The Survivors

by Robert Palmer

  She laid a photo next to the black box. It was Scottie, but his head wasn’t right, misshapen at the top, and one of his eyes was drooping, half closed. I wasn’t frightened yet, but I was getting nervous. I rubbed my wrist, and I figured I’d just eat. She might tell me something about my mom, something nice. I really, really would have liked that.

  She sat down and out came other photos. Ron. Alan. My dad. My mom. “It’s been exactly a year. Did you know that?”

  I did know. I’d been secretly counting the days on the kitchen calendar at home. I stopped chewing, holding the Big Mac awkwardly in my small hands.

  “What do you remember?” she said. “That last night, can you tell me what happened?”

  She snapped another picture down. “It was a gun like this wasn’t it?” Her eyes were bright under the buzz cut, too much white showing, like the photo of my mother I’d found in the pantry. I pulled back from her.

  “You were in the bedroom. Did you see her shoot—”

  I started screaming and tumbled back over the seat. The Big Mac went all over her jacket. She tried to calm me down, but I slapped her hands away. Then she began grabbing her things. People were on their way over. I remember hearing footsteps, raised voices. Then an instant of floating, and everything went blank.

  An ambulance made it to the park in under ten minutes. I was done screaming, but only because I’d gone deeper under. My body was convulsing; my eyes were rolled up in my head. They took me to the hospital in Lancaster, and later that night I was transferred to the psychiatric ward in Reading. I was there a week and a half before they sent me to a children’s hospital in Philadelphia. I don’t recall a bit of those days.

  Someone at the ball field had gotten the woman’s license plate number. The cops tracked her to her home in Frederick, Maryland. She worked as a reporter for a small newspaper and had tried her hand at writing true crime books. None of the books had been published, but she thought the Damascus Massacre would be a sure winner. She had never met my mother; that was just a story she made up. And she swore she would have never approached me alone if it hadn’t been for her cancer treatments, which clouded her judgment. That’s what she told the judge at her child-endangerment trial. The judge, figuring she had enough troubles, let her go with two years’ probation, provided she never had any contact with me again.

  I spent seven months as a psych patient. I wanted to get better, but I was like a lamp with a bad connection in the works. I flickered in and out, a lot of the time just gone in my head. That whole period is a blur of gray walls and murky food, pills, and doctors. Always the doctors. Some only checked me over, shining a light in my eyes, tapping to test my reflexes. That was OK. It was the talkers I couldn’t tolerate. No matter what they asked, I couldn’t get the answers right. What grade are you in, Davie? Fifth? I’d guess. How much is four and three? Nine? And sooner or later, they asked me about my mother. What do you think about her, Davie? How do you feel, being the only one left? That was always too much. I shut down completely. Sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours, I wasn’t conscious at all, just switched off—a safe place without any memories.

  Then May came, my tenth birthday. That was the trigger for my aunt and uncle. They’d visited often and seen I wasn’t making any progress. That morning I was taken to the hospital director’s office. Jim and Renee were there. They seemed happy, but there was tension in the air. They hugged me and went back to what they were doing, signing a stack of papers. The director eyed me over his half-shell glasses and nodded at two paper bags in the corner. “Those are his things.” He refused to shake Jim’s hand, just pointing toward the front door instead.

  Outside there was a stiff wind and low clouds. We hurried to the car. Aunt Renee and I got in the back seat. “You won’t have to go back there,” she said. “Never.”

  I rubbed the scar on my wrist. “OK.”

  Gently, she pulled my hand away.

  Jim started the car and turned around to look at me. “A lot’s changed. We’ve got a new house, down in Arlington, near Washington. You’ll like it there. Nobody’s ever going to bother you like that woman did. And—” He and Renee glanced at each other. “You’ve got a new name. Henderson.” He put his big hand on my knee. “We’ve adopted you, Davie. You understand what that means?”

  I nodded but couldn’t look at him. He wanted something, confirmation I was happy, I guess. I just stared out the window.

