The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 4-6 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set Book 2)

by John W. Mefford

  “Either he really has turned the corner and matured, or he’s a professional bullshit artist.”

  “I’ve got my opinion,” she said.

  “Let’s get the facts and see where that takes us.”

  8

  Thumbing mindlessly through a worn magazine which contained about a thousand stories on so-called exclusive Hollywood gossip news, I was kicking my leg like I’d downed about four energy drinks. I pulled my gaze away from the magazine and saw an attractive man—streaks of gray in his hair and clothing that didn’t contain a single wrinkle—sitting against the opposite wall. He was also perusing a magazine. Contemporary Art? I thought that might have been what the title was. I quickly set my magazine on the chair next to me. Besides us, the only other person in Dr. Dave Strickler’s waiting room was a young receptionist, who had her head buried in a book. She chomped her gum and twirled a lock of hair around her finger as she read.

  “I’ll let you have the magazine after I finish reading this article.” The man was looking at me, his eyes a mahogany brown that sparkled off the canned lighting from the ceiling.

  Obviously, he’d caught me looking at his magazine—and him. “Oh, I’m fine.” I started to rummage through my purse to find my cell phone.

  Out of my peripheral vision, I saw him bring the magazine down as he leaned his elbows on his knees. “We both know that Dr. Strickler has time-management issues. It goes with the unpredictability of his job, I guess,” he said in a hushed tone.

  I nodded and offered a courteous smile, thinking it felt odd delving into this kind of conversation in my psychiatrist’s waiting room. Up until a couple of months back, I thought only mentally unstable people visited a psychiatrist. The gentleman seemed nice enough, even had a regal look about him, with his well-coifed appearance, strong chin. And those eyes…

  The door by the receptionist’s desk opened. “Oh, that’s a hoot, Mrs. Carano. It’s always great to hear stories about your two cats. I’ll be laughing all afternoon.” Even under a bushy, white mustache, I could see Dr. Strickler’s genuine smile split his leathery face.

  An elderly woman clutching a pair of fur gloves gave her psychiatrist a kiss on the cheek, then patted it, as if she were saying goodbye to a son. “It’s always a pleasure, Dave. We just have the best conversations,” she said, giggling as if someone had just tickled her.

  He glanced in our direction. “You know how I look forward to our sessions. Same time next week?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Wonderful. Ashling will make sure you’re on the schedule.” He gestured toward the receptionist, who was still reading, chomping, and twirling, then he patted his patient on the arm and took a step back through the door.

  “But what do I do about you-know-what?” She cupped her hand to the side of her mouth, and I was practically blinded from the twinkling diamonds on her hand and wrist.

  He gave her a quizzical look.

  “You know,” she said under her breath, but still loud enough so that I could easily hear her. “S-E-X.”

  Was this woman for real? I tried not to stare, but I sure did. Dr. Strickler furrowed his brow briefly, then rested his hand at her elbow. “Love is a strange thing, Mrs. Carano. And very unpredictable. Give it time, and I’m sure something will happen.” He gave her a wink, and she seemed appreciative of his advice.

  She turned around to speak to Ashling. “I’d like to set up my next appointment,” she said, shifting her gloves into her opposite hand.

  With an elbow still planted on the desk, the curly-headed brunette blew a bubble until it popped. She removed her gum and attempted to wipe the gum remnants off her lips and mouth. “Do we really need to go to the trouble, Mrs. Carano? You’ve been seeing Dr. Strickler on the same day at the same time every week for something like seventy-five weeks. You’re more consistent than my period.”

  Mrs. Carano’s mouth dropped. “Well,” she huffed, lifting her chin higher by two inches. “It seems you have no consideration for those of us who like to lead an orderly life. I guess I’ll mark it down in my little black book.”

  She flipped over her shoulder to give the doctor one last look.

  He simply waved and said, “Black book it is. Have a good day.”

  She marched out of the office, and then Ashling said, “Good riddance, bitch.”

