The Girls He Adored elp-1

by Jonathan Nasaw

  As for Pender's subsequent plans, they included sucking up his pension, possibly getting a consultant job with a private security outfit (another perk of being a hero agent), and definitely working on whittling down his handicap into the respectable teens.

  First, though, Pender had one more piece of business to take care of in Umpqua City.

  He could feel the effects of yesterday's exertions in his thighs as he trudged up the hospice stairs and rang the doorbell. The same dignified, gray-haired nurse who'd admitted him yesterday opened the door. She greeted him with a raised eyebrow. Everybody in the state of Oregon knew who he was by now.

  “You should have told me you were FBI,” she said accusingly.

  “Would you have let me see Caz?”

  “Hell, no,” she said, on a rising inflection.

  “Then more people would have died. Listen, I promised Caz I'd stop by and tell him how it came out. Is he awake?”

  She lowered her eyes, shook her head.

  Pender understood immediately. “I'm so sorry.”

  When the nurse looked up, there were tears swimming in her eyes. Pender would have thought you'd get used to death, working in a hospice-but maybe you only got used to crying.

  “A few hours ago,” she said. “I just finished getting him ready. Would you like to see him?”

  “I'd rather remember him the way he was,” said Pender. Bullshit, of course-after discovering Tammy Brown's partially decomposed body in the privy shortly after dawn, along with several other skeletons, Pender felt he had seen his quota of dead bodies for the month. Year. Millenium. “I hope my visit didn't do him any harm.”

  “The contrary,” said the nurse. “I've never seen him so peaceful as after you left. He wouldn't tell me what the two of you talked about, but whatever it was, it helped him let go. Around here, that's a good thing.”

  “I'm glad,” said Pender, tipping his hat. It was indeed a good hat for tipping. “You take care.”

  “I do,” she said. “That's my job.”

  He thought about that on his way down the steps. “Mine too,” he said to himself. “At least it used to be.”

  Back at Umpqua General, Pender found the media feeding frenzy in full swing. News vans took up half the hospital parking lot. Microwave uplink dishes sprouted on the hospital lawn. Reporters were besieging the receptionist at the desk, while a video crew was interviewing the candy striper who'd brought Donna and Dolores their breakfasts.

  Pender nodded to the sheriff's deputy outside Irene's door. She was at the window, dressed in surgical greens, peering through the curtains at the activity in the parking lot below. Pender handed her an FBI windbreaker and a navy blue FBI cap.

  “You sure you're up for this? You want to rest a little longer, just give me the word.”

  “No, I want to get it over with,” she replied, tugging the cap over her shorn head. “I can't stand the thought of her lying up there alone.”

  Pender snuck Irene out the way he'd come in, through the hospital kitchen. One enterprising freelancer intercepted them and attempted to thrust a microphone in Irene's face as she climbed into the Intrepid, parked at the bottom of the loading ramp. Pender body-checked him halfway to the California border.

  When they reached the high school, they could see the Buchopper approaching from the east. Pender drove around the building and directly onto the football field. He parked in the end zone as the helicopter touched down on the fifty-yard line, hopped out of the car, trotted around to the passenger side, opened Irene's door for her.

  “Your chopper awaits, madame,” he yelled over the noise of the rotors, offering her his hand.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” replied Irene, taking it. It occurred to her that perhaps they were flirting-she wondered if she was doing a good job.

  Irene found herself crouching involuntarily as she trotted toward the chopper beside Pender, her left hand holding his, her right hand holding on to her cap. She had always wondered why people crouched over when they ran toward a helicopter whose rotors were a good twelve or fifteen feet off the ground. Now she knew-you couldn't help it.

  When they reached the chopper, Irene surrendered to a sudden impulse. She rose up onto her tiptoes and gave Pender a peck on the cheek.

  “I owe you my life,” she shouted into his ear.

  “It was a hell of a swan song, wasn't it?” he shouted back, as he helped her up into the helicopter. “You take care now.”

