by Alan Hruska
“Go to sleep.”
Tom’s still typing at Josephina’s laptop, which he’s moved to Horatio’s desk.
“Who can sleep with that light on?”
“I got another couple of hours,” Tom says, consulting one of the books he’s spread out all around him, his fingers never leaving the keyboard.
Elena sits up. “I thought you were supposed to be smart and fast.”
“Never said fast. Careful. Good. But fast isn’t the way one goes on this point. It’s tricky.”
“Whatever. Try to move it along, will ya?”
He stops typing. “You’re not helping.”
“You haven’t given me anything to do.”
“Yes I have.”
“Well, I can’t do that with the light on.”
“Then take a walk. Find us something to eat.”
“We’re in nowheresville, Tom. In Nowheresville, fucking Kentucky, USA.”
“That restaurant said it was open all night.”
“It did?”
“Yeah,” Tom says. “There was a sign. Said 24/7.”
“I didn’t see it.”
“It was there. I promise you.”
“All right. Better than thrashing around on this sofa.”
She looks for her shoes.
“Wait a minute,” he says.
“Why?”
“I’ll go with you.”
“I thought the whole purpose was to leave you alone to finish.”
“Yeah, well, I could use a break.”
“Really?” she says disbelievingly.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t look like you needed a break two minutes ago. You were flailing away.”
“That was then.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
Standing with both shoes in her hands, she gives him a skeptical look. “You’re worried about something specific.”
“I just think we should just be careful,” Tom says. “You especially.”
“Careful about what?”
“Patrolling police, who knows?”
She shakes her head with irritation. “This isn’t about the cops,” she says. “We’re about to live here openly. As a married couple no less.”
“Forget it, let’s just go.”
“You’re worried about the kidnappers?”
Tom shrugs.
“The kidnappers had us,” she says. “They left us a fucking rake. In a shed with a breakable wall. It’s obvious they wanted us to escape. Wanted us on the run. Makes us look guilty.”
“Obviously.”
“So what are you worried about—apart from the fact that now we look guilty as hell, having been caught fleeing in Pennsylvania, having broken out of jail.”
“Exactly.”
Her face darkens with dawning comprehension.
“Think about it,” he says. “Now, from the standpoint of whoever’s framing us, what, happening to us, would be the best of all possible worlds?”
“Oh, shit,” she says.
“I think you got it.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“So let’s get something to eat.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Marcel Fryman sits upright in a red leather Chesterfield chair. His posture, his bow tie, his fountain pen poised over the notebook on his lap are very old school, as is the recumbent position of his patient on a horsehair chaise longue. The situation is comfortable for Marcel, since he, aged ninety-five—though looking and acting at least twenty years younger—is the sole surviving student of Sigmund Freud.
Marcel has kept pace with all modern methods. But he differs from younger practitioners in that he still practices the “talking cure,” which is now almost exclusively the province of psychologists.
He says to his patient, a lithe young blonde in spike heels and tubular black pants, “And by what name am I calling you today?”
“Oh,” she says, looking up at his molded ceiling, “does it really matter?”
“It might. As a reflection of how you’re feeling.”
“I doubt that my name choice would shed light on anything. It’s entirely random.”
“All the more indicative.”
She sits up, though with her back still to him. “Are you not understanding me? When I say random, I mean when I need a name, I might be looking at something, anything, and the name will pop out.”
“Such as Birdie.”
“Yes. Such as that.”
“Well, you chose Birdie over Robin.”
“And that tells you something?”
“The general over the specific? I should say, yes.”
“It was a sparrow, actually. One never sees robins anymore.”
“And are you still Birdie?”
“Sometimes. When it suits me.”
“In other words, when the man you’re with happens to believe it’s your real name. Because that’s what you’ve told him.”
“Yes.”
“This is an actual example?”
“It is.”
“Do you like this man?”
“I do.”
“And you aren’t worried that he might discover your real name?”
“Not in the least. I myself can barely remember it. But I won’t be seeing him forever.”
“Are you planning to kill him?”
“Not him, no.”
“I see.”
She cranes her neck around to see him. “You being judgmental again? Isn’t that counterproductive? To what we’re trying to do here?”
“What do you think we’re trying to do?”
“Answering questions with questions, now that’s more your usual style.”
“I can’t answer your question until you answer mine.”
“I’ve told you why I’m here.”
“You’re quite changeable.”
“I’m depressed.”
“All right, then,” he says. “Do you see a connection between that condition and what you do for a living?”
