Dante's Wood

by Lynne Raimondo

  “—but it’s nothing we can’t fix with proper attention. You need help and we’ll get it for you, the best there is. I know a good man at Rush. Excellent therapist and very discreet. We’ll get you in to see him straight away, perhaps start you on a dose of antidepressants at the same time. Trust me. I know it’s hard to believe from where you’re sitting today, but you can feel like a whole man again—”

  That was it. I swung my cane down on his desk with all the force I could muster. It cracked the surface like a rifle fired at close range. Some of the papers on Sep’s desk scattered and fluttered to the floor. I stood up and turned quickly toward the window so he couldn’t read my face.

  Stunned, I suppose, by my loss of control, Sep was uncharacteristically wordless.

  With my back still to him I said, “I suppose you haven’t heard that Charlie was attacked in prison?”

  My question had its intended impact. Sep shifted noticeably in his chair and said in a low, grave voice, “No, I hadn’t.”

  “Preventing that from happening again and seeing him home safely to his family is more important to me than . . . well, anything else.”

  “Yes. I understand why it would be. But you are allowing your anger over a terrible injustice to overwhelm your judgment.”

  “How is that?”

  Sep sighed heavily. “Come back and sit down.” He paused and added meekly, “If you don’t mind, that is.”

  I let several moments go by. When I at last reclaimed my seat some of the tension between us had lessened, but I was still shaken.

  Sep said in a fatherly way, “Mark, you are clearly capable of a great many things, but do I have to point out the obvious to you?”

  I chafed under the reminder. “The only thing that’s obvious to me is that if I have to sit in the dark and do nothing while that boy cries himself to sleep every night I will end up the cripple everyone thinks I am.”

  “No one thinks of you as a cripple,” Sep said guiltily.

  “Really? Forgive me, but only a few moments ago you came close to saying it yourself. You want to know what the hardest part is? I’ll tell you. It’s not this”—I rapped my cane on his desk again for emphasis—“or some of the restrictions on my freedom, or how much longer it takes to do nearly everything. It’s everyone treating me like . . . I’ve grown a second head. The only thing that’s changed about me is that I can’t see. If I can live with that, why is it so difficult for everyone else?”

  “I see,” Sep said with unintentional irony.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think you can.” I was sick of trying to prove what no one wanted to believe and also painfully aware of all the things I wasn’t telling him.

  But if Sep saw through my protest, he decided to give me a pass.

  “I apologize. I shouldn’t presume to understand what I have no experience of. You were right to call me on it. But I still don’t understand what suspending you will accomplish.”

  “It will give me time to follow up on the things I’ve learned about Shannon Sparrow and hopefully find out who she was dating. The other man she was involved with had every bit as much motive to kill her as Charlie. The police are done investigating. Detective O’Leary told me his hands are tied and I don’t trust Charlie’s lawyers not to try to strike a deal with the prosecutor. Hallie Sanchez admitted to me it’s the usual way these cases are resolved when there’s a question of diminished capacity. Charlie shouldn’t have to spend one more day in prison than he deserves.”

  “And you’re willing to risk your livelihood to prove him innocent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to reinstate you.”

  “In that event I’m sure there’s a sheltered workshop that would have me.”

  Sep permitted himself a chuckle. “Pity the institution.”

  “And all kidding aside, it’s also the only way I’m going to get myself out of the mess I’m in. You said it earlier. I’m going to be drawn and quartered in the press before my case even gets to the Board. If I don’t find out the truth, there’ll be intense pressure for at least a reprimand. You’ll have no choice about firing me then. By clearing Charlie I may well clear myself and save my job.”

  “That’s a strong argument, but I still don’t like it.”

  “I don’t either, but I don’t see an alternative.”

  I knew what I was asking him to accept was a stretch. And he was more right about my emotional state than he knew. I was counting on him coming around so I wouldn’t have to take the more drastic step of resigning. He mulled it over for a few minutes.

  At last he said, “I suppose if I refused, you’d quit.”

  I grinned weakly in reply.

  “Yes, of course, that’s exactly what you’d do. But maybe you won’t have to. Maybe there’s a way we can both get what we want.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He outlined his plan.

  “I’ll tell the administration I had doubts all along about your fitness to return to work and that I fear you may now be at risk for a complete breakdown. No, don’t make a face, just listen. I’ll put in a request for a continuation of your medical leave, ostensibly so you can undergo counseling. You may have to sit through a few sessions later to keep up the subterfuge, but it will be good for your soul. In the mean time, you’ll have the freedom you need to investigate.” He added wickedly, “And if anyone ever tried to use it against you, you could sue them for discrimination.”

  “What do I do about the guys waiting for me upstairs?”

  “I’ll tell them it’s my professional opinion you’re too distraught to talk right now. That should put them off for the time being.”

  “Thanks, Sep,” I said. The strategy was brilliant and far more clever than my own idea.

  “Not so fast. There are two conditions.”

  I pretended to groan. “Why are there always conditions?” I was relieved there were only two. “Go ahead. Tell me.”

  “First, no heroics. If there is another murderer out there, he isn’t going to welcome your investigation. Keep this O’Leary fellow informed about whatever you find out and be mindful of your own safety.”

