Compulsion

by Keith Ablow

  Julia smiled for an instant, as if she was about to explain something about the world to a child. Then her face fell again. "Being Darwin Bishop expands the range of possibilities," she said. "There could be a whole legal team filing endless motions for custody of our children, a media campaign to ruin my reputation and influence judges, months of travel with Garret and Tess to any one of a dozen countries Darwin does business in. He could probably pay Claire enough to convince her to go with him. He might even decide that they should never return."

  "And Claire would stay with him?" I asked, wanting to see whether Julia would volunteer any suspicions about the affair.

  "Everyone has a price, Frank," she said. "Claire isn't from money. She's very impressed by it."

  Julia certainly didn't seem naive about her nanny. But her response didn't tell me exactly how much she knew about Claire's behavior. I didn't want to press her. "The bottom line," I said, "is that Darwin would go to great lengths to keep you from divorcing him."

  "Or I suppose I could just disappear."

  "You're saying he'd…"

  "I'm saying I'm not brave enough to find out, Frank," Julia said. "At least I haven't been in the past. I've never had the courage to walk away."

  "Maybe it's time."

  "Maybe. Maybe that's one reason I called you. You make me feel like I could do it," she said.

  The idea of rescuing a woman was a potent drug for me. "Only because you can," I said. "As soon as you believe it."

  She nodded to herself, then focused on me with a new intensity. "Do you really think Tess could be in danger? You believe Darwin is capable of killing our daughter? His own flesh and blood?"

  I hadn't had the question put to me so directly before. I thought about it for several seconds. I thought about Julia's belief that Bishop craved control, that he couldn't tolerate intimacy. I thought about the parts of his own soul he had snuffed out. "Yes," I said. "I think he is."

  She kept staring at me. She seemed on the verge of agreeing to get Tess to a safer place. But then her gaze fell-maybe under the weight of so many years bending her will to Darwin Bishop's. "I have to think about this," she said.

  "I hope you'll think about it sooner rather than later," I said. Later as in too late, I thought to myself.

  She looked back at me, hopefully. "Will you be at Brooke's…" she said, then stopped, choked up. She waited a bit, took another deep breath. "Will you be at Brooke's funeral tomorrow? It's on the island. St. Mary's on Federal Street. Five p.m." She had to pause again. " Darwin wants the sun to be setting as the mass ends."

  Another possible reason why Bishop would prefer an evening funeral mass occurred to me: the stock market closes at 4:30 p.m. "I'd like to be there," I said. "I'm not sure Darwin would be comfortable with my attending, given the ongoing investigation."

  "I want you there," she said. "I need you there, whether Win has a problem with it or not."

  "Then I will be."

  "Thank you," she said softly.

  I told Julia I would walk her to her car. I was on my way out of Bomboa, with Julia a few steps in front of me, when K.C. Hidalgo caught my arm. I stopped.

  "She's terrific," K.C. said. "You look great together." He winked at Julia, who had stopped near the door.

  "It would be mixing business with pleasure," I said, half to remind myself. "Probably a recipe for disaster."

  "What a pleasure, though," he said.

  K.C. was living with the night manager of his joint, a stunner named Yvette. "I'll take that from where it comes," I said. "Say hello to Yvette for me."

  "You got it." He paused. "Hey, one other thing, champ," he said. He leaned toward me. "When you ordered that Sambuca? I had already told Stevie at the bar not to serve you any booze. Try sneaking another drink at my place, I'll lock you in the fucking basement and throw away the key until you're good and dry."

  I forced a smile.

  "I mean it," he said.

  "You're a good guy, K.C."

  "Get a hold of yourself, will you?"

  "Sure," I said. "I will. Trust me on this."

  "Right," K.C. said. His tone made it clear he wasn't buying my bullshit. "I'm here if you need me."

  I caught up with Julia. We walked outside.

  "My car is in the Dartmouth Street garage," she said. We started down Stanhope, headed toward Dartmouth. But within several steps, Julia stopped. "I'm okay alone," she said.

  "I don't mind the walk," I said.

