Eyes of a Child

by Richard North Patterson

  ‘How was it with Elena?’ Terri asked at once. ‘She wouldn’t say.’

  ‘About what I expected,’ Harris answered easily. ‘For fifty minutes, we sat on the rug here, not playing with toys, while Elena didn’t talk to me.’

  Harris sounded undismayed, but Terri was overcome by worry. ‘She wouldn’t say anything?’

  ‘Not a word.’ Harris leaned forward. ‘It may take a while, Terri. For whatever reason, I think Elena’s quite afraid. Of what, I can’t know yet.’

  ‘Isn’t there anything you can do with her now? Anything at all?’

  Harris shook her head. ‘This isn’t a test,’ she answered gently, ‘and Elena didn’t flunk it. Six-year-olds generally don’t articulate their inner traumas for at least two or three sessions.’

  Terri could not help but smile; as was the clear intent of Harris’s mild joke, she felt like the overeager parent who wanted her child to read by the end of kindergarten. But what was at stake was a child who no longer cried over her father but sat by herself for hours, refusing to say much of anything. A child whose last reference to Richie, two days after Terri’s return, was, ‘Daddy died because I left him all alone.’

  ‘How was she at Richie’s funeral?’ Harris asked now.

  ‘The same.’ As tearless as Terri and Rosa, filing past the closed casket in Mission Dolores beneath the piercing stare of Richie’s mother, Sonia, which softened only for Elena, and only until she saw the child’s dissociation. Richie had been Sonia’s prize: the worth of others – even Richie’s older brothers – was measured by their devotion to her youngest son. In her obsession with Richie, Sonia saw Elena’s withdrawal as insulting. But the little girl’s delicate profile, twinned with Rosa’s, gave Terri a sudden jolt of memory: the morning sixteen years before when they had celebrated the funeral mass for Terri’s father in the same church. Then, as now, the face of Terri’s mother had the ravaged silent dignity of a woman whose feelings were too complex and powerful for weeping or shows of grief. Then, unlike her sisters, Terri had fought back tears, refusing to cry so that her mother would not stand alone. Stood tearless by Rosa, as Elena did now.

  Tearless even as they left Richie’s graveside in a bleak drizzle, the three of them holding hands, and Sonia had said to Terri, ‘Ricardo did not kill himself – he did not commit this sin,’ in a voice so accusatory that Terri had taken her to the side of the funeral cortege and softly said, ‘I’m sorry that he’s dead, Sonia. But if you ever do anything to upset Elena, you will never see her again.’

  ‘Terri?’ Harris asked.

  Startled from memory, Terri found herself gazing at the psychologist. Everything about Harris seemed round: her face and mouth and body; her eyes, which conveyed without a word a remarkable range of messages – concern, amusement, caution, sympathy, compassion, even surprise. But Terri sensed that nothing truly surprised Harris, and that she had the persona of an extremely skilled actress whose job it was to draw people out without conveying how carefully she studied them.

  ‘I was just wondering,’ Terri said at last. ‘Are these conversations privileged? Yours and mine.’

  Harris seemed to reflect a moment, chin resting on two fingers. Her hands, Terri noticed, were surprisingly slender and graceful. ‘Elena is my client,’ Harris answered, ‘but she’s also a child, and you’re her parent. I can’t effectively treat her – or even understand her – without your help. And I can’t be sure I have your help unless you’re sure it’s confidential.’ She leaned back. ‘With two exceptions that, as a lawyer, I’m sure you understand.’

  Terri nodded. ‘If you discover abuse, you have to report it. And there’s no privilege regarding a crime yet to be committed or potential violence to someone else.’

  Harris did not ask why Terri had raised the question: they had made a compact, her uncurious look suggested, and Terri’s reasons for it were not her concern. ‘So,’ Harris said casually, ‘where were we?’

  Terri paused a moment. ‘At Richie’s funeral,’ she answered. ‘His mother said, within earshot of Elena, that she didn’t believe Richie killed himself.’

  Harris raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you think Elena understood?’

