The Unforgivable Fix

by T. E. Woods

  “Bullshit, Lydia! It eats you up inside. That’s why it’s so difficult for you to let people close. It’s like you want it, but life has taught you not to trust it. Don’t tell me you haven’t wondered what makes you different from people who simply love their friends and family, despite the messiness that comes with them.”

  “So now you’re the shrink?” She was uncomfortable with the attention. “Remember, Mort. Despite all the late-night ads for psychics, no one can read anyone else’s mind. And you sure as hell can’t read mine.”

  “You’d be surprised what I can read about you, Liddy.” Mort sounded so tired she wondered how he got the sentences out. “Speaking of reading, know what I read a few weeks back? Girls get their sense of self-esteem from their fathers. I’m sure you learned that back in shrink school.”

  “I did. What’s that have to do with this?”

  “Allie. What kind of woman gives herself to a man like Patrick Duncan?” He shook his head. “Not one who thinks much of herself.”

  “You’re the cop, Mort.” Lydia made sure her voice was firm. “I’m the psychologist. There are plenty of reasons people do the things they do. Allie is who she is because of choices she’s made. What she does in this moment has precious little to do with you, so you can kick the impression that you’re so damned powerful right out of the equation.”

  Mort said nothing.

  “What do you think will happen to her?” Lydia asked. “With the police, I mean.”

  “All depends on Duncan. If he convinces the DEA Allie was nothing more than window dressing—that she had nothing to do with the criminal side of his life—she could walk.” He shook his head. “But you sat next to her while she made that call to him. I didn’t even recognize the voice coming out of my own daughter. You heard him turn into jelly in her hands.”

  Lydia nodded her agreement.

  “And just like you’d be surprised what I know about you, Liddy, I know my daughter.”

  “Meaning?”

  Mort drank the last of his wine. “If my daughter has power, Liddy, she uses it.”

  “So what do you think will happen to her?”

  “Maybe it’s time for me to retire.” Mort sounded far away. “Take Allie and get the hell out of here. Take her someplace nobody knows her. Where I can keep an eye on her. Somewhere with no extradition agreements. Because if I don’t…” His voice choked out the words. “Allie’s going to prison for a very long time.”

  Chapter 42

  SEATTLE

  Patrick Duncan felt a jolt of electric energy as he stepped out of Arnie Harb’s car. It would only be a matter of minutes.

  “This is it,” Arnie said. “I have to tell you, given the way I imagine you live, this is hardly the place I’d be expecting to bring you.”

  Patrick looked at the abandoned warehouse and recalled the last time he was here. It was nearly five years ago. He was putting together his cartel and had recently secured sufficient suppliers and distributors to control the entire West Coast of the United States. He had felt like celebrating and the pharmicist who’d just accepted four hundred thousand dollars in exchange for supplying Patrick with sixty thousand Oxycontin pills told him about an impromptu party down on the wharf.

  Patrick lifted his collar against the wind whipping down the dock. “Stay here. I want a few moments alone. Then you can drive us to Vancouver. I have a plane waiting.”

  “No way, Mr. Duncan.” Arnie pointed to the boarded-up hulk of a building. “I have my reputation to consider. I can’t let you walk in there with no backup.”

  Patrick looked at his watch—2:29. “Wait here. We’ll leave in ten minutes.”

  The private detective hesitated, then shrugged. “You’re the guy with the checkbook.”

  Patrick walked toward Warehouse Nine. He avoided the large sliding doors and turned the handle on a small side entry. He wasn’t surprised to find it open. His heartbeat quickened. He felt a stirring in his groin in anticipation of what awaited him inside.

  A flock of sparrows took flight the moment he entered and flapped around the high wooden rafters. Patrick watched them, hoping for a moment they would lead the way. But the birds soon adjusted to his presence and settled onto the crossbeams. He walked into the cavernous space. A few forgotten packing crates littered the arena-sized area. Grey light filtered in through filthy windows set high into the structure. He took several more steps until he stood in the center of the dusty mausoleum of long-dead industry.

  “Hello!” His cry echoed as the small birds again took flight. He was about to call out a second time when he heard the footsteps.

