The Unforgivable Fix

by T. E. Woods

  I could be done. The old, taunting hope whispered from somewhere deep within her skull. This can be over. She tried to silence the dark thought, as familiar as her hand and as hated as her history. Let go, Lydia. Hands or feet, it doesn’t matter. One half second of relaxation and the earth will take it from there. Let go, Lydia. Be done with this. Let go, Lydia.

  A tear escaped her right eye and she rejected the reflex to wipe it clear. Let go, Lydia. No one will mourn you. You’ll do no more damage.

  She swallowed hard, pressed her closed eyes against the mud wall, twisted her hips, torqued her strength to her legs, and released her right hand. Her heartbeat calmed.

  One more, Lydia. Be free. Be done.

  A piercing wail sounded to her right. Lydia at first thought it was the torment locked deep inside her screeching at the promise of release. When it sounded again, she opened her eyes and turned toward it.

  An outcropping of dirt and rock no larger than a Thanksgiving turkey platter jutted out two feet above her on the right. Lydia blinked her vision into focus. A small, wide-eyed owl stared down at her. It opened its beak and screamed another warning her way.

  Lydia reflexively regrabbed her right handhold. She steadied herself and prepared for an air assault from the angry creature.

  She was attacked by nothing but shrieks. Lydia studied the bird. It was October, too late to be protecting a nest. If the owl had a freshly caught mouse it was afraid Lydia was coming to steal, it would have attacked her by now.

  Then she saw it. A flash of red just below the owl’s large head. She tightened her grip and pulled herself higher.

  Blood on the owl’s feathers glistened in the setting sun’s light. Fresh blood. Lydia craned her neck to survey the sky as much as she could without losing her balance. Far above her, a red-tailed hawk glided in wide loops on an invisible current. Perhaps the sight of a large mammal in a fluorescent-yellow windbreaker climbing the side of the cliff had startled the hawk into dropping its prey.

  Lydia inched laterally to the outcrop. Again the owl sounded a warning, but it didn’t seem as fierce. “Did that hawk get you?” She steadied herself on three points and reached her right hand toward the bird.

  The owl gave one last attempt at screeching her away before spreading its wings. One wing cooperated. Lydia extended her hand close enough to touch the other, hanging limp at the bird’s side. Warm blood dripped on her fingers. “You’re dying, little one. It’s me or nothing.”

  She tilted her head. The hawk was still circling above them, high enough to escape any retribution for the damage he’d done. She pulled her right hand back, unzipped her windbreaker, and returned to the owl, now drained of any resistance. Lydia tucked the owl inside her jacket, secured the zipper tight against her chin, and reached again for a steady hold on the cliff wall.

  “Don’t get feisty in there.” Lydia looked up to the edge of her backyard and resumed her climb. “Hang in there, buddy. Nobody’s dying today.”

  Chapter 5

  OLYMPIA

  “I have somebody else who’s been telling me the same thing.” Lydia sipped warm cider from a paper cup. “He tells me it’s time to reengage.”

  Sharon Luther set her own cup on the empty space of the wooden bench the two women shared. “He’s right. There are too few clinical psychologists in Olympia.” Her grey eyes glistened in the light of the autumn afternoon. “I can click off the good ones with one hand and still have enough fingers left to flip my ex-husband the bird.” Her voice softened. “You’ve had rough times, Lydia. You know the best thing for you is to get back into life. It’s the only fix.”

  Lydia wondered what repairs Sharon thought she needed, then realized her injuries following her shooting had been well documented in the local media. But no one knew what she’d been up to in the months since. She looked across the broad boardwalk of Percival Landing to the narrow harbor filled with sailboats and tugs. Olympia’s west side climbed up a gentle hill of middle-class homes with million-dollar views. Her mind drifted to Maizie, the sweet child with the vile father she’d met while recuperating on Whidbey Island. She hoped the little girl was happy in Maine, surrounded by a view as lovely as the one Lydia had.

