Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Hello.” I sat there and allowed her to kiss me some more, run her fingers through my hair, touch me. Endured it and kissed back and knew how hookers feel. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I wiped it on my sleeve.

  She said, “Would you like water?” Got up and poured me some from Shirlee’s pitcher.

  I used the time to clear my head. When she came back I said, “Was Paul treating you for anything other than unblocking the past?”

  “Actually it didn’t start out as real therapy—just clinical supervision, the usual stuff about how my feelings and communications style affected my work. But as we got into it, he could see that I had … identity problems, a poor sense of self, low self-esteem. I felt incomplete. And guilty.”

  “Guilty about what?”

  “Everything. Leaving Shirlee and Jasper—they’re darling. I really cared for them, but I never felt I belonged to them. And Helen. Even though she’d basically raised me, she wasn’t my mother—there was always a wall between us. It was confusing.”

  I nodded.

  “That first year of grad school,” she said, “there was a lot of pressure, being expected to actually help other people. It terrified me—that’s why I broke down in practicum. I guess, down deep, I agreed with what the others were saying, felt like an impostor.”

  “Everyone feels that way at first.”

  She smiled. “Always the therapist. That’s what you were that night. My rock. When I saw your name on the party list I guess I thought history might repeat itself.”

  I said, “Before you met Sherry—before you knew about her—did you ever fantasize about having a twin?”

  “Yes, all the time, when I was a child. But I never gave much credence to that. I was the type of kid who fantasized about everything.”

  “Was there one twin image that kept recurring?”

  Nod. “A girl my age who looked exactly like me, but was confident, popular, assertive. I named her Big Sharon, even though she was exactly my size, because her personality loomed. Paul said I saw myself as puny. Insignificant. Big Sharon stayed behind the scenes but she could always be counted on to help when things got rough. Years later, when I took my first psych course, I learned that kind of thing was normal—kids do it all the time. But I was doing it even into adolescence, even in college. I was embarrassed about it, afraid I’d talk in my sleep and my roommates would think I was weird. So I made a conscious effort to get rid of Big Sharon and finally grow up. Eventually, I managed to suppress her out of existence. But she came out under hypnosis, when Paul was probing. I began talking about her. Then to her. Paul said she was my partner. My silent partner, hanging around in the background. He said everyone has one—that’s really what Freud was getting at with ego, id, superego. That it was okay to have her—she was nothing more than another part of me. That was a very affirmative message.”

  “And in autumn he decided to introduce you to your real silent partners.”

  She tightened. The glazed smile took hold of her face again.

  “Yes. By then the time was right.”

  “How did he arrange it?”

  “He called me into his office, said he had something to tell me. That I’d better sit down—it might be traumatic. But it would definitely be significant, a growth experience. Then he hypnotized me, gave me suggestions for deep muscle relaxation, transcendent serenity. When I was really mellow, he told me I was one of the luckiest people in the world because I had a real silent partner—two partners, actually. That I was one of three. Triplets.”

  She turned, faced me, took both my hands in hers. “Alex, all those feelings of not being complete—the attempt to fill the hole with Big Sharon—had been my subconscious mind not allowing me to forget, despite the repression. The fact that I’d been able to talk to Big Sharon in therapy was a sign to him that I’d reached a higher level, was ready to get in touch with my identity as one third of a whole.”

  “How’d finding out make you feel?”

  “At first it was wonderful. A wave of happiness washed over me—I was drunk with joy. Then, suddenly, everything got cold and dark and the walls started closing in.”

  She wrapped her arms around me, held me tight.

  “It was unreal, Alex—unbelievably horrible. As if someone was stepping on my chest, crushing me. I was sure I was about to die. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. Tried to stand up and fell, began crawling toward the door. Paul picked me up, held me, kept talking in my ear, telling me everything was all right, to breathe slowly and deeply, get my breathing rhythmic, it was just an anxiety attack. Finally I managed to do it but I didn’t feel normal. All my senses were stuffed. I was ready to burst. Then something came out, from deep inside of me—a terrible scream, louder than I’d ever screamed before. Someone else’s scream—it didn’t sound like me. I tried to step away from it, sit in the therapist’s chair and watch someone else scream. But it was me and I couldn’t stop. Paul clamped his hand over my mouth. When that didn’t work, he slapped my face. Hard. It hurt but it felt good, if you can understand that. To be cared for.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  She said, “Thank you,” and kissed me again.

  “Then what?”

  “Then he held me till I was calm. Stretched me out on the floor and let me lie there and put me deeper in hypnosis. Then he told me to open my eyes, reached into his shirt pocket—I can still see it: he was wearing a red silk shirt—and handed me a snapshot. Two little girls. Me and another me. He said to look on the back, he’d written something there. I did: S and S, Silent Partners. He said that was my catechism, my healing mantra. And the photo was my icon—he’d gotten it for me to keep. When in doubt or troubled, I should use it, fall into it. Then he told me to fall into it then and there and began telling me about the other girl. That her name was Sherry. She’d been his patient for years, long before he met me. The first time he saw me, he thought it was her. Meeting both of us was a miracle—miraculous karma—and his goal in life since then had been reuniting us into a functioning unit. A family.”

