Multiple Wounds

by Alan Russell

  Helen was asleep on the bed. Tubes ran in and out of her body. The bullets had ricocheted around her organs, seriously damaging her liver, spleen, and one of her kidneys. But Helen was a survivor. Rachel joined Cheever. They kissed, more than a peck, less than a display; a promise for later.

  “She’s exhausted,” Rachel said. “I had a cancellation and got here early. Pandora’s not being silent anymore. She had a lot to say to me.”

  There were fewer personalities now. More deaths had come out of that one night than had been reported. The media’s body count hadn’t included Nemesis and Cronos and Diane. Rollo Adams had been their emphasis, and still was. The lead story in that morning’s Union-Tribune had been a patchwork piece on Adams’s financial dealings and his dark side, with all the hindsight sages coming out of the woodwork.

  Cheever and Rachel walked out of the ICU and settled themselves into some chairs in the waiting area. He had brought a sandwich, but discovered he wasn’t really hungry.

  “Read the article today?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “It was about Adams, but I think it missed the point. It made it sound as if he was financially desperate, but that wasn’t really the case. Sure, he was losing money on his downtown holdings, but Adams was rich enough to be able to afford that.”

  “So what’s the answer, Detective?”

  “I don’t know, Doctor. If I was to voice my speculations, I’d be venturing into your territory.”

  “The mind is the biggest world of all,” she said. “Feel free to enter.”

  “Adams could afford to lose money,” he said, “but to his thinking what he couldn’t afford to lose was face. He lived for being the golden boy, and golden boys don’t make mistakes. Adams didn’t want to be a part of some low-income housing feel-good plan. He wanted glass and chrome and headlines, and decided Bonnie Gill stood between him and that. He wanted a downtown coup where everyone would acknowledge the brilliance of Rollo Adams. He wanted to be the man who made things happen.”

  Rachel considered Cheever’s points.

  “Jonathan Swift once wrote of such a man,” she said, “a description that might apply to our Mr. Adams as well: ‘Untroubled by the knowledge that he was a devil, he could not bear the suggestion that he was a dunce.’”

  “How’d you get to be so smart?” Cheever asked.

  “Figuring out matters before and during the difficulties is the tough part. It’s a lot easier speculating afterward. But I daresay you’re right, Rollo Adams had to protect his world of illusion.”

  “And Helen Troy had to lose hers.”

  Rachel wondered whether she heard any wistfulness in Cheever’s tone. She didn’t think so. Cheever had told her how he had lost Diane a second time, but it wasn’t a tale of mourning. He was more at peace with himself now than she had ever seen him. He accepted that his daughter was gone, his ghosts laid to rest.

  “There were matters,” Rachel said, “that Pandora wanted me to discuss with you.”

  “I haven’t exactly been a stranger here,” he said. “What’s stopping her from talking directly to me?”

  “She’s afraid of your reaction. She thinks you might want to arrest her.”

  “Why?”

  “She blames herself for Kathy’s death. Or at least Nemesis always did. Now that Nemesis is gone, she’s still trying to punish herself, or find others to do that.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “Helen encouraged Kathy to come over to her home. She’s still not sure whether she brought her over in the hopes that Kathy’s being there would spare her from having to play her father’s game or whether she made a conscious decision of offering Kathy up to her father. In some ways Helen believes that Kathy died for her sins. But that didn’t stop Nemesis from punishing her all these years for being evil.”

  He let out a long sigh. “Poor Helen sounds like a textbook case of being self-destructive.”

  “Or a textbook case of coping. The little girl that was Helen couldn’t go on. She tried to make order out of a horrendous world. How else could she cope with murder, mayhem, and sexual abuse? How could she make sense of all those conflicting images? She wanted to scream, and she was told to be silent. She was betrayed, and yet was convinced she had done the betraying. And she wanted to punish, and be punished.”

  Neither of them spoke for a minute. Both considered all of the prisons of Helen Troy.

  “What should I say when I see her?” Cheever asked.

  “How about what you told her the other night?”

  For a moment Cheever wondered at what he had said, then he remembered. “Tell her that I love her?”

  “All of the doctors were sure Helen would die and that her recovery is nothing short of miraculous. She remembers what you said, you know. I think your words entered her worlds, all of them. And I believe they carried her through.”

  “Love conquering death,” Cheever said. “Orpheus would be proud.”

  His tone was disparaging, but Rachel wouldn’t allow him his deprecation. “Yes, he would,” she said.

  Cheever drew a deep breath. For a moment he thought he’d lose it, feared that his breath might turn into a sob. Then he looked at Rachel and she looked back. “I’ll go tell her that,” he said. “I’ll tell her those very words. But first, I’m going to say them to you.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Sergeant Bill Holmes and all the detectives on San Diego Police Department’s Homicide Team IV for allowing me the opportunity to work with them and gain a better understanding of the painstaking work that surrounds homicide investigations, as well as letting me get a feel for their jobs and workplace. SDPD’s allowing me to go behind the scenes helped immeasurably with this book.

  I would also like to thank Faith Niles, branch manager of the Cardiff by the Sea Library (small, but mighty!), as well as librarian Mary Lou Kammerer, for always cheerfully assisting me in the gathering of all the eclectic materials that eventually go into the making of my novels. My gratitude also to other San Diego city and county librarians who have always been very kind with their time and efforts (and have somehow refrained from asking, “You want what?”).

  My thanks to Linda Ashmore, who was gracious enough to open up to me about her own struggles with DID and offered insights to those afflicted with this disorder.

  This novel was a “transition” book for me. It was a work that needed my full attention, and I went from writing part time and working a full-time job, to writing full time (otherwise known as “fool-time”). I would like to thank my father, Mark Russell, for his support and encouragement in helping me achieve this lifelong goal. My family (Laura, Luke, and Hart) also deserves credit for putting up with a “stay-at-home dad.” Kudos also to my in-laws Ann and Mike, who have always been there to keep the Russell menagerie going.

  And thanks to Rainbow, for warming my lap during the year and a half I worked on this book, and warming my heart for the ten years she graced the Russell household. Rainbow was the only good thing to come out of a very terrible situation (her first family was murdered). I cribbed from that tragedy in this book. I miss your purrs, cat.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo by Stathis Orphanos, 2012

  Called “one of the best writers in the mystery field today” by Publishers Weekly, Alan Russell is a prolific writer, his books running the gamut of crime fiction from classic whodunits and comedy to political and psychological suspense. When he isn’t writing, he is an avid gardener and cook. Russell is a native of California, where he still resides with his wife and three children.

 

 

 
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