’t approve, do you?” Snapping her head down, she studied the floor. “Big mistake to tell you.”

  “Lucy, it’s not—”

  “I should have known,” she said softly. “You’re entitled to your feelings. I tell you I was a whore, it’s only natural you wouldn’t want me near your friend.”

  “It’s not that at all.”

  “Then what? Why does your face change when I talk about liking him?”

  “There’s nothing terrible about that, or you. What goes on between you and Milo or anyone else isn’t any of my business.”

  She studied me.

  “Forgive me, Dr. Delaware, but that just doesn’t ring true. You’re a lovely man and I really appreciate all you’ve tried to do for me, but there’s something going on here, some kind of resistance. I’ve got a feel for things like that.” Another joyless laugh. “Maybe it comes from screwing ten strangers a day. You get good at gauging people quickly.”

  She got up and walked across the room.

  “Lucy flunks therapy. . . . Seeing Milo’s friend was a mistake—how can I expose myself to you and expect you to be impartial? How can I expect you to take any sort of voyage with a whore?”

  “You’re not a whore.”

  “No? How can you be sure? Have you had other patients who were whores?”

  “Lucy—”

  “For seven years,” she said, between clenched jaws, “I haven’t touched a guy. For seven years I’ve been double-tithing my income to the poor, not eating meat, doing every good deed I can find to cleanse myself. That’s why I wanted to be on that jury. To accomplish some greater good. And now I finally find a man I like, and I’m feeling dirty—judged by you just like I judged Shwandt. I should have gotten out of it. Who am I to judge anyone?”

  “Shwandt is a monster,” I said. “You got caught up in something.”

  She turned her back on me. “He’s a monster and I’m sleazy—we’re all defendants in one way or another, aren’t we? Is that the only reason you don’t want me near Milo, or is he involved with someone else?”

  “It’s not appropriate for me to discuss his personal life.”

  “Why not? Is he your patient, too?”

  “We’re here to talk about you, Lucy.”

  “But I like him, so doesn’t that make it relevant? If he wasn’t your friend, we’d be talking about him.”

  “And I wouldn’t know anything about his personal life.”

  She stopped. Licked her lips. Smiled. “Okay, he’s committed. Though I know he’s not married—I asked him if he was and he said no.” She turned sharply and faced me. “Did he lie to me?”

  “No.”

  “So he’s going with someone—maybe living with someone—is she beautiful? Like your wife? Do the four of you double-date?”

  “Lucy,” I said, “stop tormenting yourself.” Knowing my reticence was feeding her fantasies. Knowing I couldn’t warn Milo—strangled by confidentiality.

  Turning her back on me, she pressed her hands up against the glass doors, saw the fingerprints she’d made, and tried to wipe them off with a corner of her sweater.

  “Sorry.”

  Nearly sobbing the word.

  “There’s nothing to be—”

  “I can’t believe I just said all those things. How could I be so—”

  “Come on.” I guided her back to her chair. She started to sit, then walked past it, snatching up her bag and racing for the door.

  I reached her just as she opened it. A marine breeze ruffled her hair. Her eyes were watering.

  “Please come back, Lucy.”

  She shook her head violently. “Let me go. I just can’t take any more humiliation.”

  “Let’s talk it ou—”

  “I can’t. Not right now. Please—I’ll come back. I promise. Soon.”

  “Lucy—”

  “Please let me go. I really need to be alone. I really need that.”

  I backed off.

  She stepped out onto the footbridge.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Had I screwed up or was it something that couldn’t have been avoided?

  Seeing a friend of his was a mistake.

  Who knew trauma counseling would turn into this?

  Damn, what a mess!

  I tried to call her an hour later. No answer. One more try, an hour after that, and I decided to give her time to think.

  That evening, Robin and I cooked sand dabs and home fries and lingered over the meal. I was preoccupied and tried to hide it by being extra affectionate. She knew something was going on but said nothing as we watched the sunset.

  Then she went to do some carving, Spike fell asleep, and I got in the Seville and drove aimlessly up the coast, getting off the highway at Ventura, for no particular reason, and gliding through dark, empty streets. Lots of bo
arded-up storefronts and FOR LEASE signs. The recession had hit the town hard, and seeing it did nothing for my mood.

  When I got back, Robin was in bed reading Command: Shed the Light.

  She closed it and dropped it on the covers. “Why did you check this out?”

  “Research.”

  “Into what?”

  “The dark side.”

  “Such garbage. I can’t believe this is the same guy we had to read in English.”

  “The critics couldn’t believe it either. It killed his career.”

  “He used to write totally differently,” she said. “Dark Horses. That long poem about Paris: “The Market.’ I remember Dark Horses especially because we had to analyze it in freshman English. I hated the assignment but I thought the book was fascinating, the way he turned the racetrack into a miniature world, all those quirky characters. This stuff is dreadful. What happened?”

  “Maybe he used up his ration of talent.”

  “What a woman-hater! Seriously, what kind of research are you doing?”

  “It has to to with a patient, Rob. Someone he’s influenced.”

  “Oh. Sounds creepy.”

  I shrugged and got out of my clothes.

  “Nice of you to empathize with your patient to that degree,” she said.

  “That’s what they sent me to school for.” I put the book on my nightstand and slipped under the covers. She rolled toward me.

  “You sound upset.”

  “No, just bushed.”

  She didn’t say anything. Her huge dark eyes snared mine and held them captive. Her curls fell over bare shoulders like a shadow on the moon. I wrapped her in my arms.

  “Okay,” she said. “Do you have enough energy to empathize with me? I’ve got all sorts of feelings.”

  I was still in my bathrobe when the phone rang at 7:10 the next morning.

  “Dr. Delaware? This is your service. I have a Dr. Shaper for you.”

  The name was unfamiliar. “I’ll take it.”

  A man’s voice said, “Who do I have?”

  “This is Dr. Delaware.”

  “This is Dr. Shapoor over at Woodbridge Hospital. We’ve got a suicide attempt came in last night. Lucretia . . . Lowell. She’s finally awake and claiming she’s your patient.”