The Well - Book One of the Arizona Thriller Trilogy

by Sharon Sterling

  Her eyes returned to the road. She caught a glimpse of something streaking in front of her. She heard the thump before she could tap the brakes. In the rear view mirror, she glimpsed an indistinct form at the edge of the road. She braked, threw the car in reverse and backed onto the shoulder.

  She left the engine running and got out. The tiny beam of her flashlight showed the dog-like animal with a reddish-tan coat, a magnificent, plumed tail and a twisted, bloody mid-section that leaked a glistening rope of intestine. The coyote’s eyes turned toward her. It made a single yipping noise as she approached. Its legs twitched with the urgent need to run.

  The nausea that had assailed her earlier returned. She felt this tragedy in her own gut while she sensed rather than saw the coyote’s fear and suffering.

  “I’m sorry, little brother,” she said, pulling her gun. “I meant you no harm. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  The shot pierced the silence once then twice as it echoed off the nearby hills but the bullet did its job. She saw the coyote’s limbs loosen and the light die from its eyes. She closed her own eyes for a second, the gun shot still echoing in her ears.

  Her thought held the scolding tone of an angry mother. So much for stealth. Curse this whole nasty business. Then her mind evoked other words spoken by a president, 'A [wo]man does what [s]he must, in spite of personal consequences, in spite of obstacles and dangers and pressures.' She took the coyote by its tail to drag it off the road. Even through her latex gloves, the coarse fur was warm, alive. She felt a fleeting urge to stroke the coyote's head.

  When she returned to the car, Upshall was on his hands and knees trying to climb into the driver’s seat. Without thinking, she bashed his forehead with the hand that held the gun. Her wrist absorbed the impact of metal against skin and bone with a shock of pain. Upshall dropped back, blood trickling down his face. She attempted to cool her simmering rage by telling herself that at least he hadn’t removed the gag and tried to speak to her.

  She got in, put the car in gear and peeled out, leaving a spray of gravel in her wake. Her wrist hurt, contributing to a savage mood, her thoughts still dark and confused. Stay here, stay with this, she coached herself, 'in spite of obstacles and dangers'.

  A sudden scrape, a definitive clank from beneath the car followed by a loud, impressive rumble, the Z’s newly un-muffled exhaust. What? What next?

  She rounded the last turn and saw the access road to the parking lot head. An ominous 'flop-flop' noise from the road on the passenger's side squelched her relief. No! Beyond belief! It was unmistakable. A flat tire.

  No problem. I’ll just get on my phone. Not the stun gun that looks like a phone, my real smart phone, and call Triple A! They’ll be very happy to change the tire on a car with a naked man stuffed in the back. Instead of slowing, she gunned the car, determined to make it the last few hundred yards to the Well, even if it was on the rim of the wheel.

  ***

  Wanda stood in the doorway of the break room, one hand on the door frame, the other on her hip. To Betty, she said, “Henrietta just called and said she’s sick and can’t keep her appointment this afternoon.”

  She turned and left without waiting for a response.

  Betty and Allie were alone in the break room, where Allie had just poured herself a cup of coffee. “We both have a free hour then,” Betty said. “How often does that happen?”

  “Not often enough. It’s nice to be able to relax at work for a change.” She leaned back in her chair, relishing an unexpected break in the day. “I noticed Wanda didn’t have to tell you Henrietta’s last name. With a first name like that, you know who she’s talking about. Not many Henriettas around.”

  “As scarce as Adele or Cher.”

  “But not the same at all, really. More like Jolene,

  Rayetta, or Jamie, all those men’s names masquerading as women’s names. I’m one to talk. Allie is short for Alexandra, which is just a feminization of Alexander.”

  “Maybe parents should go ahead and name their baby girls Alexander or Harold or John. There was that movie star named Darryl...”.

  “Have you noticed there are no masculine endings on feminine names for boys?”

  Betty smiled. “What, like a male Wanda named Wando? Or like Bettybo, or Ruthboy or maybe Jennifer-dude?”

