“And you blamed yourself.”
“Are you a parent?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t you blame yourself if your child died and you weren’t with her?”
“No, not if I wasn’t driving the car that hit her.”
“Would your wife blame herself?”
Elaine’s face passed before his mind’s eye, and he frowned. “Probably not. All she would do is cry. She is a very weak woman, very dependent. But that isn’t the point, Mrs. Frasier.” It wasn’t. He would be free of Elaine very soon now, thank God.
“What is the point?”
“You did blame yourself, blamed yourself so much you stuffed a bottle of sleeping pills down your throat. If your housekeeper hadn’t found you in time, you would have died.”
“That’s what I was told,” she said, and she swore in that moment that she could taste the same taste in her mouth now as she had then when she’d awakened in the hospital that first time when she’d been so bewildered, so weak she couldn’t even raise her hand.
“You don’t remember taking the pills?”
“No, not really.”
“And now you don’t remember driving your car into a redwood. Your speed, it was estimated by the sheriff, was about sixty miles per hour, maybe faster. You were very lucky, Mrs. Frasier. A guy just happened to come around a bend to see you drive into the tree, and called an ambulance.”
“Do you happen to know his name? I would like to thank him.”
“That isn’t what’s important here, Mrs. Frasier.”
“What is important here? Oh, yes, do you happen to have a first name?”
“My name is Russell. Dr. Russell Rossetti.”
“Nice alliteration, Russell.”
“It would be better if you called me Dr. Rossetti,” he said. She saw those plump, white fingers twisting, and she knew he was angry. He thought she was out of line. She was, but she just didn’t care. She was tired, so very tired, and she just wanted to close her eyes and let the morphine mask the pain for a while longer.
“Go away, Dr. Rossetti.”
He didn’t move for some time.
Lily turned her head away and sought oblivion. She didn’t even hear when he finally left the room. She did, however, hear the door close.
When Dr. Larch walked in five minutes later, his very high forehead flushed, she managed to cock an eye open and say, “Dr. Rossetti is a patronizing ass. He has fat hands. Please, I don’t want to see him again.”
“He doesn’t think you’re in very good shape.”
“On the contrary, I’m in splendid shape, something I can’t say about him. He needs to go to the gym very badly.”
Dr. Larch laughed, couldn’t help himself. “He also said your defensiveness and your rudeness to him were sure signs that you’re highly overwrought and in desperate need of help.”
“Yeah, right. I’m so overwrought—what with all this painkiller—that I’m ready to nap.”
“Ah, your husband is here to see you.”
She didn’t want to see Tennyson. His voice, so resonant, so confident—it was too much like Dr. Rossetti’s voice, as if they’d taken the same Voice Lessons 101 course in shrink school. If she never saw another one of them again, she could leave this earth a happy woman.
She looked past Dr. Larch to see her husband of eleven months standing in the doorway, looking rather pale, his thick eyebrows drawn together, his arms crossed over his chest. Such a nice-looking man he was, all big and solid, his hair light and wavy, lots of hair, not bald like Dr. Larch. He wore aviator glasses, which looked really cool, and now she watched him push them back up, an endearing habit—at least that’s what she’d thought when she’d first met him.
“Lily?”
“Yes,” she said and wished he’d stay in the doorway. Dr. Larch straightened and turned to him. “Dr. Frasier, as I told you, your wife will be fine, once she recovers from the surgery. However, she does need to rest. I suggest that you visit for only a few minutes.”
“I am very tired, Tennyson,” she said and hated the small shudder in her voice. “Perhaps we could speak later?”
“Oh, no,” he said. And then he waited, saying nothing more until Dr. Larch left the room, fingering his stethoscope. He looked nervous. Lily wondered why. Tennyson closed the door, paused yet again, studying her, then, finally, he walked to stand beside her bed. He gently eased her hand out from under the covers, something she wished he wouldn’t do, rubbed his fingers over her palm for several moments before saying in a sad, soft voice, “Why did you do it, Lily? Why?”
He made it sound like it was all over for her. No, she was being ridiculous. She said, “I don’t know that I did anything, Tennyson. You see, I have no memory at all of the accident.”
