Wolfman - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  Looking back at the BMW as a focus point, he began his ki breathing exercises again, but this time the relaxation did not come. As his mind cleared, instead of the usual sense of peace he felt a building sense of anxiety, of urgency. He turned in the seat to stare out the back window. Alarm bells seemed to be going off in his head. He opened the door quietly and got out.

  He did not turn on the flashlight but tried to stare into the darkness. No sign of anyone. Of anything. But he still felt something. The rain blowing in his face. Don’t be funny. All right, then, think, think back.

  And turning back to the car he saw it. The door — he had left the door ajar on the blue-and-white. Not much, only a few inches, but just like the killer had done.

  Had the killer felt this urgency? Was that what he was feeling? Not on his part but on the killer’s. So . . . ? For a moment nothing came, his mind was a blank. He turned slowly away from the blue-and-white and stared toward the BMW. The killer had come out of the car on the run, leaving the door open behind him. Why? He was afraid, but why? What scared someone mean enough, vicious enough, to do this kind of crime? Scared him enough to make him bolt and run. Discovery. Headlights. Car sounds, that’s what probably did it.

  But where did he go? How did he get away? His car maybe? No, he didn't think so, but for a moment he didn't know why. Then he remembered . . .

  "The stains on the gravel, of course. The killer was covered in blood," he said out loud.

  He hurried back to where he had first seen the stains between the garbage can and the car. They were almost gone now from the rain. There were two more still visible but fading in the direction of the garbage can. As he neared the can he remembered the sound of the beer bottle that had startled him earlier. After that, the sounds in the woods. What if it wasn’t a dog, what if it was the killer?

  At the can he shone the light all around on the ground, half-hoping he was right, half-hoping he was wrong. Nothing caught his eye. He moved a few steps down the hill. Still nothing. A few more steps brought him to the woods between the parking lot and the Wissahickon Creek, Nothing A waste of time. Maybe it was the killer. Maybe not. All he could do was to put it in his report.

  As he turned to start back up the hill he saw another stain. He bent and touched it to be sure. It was sticky. He shone the light on his fingertips, they were a dark red brown. He sniffed them. There was no oil smell. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly and softly as he reached for his gun. The woods were not Mercanto's element. The advantage was with whomever was in there. He switched off the light and tried to be quiet, but the cracking, rustling sounds he made as he walked through the trees and underbrush sounded like cannons going off. Under his breath he said, "Sucker, you aren't any better at this than I am. I heard you all the way up the hill."

  He paused every few feet and listened. He knew the killer had a gun. To use his flashlight would be to make himself a sitting duck. He was nervous, but he kept his mind on his "one point," the spiritual center of the body and the origin point of his ki strength. It let his other senses work without mental interference from him. Gradually he began to feel what was happening around him. The woods were not quiet. There was the rain, the wind and all sorts of rustling and bumping from it. Natural noises, noises that belonged there. Behind them, much fainter now, much further away, he heard noises that did not belong there. Those shuffling, scuffling noises. The same he had heard when he arrived.

  He turned his head in the direction he thought they were coming from but he wasn’t sure. Without sight, direction was tough to determine. Was the killer still on this side of the creek or had he crossed over? No . . . the killer still had to be on this side of the creek. The only place it was shallow enough to cross along this stretch was on the rocks at the falls near Devil's Pond further down. That was probably where he was hiding.

  Up above he heard the sound of cars arriving and voices calling out to him. He called in reply to keep himself from being shot by accident and started up the hill, but before he did he looked in the direction of Devil's Pool and said quietly,

  "It's you and me, you and me . . ."

  At the top of the hill he saw squad cars and the first unmarked car. The unmarked car would be Homicide, and he walked toward it now to make his report.

  When he saw the balding detective who was giving orders, he stopped. He knew the man. His name was George Sloan, he was the head of Seven Squad, the man who had suspended him.

  Sloan turned and saw Mercanto almost at the same time. In the shadows it was difficult to see the expression on his face, but his voice left little doubt.

