"Sure," I said.
"When I got here, I noticed that a lot of things didn't make sense to me. I decided to get professional help. There's a psychiatrist here who treated me when I was in school. You can probably guess that I didn't have an easy time adjusting to college life, given what you know about my childhood."
"Okay, but — "
"I know. My seeing a shrink is worrisome. Patient privacy only goes so far, but I haven't discussed anything that's criminal with my therapist."
"That's a relief."
"I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid, Finn."
"Of course not. I — "
"Lighten up. I meant for that to be funny. Sorry if it was inappropriate. Crazy is a word that shrinks don't like much."
"I can imagine. But how could that work? Therapy, I mean, when so much of your recent life is off limits?"
"It complicates the process. But that was the advantage of seeing someone I worked with before. We already had boundaries established. I haven't done anything since I've worked with Phorcys that I didn't do before. Over the years, we worked out code words for things I did that I couldn't talk about because they might be crimes. As my shrink said, it's not ideal, but it was the best I could do.
"Anyway, about my problem." She put the notebook on the coffee table in front of us. "I don't think I'll need the notes, but I might. I haven't discussed any of this except with my therapist. And there's nothing in the notebook that will cause any security problems."
"I figured as much."
"I'll cut to the chase here, Finn, but then you can ask me anything you want. The diagnosis of 'brief psychotic disorder' isn't a perfect fit, but it was the best my therapist could come up with. We think my break with reality was drug-induced by whatever they shot me up with in Charleston when Lavrov's thugs snatched me. Otherwise, there was nothing that happened to me that hasn't happened before. I mean as far as a triggering event.
"I didn't share all my background with the shrink, like I said. The trauma of being drugged and kidnapped could trigger the disorder that I experienced, and everything else fits. A 'BPD' is by definition — "
"BPD?" I asked.
"Sorry. Spend enough time with these screwballs and you start to sound like them. BPD is short for brief psychotic disorder. BPD lasts from one day to one month, by definition. It's always a short-term thing. If it drags out longer, it's probably schizophrenia. BPD usually fixes itself, although therapy helps speed things along. Therapy helps you avoid freaking out wondering what happened to you. It helps you adjust to having briefly lost your mind, I guess.
"It's rare, so they don't know a lot about it. It doesn't reoccur often, but there are exceptions. Given all the trauma I experienced in my childhood and teens, my therapist thinks this was triggered by the drug they shot me up with, rather than the kidnapping itself. Otherwise, I would have had episodes before now, given all the stuff that's happened to me. The likelihood of relapse in my case is nil, according to the shrink. Otherwise, I would already be living in a rubber room. With me so far?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Do I hear a question lurking in there?"
"Maybe. You make it sound like it's all over, this BPD thing."
"Yes. It was probably all over by the time I got here and hooked up with my therapist, as best we can tell. Except that I was confused and disoriented. We've been working on reconstructing how I got into this mess. I've already told you a lot of my memories of being snatched are fuzzy and disjointed. We were working up to my trying to get in touch with you, so you could help me put them in order, and here you showed up on my doorstep."
"Why didn't you call me, or get in touch through the email drop?"
"I would have, soon."
"I mean earlier? Like right after you figured out what happened?"
"My therapist didn't think I was ready yet. I was in a fragile state, mentally. It's hard to describe what it's like when your whole life comes unstuck. As close as I can come is those bumper stickers that say, 'Shit Happens.' It just does, and in a steady stream. It's scary when nothing in your world makes sense. It's only in the last few days that the therapist thought I was ready, and I've been dragging my feet, because … "
"Because?"
"Because I knew I was in trouble with Phorcys, for one thing. And I knew you would be caught in the middle, and that I hurt you. I didn't know how to deal with any of those things. Can't you see?"
"I think so. I can't imagine what it was like for you, but I know it can't have been easy."
"You have more questions?"
I shook my head. "I'm sure I will. I don't know where to start, right now."
"Where are we, Finn? I mean, as far as your mission for Phorcys?"
"I need to digest this, and I need to talk to them, obviously. I suspect we'll want our own psychiatrist to examine you, too. Not that I doubt what you've told me."
"Phorcys has a psychiatrist?"
"I'm sure they do, and it will be someone with whom you won't need to establish boundaries, as you put it. In my old job, I went through periodic psychiatric evaluations. It comes with the territory. People like us, we're a scarce resource, and what we do takes a toll on us. Having an in-house therapist is a way of protecting the investment they've made in us."
"But what about the security aspect?"
"That's above my pay grade, but I suspect you and I can both guess the answer to that."
"Where does that leave you and me, Finn? I mean for right now, tonight?"
"We have a truce."
"Yes. But you said you couldn't leave me on my own."
"It's not just me, Mary. Sorry, Kathy. I'll get used to it."
"Oh, don't worry about it. Mary's okay, just as long as nobody else is around. I like the way you say it."
"Okay. But about leaving you on your own — I have a responsibility to make sure we don't lose you again."
"I'm not going anywhere," she said. "I've missed you so much."
"And I've missed you."
"Well," she said, "I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted. It's bedtime."
