by John Lutz
He gave her his warm smile and nodded. “How are you, Dr. Maxwell?”
“Fine, David. Shall we begin?”
His smile became a wide grin. “The clock is running, Doctor.”
He settled into the leather recliner while she came out from around her desk and took her usual place in a nearby wing chair. Though there was a comfortable sofa in the office, Blank declined to use it, saying he didn’t feel like being a stereotypical patient lying down alongside his shrink. So he used the reclining lounge chair, setting it back halfway so he was half sitting, half lying.
“Where were we,” he asked, “when we were so rudely interrupted by the rush of time?”
“Montana,” Rita said. She switched on her tape recorder. She taped all her sessions, with her patients’ knowledge and approval. It was easier and more beneficial than taking notes.
She recited all the pertinent information, along with time and date, to catalog the tape, then began the session.
“Ah, Montana…,” Blank said.
Rita waited, but he didn’t elaborate. “At the end of our last session,” she reminded him, “you were twelve and had been sexually molested by the wife of the rancher who hired you to learn to herd cattle.”
“The state agency got me away from there,” Blank said, “only to place me a month later in a foster home where my guardians had the idea that any infraction of their rules meant severe punishment.”
“What kind of punishment?” Rita asked dutifully. She had a notepad and pen and pretended to take notes to supplement the tapes. The note taking seemed to comfort her patients. Actually, it gave her something to do and allowed for a certain detachment that kept her patients talking.
“They denied us solid food.”
“Us?”
“There were three other foster children besides myself.”
“Where was this, David? You didn’t mention.”
“A farm in Illinois.”
“What did they grow there?”
“Corn, soybeans, alfalfa.”
Rita made some meaningless squiggles on her notepad.
“One time, just for skipping school, I was denied solid food for three days.” Blank sounded justifiably outraged.
“Didn’t you have a chance to complain to your caseworker?”
“Hah! My so-called caseworker was more interested in getting into my pants than anything else.”
Ho, boy! Rita thought. And began taking her mock notes faster, feigning interest.
“Can you tell me why some women are like that?” Blank asked. “I mean, I was only thirteen at the time.”
“Were you big for your age, David?”
“Jesus, Doctor!”
Rita blushed. He’d managed to embarrass her, which didn’t happen often. “You know that wasn’t what I meant, David.”
“Do you know the answer to my question,” he persisted, “about why some women are interested in young boys?”
“There are different reasons. Why don’t you tell me about this caseworker, and maybe I can shine some light on her particular motivation. She might be a very important person in your life. You didn’t mention her name.”
“No, I didn’t. And I wouldn’t describe her as having motivation. It was more like a compulsion.”
“True. You’re right. It was probably a compulsion.” If it ever happened. She locked gazes with him. “Are you interested in compulsive behavior, David?”
“Sure. You might say that’s one reason I’m here.”
“So tell me the other reasons.”
“Let me tell you what it’s like to be twelve years old and go three days living on nothing but water.”
“I thought you wanted to talk about the amorous caseworker.”
“This was a year before that. You can swell your stomach with water, but it isn’t like food.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Sure what?”
“The amorous caseworker.”
For a few seconds he was in control of the session, and he handed control back to me.
Which means he’s really in charge.
He did tell her about his relationship with the caseworker. About trysts in the barn, in the woman’s car, in the farmhouse when there was no one else home. The caseworker had been interested in sadomasochism and bestiality, and forced all sorts of aberrant behavior on the young David Blank. “If it was abnormal sex, she was into it,” he said bitterly.
“I don’t know if there is such a thing as abnormal sex,” Rita said. “There’s a wide spectrum of human behavior.”
He sat up slightly and gave her a sharp look. “I guess you’re right, but this kind of stuff was really over the edge.”
He continued telling her in minute detail about what he and the caseworker had done all those years ago in the quiet farmhouse or in the hot, buzzing barn that smelled of hay and manure. He had a great imagination.
Rita let him talk, barely listening. The recorder would pick it all up and preserve it for later contemplation. It was lies, anyway, she was sure. Camouflage for…something. And eventually she’d discover what.
He stayed on the subject for the rest of his appointment, playing his game with her, rambling on at $300 per hour.
Making me earn my money.
She smiled slightly. He couldn’t verbally dance and dart and dodge forever. She was patient and wily. She would beat him at this nimble game of deception.
But one thing bothered her a great deal: she was sure he knew she knew he was lying, and he didn’t seem to care. That made it more difficult for her to figure out his reasons for coming into analysis. If he were simply going through a charade that even he knew was too obvious, why would he waste his time and hers?
Rita did know that David Blank, whoever he was, wasn’t the sort to waste time or anything else.
Between appointments, or in the early-morning hours when she couldn’t sleep, she found herself wondering about her mysterious patient, worrying the puzzle and getting nowhere. Sometimes it seemed he was the analyst and she the patient, though the reasons for this were just beyond her comprehension.