  He gave my knee a pat and backed the car around. Renee said, “You’ve got a great room in our new house. You can see woods and a park and—”

  “I want to be called Cal,” I blurted out. I felt tears on my face. “Can I?”

  Jim smiled over his shoulder at me, and I knew, in an instant, so much was going to be all right. “Cal Henderson. What do you think Renee?”

  “I think it’s perfect.”

  I snapped up straight in my seat. We were pulling into a station; I had no idea where.

  A Metro conductor breezed past me. “The train is going out of service, sir.”

  “Sure, sorry.”

  I hurried out the door. Damn, I’d gone all the way to Shady Grove. I checked my watch. Damn again, I was going to be late getting back to the office. I jogged up the escalator and around to the other platform. The schedule board said I’d have to wait six minutes for the southbound train. Just as well. I needed to make a phone call.

  Felix Martinez would have cursed if he heard me call him “my therapist.” He always used the term “shrink,” and besides, he thought of us as business partners—who sometimes talked about serious stuff.

  I had the phone out before I realized it was Monday. Felix had strict rules about working in his garden. He wouldn’t answer until he was done for the day. He might check a text message, though. I brought up the screen and typed:

  Felix—Need to see you. Had an episode today. Free later?

  In less than a minute, I had his reply.

  Crap. 6:00.

  THREE

  I made it back to my office at five minutes after four. Denton Rivlin was waiting in the reception area, and Tori was at her desk. From the wide-eyed look she gave me, something was obviously wrong.

  “Congressman, I’m sorry I’m late.”

  Tori nodded behind me.

  A man and woman were sitting there. My first impression was how alike their clothes were, bland blue suits, exactly the same shade. All similarities ended there. He was short and heavily muscled. His head was dark and very round and shaved so cleanly it reflected the overhead lights in a ring like a halo. She was a strawberry blonde, willowy, with fair skin and vivid dark-blue eyes.

  He stood up. “Dr. Henderson?”

  “Yes.”

  “We need to speak to you. Can we step into your office?”

  The woman could read my confusion, and she held up an ID. “We’re with the FBI.”

  I motioned to see the ID, but that was just buying time while I got over my surprise. I’d been in this office two years and never had a visit from anyone official, certainly nobody carrying a badge. “What do you want?”

  “Let’s go into your office,” the man said. His tone was friendly enough, but firm, wanting no arguments.

  Tori was looking sideways at Denton Rivlin, who had his nose buried in an old Time magazine. His hands were trembling slightly.

  Denton had served seven terms in Congress and wasn’t seeking reelection. He claimed he’d gotten sick of the party squabbling, but actually he was getting out of town a step ahead of the House Ethics Committee. He’d come to me to deal with the stress from the circling vultures and to figure out what he was going to do with his life back home in Valparaiso, Indiana. I’d seen enough of him to know he had a pretty overblown sense of guilt. He must have been there when the two FBI agents showed up and identified themselves.

  “I have a session scheduled,” I said. “I’m afraid unless you explain why you’re here—”

  The woman stood up. She had a remarkably warm smile, inst
ant-on, a thousand watts. “It won’t take long. It doesn’t have anything to do with your patient. I’m sure he won’t mind waiting.”

  She must have noticed the trembling hands. She probably got that a lot in her work.

  Denton nodded gratefully at her. “Sure, go ahead, Cal. I can wait.”

  I showed them into my office.

  They introduced themselves—he was Tyson Cade and she was Jamie Weston—and handed me business cards. She was four inches taller than he was. When they stood side by side, he puffed himself up to compensate.

  I told them to have a seat and took my own chair behind the desk. Cade stayed where he was, while she made herself at home, pulling one of the leather chairs close and leaning her elbow on the desk.

  “Do you have a patient named Scott Douglas Glass?” Cade said.

  Another surprise, and this one I didn’t cover well.

  “Let me rephrase that,” Weston said cheerfully. “You have a patient named Scott Glass. Was he here today?”

  That was a tricky question. All patient information was confidential. Did that include the mere fact that Scottie had been to see me? “What makes you think this Mr. Glass is a patient of mine?”

