Compulsion

by Keith Ablow

I wish I had a thousand dollars for every assailant who claims amnesia for the attack. "How did you make it back home?" I asked.

  "I guess I was, like, on autopilot. I don't remember much of anything, until I saw you."

  I didn't want to call the police unless I absolutely had to. I needed to know what had actually happened. "Can you tell me Jason's phone number?" I asked Billy.

  "508-931-1107."

  That was quick recall, for somebody struggling with his memory. I picked up the phone and dialed.

  "Hello?" a woman answered after a single ring, her voice thick with pretension-lingering too long on the l's, underpronouncing the o. Hellllleeew?

  "This is Dr. Frank Clevenger," I said. "Is this Ms. Sanderson? Jason's mother?"

  "It is," she said, tentatively.

  "I'm a close friend of Julia Bishop and her mother, Candace," I said. "Billy's with me right now."

  "Oh," she said. Her voice was chilly.

  "He's pretty shaken up," I said. "I was hoping you could fill me in on what happened tonight."

  "All I can tell you is what Jason told me."

  Had I asked for more? "Please," I said.

  Sanderson sighed, as if I were asking the world of her. "We've had a continuing problem with a group of boys at Jason's school. We're year-round here, you know, and they've teased him for an eternity-all the way back to second grade. Jason isn't a slight boy, but he has the habit of retreating when confronted."

  I had a sneaking suspicion Jason had gotten into that habit at home, backing down from Mommy. "Children can be very cruel," I said. "And, tonight? What happened tonight?"

  "More of the same, apparently. Just name-calling."

  More of the same. Sanderson wasn't being very helpful. "Billy came home with blood on his shirt," I said, hoping to shift her mind into gear. "Did Jason mention a fight?"

  "A fight. Well, yes, of course. If you want to call it that. Billy attacked the three boys," she said. "Bloodied noses. Split lips. Apparently, a broken arm."

  Relief washed over me. At least it didn't sound like Billy had killed anyone. "Is Jason all right?" I asked.

  "He's frightened. He said Billy flew into a terrible rage." She paused. "He was actually foaming at the mouth."

  "Did Jason mention that one of the boys had spit at Billy first?"

  "No," she said. "As I understood it, name-calling seems to have been the extent of it, until Billy-"

  "Billy can't stomach bullies," I said. I glanced at the scars across his back.

  "I understand," Sanderson said. Her tone suggested otherwise. She was silent a few moments. "I am glad you called, on another front," she said finally, her voice descending into an almost comical mixture of pretension and gravity, like William F. Buckley stammering that you had cancer and your situation was utterly hopeless.

  "Oh?" I said.

  "We had a very distressing thing happen with Billy before the boys went out for their movie tonight," she said.

  A pregnant pause. "Would it be more appropriate to discuss it with Julia?"

  "Julia's still a little under the weather," I said. "I'll certainly share whatever you tell me with her."

  "Very well, then," she said. "My husband and I have started something of a second family. We have a new baby. Two months old."

  "Congratulations," I said, not sure exactly where she was going, but not feeling good about the general direction. Not enough time had passed since Brooke's murder for infants to be linked with anything but with death in my mind. I looked over at Billy, who was trying to wipe the blood off his chest.

  "Before the boys left, Jason had a few chores to finish up around the house-nothing major, picking up his belongings in the yard, and so forth."

  "Right," I said, hungry for the punch line.

  "While he completed them, he left Billy alone in his bedroom. Jason has a new Nintendo game the boys have enjoyed."

  "Okay."

  "And when Jason had finished up outside, he asked my husband to let Billy know to come downstairs, so the boys could be off."

  My patience had worn thin. "So what happened?" I said, more pointedly.

  "Just this: My husband found Billy in the nursery, next to Naomi's bassinet, staring at her. She was napping. I had put her down about an hour earlier."

  Despite the fact that Darwin had been charged with Brooke's murder, it couldn't have been comforting for Mr. Sanderson to find the former lead suspect in the case eyeing his infant daughter. "What did Billy say he was doing?" I asked.

