Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She broke into tears again and dabbed at her eyes with the crumpled tissue. I gave her a fresh one.

  “I’m really sorry, Dr. Delaware. I just can’t stand to see her hurt.”

  “Of course,” I said. “And the irony is that the very things that are being done to help her—the tests and procedures—are causing her the most pain.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded.

  I said, “That’s why Dr. Eves asked me to see you. There are psychological techniques that can help children deal with procedural anxiety and, sometimes, even reduce the pain itself.”

  “Techniques,” she said, echoing the way Vicki Bottomley had, but with none of the nurse’s sarcasm. “That would be great—I’d sure appreciate anything you could do. Watching her go through her bloodwork is like … It’s just horrible.”

  I remembered what Stephanie had said about her composure during procedures.

  As if reading me, she said, “Every time someone walks in that door with a needle, I just freeze inside, even though I keep smiling. My smiles are for Cassie. I try really hard not to get upset in front of her but I know she’s got to feel it.”

  “The radar.”

  “We’re so close—she’s my one and only. She just looks at me and she knows. I’m not helping her but what can I do? I can’t just leave her alone with them.”

  “Dr. Eves thinks you’re doing great.”

  Something in the brown eyes. A momentary hardening? Then a tired smile.

  “Dr. Eves is wonderful. We … She was the … She’s really been wonderful with Cassie, even though Cassie won’t have anything more to do with her. I know all these illnesses have been horrible for her, too. Every time the E.R. calls her, I feel bad about putting her through it again.”

  “It’s her job,” I said.

  She looked as if I’d struck her. “I’m sure with her it’s more than just a job.”

  “Yes, it is.” I realized the LuvBunny was still in my hand. I was squeezing it.

  Fluffing its tummy, I put it back on the ledge. Cindy watched me, stroking her braid.

  “I didn’t mean to snap,” she said, “but what you just said—about Dr. Eves doing her job—it made me think about my job. Being a mother. I don’t seem to be pulling that off too well, do I? No one trains you for that.”

  She looked away.

  “Cindy,” I said, leaning forward, “this is a tough thing to go through. Not exactly business as usual.”

  A smile danced across her lips for just an instant. Sad madonna smile.

  Madonna-monster?

  Stephanie had asked me to keep an open mind but I knew I was using her suspicions as a point of departure.

  Guilty till proven innocent?

  What Milo would call limited thinking. I resolved to concentrate on what I actually observed.

  Nothing grossly pathologic, so far. No obvious signs of emotional imbalance, no overt histrionics or pathologic attention-seeking. Yet I wondered if she hadn’t succeeded—in her own quiet way—in keeping the focus squarely on herself. Starting off talking about Cassie but ending with her maternal failings.

  Then again, hadn’t I elicited confession? Using shrink looks, shrink pauses and phrases to open her up?

  I thought of the way she presented herself—the rope of braid that served as her worry beads, the lack of makeup, conspicuously plain clothes on a woman of her social rank.

  All of it could be seen as reverse drama. In a room full of socialites she’d be noticed.

  Other things clogged my analytical sieve as I tried to fit her to a Munchausen-by-proxy profile.

  The easy usage of hospital jargon: Spiking temps … pulling a double.

  Cyanotic …

  Leftovers from her respiratory-tech training? Or evidence of an untoward attraction to things medical?

  Or maybe nothing more ominous than too many hours spent in this place. During my years on the wards I’d met plumbers and housewives and teamsters and accountants—parents of chronically ill kids who slept and ate and lived at the hospital and ended up sounding like first-year residents.

  None of them had poisoned their kids.

  Cindy touched her braid and looked back at me.

  I smiled, trying to look reassuring, wondering about her certainty that Cassie and she were able to communicate on a near-telepathic level.

  Blurred ego boundaries?

  The kind of pathologic overidentification that feeds into child abuse?

  Then again, what mother didn’t claim—often correctly—a radarlike link with her baby? Why suspect this mother of anything more than good bonding?

  Because this mother’s babies didn’t lead healthy, happy lives.

  Cindy was still looking at me. I knew I couldn’t go on weighing every nuance and still come across as genuine.

  I glanced over at the child in the bed, as perfect as a bisque doll.