  Dr. Strickler leaned toward the desk and mumbled something to his assistant.

  “Okay, whatever. But she’s the one who’s got a pole stuck up her ass.”

  He paused a second, then must have thought better of getting into a debate about Mrs. Carano with Ashling. “Give me one minute,” he said, holding up a finger in my direction.

  I looked over at the gentleman, who shifted his eyes from Dr. Strickler back to me. I spoke first. “Are you up first? I thought I had the four o’clock.”

  “Honestly, I can’t recall if I had the four or the four-thirty,” he said, pulling his phone from his front coat pocket. The color of his charcoal sport coat blended nicely with his full head of hair and those penetrating eyes.

  “My calendar isn’t syncing,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  A beat later. “Oops. Did I schedule you both at the same time?” Dr. Strickler asked from the doorway. He slowly turned his head toward Ashling, who had resumed the position of practically lounging on the desk, a new bubble emerging from her mouth.

  She would be of no help, apparently.

  “Go ahead,” the man said. “I’ve got time in my schedule. I took off early for the day.”

  “Are you sure?” I said, standing up. “I don’t want you to think that you have to give me the earlier time because I’m a woman.”

  He smiled. “It’s absolutely because you’re a woman,” he said with a wink. “But I can see in your eyes that you’re a good person. Please go ahead. It will finally give me a chance to catch up on some reading.” He held up the magazine.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your offer. I do have a lot going on.” I walked toward the door, and Dr. Strickler extended a hand into the hallway beyond. I caught another quick glimpse of the polite, distinguished man, and then headed into the hallway.

  I led the way into Dr. Strickler’s office and immediately gazed out the windows that lined one wall. I took my usual spot on the couch next to the armrest. I’d seen Dr. Strickler only a handful of times, something I had never planned. He came highly recommended by one of Nick’s friends, whose kids had lost two of their siblings in a car crash. Coming off a summer vacation where my kids had witnessed the murder of one of my old high school friends as well as a fatal drive-by shooting, I knew I couldn’t act like they’d be okay. Also, earlier in the year, they had lost their father. It broke my heart to see them hurt, even if they didn’t show any real signs of depression or anger. They needed professional help, and Dr. Strickler had been just the right person.

  About three weeks ago, the doctor said he felt like the kids had talked through all of their issues, were well adjusted, and had positive outlooks on life. At first, I’d chuckled. “My fifteen-year-old daughter? Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?”

  “Teenagers aren’t easy, Ms. Troutt. Girls and their moms especially have their challenges, but I think Erin is as well-adjusted as anyone.”

  I’d felt a tinge of pride bubble inside, which was quickly replaced with guilt when the doctor had added that the kids’ biggest ongoing concern was…me. After debating the merits of therapy, I’d reluctantly agreed to see the good doctor a few times, if for no other reason than to be able to show the kids we were in this together.

  By now, Dr. Strickler probably thought he had bitten off more than he could chew.

  “Would you like a bottled water, Alex?”

  “Sure. That’s another thing I forgot to do today…drink water,” I said with a brief smile.

  He pulled a plastic bottle from his mini fridge and handed it to me, then he took his regular spot in his high-back office chair. It creaked
loudly as he settled in and picked up his pipe. He always had a pipe nearby, even if it wasn’t lit. It reminded me that even the guards watching the asylum were normal people with normal issues.

  “So why did you forget to drink water? Sounds like a pretty fundamental thing to do for yourself.” He rocked the chair back until his legs dangled off the edge.

  “Well, it’s not like I shit myself or anything. I just got busy. Remember, I don’t exactly work a typical nine-to-five office job. Life-altering events take place every day, and sometimes a few minutes here or there, or even a few seconds, can mean the difference between catching a cold-blooded killer or losing him so he can murder again. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

  He nodded and studied me further. I was used to it. The room was cozy, but not restrictive. Books, mostly from his profession, lined numerous bookshelves and every spare inch of his desk. The furniture was circa 1995, with oranges and browns mixed in with occasional blacks and grays. I could see a layer of dust on the blinds, but it was the tranquil setting outside his window that drew my attention. A cluster of trees with yellow flowers. Thick shrubbery outlining the vignette. A birdfeeder hanging from one of the tree branches. Occasionally, I’d see a blue jay or a cardinal.

