No apparent recognition. Closing his eyes, he drew the tablecloth around his shoulders and settled back down.
Seth came on the phone. “Alex?”
“Hi, Seth. Sorry to bother you at dinner.”
“Perfect timing— we’re between courses. I couldn’t get much on the Gabneys, other than that their leaving wasn’t totally voluntary. So they may have been up to something unsavory but I sure couldn’t find out what it was.”
“Were they asked to leave Harvard?”
“Not officially. Nothing procedural as far as I can tell— the people I spoke to really didn’t want to get into details. What I gathered was that it was a mutual thing. They gave up tenure and split, and whoever knew something didn’t belabor it. As to what that something is, I don’t know.”
“Anything on the types of patients they were treating?”
“Phobics. That’s about it. Sorry.”
“I appreciate your trying.”
“I did run a search through Psych Abstracts and Medline to try to find out what kind of work they were doing. As it turns out, not much. She never published anything. Until four years ago, Leo was still cranking the stuff out. Then all of a sudden, it stopped. No more experiments, no clinical studies, just a couple of essays— very soft stuff. The kind of rÉsumÉ-filler he’d never have gotten published if he wasn’t Leo Gabney.”
“Essays on what?”
“Philosophical issues— free will, the importance of taking personal responsibility. Spirited attacks on determinism— how any behavior can be changed, given the proper identification of congruent stimuli and reinforcers. Et cetera, et cetera.”
“Doesn’t sound too controversial.”
“No,” he said. “Maybe it’s old age.”
“What is?”
“Getting philosophical and abandoning real science. I’ve seen other guys go through it when they hit menopause. Gotta tell my students if I ever start doing it, take me out and shoot me.”
We traded pleasantries for a few more minutes, then said goodbye. When the line was clear, I called the GALA Banner. A recording informed me that the paper’s office was closed. No beep for messages. I dialed Boston Information and tried to get a home number for the editor, Bridget McWilliams. A B. L. McWilliams was listed on Cedar in Roxbury, but the voice that answered there was male, sleepy, tinged with a Caribbean accent, and certain he had no relation named Bridget.
By six-forty, I’d been alone in the restaurant for over two hours and had grown to hate the place. I found some writing paper behind the bar, along with a portable radio. KKGO was no longer playing jazz, so I made do with soft rock. I kept thinking about missed connections.
Seven o’clock. Scratch marks on paper. Still no sign of Bethel or Noel. I decided to stick around until Milo reached Sacramento, then call him and beg off the assignment. Go home, attend to my fish eggs, maybe even call Robin . . . I phoned my exchange again, left a message for Milo in case I was out when he called.
The operator recorded it dutifully, then said, “There’s one for you, if you want it, Doctor.”
“From whom?”
“Someone named Sally Etheridge.”
“Did she say what it was about?”
“Just her name and number. It’s long distance— another six-one-seven area code. What is that, Boston?”
“Yes,” I said. “Give me the number. Please.”
“Important, huh?”
“Maybe.”
• • •
A human being answered, “Uh-huh.” Female. Music in the background. I switched off my radio. The music on the other end took shape: rhythm and blues, lots of horns. James Brown, maybe.
“Ms. Etheridge?”
“Speaking.”
“Dr. Alex Delaware calling from Los Angeles.”
Silence. “I was wondering if you’d call back.” Hoarse and husky, Southie accent.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m not the one asking.”
“Did Bridget McWilliams give you my number?”
“Bingo,” she said.
“Are you a reporter on the Banner?”
“Oh, yeah, right. I interview circuit breakers. I’m an electrician, mister.”
“But you do know Kathy— Kate Moriarty?”
“These questions are coming awfully fast,” she said. Talking slowly— deliberate slowness. Small laugh at the end of the sentence. I thought I detected an alcohol slur. But maybe being with Ramp all this time had biased my perceptions.
“Kate’s been gone for over a month,” I said. “Her family—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know that tune. Got it from Bridge. Tell the family not to get bent out of shape. Kate disappears a lot— that’s her thing.”
“This time it may not be routine.”
“Think so?”
“I do.”
“Well,” she said, “you’re entitled.”
“If you’re not worried, why’d you bother to call?”
Pause. “Good question . . . I don’t even know you. So why don’t we cut our losses and make bye-bye—”
“Hold on,” I said. “Please.”
“A polite one, huh?” Laugh. “Okay, you got a minute.”
“I’m a psychologist. The message I left for Bridget explained how I could be—”
“Yeah, yeah, I got all that, too. So you’re a shrink. So excuse me if that’s not real comforting.”
