by T. E. Woods
And that could be extremely dangerous for her.
She crossed to the mirror, wiped away the steam, and clipped up her shoulder-length hair with the silver clasp Jillian Lancaster had brought her from one of her trips to Australia.
“Take care, Jillian. Heal quickly,” she whispered. She didn’t want to awaken Patrick. He’d fallen asleep after their lovemaking; stroking her breast and sighing his pet name for her. Olwen, Olwen. While Patrick was an American, he was proud of his Celtic roots. Olwen was the Welsh word for “beautiful” and he insisted everyone refer to her as such.
She turned off the tap and slipped into water so hot it caught her breath. She felt her muscles uncoil in the fragrant tub. She closed her eyes. Olwen, Olwen danced through her mind.
She ached to hear her own name. Given to her by her parents. Once so familiar and now never spoken. She whispered it to the lavender air.
“Allison Edith Grant.”
Chapter 7
OLYMPIA
“And what would we work on?” Lydia asked the twenty-three-year-old woman seated in her office.
Krystal Piekarski blew her nose for the tenth time in five minutes. “Isn’t it obvious, Dr. Corriger? I’m sick of being me. You gotta change me or I’m gonna die of AIDS or something.”
Lydia set aside the folder of papers they’d reviewed during the ninety-minute intake session. “It sounds to me like you’re not living the life you want.”
“I just said that, for fuck’s sake.” Krystal wadded up her tissue and added it to the collection on the coffee table. “You’re not going to be one of those shrinks who just repeats what I say, then sits there looking at me like I’m some kind of a fuckin’ zoo exhibit, are you?”
The girl’s criticism was deserved. She’d come for help and Lydia had offered her echoes instead. She was rusty. Krystal was her first patient after nearly two years away, and this young woman deserved better. Lydia took a deep breath and tried again.
“I can’t change you, Krystal. If you’re looking for that you can save a whole lot of your time and a few taxpayer dollars by leaving now.”
After yesterday’s conversation with Sharon Luther, Lydia had gone directly to her old office. She opened the windows to air it out after months of nonuse, acting fast before the opportunity to second-guess or rethink had a chance to take hold. She called the insurance providers, and three local psychiatrists who had referred patients to her over the years. They were thrilled to learn she was back in practice, wished her well, and assured her they’d be sending patients her way. But that would take time. So Lydia did the same thing she did nearly a decade ago when she first opened shop. She dialed the local community mental-health center and told them she was looking for patients. They were always overloaded with people with big problems and little cash; patients more established therapists would never accept for the miniscule reimbursement the government offered. When Lydia told the center’s director she could take people immediately, the woman let out a whoop of victory and Lydia had five patients scheduled for the next day.
“That’s it? You tellin’ me to leave? Then what’s the use of all this therapy shit?” Krystal demanded.
“Because this therapy shit can change your life.”
Krystal played with an oversized hoop earring, snapped her gum, and looked confused. “I don’t get it. You just said you couldn’t help me.”
Lydia shook her head. “What I said was I can’t change you. Only you can do that.”
Krystal sighed noisily and looked out the window. Lydia knew Krystal was hearing the same story she’d heard from every social worker, parish nurse, teacher, physician, and guidance counselor she’d ever encountered.
“And I know how you can do it. I can coach you. You do what I tell you to do and you can live a life better than anything you can imagine.”
“So that’s it?” Krystal’s defenses were up. “I just turn into your little robot and everything will be aces and roses?” She snapped her gum again. “Like that’s ever gonna happen. I don’t let nobody control me.”
“I can see that. Yet you just told me you’re afraid if you don’t change you’re going to die from AIDS.”
Krystal stabbed a finger at Lydia. “I didn’t say that. I never said nothing about being afraid.”
Lydia nodded. “Fair enough. You’re a woman of great courage.”
Krystal pulled her too-small jacket tight and pouted.
“What you said was that you were sick of your life,” Lydia continued. “And I know how you can change it.”