  Terri paused again. The question could be taken two ways: did Elena understand that Richie’s death was not an accident or that Sonia believed that Richie had been murdered. Harris’s bland expression gave Terri no clue.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘All the way home, and ever since, Elena said nothing about his death at all. But when we got into the car, she curled up in a ball, hugging herself.’ Terri flicked back her hair. ‘What’s so terrible,’ she finished slowly, ‘is that Richie’s death, which is devastating to Elena, is in certain ways good for everyone else. I have Elena, and Richie can’t hurt Carlo. Chris can even run for the Senate, if he wants to risk it. I’m scared that Elena may sense all that.’

  Harris appraised her. ‘For sure you can’t be acting glad he’s dead. But you can’t pretend you’re grief-stricken, either – kids have radar for hypocrisy. The best thing you can do is live your life day to day, give Elena a stable home.’ Harris spoke gently. ‘This is a child who’s undergone a great deal in the last half year or so: her parents’ separation, possibly some form of sexual abuse, and now her father’s death. Some of what she must feel is impossible for a child to verbalize, and all of it is complicated by something pretty powerful – the combination of Richie’s apparent desire to make her feel responsible for him, and a six-year-old’s inherent belief that everything happens because of her. Although, I have to say, I find Elena’s comments about Richie’s death interesting for other reasons.’

  ‘What reasons?’

  ‘In the sense that Elena may have had some heightened sense of danger to her father.’ Harris gave a deprecating smile. ‘I don’t mean that in the parapsychological sense. She may well have felt it from him.’

  ‘But how will you get her to talk?’

  ‘Slowly.’ Harris bent forward in a posture of entreaty. ‘You’ll need to be as patient as you can. Originally, you came to me about an accusation of child abuse, and to understand why Elena had become so withdrawn. Some of the behavior you’ve described – listlessness, regression, acting out, even the nightmares – could be consistent with abuse. But even if that happened – and please understand how I mean this – sexual abuse is no longer the worst thing in Elena’s life.’ Harris paused, and then added softly, ‘Her father has died from a bullet in the head. That dwarfs anything she’s ever experienced.’

  Terri felt despair. ‘But what will you do?’

  Harris shrugged. ‘I may spend weeks just getting her to play games with me. Perhaps, by playing with doll figures, I can get some sense of how Elena sees herself in the world, what’s bothering her. With all that’s happened to her, it could be easier to express herself through surrogates. Which, necessarily, requires me to interpret quite a bit.’ She gazed at Terri. ‘That may be something you can help with.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I want to understand Elena’s life. You can tell me about her, of course. But I’d also like you to tell me something about you. Not just your marriage to Richie but how you think you got there.’

  The question made Terri edgy. ‘That’s kind of complicated. I’m not sure I even understand it.’

  Harris smiled a little. ‘I’m not trying to be your therapist – I can’t be. But I do need some comprehension of the family Elena got born into.’ She folded her hands. ‘Before you married Richie, what did you know about him? His family, for example.’

  ‘Not much.’ Terri reflected. ‘Richie never said much about his childhood, except that he’d always excelled at everything. And that his mother used to call him her little prince.’ A thought struck her, a connection. ‘Sonia’s version of Richie was the same as his – that he was wonderful and that anything bad that happened to him was someone else’s fault.’

  ‘What about his father?’

  Terri shook her head. ‘His parents we
re in New York, and I only met Ricardo senior once or twice before he died. He was pretty grim: Richie said he used to cuff him and his brothers around when they got out of line.’

  Harris touched her hair, a tight coiled Afro faintly flecked with gray. The gesture, seemingly distracted, struck Terri as an effort to distract her. ‘Would you say Richie was more comfortable with women? Or men?’

  Terri hesitated a moment. ‘He thought he could manipulate women better, I think – perhaps that they would like him more. That may be why he agreed that you would be the family evaluator. The other two psychologists Alec Keene recommended were men.’

  Harris’s eyes narrowed a bit, as if considering whether to say something. ‘Alec set it up that way,’ she finally said. ‘Because he thought that Richie would pick a woman. And because, Alec told me, he wanted me to see him.’

  Terri was startled. ‘Did Alec say why?’

  Harris shook her head. ‘He left me to puzzle that out. I don’t think, really, that it was anything specific.’ Her voice had a shade of irony. ‘Maybe, as you’ve said, it was just that Richie was so clever.’