"Go ahead. I'll fetch my stuff from the car and be right back."
"There's only one bed here. We'll have to share."
"I'll be fine on this couch."
"No you won't. Our truce only goes so far, sailor."
"But what about Sam?" I asked.
She gave me that smile of hers — the one that sends my blood pressure through the roof. "I'll deal with Sam tomorrow. Go get your stuff and hurry back. Top of the stairs and first door on your left. Lock the front door and put the chain on when you come back in."
She stood and walked to the staircase, turning to blow me a kiss over her shoulder as I let myself out the front door.
"Yes, ma'am. I'll be right up."
On my way to my car, I kept looking over my shoulder, watching her townhouse. I knew from my earlier reconnaissance that there was no way for her to sneak out the back.
6
Disoriented when I woke up, I didn't recognize the room I was in. Although I was alone in a queen-size bed, there was ample evidence that I didn't sleep alone. Not sure where I was, I scanned my surroundings with caution. Moving only my eyes, I spotted several telltale articles of women's clothing strewn about, but I was by myself. An open door offered a glimpse into an attached bathroom, but it was in shadow. There were no lights on in there. Next to the bathroom door, double sliding doors opened into what must be a closet.
Sitting up, I caught a whiff of coffee. The scent reminded me of waking up on Island Girl when Mary was aboard. She often got up first and made coffee as a treat for me. Then it came to me; I was at Mary's townhouse in Gainesville, Florida.
Along with the aroma of the coffee, I could smell bacon frying. I got out of bed and retrieved my clothes, dressing in a hurry. I stepped out of the bedroom into a short hallway and followed my nose down the stairs to the kitchen.
"Good morning, sailor," Mary said. She turned toward me and hand
ed me a mug of steaming black coffee. "Rest well?"
"I did, thanks." I pulled a barstool up to the island in the kitchen and watched her cooking. "How long have you been awake?"
"Not long. I didn't want to disturb you; you were sleeping like you were exhausted — really out of it."
"Best night's sleep I've had since we were in Charleston."
"Yeah?" she asked.
"Yeah. It's nice to be back with you, even if you're Kathy now."
"Oh, stop it, Finn. I told you, Mary's fine, except when we're around other people."
"There's nobody else here, is there?"
"Just us, for now."
"For now? You expecting somebody?"
"Sam will be here in a half hour."
"Should I make myself scarce?"
She smiled. "No, just behave yourself. Be cool; no macho posturing, okay?"
"Not me."
"Good. How would you like your eggs?"
"Any way that suits you will be great."
"Two? Or three?" she asked.
"You cooking grits in that pot?"
"Yes. With a little cheese and heavy cream."
"Two eggs, then."
She nodded. "Two it is. Sorry I couldn't pick up a few fresh flying fish off the deck to go with them. I checked. Nothing on the deck outside but a few geckos; not enough meat on them to be worth the effort. We'll just have to make do with bacon."
I smiled, remembering the first time I served her flying fish for breakfast. "It smells grand. I'll cope."
"What's on your agenda today, Finn?"
"I need to check in with Phorcys, but first I have to work out what to tell them."
"Surely you're going to tell them the truth; you mustn't try to cover for me."
"Cover for you?" I frowned at her. "How could I cover for you, even if I were inclined to? They know most of the story already. And what's to cover? I haven't heard anything that you need to hide, unless there's something you haven't told me."
"I don't want you to spin things to make me look better than I am, Finn. I wouldn't put you in that position."
"That's not what I meant, Mary. What I want to do is present the facts in a coherent sequence, not a disjointed jumble. That's all."
She gave me a rueful smile. "Yeah. That's all. That's a handful, isn't it?"
When I didn't respond right away, she said, "I mean, given my mental state — where I started from. A disjointed jumble just about describes my grasp of things, doesn't it?"
"Don't be so hard on yourself. It's too late now, but we should have tried to find out what they used to dope you up. It was something that scrambled your memory; there are plenty of drugs that could bring on a psychotic episode. Even I know that."
"That's what the shrink said, too. Should you talk with her before you call in? Do you have time?"
"I'll make time. Can we do that later this morning?"
"Yes. It should be simple enough, with me there to okay it. She even suggested it the last time we spoke — for a different reason, but still … "
"Good," I said. "You've done a fair job of laying it all out for me already. Sure, there are gaps in your recollection, but it all hangs together pretty well. With a little help from her, I should be able to give them a solid report."
She put two plates on the island and pulled up a stool. "You're feeling okay about me, then?"
"Yes. But we all know I'm biased."
"Biased, maybe, but not much," she said, loading her fork with scrambled eggs.
"Why do you say that?"
She paused with the forkful of eggs halfway to her mouth. "Less than twelve hours ago, we were talking about whether you might have to kill me. That didn't sound like a man blinded by love. Or even lust." She winked at me, but her face was serious.
"You know how that works, Mary. You're professional to the core. I'm the same way. Whatever else you might have done, I've never seen you put your personal interests ahead of your professional responsibility."
"That's not so, Finn. I wish it were, but I flipped out and wasted those 12 people. How do you square that with 'professional to the core?'"