  She glanced across the street. "It's not a good idea."

  I followed her eyes and saw a white Range Rover with smoked windows. I assumed it was one of Darwin Bishop's. I felt a rush of adrenaline. "He's having you followed?" I said.

  "Unlikely," she said. "He's probably having you followed." She held out her hand. "Shake," she said. "All very businesslike, right?"

  I took her hand, but just held it. She looked into my eyes with what I read as a combination of tenderness and fear. "I'll see you tomorrow night," I said. I let go of her hand.

  She nodded tentatively, turned around, and headed toward the Dartmouth Street garage.

  I crossed the street and walked up to the Range Rover. I couldn't see through the driver's-side window, so I knocked on the glass. The window came down. A man who looked to be in his mid-thirties was in the driver's seat. His neck was weight-lifter thick, his face half-shaven. He was wearing a blousy silk shirt, but it covered an obviously large frame.

  "Can I help you with something?" he said, without any emotion.

  "I want to get a message to your employer," I said.

  He didn't respond, but he didn't close the window.

  "Tell Mr. Bishop I don't mind if he has me followed. I don't mind if he visits me, either. I live at Thirty-nine Winnisimmet Street in Chelsea. Top floor. Unit Five B. I'm there a fair amount, almost always in the late part of the evening."

  "I'll be sure to do that," the man said.

  I started to leave, but turned back. "One more thing: Since I'm not a kid and I'm not female, tell him he can expect to have a tougher time with me than his usual targets. He might want to bring someone like you along to give him a hand."

  8

  The telephone was ringing when I walked into my loft, but I got to it too late. I glanced at the answering machine. It had registered thirty-one calls, but used up less than a minute of talk time. That meant lots of hangups. I was about to scroll through them for caller IDs when the phone started ringing again. I grabbed it. "Clevenger," I said.

  "How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb?"

  I recognized Billy Bishop's voice. "Where are you?" I asked.

  "C'rnon," he said. "How many?"

  "Three," I guessed, to appease him.

  "Just one," he said, "but the light bulb has to want to change."

  "Okay," I said. "Pretty funny. Now, where are you?"

  "I'm not locked up in that loony bin," he said.

  I glanced at the caller ID. It read, "Unknown Caller." I figured Billy was probably at a pay phone. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine, if you forget the part about my father trying to throw me in jail for life. It would take an awful lot of therapy to get my mind off something like that, don't you think?"

  I smiled, despite the gravity of the situation. "I guess you're right." I paused. "Tell me where you are," I said. "I'll meet you."

  "No. And I can't stay on the line long," he said. "I need you to loan me a little money. I'll pay you back. I promise. I'm good for it."

  I wanted to slow things down and coax Billy back into the hospital, even though he would certainly be arrested. As risky as navigating the judicial system might be for him, it was a lot safer than the streets. And Billy wasn't the only person in peril; I hadn't forgotten that his history of violence meant he might strike out in unpredictable, very destructive ways. "I think you made a mistake leaving Payne Whitney," I said. "I think you're better off going back and getting a lawyer to fight for you."

  "Thanks fo
r the advice," he said. "Will you do life with me?"

  "They have to prove you're guilty," I said.

  "I need money," he said. "That's all I need right now."

  "Where can I meet you?"

  "Like I said, you can't. There's a safe place where you can leave it for me. I have somebody who can grab it and bring it to me."

  "Where are you?" I pushed.

  "Can I have the money?" he asked. "You know I didn't kill Brooke. You know it."

  He was starting to sound desperate. I gambled he was desperate enough to trust me. "Not unless we can meet face-to-face," I said.

  "Impossible," he said.

  "That's the deal, Billy. Take it or leave it."

  He was silent a few seconds. "I'm at the end of my rope," he said finally. "You've got to come through here, Doc. I'm counting on you."

  I closed my eyes, imagining how terrifying it would feel to be sixteen years old, all alone, facing life in prison. "I'm just asking you to meet me halfway. You get the money when I get to see you."

  "That's it. Your final answer?"

  "That's it."

