Bound by Suggestion

by L.L. Bartlett

  Brenda slowed before turning down LeBrun Road.

  “You’re as bad as your brother, poking your nose into things that aren’t your business. Getting in trouble.”

  “I’m not in trouble. I’m a material witness.”

  “Witnesses who know too much can be killed.”

  Richard shook his head. “You’ve been watching too much TV.”

  Scowling, Brenda turned into the driveway. She pressed the garage door opener and the door went up. She parked, and they got out of the car.

  Jeff’s car was already in its slot. An early night, Richard realized. He hadn’t noticed if the lights were on upstairs when they drove up.

  Brenda was already picking out the house key when they heard a muffled thud overhead. She flashed Richard a worried glance. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “We’d better check on him,” Richard said, and hit the garage door button. It slid down and they sidled past the cars for the door to the narrow stairway. Richard flipped the light switch and they went up the stairs.

  Jeff’s door wasn’t locked. Richard opened it to find the apartment dark. He reached in and hit the switch. The lamps on the end tables flashed on, revealing a pair of legs and sneakered feet lying motionless on the floor.

  “Jeffy?” Brenda called, and hurried to his side, helping him into a sitting position. “What happened?”

  The strong, sweet scent of alcohol permeated the air. “He’s drunk,” Richard groused.

  Jeff touched his temple and winced. “I am not.”

  “What are you doing on the floor?” Brenda asked.

  “I didn’t turn on the light when I came in. I’d just poured myself a drink when I heard you pull in. I went to turn on the lamp and tripped over the cat.”

  Richard looked around. Sure enough, the dark, whiskered head peered nervously around the bedroom door. It saw him, and disappeared.

  He grabbed Jeff’s arm, pulling him to his feet. “What’re you doing drinking alone in the dark?”

  Jeff yanked his arm back. “I drink alone because I live that way.” He headed into the kitchen, unwound several sheets of paper towel from the roll, and came back into the dining area to mop up the mess. He avoided their gazes. “What were you doing out so late on a Thursday? You’re not dressed for the opera.”

  Neither of them answered.

  Jeff tossed the balled-up towel into the wastebasket at the side of his desk, and then picked up the fallen glass. He looked up sharply at Brenda, his eyes widening, his face blanching. “Someone died?”

  She scowled and looked at Richard. “Are you finally going to tell him?”

  Richard wasn’t ready for this conversation and looked over the sideboard. “Have you got anything besides bourbon?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Brenda brushed past her husband. “Is there ginger ale in the fridge?”

  “It’s flat.”

  That’s just the way I like it.”

  She took a couple of glasses from the cupboard, handed one to Richard and got her own drink. The three of them bumped into each other in the galley kitchen as they traded ice trays and served themselves.

  Jeff hit the couch first, leaning his ice-filled glass against the welt on his forehead.

  “Does it hurt?” Brenda asked.

  “Yeah. I whacked it good.” He lowered the glass. “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Richard took the wing chair. That left Brenda to share the couch with Jeff. Her pointed gaze could’ve pinned Richard to the upholstery.

  “Somebody did die tonight,” Richard said. “But the story started last week.”

  “So tell it already,” Jeff said.

  Richard explained about Timberly’s comment at the cocktail party the week before, his conversation with Wally at the hospital; how the records clerk had called him earlier in the evening, and the man’s subsequent murder.

  Jeff sipped his bourbon, his gaze fixed somewhere behind Richard. He held the glass in his right hand, clenching and unclenching his left.

  “What do you think?” Richard asked.

  “I don’t like it, but what can I do about it? Do I even need to do anything about it?”

  “State privacy laws have been violated. It’s in your best interests to look into it.”

  “Yeah, but how? Do I bring up your name? The name of the dead guy? They, whoever they are—hospital security, I presume—is going to ask me why I want to check on it.”

  “Just tell them what I told you. Or I can.”

  Jeff drained his glass, swirled the ice in it, his left hand still working.

  “Something wrong?” Richard asked.

