"Psychologist."
Genuine concern, or maybe it was embarrassment, colored his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Doctor Jordan. Not cleaning up that mess was the dumbest thing I've ever done."
"Why didn't you?" Frank asked. "Clean it up, I mean."
This time Womblic's face flushed red. "I was in a hurry."
"In a hurry for what?" Frank asked.
"There was this, you know, show on cable. On one of the science channels." Looking down, Womblic shrugged. "I'd been waiting all week."
Frank's eyebrows rose. "You risked someone's life over a damn television show?"
I quieted Frank with a gesture. "What was the show about, Mr. Womblic?"
Clearly uncomfortable, he said, "Aliens."
"Aliens?” Frank said. “As in little green men?"
"They're gray,” Womblic said. “Not green."
“I don't believe it,” Frank said. “You're a fucking Roswell freak."
Womblic lifted his head. "Lecture me all you want about my mistake, but don't ridicule what I believe in."
"You saw the doc's face," Frank said. "How badly he's hurt. You're telling me it's because you had to see some bullshit program about E.T.?"
"There are over a hundred billion stars in our galaxy," Womblic said. "And over a hundred billion galaxies in the universe. That's over a hundred billion billion places where life could exist. It's not bullshit. It's fact. We are not alone." He turned his attention to me. "I'm not a Roswell freak. I don't think we're being visited by aliens. But something's happening out there, and there's a good chance we'll see it one day. Radio waves or some other kind of signal. We'll discover life on another planet. It'll be man's greatest achievement. I just hope it happens in my lifetime."
Frank grunted. "I bet you were pissed when they canceled The X-Files."
I winced. Frank was a great guy, but sometimes he had the tact of a rhino.
"I'm a mechanic," Womblic said. "A grease-monkey with my head stuck in car engines all day. It doesn't mean I'm stupid, or I don't have passions. I don't know what your passions are, officer, but I would respect them. Too bad you can't do the same." He stood and pointed to the door. "I think we're done here."
Frank opened his mouth to say something. I cut him off. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Womblic. We'll get you a copy of the police report."
Womblic nodded coldly. "I'd appreciate it."
We left before Frank could do any more damage.
* * *
The rest of Sunday passed uneventfully. The next morning, I called my insurance agent, reported the Malibu's demise, and started the claims process. I also gave her the name and number of Ricky Womblic, so she could coordinate with his carrier.
My auto policy provided coverage for a rental car. Soon I was headed to the office in a newer model Impala. It wasn't the Malibu, but at least it was a Chevy.
I arrived at the office late. My eleven o'clock scowled but didn't hesitate when I motioned for him to join me. He was here to work on his frustration tolerance. Waiting was good practice.
During lunch I checked my schedule and remembered Doug Belle was coming in at four. He'd had the outburst Saturday night and needed to be seen. When I'd called yesterday to check on him, he'd seemed in better spirits.
I looked over at my chest of toys. Thumbkin stared back at me.
Despite my misgivings, I'd brought the doll. The dream had rattled me, but it had been just that: a dream. To let an irrational fear take over made little sense. Best to confront it head on.
I breezed through the next three appointments. Four o'clock rolled around. I checked the lobby.
No Doug.
I returned to my office and dictated session notes. Ten minutes later, I checked the lobby again.
Doug Belle was a no show. Not a complete surprise. I'd had doubts about ever seeing him again.
I'd almost reached my office when I heard my name called.
Dee Dee Belle hurried down the hallway with Doug skulking behind her.
"I'm sorry, Doctor Jordan." Reaching back, she grabbed her son by the arm and hauled him forward. "I hope we're not too late. Dougie didn't want to come." She stared at my face. "What happened to you?"
"Minor traffic accident," I said. "Don't worry about being late. Mondays are slow, and you're my last appointment. We'll get our time in."
"Great," Doug muttered and stomped into my room.
"How's he been?" I asked when Doug was out of earshot.
"Sunday was fine. We didn't read. Today he was at school. I didn't get a call from them, so that's good."