  "They said it was you," he said. "Make your report and get out of here."

  Mercanto knew Sloan still hadn't forgiven him for causing the department trouble, bringing an investigation down on their heads. But this was carrying it pretty damn far. . .

  "You don't have to worry, Lieutenant. "I only found this one. The killing happened before I got there."

  CHAPTER 3

  DR. MARGARET PRIEST walked her patient to the door. She was sorry to cut their session short, but Estelle's phone call earlier had ruined her concentration and it wouldn't be fair to the young woman to continue today. They stopped at the door. "Traci, thank you for understanding," she said. "Next session I’ll give you some extra time, I promise." She paused. "Even though it seems painful, I think we’re making excellent progress."

  She saw the young woman relax some, "I'm glad you think so . . . and I hope you get whatever it is straightened out."

  * * *

  Alone, Margaret began to pace. The office, normally comfortable to her with its soft grays and blues, now seemed cramped, confining.

  Where did Estelle get off, calling her and saying those things. Didn’t friendship mean anything to her? This was not a goddamn sofa she was talking about . . .

  Margaret noticed her cigarette half-smoked in the ash tray. She picked it up. It was all so casual, the way Estelle had said it. So ladylike. "Adam is having an affair," she'd said. Friend to friend. lust thought you'd want to know. How come she left out "a word to the wise"? The bitch.

  Margaret stubbed out her cigarette and tried to make some sense of her own feelings. She was angry . . . no, angry was too sterile a word for what she was feeling. Pissed off was more like it. Pissed off at Estelle. Ten years of marriage to Adam had shown he wasn’t like that . . . mercurial, emotional, that was part of being married to a poet. But he was not unfaithful. Trust counted. People couldn’t be together twenty-four hours a day. She opened the vertical blinds behind her desk and stood looking out across Walnut and Chestnut to the Market Street skyscrapers extending the Penn Center complex almost to 30th Street Station. Plus, if he was going to have an affair, there was no way he would do it with a student. He had too much pride for that. How many times had she heard him deride other professors for just that sort of behavior, their lack of integrity . . .

  There had to be a better explanation for it. She turned and looked at the phone on her desk. No, she wouldn't call him. He was having trouble with his work and she wouldn't bother him. No reason.

  She turned back to the window. Her thoughts made her feel small, even petty. Not her way . . . but what was the way? She folded her arms. Okay, what would she tell a patient in a situation like this? Suffer in silence? No. To suppress feelings, not to rock the boat? That, she pontificated to herself, would be a classic neurotic conflict between feelings and social acceptability. Neuroses . . . Freud said they reflected failure in the sex life. She allowed herself a half-smile. Well, that was one area of their marriage that had never been a problem. They’d always freely given to one another, no fear or restraint there. So why now?

  "Why, indeed?" she said aloud as she made a decision. Reassurance. Every marriage needs it. She picked up the phone to dial his office in the English department at Taft University.

  He answered on the second ring. "Hi, darling," she said. His deep voice brightened and her doubts began to fade immediately. This was
n't the voice of a man having an affair.

  "I had a few minutes between patients and thought I'd give you a call. How’s your day going?"

  She heard a sigh. "Fine, until a student showed up for a lunch date I'd forgotten. She’d asked me to read some of her stuff and chattered on and on . . . wrecked the morning, made me feel like you with a patient . . ."

  Margaret smiled. There it was, the logical explanation. Just like she told her patients . . . better to confront fears. "Was her work any good?" Why did she ask that?

  "Sophomoric. Teen-age ramblings about Tibet and being an ancient queen."

  "Well, I hope the afternoon goes better for you. Which poem are you working on?"

  "The one about the young boy seeing the rockets come in at the beginning of the Tet Offensive."

  She knew the poems about his Vietnam time were like reopening an old wound. She heard the bell in her reception room. "Darling, I've got to go, my next patient is here. Love you."

  "See you tonight," he said.