  Allie put her hand over her mouth to keep from spraying coffee on her friend. She grabbed a napkin and when she stopped choking said, “I love it when you’re silly.”

  “Me too. Being serious is an occupational hazard for us, isn’t it?”

  “During my internship a few years ago, I did a therapy group for depressed clients and everyone had to tell a joke during check-in. I told them it was their price of admission.”

  “How did that go over?”

  “Some of them liked it and actually told a joke. I had to remind some that we wanted clean jokes. Others were too--too depressed. Wow, it seems like that was eons ago.”

  “That’s because you’ve turned into a very good therapist in the three years you’ve been doing this, Allie.”

  “My clients seem to like me but I know that doesn’t mean much. So many of them just need an un-judgmental ear, honest feedback, and maybe now and then some common sense advice.”

  Betty nodded. “But for others, nothing you can say or do is good enough. So much depends on the client, not the therapist.”

  “Most therapists can get by if they don’t insult or abuse clients or try to have sex with them. During sessions we have to be just polite enough not to fart and well groomed enough not to stink.”

  They both laughed. Allie said, “You know, sometimes I think if people could get just three statements, three rules to really live by, they wouldn’t need us at all.”

  Betty raised her eyebrows until Allie continued. “First, shit happens. Second, it is what it is. Accept it. That doesn't mean you like it, you just allow it. And third, God didn’t make anyone perfect so don’t expect anyone to be, including yourself.”

  Betty tilted her head. “You minimize what we do. What about the training we go through in order to do it? I agree that there aren’t many objective criteria for measuring a therapist’s competency, much less her proficiency. It’s not like other professions; the proof isn’t always in the pudding.”

  “I know. Even the best therapists sometimes have clients who need to be hospitalized or who attempt suicide. Even if we don’t have those negative responses, how do we measure the positive ones? Occasionally I feel like I’m in limbo, waiting for a definitive sign of improvement in one of my clients. Like Crystal, for instance.”

  Betty pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose and smoothed her silver hair from her temples before she spoke. “The changes can be very subtle, but still profound. Sometimes the deepest changes don’t manifest until the therapy is over or the improvements might continue long after the sessions end. The most important thing in helping clients is just what the research tells us. Be compassionate and empathetic.”

  Allie shook her head. “I don’t seem to have a problem with that. Sometimes when my clients cry, I cry a little with them. I read so much about 'compassion fatigue' and 'burn out' and 'secondary victimization' in the journal articles. It makes this profession sound downright hazardous. It makes me wonder if hearing so much horror and witnessing so much pain and suffering is going to make me jaded or even sick.”

  “Another occupational hazard. The best thing we can do for ourselves is follow the protocol we set for our clients. Laugh at every opportunity and talk it out.”

  When Allie got up to wash her cup at the sink and put it away in the cabinet, she turned back toward Betty. “Okay then. I’ve been worried about Crystal.”

  “We’re not paid to worry about them, Allie.”

  At that, Allie tilted her head back and put both hands on her forehead. “I know.”

  Betty put her empty cup down and gave Allie a conciliatory smile. “What’s going on with her that’s got you so co
ncerned?”

  “Just the feeling lately that she’s not telling me everything, that’s she planning something or doing something that’s dangerous. My intuition’s pretty good. To tell you the truth, I think the reason I’m as good a therapist as I am is not my training, it’s my intuition.”

  “Then listen to it, Allie my friend.”

  “Of course. You’re right.” She smiled at Betty, considering whether to ask, then softly, “So how are you doing with thoughts of Tim?”

  “I’m at peace with it. Not that he committed suicide, but that I did the best I could for him.”

  “Any repercussions from the parents? Are they playing the blame game?”

  “No, not so much as an ‘f- you.’ I think they’re just relieved to be rid of him, as horrible and sad as that sounds.”

