by Alan Russell
The story didn’t end with a wild flourish. You’d think in a train story there would have been bells and whistles and heavy smokestacks at the finish, and then more whistles. Maybe that’s why Cheever liked the ending so much. It wasn’t braggadocio, wasn’t some wild exclamation of steam, but just an assertion of quiet pride. And like all good heroes the little engine hadn’t lingered, had just disappeared into the sunset, content in a job well done. His words changed, but not his tone. In the end he echoed to himself, “I thought I could, I thought I could.” And that’s what she and Cheever said as they passed over their own rails. She repeated the words until her own steam ran out. And then, with a last valiant effort, she kissed him on his cheek. He watched her eyes give up the struggle and close. Gradually her breathing became slow and regular.
He held her in his arms, lost somewhere in time, awakening with the one thought of getting his girl to her bed. Rising to his feet while holding her was almost more than Cheever could manage. His struggle intruded on the fantasy of his carrying his little girl. He remembered her as being as light as an angel.
Straining, he made it to the guest bedroom, and there pulled the covers back, and tucked her in, and then kissed her good night. As he left the room he heard her murmur, “I thought I could.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
With a surreptitious glance, Rachel saw that it was quarter to eight. Five more minutes, she thought.
Mr. Kooper continued to drone on. “You know, I always figured if I had the job I’ve got I’d be happy. I thought that the money and power that came with it...”
This was only Mr. Kooper’s third session with her. He was having a midlife crisis that a recent affair and a new four-wheel-drive vehicle hadn’t helped. For a moment Rachel felt guilty about not listening more closely, but for once she allowed herself some latitude.
Rachel breathed deeply through her nose. It wasn’t even necessary to turn and look at them. The roses had a magnificent fragrance. She had left them out in the open, left them for all her patients to see. Red roses. They had been her contact with Cheever throughout the day. Their busy schedules had allowed them only one brief phone conversation. Cheever had told her about Kathy Dwyer, and she had speculated on the origins of Caitlin’s name. The call hadn’t only been professional, though. Rachel had thanked Cheever for the roses, and, with a certain intonation that she hadn’t even known she was capable of, Rachel had told him she knew just the thing for his cough. “Whatever you say, Doctor,” he had said.
She tuned in to Mr. Kooper for a minute. “You ever hear that saying about how kids suck the mother when they’re young and suck the father when they’re older? Well, I don’t feel like I got put on this planet just to grow tits for my kids...”
Rachel thought about her own breasts. She had wrongly assumed that anticipating the biopsy results would consume her thoughts. It wasn’t that she had been nonchalant about the impending news, it was just that she had felt too alive to be obsessed. Not that her heart hadn’t surged and all of her suppressed fears hadn’t come to the fore when her doctor had finally called with the news. Her cyst, he told her, was benign.
“...so what I think is,” said Mr. Kooper, “I’ve got to start looking out for number one. There are things I want to do. I’m thinking it would be nice to get my pilot’s license. I’ve already got one of those leather jackets...”
The nights were getting a little cooler now. San Diego’s so-called fall was her favorite time of year. There was a hint of the change of seasons, or what passed for the change of seasons, with the November evenings now getting down to the fifties. Maybe that would be excuse enough for her and Cheever to put a log on the fireplace.
The minute hand on her clock edged forward just enough. At last, she thought, though what she said was, “Alas, Mr. Kooper, our time is just about up.”
She finished up their session quickly, offering Mr. Kooper some observations (fudged, she had to admit), and matters to think about (more fudging), before showing him to the door.
Rachel was tempted to forgo her notes on Mr. Kooper’s session, but her habits were too ingrained. Early in her career one of her mentors had faulted her painstaking approach. “Rachel,” he had said, “the mental health industry isn’t too different from a fast-food operation. Most of the time you’re looking for an analysis-to-go. These are not six-course meals to be thought about and slowly digested. Sometimes you’re lucky if you have time to throw in the fries.”