  “How long had he kept her existence from you?”

  “Just a short time. He couldn’t tell me about her until she agreed. She was his patient—everything was confidential.”

  “But to get her to agree, he must have told her about you.”

  She frowned, as if working on a difficult puzzle. “That was different. Ours was a supervision therapy—he viewed me as a fellow professional, thought I could handle it. It had to start somewhere, Alex. Breaking the circle.”

  I said, “Of course. How did she react to learning about you?”

  “At first she refused to believe him, even after he showed her a copy of the photo. Claimed it was trick photography, took a long time to accept the fact that I existed. Paul told me she’d been raised without love, had trouble bonding. Looking back, I realize he was warning me, right from the beginning. But I was in no state to consider negative input. All I knew was that my life had changed—magically. Triplets, the empty vessel filled.”

  “Two out of three,” I said.

  “Yes, a moment later I realized that and asked about my other partner. He said we’d gone far enough, ended the session. Then he served me herb tea and a light dinner, had Suzanne give me a massage, drove me home and told me to try on my new identity.”

  “Home,” I said. “Who gave you the house?”

  “Paul did. He told me it was a rental property of his that no one was using and he wanted me to live in it—I needed a new place for my new life. This one was perfect for me, harmonious, in synchrony with my vibrations.”

  “Same with the car?”

  “My little Alfa—wasn’t that a cute car? It finally gave out last year. Paul said he’d bought it for Suzanne but she couldn’t learn to drive a stick shift. He said after everything I’d been through, I deserved a little fun in my life so he was giving it to me. It wasn’t till later, of course, that I learned he’d been serving as a conduit—but he did put everyth
ing together, so in a sense, everything did come from him.”

  “I can see that,” I said. “What happened once you got home?”

  “I was exhausted. The sessions had taken a lot out of me. I got into bed and slept like a baby. But that night I woke up in a cold sweat, panicky, having another anxiety attack. I wanted to call Paul, was too shaky to dial the phone. Finally I managed to breathe myself calm, but by then my mood had changed—I was really depressed, didn’t want to speak with anyone. It was like falling head-first into a bottomless well—falling endlessly. I got under the covers, trying to escape. For three days I didn’t dress or eat or get out of bed. Just sat staring at that snapshot. The third day was when you found me. When I saw you I went crazy. I’m sorry, Alex. I lost control.”

  She touched my cheek.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Long forgotten. What happened after I left?”

  “I stayed that way for a while. Some time later—I’m really not sure how long it was—Paul came by to see how I was doing. He cleaned me up, dressed me, and took me back to his place. For a week I did nothing but relax, stayed up in my … in a room there. Then we had another session, even deeper hypnosis, and he told me about the separation.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That we’d been put up for adoption at birth and wrenched apart at three because Sherry kept trying to hurt me. He said it wasn’t the right way to handle it, but that our adoptive mother had problems of her own, couldn’t handle both of us. She liked Sherry more, so I was given away.”

  She’d taken pains to speak in an offhand voice, but something raw and frigid had come into her eyes.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Nothing. Just the irony. She lived like a princess all her life, but her soul was impoverished. I ended up being the lucky one.”

  “Did you ever meet Mrs. Blalock?”

  “No. Not even at the party. Why should I? She was a name to me—not even a face. Someone else’s mother.”

  I gazed at the plastic walls of the dome and said nothing. Let my eyes rest on the husk in the next bed.

  “When did Paul tell you about partner number two?”

  “Third session, but there wasn’t much to tell. All he knew was that she’d been born disabled, was institutionalized somewhere.”

  “Someone filled you in. Uncle Billy?”

  “Yes.”

  “The handsome paternal lawyer?”

  “After all these years, you remember? Amazing.” Trying to sound pleased, but edgy. “As a matter of fact, Uncle Billy always wanted to be a lawyer. He even applied to law school, but he got caught up with other things and never went.”

  “When did he come into the picture?”

  “The second time Paul sent me home. Maybe a week after we … parted. I was doing much better, putting things in perspective. The doorbell rang. An older man with a beautiful smile was standing there. With candy and flowers and a bottle of wine. He said he was the brother of the woman who’d given me away—he apologized for that, said I shouldn’t hate her, though he understood if I did. That she was an inadequate person but he’d always looked after me. Both as an uncle and an emissary of my father.”

  She looked over at the empty bed. “Then he told me who my father was.”

  I said, “How’d it feel learning you were Leland Belding’s heir?”

  “Not as strange as you’d think. Of course I’d heard of him, knew he was a genius and rich, and it was strange finding out we were related. But he was dead, gone, no chance for any connection. I was more concerned with living ties.”

  She hadn’t answered the question. I let it pass. “How did Uncle Billy chance to find you?”

  “Paul had traced my roots and found him. He said he’d wanted to meet me for years, had been unsure of what to say or do and stayed away out of fear of doing the wrong thing. Now that the cat was out of the bag, he wanted me to hear everything from the source.