  Terri sat back: for a moment, unbidden yet powerful, she could feel Richie in the room with them. Harris leaned her head on her elbow, the casual attitude of a woman at leisure. ‘Tell me, Terri, what do you remember about being Elena’s age?’

  The seeming change of subject took Terri by surprise ‘About being six?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Terri hesitated. ‘Nothing, really.’

  ‘At all?’

  ‘Nothing specific.’ She felt like a specimen under a microscope. ‘Isn’t everyone like that?’

  ‘No, actually.’ Harris seemed to appraise Terri over her smile. ‘Some people are like that. Tell me, what are your first memories? At any age.’

  Terri glanced at her watch; there were ten minutes left in the session. ‘Frankly, Denise, I don’t see what this has to do with Elena.’

  Harris seemed unruffled. ‘Understanding you may have a great deal to do with our understanding of Elena. Yours and mine. So humor me.’ Her voice became quiet. ‘Try to lean back, close your eyes, and pretend that Elena’s happiness depends on your coming up with something. Pretend, just for a time, that you’re her.’

  Terri gave Harris a sardonic half smile, to signal that this was foolish. But when she shrugged and closed her eyes, blackness descended.

  ‘Anything at all,’ she heard Harris say.

  Blackness descending, like a blanket pulled over her head.

  Her mother is crying. Terri cannot help her; the crying comes with the night. She grips the blanket, pulling it tighter. Perhaps if she can stop the sound, her mother will stop hurting. The cries grow fainter.

  Terri opened her eyes. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember anything.’

  Chapter 3

  Carlo put down the sports page. ‘So what exactly did the cops want?’ he asked.

  They were sitting on the deck; the weather was unseasonably warm, and white sails dotted the bay. Carlo had been leafing through the Chronicle, Paget the Sunday Times. Their companionable silence felt familiar, the routine of two old friends; it reminded Paget that since Carlo had gotten his used convertible, they spent less time together. It was the way of things, he supposed: the son eagerly embracing the wider world, the father proud but a little rueful and – in Paget’s case – careful to keep quiet about it. Carlo, he thought, was entitled to become an adult without his father serving as his personal Greek chorus.

  He turned to Carlo. ‘They’re trying to figure out why our late friend Ricardo killed himself. And, in the process, to ensure that his resignation was voluntary.’

  Carlo shook his head in mock dismay. ‘You have a great way of putting things, Dad. Law do that to you?’

  Paget smiled. ‘Nope. My warm human qualities are all my own. Although the subject of Richie’s passing stretches them a bit.’

  ‘I can tell.’ Carlo pushed the baseball cap back on his head. ‘Do they think he didn’t kill himself?’

  Paget shrugged. ‘They’re considering it. They have to, really. It’s part of their job description.’

  Carlo’s face was serious now; gazing at his son’s profile – clean jawline, thin face, dark lashes over narrowed blue eyes – Paget was struck again by how much the boy looked like his mother. Except that the sense of calculation and self-control, so strong in Mary Carelli, was absent from Carlo. ‘Do they know the stuff about Elena?’

  ‘By now, they pretty much have to.’

  Carlo was quiet for a while. ‘You know, Dad,’ he finally returned, ‘I wouldn’t make jokes about Richie. Not where anyone can hear you.’

  Paget was oddly touched; for the first time he could remember, he was aware of Carlo looking out for him. ‘Don’t worry, I only share my bad taste with you. And, on her lucky days, Terri. Although this is a subject on which I exercise some restraint.’

  Carlo looked curious. ‘How’s she dealing with all this?’

  ‘Terri’s all right. The problem, really, is Elena. Now that Richie’s dead, Elena seems to feel she killed him. Metaphorically speaking.’

  The mention of Elena, Paget saw, still unsettled Carlo: his gaze at the water had a preoccupied quality. ‘Why would she think that?’ he asked.

  ‘Who knows? It’s magical thinking, Carlo – placing herself at the center of the world. Kids do it all the time.’ Paget decided to shift the focus. ‘How else did you know I’d buy you that car?’