  Jeff looked up, his dark eyes haunted.

  “You seem jumpy.”

  Jeff got up, put his glass on the cocktail table and circled around to the back of the couch. “I’m just wired.”

  “Tough night at the bar?” Brenda suggested.

  He looked at her as though not comprehending. Then, “Oh, yeah.”

  Richard watched the two of them, sipped his scotch.

  The tension in the room seemed to escalate.

  Brenda patted the cushion beside her. “Sit down. I’ll rub your neck and shoulders. That always relaxes Richard.”

  Jeff looked to Richard for approval—found none—and then looked down at the floor.

  “Come on,” Brenda urged.

  Jeff hesitated, then complied, perching on the edge of the cushion at an angle away from her.

  Brenda grasped his shoulders and started kneading. “Good Lord, your muscles are all knotted.”

  Eyes squeezed shut, Jeff hung his head, his breathing shallow.

  “Did you rent a tux for Saturday?” Richard asked, his tone neutral.

  “I pick it up tomorrow.”

  Brenda continued to rub Jeff’s shoulders. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t recommend imbibing, but I think you could use another shot of bourbon. Are you up to it?”

  “Always.”

  Brenda looked at Richard, then nodded at Jeff’s empty glass.

  Richard stayed put.

  She waited for him to get the bourbon.

  Richard didn’t move.

  Oblivious to the stare-off going on right next to him, Jeff sat with eyes closed, his breathing deepening as Brenda’s ministrations worked magic. Already he looked more relaxed.

  Brenda stopped her massage and pulled on Jeff’s shoulders, pressing him against the back of the couch. “I’ll get you that drink,” she said. Her voiced sounded sunny, but her glare at Richard scorched.

  Brenda plunked fresh ice into the glass, carefully measured one shot, and filled the old fashioned glass with soda. She handed it to him.

  Jeff sipped, then grimaced. He cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

  “Bourbon lite,” Brenda explained, and this time she sat at the far end of the couch.

  Jeff forced a smile and put the glass on the coffee table.

  “You want to tell us what’s got you so wound up?” Richard asked, keeping his tone level.

  The tension mounted.

  “I’m handling it.”

  “I don’t think so,” Richard said.

  Jeff met his gaze, then looked away. He picked up the glass, drank it down in one gulp, then rose from the couch.

  “I hate to be a bad host, but it’s been a rough day. I gotta get some sleep.”

  “Yeah,” Richard agreed, rising from his chair. “Finding a dead body soured my day, too.”

  Brenda gathered the glasses and carried them into the kitchen, depositing them in the sink, while Jeff crossed the room for the door. He held it open.

  “See you Saturday,” Richard said.

  “Can’t wait,” Jeff countered, with the enthusiasm of a condemned man.

  “G’night, Jeffy.” Brenda planted a quick kiss on his cheek. She went down the stairs first. At the bottom, Richard cut the light and locked the door.

  Once again Brenda had her key at the ready. She unlocked the door to
the main house, stomped through the kitchen and headed down the hall.

  Richard paused to set the security system for the night. Here comes the silent treatment, he thought. And for once, he didn’t intend to fight it.

  I never made it to bed. After Richard and Brenda left, I changed into sweats and a timid Herschel reappeared. He slept beside me on the couch while I pretended to watch television until the wee hours. Pictures flashed, sound blared, but I couldn’t tell you what I saw.

  The Makers Mark was safe from me, too. Maybe it was the sick feeling that wouldn’t leave my gut—I just knew I couldn’t take another shot of depressant. Not and stay sane.

  Primed by three cups of coffee, I started the day around eleven. First on the agenda: laundry. But that meant going over to Richard’s house to use his machines.

  Scratch laundry.

  Next on the list, a shower and a trip to the tux shop.

  I headed for my bedroom, pulling off my sweatshirt on the way. Pausing in front of the dresser mirror, I caught sight of the three deep scratches across my chest. Too far apart to be from Herschel’s claws. Where the hell had I gotten them?