  “Bring me up to speed with what’s been happening with you,” she said. “It’s been, what? Two years since we’ve spoken?”

  Sharon shook her head. “That whole time thing. If you figure out a way to slow it down, share it with me first, will you?” She took another sip of cider. “The assholes in charge are still pushing me to take on more administrative duties, but I’ve successfully dodged all their ham-handed attempts to pull me out of the lab.”

  Sharon Luther was a professor at Evergreen State College. The nontraditional school had lured her away from Ohio State more than ten years earlier. She brought her international reputation as a memory researcher and several multimillion dollar grants with her, adding the credibility of hard-core science to the well-established liberal-arts status of the school. Her work broke new ground in how memories are encoded, stored, and retrieved that most wouldn’t expect to come out of a school with fewer than five thousand students. Lydia met her not long after she’d opened her practice in Olympia. Sharon had been soliciting potential research subjects for a study she was doing on the impact of postpartum depression on the memory of new mothers. Impressed with her professionalism, Lydia had recommended her study to several patients. She’d come to expect a visit from Sharon every year or so. New funding meant new research and a need for new folks to study.

  “I’m happy to report NIH keeps supporting my work at a respectable rate,” Sharon said. “It’s more than enough to satisfy the bureaujerks that I’m earning my keep.”

  “What are you working on now?”

  “Babies!” Her face glowed with an enthusiasm not often seen in tenured faculty. “I’m surrounded by babies!” She chuckled. “You know, for all our so-called scholarly research, we know nothing about anything. It’s what keeps me going, you know? For so many decades we assumed infants lacked the ability to remember what’s happening in their lives. But I’ve developed a way—it’s difficult given their lack of speech—to test how infants less than three months old recall new stimuli presented to them. I’ve only done a pilot, of course, fifteen little ones, but I’ve been able to show they recall things that are going on in their lives at identical rates to my comparison group of freshmen undergrads. Can you imagine the implications? All those mothers and fathers hissing at each other over the baby’s crib and assuming the kid won’t remember a thing?” She raised an eyebrow toward Lydia. “But who am I talking to? You earn your living dealing with the fallout of what kids remember. Hopefully my work will help us understand the mechanism behind how humans are shaped by their past, even from the earliest moments of life.”

  Lydia offered a polite nod. Do we really need to understand the how? Shouldn’t it be enough to realize that cruelty leads to pain…pain leads to fear…fear leads to broken lives? Her mind shifted to Maizie again. How long would the memories of what the girl’s father did to her limit her ability to experience joy? At thirty-six, Lydia still battled the ghosts of her own childhood.

  And she would dance any tune the devil called to erase the memories of what she’d become.

  Lydia blinked and brought her awareness back to the conversation. “If you’re looking for people, I can’t help you, Sharon. I’m no longer in practice. And I never did see infants.”

  Sharon leaned back. “Oh, my. Am I turning into one of those a-holes I rant about? Damn it, the only time I contact you is when I need something, isn’t it? Such is the life of a lab rat, I’m afraid. Please forgive me.”

  Lydia smiled at the world-class scientist. “I understand how work can consume. It’s nice to see you no matter why you call.”

  “I’m just happy you’re still checking messages at your old office, or I wouldn’t know how to find you. Why do you keep the place if you’re not in business?”

  Lydia often wondered
, too. “I love the space. It’s been good to me. And who knows? My license is current. Maybe I’ll dust off the shingle one day.”

  Sharon’s enthusiasm returned. She looked Lydia up and down. “You seem fit and well healed. And like I said, Olympia needs good psychologists. Let me see if I can entice you. You see, I come, yet again, with a favor to ask of you. It has nothing to do with recruiting subjects, but I’m convinced you’re the only one who can help me.”

  “The only one,” Lydia said, teasing.

  “I have a student. A postdoc, actually. Zach Edwards. Twenty-six years old. Finished his PhD last year at the University of Oregon. Smart as a whip. He’s been with me less than two months and already I find myself counting on him more than I probably should. Zach’s going to be a crackerjack researcher.”

