Beauty vs. the Beast

by M. J. Rodgers

  “Yes. They would have never let me go to a public school.”

  “They wanted you to have a strong religious center?”

  “My family has always been a God-fearing one. And they knew that academics were not stressed nearly as strongly in public schools.”

  Kay’s foot began to tap nervously. Fedora came across as both pathetic and sincere. What was even worse, Kay was beginning to think she might just legitimately be both.

  “It was a shame our school’s football team wasn’t very good,” Fedora went on. “Still, our cheering squad was voted one of the best in the state. Roy told me he only came to the games to see me. I was so thrilled. I had never had a boyfriend before. Roy was the only man I ever...was with.”

  “And you young lovers were subsequently married?”

  Fedora sighed as a light from that youthful memory actually shone through her faded eyes. “Yes. It was a beautiful church wedding. Simply beautiful.”

  Fedora dug into her purse for a handkerchief and dabbed at the moist corners of her eyes.

  “Fedora, was your marriage to Roy blessed with any children?”

  “Our son, Larry, came first. And then, just eighteen months later, our daughter, Rosy, was born. They were beautiful babies. Everything a parent could desire.”

  Kay’s foot picked up its pace. This woman sounded as though she believed every word she was saying. Could anyone really be this good an actress?

  “And did your little family visit the park on Saturdays and go to church on Sundays?”

  “Oh, yes. And the children attended a good religious school. They have been brought up properly.”

  “Fedora, during all these years that you and Roy raised your family, did your husband ever seem to be taken over by the personality of another man?”

  Fedora shook her head adamantly. “No, never. Not, at least, until he started seeing that man.”

  Croghan leaped toward the bench. “Let the record reflect that Mrs. Nye is pointing at Dr. Steele.”

  Ingle nodded and Croghan reoriented both his position and his attention to Fedora.

  “Now, tell us when you first had an inkling that something had happened to Roy?”

  “It was four years ago, when a stranger in Roy’s body stood before a judge and said his name was Lee. He said that the Roy personality that used to be inside him was gone and that he, Lee, wanted to divorce me.”

  “And that is the first time you heard of this Lee?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what of your husband, Fedora? What of the father of your children, the man you had fallen in love with when you were a high-school cheerleader. The only man who has ever been in your life. What happened to Roy?”

  “He’s gone. Dead.” Her voice cracked on the word. It took a few seconds before she could continue. “Otherwise, he would have come back to me. I know it.”

  “Fedora, you heard Dr. Steele’s attorney speak about your husband, Roy. She said he never lived, so he can’t be dead. What do you say to that?”

  “I don’t understand how she could say such a thing. Roy was my husband, the father of my children. How can a man be these things and not have been alive?”

  Tears began to roll down Fedora’s face.

  “Fedora, I know this is difficult, but I only have a few more questions. Do you feel up to going on?”

  She nodded mutely.

  “You’re very brave,” Croghan said as he laid his hand on her arm.

  “Fedora, does your religious belief recognize divorce?”

  “No.”

  “Do you believe that once two people are married, they are husband and wife forever?”

  “‘What God has joined together, let no man put asunder,’” she quoted.

  “When Lee divorced you, he left you penniless, didn’t he?”

  “My children and I received nothing. This person in Roy’s body said he had never been a husband or father. He said that I wasn’t his wife and my children weren’t his children. He said this right to the judge.”

  “In the divorce court?”

  “Yes. And it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What doesn’t make any sense, Fedora?”

  “This Lee said he had never been a husband or father. What right did Dr. Steele have to decide that Lee should live and Roy should die?”

  Her voice broke on her last words, her chin came down and her chest began to heave as sobs wracked her body. She rocked and cradled her small black purse as though it were a baby she was holding to her breast.

  Kay felt a little sick to her stomach.

  Croghan stood in front of Fedora, making no attempt to comfort the distressed woman. Rather, he shook his head sadly as though he might be joining her in tears at any moment.

  Judge Ingle took copious notes, appearing quite satisfied with the show. He let a very long dramatic minute pass before finally glancing at his watch and declaring, “We’re going to take an early lunch to give your client time to compose herself, Mr. Croghan. Court is recessed until two o’clock.”

  He rapped the table and bounced toward the judge’s chambers on his white tennis shoes.

  * * *

  “LET THE COURTROOM clear out, Damian. The bailiff agreed to help us exit through the jury room once it clears so we can avoid the press.”

  Her voice was soft, businesslike, as always. But Damian knew immediately she was not as always. He moved closer to her so that his voice wouldn’t carry over the clatter and hum of the clearing courtroom.

  “We have time,” he said on a whisper. “I’d like to take you out to lunch at a real restaurant for a change. I’m tired of grabbing sandwiches and gobbling them down as we work. You have to be, too.”

  She gathered her papers and shoved them into her briefcase a little too vehemently. “Thanks, but I have to prepare to cross-examine Mrs. Nye this afternoon.”

  “I thought you told me yesterday that you were already prepared.”

  She closed the latches on her briefcase and swung it off the table. “That was before I heard her testimony.”