  As she hung up she felt much better. The tightness, the upset were gone. She would have no trouble concentrating now. She smoothed her skirt, adjusted the collar of her blouse and started for the door. This would be the new patient, the one who had called.

  She had given no thought to what he might look like, but at first sight two things struck her. His blond, rather aristocratic handsomeness and the visible tension in him, evident even in the way he was sitting. "Mr. Weatherby, I'm Dr. Priest," delivered in her quietest most reassuring tone. . .

  The sound of her voice startled Loring. He turned. Standing in the doorway was a tall woman in her late thirties. Her shoulder-length hair, highlighted by a touch of streaking, was light brown and hung loose, framing her face, which had a touch of roundness coming with her age. Her lips weren’t too full and seemed more likely to smile than frown. Her nose was broad at the bridge, her brows full, her skin soft and pale. But her eyes . . . they hit him . . . large blue eyes, knowing intelligent eyes . . .

  She turned and started back into her office. Loring got up and followed her. He could hear her walk, hear the rustle of nylons against her skirt. Since his call he’d thought a good deal about what she would look like. Nothing he’d imagined prepared him for . . . for her femininity that seemed overpowermg . . .

  He stood beside one of the chairs in front of her desk while she closed the door and then pulled the blinds, darkening the room to a soothing quietness.

  She sat behind her desk. "Please sit down." He did, scarcely daring to breathe.

  "Before we get into any specifics, let’s talk for a few moments. Have you ever been to a therapist before?"

  He shook his head, no words came. Why was he so damn nervous? Before he’d come he’d made up his mind not to be that way. Had even allowed himself an extra measure or two of belladonna. She smiled now. A warm genuine smile. "I'm not the dentist," she said.

  Her words, her tone relaxed him a little. "Then you aren't going to give me nitrous oxide," he said, trying to go along.

  Another smile. "No, unfortunately it doesn't work for me. I'd like to ask you a few questions . . ." And she led him through name, address, birth date. When she asked about medications he lied about the tension-relieving belladonna and said "none." When she asked about his family he balked. That wasn’t what he was here to talk about.

  "They're in Chicago. This doesn't involve them."

  She did not press it. "Let's talk a moment about what we try to do here. People come because they're dissatisfied with part of their life. Something’s causing too much pressure. Depression, or stress."

  "With me it’s work-related," Loring said quickly, wanting to dispel any thought she might have that he was crazy or something. "Things have just gotten out of hand and I need to talk it out. That's all. Stress, right."

  She nodded. "If you decide to start therapy we'll talk about a lot of things. Sometimes it can be unpleasant, even painful. It helps some — to remember that when you come here you can say anything, tell me anything without worrying about it. It's all about opening up."

  Loring looked away from her. He saw the couch along one side of the room. In spite of her soft words it reminded him at that moment of the rack. "I'm not going to lie on that," he said, nodding toward it.

  "That's okay."

  He kept his eyes on it like it was an enemy to be watched. A vision came to mind of Dr. Priest standing at the head, a mask covering her soft features, her breasts bare, and he felt himself laugh before he could stop it.

  "What's funny?" she asked, not looking toward the couch but keeping her eyes on him.

  Her question embarrassed him. He couldn't tell her that. The idea that he’d thought of her like that . . . undressed . . . he couldn't bring himself to think the word "sexually" . . . made him feel ashamed. This was obviously a good woman, everything about her said it. Still, he really wanted to tell her what he was thinking . . .

  After a moment he said, "I guess patients lie to you."

  "Sometimes."

  He was silent then: "There's something I'd like to ask you."

  She waited.

  "When I called for the appointment you didn’t seem surprised. . ."

  "Your doctor told me about you. I was expecting your call."

  Loring sat upright. Suddenly he thought of the letter he’d found in his desk, the one from his sister addressed to his home. This wasn't right. He felt his heart start to pound. "What did he say about me?" His voice seemed unnaturally high when he said it.