  "Then you're as much to blame for what happens as anyone else," he said bitterly.

  "To blame-for what?"

  "Read about it in the papers." He hung up.

  "Billy!" I yelled into the receiver. I dialed *69, trying to be reconnected, but got the standard computer message telling me the callback feature wouldn't work. I slammed the receiver down. The phone crashed to the floor.

  The end of my rope. I stared at the phone cord looped around one leg of the table. I could almost hear the call I had gotten years before from Anne Sacon, a social worker with the Department of Youth Services, after Billy Fisk had been found hanging from a noose in his parents' garage. Days earlier Fisk had reached out to me for what proved to be the last time, telling me how unhappy he was at home and asking whether he could come live with me. It hadn't seemed even remotely possible at the time. Patients don't move in with their psychiatrists, after all. But had I known how close he was to the edge, I would have agreed.

  Was history repeating itself? Was God testing me to see whether I had learned to go all the way out on a limb for someone about to fall?

  I flicked through the handful of numbers that had registered on my message machine. They were all in the 508 area code, which included Cape Cod and Nantucket. The only number I recognized was North Anderson 's. I figured the others probably belonged to Billy, that he had run closer to home, rather than further away.

  I listened to North's message. No emergency, but he wanted me to call him. I dialed his number at work. His secretary put me through.

  "Billy's come up for air," I told him.

  "How so?" he asked.

  "He called me for a loan."

  "I hope he's looking to buy a one-way airplane ticket to Russia instead of a stolen gun," he said. "I wouldn't give him any dough."

  "He wanted the money dropped off so a buddy could run it to him. I told him no deal."

  "Good. The last thing I want to do is tail sixteen-year-olds across two states-or two continents," Anderson said. "He'll circle back to you."

  "He got pretty threatening at the end," I admitted. "He told me to watch the papers."

  "All the more reason to keep him running on empty. Without a full wallet, he'll turn up sooner."

  That made me feel better about my decision to withhold the cash, but not a whole lot better. "I got your message on my machine," I said. "What's up?"

  "Nothing urgent. I just wanted you to know I'm starting to feel some political pressure from good old Darwin. We must be getting to him."

  "What sort of political pressure?" I asked him.

  "I serve at the pleasure of the mayor," Anderson said. "And the mayor serves all kinds of masters, including Darwin Bishop. He called to let me know he isn't pleased I have you on board. He doesn't see why we need a forensic psychiatrist involved in the case when there's an identified lead suspect and a clear path to prosecution once that suspect is apprehended."

  "Translation: Leave the billionaire alone and close the case down," I said.

  "You speak Nantucket very well."

  "So what does that mean for us, in the short term?" I asked.

  "It doesn't mean anything, short or long term, until they fire me, run me off the island, and set up a blockade to keep me away."

  I had relied on North Anderson 's loyalty before, but I didn't want to take it for granted. "You could cut me loose, and I could keep working on my own time," I said.

  "Wow," he said. "You've come a long way. You didn't even want this gig, let alone wanting it pro bono."

  "Things change," I said.

  "Not everything," Anderson said. "If they want to shake you off the case, they'll have to get me off the case. And that's not happening."

  "Understood." I let myself linger a couple seconds on the good feeling that Anderson 's camaraderie inspired in me. "I got my own message from Darwin Bishop today," I said. "He had me followed when I took Julia to lunch. Some gorilla in one of his Range Rovers was parked outside the restaurant."

  Anderson was silent for a bit. "I think you ought to come down here for a few days," he said.

  "You want to watch my back for me?"

  "Why not? You've watched mine enough."

  I had already started to feel myself being pulled back to the island, especially since Billy's calls seemed to place him a lot closer to Nantucket than Chelsea. "Any chance I could interview Darwin Bishop once more?"

  "I can try to set it up," Anderson said. "He's already having you followed. He might actually like the chance to check in face-to-face."

  "I'll take a ferry over tonight, provided they have space. If you get me that interview, I'll have a pretty full dance card. I'm attending Brooke Bishop's funeral tomorrow."

  "At Julia's invitation?" he said.