"Did he mention what upset him the other night?"
"He wouldn't talk to me. I tried, but he shut me out. I even tried ice cream." She began picking at her coat. "I don't understand. I love him so much. I want to help him feel better, and he won't let me."
"Everyone grieves at a different pace. Don't push. He'll come to you when he's ready. Until then, there's not much you can do except be his mother. Let him know you're there, and you'll keep him safe." I gestured to the lobby. "I'll bring Doug out when we're done."
Dee Dee Belle shot me a wounded look. "I don't like being kept in the dark. Can't I sit in?"
"It's too soon," I said. "Doug and I need to build a better rapport before I invite someone else in."
"I'm not 'someone else.' I'm his mother."
“It wouldn’t be in his best interest."
She glared at me, then grinned awkwardly, as if she'd been caught doing something improper. Except, I caught a hint of something in her look. Was it desperation? Vulnerability?
No—it was fear.
Dee Dee Belle was afraid.
"Is there something I should know?" I asked.
Dee Dee hesitated. "I love my son, Doctor Jordan. He's gone through so much this year. We both have. When Tink deployed, I knew there'd be risks."
"Tink?"
"My husband. His name was Bill, but in the Marines, everyone gets a nickname. With the last name of Belle—"
"'Tink' is short for Tinker."
She nodded. "They tell you about the dangers, the risks of having a Marine for a spouse. You never think it'll happen to you."
"Losing him must have been devastating."
"I can't get my husband back," she said, squaring her shoulders. "Is it too much to ask for my son?"
"Let me work on it." I steered her toward the lobby. "I'll do my best, I promise."
As she walked away, Dee Dee Belle had the wooden gait of a person close to collapsing from the burdens of a difficult life. Maybe I would bring up the therapist idea again. She could use someone in her corner.
In my office, I found Doug cross-legged on the floor, his head bent in concentration. He had set up a battalion of G.I. Joe figurines. One side contained several fallen warriors, while the other mounted an attack. He held one figure tightly in his fist and issued commands in the low, gravelly tone kids sometimes used to sound like adults.
"Hold your ground, men. The enemy can't win if we stand together." His hand swept out and knocked over more green plastic soldiers. "That's it, kill the bastards!"
I watched from the doorway as he engaged in a mock battle, the hero figurine in his hand issuing orders and generally obliterating the enemy. He eventually looked up and saw me. Embarrassed, he scooped up the G.I. Joes and dumped them into the plastic box with the rest of the toys.
"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to touch them without permission."
I eased into my chair. "You didn't have to stop."
"I was killing time while you talked to my mom."
"There are a lot of toys in the box. Interesting you chose the G.I. Joes."
"Right," he said. "You think it has something do to with my dad."
"People gravitate to the familiar. Your dad was a Marine." My tone softened. "The figure in your hand, the one in command. Was he supposed to be your dad?"
Doug shifted uncomfortably. "I guess so."
"He must've been a brave man."
"Braves
t I ever knew."
"Kind of like you."
Doug raised his head. "What do you mean?"
"Your friend, the one with the harelip."
"Johnny Richardson?"
"If I remember right, you stuck up for him. 'Got his back,' I think was how you put it."
"That's nothing."
"I doubt Johnny feels the same. I bet he'd say you were the bravest kid in school."
Doug looked away. "Like I said, it's nothing."
"I also think your dad would be proud of you, standing up to bullies."
"If you say so." Doug's gaze wandered to the toy chest. He picked up Thumbkin. "Was this here last time?"
"I bought her over the weekend. It's her first day here."
His mouth twisted. "Her?"
"She's a Raggedy Ann doll. Her name is Thumbkin."
"Stupid name." He turned the doll over in his hands. "What's it supposed to do?"
"Anything you want."
"Not big on directions, huh?"
"I like to keep things open-ended."
Doug stared at Thumbkin. No, that wasn't quite right. He seemed to be staring into her, into her button eyes, his concentration so intense his face seemed to lose some of its focus. It was as if he had left this room behind and gone elsewhere.