  “So…” He teetered forward until his feet hit the floor. With his white hair, pipe, and oversized gray sweater, he appeared to be comfortable with who he was. To me, he looked like one of my old professors from law school. Oh yeah, that was another area he wanted to cover—my apparent distaste for everyone in the legal profession. As he paused, I cracked the cap off the bottle and chugged until I needed a breath. I glanced at the bottle.

  “Okay, I guess I should take time to drink water.”

  “That would be a healthy choice.”

  “Healthy choice” was a term he used a lot.

  “I’m one-for-one today,” I joked.

  He smiled. “Have you thought about Mark in the last week?”

  My deceased husband, the man who had been screwing everything that walked, talked, and chewed gum during our marriage, including our busty nanny. I’d ushered that nanny straight out the door right about the time of Mark’s funeral. Thankfully, our previous nanny, Ezzy, had agreed to come back—which was a miracle, considering Mark had threatened to deport her.

  “Well, I still think he’s the biggest lying piece of shit I’ve ever met. I just don’t know how I didn’t see it way back when.”

  “Do you think he was the same when the two of you met in law school?”

  I tapped my finger on the water bottle. “I’ve thought about that a bit here and there. Should I have seen the signs of him being such a tool, or did he only evolve into a tool while we were married?”

  “Good questions. Have you come to a conclusion?”

  I smirked. “Depends on the day, I suppose.”

  “How about today, at this moment?”

  I didn’t really enjoy being put on the spot, not about my innermost thoughts. But maybe that was what I needed in these sessions with Dr. Strickler. I released an audible breath. “It’s probably a little of both. He showed some signs early on, but I ignored them because I told myself I needed to see the good in people, not the bad. And then I think he took advantage of my naiveté. Let’s just say we weren’t a good pairing.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “The only good things that came out of our relationship are Erin and Luke. I don’t really know how to resolve that.”

  “You don’t have to put so much pressure on yourself to have every little thought or historical fact from your life perfectly aligned. We’re all imperfect. Dare to be average, Alex.”

  Average. Growing up, as I poured every ounce of myself into being the best at everything, from school to tennis, the use of that word would have pissed me off. I wasn’t average at anything.

  “I can see you don’t like that word.” Apparently Strickler was a mind reader as well as a doctor. Or was I just that transparent? “You’re an overachiever and you have a lot to be proud of, but I think you’re taking the idea of ‘daring to be average’ in a different way than I mean it.”

  “How so?” I crossed my legs and started kicking.

  “Putting focus and effort into doing something well, especially if it’s a passion of yours, or even simply an action that does some good—and that includes for yourself, not just others—is a good thing. A fulfilling thing. But I only mean that you need to be able to cut yourself a break. Do you feel a heavy burden and guilt from your husband dying on the case you were assigned to investigate?”

  I picked at one of the orange buttons sewn into the couch’s fabric. “Maybe.”

  “That’s natural, at least early on during the grieving process. But you’ve been able to move forward in so many ways—and by the way, I’m really proud of you for that—but keeping that guilt on you, that’s probably what Erin and Luke see and feel from their mother.”

  I nodded and took in a deep breath. “For the first few months, I guess I tried to fake it a little. I was just trying to keep it together.”

  “But you’ve made great strides here recently. Are you still seeing your colleague…Brad, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” It was hard not to smile when I thought about him, about us.

  “Are you starting to accept him for who he is? You can’t change his age no matter how long you wait.”

  I chuckled. “I’m getting there. I was burned by Mark, and…you know.”

