“A private investigator? You pissed off anybody in a bar lately? Maybe taken home somebody’s husband?”
I sighed. “Rita, you know good and well I haven’t taken anybody home with me in a hell of a long time. As for pissing somebody off, who knows? Not that I can remember, anyway.”
When Officers Harkin and Monroe of the Metro Nashville Police Department arrived, they asked for a description of the car and its driver, and started in on a long list of the same kind of questions Rita had just asked.
Harkin led off. “Can you think of any reason someone might be stalking you, Miz Burdette?”
Monroe followed. “Are you in the middle of a divorce or child custody case? Are you a principal or a witness in any court proceeding or litigation?”
“No.”
“Wait a minute!” Rita injected. “What about your ex?”
I rolled my eyes. “I think I would know my own ex-husband, Rita. That guy’s got about seventy pounds and maybe ten years on Ronnie.”
The police officers waited while I sorted it out in my mind. Then Harkin made sure.
“Are you certain your husband has no reason to have someone following you, Miz Burdette?”
“Ex-husband, and no, I can’t imagine he would. We’ve been done for three years and I haven’t heard a peep from him. He lives in Knoxville now, at least that’s what I heard.”
The officers exchanged a look and one of them wrote something down. The questions continued.
“Have you met any new people recently?”
“Is there anyone in your work environment that might harbor a grudge?” (Rita and I started to laugh about that one until the look on the officers’ faces silenced us.)
And on and on. The more I answered in the negative the more I could see the skepticism growing in the officers’ eyes.
After about fifteen minutes of this, Officer Harkin asked the $64,000 question. “And you say this man has not approached you or spoken to you or threatened you in any way?”
I glanced at Rita, thinking I told you so. “No, sir.”
He closed up his little notebook. “Ma’am, you understand there’s not a whole lot we can do right now. The man has technically not broken the law.”
I nodded.
Rita protested. “Wait a minute! You’re not going to try and find him? Give him a warning or something?”
“No, ma’am,” Officer Monroe declined politely. “Even if we could find him, I’m afraid he’s well within his rights to share the public streets with Miz Burdette. He hasn’t done anything wrong in the eyes of the law.”
Rita sat shaking her head in disbelief.
“Make sure the locks on your apartment are secure, don’t go anywhere alone late at night, and follow sensible safety precautions,” Harkin advised. “Don’t hesitate to call us if he does escalate this situation in any way.”
I showed them to the office door. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
“And you ladies have a nice day.”
Ethan ended his phone call and paced his office like a dog whose owner has just reached for the leash. What the hell had he been thinking? He’d started out his call with Ida Mickens wanting only to ask her a few questions, find out if she’d found some sort of resolution to the visions that were so like Asia’s. She hadn’t. She had only resigned herself to them. She was intrigued that someone else might share her situation, however, and, in her practical way, Ida had suggested the two women meet. Ethan had been unable to refuse her invitation.
But how could he ask Asia to go to West Virginia with him? It was a five-hour drive to the Virginia state line and God knew how much further to Ida’s little town. That was an overnight at least—maybe two. And on the flimsiest of therapeutic foundations.
Maybe that was at least a partial solution to his ethical dilemma. None of what he was doing now really qualified as therapy. Detective work, maybe. Research. Information gathering. Networking, even. But not therapy. He should sever his therapeutic relationship with Asia immediately. There was nothing more he could do to help her on that level anyway.
Then he could present the meeting with Ida completely outside the context of therapy. Still dicey, but it felt more legitimate. And Asia should feel less pressure to say yes.
God, he hoped she said yes.
He stopped pacing and picked up the list of names he’d culled from his “failed” files. Not many—fewer than ten over the years since he’d left Claussen’s Psychogenesis Institute. Seven people with stories he couldn’t explain, whose delusions had only grown stronger under the AL protocol. He needed to talk with them, maybe bring them back in for further sessions with AL if they were willing. Somewhere in their stories could be a clue to Asia’s.
He’d tried without success to track down his former patients using computer and paper files. The contact information he had was incomplete or out of date for all seven of them. The next step was to ask the administrative staff at the Institute to help him out. They’d all been referred from Claussen, and the admin staff had done the billing for him.
Ethan pushed his arms into the sleeves of a blazer and paused to check his appearance in the mirror before he headed out the door. Dr. Claussen hated for his doctors to show up looking like his “crazies” at the Institute. Even if he was only going to be in the back offices, Ethan had to look the part of one of the staff today. Thank God it was only for the afternoon.
Twenty minutes later he had sweated his way through the heavy traffic out West End to the Psychogenesis offices and pulled his ancient BMW into the parking lot. He swiped his ID at the back entrance and breezed through the door, headed directly for the administration offices on the second floor.
His hand was on the door to the stairs when he heard Claussen’s voice behind him. “Ethan! Where are you going in such a hurry?”
He turned with a smile he didn’t quite feel. “Hello, Arthur. Just back from lunch?” He broadened his smile to include the two men who stood behind Claussen in the hallway.
“Why, yes, as it happens. With my newest partners. Allow me to introduce Colonel Donald Gordon and Dr. Seung Park. We’re working on a very interesting research project together. Gentlemen, this is Dr. Ethan Roberts, once my most promising research assistant.”