  ***

  Back in her office, Allie checked her voice mail. To her surprise, there was a message from Sherry. Didn’t they see each other often enough to communicate in person?

  Sherry’s voice on the message said her husband felt concerned about Crystal and her medication regimen, and wanted Allie’s impression of Crystal’s mental status. He would be busy all day, and requested that Allie call him that evening, at home.

  Allie's initial feeling of uneasiness faded when she told herself that someone else shared her concerns about Crystal and together she and Doctor V might be able to help her more. That evening she called him, as he had desired.

  If that had been the end of it the call would have seemed helpful but unremarkable, a routine exchange of clinical information and diagnostic impressions between two professionals.

  The next morning she was with Sherry and Doctor V in the break room when he said, “Last evening when you called I was about to get into the shower. All the time we were talking, I was standing there stark naked. Could you tell?”

  “Tell? Uh, no, I had no idea…I...”. She sputtered into silence while both Sherry and Doctor V laughed. “We’ll have to do it again some time,” Doctor V said, raising one eyebrow at Allie.

  She retreated to her office once again feeling an odd mixture of embarrassment and anger. The image had been implanted: Ralph VanDeusen stark naked.

  It was not an image that stirred her libido but over the next weeks, she found herself thinking of him at odd moments, in wistful daydreams of intimate conversations, quiet moments of togetherness and tender exchanges of affection. Previously, in any fleeting fantasies of that kind, she might picture a film star, an old flame from high school or someone unknown glimpsed in a crowd. Now they featured Ralph VanDeusen, a man she could begin to dislike.

  ***

  The weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas seemed to speed by. Just past three p.m. on the Friday before Christmas, Allie realized how tired she was. It had been an exhausting week, yet they were all expected to attend the office Holiday party today. It would be nothing but an energy waster, she thought, a feeble attempt to conjure the elusive holiday spirit.

  That morning, unwilling to reveal to the others her Grinch-like mood, she had prepared her best dish for the potluck, a Lasagna Florentine infused with flavors of butter, mushrooms and garlic.

  The staff only gathering crammed the small break room with bodies clothed in holiday sweaters or cute ties that sported reindeer, wreaths or smiling Santas.

  She wasn’t enjoying the noise and commotion or the food and drink as she sat elbow to elbow at the table with Betty, Heidi, Doctor V and Sherry, while other staff members leaned against the walls, balancing their plates and glasses.

  “I wish Mike could be here,” Heidi said, taking a sip of hot cider. “He’s working double shifts lately because they’re short handed.” She looked at her alcohol and caffeine free drink with distaste and said, “I would commit any number of misdemeanor crimes for a three-shot espresso, or a bold mocha, or a caramel macchiato--even a latte for Pete’s sake.”

  “Still on your caffeine fast?” asked Allie. For some reason she recalled the sermon about positive thinking and added, “Maybe you should consider it a cup full of nutrition, rather than a cup empty of caffeine.”

  “Excellent advice,” Heidi said, “but if I engaged in positive thinking, I wouldn’t be able to complain so much.”

  Allie laughed. “You’re right. Excuse the psycho-babble. I’d better go outside to cool off and come to my senses.”

  “I’ll be out to join you when I finish,” Heidi said, pointing with her fork to her full plate.

  Doctor V and his wife followed Allie outside to the patio where they sat down on the curved concrete benches that surrounded a large round concrete table. Sherry looked nice, Allie thought, in the obligatory Christmas sweater depicting a traditional St. Nick, paired with a long green skirt and black boots. Doctor V wore a long sleeve shirt and a sweater vest in an argyle pattern that reminded Allie of a different decade, the 1950's.

  He drained the last of his coffee and put the cup on the table with an emphatic clunk that could have broken it. His bony wrist emerged from his sleeve. His palm brushed his mouth then closed around his salt and pepper beard in a single stroke.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said to Allie. He looked at her hand curled around a cup of cider. “Is that an opal?” He touched the ring then took her cup and put it down to uncurl her fingers and hold her hand in his own. It felt like skin and bone to Allie, devoid of reassuring human warmth.