Of necessity, Rachel had become more expeditious with her note taking, but she never viewed her profession the way her mentor had.
Narcissist, she wrote down. She wondered if Mr. Kooper had heard of the myth of Narcissus and Echo. One benefit Rachel had gained from treating Helen was that it had forced her to delve into mythology. Scratch a myth, she had found, and usually there was a human truth. The pioneers of psychotherapy had known that all too well. They had understood that many myths were more than stories, and had used myths to describe symptomatology and give names to conditions.
She remembered how the mythological Narcissus had embodied self-love and how his demise had resulted from his falling in love with his own reflection. It had taken Rachel months before she became conversant enough in mythology to follow Helen’s stories without needing a mythological road map. Cheever hadn’t had that problem. She thought about Cheever while scribbling notes on Mr. Kooper’s session, entries she knew were far beneath her standards, but that she had no intention of elaborating upon or improving. The sound of a male voice coming from the intercom surprised her.
“Dr. Stern?”
She looked around the room, wondered if Mr. Kooper had left something, but didn’t see anything, then spoke into the intercom, “Yes?”
“It’s Cheever.”
“What...?” Why his formality? And who was looking after Helen? But Rachel didn’t ask her questions. She didn’t want to talk through a box. Maybe he had Helen with him. She buzzed him in. Rachel rose, thought to greet Cheever at the entryway to the anteroom, but never made it to the outer room. The door was flung open, striking her arm and shoulder. She caught a glimpse of someone who was definitely not Cheever, a man in a mask. Scream, she thought, but even as her mouth opened a gloved hand grabbed her by the hair. She was pulled forward, then thrown backward onto her desk. The collision made her cry out in pain, but her cries were suddenly stifled when a knife was pressed up against her throat. With it came the single admonition of “Shhhhh,” a warning she obeyed.
Standing over her was a man wearing a red and white ski mask. Rachel looked into his dispassionate blue eyes. “Can we go with that thought, Doctor?” the man asked.
The knife raised itself from her throat, but only slightly. “If you scream, I’ll kill you. Understand?”
Rachel decided not to chance speech. She nodded.
He motioned for her to get up, then pointed to her chair and said, “Why don’t you take your seat, Doctor?”
She rose on uncertain legs, then walked around her desk and sat down in her chair. He watched her every movement and made sure she was watching him as he cut the phone and intercom lines. He looked all too comfortable handling the knife. It sliced through the cables easily. Behind his mask she could see he was smiling. Rachel had a feeling the smile was for her benefit.
“It’s tough getting a session with you, Doc. You’re a damn popular woman.”
Rachel didn’t say anything.
“Are you that good, Doctor?”
There was something invasive in his voice. It wasn’t only his innuendo. It was his callousness. He didn’t care about her one way or another, but he did enjoy being clever.
“My problems,” he said, “probably stem from inadequate toilet training. But yours, Doc, yours are a result of something quite different.”
She said nothing, just continued to watch him. Her not participating annoyed him. The game wasn’t as fun without her in it. He took his knife and started carving into her desk.
He was asserting his power to do terrible things, implying, no, more than that, stating that he had already done such deeds. In a deceptively calm voice she said, “No.”
The tip of his blade cut into the wood. He carved out the shape of a heart. “You never put your initials with someone else’s? R-S and whoever?”
“I don’t remember doing that.”
“You must have been a lot of fun in school, darling.”
He finished his carving. By this time he figured she would have been begging, but she was a real ice queen. Not that it mattered.
“You want to know where your problems started?” he asked.
“I am sure you are going to tell me,” she said.
“You have a patient named Holly Troy. She was taken away by the men in white coats yesterday. I need to know where she is.”
“I’m afraid I don’t...”
“Don’t fuck with me, lady. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”
He pulled a nylon cord from his coat pocket. “It’s up to you whether I conduct an operation, Doctor. I can gag you and then start carving. You’ll tell me what I want to know either way. But I’d prefer being civilized about all of this.”