I called his name. When he didn't answer, I touched his shoulder. "Hey."
Doug's head whipped up, his eyes wide. For a moment, I saw the same fear in him that I'd seen in his mother. Then it was gone. "What?"
"You okay?"
"Yeah, sure. I'm fine." He frowned. "Why?"
"You kind of zoned out."
"I did?"
"Looked that way," I said. "Do you remember what you were thinking?"
"No," he said. "I don't."
I thought for a moment. "You up for something?"
He eyed me suspiciously. "What?"
"Saturday night. You were in bed. Your mom was reading and you got upset."
"Yeah.”
"Pretend the doll is your mom. Tell her what upset you. Say to the doll what you would like to say to her."
"That's dumb."
"Any more than playing with green plastic men?" He scowled, and I raised my hand. "Think about it. Is talking to a doll any different than pretending a G.I. Joe is your dad?"
Doug seemed to consider this. He sat on the ground, fingers working at the doll, thumbs pressing into its soft body. The minutes passed. His hands clenched into fists. Thumbkin crumpled in his grip.
"Why'd you do it?" he whispered.
I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or the doll.
"Every time," he said. "Every damn time!"
The doll, then. And by default, his mother.
"Do what?" I asked.
"I wanted to hear a story. That's all. And you had to ruin it."
"You're doing fine, Doug. It's just talk. Nobody gets hurt. Nobody knows what you said."
Doug's fingers dug into Thumbkin. "Kids need protecting. Ain't that right, Doctor Brad?"
"Yes, they do."
"Like Johnny. He needs protecting, so I protect him. That's how it should be, right?"
"In a perfect world. Sometimes, the world isn't perfect."
Doug lifted one shoulder. "I guess not."
He grew quiet. Silence was a powerful therapeutic tool. People tended to remember the last words spoken before a prolonged silence. I wanted Doug to remember his reply.
After enough time had passed, I said, "Other than your friend, do you know anyone else who needs protecting?"
Doug's fingers continued to work over the doll. They pressed and plied. The course fabric of her skin warped. Her smiling face twisted into an ugly sneer. The boy was struggling with something.
"Doug?"
"No," he said, a bit too sharply. "Nobody."
Fair enough. He wasn't ready. "What else would you say to your mom?"
Another long pause. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For not being the person she wants me to be. For not being him."
"Your dad?"
"She misses him a lot." He looked at me. “You know she keeps his dress uniform on his side of their bed? She stuffed it with newspapers, like it was some kinda creepy mannequin. She even pinned his medals to the shirt. She’s got his gloves and hat and shoes and everything. It's like he's there but he isn’t."
"Do you think she talks to him the same way you're talking to the doll?"
"I heard her late at night, whispering in her room. It’s sad."
"It is."
We spent the next few minutes talking about anything but his father or mother. After running out of reasons to avoid the obvious, Doug said, "I hate him. I've never said this before, but I hate him. I hate him so much."
"You're angry he left."
"Why’d he have to go? He coulda been a cop or a taxi driver or anything else, but no, he had to serve God and country, and now he's dead. Why'd he have to die?"
"I don't have a good answer. All I can tell you is the pain lessens with time."
"How much?" Doug said, snot running down his nose. He lifted Thumbkin and twisted her violently in his hands. "How much time will it take—?"
The office lights flared bright, too bright. I squeezed my eyes shut. I heard a sizzle and a pop, like a transformer blowing. The air filled with the sharp stench of ozone.
I opened my eyes. Doug lay on his back, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood trickled from one nostril. Thumbkin, her dress scorched, had fallen from his hands and lay crumpled next to him.
"Doug!" I grabbed a wad of tissues and held them to his bloody nose. "Doug, are you okay?"
He didn't respond. I checked for a pulse and found one, and he was breathing. I shook him. "Doug? Come on, buddy. Say something."