  “Yes, it’s an opal.”

  “Nice. Has a lot of color.” He continued to hold her hand, turning it to the sunlight this way and that as if to catch the opal’s fire, then looked into her eyes. “You know, I had a dream about you last night.”

  A puzzling cloud of doubt, maybe even dread, descended and weakened her voice to a feeble, “Oh?”

  “I’d tell you, but it was what you might call X-rated.” His gaze sought out her own, but she turned her head then withdrew her hand from his with a conscious effort not to jerk it away.

  “Dreams are fascinating, aren’t they?” she blurted. “I love to work with them in therapy. I’ve read a couple of really interesting dream books.”

  Without waiting for a response, she rose from the table and walked away. She knew it was rude but didn't care. She tried joining others but couldn’t focus on conversation after what had just happened. At the first opportunity to retreat she left the break room, went to her office and then to her car. She knew she was running away but she didn’t care.

  She intended to go home but instead of turning left toward Main Street, she turned the car right and drove toward the hills, her thoughts and emotions seething. She couldn’t bring this home with her, but she also couldn’t skirt the issue any longer. It was clear that Doctor V had been coming on to her and if it was a deliberate seduction, he had just delivered the coup de grace. She felt too stunned and too confused to sort it out. Just forget it for now, she told herself. Just be here now. Stay in the present.

  Ahead of her lay the hamlet of Clarkdale, its neat stores and old-fashioned white bungalows not visible, yet the town identified itself from this distance by a huge 'C' painted on the hillside.

  To the northwest, the rooftops in the smaller town of Jerome appeared nestled into the sheer cliffs. In reality, the houses balanced on the precarious edge of a maze of cliffs. The town, a newly resurrected artists' colony, also proclaimed its identity on a mountain-side with a painted 'J'. Between those proud markers the ugly, five story tower of a cement plant inserted itself, bringing a sight seer back to earth with a crash.

  Allie slowed the car, taking the numerous roundabouts in the road with patience. They were better than stop lights and the snail-like pace allowed her to do a little sightseeing without fear she would be rear-ended by some impatient local.

  There were subtleties in the landscape here that she hadn’t seen before. The bases of the distant hills were mauve, touched with amethyst shadows while the nearby cliff tops were ochre above a layer of terra cotta. There were soothing shades of color and pleasing silhouett
es in the hills and hollows.

  She had to admit the beauty of the Verde Valley was growing on her. She appreciated the free, open feel of the place. There was a cheerful and expansive quality to life here that seemed supported and protected by the surrounding hills. It occurred to her that she had begun to feel as opened up as the landscape. It was good but maybe frightening, too.

  She drew comparisons of this upland valley to her former home. Back East by now, the ground was covered with snow, Christmas decorations every-where, children sledding and building snow men, houses warmed by ovens filled with roasting meats or baking desserts. It was an idyllic mental picture.

  Smiling to herself, she revised her memories to include shoveling her car out of the driveway every morning, fighting traffic on treacherous, icy roads, enduring power outages and 'snow days', navigating mounds of dirty slush on every other venture outside and feeling cold much of the time from November through March.

  As much as it pulled at her thoughts, Long Island no longer felt like home. Neither did the Verde Valley, even though she realized with a start that she loved it here.

  At a sign that said 'Old Jerome Highway,' she found herself turning the car, or the car turning as if by itself, as if on automatic pilot. The road wasn’t much of a highway, just two lanes built decades ago, so worn and neglected, it lacked a yellow line down the middle. Good, she thought. If there, the car would straddle it, since the road was wide enough for just one vehicle.

  She met no others on the road as it wound gently up, up and around, ascending further into the foothills. The real estate here would be described as high end, homes on two acre lots in natural terrain. Today the homes appeared deserted, neglected, not one home owner out trimming his shrubs or relaxing on a small patch of lawn, no other cars on the road. She was alone.