Krystal crossed one leg over the other. “Like what? I should get religion or something? Join Amway? Maybe go into the army? Cuz I can tell you people been telling me all that stuff and none of it works.”
“That’s because none of it can work.” Lydia crossed her own legs, mirroring her new patient. “All of that is outside. Change has to come from you.”
“You’re not listening! What comes from me is spreading my legs any time a guy looks twice at me. You gotta figure out what happened to me. It’s gotta be some kind of thing from when I was a baby. Something I can’t remember got done to me to make me this way. I can’t change what I don’t know, right?”
Lydia remained steady. “You don’t have to know why you’re this way. I really don’t care why you sleep with every guy you meet. I care that you do and that it bothers you. And I can coach you on how to do something different.”
“Just like that? It’s that easy?”
“Oh, no.” Lydia leaned forward. “This is very simple stuff, Krystal. But it’s as far from easy as you can ever think of. This is going to be hard. This is going to be work. Lucky for you I have lots of open times for us to get busy…You’re coming back tomorrow, by the way. And if you do what I tell you to do for six months, you’ll be amazed—stunned—at how different you are. Not just what you do, but who you are.”
Krystal stared at Lydia for several long moments. “So it’s an inside job is what you’re saying.”
Lydia returned the smile her patient offered. “It always is.”
—
Lydia was tired. She’d seen four patients. In the old days, that would have merely been her morning. She’d still have another four or five people on her schedule before calling it a day. But after so much time away, she was out of clinical shape. Fortunately her next appointment was with Zach Edwards, Sharon Luther’s postdoc. She wouldn’t have to flex any psychological muscles with him. Lydia was hoping the guy would be a few minutes late, but she heard the door to her reception room open right at the stroke of two. She rolled her shoulders, shook her arms loose, and went out to meet him.
Zach appeared older than the twenty-six years Lydia knew him to be. He looked like a researcher. Just under six feet tall, no more than 170 pounds, with dull brown hair, well on its way to disappearing, that matched nondescript brown eyes. He wore baggy green corduroy trousers Lydia would bet came from the downtown Goodwill and a shabby sweater-vest that could have been a hand-me-down from his grandfather. They introduced themselves and Lydia invited him into her office.
“Sharon sings your praises. Are you enjoying your time in her lab?”
Zach wiped his palms across his knees and nodded. “Dr. Luther is incredible. You’ve read her work, I’m certain. She’s so brilliant. I love watching her. She can scan a page of data and instantly digest it into testable theories. I’m lucky to be working beside her.”
He sounded sincere. Sharon wouldn’t tolerate a yes-man anywhere near her. “You’re looking to add clinical hours to your research schedule?”
“Yes. And believe me, all those nice things you say Dr. Luther said about me you can multiply tenfold, and that’s how she describes you. I appreciate you meeting me. I’ve read your research work, and of course I know about that award you got in grad school.”
“That was a long time ago,” Lydia said. “I stick to patients these days. I read your paper on the effects of acetylcholine on long-term memory. Solid work.”
>
“Thanks.” He hesitated and lowered his voice. “I read about what happened to you up in Seattle. It was on the television, too. Even down in Oregon. Wow. That was really something, wasn’t it?”
A bullet to the back of the head followed by ten months of rehab? I guess you could call it something. But oh, Zach…if you only knew.
Lydia looked past Zach to the empty end of the sofa. Savannah’s spot. Beautiful Savannah. So lost. So much hoping Lydia could help her. She’d seemed to be making headway…right up until Savannah hanged herself on the front porch of Lydia’s office.
“Dr. Corriger?”
Lydia refocused. She reached for a small stack of papers. “Your résumé shows a wide array of patient experience from your graduate days. Tell me about some of your most challenging cases.”
Zach brushed a thin wisp of hair off his forehead. “They’re all challenging. When I’m in the lab, looking at numbers and equations…those things seem so easy. So predictable. But man, when I’m in a room with another person who’s sharing their deepest fears or darkest secrets, I gotta tell you, sometimes I don’t know where things are going or what’s going to come out of their mouths next. Know what I mean?”