  I nodded. It was more or less what O’Leary had said.

  “Second. When this is all over, you’ll tell me what’s really been going on with you these many months.”

  “Sep, it’s like I’ve been saying—”

  “No arguments. I accept that I was falling prey to stereotypical thinking. But I’ve been in this business too long to believe I’m completely mistaken. Something is eating at you and I’m not giving up until I find out what it is.”

  When I left Sep’s office, Josh was busy with a patient. I left word with Yelena that he should meet me at the Double L as soon as he could break free.

  “Are you in big trouble?” Yelena asked.

  “Up to my eyeballs. What does Boris’s schedule look like this week?”

  Despite the bitter relations between the two, Yelena still managed her ex-husband’s books. I gleaned there were two sets of them, one for IRS eyes that assiduously itemized expenses like gas usage and vehicle depreciation, and another that kept track of what Boris actually earned in tips. She punched a few buttons on her keyboard and said:

  “Not too bad. The Shriners Convention isn’t until Saturday. Would you like me to pencil you in?”

  “Not yet. I’m not sure exactly when I’ll need him. Just keep your cell phone on.”

  “Is that a joke?” Yelena said.

  I exited my building through a little-used doorway to the rear, wishing I weren’t so conspicuous. I was an easy target for a nosy reporter to spot and follow and didn’t have a prayer of disguising myself. What could I do—wear an extra hat and dark glasses? Grow a beard? Suddenly I imagined myself being chased down the street by paparazzi toting lenses the size of cannon while I frantically swung my cane to escape. It was a relief when I reached the Double L without being accosted by anyone other than the usu
al complement of busybodies telling me when it was safe to cross. After the day I’d had thus far I decided I needed a drink no matter what the hour, so I ordered a double to bide the time while I waited for Josh to show up.

  He arrived a little before noon.

  “Well, Stan, it’s a fine mess we’re in,” he said brightly when he came up. “I must say you have the David Janssen look down to a T.”

  “You’ve heard then.”

  “Have you lost your mind? Yelena hasn’t had this much to talk about since her cousin put dioxin in a rival mobster’s vodka. Her phone’s been stapled to her ear ever since you left.”

  “I suppose the whole world knows I’m on leave again.”

  “The official word is that you’re being treated for mild anxiety, but the gossip is you freaked out and tried to commit suicide. Jonathan was telling anyone who’d listen how he saw it coming. He was still shedding crocodile tears in the lounge when I left.”

  “Suicide, huh? Well, at least I still have my pride to live for.”

  “Speaking of which, why is there a bandage on your arm?”

  “It’s nothing. I . . . broke something.”

  Josh put his hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure? I heard what happened to the kid over the weekend. Maybe we should talk about it.”

  “Another time. Right now what I really need is food. And I’d like you to read something to me.”

  We went to another of our usual spots, a Greek diner on Chestnut that aspires to the same lofty standards as the Billy Goat, except that the waitstaff succeeds at being even surlier. I ordered steak and eggs to counteract the effects of the bourbon and sat there aggressively carving the greasy pile on my plate into chunks while Josh read the DNA report, first silently to himself and then aloud to me, making short work of the boilerplate and going carefully over the important parts. When he had finished there didn’t seem to be a shred of doubt that Charlie was the father of Shannon’s baby.

  “They did a combined paternity index, or CPI, of ten thousand,” Josh said. “That means the alleles that matched up with Charlie’s sample were unlikely to have come from more than one in ten thousand men in the general population. Or, put another way, that there’s a 99.9 percent chance he’s the father.”

  I said, “I would have preferred a CPI of one hundred thousand, but they still went farther than most labs do.”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty hard to argue with their finding unless the samples were contaminated or Charlie’s got an identical twin we don’t know about. So where does that leave you?”

  I felt weighed down. I hadn’t been gone from Sep’s office more than a few hours and already it seemed my chances of proving Shannon wasn’t sexually involved with Charlie—which would have helped clear not only him but me—had vanished. Josh saw the expression on my face and tried to cheer me up.

  “It still doesn’t mean he killed her. Why is everyone so quick to make that leap?”

  “Why do you think? Add Charlie’s size into the mix and we might as well be facing the lynch mob in Of Mice and Men. That’s why I’ll never be forgiven for my advice to his parents unless I find out what really happened.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. But now that you say it . . . what can I do to help?”

  “Nothing. I don’t want you getting sucked into it too. After we pay the check I’m going to go up to the New Horizons Center and nose around, see if I can find out more about Shannon’s secret lover. It’s the only thing I can think of at the moment.”

  “All right,” Josh said, “but do me a favor, OK?”

  “Keep my eyes open wide?”

  “No. They wobble enough as it is.”

  “Go ahead, shore up my fragile ego.”

  “That’s what I was getting at. Somebody needs to be nice to you right now. Might as well be you.”

  Thirteen

  “Ms. Lowe is in a meeting but said she is anxious to meet with you and wondered whether you would mind waiting. She asked that I show you to the garden.”

  I was speaking to the receptionist at the New Horizons Center.