  “Welcome, Patrick.” A male voice. British accent. Familiar.

  Nigel Lancaster, manager of Patrick’s operation in Great Britain, emerged from behind a tall crate tagged with spray-painted graffiti.

  “What are you doing here?” Patrick demanded. He hadn’t seen Lancaster in more than a month. Not since that evening in Barbados. The night of the dinner party. A shipment of narcotics worth nearly twelve million dollars on the street had been seized by Scotland Yard. That never should have happened. Patrick provided an ample budget for Lancaster to ensure that customs officials and ambitious police officers looked the other way. The man needed to understand the consequences of a job poorly done.

  Nigel Lancaster walked deliberately toward him. His eyes locked onto Patrick’s with the determination of a cougar closing in on its prey. The weight of a heavy metal pipe kept Lancaster’s right hand hanging straight down. Patrick pivoted toward the exit but instantly fell to his knees, writhing in pain.

  The taser bit him in the back of his neck. His body convulsed as lightning spasms coursed through him. Patrick tried to speak, but his tongue was suddenly useless, too large for his mouth. Sweat drenched his hair and dripped down his face. He blinked twice, then twice more. When his eyes were able to focus he saw a man. Average height. Stocky. His hair as black as his suit. Patrick’s addled mind snapped into crystal-clear terror when he saw the dance of light radiate from the man’s large diamond ring.

  Vadim Tokarev delivered a pointed kick to the underside of Patrick’s jaw.

  “Jillian may never walk again.” Nigel Lancaster’s voice was calm determination. He stepped toward Patrick’s sprawled body, swung back with his metal bar, and delivered a crushing blow to Patrick’s left leg. Patrick’s cry, muffled by his nearly paralyzed mouth, brought another paralyzing jolt from the Russian’s taser.

  “Her jaw required two surgeries. The doctors say there are several more in her future before she’ll eat on her own again.” Lancaster brought the heavy bar down across Patrick’s face. Blood poured from the injured man’s mouth. He gagged as he spit out broken teeth. Patrick struggled to raise himself off the concrete floor, now slick with his blood, sweat, and urine, but Tokarev’s taser kept him down.

  “Did I mention her hip?” Lancaster delivered his final blow to the once-invincible drug baron, cracking into Patrick’s pelvis with stabs of pain that made Tokarev’s electric jolts seem no more than an annoyance.

  Nigel Lancaster threw the pipe down and the birds panicked once more at the hollow clang reverberating through their urban nest. Patrick panted and whimpered as he watched him walk away. The Russian stood over him. Patrick could smell the burning ozone of the active taser in Tokarev’s hand.

  Lancaster returned moments later. Patrick gulped shallow wisps of air and tried to focus. A new wave of horror paralyzed him when he saw what his former lieutenant held out to the Russian. Tokarev tossed his taser to the floor and accepted the oversized bolt cutter.

  Patrick felt the cold steel of the blade scissor each side of his left wrist. He heard the snap of bone and felt the fires of hell when Tokarev closed the long handles. He recognized his mind had bid goodbye to reality as he watched the Russian step over his bloody body and duplicate the action on his right wrist.

  Why isn’t he talking to me? The Russian hasn’t said a word. Isn’t that rude, Olwen? Don’t you find tha
t odd?

  Patrick watched his hands slide down a river of his own blood as he listened to the footsteps of the two men fade away. He looked up into the rafters.

  Here, birdie, birdie. Here, birdie, birdie. Olwen, what happened to the birds?

  Chapter 43

  OLYMPIA

  Lydia worked on case notes and billings for more than two hours. She’d gotten to the office a little after six, eager to leave Mort and Allie home with each other. The tension mounting between the two of them reminded Lydia how quickly a comforting sanctuary can become a minefield. Each of them knows this isn’t going to end any other way than Allie wearing the orange jumpsuit of a federal penitentiary. Let them have their time alone before this whole thing crashes down. At eight thirty she assumed most county employees would be settled in at their desks with their morning cups of coffee. She dialed the number Barbie Simons had left on her answering machine, asking for a return call as soon as possible. A pleasant voice answered before the third ring. Lydia introduced herself to the county social worker, but clarified that it was Dr. Zach Edwards she should speak to when Barbie said she was calling regarding Heather Blankenship.