  "My husband asked him that. He didn't respond. He seemed like he was-away, in some sort of trance. Nicholas had to lay hands on him-jostle him a bit-to bring him back to the moment."

  She could have said Billy seemed dazed or in a fog. Trance is one of those code words people reserve for psychopaths. "You were worried about him harming your daughter?" I said, to cut to the chase.

  Billy looked at me, his eyes sharpening.

  "I'm not saying that, exactly," Sanderson said. She paused. "Friends of ours on Nantucket have told us that Billy had problems, long before the tragedy with his sister, Brooke. I'm speaking of his stealing. Hurting animals."

  "That's true," I said. It didn't look like Martha's Vineyard was going to offer Billy a second chance.

  "And one never knows what to believe these days," she said. "About anything. It seems that there's always another shoe waiting to drop. Another bit of intrigue."

  Translation: The police could have screwed up and wrongly accused Darwin Bishop of infanticide when his crazed, Russian adoptee son was really the guilty one. Maybe Darwin even sacrificed himself to shield the boy from prosecution. "I understand completely," I said.

  "So we-my husband and I-talked it over. We'd prefer Billy not visit our home, anymore. It's best he not spend time with Jason, either."

  I felt in my own gut what I knew Billy would be feeling: disappointment, isolation, abandonment. Losing a friend can be tough for anyone, but for an orphan like Billy who has just lost a sister… "I'll certainly let him know," I said. "And I'll make sure he abides by your wishes."

  "Thank you so much," she said. "It's a difficult thing to speak about."

  "Have a nice night," I said, as kindly as I could manage. "I hope Billy taught those boys a lesson. Maybe they'll stop torturing your son."

  "Yes, well. Good night, then," she said.

  I sat down on the couch next to Billy. He started to weep. "Listen to me," I said. "You didn't kill anyone. But you did hurt those boys who were picking on Jason. The way it sounds, you hurt them pretty badly-maybe even broke a bone or two."

  He nodded somberly, getting control of himself again. "I lost it," he said.

  "There's something else," I said.

  Billy had overheard enough of my phone conversation to know I was referring to the Sandersons' baby. "I was just standing there, trying to imagine what Brooke went through," he said. "I haven't let myself. Not once. But when I walked past Jason's sister's room and saw her sleeping, I couldn't stop imagining it." He squinted at the floor. "So I just went in there and watched her. I mean, think about it: Waking up and not being able to breathe. Suffocating in a little bed with your mother downstairs, while your father watches you die."

  As much as I welcomed Billy empathizing with the suffering of others, I was worried he missed how inappropriate his behavior had been. "Mr. Sanderson had trouble getting your attention. He had to shake you."

  "I was staring at her, but I saw Brooke."

  When he looked at me, his eyes were filled with sadness, but I also thought I saw (Did I, though?) the slightest hint of morbid curiosity-something close to excitement. "You lost control with those boys," I said. "And it was wrong to go into Jason's sister's room without permission."

  Billy nodded.

  I looked out the cottage window, at the full moon, gathering the will to tell him the consequences. "The Sandersons are going to need time to feel comfortable with you again. They don't want you to visit the house-or to spend time with Jason."<
br />
  Billy's eyes thinned. "Why not?"

  "You worried them," I said.

  "I stood up for Jason," he said.

  "No. You went beyond standing up for him. You also wandered around the Sandersons' home, into the nursery and…"

  "What are they saying?" he said, indignantly. "They think I killed Brooke?"

  "The Sandersons are thinking about their baby," I said, dodging the question. "The long and short of it is that you probably remind them that life is fragile. And they don't want to be reminded of that right now. They're new parents."

  "Bullshit," he said. "They think I did it." His lip curled. No more trembling. No more tears. "Fuck them. They can all go straight to hell." He stood up. "I'm not going to stop hanging out with Jason, just because his parents are uptight assholes." He took a step toward the door.

  I stood and held up a hand, hoping to coax him to talk through his anger. But before I could say a word, he shoved me out of the way and stormed out.