  Cade shook his head. He wasn’t interested in what I wanted to know. “We need some background. It won’t go any farther than this room.”

  Doctor-patient ethics aside, I didn’t like this guy. He got way too much enjoyment out of being a bully. “I can’t talk about—”

  “Doctor, don’t go there,” Cade said. “Answer the question. Was Glass here today?”

  I stared at him.

  “A bit of advice. It wouldn’t be smart for you to waste our time.”

  Weston rolled her eyes. “Tyson, keep the decibel level down, OK? Now, to answer you, Doctor, Mr. Glass had to sign out of his work, leaving in the middle of the day like he did. He said he’d be here—your name and address.”

  If they already knew, there wasn’t much harm in admitting it. “He was here. His appointment was at two o’clock.”

  “When did he leave?” she said.

  With Cade I could stonewall all day, but she had an air about her—we were just friends talking. No problems here.

  “We didn’t finish the session. He left around two fifteen.”

  “Why so early?” she asked.

  “A lot of people have trouble when they start to see someone like me. It’s a big step. It often takes a few sessions to develop a connection.”

  “So this was his first visit?” Cade said.

  I nodded, wishing I hadn’t been boxed into admitting that.

  “Why did he come to see you?” Cade asked.

  “We really didn’t have a chance to get into it.”

  “Did he mention anything about a company called Braeder Design Systems?”

  “No, he—” I caught myself. “I’m not going to tell you anything he said. I can’t be clearer than that. Now what’s this about?”

  Weston said, “We can’t give out details, but there’s an investigation—”

  Cade broke in, “Weston, don’t.”

  “He’s his doctor. He’ll want to help.” She stared at me, drumming her fingers on the desktop. Her hands were long and elegant; the nails were chewed to nubs. “Mr. Glass’s name came up, and all we need right now is to speak to him. Did he say where he was going to be for the rest of the day?”

  “No. In fact, he left here so fast, I went out after him. He was already gone by the time I got downstairs.”

  “Not a good session was it, Doc?” Cade said, smirking.

  He didn’t realize that I fielded sarcasm for a living. I shrugged and stood up. “I don’t see how I can help you any more than I have, and I’ve got someone waiting.”

  I walked them to the door, and Weston motioned for Cade to go on without her. “If you hear from him, please let us know.”

  “How serious is this?” I said.

  She glanced over her shoulder, making sure Cade wouldn’t be able to hear. “Some messages were sent to someone in the government. They could be construed as threatening.”

  “What’s Mr. Glass’s connection?”

  “That I can’t tell you. Obviously it’s important enough for us to get involved.” She gave a quick smile. “It all could be a misunderstanding. Right now, we only need to interview him. There’s been no crime committed. If you talk to him, let me know.”

  She shook my hand and shut the door behind her.

  I figured Denton Rivlin could wait another few minutes while I collected my thoughts. Scottie’s patient folder was on the coffee table. I skimmed the first page. Callister Resources. Odd that a company would make an employee sign out for a trip to the doctor.

  In the reception room, I heard Tori’s voice, much louder than usual: “Get away from there!”

  By the time I got outside, she and Weston had squared off. Tori wasn’t a trained FBI agent, but I’d give her even odds if a fight broke out. “I just came back in. She was listening at your door,” she said.

  I eased between them. “What were you doing?”

  Weston blushed, only a tinge high on her cheeks, but it was enough so she knew I saw it. “Nothing, I—”

  “The phone,” Tori said. “She must have thought you were going to call somebody.”

  Weston turned a deeper shade of red. All the training in the world can’t stop some reflexes.

  I said, “If Scottie gets in touch with me, I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.” I motioned toward the hallway. “Now, I think we’re done here.”

  She braced her shoulders, trying to seem still in control, and marched out.

  Tori opened her desk drawer. “Your appointments calendar has been moved.”

  “Uhh,” I said. My mind was elsewhere, thinking about how completely I’d been conned by the good cop/bad cop routine.