  “You too.”

  Irene watched through the bowed window as Pender turned and trotted away in an exaggerated crouch. His FBI windbreaker was puffed out like a bright blue sail from the rotor wash, and he was holding on to his white Stetson for dear life.

  When he reached the car, Pender turned back and waved, then took off his hat and waved that as the helicopter lifted off. Irene smiled at the sight of his big head shining in the sun. She was too good a psychiatrist not to know that her attraction to the fat old FBI man was more transference than romance. He was Frank, he was her father, he was safety, he was a rock-still, she couldn't wait to tell Barbara Klopfman about her little infatuation.

  The thought of Barbara, whom she'd all but given up for dead, affected Irene like a jolt of mood elevator-biochemical sunshine. For the first time, it all came together for Irene-she realized suddenly that her prayers had been answered. I did it, she told herself. I stayed alive. Then she remembered her last haiku. Strawberry Blonds Forever, she thought, taking off her long-billed FBI cap and waving it in a wide arc behind the window of the helicopter at the receding figure in the bright green field below.

  Irene knew, of course, that this feeling of exhilaration couldn't last. Sooner or later it would all catch up to her. Probably soonerthe Bu-chopper was flying Irene down to Trinity County, where a search-and-rescue team of sheriffs and park rangers was waiting for her to lead them to Bernadette Sandoval's body.

  But at the moment she felt alive, truly alive, and open to all possibilities, which was more than she could have said eight days ago, on the morning the prisoner in the orange jumpsuit first shuffled into the interview room of the Monterey County Jail on Natividad Road, fettered and manacled, with a lock of nut brown hair falling boyishly across his forehead.

  Epilogue

  Just over a year later, enjoying a complimentary continental breakfast in a hotel room, Irene Cogan was startled, while channelflipping, to see Dolores Moon being interviewed on Good Morning Portland.

  There was nothing surprising about seeing Dolores on television-she'd been on Dateline a few weeks after being rescued, and her book tour had kicked off with a long segment on the Today Show. But it was quite a coincidence that they were in the same town on the same day. Irene called the station and left her name and number. Five minutes later her phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Irene Cogan, what the hell are you doing in Portland?”

  “Hello, Dolores. Up until five minutes ago, I was watching you hawk your book.”

  “How'd I do?”

  “I'd buy it-and I know how it comes out. Do you want to have dinner tonight?”

  “I'd love to, but I'm leaving for Seattle in about an hour. NoSan Francisco. Seattle was yesterday.” Dolores laughed. It was good to hear her laugh. “And when the book tour's over, I have an audition for the role of Eponine in a western tour of Les Mis. Apparently being kidnapped was a terrific career move.”

  “I'm so happy for you. How're you sleeping these days?”

  Long pause. “With the lights on, and a snootful of Valium. You know how it is.”

  “It'll get better.”

  “I know.” Quick change of subject-Dolores didn't like to dwell. “So how's your book coming?”

  “Actually, that's what I'm doing in Portland. I need one last interview with him, to give the book some closure. And me.”

  “He's here?” Dolores didn't bother hiding her alarm.

  “Miss Miller left him a substantial inheritance. He was transferred to a private hospital-pr
etty hotsy-totsy, from what I understand-after being found unfit to stand trial.”

  “If I'd known, I'd never have let them include Portland on the tour. Just knowing I was in the same state with him was stressful enough.”

  “There's nothing to worry about. He's on a locked ward, maximum security.”

  “As far as I'm concerned, dead is maximum security. Anything short of that is just screwing around.”

  “I understand-believe me, I understand. I'm a little conflicted about seeing him myself. A lot conflicted-which is partly why I have to do it.”

  “Better you than me. Listen, Irene, I have to go. I definitely don't want to miss that plane out of town now.”

  “Okay, honey. It's good to hear you sounding so well. Call me some time when you get a chance. And good luck with Les Mis. I mean break a leg.”