  "Yes."

  There was a little longer silence this time. "Look, we go back a long way, right?"

  I knew where he was headed. "You don't have to say it."

  "I'm just going to tell you the way it is: You can't touch her."

  "I haven't," I said.

  "You haven't and you won't?"

  I hesitated.

  "Listen to me," Anderson said. "Whether you mess around with married women is your own business. I'm not about to give you any lectures on morality."

  "Good."

  "You can't touch her because it contaminates the case. You can't see clearly from the inside of anything, if you know what I mean."

  I knew exactly what he meant. Crossing personal boundaries in professional relationships is always ill-advised. As a psychiatrist, it's especially unethical. But my attraction to Julia was blurring all those lines. I didn't feel I could honestly make any promises or predictions about where my relationship with her was headed. "You're right," was all I told Anderson.

  "And…"

  "And I'll try to be on that ferry I mentioned."

  "You're playing with fire, Frank."

  "I hear you."

  He let out a heavy sigh. "Call me when you hit the island."

  "Will do."

  I packed light, but then realized I was traveling a little too light, given the special attention Darwin Bishop was paying me. I walked over to the bed, reached down to the bed frame, and grabbed my Browning Baby pistol. I tucked it in my front pocket. It had been a long time since I'd needed to carry, but it was that time again.

  I walked to the kitchen next. I looked up at the double doors of the cabinet over the refrigerator. I hadn't opened those doors for more than two years. But I hadn't emptied the cabinet, either. A collection of single malt scotches stood inside, waiting for a moment like this one, when some sort of trouble in the world would become my trouble again. There was a flask in the cabinet, too-a well-worn, sterling silver one with "FGC" engraved, front and center. Frank Galvin Clevenger. I was never one for monograms, but Galvin had been my father's first name, and it had seemed fitting that I
include the "G" on a vessel that contained the spore of the illness we shared.

  I reached up and opened the doors. I took down the flask and a bottle of twenty-year-old Glenlivet. I twisted the cap off each. Then, in a ritual that had sometimes reminded me of a transfusion, sometimes of bloodletting, I poured a thin stream of scotch from bottle to flask, listening to the familiar song of the liquid splashing into the hollow vessel. It was a deep, throaty tune at first and something more shrill toward the end. I remembered it with dread and-more ominous for me-nostalgia.

  I put the bottle back in the cabinet and the flask in my back pocket. And I walked out of the loft that way, on a journey that would take me, in equal measure, into my future and into my past.

  I planned to take the 7:00 p.m. ferry out of Hyannis and leave my truck in the lot there. But when the clerk at Steamship Authority told me a car reservation had opened up (something of a miracle in June), I happily paid the $202 and drove aboard.

  North Anderson had reached me on my cell phone and offered me the guestroom at his house, but I had passed, not wanting to impose on him or his wife, Tina. Playing hostess, with no notice, when you're six months pregnant can't be much fun. I also preferred having my own base to work from. I gave Anderson my ETA and found a vacancy at the Breakers, part of the White Elephant hotel complex on Easton Street, which runs along the north side of Nantucket Harbor.

  I napped for about an hour in my truck, then woke up and stepped onto the deck to get some air. It wasn't quite sixty degrees, chilly for late June. I stood near the stern, breathing in the mist and watching the ship's white cotton wake. I wondered whether Billy had made the same trip earlier. I imagined him laying low and stealing onto the island unseen or unrecognized, a cruel irony for a boy whose identity-including his biological parents, his native land, his first language, and his name-had already been stripped from him. Now survival required burying the rest of himself, at least temporarily. If that felt too much like dying, he might decide to make it official. Strangely, suicide is sometimes a person's way of taking control-the soul's last-ditch effort to free itself from overwhelming earthly influences.

  I thought back to my first psychotherapy session with Dr. James. I'd been talking five or ten minutes about a nurse I was romancing. She wanted a commitment, I didn't feel ready to make one, and that seemed to mean I was going to lose her. Looking back on it, the whole affair was hopeless; I was nowhere near ready for a real relationship.