  “I do know. Going slow is probably smart. But realize you’re a grown woman, and this is the twenty-first century, so you’re fully within your right to do whatever the hell you want to do.”

  He raised an eyebrow, then leaned back in his chair and put his pipe in his mouth.

  “I just don’t want the kids to be hurt. And there’s also work and what people there might think.”

  “Screw the people at work. Spread your wings, Alex, and let it all out. You can’t love someone unless you open yourself up.”

  “But what if—”

  “That’s life, isn’t it? You can either answer the what-if question or just sit on the sideline and bitch about it until you’re ninety-eight years old.”

  “I like your style, Dr. Strickler.”

  “Just offering my opinion. That and a couple of bucks will buy you a cup of coffee, my Jewish mother always says.”

  His rate was much higher than a couple of bucks, but I got his point.

  “The kids think Brad is great, by the way. And that only deepens my feelings for him. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt them. Ever.”

  “You’re a great mother, Alex.”

  “I’m not trying to fish for compliments. You have kids; you know how they can shoot you down just hours after you think you’ve made a real difference in their lives.”

  “Indeed. Kids often don’t realize how their decisions, their actions, their words, impact the people around them. Usually, after growing a bit, gaining more life experiences, these youngsters will see their ways and mature—and then they have kids. That’s the cycle of life, I suppose.”

  I drank another mouthful of water, letting his words resonate a bit. My mind actually veered in a different direction.

  “You’ve studied all sorts of psychology, I’m assuming.”

  He smiled. “Yes.”

  “I deal with people lying every day, but every once in a while, I run into a person who truly makes me wonder if I had assumed the worst when I shouldn’t have.”

  “One of your cases. Are you sure you want to take up your time talking about work? That’s a four-letter word, you know.”

  I was already there. “Do you have a way of telling truth from fiction when a patient speaks?”

  “There are methods, some of which you probably learned in your FBI training. And of course there are the unreliable lie-detector tests. The bigger question is really what makes a person a liar.”

  “A pathological liar?”

  “That term can be used, depending on th
e characteristics of the lying, yes. I could go on and on about the topic. You’ve happened to touch on a topic that really intrigues me. Perhaps we could spend some time off the clock talking about it, if you’re really interested.”

  Was the doctor asking me out on a date? Certainly not, right? I could feel my face flush, but I tried to steer us back to my reason for asking.

  “Is it possible for someone to be so convincing that they actually believe the lies they are saying? Almost like some type of split personality?”

  “There are extreme cases of split personality, bipolar disorder, and then, of course, external stimulants and depressants playing a role. But I think you might be describing something called false memory syndrome, where the person actually believes their own version of the truth, when it’s nothing more than pure fantasy.”

  Picture frames on one of the walls rattled. I put my hand on the couch. “Did you just feel that?”

  “Dear God, tell me it’s not—” He tried to push out of the chair, but it took a second for his feet to hit the ground.

  I jumped up. “It’s not what?”

  “Ashling’s ex-boyfriend.”

  I threw open Dr. Strickler’s office door and ran down the hall, just as I heard someone or something pounding against a wall. “Stop it, you sonofabitch!” Ashling screamed as I opened the door to the waiting room. She wasn’t at her desk. To my left, a hulking man covered in tattoos pressed his forearm into the throat of the nice man from earlier. Ashling was on the floor, rubbing the side of her red face, tears flowing everywhere. Then I saw something silver and in motion.

  “He’s got a knife!” I yelled as I ran in that direction.

  I dove for the arm that wielded the knife. The guy must have been close to six-five because I could barely reach his hand. His grip on the knife didn’t waver, but I knocked him off balance, and his forearm dropped from the nice man’s neck. He gagged, grabbing at his throat.

  Meanwhile, Tattoo Man growled like a wild beast as he turned his back—with me holding on for dear life—and rammed me into the chairs and wall. The impact stole all remaining air from my lungs, and for a moment, the edges of my vision turned dark. He quickly regained his balance.