  "Billy!" I called after him.

  He broke into a jog and disappeared in the direction of the house.

  22

  I gave Billy a few minutes, hoping he would cool down, then followed him to the house. I let myself in, not wanting to wake anyone. But I found Julia, her mother, and Garret standing in the living room, all of them looking uneasy. Billy had woken everyone in the house when he burst in, slamming the door behind him, cursing me, the Sandersons, and his own miserable existence all the way to his room.

  "What happened?" Julia asked me. She was dressed in the simple white T-shirt I had watched her taking off. It barely covered her. As I looked at her, she glanced selfconsciously at the tops of her thighs.

  "Why don't we talk about it privately?" I suggested.

  "He screamed he wished he was dead," Garret said.

  I wasn't sure which of the details Garret and Candace really needed to know. "He got into a fight tonight with some bullies. They're kids who bother Jason Sanderson all the time. Things got out of hand, and the Sandersons are worried about Billy's temper. They don't want him to spend time with their son anymore."

  Candace shook her head in dismay.

  "Was anyone badly hurt?" Julia said. "Did Billy…?"

  "A broken arm sounds like the worst of it," I said. "There could be legal charges, but"-I caught Julia's eye- "let's talk about this privately and decide what you think we should do."

  "I think that's a good idea," she said. We went into the dining room. Julia and I sat at the table, the lights dim in harmony with the early morning hour. I told her everything I knew.

  "Billy's so charming it's easy to forget how much help he still needs," I said.

  "Do you think he should go somewhere?" Julia asked. "A private hospital or something? Wouldn't that help him if he's charged with something?"

  The idea of putting Billy in another hospital, right after Payne Whitney, wasn't very appealing to me, but I knew it might be the only answer. "We should talk with him about it, when he's able to. And we should call Carl Rossetti, in case Billy needs a lawyer again." I glanced at the clock. Almost 2:00 a.m. "The police haven't shown up so far. That's a good sign."

  "Is there any where he could go that's… comfortable?" Julia asked. "You know, not a locked psych ward type of thing. That would be so horrible for him."

  I thought about that for a few seconds. A possibility came to mind. "I could talk to Ed Shapiro, a friend of mine who runs the Riggs Center in Stockbridge," I said. "It's more like a retreat than a hospital. They call it a 'therapeutic community.' The patients live in cottages and get psychotherapy every day." I took a deep breath, shook my head. "I just don't know if they'd take someone with a history of violence like Billy's, even as a favor."

  "It seemed like everything was going so well," Julia said. She took my hand. "Not much of a honeymoon."

  Not much of a honeymoon. If I had stopped to think about that line, I might have realized I had heard it before- from Lilly. And it might have started me wondering about one very important similarity between the two women. But the trouble we were having with Billy was making me feel even closer to Julia. My mind was already starting to conceive of him as our child. I ran my fingers up the underside of Julia's arm, then stopped, noticing Garret at the entry way to the dining room. I took my hand back. We'd been careful to avoid physical contact in front of the boys. "What's up, champ?" I asked.

  "I think I better tell you something," he said.

  "What?" I asked.

  Garret walked closer to us, his face solemn.

  "Garret?" Julia said. "What is this about?"

  "Billy," he said.

  "You want to sit down?"

  "No." He seemed jittery. "I wasn't going to say anything," he said, glancing first at me, then at Julia.

  "What's bothering you?" I said.

  "I found something," he said, the nail of his third finger picking at the skin at the tip of his thumb.

  I waited.

  "I was just hoping," he started. "I don't know what I was hoping."

  "What did you find, Garret?" Julia asked, kindly but firmly.

  "A cat," he said, looking up at her.

  "A cat," I repeated, intuiting the rest, but hoping I was wrong.

  "I was on my way to the stream." He looked at me. "There's a stream in the woods, way in back of the guest cottage. I go there sometimes, to think. So does Billy. And I found this cat."

  "Dead," I said.

  Garret nodded.

  Julia's face fell. I instinctively reached for her hand again, but she quickly pulled it away, flashing me a look that reminded me to keep our intimacies under wraps.