Colonel Gordon wore his military bearing like his U.S. Army uniform, crisp and straight, despite the approach of retirement age. He, at least, offered an engaging smile and a handshake. The younger Dr. Park, on the other hand, appeared to consider the formalities of human interaction a waste of valuable research time. He allowed a curt nod and no more.
Ethan knew better than to pry, but he couldn’t resist just a little poking. “It must be an interesting project if it involves the U.S. military,” he said to Gordon.
“I’m afraid it’s not exactly cutting edge, but it may mean a great deal to our fighting men and women, Doctor.” Gordon inclined his head to make sure he had Ethan’s attention. “We’re studying the use of Dr. Claussen’s protocols in the treatment of post-traumatic stress disorder.”
Of course. AL would be tremendously useful in that application, reducing the power of the traumatic memories that took over the veterans’ lives. Ethan felt both envious and embarrassed.
Claussen chuckled. “You see, Ethan? Should have taken me up on that offer to come back aboard.” He turned to Park and Gordon. “Will you excuse me a moment, gentlemen?” He pulled Ethan aside. “And the research is even more interesting once you get into it. Better than scraping up cases out there on your own, wouldn’t you say, son?”
Ethan felt his temper rise. “Arthur, you know how I feel about that.”
The old man’s expression went flat. “Yes. I suppose I do. Well. And how is your latest case progressing—the patient I saw in your office the other day?"
“Asia Burdette.” Ethan knew full well Claussen hadn’t forgotten her name. He kept his voice neutral. “Unusual case, I’ll give you that. It’s taking some time to sort out.”
Claussen smiled as if h
e knew Ethan was hiding something. “Why don’t you come by the house for a drink sometime this week? We’ll talk about it. Maybe I can help since I’m already familiar with the details.”
“Sounds like a plan.” For disaster. The old man was taking an unusual amount of interest in Asia’s case. He’d be going by for that drink when hell froze over.
Ethan pushed through the door and up the stairs to the second floor, his heart pounding. He took a minute to get himself together before he opened the door to the admin office. Amanda in Accounts Receivable looked up at him with adoration in her green eyes. Lucky for him, the girl was just out of college and viewed him as unattainable or he’d have a serious problem on his hands.
“Anything I can do for you, Doc?”
He pressed his advantage, leaning in and lowering his voice. “Well, yes, Amanda, there is. I have these former patients that I can’t seem to track down.” He passed her a sheet of paper with the list of names. “I was wondering if you could locate them for me. Get a phone number or something?”
“Sure,” she whispered. “What did you need them for?”
“Research project,” he whispered back. “I’m doing a paper.”
“Ooh! Gonna be published?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe.”
“Give me a day or two. I’ll get back to you.”
“You’re terrific, Amanda. Thanks.”
“My pleasure, Doc.”
He felt a little guilty when he left the office. He decided flowers were in order—for the extra work, if not for the outright exploitation.
I sat in my Honda, hands on the steering wheel, and stared through the rain at the bungalow where I knew Ethan was waiting in his office. He didn’t know it yet, but this would be our last appointment, and the weather suited my mood.
The therapy had done its job. It was time to end things with Ethan. I told myself I should be glad to be rid of the constant prodding, the revelations from the world of my nightmares, the questions for which neither he nor I had any answers. It did no good. All I could think was that I wouldn’t be seeing Ethan Roberts again, that I would miss his slow smile and his calm strength and the sympathy in his warm voice and . . . damn it.
I made myself get out of the car. I ran through the driving rain and onto the porch, ducking into the entryway where I shook myself like a wet dog.
Cindy was at her desk off the hallway as always. “Hey, Asia, nasty weather out there!”
I suddenly realized I was going to miss her, too. I took off my jacket and hung it by the door. “Supposed to last all night.”
“Yuck.” Cindy summed it up. “He’s ready for you. You can go on in.”
Ethan stood when I entered the room and came around from behind his desk. He smiled, and my steely resolve dissolved into something resembling Jell-O.
“Hi, Asia.” He gestured at the couch. “Missed you last week. How have you been?”
Make that unset Jell-O, quivering in a little bowl. “Fine. You?”
“Uh, fine, thanks.”
I sat on the couch. He sat in his chair. We looked at each other, then both started to speak at once.
He laughed. “You first. It’s your dime.”
I looked at my hands, twisting in my lap. “Well, actually, that’s what I wanted to talk about today.” I looked up at him. “I think we may be done here.”
The corners of his mouth ticked upwards. “What makes you think so?”
I could have said I was feeling better than I had in a long time—almost whole again, almost comfortable in my own skin. I wasn’t happy, not by a long stretch. I was still lonely as hell and . . . drifting. But I could think of my children without trembling. I could live now.
I tried to sum all that up in a few words. “I don’t have the nightmares anymore. I’m not drinking or smoking like I used to. I don’t . . . hurt . . . like I used to. You did your job, Ethan. I don’t see where there’s anything left for us to do.”