  “Garden?” I said. I hadn’t discerned any open spaces when I was coming up on the building.

  “Yes, it’s one of the center’s showcases. Ms. Lowe often brings prospective clients to see it. It’s upstairs. May I take you there?”

  “No need,” I said. “Verbal directions will do.”

  During the cab ride up I had listened to the center’s webpages on my Blindberry. The site seemed to have been designed with disabled access in mind and had none of the tricky menus and dead ends that so often had me pounding my arrow keys in frustration. According to the About Us section, the center was a three-story building that had started out in life as a pickle factory. In keeping with the green craze being spearheaded by the mayor, it relied on solar panels for heating and air-conditioning and was said to be “filled with natural light and the eclectic art works of our clients.” Visitors could expect to find a “bright, modern facility light-years distant from the dismal warehouses that housed the intellectually disabled in the past,” and a “friendly, inclusive atmosphere built on mutual trust and respect.” And they didn’t discriminate on the basis of race, gender, or physical handicap, either.

  The garden was in a terrace on the roof, through a door to the right of the elevator. I stepped out into neon sunlight and quickly replaced my glasses. A brick walk led away from the door. I caned down it until I came to an obstruction, about waist high. Reaching down, I discovered a planter box, about twelve feet in length and another three in width, bordered with tiles that were cool to my touch despite the heat of the afternoon sun. At the far end, there was a brass sign embossed with Braille that read Herbs. Exploring further, I found five other similar boxes radiating from a circular central area, where there was a teak bench in a shaded arbor scented with honeysuckle. Close by insects droned among the blossoms, and farther off, a sprinkler pattered back and forth. I sat down to wait for Ms. Lowe.

  About fifteen minutes later the roof door popped open, followed by the click of heels coming down the path. It was a confident walk, purposeful yet unhurried. “Ms. Lowe?” I asked, rising and extending my hand.

  The heels stopped a foot away from me. “Yes. Thank you for waiting. I’m afraid my time isn’t my own at the moment. My receptionist said you were interested in a possible placement at the center?” She wore no perfume I could smell and her diction had a hint of maturity to it. I guessed her to be near my age, or a little older. I extended my hand farther, but she still didn’t respond.

  I said, “This is a lovely facility.”

  “It is nice, isn’t it?” she said. Then a touch sadly, “though I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to keep it open. I’m surprised at your interest, given all the adverse publicity we’re getting. I’ve been on the phone with our donors all week, and just now another family removed their daughter from the program. May I ask what brought you here? We don’t exactly have a truckload of new applicants knocking at the door.”

  Her demeanor was cordial, but my patience was wearing thin. How much longer would I have to stand there with my hand outstretched before she took it?

  “Don’t worry, it’s not communicable,” I said, after a few more seconds had elapsed.

  “Communicable?”

  “Yes. I’ve been holding my hand out for several minutes and you haven’t taken it.”

  “Funny,” she said. “I was just noticing the same thing.”

  “That I was waiting for you to shake my hand?”

  “No. That you hadn’t taken mine.”

  I was dumbfounded until Alice Lowe began to laugh, a sound like keys jingling. Then I caught on. In my wildest dreams I hadn’t anticipated this. I felt myself color rapidly, grateful that it wouldn’t be noticed.

  “I think I’ve just been exposed as a blockhead,” I said.

  “Don’t say that,” Alice said. “You couldn’t have known.”

  “I didn’t think . . . well, I me
an, you don’t sound like . . .”

  “Another blind person? You’re right. I don’t use a cane at the center. I can see well enough to do without one when I’m here.”

  “So you’re only partially blind,” I said.

  “Aren’t you digging your hole deeper?”

  She was right. How many times had I wanted to correct others for making the same assumption—that being blind meant seeing nothing at all?

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “My foot seems to be permanently stuck in my mouth today. Can we start over?”

  “Sure,” she said, touching her wrist to mine and then clasping my hand. Her fingers were smooth and slender. “Alice Lowe.”

  “Mark Angelotti.” I fumbled in my jacket pocket for one of my business cards and handed it to her.

  “A psychiatrist,” she said after perusing it. “Are you here about one of your clients?”

  After our opening exchange, the falsehoods I had planned on telling her seemed out of place so I came clean. “Yes,” I said. “Charlie Dickerson.”

  “Are you the doctor who testified at his hearing?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Now I understand why your name sounded so familiar.”

  “You were there?”

  “No. But I listened to the news reports. I’m not sure I should be talking to you.”

  “Why? We’re both on the same side.”

  “And which side is that?” she asked skeptically.

  “You spoke of bad publicity. I have to assume the center’s fortunes would take a turn for the better if Charlie were cleared.”

  “And that’s what you’re trying to do?”

  “I believe he’s innocent.”

  “So you’re playing detective? Forgive me, but isn’t that like a bad Hollywood script? The blind sleuth who ‘sees’ things no one else can?”

  “Now who’s being condescending?”

  Alice Lowe seemed taken aback, but then recovered and laughed. “Quite right. Come,” she said, reaching down and taking my free hand, which she put in the crook of her arm, “let’s take a stroll together. This has been an awful day and I need a walk to clear my head.”