by Al Macy
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next morning, the seventh of July, I was sitting in Samuel’s office when he arrived.
He gave a little start and looked back to his entrance door. “How did you get in here?”
“Trade secret,” I said. I pointed to his percolator. “Help yourself.”
He made a growling noise, but I caught a bit of a smile.
“Remember Bolton’s visit to a psychologist? I have the notes here.” I waggled the sheets in the air.
“How … trade secret?”
“Yeah. Apparently, he only went once. Does that match your information?”
“I only knew that he’d gone.”
“Okay. Here’s the psychologist’s evaluation.”
We read it together.
Christopher Vince (Real Name???) 11/7/1979
Statement of Need and Treatment Expectations
Christopher told me he had come for an evaluation as part of a mandatory program at his job, but I soon inferred that it was his own curiosity about himself that brought him to me.
His first questions related to doctor-patient confidentiality, especially in relation to past criminal acts. Would I report him if he confessed to a crime?
I explained the reasons behind the confidentiality laws and told him that if I were to break those laws, I could lose my license to practice. I let him know that I could not report any of his past crimes unless they harmed children under 18. If he told me of any crimes he planned to commit in the future, I would have an obligation to protect the intended victim, and that could involve notifying the police.
He asked specifically about murder or drug sales, and I assured him that even those were covered by confidentiality.
I’m detailing this because his questions suggested that he was involved in an ongoing criminal enterprise.
I asked him what he hoped to accomplish with my help, and his answer was vague. He just wanted to “get my thoughts” about his personality.
The report referred to the cassette tape. There was no transcript from that recording, but at the end of the session notes, Dr. Hoover had written:
Phew!!! My impression from our first meeting is that C has an antisocial personality disorder as described in DSM2. He’s “incapable of significant loyalty, selfish, irresponsible, and unable to feel guilt.” DSM describes that these individuals generally follow criminal pursuits: racketeers, prostitutes, drug dealers, etc. This is clearly the case here (see cassette recording).
As with others with APD, C seems to have little regard for the lives of others. Surprisingly, this seems to extend to his own life as well. No fear of death. Depression?
Minor thing: Has an unusually pronounced startle response. When my secretary knocked lightly on the door, he jumped and spun around. Inappropriately.
He mentioned no specific future threats which would invoke my duty to warn. When C left, he said he was unlikely to return.
After he finished reading, Samuel turned to me. “Does that sound like your husband?”
I nodded. “Yes. No. Some things. I’ve noticed the startle response thing. But he was very good at hiding the disorder. Acts normal. Pretends to have conscience. Let’s listen to the tape.”
I’d brought my cassette player and purchased fresh batteries on the way over. Bolton’s voice was clear, but what he said was so foreign to me that it was as if it were another person speaking. The most interesting part came when he spoke about me.
Hoover: “Tell me about … Viviana.”
Bolton: [laughs] “She’s a beautiful woman.”
Hoover: “Do you love her?”
Bolton: “Yes … maybe. I love what she’s going to do for my career, I can tell you that.”
Hoover: “Are you loyal to her?”
Bolton: “Why do you ask that?”
[silence]
Bolton: [laughs] “No. I’m not loyal to anyone. I don’t really get this loyalty thing. But she’s not weak, I’ve got to give her that. Things are going to get real interesting real soon.”
When we finished listening, I looked up at the ceiling. “I sure know how to pick ’em, don’t I?”
* * *
On the evening of the seventh, Bolton pushed into the condo and into a cloud of seafood aroma. Not bad, really, but strong. It reminded him of what one would encounter at a crowded crab restaurant.
“I’m home!” He took off his windbreaker and draped it over a chair.
“Can see that.” Viviana was working a large frying pan over the burner, jerking it away from her and flipping it up, throwing its contents up in the air slightly.
He came around and hugged her from behind. “Smells delicious. What is it?” He nuzzled her neck. Did she flinch?
“Is shrimp, scallops, and mussels.”
He frowned. “Is something wrong?”
She set the pan down. “I ran out of garlic, so—”
“No. I mean …” He turned her around, gave her a kiss. “I mean with you. You seem different. Is something bothering you?”
Viviana smiled. “Just told you. I ran out of garlic. Is big deal.”
“You know what I mean.”
She gave him a strange look—just for an instant—and turned back to the dinner prep, pulling a box of angel hair pasta from the cupboard. “Have big headache.” Then she muttered something under her breath.
“What?”
“Headache. Headache. Is not hard to understand.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. That’s unusual for you. Have you taken—?”
“Yes. Don’t want to talk about it.”
He kissed her on the ear. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m going to go change. Is there anything you want me to do?”
“I want you to change.”
“Uh … okay. I’m going to take a shower, too.” He picked up his briefcase and jacket and headed into the bedroom.
Phew! Just a headache. At least once a month he worried that she was onto him. She was smart—why did she fail to put two and two together? And she’s so tough. Tougher than him. He’d had a recurring dream of returning home to find her standing in the living room, feet spread slightly, holding a shotgun. “Think can lie to me, yes?” Bang! That’s how it could end, though he was sure she’d have a smarter way to do it. Maybe hit him on the head from behind with a pipe while they were hiking in the forest.