I was getting ready to call for help when Doug groaned. He coughed weakly. His eyes found mine.
"Doctor Brad?"
"Here." I offered him my hand and helped him to his feet, then handed him a tissue. He pressed it to his bloody nose.
"Do you feel dizzy, nauseous?" I said.
“No, just tingly, like I got an electric shock or something.” He prodded the doll with his shoe. “What did that thing do to me?”
It was a good question.
If only I had an answer.
* * *
Doug recovered quickly.
He didn't want me to tell his mother about the incident—he thought she would overreact—but this wasn't something I could keep from her. Turns out he was right, not that it made my day any easier.
"Oh my god, Dougie!" she cried when she saw the crimson smear across his upper lip and down the side of his face. "What happened?"
"He's all right," I assured her as she hugged her son. "At least, he seems fine."
Doug squirmed in her embrace. "Mom, please. Doctor Brad’s right. I'm good."
She released him. Her face was pale. She turned to me. "What did you do to him?"
"There was some kind of power surge," I said. "The lights, I don't know, they flared somehow. We heard an electrical discharge. Doug ended up on the floor with a bloody nose."
"Doctor Brad couldn’t have done anything to stop it," Doug said. "Anyway, you know I'm tough. A little zap ain't gonna hurt me."
He gave her a disarming smile. Dee Dee Belle didn’t return it.
"I tell you I want my son to feel better, and you try to electrocute him. What were you doing, playing with electrical cords?"
"Mrs. Belle—"
She pointed her finger at me. ""Don't say a word—not another word. And count yourself lucky if I don't sue your ass." She grabbed Doug by the arm and hauled him away. "Come on. You're getting checked out by a doctor. A real doctor."
I stepped forward. "Mrs. Belle."
She kept walking.
"Mrs. Belle, please."
This time she stopped, her face still warped with outrage. "What?"
"Doug's appointment Friday. I'd like him to keep it." I glanced at Doug. "B
efore whatever happened, we'd made progress. I'd like to continue."
"You almost kill him, and now you want me to bring him back? You're the one who needs a shrink."
She turned to go, but Doug stopped her, his face strangely calm as he slipped from her grasp.
"The doc's an okay guy. I wanna come back. Can we keep the appointment?"
Dee Dee Belle glared at her son. He calmly returned her look.
Mother and son, engaged in a battle of wills.
"Please?" Doug said. "I think it's helping. You know, the talking."
I refrained from commenting. She was angry—definitely at me, perhaps at herself—and I didn't want to provoke a reaction by trying to sway her decision.
Dee Dee Belle's glare gradually softened. She again took on the slump-shouldered look of a woman who had wanted so much from life and had achieved almost none of it.
"Let's have you checked out first, then we'll see about Friday."
Doug floated a ghost of a smile. "Thanks, Mom."
"I'll call you about Friday," she told me.
"Absolutely. Please let me know if the doctors find anything."
"You'd better hope they don't,” she said, and left with her son in tow.
* * *
Having finished my appointments, I grabbed Thumbkin and headed home. I wanted a closer look at the doll.
I picked up dinner on the way. Chinese—noodles for Toni, rice for me. She liked hers spiced hot enough to hurt.
When I walked into the house, Toni's school bag was on the kitchen counter and her laptop on the table. Papers were spread in front of the computer, with the school's grading program open.
I checked the clock. Just past six.
"Honey?"
"In the bedroom."
"Be right there." I placed the food and the doll next to her work bag and grabbed a couple beers from the fridge.
I found Toni tucked into bed, her hair damp from a bath, a smile on her face. I popped the tops on the beers, sat on the edge of the bed, and handed her one.
"Thanks,” she said. “You're the best."
"Rough day?"
"When isn't it?"
"Which one this time?"
"Trinity."
"Ah, yes. The entitled child. What now?"
"A teacher saw her bite another student. We confronted her and she denied it. We told her we had a witness. She said the teacher was mistaken, she would never bite anyone. Kids these days must think we're stupid."
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