  The shirt got tossed in the already overflowing laundry basket in my closet. Pawing through the few clean items left in the bottom dresser drawer, I pulled out a pair of jeans and saw the card.

  I’d known it was there, saw it every few months, but I never gave it much thought. Odd that it should surface the day before my birthday.

  I found clean underwear and a shirt and, on impulse, grabbed the card and went back to my breakfast bar. As I sipped my coffee, I studied the sepia colored drawing of a desk, complete with globe, maps and books. In the background, through a window, sat a dull red sports car. Bold print declared: To a Fine Son.

  I opened the card and read the corny script:

  Happy Birthday, to a fine son,

  Here’s hoping your day is full of fun,

  With all good wishes just for you,

  From dawn until the day is through!

  At the bottom, in bold blue ink: Mom.

  Not love Mom, just Mom. Even after all those years, she’d still saved all her love for Richard. Yet, it was the last birthday card she’d ever given me. I suppose that’s why I kept it.

  The phone rang. I let the answering machine take it, unwilling to be social this early in my day.

  “Jeff? It’s Grace. I was hoping you’d be there. I called Dr. Marsh last night—and again this morning, but she hasn’t returned my calls.”

  I covered the living room in two steps, grabbing the receiver before she could finish. “Grace?”

  “Oh, you’re there.” Despite what she’d just said on the video, Grace wasn’t thrilled to speak to me in person.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I” She stopped, sounding unsure of herself. “If you see Dr. Marsh, talk to her, tell her I really need to talk about—about . . . .” Her words faded.

  The silence lengthened. Would she voice what it was she feared—what I feared and hadn’t been able to even think, let alone articulate?

  “Talk to me, Grace.”

  “You’re not a therapist.” Her cold voice cut me. “You’re just a bartender.”

  And you’re a spoiled brat, I almost blurted. Instead, I took a breath to quell my temper. “I’d like to talk to you, Grace—one-on-one—about what’s been going on.”

  “Without Dr. Marsh?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? What are you afraid of?”

  She hesitated. “I’m not afraid.”

  “Well, I am.”

  She said nothing.

  “Look, I could come to where you live. I could—”

  “You were here last night, spying on me.”

  “What do you mean?” I bluffed.

  “You drove past—stared at my window. Did you think I wouldn’t know?”

  The curtains had been drawn. How could she know?

  “Why did you really call?” I asked.

  Long moments passed before she spoke.

  “Don’t come to my sessions any more. You don’t help. You’ve only made things worse.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t expected my agreement.

  “I’m also sorry we couldn’t have become friends, Grace. We’re just too different.”

  She laughed, a snort filled with derision, not mirth. “Boy, have you got that wrong. We’re too much alike.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Instead of answering, she said, “Have a nice life, Jeff. What’s left of it.”

  She hung up.

  I replaced the receiver, trying to ignore the icy shiver that ran through me.

  She knew.

  About the dark thoughts I’d been having.

  About the dreams.

  My God, sometimes I think she caused them.

  What’s left of my life . . . ? What had she meant by that? It almost sounded like a threat. And how could a scrawny girl in a wheelchair threaten me?

  Live every day like it was your last . . . .

  Pouring my cold coffee down the sink, I gathered my clean clothes and headed for the shower, glad for the distraction.

  Next on the agenda—the tux shop.

  I wouldn’t spend the afternoon with Sam, plowing through the newspaper’s biographical files on Senator Vanderstein. To hell with Grace’s father. To hell with Grace.

  I wasn’t scheduled to work that night, but maybe I’d go hang out at the bar anyway. I usually welcomed solitude, but I couldn’t bear the thought of facing the long evening alone. Better to be with strangers than Richard and Brenda. In fact, I’d pretty much decided I wouldn’t inflict my company on them any more after Saturday night, though I hadn’t quite decided how to accomplish that.

  I turned on the faucet, peeling off my clothes and leaving them in an untidy heap on the floor, then stepped into the shower. The water ran hot, near to scalding my scalp, but I wanted to feel clean, wanted to burn away the ugly thoughts and feelings that kept churning through me.