  “Cal, she looked at your patient schedule.” Tori picked up the phone.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “I’m going to call the police. That snake can’t slither in here and look at our records like that. You know how tight the federal rules are now.”

  No, she can’t, but she did. And I didn’t want to make any unnecessary waves. I took the phone from her and hung it up. “I think the right people to call for that would be the FBI, and they’re not going to do anything to one of their own.”

  Tori gave me a sour look, but nodded. “Who’s ‘Scottie’?”

  “Ted Gaines. Scottie is his real name.” I realized the slip I’d made, calling him Scottie. Had Weston noticed? Was she wondering if maybe I knew him better than I let on?

  Tori had a way of narrowing her eyes and arching an eyebrow, criticism and question at the same time.

  At the moment, I didn’t feeling like explaining. “What happened to Denton?”

  “He wasn’t comfortable with the FBI around. I walked him out to his car. He’s really a sweet guy. You know he’s having an affair with an intern. Nineteen years old from George Washington University—”

  “How did that come up?”

  “I tricked him a little, to get him to open up. It’s for his own good. He could use some advice from a woman.”

  “Tori, what were you just complaining about with Weston? My patients’ medical information is confidential. You can’t talk with them like that.”

  She gave me the eyebrow again. “Somebody has to.”

  “Right,” I said, sick of arguing. I headed for my office. “Could you bring Denton’s number in, please? I want to call him and apologize.”

  It took her a few minutes to bring the slip with the number. She had her purse with her and her coat on. “Leaving already?” I said. She usually stayed until five thirty.

  She kept her eyes down and tapped my desk. Her French manicure was a flashy contrast to Agent Weston’s bitten nubs. “I talked to Felix. He said he can see you any time. You don’t have to wait until six.”

  “You called him?” I couldn’t keep the note of betrayal o
ut of my voice. Calling Felix was like tattling to the teacher.

  “It’s been a crazy day, Cal. I thought . . . you always say talking to him helps.” Then she brightened a little. Even a thin smile on her was gorgeous. “He said he was going to dig out his pliers and wrenches.” She blew me a kiss and left.

  I thumped my feet up on the desk and rubbed my hands over my face.

  Shrink humor. Tools to fix the nutcase.

  FOUR

  Felix Martinez lived in Spring Valley, a few blocks from American University. It wasn’t the swankiest neighborhood in DC, but it ranked up there. As I drove past the college, I saw flocks of coeds strolling between the buildings. How many of those fresh faces were nineteen years old? How many would be interns this year?

  I hadn’t known about Denton Rivlin’s affair, but I’d suspected something like that, and I’d been prodding him to come clean. Leave it to Tori to wheedle the story out of him in one conversation. Tori was an oddity in the therapy business. Most psychologists work alone, making their own appointments, sending out their own bills. But I didn’t have a choice. Tori came with the office, just like the furniture.

  I bought the practice from Felix. He’d been thinking about retiring and knew I wanted to set up shop in DC. He offered a price so low I could barely believe it and seven years to pay it off. There were conditions, however. First, I had to agree to take on all of his patients, no matter how difficult they were. Second, I had to keep Tori as receptionist cum staff sergeant, with the same (outrageous) salary and benefits. He said he was just a softy when it came to her; I figured that soft spot had started some weekend over champagne and lingerie. Neither explanation was right. What he really wanted was for Tori to keep tabs on me, make sure I treated his patients right. Thanks for the vote of confidence, I told him when I figured it out. With a twinkle in his eye, he said, You don’t think she adds a little spice to the place? He had me there.

  When I drove up, Felix was in his yard playing with his dog. The dog was as close to family as he had—no kids, never married. Coop, short for Gary Cooper, was a chubby golden retriever. Felix named all his dogs after Hollywood tough guys. There’d been a Duke and a Clint and a Bogey. None of them lived up to their billing. Coop bounded over and jumped on me, missed with one paw, and did a barrel roll on the sidewalk. “Clumsy sod,” Felix called. “Here, give him a treat.” He tossed something that looked like dried liver. Coop snatched it before it got to me.