  Her mother’s voodoo doll?

  “You’re doing your best,” I said. “That’s all anyone can ask.”

  I hoped it sounded more sincere than I felt. Before Cindy could respond, Cassie opened her eyes, yawned, rubbed her lids and sat up groggily. Both hands were out from under the covers now. The one that had been concealed was puffy and bore needle bruises and yellow Betadine stains.

  Cindy rushed over to her and held her. “Good morning, baby.” New music in her voice. She kissed Cassie’s cheek.

  Cassie gazed up at her and let her head rest against Cindy’s abdomen. Cindy stroked her hair and held her close. Yawning again, Cassie looked around until her eyes settled on the LuvBunnies on the nightstand.

  Pointing to the stuffed animals, she began making urgent whining noises:

  “Eh, eh.”

  Cindy reached over and snagged a pink animal. “Here you go, baby. It’s FunnyBunny and he’s saying, Good morning, Miss Cassie Jones. Did you have a good dream?’ ”

  Talking softly, slowly, in the goofy, eager-to-please voice of a kiddy-show host.

  Cassie snatched the doll. Holding it to her chest, she closed her eyes and swayed, and for a moment I thought she’d fall back asleep. But a moment later the eyes opened and stayed that way. Big and brown, just like her mother’s.

  Her big-eyed gaze jumped around the room once more, swinging in my direction and stopping.

  We made eye contact.

  I smiled.

  She screamed.

  5

  Cindy held her and rocked her and said, “It’s okay. He’s our friend.”

  Cassie threw the LuvBunny on the floor, then began sobbing for it.

  I picked it up and held it out to her. She shrank back and clung to her mother. I gave Cindy the doll, took a yellow bunny from the shelf, and sat back down.

  I began to play with the animal, manipulating its arms, chatting nonsense. Cassie continued crying and Cindy kept up a quiet, comforting patter, too soft to hear. I stayed with the bunny. After a minute or so, Cassie’s volume dropped a notch.

  Cindy said, “Look, honey—you see? Dr. Delaware likes the bunnies, too.”

  Cassie gulped, gasped, and let out a wail.

  “No, he’s not going to hurt you, honey. He’s our friend.”

  I stared at the doll’s overbite and shook one of its paws. A white heart on its belly bore yellow letters: SillyBunny and the trademark ®. A tag near its crotch said MADE IN TAIWAN.

  Cassie paused for breath.

  Cindy said, “It’s okay, honey, everything’s okay.”

  Whimper and sniff from the bed.

  “How ’bout a story, baby, okay? Once upon a time there was a princess named Cassandra who lived in a great big castle and had wonderful dreams about candy and whipped-cream clouds.…”

  Cassie stared up. Her bruised hand touched her lips.

  I placed the yellow bunny on the floor, opened my briefcase, and took out a notebook and a pencil. Cindy stopped talking for a moment, then resumed her story. Cassie was calm now, caught up in another world.

  I started to d
raw. A bunny. I hoped.

  A few minutes later it was clear the Disney folk had nothing to worry about, but I thought the end product managed to be cute and sufficiently rabbitlike. I added a hat and a bow tie, reached into the case again, and found the box of colored markers I kept there along with other tools of the trade.

  I began coloring. The markers squeaked. Rustles came from the bed. Cindy stopped telling her story.

  “Oh, look, honey, Dr. Delaware’s drawing. What are you drawing, Dr. Delaware?”

  Before I could answer, the word doctor precipitated another tear-storm.

  Again, maternal comfort squelched it.

  I held up my masterpiece.

  “Oh, look, honey, it’s a bunny. And he’s wearing a hat. And a bow tie—isn’t that silly?”

  Silence.

  “Well, I think it’s silly. Do you think he’s one of the LuvBunnies, Cass?”

  Silence.

  “Did Dr. Delaware draw a LuvBunny?”

  Whimper.

  “C’mon, Cass, there’s nothing to worry about. Dr. Delaware won’t do anything to hurt you. He’s the kind of doctor who never gives shots.”