  "Maybe it just died," Garret said. "I mean, you never know."

  "Sometimes you do," I said.

  "I'm glad you told us," Julia said. "Thank you."

  "Sorry," he said, more to me than his mother.

  I shook my head. "Nothing to apologize for," I said, giving him the best smile I could muster. "You did the right thing. We didn't get Billy out of prison to watch him get himself put back in."

  The door to Billy's bedroom was closed. I knocked. No response. "It's Frank," I said. Still, nothing. I gently tried the door. Locked. "Billy, let me in," I said. A few seconds passed, then the springs of his mattress creaked. A few seconds later the door opened-a little.

  "What?" he said, without looking at me.

  "Got a couple minutes?" I asked.

  He turned around and headed back toward his bed. But he left the door open.

  I walked into his room. He was seated on the edge of his bed, arms crossed, rocking slowly back and forth. "This is so unfair," he said bitterly.

  I sat down next to him. "I think it is fair," I said.

  He stopped rocking and looked at me as if I were betraying him.

  "I don't think there's any way for the Sandersons to get inside your head and figure out why you were staring at their daughter," I said.

  He looked down.

  "And I think you went way beyond defending Jason," I said. "I think you exploded."

  He shook his head, swallowed hard, as if he was about to cry again.

  I put a hand on his shoulder. "You blacked out. It's lucky you didn't kill one of them."

  "What do we do?" he asked, holding back his tears.

  I felt as though he had opened the door the rest of the way. "I want to talk with a friend of mine who runs a place called the Riggs Center."

  "A fucking psych ward again?" he said.

  "It's not a psych ward. It's a place, like a retreat, out in western Mass. "

  "Oh, sorry," he said. "My mistake. A funny farm."

  "The medical director is a personal friend. He…"

  "I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Leave me alone."

  I hadn't planned to bring up the cat Garret had found, but I needed to convince Billy to help himself, without destroying all hope for a relationship between the boys. "I found a cat in back of the guest cottage," I lied. "On the way to the stream?"

/>   Billy looked at me, blinking nervously.

  "A dead cat," I said.

  The blinking stopped. "And?" he said.

  "And that worries me, too," I said. "It should worry you."

  "Why?" he said. "You think I killed it?"

  I didn't respond, which Billy and I both understood to be my answer.

  Something went out of Billy's eyes, something I hadn't fully seen until it was gone-his faith in me. What I couldn't know was whether it was anything more than the faith of a sociopath who had counted on me never to break ranks with him. He stood up. "Leave," he said, obviously trying to control himself. His hands balled up into fists.

  "Billy-"

  "Please," he said, the muscles in his arms twitching.

  I stood up. "Think about what I suggested," I said. "It's the right thing to do." I walked past him and out of his room.

  When I went to sleep, just before 3:00 A.M., lights were still burning in the main house. At 3:45 a.m. someone knocked on my front door. For some reason I assumed it would be Julia, up worrying about Billy, wanting to talk things through. I pulled myself out of bed, pulled on my jeans, and went to let her in. But when I looked through the glass door, I saw Billy standing there. For the first time, seeing him made me picture where my Browning Baby handgun was tucked away-in the nightstand drawer. I opened the door.

  "I didn't want this to wait until the morning," he said, sounding apologetic.

  "It is morning," I said with a wink.

  "Right," he said. "I guess it is."

  I thought about inviting him in, but thought again. "What's up?"

  He looked straight at me. "I didn't kill any cat."

  "Okay…" I said.

  "But I'll go to that Riggs place."

  I nodded. One step at a time, I thought to myself. Part of me was glad Billy was at least shamed enough by destroying a defenseless animal to deny having done it. If he went through with treatment, he could take the step of admitting what he had done later. "What changed your mind?"

  "Garret."

  "Garret?" I said.

  "We talked-really talked-for the first time," Billy said. "About being adopted and living with Darwin and the beatings and everything. How I got the worst of it." He shrugged. "Garret feels like he let me down."