  “She got to you, didn’t she, Kay?”

  Her eyes rose to his—clear, cool, but never quite guarded enough to hide the warmhearted woman dwelling behind them. “What makes you say that?” she asked in her most crisp, professional tone.

  He kept his voice low and gentle and looked directly into her eyes. “You drum your fingers when you’re mentally excited. You tap your foot when you’re anxious or distraught. You were tapping your foot all through her testimony.”

  She held her professional profile for several seconds more before her shoulders sagged. A rueful smile circled her lips. “Looks like I’m going to have to watch both my hands and my feet when I’m around you.”

  His palms cupped her shoulders lightly. “It’s okay, Kay. I was tapping a mental foot, myself.”

  She exhaled a frustrated breath as a frown appeared between her eyebrows. “The thing is, I didn’t expect...”

  When her voice faded away, Damian guessed what she had been going to say. “To feel sorry for her?”

  “Yes.”

  Damian glanced at the last of the spectators exiting through the courtroom doors. The jury had already followed the bailiff out. Damian turned his attention back to Kay, his voice less of a whisper now that they were alone.

  “Fedora is a victim. There’s an instinctive part in all caring people that yearns to help a hapless victim. You’re obviously strongly tapped into that feeling.”

  “After her testimony, the jury will also be tapped into it, Damian—all through their long lunch, thanks to Croghan’s infallible timing. He has to know Fedora very well. Every feeling he brought out in her on that stand came across as genuine. He played her like a violin virtuoso would a sad refrain.”

  “Will that change the way you cross-examine her?”

  “It has to. And the longer the jury thinks about what they just heard and saw, the harder it will be to change their minds.”

  “Does
that worry you?”

  “It makes me a little...uncomfortable about the lengths I’m going to have to go to in order to counteract the effect.”

  He brought the rough edge of his thumb up to trace the smooth surface of her worried temple, then down to the gentle curve of her cheek.

  This woman could make him forget many things, not the least of which was his promise to act like a gentleman and maintain a professional distance between them.

  Ever since he had held her in his arms and kissed her Sunday, he had been aware of no distance between them—professional or otherwise. All he was aware of was the softness of her skin, the sweet fragrance of her hair, the full richness of her blueberry eyes, watching him so intently.

  Until his sixth sense told him other eyes watched.

  Damian stiffened. His gaze darted over Kay’s shoulder to scan the room. When it reached the spectator area, he realized he was wrong in thinking they were alone in the courtroom.

  “What is it, Damian?” Kay asked, twirling around to follow the direction of his stare.

  The woman who had been watching them turned and headed out of the room. Her stride was sturdy and determined. She threw open the door and charged out.

  “Damian, do you know her?”

  “Yes.” Damian dropped his hand. “She’s Bette Boson, a former patient.”

  “The other multiple personality patient you were treating?”

  “Yes. Only I think it might have been Bob, one of her male-personality alters, who just stalked out of the room.”

  “She has a male alter?”

  “He’s her protector. For the past few months, he’s come out whenever she feels threatened.”

  “Something about her or his presence seems to have disturbed you.”

  “Just surprised me,” Damian lied. He was disturbed. He did not like that look on Bob’s face. Bette’s protector was angry. But at whom or what? And why?

  “Do you think there’s anything wrong with your former patient’s being here?” Kay asked.

  “No, of course not. She’s probably just curious.” He hoped that was it. “Come on. I’m overruling your objections. We’re going to that proper restaurant. A good meal will revitalize both your mind and your mood.”

  But when he tried to capture Kay’s arm into the nook of his, she pulled away, her eyes riveted on his suit pocket, a look of absolute horror on her face.

  “Damian, no!”

  He was shocked at her response. “Kay, what on earth—”

  The smoke filled his nostrils at the same second as he felt the first flash of pain against his palm.

  Chapter Nine

  Damian snatched off his suit coat, threw it to the floor and stamped out the flames leaping from his right-hand pocket. Fortunately, the coat’s dense material quickly smothered the fire. The last trail of pale smoke dissipated and died.

  The pain hit him then. When he looked down at his palm, he wasn’t surprised to see the seared flesh. Unfortunately, Kay saw it, too. She stepped closer. Her voice filled with a sad anguish he had never heard before.

  “Damian, you’re hurt!”

  The burly bailiff had just reentered the courtroom from the back door to the jury room. Hearing Kay’s exclamation, he rushed over, his hand resting on the butt of his gun, prepared for trouble.

  “What’s wrong? What’s going on here?” he called warily as he approached.

  “Nothing,” Damian said quickly. “Just a small accident.” He swung down and grabbed his suit coat with his uninjured hand.

  The smoke from the fire still hung in the air. The bailiff scowled. “There’s no smoking in here.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Damian said, laying an unburned part of his coat over his injured hand.

  But the bailiff had already gotten a look at Damian’s palm. “That’s a nasty burn. You better have it looked at.”

  Damian nodded. “My doctor is just a few blocks away. Is the jury room clear now for us to exit that way?”

  “Yeah. I’ll show you out.”