  Bleats. It took a while for Cindy to calm her down. Finally she was able to resume her story. Princess Cassandra riding a white horse …

  I drew a companion for Mr. HatBunny. Same rodent face but short ears, polka-dot dress—Ms. Squirrel. I added an amorphous-looking acorn, pulled the page out of the notebook, reached over and placed it on the bed near Cassie’s feet.

  She whipped her head around just as I got back to my seat.

  Cindy said, “Oh, look, he’s done a … prairie dog, too. And she’s a girl, Cass—look at her dress. Isn’t that funny? And she’s got big dots all over her dress, Cass. That’s so funny—a prairie dog in a dress!”

  Warm, womanly laughter. At the tail end, a child’s giggle.

  “So silly. I wonder if she’s going to a party with that dress … or maybe she’s going to go shopping or something, huh? Wouldn’t that be silly, a prairie dog going shopping at the mall? Going with her friend Mr. Bunny, and he’s got that silly hat on—the two of them are really dressed up silly. Maybe they’ll go to Toys “R” Us and get their own dolls—wouldn’t that be something, Cass? Yeah, that would be silly. Boy, Dr. Delaware sure makes silly pictures—wonder what he’s going to do now!”

  I smiled and lifted my pencil. Something easy: hippopotamus … just a bathtub with legs …

  “What’s your bunny’s name, Dr. Delaware?”

  “Benny.”

  “Benny Bunny—that’s ridiculous!”

  I smiled, concealing my artistic struggle. The bathtub was looking too fierce.… The problem was the grin … too aggressive—more like a dehorned rhino … What would Freud say about that?

  I performed reconstructive surgery on the critter’s mouth.

  “Benny the Hat Bunny—didja hear that, Cass?”

  High-pitched, little-kid laughter.

  “And what about the prairie dog, Dr. Delaware? What’s her name?”

  “Priscilla …” Working away. The hippo finally hippolike, but still something wrong … the grin venal—the greasy smirk of a carny barker … Maybe a dog would have been easier …

  “Priscilla the prairie dog! Do you believe that!”

  “Pilla!”

  “Yes, Priscilla!”

  “Pilla!”

  “Very good, Cass! That’s excellent! Priscilla. Can you say that again?”

  Silence.

  “Priscilla—Pri-scil-la. You just said it. Here, watch my mouth, Cass.”

  Silence.

  “Okay, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. Let’s get back to Princess Cassandra Silversparkle, riding Snowflake up into the Shiny Country …”

  The hippo was finally done. Scarred by smudges and eraser abrasions, but at least it didn’t look as if it had a rap sheet. I placed it on top of the bedcovers.

  “Oh, look, Cass. We know what this is, don’t we? A hippopotamus—and he’s holding a …”

  “A yo-yo,” I said.

  “A yo-yo! A hippo with a yo-yo—that is really silly. You know what I think, Cass? I think Dr. Delaware can be pretty silly when he wants to, even though he’s a doctor. What do you think?”

  I faced the little girl. Our eyes locked once more. Hers flickered. The rosebud mouth began to pout, lower lip curling. Hard to imagine anyone being capable of hurting her.

  I said, “Would you like me to draw some more?”

  She looked at her mother and grabbed Cindy’s sleeve.

  “Sure,” said Cindy. “Let’s see what other silly things Dr. Delaware can draw, okay?”

  Minuscule nod from Cassie. She buried her head in Cindy’s blouse.

  Back to the drawing board.

  A mangy hound, a cross-eyed duck, and a spavined horse later, she was tolerating my presence.

  I edged the chair closer to the bed, gradually. Chatted with Cindy about games and toys and favorite foods. When Cassie seemed to be taking me for granted, I pushed right up against the mattress and taught Cindy a drawing game—the two of us alternating turning squiggles into objects. Child analyst’s technique for building rapport and getting to the unconscious in a nonthreatening way.

  Using Cindy as a go-between even as I studied her.

  Investigated her.

  I drew an angular squiggle and handed the paper to her. She and Cassie were snuggled together; they could have been a poster for National Bonding Week. Cindy turned the squiggle into a house and handed the paper back, saying, “Not very good, but …”

  Cassie’s lips turned up a bit. Then down. Her eyes closed and she pressed her face against Cindy’s blouse. Grabbed a breast and squeezed. Cindy lowered the hand gently and placed it in her own lap. I saw the puncture marks on Cassie’s flesh. Black dots, like snakebites.