But Rita’s confidence was unwavering.
Sooner or later she’d meet the real David Blank.
And know his reason for coming to her.
Mary Navarre and Donald Baines had just seen Hail to the Chef on Broadway and then had a late-night snack at a diner on West Forty-fourth Street. They were still in a good mood from the hit musical comedy when Donald keyed the apartment door, reached in, and flipped the light switch. Then he stood aside to let Mary enter first.
It was still one of her great pleasures to enter the recently decorated apartment, to see the expensive neutral leather furniture, the art on the walls, the retro slat-blinds window treatments. She would pause inside the door and let her glance take it all in before continuing her entrance.
But this time her gaze didn’t stray but went directly to the white box on the sofa cushion. Not only didn’t she know what it was, she was sure it hadn’t been there when they left for the theater.
Donald must have somehow arranged for this; it was the only explanation.
She moved toward the large, rectangular box. Its lid was lifted on one corner and a fold of white tissue paper protruded as if testing the air.
“What the hell is that?” she heard Donald say behind her.
An act? It wasn’t her birthday or their anniversary. She couldn’t think of any reason she should receive a gift from her husband except for pure impulsiveness, which wasn’t entirely beyond Donald.
“One way to find out,” Mary said, and lifted the lid off the box.
Inside was more white tissue paper. She unfolded it and recognized the crimson silk kimono she’d admired two days ago in Bloomingdale’s.
But Donald hadn’t been with her. Had she mentioned the kimono?
“It’s beautiful,” she said, pulling the kimono from the box and holding it up so they could both admi
re it. “But how did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That I wanted it and decided it was too frivolous for the money.”
“Why would I know?”
“Because you ordered it from Bloomingdale’s.”
He came over to stand next to her and reached out and touched the smooth material. “Much as I’m tempted to take credit, Mary, this isn’t a gift from me.”
She looked up at him. He seemed to be telling the truth. And why would he deny buying the kimono now that she’d accepted it?
“It must be from a secret admirer,” he said. He didn’t seem to be kidding.
“An admirer with a key?”
“Obviously. Or maybe he bribed the super to let him in.” Spurred to action by that possibility, he went to the phone.
Mary laid the kimono over the box and stared at it, listening to Donald in the background as he questioned the super.
When he came back, he said, “Nobody was let into our apartment.”
“If the super was bribed,” Mary said, “maybe he’s lying.”
“He didn’t sound like he was lying,” Donald said. He looked hard at Mary, his brow furrowed so his eyes were squinted. “You sure you didn’t order this and forget about it?”
“I wouldn’t forget, Donald. Besides, that would explain the kimono, but not how it got inside the apartment.” Maybe you ordered it and forgot, like with the bouquet. Everyone had their little mental glitches; maybe this was one of Donald’s—mystery gifts. Maybe he’d instructed the super to admit the deliveryman and had only pretended to phone downstairs. Maybe the flowers had been from him, too. Roses, a silk kimono…There could be worse faults in a husband. “Even if you didn’t give this to me,” she said, “thanks.”
“Don’t thank me for what I didn’t do.” He seemed genuinely irritated. “The kimono isn’t from me any more than the roses you found in here before we moved in.”
“Do you think we should change the locks?”
“We should consider it.” While I bide my time and see if more mysterious gifts turn up after your shopping expeditions. He thought he’d known everything about Mary, though they’d only been together a little over a year. Maybe he was learning something new. Maybe she was having a secret affair.
He immediately rejected the idea. After all, she’d told him about the roses.
If she had bought the kimono, or if she was some kind of kleptomaniac, sick, that could be dealt with medically.
But he had to know.
What if he hired a private detective to follow her and find out if she behaved in any way peculiar during her shopping? It was something to consider.
If Mary was ill, he wanted to help her. And if there was some other reason for the unexplained gifts—first the flowers, now the kimono—he sure as hell wanted to know what it was.
Either way, he was afraid of what he might learn.
Renz sat on the sagging sofa, opposite Quinn in Quinn’s apartment, glancing about while gnawing his lower lip.
“You’ve certainly done wonders with the place,” he said. “With each visit I see improvement. Is that a new bent lampshade? Was that wall always a mossy green? And is it my imagination or are the roaches smaller?”
“You said you had something important to discuss,” Quinn said, marveling that this was his friend and protector in the NYPD and not his enemy. What kind of dung had he gotten himself into?
“Is this what they call shabby cheap?” Renz asked, refusing to let go of his own cleverness. Then he looked sheepish, wilting beneath Quinn’s baleful stare. “Oh, all right. It’s this.” He held up the folded newspaper he’d brought with him.
“That the Times?”
“The Voice.”
“You’ve always struck me as a typical subscriber.”
Renz shrugged. “The poetry in my soul.” He dropped the paper on the glass-ringed coffee table. “What’s interesting in this edition is another installment of the saga of Anna Caruso.”
“The papers like her story,” Quinn said. “I can understand that.”