  Damian cupped Kay’s elbow with his uninjured palm and urged her after the bailiff. But she held back a few paces. As soon as the bailiff was far enough ahead to be out of earshot, she leaned closer and whispered, “Damian, you don’t smoke and you certainly weren’t lighting a cigarette. How did your suit coat catch fire?”

  * * *

  “DR. STEELE, you should have reported these threats before this,” the sallow-faced detective admonished as he hitched up his pants over a sagging middle. “First a speedboat and then a car try to hit you. You’re lucky you only got a burn on your hand. This sicko could just as easily have decided to rig a bomb to that envelope he slipped into your pocket.”

  Delightful thought. Kay could have cheerfully kicked this detective for sharing it.

  Damian responded patiently. “Detective Roth, if I reported every threat I’ve received since this case hit the news, you’d be up to your ears in paperwork. Besides, I don’t know for certain that the driver of the speedboat and the driver of the car are the same person or if either incident is related to the phone calls and letters.”

  “You’re telling me you really think these are all different sickos bent on terrorizing you?”

  “No, I concede that would be rather improbable.”

  “Well, I’m glad to see we agree on something.”

  “Still, there was no way for me to know this letter writer would cross the line into violence.”

  “What do you mean, there was no way for you to know? You’re a psychologist, aren’t you? Figuring out sickos is what you do, isn’t it?”

  Damian responded even more politely. “No, Detective Roth, that’s not what I do.”

  Kay could see that the more provoking this detective got, the more polite Damian became. He was a superbly disciplined man.

  But Kay’s admiration for how he was handling this difficult detective did not mitigate her anger at her client one iota. Damn it, Damian should have told her about the letters. And damn it, this detective should be remembering who the injured party was here.

  Her eyes frequently strayed to Damian’s bandaged palm. She tried not to relive that awful moment when she saw the smoke rising from his coat pocket and the flames catching hold. She knew if Damian’s reflexes hadn’t been so instantaneous in snatching off his coat and smothering the fire, his injury could have been far worse.

  It was bad enough. She’d caught a good long look at the raw, seared flesh of his palm while the doctor bandaged it. She didn’t know how Damian had sat so unflinchingly and patiently through the process.

  “Look, Detective,” Kay spoke up, finding she could keep quiet no longer. “Recriminations aren’t going to be much help right now. Why can’t we just concentrate on trying to find out who did this and stop them from committing any more terrorist acts?”

  Detective Roth rubbed his receding hairline with undisguised irritation, sat down in his chair and picked up the report form he had partially filled in.

  “I don’t suppose you kept the tape of the telephone threats of that breathy voice or the threatening notes?” he asked Damian.

  “Naturally I did.”

  The detective’s gray-brown eyebrows rose. “You did?”

  “Seemed to make sense to keep them until I could figure out who was sending them.”

  “And did you figure it out?”

  “No.”

  “You know of no one who would do this to you?”

  “No one.”

  “No previous patient who didn’t like your treatment?”

  “No.”

  “So where are the taped conversations and other notes?”

  “At my home. I’ll bring them to you.”

  “You said you think someone slipped this last envelope into your pocket when you and Ms. Kellogg were being jostled by reporters outside the courtroom.”

  “That’s right.”

  “At around the same time you came face-to-face with the woman suing you.”

/>   “Yes.”

  “And you still cannot suggest a suspect?”

  “If you’re asking me do I think Fedora Nye did it, I don’t know. She did bump into me, so the opportunity was there. But a lot of people I didn’t see also bumped into me while Ms. Kellogg and I were making our way through that crowd.”

  “A lot of people aren’t suing you for the loss of their husband.”

  “So, naturally, questioning Mrs. Nye will be foremost on your agenda.”

  “Naturally,” Detective Roth replied with a sarcastic smirk. “Of course, it’s just possible this is all the reckless, stupid act of some sicko who saw your picture on the news and has gone off the deep end.”

  “I don’t think this is some sicko gone off the deep end, as you put it.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “Because the content and structure of the first four letters and the telephone calls were all very concise and carefully worded. I believe the writer and caller is someone who is quite angry at me, but that anger is controlled and very unlikely to result in physical violence.”

  “You don’t consider trying to hit you with a speedboat and then a car physically violent? Or passing you a letter sealed with flammable chemicals so that friction or body heat causes it to burst into flames?”

  “Of course I do. It surprises me that the same person who composed the first four notes was behind the last incident or the close calls with the boat and car.”

  “Are we back to the theory that there is more than one person out to get you?”

  “No. I’m certain the last envelope was exactly the same as the others, so I know the note writer is the same, at least.”

  Roth sneered. “Then you have to be wrong about the tendency to violence, don’t you?”

  “It tells me that there’s an inconsistency here somewhere,” Damian agreed reasonably, once again refusing to rise to the detective’s conversational bait.

  “Well, I may not have any fancy degree, but I can smell a sicko a mile off. I’m warning you, you’d better call me if you get any more of those blue envelopes.”

  “Your number will be the first to flash through my mind,” Damian said politely as he rose from his chair.

  “Where are you going?” Detective Roth demanded. “I’m not finished taking my report yet.”