  “I’ve already spoken to Dr. Edwards twice,” Barbie told her. “I was the one who took the case when he called it in. He assured me Heather was in no immediate danger.”

  The details of the case were familiar to Lydia. “Evidently, her abuser is a long-haul trucker on the road for a while.”

  “I got the same story from Zach. I called him back yesterday after speaking with Heather. Our discussion left me more than a little concerned, I have to say. I discussed things with my unit leader here. Zach told me he was working under your supervision. After my manager heard what I had to say, she suggested I call you.”

  “What are your concerns, Ms. Simons?” Lydia reached for a pad and pen.

  “Call me Barbie.” Her voice had a smile in it. “Everybody does. Can I call you Lydia?”

  “Please.” Lydia liked the woman’s style. Her warmth came through even over the phone.

  “Like I said, I met with Heather. Have you met her?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You don’t sit in on Dr. Edwards’s sessions? How do you do your supervision?”

  A defensive warning hummed inside Lydia. “Zach tapes each of his sessions. I listen to those. I can assure you we discuss each case in depth.”

  “I’m not criticizing your methods. In fact, I’m glad to hear there are recordings of Zach’s time with Heather. Have you listened to them?”

  Lydia silently chastised herself for not spending the time listening to every moment of every session between Zach and Heather. She’d been too focused on Zach’s reluctance to notify CPS of Heather’s alleged abuse. “I spot-check them. I listen long enough to get a feel for rapport and issues. We discuss case conceptualization and therapy strategies face-to-face. I trust the folks I supervise until I have reason to believe otherwise.”

  Barbie didn’t respond.

  “Are you telling me I have cause to be concerned?” Lydia asked.

  A deep sigh prefaced the social worker’s response. “Lydia, I’m not a psychologist. And I sure don’t want to tell you how to do your job. But I’ve been doing mine a long time and like anyone, I guess you could say I’ve developed a nose for who’s shining me on and who’s being straight.”

  “Are you suggesting Zach’s being less than honest with you?”

  “No. No, I’m not. It’s just that…well, perhaps he needs more guidance than he’s getting.”

  “Barbie, can you tell me what you told your unit chief?” Lydia could tell the woman was hedging. “I can’t fix what I don’t know.”

  “Fair enough. I had a nice long chat with Heather the day before yesterday. After I convinced her to tell her parents what was happening, I got to meet with Heather again yesterday. This time she had her mom and dad along with her.”

  Lydia recalled Zach had been urging Heather to speak with her parents, but Heather had said she was afraid of ruining the close relationship her father had with his brother. “Good for you, Barbie. You seem to have succeeded where Zach failed. How did they react to her report that her uncle was abusing their sixteen-year-old daughter?”

  “That’s not what she told them. And it’s not what she told me.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “So is this family. Lydia, Heather told me, when we were alone, and then she told her parents, that her uncle has never been inappropriate in any way toward her. She said she wanted to see Dr. Edwards because she was having a lot of confusion regarding sex. The Blankenships are a very religious family. Heather’s dad is a minister. Her uncle is a deacon in the church.”

  “Zach told me that.” Barbie was treading on what could be very dangerous ground. “Tell me more about what Heather said about her conflict.”

  “Heather’s family is big, but their income is small. That’s why her folks brought her to county mental health when her grades started to drop and her mood took a dip. As you can imagine, she was embarrassed to talk about her sexual feelings. Her family keeps her pretty sheltered. While she’s sixteen, I’d say she has the sophistication of about a twelve-year-old. But her body’s changing. She’s having urges and desires. I guess she even had a couple of dreams about her uncle. The way she describes them, I’d call them pretty typical for a kid her age.” Barbie paused. “You got kids, Lydia?”

  “No.” Lydia immediately regretted the harshness of her reply. “But I can remember.”

  Barbie chuckled. “I got three girls at home. Ages nine, twelve, and fifteen. I’m hip deep in the hormone swamp. My poor husband’s taken to playing video games just to avoid the danger.”