  “You too. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Irene replaced the receiver in the cradle. The idea of a plane out of town sounded pretty good to her. But she'd had to go to a lot of trouble to arrange the interview with Maxwell-permission from his lawyers, who were also his guardians, as well as his doctor, and the administrators at Reed-Chase. If she chickened out now, then changed her mind again, she knew she might not be able to swing it a second time.

  After a quick pep talk in the mirror-she was a frost blond again-Irene packed her overnight bag. On the back of the door was one of those “Have you forgotten anything?” signs. She couldn't help turning around obediently to look, and discovered that she'd left her wallet on the foot of the bed. She didn't even remember taking it out of her purse-apparently her subconscious really didn't want to do this interview.

  Ever since she'd heard that little voice in her head on the riverbank, the one that had prompted her to ask Kinch his name, Irene had been paying a lot more attention to her subconscious. But she refused to be pushed around by it. One more pep talk-you have to know, she told herself; you'll feel better if you know — then she retrieved her wallet and was out the door before she could change her mind again. Or vice versa.

  Reed-Chase Institute was a beige two-story structure set back from a pleasant, tree-lined street. Dr. Alan Corder, a good-looking, athletic fellow with a spring in his step, and all his hair, met Irene in the lobby. He was Irene's age, but flatteringly deferential. He told her he'd read everything she'd published on DID, including her recent article on Maxwell in JAP-the Journal of Abnormal Psychology — and asked her if she would do him the honor of having lunch with him to discuss the case.

  Oh, slather it on, thought Irene-but she accepted. Corder led her down a long corridor, through a locked door, up an elevator, and through another door that opened when he punched a code into a keypad. The locked ward was situated in the back of the building by design, Corder explained. This way, the grilled windows weren't visible from the street.

  “Keeps the NIMBYs off our back.”

  “I understand,” said Irene. A NIMBY was someone who didn't mind society building high-security prisons or asylums-just Not In My Back Yard.

  Corder signed Irene into the security unit, had her fill out a liability waiver, then led her down a wide hallway painted a pleasant shade of salmon.

  “Has there been any change in his status since I spoke to you last week?” she asked.

  “None whatsoever. He's a model patient. If it weren't for his history, and the court order, he'd have earned his way off the locked ward by now.”

  Irene put her hand on Dr. Corder's arm, stopping him in his tracks in the middle of the corridor. “Never,” she said, staring up into his eyes for emphasis. “Never, never, never, never, never.”

  “I understand how you feel.”

  “This isn't about me.”

  “Of course not. But try to withhold judgment until you've spoken with him. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised. And don't worry-either myself or one of the orderlies will be observing you through the security window the whole time.”

  The last door on the right at the end of the corridor was painted pastel blue, the color of Maybelline, with a one-way glass panel set at eye level. Irene would not let herself peek in. She was afraid if she saw him, she'd lose her nerve. Corder punched a code into the keypad; the deceptively heavy door swung open on silent hinges.

  At first glance, it was an ordinary, pleasant-looking dormitory room. Desk, bureau, bed. Pale blue walls. But it didn't take long for a trained eye such as Irene's to spot the anomalies. The bathroom was an alcove-no door. The glass of the four-paned window overlooking the back garden and walking paths of the institute was a double-layer mesh sandwich, the sash for show only-it wasn't built to open. The top of the bureau was padded, the corners rounded; it had open, recessed shelves instead of drawers that closed. The desk corners were padded and rounded, too, and both desk and chair were bolted to the floor. No lamps-the lights were set behind opaque white panels in the ceiling.

  Maxwell, in blue pajamas with white piping, was seated at the desk, crayoning, his back to the door. He turned. “Hello, Doctor Al,” he chirped brightly, in a pennywhistle voice.

  “Good morning, Lyssy. Do you remember Dr. Cogan?”

  “I guess.” But there was no recognition in the gold-flecked brown eyes, only a guarded expression: an age-appropriate response for a polite five-year-old with no idea who Irene was, but with enough intelligence to understand that they wouldn't ask you if you remembered somebody unless you'd already met them.