If I were to tell you, Zach, right here and now, you were seeking supervision from an assassin, could you deal with that? Would you expect that to come from my mouth?
“I know exactly what you mean,” Lydia said. “And I hope you never forget patients always have the ability to surprise you. A complacent therapist is a useless therapist.”
“And dangerous, too.”
Lydia paused. “That’s an odd word. What makes you say that?”
Zach Edwards took his time before answering. “Our patients are more vulnerable in our offices than they are anywhere else. Their bodies may be naked in a physician’s office, but in here their souls are laid bare. In their most intimate relationships, with friends or even with their spouses, they share only what they want to…and it’s met with sharing from another person. But in here we’re trained to get beyond their defenses. They tell us things they don’t want others to know. Things they would never say anywhere else. And the revelation is always one-sided. They know nothing about us as we probe everything about them. They take our words as if we’re oracles from on high, not the flawed human beings we truly are.” He hesitated. “I’ve come to appreciate that the therapist’s office can be more dangerous than a war zone. At least there you’re allowed armor. In here we insist they leave it at the door. Any therapist who becomes complacent about that…well, I don’t think dangerous is an odd word at all.”
Lydia studied the young man across from her. Perhaps she’d been wrong in thinking his youth would work against him in the therapeutic relationship.
She nodded. “Let’s give it a try for a few weeks, Zach. I can let you use the office on Wednesday afternoons, Friday mornings, and any time I’m not scheduled with a patient. Would that work?”
He smiled and a light broke through the blah-brown mediocrity of his appearance. “Thank you, Dr. Corriger. I look forward to it.”
“I’ll set you up with six patients a week. They’ll be all types of cases; this isn’t a specialty practice. We’ll discuss forms and charting requirements later. Let’s meet once a week. I expect you to record your sessions for my review.” She showed him how to operate the digital equipment built into her office walls, activated by discreet buttons placed strategically around the room.
He offered his hand. “Thank you, again. I promise you won’t regret this.”
Lydia shook his hand, smiled, and wondered if there was ever a time she was that excited about anything.
Chapter 8
BARBADOS
“XU?” Patrick shook his head. “No way. I challenge.”
“Last time you did, it cost you an emerald bracelet.” She tapped her tile and reached for the scorepad. “Triple letter for the X gives me twenty-five points.”
“That’s not a word, Olwen.” The billionaire drug lord sat back and lit a cigarette. “What’s your payoff if I lose?”
She thought for a moment. “You’ll take tango lessons with me. In Buenos Aires.”
“Fair enough.” He blew a smoke ring and watched it fade. “And when I win you and the lovely Alyssa will make love while I watch.”
She scoffed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Patrick spread his arms wide. “It would be an answer to a prayer.” He handed her an electronic tablet. “Look it up while I fantasize.”
“I don’t need to. Xu is a form of Vietnamese currency. You should know that from our trip to Ho Chi Minh City.”
“That was strictly business. I lined up four new suppliers while you shopped for silk. You’re bluffing.”
“Then by all means, double our wager.” She crossed her arms and held his stare. “If I’m right you’ll dance the Argentinian night away and pick me up one of those fabulous Arabian horses they breed down there. If you’re right, when Alyssa and I are finished we’ll invite you to join us.”
Patrick’s eyes fixed on her. She knew he was conjuring the image; she shifted her own gaze into a seductive tease. Patrick kicked aside the small table separating them and, ignoring the flying Scrabble pieces, pushed her down onto the sofa. His hand had just reached for the tie of her satin robe when the front doorbell rang.
“Ignore it,” he whispered against her neck.
The bell rang. Olwen slid aside.
The bell rang again.
“Damn it to hell!” Patrick pushed himself up and headed for the door.
She straightened her lounging gown, ran a hand through her hair, and turned to see Jelly Beauchamp entering the penthouse.