  “Tell me more about Heather,” Lydia urged.

  “So Heather tells me that once she gets the nerve to talk to Zach about sex, Zach starts telling her she’s showing all the typical signs of someone who’s been abused. Heather says she told him it wasn’t the case. That she hasn’t even been kissed. But Heather says Zach told her it more than likely happened when she was young, probably before it even entered into her memory banks. Heather said he was pretty insistent. She said he told her she couldn’t know for sure that it didn’t happen. Heather had to agree to that one.”

  Lydia stopped writing notes and sifted through her top desk drawer for the thumb drives containing the digital recordings of Zach’s time with Heather. “What about the recent allegations of abuse? How did Heather explain those?”

  “She says there have been none. Heather says Zach started asking her about times she’d spent with her father and her uncle. She says he started to say things like ‘That’s when it happened,’ and ‘Can’t you see what he was doing to you?’ She said that’s why she stopped seeing him. She thought he wasn’t helping at all.”

  If what Heather was saying was true, the girl’s decision to leave therapy with Zach might have been the smartest thing she’d ever done. “Abuse victims are easily swayed, Barbie. What leads you to believe Heather isn’t saying these things to shield her family? Kids will do anything to protect their parents.”

  “Like I said, I got this nose. That kid was telling me the truth. You need to talk to Zach. I don’t know what his motivation is. Maybe he was trying to draw her out of her shell. I know rookies can make some bonehead moves. Let him know there may not be one right way to get a kid to open up…but what he did with Heather is definitely the wrong way.”

  “With all due respect, Barbie, Zach’s been top-notch in his work here. I need something more than your nose on this.”

  Barbie didn’t seem offended. “Well, we’ve got two things then, don’t we? Listen to those tapes. They’ll tell you if my hunch is right or not.”

  Lydia promised her she’d listen to them word for word before the end of the day. They agreed to talk again the next morning. Lydia asked if Barbie would consider a joint session with him if she found something amiss in Zach’s handling of Heather’s case. “That way he can hear from bo
th of us the fallout from mishandling these types of cases.”

  Barbie said she’d be more than happy to do that and wished her a good day.

  “Wait,” Lydia said. “You said we had two things to test your nose against. One is the recordings, what’s the other?”

  “Her parents brought Heather’s health history with them. She last saw her pediatrician eight days ago. Aside from some minor acne, the girl’s healthy as a horse. But she complained about cramping during her period so the doc did a pelvic.”

  Lydia braced herself for what was coming. “And?”

  “Heather Blankenship may be the last sixteen-year-old virgin in Thurston County. And she’s got the medical record to prove it.”

  —

  Lydia stood in her office waiting room and shook herself like a bird dog just out of the lake. Rain splattered the furniture, rugs, and walls, but her list of concerns left no room for worrying about soggy upholstery. After she’d hung up with Barbie Simons, she plugged the first thumb drive Zach gave her into her computer and opened the file of his initial intake with Heather Blankenship. Just past the halfway mark of their first session, she paused the recording, called the patients she was scheduled to see that day, and canceled all her appointments. By the time she’d heard the entire first session, her muscles burned with tension while her brain screamed damning accusations.

  You’re sloppy. You’re lazy. These people come to you for help and you offer them nothing. The sneering hatred of her mother’s voice joined in the chorus of recrimination. You’re not good for one damned thing. Zach had come to her looking for supervision. He had counted on her to teach him what he needed to know to be a good therapist and she’d failed him. Her mind raced through her history of personal failures. She couldn’t protect little Greta. Not all those years ago when their foster father came to them at night. Nor again when Greta appeared as the adult Savannah, looking to Lydia to help her make sense of it all. She ended up dead. Hanging from the porch of the very office where you ask people to come to hear your sage advice. The debacles of her past segued into a montage of The Fixer’s victims. You thought you were bringing justice to those denied. Look around you. Is the world any better for all the blood you spilled? Her self-vilification culminated with Mort. You’ve ruined a good man. A man who lived his entire life in the light. One encounter with you and you’ve made him a criminal. You’re poison. Let the world be done with you. Allow those pitiable enough to have crossed your path the chance to live free of you.