He nodded. “That’s great, Asia, but I didn’t do anything. All of that was a result of the work you did. I just showed you what needed to be done. What about the lost time?”
I shook my head. “I still don’t understand it. It still bothers me, but I don’t think coming here every week will answer that question for me. No offense.”
“None taken. And your . . . visions . . . of the labor camp?”
“Visions? That’s an interesting way to put it.” I pinned him with a stare. He shifted in his seat, but he met my gaze evenly enough. I sighed. “Again, nothing you can do will provide an explanation for what I saw. I’ve thought a lot about it in the last week or so, though, and one thing I’m sure of. I’m not crazy. Whatever they are—dreams, visions, memories—they’re linked to something real. One day maybe I’ll figure out what.”
I no longer expected him to solve my problem. I had questions, hundreds of them, and very little possibility of ever having them answered. But I no longer questioned my own sense of reality, as strange as it was.
Ethan was quiet for a long moment. I almost started to get up and say goodbye, but he spoke before I moved.
“We’re thinking along the same lines here, Asia. I was going to suggest the same thing today. I don’t think there’s anything more I can do for you as your therapist. As far as that goes, I think we are done here.”
My gaze shot to his face, detecting something behind the words that made my heart race. He was watching me, vulnerability a current in the blue sea of his eyes. I waited, breathless, knowing my reaction to what he said next would make all the difference.
“If you’re interested in pursuing the mystery of what you remember, I’d like to help. Not as your doctor, but as a co-investigator, of sorts.”
I just looked at him, not sure what to say—or think. “What do you mean?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands doing a lot of the talking for him. “You’re not the only patient I’ve had with a story like this. There have been several, but the one whose case is most like yours is Ida Mickens, an older lady who lives in West Virginia. I spoke with her this week. She wants to meet with you.”
“You told her about me?” I sat back, not sure how I felt about that.
He held out a hand in my direction. “I didn’t share any of the details of your story. That would be for you to do, only if you wanted to. I just told her I was working with a woman whose case was similar. Ida’s been living with what she calls her ‘visions’ for most of her life.”
I thought about what it would be like to be saddled for a lifetime with the kind of memories I’d been dragging around for mere months. And I thought about what a relief it might be to speak to someone else who had seen what I had seen.
But what if this woman was really crazy? “What kind of visions does she have?”
His gaze caught mine. “Slave labor in fields of yellow mud under a green sky. They started when she was a child. She’s in her eighties now.”
“My God.” I couldn’t breathe. “She told you that under AL?”
“Just like you did.”
“And she wants to talk to me.”
He nodded. “There’s only one hitch.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ll have to make a weekend trip to see her.” The color rose slightly in his cheeks. “Are you free the first weekend in October?”
I grinned, my stomach doing flips. “That can be arranged.” Oh, hell, yes, it can.
CHAPTER NINE
The BMW prowled the street, slipping between tightly parked cars with a stuttering growl to climb the steep curves overlooking the city. Behind the wheel, Ethan cursed and began to sweat. Asia had described the converted 1920s-era Tudor that housed her tiny apartment, but he hadn’t found it yet, and now he would be late picking her up.
Damn it! It should be right . . . there. He saw the building at last, but his frustration only grew. Cars lined both sides of the street, leaving him no place to park in front of the house. There was even some a
sshole just sitting in a white Impala, smoking a cigarette, like he had nothing better to do than take up a perfectly good parking space. Ethan blew out an exasperated breath and moved on, squeezing into a truncated spot two blocks up.
He got out of the Beemer and tried to stretch some of the tension out of his back, fully recognizing that the state he was in had little to do with finding parking and a lot more to do with spending the weekend alone with Asia Burdette. He had tried to talk himself out of it more than once, for her sake as much as his. In the end, he hadn’t been able to resist the pull he felt from her. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t stay away from her. So here he was. He would just have to do his best to keep things . . . professional.
Ethan inhaled a lungful of the crisp October air and started down the hill toward Asia’s house. The neighborhood wasn’t so great, but the view was spectacular from up here. It was a wonder the real estate sharks who had savaged so many of Nashville’s older neighborhoods hadn’t yet discovered this one, replacing the original houses that lent it character with mini-mansions shoehorned into tiny infill lots.
Ethan was at the edge of the yard in front of Asia’s rambling Tudor when he passed the white Impala, idling at the curb. The man inside glanced at him, flicked a cigarette ash out his window, returned his attention to his phone. He appeared to be perfectly innocent, but something about the guy’s bulky build and short, military haircut flashed a warning.
He was just some guy, but Ethan couldn’t help wondering, Who the fuck is he? The bastard might be watching Asia’s house! Maybe it was her ex-husband, hanging around to harass her. No, Asia hadn’t mentioned him. And come to think of it, this guy seemed a little old to be Asia’s ex. Ethan shook his head. What the hell has gotten into me?
Before Ethan reached Asia’s door, the man gunned the Impala’s engine. Then he nosed the car into the street and laid a strip of rubber a yard long to disappear down and around the winding street. No one had come out of the building to get in the car. He’d been loitering in that parking spot for some other reason.
Unchained Memory (The Interstellar Rescue Series Book 1) Page 11