  “He’s lucky to have you. Most postdocs are viewed as peon labor. They do all the work and the professor gets all the glory.”

  Sharon winked. “Let’s hope that changes as more women climb those slippery ranks of science. At any rate, he needs clinical hours. He needs his license. Zach will be looking for a faculty position of his own in two or three years. He’ll be more attractive to schools if he can bring patient skills.”

  “So he needs a supervisor. And you thought of me.”

  Sharon nodded. “I’m giving him top-notch research training. It would be a terrific complement if he got his clinical supervision from the best as well.”

  Lydia sidestepped the flattery. “Twenty-six, Sharon? And already with his PhD? That means—what did you say his name is?”

  “Zach. Zach Edwards.”

  “Zach’s been in school straight through from kindergarten to doctor. What knowledge does he have of the real world? What can he bring patients?”

  Both of Sharon’s eyebrows shot up. “And how old were you, Dr. Corriger, when you got your credentials? You’ve been practicing nearly ten years. I can still do math, you know. You were finished with even your postdoctoral work by the time you were Zach’s age. And when I call you the best, I mean it.”

  By the time I was Zach’s age, I’d been abandoned by my mother, never knew my father, survived sixteen different foster placements, and spent two years in juvie for beating one of my rapists into a coma with a baseball bat. I had more than enough life experience to build empathy…and I still went on to kill.

  Lydia breathed the memories away before responding. “My practice has been closed for nearly two years, Sharon. I don’t have any patients to offer him.”

  Sharon gathered their empty paper cups. “Your reputation lingers, Lydia. Add to that you’re a media star. Everyone in Washington State knows you’re the woman who helped solve those murders up in Seattle. Open your doors and you’ll be booked solid in a month.”

  And I was responsible for one of those murders, Sharon. Imagine the media image I’d have if anyone found out I’d spent six years as The Fixer.

  She recalled her last conversation with Mort. He preached the only alternative to spinning in self-hatred was stepping out and rebuilding her life.

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to meet him,” Lydia said. “I’m not making any promises.”

  Sharon slapped her knees then stood. “That’s all I ask. I’ll have Zach call you.” She tossed their cups into a trash can a few feet away and waited for Lydia to stand. “I’m glad you’re going back to work, Lydia. Something tells me this is the start of a whole new adventure for you.”

  Chapter 6

  BARBADOS

  “Everyone out!” Patrick Duncan stormed through the penthouse. “Now!”

  Two small women in chef’s whites scurried out of the kitchen with lowered eyes.

  “I said now!” Patrick glowered as the staff ran out of the penthouse. He stalked through the spacious living room to the wide lanai where his woman lay motionless on the chaise. Her companion, a shapely brunette in a bikini bottom, leapt off her own lounge and struggled to cover her bare breasts.

  “Leave, Alyssa.” He waved to her canvas bag and the lotions arrayed on the table. “You can collect those later.”

  The startled beauty pulled a towel free, wrapped it around herself, and raced barefooted out of the suite.

  “There’s another one I’ll not see again.” The nude woman sunning herself in the warm Barbadian breeze hadn’t moved. “You’ve got to get a handle on your temper, Patrick.”

  “Sit up, Olwen,” he demanded. “We need to talk.”

  She remained motionless on the wide chaise.

  Patrick heaved a sigh. He pulled aside the small table separating Olwen’s recliner from the one Alyssa just vacated and sat. “Olwen, please.” His voice was quieter now. “I need you.”

  She knew it was a struggle for him to calm himself. She also knew withholding her attention was the best way to force him to a more civil state. The danger of allowing Patrick Duncan to think he had the upper hand, even for a moment, was a risk she was smart enough to avoid. She held her face in calm repose and kept her eyes closed behind dark glasses.

  “Please, darling.” His tone was that of a remorseful child. “Something terrible has happened.”