"We've already beaten that dead horse. The operative phrase is 'flipped out.' I don't see what you did as a conscious choice on your part. After what you've told me, I think that was your psychosis at work. Lavrov's troops provoked your breakdown with whatever they shot you up with, and they damn well paid for it. You may need help to let that go; that's one place that a Phorcys shrink might help you where your normal one can't."
"Thanks, Finn. Your confidence in me helps a lot. You're the only one I can talk with who has even an inkling of what it's like." She looked over her shoulder, glancing at the digital clock on the microwave. "Eat up; Sam should be here any minute."
I nodded and made short work of my breakfast. Mary poured more coffee for each of us and started another pot.
"For when Sam gets here," she said.
We drank our coffee in comfortable silence. That was one of the best things about Mary. I haven't run across many people who find peace in silent company. She feels the same way about me; we've talked about it several times.
The coffee machine chimed. Mary got up and decanted the fresh pot into a thermal carafe. She put it on a tray with three clean mugs and cream and sugar. Lifting the tray, she took it into the living room. When she came back to the kitchen, she looked at the clock again and frowned.
"Sam's never late," she said, picking up her cellphone.
She scrolled through the directory and placed a call, holding the phone to her ear and frowning.
"Voicemail," she said. "Something's wrong. Come with me to Sam's?"
I took a last swallow of coffee and stood up. "You driving? Or am I?"
"I know the way," she said, grabbing her purse and opening a door that led through a small utility area.
I followed her past a washer and dryer. She opened another door, and we entered her garage. A nondescript, midsize Toyota beeped as she pressed a button on the key fob. The clunk of the remote door locks was audible in the quiet of the garage. As I walked around the car and got in the front passenger seat, she touched a switch on the wall and the garage door rolled up overhead.
She backed the car out and closed the garage door. Our trip was short; ten minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot of a small office park.
"Oh, crap," Mary said, as she parked the car and set the brake. "That's Sam's office."
She pointed down the parking lot to a cluster of police cars, their lights flashing. A news van with a satellite dish on its roof was parked about halfway to where the police cars sat.
"What does Sam do?" I asked.
Mary looked at me, frowning. "Sam's my therapist, Finn. Let's go see what's happening."
7
Soon, we were mingling with the small crowd of onlookers hovering near the news van. There were 15 or 20 people milling around, held back from the one-story office building by crime scene tape. A bored-looking uniformed policeman kept an eye on us. He lifted the tape for three people in white coveralls who approached from a police van — forensics technicians, I figured. They signed in on the clipboard held by the bored patrolman and entered the building through a glass door.
We were close enough so that when the door swung open, I could make out the lettering on the glass. "Samantha G. Peterson, M.D., Board Certified in Psychiatry and Neurology."
"Excuse me," Mary said, edging away from me, getting closer to a man standing near us.
Tinkering with a big video camera on a tripod, he looked up at Mary's interruption. His eyes flicked over her body and came to rest on her face. He smiled.
"Yes?"
"What's going on?" she asked, smiling back at him.
He glanced at his wristwatch before he answered. "That's a psychiatrist's office," he said, inclining his head toward Sam's office building. "The receptionist came to work and found the door broken into. She went in, 'cause the alarm wasn't going off. Thought her boss prob
ably already turned it off. They weren't supposed to be open yet, but the shrink comes in early most days. So she called out to her. Then this guy hit her over the head. Knocked her out for a few minutes, I guess. When she came to, she went into the shrink's office and found her tied to her chair, unconscious and bloody. That's when she called the cops, and that's all we know. Sorry, but I gotta get another memory card in this thing and get it formatted. We're going live in a couple of minutes."
"Thanks," Mary said.
"No problem." The camera man handed her a business card. "Second number's my cell. Give me a call and we'll go for drinks this evening."
"Great," Mary said, beaming at him. "I'll see you later."
She came back to my side. "You catch all that?" she asked, in a soft voice.
"Yeah. Let's get out of here."
"But … Yeah, okay." She took my hand, and we walked back to her car.
"Nothing you can do here," I said, once we were buckled in.
"Right," she said, starting the car and backing out of the parking place.
"Where are you going?"
"Back to the townhouse. Why?"
"That's not a good idea," I said. "You know how I feel about coincidences."
Stopping for a traffic light, she turned to look at me, her brow wrinkled. "You think the attack on Sam has something to do with me?" she asked.
"Good chance," I said. "We found you. No reason to think Lavrov would be far behind."
"But how, Finn? And why Sam?"
"Lavrov was working with O'Hanlon, and probably with the Daileys. Either way, the Daileys knew you were a Florida grad, right? You told me that."
"I told them when I was trying to get a job with them, yes. I suppose they might have told O'Hanlon. You think that's enough for Lavrov to pick up my trail?"
"It was enough for Aaron. He was already zeroing in on Kathleen Riley before he found out from your uncle's private eye that you used that name when you were in school here."
"What should we do?" she asked.
"Let's go check out your townhouse, but from a distance. I parked my rental car in that big apartment complex down the way — the one on the other side of the street. It gave me a decent view of your place."
Villains and Vixens Page 3