She could tell that being civilized was the farthest thing from his mind. Psychopath, she thought. It wasn’t an officially sanctioned word anymore, but just because the mental health field had purged it from their diagnostic vocabulary didn’t make this man any less dangerous. She was convinced he could act with complete emotional detachment, could kill without compunction or remorse. Rachel had worked with several patients like that. They were their own universe; everything existed for them. Though they didn’t feel, they knew how to fake feelings. Like birds that mimic, they learned how to take on the sounds of others. Some psychopaths even succeeded in getting ahead. Ostensibly they were reasonable people. They could laugh, talk, interact, and, most of all, they could manipulate. Killing her wouldn’t bother him. He would only be concerned about the ramifications of how it might affect him.
“Holly,” she said, using the name he had used to identify Helen, “is very disturbed right now. She has withdrawn into herself and isn’t communicating. She had to be isolated.”
“Where?” he asked.
“We’re not sure,” Rachel said, “if she will ever talk again. In many ways she evidences symptoms of post-traumatic stress syndrome. She is like a combat victim who has seen and experienced too much.”
“That’s fascinating, Doc. Maybe we could have a long tête-àtête sometime. But right now I’d like to talk to her, not about her.”
He impatiently tapped his knife on the desk. Rachel tried not to look at it, tried to think of some way to gain control of the situation.
“Holly shouldn’t be disturbed,” she said. “She’s heavily sedated. She’s...”
The knife slammed into her desk, penetrating a good half-inch into the hard wood. He stood up and wrenched it free, leaving a gaping wound in the desk. Knife in hand, he leaned over the desk. Despite her best intentions, Rachel cringed.
“Where?” he asked.
“The Torrey Pines Center in La Jolla,” she said. “It’s a private convalescent facility.”
“What’s the address?”
“I have it here somewhere.”
He motioned with his knife for her to get it, then slightly straightened while Rachel rummaged around her desk. She flipped open her Rolodex, turned over some cards, and looked frustrated. Then she reached down and opened her desk drawer, pulled out a stapler and a tape dispenser, thumbed through some papers, and finally announced, “Here it is.” He leaned down toward her and stuck out a gloved hand. Into it she pressed her stun gun and pulled its trigger. Both of them screamed at the contact, she from fright, and he at the contact. The knife fell to the ground and she dropped the stun gun. Rachel grabbed her purse and started running, but her assailant wasn’t as incapacitated as she had hoped. He came at her, moving to cut off her escape. His eyes, so distant before, were more expressive now. They were angry. It was those eyes she aimed for.
The pepper spray squirted at his face. His mask partially helped him, and partially hindered. It absorbed some of the spray, shielding his eyes, but the fumes from the liquid blinded him. Rachel tried running by him, but even with his eyes on fire and his right arm hanging limp, he lunged at her. His fingers caught and tore her blouse, but Rachel was able to pull out of his grasp. He fell to the floor yelling curses at her. He wanted to cut her throat more than anything. To silence her. But he was half blind. And she had hurt him. The bitch had fried his arm. As she pulled open the door and ran out of the office he picked up the fallen knife with his left hand. His right hand, his right arm, was useless. It felt like someone had taken a hammer to it, and he couldn’t shake the numbness. But he was going to catch her and make her pay. He took off after her, tried opening the door with his right hand, cursed her and himself for not being able to manage that. Sticking the knife between his teeth, he grabbed the doorknob with his left hand and wrenched it open.
The bitch was really screaming now. She was running for the stairwell, was almost there. He knew just how to quiet her. He’d do her like he had Bonnie Gill. She’d been trying to get away too. At the time he had thought she was calling out, “Help me.” But he had misinterpreted. He knew now that she had been saying, “Holly.” Bonnie had wanted to alert Holly Troy.
“Got a dream I want you to analyze, Doc,” he shouted.