Of course, he had his secret weapon: no conscience. No guilt. No remorse. It just wasn’t part of his DNA. Normal people could never comprehend the freedom that gave a person. It was the reason for his success in life.
When he returned to the kitchen nook, his Moscow Mule was sitting on the counter/bar. He climbed onto the stool. “Thanks, sweetheart. Is your headache improving?”
She shrugged. Apparently not.
The drink tasted a little different. He held it up. “New recipe?”
She frowned. “Yes. Different brand of ginger beer. Not good?”
“It’s okay. Just different.”
The dinner was delicious. Even better than the meal he’d had in Toronto. He suppressed a smile. Better than the meal he’d pretended he’d had in Toronto. He’d indeed had mussels, but the restaurant was over near Hunters Point. The charade was tiring, but it only had to last another few weeks.
Viviana had returned to her old self by the end of dinner. They watched Walter Cronkite and read their books together on the couch. Her headache had gotten better, but she resisted his advances when they went to bed. “Tomorrow will be better.” That was disappointing. Nothing made him horny like a few days away from home.
* * *
It happened at 1:00 a.m., according to the flip clock on Bolton’s bed table. He woke to a stabbing pain, as if someone had jabbed a chef’s knife through his belly button. As if a drafting triangle had been implanted in his belly. He barely made it to the bathroom.
“Are sick?” Viviana appeared at the bathroom door.
“I’m sick as a—” He threw up again.
“Po
or baby.” Viviana dampened a washcloth and held it against his forehead. “Maybe was the scallops.”
“You don’t feel sick?”
She pointed to her belly. “Stomach strong like bear.”
He threw up again. “It’s not that funny.”
She nodded. “Am sorry for laughing.”
He glanced at her. She didn’t seem sorry.
* * *
“That was inadvisable, Viviana.” Samuel tapped on the steering wheel.
I shrugged, which was a little tricky since I was slouched in the passenger seat. We sat in a Rent-a-Wreck car, a 1975 Ford Pinto, a bit down the block from the condo that Bolton and I shared. I couldn’t say goodbye from the condo and also follow him in a car, so I’d told him I was going out for a jog.
The fog was outdoing itself that evening, and I shivered. Samuel turned on the motor occasionally to run the heat. And the defrost. Samuel explained that otherwise, the windows would fog up. Would Bolton notice that as he drove by? Probably not, but Sam didn’t want to take any chances.
The interior of the car was plastic-toy red, with plaid fabric on the seats. There was a tear in the dashboard.
I said nothing, and Samuel continued tapping the wheel. “What variety of poison did you employ?”
“Not poison. Just something to make him sick.”
“‘Induce illness,’ I believe, are among the words included in the definition of poison.”
“Well, it may have induced illness in him, but it sure made me feel better.”
“For what period was he indisposed?”
“About a day and a half,” I said.
“You realize that had he died—wait a second, here he comes.” Samuel started the engine.
I twisted around and raised my head above the seat for a second then scrunched back down. “Yes. That’s him.”
Bolton’s Mustang zipped past.
“Oh, good thinking, Viviana. Did you do that? What is it?”
“What?” I pushed myself up and pulled a wool cap farther down on my head. “On the antenna?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, I did that.” The night before, I’d put a 76 antenna topper on the car’s aerial. It would make it easier to keep track of the car as we followed.
Bolton’s ride was a 1977 Mustang II Ghia, black with pinstripes down the sides. The stylish luggage rack on the trunk would also help us avoid losing him.
Samuel waited.
“C’mon. We’ll lose him,” I said.
He seemed to count to three then pulled out. “The danger that the subject will notice you is most acute near home.”
Bolton got farther ahead and then turned right. Samuel immediately put the pedal to the metal, which sounds more impressive than it was, given that we were driving a Pinto. When we got to the intersection, he slammed on the brakes and made the turn at a normal speed.
“There!” I said. “At the light.”
We hung back until the light went green, and my husband turned right. We got through the light on a stale yellow and continued to pace him. Then, disaster. A panel truck pulled in front of us. A panel truck with a Sunday driver behind the wheel. Aargh.
“Pass him.” I slapped the dashboard, rolled down my window, and stuck my head out.
“I can’t.”
“Now!” I put a hand on the steering wheel and put my foot on top of Samuel’s. No, I wasn’t going to take control of the car, but Sam didn’t know that. To preempt my action, he pulled out over the double yellow line and zipped around the van with surprising dexterity.
“Viviana! You cannot—”
“I know, I know. Sorry. Do you see him?”
“Uh … yes. A few blocks ahead of us.” Samuel sped up. “Oop. There. He turned. Did you see which street?”
“No.”
“He turned left. So …”
We slowed down at each intersection, looking left for the distinctive Mustang.
“There he is,” I shouted. But it was too late. We’d already passed the intersection. A one-way road. And the next was one-way in the wrong direction. Without any prompting, Samuel made an illegal U-turn and got onto the street that Bolton had taken.