“You’ve had bad experiences with shrinks?”
Silence. “I like myself just fine.”
I said, “Eileen Wagner. That’s why you called.”
Long silence. For a moment I thought she’d left the line.
Then: “You knew Eileen?”
“I met her when she was a pediatrician out here. She referred a patient to me, but when I tried to get in touch with her to talk about it, she never got back to me. Guess she’d left town by then. Went overseas.”
“Guess so.”
“Were she and Kate friends?”
Laughter. “No.”
“But Kate was interested in Eileen’s death— I found a clipping she’d put in her scrapbook. Boston Globe, no byline. Was Kate free-lancing for the Globe at that time?”
“I don’t know,” she said harshly. “Why the hell should I care what the hell she was doing and who the hell she was working for?”
Definite booze slur.
More silence.
I said, “I’m sorry if this is upsetting you.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
That caught me off guard, and before I found my answer, she said, “You don’t know me from Eve— why the hell should you care how I feel?”
“Okay,” I said. “It’s not compassion for you specifically. It’s force of habit. I like making people happy— maybe it’s partly an ego trip. I went to school to be a yea-sayer.”
“Yea-sayer. Yeah, I like that. Yea, yea, yea— you and the Beatles. John, Paul, Whatsisname, and Ringo. And Shrink. Psyching the crowd . . . I wanna hold your gland.”
Brittle laughter. In the background, James Brown was begging for something. Love or mercy.
I said, “Eileen was also a yea-sayer. I’m not surprised she went into psychiatry.”
Four more beats of Brown.
“Ms. Etheridge?”
Nothing.
“Sally?”
“Yeah, I’m here. God knows why.”
“Tell me about Eileen.”
Eight bars. I held my tongue.
Finally she said, “I’ve got nothing to tell. It was a waste. A fucking waste.”
“Why’d she do it, Sally?”
“Why do you think? ’Cause she didn’t wanna be what she was . . . after all the . . .”
“All the what?”
“The fucking time! The hours and hours of bullshit-rapping. With shrinks, counselors, whatever. I thought we’d put that fucking shit behind us. I fucking thought she was happy. I fucking thought she was fu
cking convinced she was okay the way God in Her infinite mercy made her. God damn her!”
“Maybe someone told her the opposite. Maybe someone tried to change her.”
Ten bars of Brown. The song title popped into my head: “Baby, Please Don’t Go.”
She said, “Maybe. I don’t fucking know.”
“Kate Moriarty thought so, Sally. She found out something about Eileen’s therapists, didn’t she? That’s what brought her all the way out to California.”
“I don’t know,” she repeated. “I don’t know. All she ever did was ask questions. She never talked much about what she was doing, thought I was obligated to talk to her because she was gay.”
“How’d she get in contact with you?”
“GALA. I did all the wiring on their goddam offices. Opened my mouth and told her about . . . Eileen. She lit up like a Christmas tree. All of a sudden we were sisters in arms. But she never talked, only asked. She had all these rules— what she could talk about, what she couldn’t . . . I thought we were— But she— Oh, fuck this! Fuck this whole thing. It’s been too fucking long and I’m not putting myself through it again, so fucking forget it and fuck you!”
Dead air. No music.
I waited a moment, called back. Busy signal. Tried five minutes later, same result.
I sat there putting it together. Seeing things in another light. Another context that caused everything to make sense.
Time to ring another number.
Different area code.
This one was listed. Surname and first initial only. I copied, dialed, waited five rings until someone picked up and said, “Hello.”
I hung up without returning the greeting. No air blowing through the vents, but the room felt even colder. After draping a second cloth around Ramp’s shoulders, I left.
35
Five minutes of studying the Thomas Guide. A hundred and twenty minutes on Freeway 101 north, following through.
Twilight arrived midway through the drive. By the time I reached Santa Barbara the sky was black. I picked up the 154 near Goleta, found the San Marcos pass with little difficulty, and drove through the mountains all the way to Lake Cachuma.
Locating what I was looking for was more of a challenge. This was ranch country, no street signs or lamps or Chamber of Commerce puffery. I overshot the first time, didn’t realize it until I hit the town of Ballard. Reversing direction, I cruised slowly. Despite straining eyes and a heavy foot on the brake, I passed it going the other way, too. But my headlights trapped a wooden sign just long enough for the image to register as I rolled by.