  Olwen rewarded his attitude adjustment by reaching out her hand. He brought it to his lips. She pulled away after his gentle kiss, turned on her side to face him, and took off her glasses. She watched him take in the fullness of her nudity and saw his face morph from barely controlled anger to mounting desire. She pulled up her left knee and let his eyes linger on the trimmed triangle of dark blonde hair between her legs. At the moment he began his reach for what he wanted most, she swung her legs off the chaise, pulled herself up, and stood naked as he sat two inches from her. She reached for her robe and teased it onto her shoulders, savoring his slack-jawed immobility before she tied the sash and walked out of the sun into the living room.

  She knew he’d follow.

  She glanced at the clock, a silly habit from earlier times. She no longer had to justify when she poured her first drink of the day. Four years with Patrick made the rules of etiquette and decency no more applicable to her than they were to him. She stepped to the small bar on the far wall and dropped three ice cubes each into two crystal tumblers. She poured dark rum into one and gin into the other, then added equal parts of chilled tonic and squeezed a quartered lime into each.

  “What has you so riled?” She handed Patrick his rum and settled into the low-back sofa. It was turquoise silk. The same color as the sea it faced through open patio doors.

  “There’s been a raid.” Patrick’s voice was little more than a hushed whisper. “Our warehouse in Brighton. The inventory’s gone and three men are dead.”

  “Nigel Lancaster’s territory.” She crossed one leg over the other, mindful to let her robe fall open.

  “This isn’t Nigel’s doing.” Patrick downed his drink in one long gulp. “The last thing he wants is to disappoint me again. Besides, he’s spending most of his time at a London rehab hospital seeing to Jillian’s recovery.”

  She pushed his last sentence out of her mind. She’d long ago accepted the definitive actions required by Patrick’s line of work, but she didn’t need to hear the details. “These three men, you knew them?”

  “Not directly. They were guards. Teenagers trading their bravado for a spot in the organization. My organization. They worked for me.”

  Patrick began pacing. She allowed him his mounting anger. The bond Patrick shared with his men was the backbone of his empire. Drug operations were built on loyalty and protection, and Patrick spent years using his dogged devotion to his team’s wealth and safety to create an enterprise supplying narcotics to more than sixty countries. While the Mexican government targeted the older, smaller, more violent cartels, he’d forged civil alliances there and throughout South America that allowed everyone to get rich. As Nigel Lancaster and his wife had learned, Patrick dealt harshly with employees who crossed or disappointed him, but he always kept his men safe from external mayhem.

  “It’s the fucking Russian.�
�� Patrick paced the room.

  “How can you be sure? Was there a message?”

  “What more message do we need beyond the brutality?” Spit flew from his lips. “He’s a barbarian. And he’s declaring war.”

  She stood and walked over to him. She couldn’t let his feral reaction to his men’s deaths build to levels that might threaten the business. Channeling Patrick’s anger effectively had always been her contribution to their partnership.

  “You need time to think.” She laid her head against his chest. “To grieve.” She pulled his hand to her breast, tucking it inside her robe. “You need to move carefully. Deliberately.”

  “I’ll put a bullet in Tokarev’s throat.” His voice rumbled against her ear. “He’s not taking what I have built.”

  “Shh…” She pressed her hips against him and caressed the small of his back. “Now’s not the time. Your serenity is your strength.” She brought a hand around to stroke his growing erection. “I want you down on your knees,” she whispered.

  He pulled away and stared into her blue eyes. She held his gaze, untied her robe, and let it drop. “Now,” she whispered.

  Patrick hesitated. Then he lowered himself and pulled her toward him, his hands massaging her back. She ran her fingers through his dark hair and moaned.

  “Your serenity is your strength,” she whispered again. “Your strength comes from me.” She pressed against him and let the soft salty breeze tease her naked body.

  —

  An hour later she untangled herself from cool linen sheets and slipped away from her sleeping lover. She crossed the master bedroom and turned the tap in her oversized soaking tub. She poured lavender oil into the steaming water and breathed in its tranquil aroma. She’d need the bath to calm herself. Patrick would have no choice but to respond to the attack on his territory.