  “Hello, Lyssy. What are you drawing there? May I take a look?”

  “It's a picture of Missy.” He held up the manila-colored sheet. Irene crossed the room and took it from him. It was the stick figure of a woman wearing a stylized, triangular dress and long hair. Long black hair, Irene was relieved to see.

  “Very pretty,” said Irene, handing the drawing back to him. “Who's Missy?”

  “My friend.”

  Occupational therapist, mouthed Corder. Then, to Maxwell: “Lyssy, Dr. Cogan would like to talk with you for a few minutes. Would that be all right with you?”

  “I guess. Only…” He beckoned shyly for Corder to lean over, then whispered into his ear.

  “Of course,” said Corder. “Dr. Cogan, could you wait outside for a moment?”

  Irene backed out of the room, closed the door behind her, and watched through the one-way glass as Maxwell, his arm around his doctor for support, hopped over to the bed, his right pajama leg swinging loosely below the knee. Irene winced. Until that moment, she'd forgotten about the amputation. Feeling like a voyeur, she turned away. A few minutes later the door swung open, and Corder emerged. “He's all yours.”

  Maxwell was waiting for her just inside the door. Irene hadn't expected to be in such close proximity so soon. She decided to take charge right away. “Hello again, Lyssy. Have a seat.”

  “I have a seat,” he said mischievously, patting his pajamaed behind.

  “Very funny. Bed or chair, take your pick.”

  He limped over to the bed and sat down. Not a bad limp, just a hitch and an exaggerated swing of his hip.

  “You're walking very well,” said Irene. She sat behind the desk, pushed his crayons and drawing pad to the side, removed her notebook and Dictaphone from her purse, and set them on the desk.

  “First I had to use crutches, first. Then a cane. Now I don't even need that. They have legs you can run on, too. Someday I'm going to get one of those, if I'm good, and I could be in the Olympics for people with one leg. If I'm good and people stop being scared of me.”

  “Oh? Are people scared of you?”

  “Some people, I guess. In the old hospital they used to keep me tied up.”

  “Do you know why that was?”

  “I guess.”

  “Why?”

  “Ask Doctor Al-he knows.”

  “I'd like to hear it from you. I need to know what you think.”

  “Because once upon a time there was a bad man who got inside my body and pretended to be me and did bad things to people.”


  “I see. And where is that bad man now?”

  “The police man shot him and he went away.”

  “Do you remember anything about him?”

  “All I 'member, I was in this dark jail place and I was scared and he made me stay there and there was this dead bird on the floor. Is my voice on that?”

  Irene pressed stop. “Yes. Would you like to hear it?” She hit the reverse button, then play.

  “… this dead bird on the floor. Is my voice on that?”

  “That's not me,” said Maxwell. “Is that me?”

  “That's you. Everybody's own voice sounds different to them when they hear it over a tape recorder.”

  “How come?”

  “Because you're hearing it from the outside rather than the inside.” He had presented Irene with a convenient segue. “By the way, Lyssy, do you ever hear other voices inside your head?”

  “You mean like the bad man?”

  “Sure, like the bad man.”

  He looked down at his lap. “N O means no. And if I do, I have to tell Doctor Al or one of the nurses or somebody right away, cross my heart and hope to die.” Then he looked up slyly-transparently slyly. “Right?”

  “Absolutely,” replied Irene. “Would you like to play a little game with me?”

  “Absolutely,” he repeated in his piping voice. He appeared to enjoy the sound of the word. “Ab-so-lutely.”

  “Okay, here's how it goes. I'm going to ask you three questions, and you have to answer them truthfully. You understand what truthfully means?”

  “I'm not a baby.”

  “I know-I just have to make extra sure. But here's the game part-the whole time I'm asking the questions, and the whole time you're answering, you have to look straight at me. No looking away, no hiding your face or anything like that. Think you can do that?”