INCENTIVE RANCH
PRIVATE PROPERTY
I cut the lights, backed up, and stuck my head out the car window. Cooler up here. A breeze that smelled of dust and dry grass. The sign was handmade, nailhead letters in pine, swinging gently over a square wooden gate. The gate was low and squat. Horizontal planks in a wooden frame. Maybe five feet high, connected to tongue-and-groove fencing that blocked the entry.
Leaving the engine running, I got out of the Seville and walked to the gate. It yielded a bit when I pushed, but remained shut. After a couple of false starts I found a toehold between two of the planks, hoisted myself up, and ran my hand over the inner side of the gate. Metal latch. Big padlock. The view beyond, barely starlit. Below, a narrow dirt road, passing between what looked to be tall trees. Mountains in the background, sharp and black as a witch’s cap.
Returning to the car, I edged out and drove a hundred yards or so until I found a spot where the shoulder was shaded by trees. Shrubs, really. Scrawny, wind-whipped things that appeared to grow out of the mountainside and hung suspended over the asphalt. Not concealment but maybe just enough camouflage to shield the car from casual discovery.
I parked, locked, walked back to the gate on foot, recovered my toehold, and was over in a wink.
The road was lumpy and pebble-strewn. I lost my footing several times in the darkness and landed on my palms. As I got closer to the tall trees, I picked up a piny scent. My face began to tingle and itch. Unseen bugs feasting on my flesh.
The trees were packed close together but few in number. Within moments I was in unprotected space. Flat space lit gray by a feeble quarter moon. I stopped, listened. Heard the blood sloshing in my ears. Gradually, details asserted themselves.
A stadium-size plot of dirt, planted, in no discernible pattern, with half a dozen trees. Low-voltage spots at some of the trunk bases.
My nose went to work again. Citrus perfume so strong my mouth tasted summer-vacation lemonade. Unimpressed, the bugs stayed with red meat.
I took a cautious step. Ten more, then twenty. Fuzzy white rectangles appeared through the leaves of one of the trees. I walked around the citrus boughs. The rectangles became windows. I knew there had to be a wall behind them and my mind drew one before my eyes actually saw it.
A house. Modest size. Single story, low-pitched roof. Three windows lit but nothing visible through them. Curtained.
The basic California ranch setup. Silent. Pastoral.
So peaceful it made me doubt my hunch. But too many things fit together. . . .
I searched for more details.
Saw the vehicle I was looking for.
To the left of the house was stake-and-post fencing. A corral.
Behind that, outbuildings. I headed toward them, heard the whinny and snort of horses, filled my nose with the mealy aroma of old hay and manure.
The horse sounds grew louder. I located the origin: stables, directly behind the corral. Behind that— twenty yards back— a tall building that appeared windowless. Feed barn. Farther back, to the right, a smaller structure.
Light there, too. One rectangle. Single window.
I moved forward. The horses pawed and whickered. Got louder. Only a few from the sound of it, but what they lacked in numbers they made up in anxiety. I held my breath, continued. Hooves thudded against soft wood; I thought I felt the earth vibrate, but it might have been my legs shaking.
The horses turned up the volume even further, lathering passionately. I heard a creak and a click from the direction of the smallest building. Pressing myself against the corral, I watched a column of light spread across the dirt as the front door to the building swung open. A screen door whistled and someone stepped out.
The horses kept whinnying. One of them let out a throaty, gaseous rumble.
A deep voice shouted, “Shut up!”
Sudden silence.
The shouter stood there for a moment, then went back inside. The light column thinned to a thread but didn’t vanish. I stayed here, listening to the horses panting. Feeling many-legged things tour my hands and face.
Finally the door shut all the way. I slapped at my cheeks, waited several more minutes before moving forward.
Behind the stable walls the horses were whimpering in frustration. I ran past them, kicking up gravel and cursing my leather shoes.
I stopped at the barn door. Sounds— not equine— were coming from the small building. The single window cast a filmy glow on the dust. Sticking close to the barn siding, I inched my way toward the light.
Step by step. The sounds took on tone and form and species.
Human.
A human duet.
One voice talking, another humming. No. Moaning.
I was at the front wall of the small building now, pressing against rough wood but still unable to shape the sounds into words.
Angry tone in the first voice.
Giving orders.
The second voice resisting.
A curious, high-frequency noise, like that of a TV being switched on.
More moans. Louder.
Someone resisting and suffering because of it.
I ran to the window, crouched below the sill until my knees hurt, slowly raised myself and tried to peer through the shades.
Opaque. All I could discern was the barest abstraction of movement— the light-shift of form through space.
The sounds
of torment continued from within.
I got to the door, pulled the screen door open, and winced as it creaked.
Private Eyes Page 51