“Then you should also understand this. The more they like her story, the less they like yours. In this particular piece you are the villain. There’s an old photo of you coming out of the precinct house just after your hearing. You look angry, and about to unzip your pants.”
Quinn knew the shot. The photographer had caught him coming down the concrete steps and swinging his arms. His right hand, which was about two feet away from his body when the photo was taken, appeared in only two dimensions to be adjusting his fly.
For a few seconds he felt again the injustice of his situation, the old futility and rage. I’ve become the victim of my own good intentions—can’t the fools see that? He’d never been naive enough to think something would inevitably right the wrong done to him, but he hadn’t counted on self-pity enveloping and smothering him.
He became aware of Renz smiling at the expression on his face.
“I thought that was your end of the bargain,” Quinn said. “To get me out from under the rape charge that was never filed.”
“And so can’t be disproved,” Renz pointed out.
And Quinn knew the accusation wouldn’t have been disproved if charges had been filed, even though he was innocent. Every cop knows truth is usually one of the early victims in the legal process. For a while he’d forgotten that, and it had cost him. He was still paying and, as Renz knew, was almost tapped out and dealing from desperation.
What Quinn didn’t know was that Renz thought he was guilty. That was why he’d come to him. To catch a sicko like the Night Prowler, you had to think like him, get into his mind, and be him. And who better to do that than his spiritual brother?
Set a sicko to catch a sicko.
“I’ve been watching the media on this one,” Renz said. “If I might brag a bit, I’m something of an expert when it comes to media in this town.”
“I give you that,” Quinn told him.
“What I see happening, even though it’s still in the beginning stages, is you gradually morphing from heroic and beleaguered ex-cop, getting his second chance, to lecherous bully with a badge, getting a few more free whacks at the public. And all at the cost of a sweet young thing who withers at the thought of you, and is, to boot, very photogenic.”
“She’s withering at the thought of somebody else.”
“Don’t we both know it?” Renz shook his head sadly. “And don’t we both know it doesn’t make any difference unless you step it up and catch this loony who’s offing happy couples in their prime?”
“That’s why you came here? To light a fire under my ass?”
“Something like. Tell me why I shouldn’t.”
Quinn gave him a progress report. Though even to him it didn’t sound much like progress.
“You’ve got shit,” Renz said.
“We’ve got pieces—”
“Pieces of—”
“All right, all right!” Quinn waved his fist in a gesture that was threatening enough that Renz quieted down and settled back on the sofa.
“We’ve got pieces,” Quinn continued, “that haven’t yet been put together. The beginnings of a pattern. Of a picture. It’s how these cases always shape up in the beginning. You’re the one who knows media, Renz. I’m the one who knows police work.”
Renz sighed. Made a big show of it, in fact. He picked up his Voice and stood up from the sofa, stretching and working one shoulder, moving his arm in a slow circle as if he were a big-league pitcher worrying about his rotator cuff.
“I’m gonna leave you with the thought that you don’t have much time,” he said. “Once your image is fucked, so are you. And what’s happened is, your image’s asshole is all greased and ready.” He dropped the folded paper back on the table. “You don’t believe me, read about it in the Voice. It’ll tear your heart out. It’ll make you wanna send money and flowers to little Anna Caruso.”
“I already want to,” Quinn said to Renz’s back as h
e walked out the door.
He seemed not to have heard.
Or to have noticed the tears in Quinn’s eyes.
26
Hiram, Missouri, 1989.
Luther had spent the last month learning more and more about what was becoming his trade, and what Tom Wilde assured him could be raised to approximate, if not become, art. Luther became an expert at stenciling, layering, tinting, and shading, using tone and texture and creating illusion.
His affair with Cara continued. Milford spent his evenings with his ledger books, working overtime in his office at the mine. Luther spent his evenings with Cara. She became more easily aroused and erotic under Luther’s touch, and he continued to learn from her. He thought that if she loved him only a fraction of how much he loved her, he’d be happy. She couldn’t love him more, because she was everything to him.
Nothing was out of bounds to the lovers. No part of either of them was secret to the other.
Which was why, when Milford unexpectedly came home from work early one evening, he walked into his bedroom and found Cara and Luther blissfully locked in mutual oral pleasure.
On Milford’s side of the bed.
He stood stunned, unable to believe what he was seeing. He had to look more closely to be sure that, yes, the woman was actually Cara. Doing…what she chose not to do with Milford.
So engrossed were the lovers in each other that they had no idea he was there. That somehow added to Milford’s astonishment and indignation—it was as if he didn’t exist to them. Worst of all was his feeling that he was the interloper, the one who didn’t belong here.
Here, my home, my bed, my woman…God, God, God…
Slowly he unclenched his fists, letting an inner steadiness, a solidity, focus his anger even if he couldn’t control it. He went to the closet and opened its door, then began rooting around behind the hanging clothes.
He’d made enough noise to distract Luther and Cara from each other.