  Carlo grinned. ‘Just rational thinking, Dad – predicting the behavior of indulgent adults. Kids do it all the time.’

  Paget laughed. ‘At least you could have acted surprised.’

  ‘Would you settle for grateful?’ Carlo gave his father an awkward pat on the shoulder. ‘Surprises aren’t nearly as good as knowing you can count on someone.’

  Paget covered Carlo’s hand with his own. ‘You always can, son. Just buy your own gas, okay?’

  Carlo smiled again, and then he cocked his head. ‘Was that the doorbell?’

  Paget listened. The second rasp of the bell was clearly audible. ‘It’s one of your friends,’ he told Carlo. ‘Mine have better manners than to drop in on Sunday morning.’

  Carlo disentangled himself from his chair with the agonizing slowness of an arthritic octogenarian. Amusedly watching his son – the three-sport athlete – make standing look like an act of will, Page reflected that there is nothing in the world more put upon than a teenage boy who does not wish to move. ‘The next step,’ he advised Carlo, ‘is learning how to walk.’

  Carlo gave him an exaggerated grimace. ‘Funny, Dad,’ he said, and began moving toward the door with the alacrity of a man on a treadmill.

  He returned with Charles Monk. Trailing behind them was Dennis Lynch, carrying a tape recorder.

  Paget looked up. ‘Morning,’ he greeted Monk amiably. ‘If we’d known you were coming, I’d have invited you.’

  Monk’s eyes widened slightly; in his range of expressions, Paget thought, this might mean amusement. Monk turned to Carlo and back again. ‘We have more questions,’ he told Paget. ‘I’d like to talk to you both. Alone.’

  All at once, Paget’s thoughts felt sharp and focused. ‘No thanks,’ he said coolly. ‘Just because we didn’t invite you doesn’t mean that you’re not our guests. You care to talk to my son, you do it with me here – right now, once. Afterward, we can chat alone.’

  Monk stared at him in silence. The message was that he understood that Paget meant to force them to take Carlo first, in his presence, so that the police could not ambush either of them. Only Carlo, standing uncomfortably to the side, seemed left out of the edgy dynamic.

  ‘We’ll do it right here.’ Paget gestured at two canvas folding chairs. ‘Have a seat.’

  Monk gazed at the chairs for a moment. They were rather like hammocks. Sinking into them, the two homicide inspectors looked immobilized and a little foolish. Monk, suddenly all arms and knees, did not seem amused.


  Carlo watched Monk balance the tape recorder in his lap and then turned to Paget, as if for help or guidance. Paget kept his face and voice calm. ‘It’s all right,’ he said easily, and placed a hand on Carlo’s shoulder. When Paget nodded to Monk, smiling a little, Carlo’s face seemed to ease. He turned to Monk, waiting.

  ‘You’ll have to speak up,’ Monk said to Carlo, and began his litany: that the interviewee was Carlo Carelli Paget; that his father was present; and that it was ten-forty-five on a Sunday that, to Paget, had been bright and pleasant just minutes earlier. Carlo stared at the tape machine.

  ‘Ready?’ Monk asked him.

  Looking up, Carlo gave a brief nod. He seemed composed, but nothing about him was languid anymore. By contrast, Monk’s gaze seemed almost dreamy.

  ‘Did you sexually molest Elena Arias?’ he asked.

  The question struck Paget like a slap in the face. Carlo straightened in his chair.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  The answer had a simple dignity – no protest, no elaboration. What Paget himself would do. But it did not stop the rush of anger. Monk had gained his petty revenge: walked into his home, humiliated his son, and made Paget watch it. And then, suddenly realizing that Monk was watching him, Paget understood his deeper reasons.

  ‘Nicely done,’ he told Monk in conversational tones. ‘Is that all, or do you mean to ask Carlo about the Lindbergh baby?’

  Paget saw his son’s faint smile. Shrugging, Monk turned back to Carlo. ‘Have you ever met Ricardo Arias?’

  A quick shake of the head. ‘No.’

  ‘Or spoken to him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or been to his apartment?’

  Carlo watched the tape. ‘I don’t even know where it is.’

  Monk seemed to study him. ‘Are you aware of the materials Mr Arias filed in the family court?’