  I was at a crossroads in my life, I realized, idly rubbing the soap across the scabby welts on my chest. I’d have to take the left fork or the right—knowing a dead end might be my destination.

  “Hello, Doc!” Penny’s smile and cheerful greeting had been the best part of Richard’s day . . . so far. Brenda’s muttered “good morning,” hours earlier hadn’t had a tenth the goodwill attached to it.

  “What can I do for you today?” Mona’s secretary asked, swiveling her chair to check the printer behind her desk.

  “I was in the building, so I dropped in to see how the arrangements for the gala are going.”

  “I’ve double-checked with everyone but the florist, and so far everything’s running smoothly.” Penny looked toward Mona’s closed door, then motioned him closer. She lowered her voice, her wide eyes hungry. “Office scuttlebutt says you found Wally Moses last night.”

  Richard sobered, straightening. “Yes, I did.”

  “Wow . . . a murder, on the floor right below us. What did he die of?”

  “That’s up to the medical examiner to decide.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re a doctor—you’ve got to have an idea.”

  “The dent in the back of his skull probably had a lot to do with it.” He wasn’t telling her anything that hadn’t already been on the news.

  “Cool,” she murmured, eyes wide. “I mean—the poor man. But think of it, a cold-blooded killing right here in the hospital.”

  Penny’s ghoulish delight bothered him, but it also gave Richard an opening.

  “You must’ve spoken to Wally after the break-in earlier this week.”

  “No, but Mona did. As far as I know, Wally couldn’t detect any tampering on our files. Or if he did, he didn’t tell us.”

  Too bad, Richard thought. Then again, had Wally reported someone accessing Jeff’s files? Brenda was right. He ought to talk to hospit
al security to find out, because Jeff didn’t seem to care. Maybe, Richard decided, he would stop in the Security Office after speaking to Mona.

  The outer door swung open and Wes Timberly entered, his arrogant sneer firmly in place.

  He glared at Richard. “Don’t you have a home? Or do you just come here to pester the help out of pure spite?”

  Penny’s freckled cheeks reddened. “Dr. Albert does not pester me. I wish I could say the same of all the physicians who come through that door.”

  Timberly didn’t bother to spar with the secretary. “I need to see Mona.”

  Penny thumbed through the appointment calendar on her desk. “She’s free next Thursday at four-thirty.”

  “Sooner than that.” Timberly’s flat voice held an unveiled threat of menace.

  Penny flipped back the pages. “Oh, yes. There’s an opening at two today. How careless of me to have missed it.”

  “I have patients this afternoon.”

  Penny shrugged. “I’ll have Mona call your office. Will that do?”

  Penny’s intercom buzzed. “Penny, can you come in here?” Mona asked.

  “Sure thing.” Penny rose from her chair. “If you’ll excuse me.” She bustled into Mona’s office, closing the door behind her.

  Timberly glared after her, then seemed to realize Richard still stood nearby. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I hardly think that’s your business.”

  “As long as you’re on my committee, it is.”

  “Come on, Wes. We’ve known each other for twenty five years. Do we always have to be at each other’s throats?”

  “You set the tone years ago.”

  “Me?”

  “Don’t act dumb,” Timberly spat. “You got all the best postings. That always put you ahead of the rest of us.”

  Richard fought to control his temper. “Think about it, Wes. My name starts with A, yours starts with T. There’s your answer.”

  Timberly took a step forward. “Don’t bullshit me. You bought your way into med school like you’re trying to buy the chairmanship of my committee. I know about the anonymous donation you made to Radiology last week. I know about the money you’ve poured into the clinic, too. The one thing you couldn’t buy was the guts to practice medicine.”

  Richard’s fists clenched in suppressed fury. How the hell had Wes figured it out? Richard had only voiced his failings to Brenda and Jeff, and neither of them would have spoken of it—especially to the likes of Timberly. Were his shortcomings obvious to everyone?