He waved away her words. He had strong hands, confident hands. “I know and I’m sorry about that. Look, Lily, maybe it was an accident, maybe somehow you lost control and drove the Explorer into the redwood. One of the nurses told me that the Forest Service has someone on the spot to see how badly the tree is injured.”
“Dr. Rossetti already told me. Poor tree.”
“It isn’t funny, Lily. Now, you’re going to be here for at least another two or three days, until they’re sure your body is functioning well again. I would like you to speak with Dr. Rossetti. He’s a new man with quite an excellent reputation.”
“I’ve already seen him. I don’t wish to see him again, Tennyson.”
His voice changed now, became even softer, more gentle, and she knew she would normally have wanted to cry, to fold into herself, to have him reassure her, tell her the bogeyman wouldn’t come back, but not now. It was probably the morphine making her feel slightly euphoric, slightly disconnected. But she also felt rather strong, perhaps even on the arrogant side, and that, of course, was an illusion to beat all illusions.
“Since you don’t remember anything, Lily, you’ve got to admit that it wouldn’t hurt to cover all the bases. I really want you to see him.”
“I don’t like him, Tennyson. How can I speak to someone I don’t like?”
“You will see him, Lily, or I’m afraid we’ll have to consider an institution.”
“Oh? We will consider an institution? What sort of institution?” Why wasn’t she afraid of that word that brought a wealth of dreadful images with it? But she wasn’t afraid. She was looking at him positively bright-eyed. She loved morphine. She was tiring; she could feel the vagueness trying to close her down, eating away at the focus in her brain, but for this moment, maybe even the next, too, she could deal with anything.
He squeezed her hand. “I’m a doctor, Lily, a psychiatrist, as is Dr. Rossetti. You know it isn’t ethical for me to treat you myself.”
“You prescribed the Elavil.”
“That’s different. That’s a very common drug for depression. No, I couldn’t speak with you like Dr. Rossetti can. But you must know that I want what is best for you. I love you and I’ve prayed you were getting better. One day at a time, I kept telling myself. And there were some days when I knew you were healing, but I was wrong. Yes, you really must see Dr. Rossetti or I’m afraid I will have no choice but to admit you for evaluation.”
“Forgive me for pointing this out, Tennyson, but I don’t believe that you can do that. I’m here—I can see, I can talk, I can reason—I do have a say in what happens to me.”
“That remains to be seen. Lily, just speak to Dr. Rossetti. Talk to him about your pain, your confusion, your guilt, the fact that you’re beginning to accept what your ambition wrought.”
Ambition? She had such great ambition that her daughter was killed because of it?
She suddenly wanted to be perfectly clear about this. She said, “What do you mean exactly, Tennyson?”
“You know—Beth’s death.”
That hit her right between the eyes. Instant guilt, overwhelming her. No, wait, she wasn’t going to let that happen. She wouldn’t let it happen, not now. Beneath the morphine, b
eneath all of it, she was still there, hanging on, wanting to be whole, wanting to draw her cartoon strips of No Wrinkles Remus shafting another colleague, wanting…Was that the great ambition that had killed her daughter? “I can’t deal with this right now, Tennyson. Please go away. I’ll be better in the morning.”
No, she’d feel like hell when they lessened her pain dosage, she thought, but she wouldn’t worry about that now. Now she would sleep; she’d get better, both her brain and her body. She turned her head away from him on the pillow. She had no more words. She knew if she tried to speak more, she wouldn’t make sense. She was falling, falling ever so gently into the whale’s soft belly, and it would be warm, comforting. Move over, Jonah. She wouldn’t have nightmares, not with the morphine lulling her.
She stared at the IV in her arm, upward to the plastic bag filled with fluid above her. Her vision blurred into the lazy flow of liquid that didn’t seem to go anywhere, just flowed and flowed. She closed her eyes even as he said, “I will see you later this evening, Lily. Rest well.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. How she used to love his hands on her, his kissing her, but not now. She simply hadn’t felt anything for such a very long time.