“It’s bad, boss.” Jelly didn’t give Patrick time to chastise him for interrupting.
“What happened?” Olwen stood and crossed over to Patrick.
Jelly looked at her and then back to the man whose life he had sworn to protect.
“Talk, Jelly,” Patrick said. “I have no secrets from Olwen.”
“Just got a call from a cop outside Atlanta. One of ours.” Jelly looked like a man afraid the messenger would be shot. “They’re mopping up a bloody scene at our drop house. Two dead. One bullet each. Right between the eyes. Inventory wiped out.”
She laid a steadying hand on Patrick’s arm and felt him quiver in rage.
“When?” he rasped.
“They got cops there right now.” Jelly looked at his watch. “It’s just after midnight Georgia time. If they’d waited an hour there’da been four more guys there. Guess we were lucky with that.”
“Lucky?” Patrick stepped toward Jelly. In the same instant, Jelly stepped back and Olwen tightened her grip on Patrick enough to hold him at bay. “Two dead men isn’t lucky! And the son of a bitch knew exactly when to hit. If all six men had been there, there would be no way he could have gotten anything.” Patrick spun away and stormed across the room. He kicked the overturned table, sending it sailing across the white carpet. “How much did we have there?”
Jelly glanced to Olwen, who nodded her encouragement.
“I said it was bad, boss. Atlanta was ready for distributors from eight states tomorrow morning. We been stockpiling for five days.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Patrick screamed. “I want specifics! How much did they get?”
Again, Jelly looked to Olwen. She understood his fear. Patrick’s reputation for loyalty to his men was matched only by his reputation for irrational violence when he was disappointed. She stepped closer to the hesitant man. “What do you know, Jelly?”
Jelly wiped his palms across his sizeable stomach, leaving two streaks of sweat. “I called Markie soon as I heard. He was actually on his way there. I told him what was goin’ down and he called off the other three guys.”
“How much?” Patrick thundered.
“Markie says we had sixteen million tied up in inventory.” Jelly’s lips quivered as he prepared for his next announcement. “Street va
lue close to a hundred mil. My cop on the scene says there’s nothing left. No drugs, no scales, no packaging. Whoever hit got it all. Says the only thing there was bodies and blood and two coins on the kitchen counter.”
Patrick snapped his head up. Olwen kicked off her slippers, ready to run if she needed to. “Coins?” he asked.
“They coulda been tokens, I don’t know.” Jelly caught Olwen’s eye. She nodded subtly toward the door and he inched his way toward escape. “Cop says they’re not US, that’s for sure. Silver, with a big number five on one side and a bird with two heads on the other.”
Patrick closed his eyes in seething awareness. He ran his hands through his thick, black hair and stumbled back several steps. Olwen headed to the penthouse door.
“Thank you, Jelly.” She gave him a look that urged him to move quickly. “Keep Patrick informed the moment you hear anything.” She closed the door behind him before Jelly could say anything more and hurried to Patrick. She reached out to comfort him but he swatted her arms away.
“Rubles!” he roared. “The son of a bitch tossed worthless Russian nickels in payment for my two men.”
“Please, Patrick.” She stayed clear of his reach. “Take a moment to breathe before you do anything.”
His eyes burned with rage and his voice was a harsh whisper. “That Russian will learn what my men are worth.”
Chapter 9
OLYMPIA
“Have you ever seen anyone like me before, Mr. Sorens? Have you ever seen a psychologist?”
William Sorens shook his head. He was six feet tall with a lean runner’s body. Thick dark hair, rugged features. The intake forms on Lydia’s lap indicated he’d had his fortieth birthday just last week.
“Folks call me Will, if that’s alright with you. And no, I’ve never seen the need.” He looked down at his hands. “I’ve been so keyed up lately. I feel like I’m walking inside a steel box that stops me every time I try to take more than one step in any direction.” He shook his head again. “I don’t even know if that makes any sense.”