  Cindy made easy, cooing sounds. Cassie nuzzled, shifted position, and gathered a handful of blouse.

  Sleepy again. Cindy kissed the top of her head.

  I’d been trained to heal, trained to believe in the open, honest therapeutic relationship. Being in this room made me feel like a con man.

  Then I thought about raging fevers and bloody diarrhea and convulsions so intense they rattled the crib, remembered a little baby boy who’d died in his crib, and my self-doubts turned stale and crumbled.

  By 10:45, I’d been there for more than half an hour, mostly watching Cassie lie in Cindy’s arms. But she seemed more comfortable with me, even smiling once or twice. Time to pack up and declare success.

  I stood. Cassie started to fuss.

  Cindy sniffed the air, wrinkled her nose, and said, “Uh-oh.”

  Gently, she rolled Cassie onto her back and changed the little girl’s diaper.

  Powdered, patted, and reclothed, Cassie remained restless. Pointing at the floor, she said, “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!”

  “Out?”

  Emphatic nod. “Ahd!”

  She got on her knees and tried to stand on the bed, wobbling on the soft mattress. Cindy held her under the arms, lifted her off, and placed her on the floor. “You want to walk around? Let’s get some slippers on you.” The two of them walked to the closet. Cassie’s pajama bottoms were too long for her and they dragged on the floor. Standing, she looked even tinier. But sturdy. Good steady walk, good sense of balance.

  I picked up my briefcase.

  Kneeling, Cindy put fuzzy pink bunny slippers on Cassie’s feet. These rodents had clear plastic eyes with movable black beads for pupils and each time Cassie moved, her feet hissed.

  She tried to jump, barely got off the ground.

  Cindy said, “Good jump, Cass.”

  The door opened and a man came in.

  He looked to be in his late thirties. Six two or so, and very slim. His hair was dark-brown, wavy, and thick, combed straight back and left long enough to curl over his collar. He had a full face at odds with the lanky physique, rounded further by a bushy, cropped brown beard flecked with gray. His f
eatures were soft and pleasant. A gold stud pierced his left earlobe. The clothes he had on were loose-fitting but well cut: blue-and-white striped button-down shirt under a gray tweed sport coat; baggy, pleated black cords; black running shoes that looked brand-new.

  A coffee cup was in one hand.

  “It’s Daddy!” said Cindy.

  Cassie held out her arms.

  The tall man put the cup down and said, “Morning, ladies.” Kissing Cindy’s cheek, he scooped Cassie up.

  The little girl squealed as he held her aloft. He brought her close with one swift, descending motion.

  “How’s my baby?” he said, pressing her to his beard. His nose disappeared under her hair and she giggled. “How’s the little grande dame of the diaper set?”

  Cassie put both of her hands in his hair and pulled.

  “Ouch!”

  Giggle. Yank.

  “Double ouch!”

  Baby-guffaw.

  “Ouch-a-roo!”

  They played a bit longer; then he pulled away and said, “Whew. You’re too rough for me, Spike!”

  Cindy said, “This is Dr. Delaware, honey. The psychologist? Doctor, Cassie’s dad.”

  The man turned toward me, holding on to Cassie, and extended his free hand. “Chip Jones. Good to meet you.”

  His grip was strong. Cassie was still yanking on his hair, messing it. He seemed impervious.

  “I minored in psych,” he said, smiling. “Forgot most of it.” To Cindy: “How’s everything?”

  “ ’Bout the same.”

  He frowned. Looked at his wrist. Another Swatch.

  Cindy said, “On the run?”

  “Unfortunately. Just wanted to see your faces.” He picked up the coffee cup and held it out to her.

  “No, thanks.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Nah, I’m fine.”

  “Stomach?”

  She touched her abdomen and said, “Just feeling a little woozy. How long can you stay?”

  “In and out,” he said. “Got a twelve o’clock class, then meetings for the rest of the day—probably dumb to drive all the way over, but I missed you guys.”

  Cindy smiled.

  Chip kissed her, then Cassie.