  “I told him I knew about Sherry and we talked a little about her—I could tell he wasn’t fond of her, but he didn’t push it and I didn’t challenge him. I wanted to know about my other sister, about my roots. We sat there and drank wine and he told me everything—how the three of us were the love children of Mr. Belding and an actress whom he’d loved very much but couldn’t marry for social reasons. Her name was Linda. She died of childbirth complications. He showed me a picture. She was very beautiful.”

  “An actress,” I said. When she didn’t react, I said, “You look like her.”

  “That’s quite a compliment,” she said. “We were also miracle children—premature, tiny at birth, and not expected to live. Linda became sick, with septicemia, but she never stopped thinking about us, praying for us. She named us just minutes before she died. Jana, Joan, and Jewel Rae—that’s me. And though we all made it, Joan had multiple deformities. Despite being rich and powerful, Mr. Belding was in no position to raise her—or any of us. He was painfully shy—actually phobic about people, especially children. From what Uncle Billy described, a bit agoraphobic as well. So Uncle Billy had us adopted by his sister. He’d thought she’d turn out to be a better mother than she did. All these years both he and Mr. Belding felt tremendously guilty about letting us go.

  “I told him Paul was going to arrange a meeting with Sherry and he said he knew. Then I asked if he could arrange one with Joan.”

  “So he and Paul were working together.”

  “They were cooperating. He was evasive about Joan, but I kept pressing him and finally he told me she was somewhere in Connecticut. I said I wanted to see her. He said there was no point—she was severely disabled, had no conscious mind to speak of. I said not only did I want to see her, I wanted to be with her, to take care of her. He said that was impossible—she required full-time care and that I should concentrate on my education. I said she was a part of me. I’d never be able to concentrate on anything else again unless I could have her with me. He thought about that, asked if I could take some time off from school, and I said sure. We drove straight to a private airport, hopped on a corporate jet to New York, then took a limousine to Connecticut. I know he thought the way she looked would change my mind. But it only made me more resolute. I lay down in bed next to her, hugged her, kissed her. Felt her vibrations. When he saw that, he agreed to move her out here. The corporation bought Resthaven and set up a private wing for her. I got to interview attendants, hand-picked Elmo. She became part of my life. I came to really love her. Loved the other patients, too—I’ve always felt at home with the defective. If I had it all to do over again, I would have spent my life working with them.”

  At home. The only real home she’d known had been shared with two retarded people. A textbook insight, but she wasn’t getting it.

  I said, “And you changed her name.”

  “Yes. A new name symbolizes a new life. Both Jana and I had been given S names; I thought Joan should have one too. To fit in.”

  She got up, sat by her sister’s side, and touched the sunken cheeks.

  “She goes on forever,” she said. “She’s been a constant in my life. A real comfort.”

  “Unlike your other partner.”

  That cold look again. “Yes, unlike her.” Then a smile. “Well, Alex, I’m pooped. We’ve covered a lot of ground.”

  “There are a few other things, if you don’t mind?”

  Pause. For the first time since I’d known her, she looked drawn. “No, of course not. What else would you like to know?”

  There was plenty, but I was looking at her smile: stuck to her without being part of her—like a clown’s makeup. Too wide, too bright. A prodrome—early warning of something. I ordered my thoughts, said, “The story you told me about being orphaned—the accident in Majorca. Where did that come from?”

  “A fantasy,” she said. “Wishful thinking, I guess.”

  “Wishing for what?”

  “Romance.”

  “But the way you tell it, the true story of your parents is pr
etty romantic. Why embellish?”

  She lost color. “I … I don’t know what to tell you, Alex. When you asked me about the house, that story came out—just poured out of me. Does it matter after all these years?”

  “You really have no idea where it came from?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s identical to the way Leland Belding’s parents died.”

  She turned ghostly. “No, that couldn’t …” Then, again, the glazed smile. “How strange. Yes, I can see why that would intrigue you.”

  She thought, tugged her ear. “Maybe Jung was right. The collective unconscious—genetic material transmitting images as well as physical traits. Memories. Perhaps when you asked me, my unconscious kicked in. I was remembering him. Eulogizing him.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but something else comes to mind.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It was something Paul told you under hypnosis, then suggested you forget. Something that surfaced anyway.”

  “No. I … there were no suggestions for amnesia.”

  “Would you remember if there were?”

  She stood, clenched her hands, held them stiff at her sides.

  “No, Alex. He wouldn’t have done that.” Pause. “And what if he did? It would only have been to protect me.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “Pardon the armchair analysis. Occupational hazard.”

  She looked down at me. I took her hand and she relaxed.

  “After all,” I said, “he did tell you about the drowning—which was pretty emotionally loaded stuff.”

  “The drowning,” she said. “Yes. He did tell me that. I remember it clearly.”

  “And you told me. And Helen.” Twisting and turning the truth like wood in a lathe.

  “Yes, of course I did. You were the people I felt close to. I wanted both of you to know.”

  She pulled away, sat down on the opposite end of the bed. Bewildered.

  I said, “It must have been a terrible experience, being forced under water, someone trying to kill you. Especially at that age. The primal age.”

  She turned her back to me. I listened to the arrhythmic hiss and squeak of Shirlee’s breathing.