  "He told me your name and that you might call."

  His chest felt tight,the way it had felt in the fitting room. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer but he said, "What else?"

  "That you'd been under a great deal of stress . . . you’ve just said it yourself."

  Loring shook his head. "He shouldn't have, not without my permission. He had no right to go around talking about me." He looked about the room. Coming here was a mistake. There was no help here. lust get out and go home. No one can help you but yourself. Don't let her get you under her thumb like . . .

  "Mr. Weatherby . . ." She repeated his name. "Let me explain something. I don’t accept patients off the street. All of them come from referrals. Your doctor behaved in a routine manner. He didn’t violate your confidence . . ."

  Something in her tone, a note of. . . strength . . . combined with the softness made him look at her again. Their eyes met, and she held his gaze. Her eyes were not penetrating. The opposite. Their blueness reminded him of fine china and cloudless skies. Corny but true. When he looked at them he felt . . . felt she was offering him something. Maybe some relief?

  But what would she want in return? Strange thought, but even as he thought it he felt himself begin to relax again and the fear, tension, began to recede some. He saw that she saw this as she gave him another smile. Christopher Marlowe's words came to mind. "Was this the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium . . . ?" Come on, she's no Helen of Troy . . .

  He said the only thing he could think to say. "Are you a Freudian?"

  "Somewhat. Freud is the father of modern analysis, so we're all Freudian in that sense. But there are others whose work is important, too. I'm eclectic, I suppose."

  Vague as it was, the answer seemed to satisfy him, to somehow go to his discomfort. At least he didn’t want to leave.

  "Do you ever fail with a patient? Not help them, I mean."

  Said more to draw her out and hear her voice than for her answer.

  "Yes," she said. "Therapy involves many things. It's not foolproof, but I don't think that’s something we should worry about now." She paused. "Do you mind if I smoke while we talk?"

  "No, go ahead." She was asking him. Good. He watched her put the cigarette between her lips and light it.

  "Would you like to talk about what's especially bothering you?" she asked.

  He felt the edge return. "My doctor didn't tell you . . . ?"

  "No," she
said, and he breathed easier again. It was his story. He would tell it in his own way.

  "Well . . . I don't know exactly how to begin." She made no effort to help him. He watched her draw on her cigarette and exhale the smoke. The delicacy of it sent a slight chill up his spine. He tried to collect his thoughts. "The incident . . . I guess you would call it . . . happened when I went to pick up a suit."

  He paused. She still didn't say anything. "When I went to try it on . . ." How could he tell this? More than anything he did not want to humiliate himself in front of this woman, have her laugh at him. Even though he'd only been with her a few moments something about the way she looked at him made her opinion of him important . . . "I mean, there's really not too much to it. It was the stress of the day, the stock market crash. I was edgy, a little nervous, and the suit was too big. I . . . I overreacted . . . I guess you’d call it."

  She drew on her cigarette again and exhaled, the tendrils of smoke carrying a hint of her perfume to him.

  "How did you overreact?"

  He began slowly. Remembering was surprisingly painful.

  "The day had gone pretty badly from start to finish. I left the office early with another broker. We were going to have a drink. On the way we stopped at Treadwell's to pick up a suit that was ready for me. We went into the fitting room and I tried it on. When I stepped in front of the mirrors . . . they have mirrors that surround you . . . the suit seemed much too big. Not just a size or two. It was like they'd given me a suit for a basketball or football player. I thought they'd made a mistake, but when I complained they looked at me like I was nuts or something."

  "You say it seemed too large. Was it?"

  He looked around for something to fix on and saw her tap the ash of her cigarette into a large crystal ashtray on her desk. The blue-whiteness of the glass was cooling. "That's when things began to get out of hand. I insisted that they bring another suit. When I tried it on it was worse than the first."

  He knew how weird this all must sound. It did even to him and he had lived it. Nothing about it made sense. "Like I said, the day had gone badly . . . I didn't want to go for the drink, I just wanted to go home."