But Bolton’s car was nowhere to be seen.
“La naiba!” I shouted it loud enough that Samuel jumped. We sped along, checking cross streets, twisting our necks left and right.
Samuel sighed. “Following a car often results in—”
“Wait. I know where he’s going, in general at least. This is one of his stupid shortcuts. Turn left at the next block. And step on it. This is the way he drives whenever we’re going to go south on 101.”
We jigged and jagged through cross streets and finally came to the on-ramp for 101 south. Traffic was light. Maybe he really was going to the airport. At one point the freeway went straight then uphill slightly. We could see far ahead. No black Mustang.
“Get down,” Samuel whispered.
I slouched down immediately and laughed. “Why are you whispering?”
“He’s right behind us. No, don’t look.” Samuel put the blinker on and got into the slow lane. He kept his head pointed straight ahead.
From my vantage point, I got a good view of the 76 antenna topper passing us. “Do you think he recognized our car from earlier?”
“No,” Samuel said. “I kept my head pointing forward but watched him as he passed. No sense of recognition.”
“Shoot. I forgot that he knows what you look like. When you married us.”
“I didn’t forget. That’s why I’m wearing this goofy hat and dark glasses.”
We only had one other gut-churning lost-and-found incident. Finally, Bolton’s Mustang pulled into the driveway of a modern, three-story house on an isolated lot. Luckily, we hadn’t made the turn onto that road, so we didn’t have to drive past him.
We high-fived one another and parked a block away.
“You did a great job,” I said, reaching into the back for my climbing backpack. “Now it’s my turn. Do you think this is her house?”
Samuel sighed. “Viviana—”
“Shit. Maybe this is his house. Maybe this is where he lives his second life.”
“It’s a big house.”
I clenched my teeth. “Maybe has kids.” I checked through the items in my pack.
“I think you’re on the wrong track, Viviana.”
I looked up. “How so?”
“He’s absent for only about a week each month. I don’t think that would be enough to sustain a second marriage.”
“Maybe she knows about me. She’s willing to share.”
“Know any women like that?”
He had a point. “What does it say to you?”
“I’m inferring that, based on the timing and the money you found in his safe, he is involved in an illicit business. Do you have a gun?”
I switched the dome light so that it wouldn’t come on when I left.
“Viviana?”
“I don’t go in for the rough stuff.” Unless is necessary. I looked up and down the street and opened the door. “I might be gone until morning. You’ll wait here, no matter what?”
“I will.”
“Thanks, Sam.” I leaned over and pecked him on the cheek then slipped out and pushed the door shut until it latched with a quiet click.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The house was a masterpiece of modern architecture. Too flashy for a safe house? The lowest level held the single-car garage and the front door, perhaps a TV room or something.
The next level was the main floor. Windows spread across the front, with wood siding that resembled an oak floor, the individual boards parallel to the ground. The boards extended a few inches beyond the corners, alternating with the boards from the next side of the house.
The wall extended up above the second floor, forming a parapet around a deck on the third floor. Half that floor was dedicated to a room or two, perhaps bedrooms. The flat roof of that top floor hung out over the deck.
The best part: The windows of several rooms on the second and third levels were open. Just a bit, but enough that I might be able to hear what was being said inside by my asshole husband.
I crept along through the two backyards that separated the house from me.
Woof!
Darn. It was the first exploratory bark of a dog on the other side of a cedar fence. I froze. If I kept moving, he’d undoubtedly explode into a series of angry barks. Raising my shoulder and bending my elbow, I reached into a side pocket of my climbing backpack. My fingers sunk into the gooey mass of raw hamburger meat. I clawed out a handful and tossed it over the fence.
Wiping my hands on my pants, I continued on—no barking—until I stood at the rear corner of the target house. The corner with only one nearby window. No light from that window. Voices, those of one woman and at least one man, filtered down to me. I couldn’t make out the words.
Like Mizrachi’s, this house was built into a hill, so the deck wasn’t that far up. But I still wasn’t close enough to understand what they were saying. They spoke softly. My grappling hook was rubber coated, but if I missed and didn’t catch it when it fell, they’d hear it.
It would be an easy throw, and the bulk of the house was between me and them. I took off the pack then stopped. Stupid me. I didn’t need the hook. Trezeşte-te, Viviana. Wake up. I stepped to the corner of the house.
The boards that protruded from the corners of the house made little ladders. “Little” was the important word, however. I could only get two fingers onto each. And I would have to keep my body close to the wall or they might pull out. I tested one, hanging down. It held. I put my pack on again but took off my climbing shoes.
Hugging the wall, I started up. I set a big toe onto a board, as close as possible to the corner, and clawed the index and middle fingers of each hand onto the highest boards I could reach, one hand above the other. I got my other foot inserted above the first. I pushed up and repeated the process.
Once I got the hang of it, I could move a little faster. No sounds of alarm reached me. I came to the roof and clambered onto it. It was covered with gravel over roofing paper and had a slight pitch to it. I crept to the edge that cantilevered over the deck. I resisted the urge to peek over, see my husband. I didn’t need to. I recognized his voice.