He was coming. He wanted her to know he was coming. The garage, he knew, was all but deserted. Some of the doctors probably left their extra cars there. He was tempted to take off his mask. His eyes hurt like hell, and the fumes from that fucking spray were making him tear, but he couldn’t chance shucking the ski mask. Someone driving out of the garage might see him. He’d make the bitch hurt for what she had done.
If only the Gill thing had gone better. He had scouted the gallery, walked around to make sure no one was inside except for Bonnie. And when he had made his entrance he had said, “Where are all the customers?” And Bonnie had replied, “One finally walked in.” How was he to know that weirdo sculptor was in the garden dressing her statues?
He crashed into the stairwell door. His numb arm had thrown off his equilibrium. Bitch. He yanked the door open. She was two flights down. Her screams were loud in the enclosed space. They pumped him up.
“Time for surgery, Doctor,” he yelled.
Rachel knew she was running for her life and knew that he was gaining. It was hard for her to think straight. She threw out prayers to a God she didn’t think she believed in. She was gasping. Her screams sounded fainter, were muted for lack of breath. Someone be there, she hoped. Keep running, running. Somebody hear me, she prayed. Don’t stop now. He’s closer. He’s so close.
He leaped down the stairs three at a time, using his body to bounce off the stair rail. Fucking arm, he thought, and fucking eyes. He couldn’t trust either. He kept stumbling, but still he was gaining on her.
Rachel threw open the door to the garage. For a moment she panicked, afraid that she had run out to the wrong floor. She was glad her reserved space didn’t identify her by name. Please don’t have sabotaged my car, she thought. Please, God, please.
She kept running, turned a corner. Sobbing in relief, she saw her car.
The door didn’t have time to close behind her. He was that close. He put his shoulder into it and then burst out into the garage. She only had about twenty steps on him now.
Rachel reached into her purse and desperately fumbled around. She didn’t want to look down, didn’t have the time. Her eyes were on the prize of her Lexus. Where was the damn remote? Her hand kept grasping. There! A moment of hope before she realized she was holding her cosmetics case. Brush, lipstick, checkbook. Oh God, where was it? Then her fingers closed on it. She threw her purse back at the pursuing steps that sounded so close, t
hen pushed the button. It didn’t work. She pushed again, desperate. Maybe the batteries had run out. He was closer. She could hear him. It sounded as if he were right behind her. Sobbing, she pressed the remote again, and then again.
He was gasping as hard as she was. He could barely see. His eyes had almost shut. But he could see well enough to make out the blur in front of him. He’d catch her. Just a few more steps.
Please, she thought. Please. She was pushing at the remote, pressing time and time again. Panic clouded her thoughts. Work, damn you, work.
It was then that the remote activated, turning on the car’s lights and unlocking the doors. Rachel reached for the door handle, pulled it open, then threw herself into the driver’s seat and activated the locks. It felt like it took her an hour to start the car, even if it was only an instant. Before she could put the car in gear, he was on her. He punched at the window with his gloved hand, and it cracked. With trembling hands Rachel threw the car into reverse, but not before he threw a second punch. This time the window gave way. Pebbled glass fell all over her head and lap. She pumped at the gas and had to brake sharply to avoid careening into one of the stanchions. As she put the car into drive, he caught up with her again and made a grab for the steering wheel. She was lucky his right hand was still too numb for him to grasp very well. Rachel fought for control of the steering wheel and at the same time slammed her foot on the gas pedal. As the car accelerated the fight for control continued. Only when a crash appeared imminent did he let go of the wheel, dropping to the garage floor. Rachel regained control of the car just in time to miss ramming into the support column, but she didn’t slow down. She rocketed toward the garage’s exit as if death were right behind her. When she reached the street, Rachel still didn’t slow down. Rachel ran red lights and stop signs, pushing her car to its limits. Only when she reached the haven of her garage, when the door closed behind her, did she feel she could stop running. But she still couldn’t bring her fingers to turn off the ignition. She was shaking too much.