When she was alone again, she thought, What am I going to do? But then she knew, of course. She forced back the haziness, the numbing effect of the morphine. She picked up the phone and dialed her brother’s number in Washington, D.C. She heard a series of clicks and then the sound of a person breathing, but nothing happened. She dialed a nine, then the number again. She tried yet again, but didn’t get through. Then, suddenly, the line went dead.
She realized vaguely as she let herself be drawn into the ether that there was fear licking at her, from the deepest part of her, fear that she couldn’t quite grasp, and it wasn’t fear that she’d be institutionalized against her will.
3
Lily awoke to feel the touch of fingers on her eyebrows, stroking as light as a butterfly’s wing. She heard a man’s voice, a voice she’d loved all her life, deep and low, wonderfully sweet, and she opened to it eagerly.
“Lily, I want you to open your eyes now and look at me and smile. Can you do that, sweetheart? Open your eyes.”
And she opened her eyes and looked up at her brother. She smiled. “My big Fed brother. I’ve worshiped you from the time you showed me how to kick Billy Clapper in the crotch so he wouldn’t try to feel me up again. Do you remember that?”
“Yes, I remember. You were twelve and this little jerk, who was all of fourteen at the time, had put his hand up your skirt.”
“I really hurt him bad, Dillon. He never tried anything again.”
He was smiling, such a beautiful smile, white teeth. “I remember.”
“I should have kept kicking guys in the crotch. Then none of this would have happened. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I’m here, Lily, so is Sherlock. We left Sean with Mom, who was grinning and singing the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ as we drove out of the driveway. We told her you’d been in an accident and that you were okay, that we just wanted to see you. You can call and reassure her later. As for the rest of the family, let Mom do the telling.”
“I don’t want her to worry. It’s true, Dillon, I’ll be okay. I miss Sean. It’s been so long. I really like all the photos you e-mail me.”
“Yes, but it’s not the same as being in the room with him, having him gum your fingers, rub his crackers into your sweater, and drool on your neck.”
Sherlock said, “You touch any surface in the house and come away with graham cracker crumbs.”
Lily smiled, and it was real because she could see that precious little boy dropping wet graham cracker crumbs everywhere, and it pleased her to her very soul. “Mom must be so happy to have her hands on him.”
Savich said, “Yes. She always spoils him so rotten that when he comes home, he’s a real pain for a good two days.”
“He’s the cutest little button, Dillon. I miss him.”
A tear leaked out of her eye.
Savich wiped the tear away. “I know, so do Sherlock and I and we’ve only been apart from him for less than a day. How do you feel, Lily?”
“It’s dark again.”
“Yes. Nearly seven o’clock Thursday evening. Now, sweetheart, talk to me. How do you feel?”
“Like they’ve already lightened the morphine.”
“Yeah, Dr. Larch said he was just beginning to ease up on it now. You’re gonna feel rotten for a while, a day or two, but then it’ll be less and less pain each day.”
“When did you get here?”
“Sherlock and I just got into town. The puddle jumper from San Francisco to Arcata-Eureka was late.” He saw her eyes go vague and added, “Sherlock bought Sean a Golden Gate oven mitt at the San Francisco airport.”
“I’ll show it to you later, Lily,” Sherlock said. She was standing on the other side of Lily’s bed, smiling down at her, so scared for this lovely young woman who was her sister-in-law. She’d have bitten her fingernails if she hadn’t stopped some three years before. “It was between an oven mitt with Alcatraz on it and the Golden Gate. Since Sean gums everything, Dillon thought gumming the Golden Gate was healthier than gumming a Federal prison.”
Lily laughed. She didn’t know where it had come from, but she even laughed again. Pain seared through her side and her ribs, and she gasped.
“No more humor,” Sherlock said and lightly kissed her cheek. “We’re here and everything’s going to be all right now, I promise.”
“Who called you?”
“Your father-in-law, about two in the morning, last night.”
“I wonder why he called,” she said slowly, thinking about the pain that was now coming through and how she would deal with it.
“You wouldn’t expect him to?”
“I see now,” Lily said, her eyes suddenly narrow and fierce. “He was afraid Mrs. Scruggins would call you and then you would wonder why the family hadn’t called. I think he’s afraid of you, Dillon. He’s always asking me how you’re doing and where you are. When you were here before, I think you scared him really good.”
“Why would I scare him?”
“Because you’re big and you’re smart and you’re a special agent with the FBI.”
Sherlock laughed. “Lots of people don’t relax around FBI agents. But Mr. Elcott Frasier? I took one look at him and thought he probably chewed nails for breakfast.”
“He could, you know. Everyone thinks that, particularly his son, my husband.”
“Maybe he called because he knew we’d want to come here to see you,” Savich said. “Maybe he isn’t all that much of an iron fist.”
“Yes, he is. Tennyson was here earlier.” She sighed, tightened a bit from a jab of pain in her bruised ribs, the pulling in her side. “Thank goodness he finally left.”
Savich looked over at Sherlock. “What happened, Lily? Talk to us.”
“Everyone thinks I tried to kill myself again.”
“Fine, let them. It doesn’t matter. Talk, Lily.”
“I don’t know, Dillon, I swear I don’t. I remember that I had to drive that gnarly road to Ferndale, you know, 211? And that’s all. Everything else is just lost.”
Sherlock said, “All right, then. Everyone thinks you tried to kill yourself because of the pills you took right after Beth’s death?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“But why?”
“I suppose I haven’t been exactly honest with you guys, but I just didn’t want you to worry. Fact is, I have been depressed. I’ll feel lots better and then it’s back down again. It’s gotten progressively worse the past couple of weeks. Why? I don’t know, but it has. And then last night happened.”
Savich pulled up a chair and sat down. He took her hand again. “You know, Lily, even when you were a little girl, you’d hit a problem, and I swear you’d worry and work and chew on that problem, never giving up until you had it solved. Dad used to say that if he was slow telling you something
you really wanted to know, he could just see you gnawing on his trouser leg until you ripped it right off or he talked, whichever came first.”
“I miss Dad.”
“I do, too. Now, I still don’t understand that first time you wanted to die. That wasn’t the Lily I knew. But Beth’s death—that would knock any parent on his or her butt. But now seven months have passed. You’re smart, you’re talented, you’re not one to be in denial. This depression—that doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. What’s been happening, Lily?”
She sobered, frowning now. “Nothing’s been happening, just more of the same. Like I said, over the past months sometimes I’d feel better, feel like I could conquer the world again, but then it would go away and I’d want to stay in bed all day.
“For whatever reason, yesterday it got really bad. Tennyson called me from Chicago and told me to take two of the antidepressant pills. I did. I’ll tell you something, the pills sure don’t seem to help. And then, when I was driving on that road to Ferndale—well, maybe something did happen. Maybe I did drive into that redwood. I just don’t remember.”
“It’s okay. Now, how does your brain feel right now?” Sherlock asked, scooting in a little closer to Lily on the hospital bed.
“Not quite as vague as before. I guess since there’s less morphine swimming around up in there, I’m coming back.”
“Are you feeling depressed?”
“No. I’m mainly just mad because of that idiot shrink they sent by. A dreadful man, trying to be so comforting, so understanding, when really he was a condescending jerk.”
“You smart-mouthed him, babe?”
“Maybe. A little bit.”
“I’m glad,” Sherlock said. “Not enough back-mouthing from you lately, Lily.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Oh, dear what?”
But Lily didn’t say anything, just kept looking toward the door.
Savich and Sherlock both turned to see their brother-in-law, Tennyson Frasier, come into the room.
Savich thought, Lily doesn’t want to see her husband?
What was going on here? Seven months ago, Lily had come back to Maryland to stay with their mother for several weeks after Beth’s funeral. While she’d been there, Savich had done everything he could, turned over every rock he could find, called in every favor, to discover who had struck Beth and driven off. No luck. Not a clue. But then Lily had wanted to go back to Hemlock Bay, to be with her husband, who loved her and needed her, and yes, she was all right now.
The FBI Thrillers Collection Page 3