“I do. But it goes counter to your expectation. Doing what I do lifts the depression, it doesn’t add to it.”
“For how long?”
“A while.”
“Hmm. And then?”
“It returns, of course.”
“More strongly?”
She hesitates. “Yes.”
“Hmm.”
She falls back into a reclining position. “I hate all of your ‘hmms.’”
“I’ll try to limit them. And yes, I am being judgmental, because apart from the mayhem you’re visiting on others, which almost anyone would consider morally reprehensible, you’re doing serious harm to yourself. I mean present harm. Not simply the future likelihood of life imprisonment or worse.”
“And why is that?”
“You know why.”
“I feel no guilt,” she says. “It’s a job. I’m good at it. There are people who slaughter hundreds of animals a day.”
“So you’re justifying.”
“I don’t need justification.”
“All right,” he says. “How do you feel about planning to do … what you do?”
“I feel calm,” she says. “I’ve told you.”
“And during the act itself?”
“Exhilarated.”
“Then the depression.”
“It is anticlimactic,” she says.
“That’s your diagnosis?”
“If I trusted my diagnosis, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Why don’t you just stop?”
“One doesn’t. Just stop. Not this sort of thing.”
“I could give you drugs,” he says.
“I thought you didn’t.”
“I generally don’t.”
“I heard never.”
“There are exceptions.”
“I can’t take drugs,” she says. “One doesn’t in my line of work.”
“Then I can’t deal with your depression. Unless yo
u discontinue … your line of work.”
“You’re absolutely convinced of the connection?”
“It’s obvious,” he says.
“How do you explain the exhilaration?” she asks.
“In addictive behavior? Highs, lows, classic. The difficulty in your case is not to understand it, but to treat it.”
“I think you’re simplifying.”
“Oh yes?”
“There’s the whole childhood thing,” she says.
“I’m not forgetting it.”
“Abused people abuse.”
“Now who’s simplifying?” he says.
She gives that some thought, apparently agreeing. “Well, I won’t need you for a while,” she says.
“Oh?”
“I’m about to reenter the exhilaration stage.”
TWENTY-SIX
Horatio and Jo arrive at the reception area of their office as Tom collects pages from the printer on Jo’s desk.
“That the brief?” asks Horatio.
“It is,” Tom says.
“Then give it here,” says Horatio, grabbing it and heading to his own office inside.
“One second,” Tom says.
Horatio stops. “What?”
Jo says, “Your wife’s asleep on the sofa in there?”
“Right,” says Tom.
“Well get her outta there,” Horatio says.
Tom goes inside and kneels beside the sofa where Elena lies fast asleep. “Hey,” he says in her ear while gently rocking a shoulder.
Startled, she thrashes. “Hey!”
“Good morning, they’re here.”
She looks around, shakes her head. “You finish?”
“Yeah.”
She nods. “I gotta get outta these clothes.”
“I’d wait till you get new ones.”
“Duh!”
Horatio’s in the doorway. “Everyone decent?”
“Come in,” Tom says, as Elena swings her legs to the floor.
“Thank you,” says Horatio. “You’re returning my office, thank you.”
“No problem,” Tom says.
“Great. Now get out of here while I read this brief.”
They troupe out, Elena going to the restroom as Horatio disappears behind the closed door.
There’s a slatted bench under the large window of the front room. Tom takes that—Elena too when she returns—while Jo is busy at her desk.
“So you kids probably want some breakfast.” She reaches into her handbag. “You have any money left over from last night?”
“We’ll wait,” Tom says, “but thank you.”
“What if he doesn’t like the brief?” Jo says.
“He’ll like it.” Tom gives a tired smile.
“That’s pretty smug,” says Elena.
“Not really.”
“A brief is a bunch of arguments, right? You have no idea how people argue here. What passes for smart on Wall Street, or the Yale Law School,” Elena says deprecatingly, “might be absolutely the worst way of arguing in Ashaway, Kentucky.”
“That’s always possible,” Tom says.
“I hate that.”
“What?”
“That tone of condescension.”
“Maybe you do need some breakfast.”
“I can offer you coffee,” Jo says.
They look at her as a savior. She makes a “sit tight” gesture and, taking off for a back room, says, “Won’t be a minute.”
“Why’d you have to start up like that?” says Elena under her breath.
“Me?”
“Of course, you.”
“You really are too much.”
They hear a loud “Ha!” coming through Horatio’s door. Then silence. Presently, Jo emerges with three coffees on a tray with a few social tea crackers. “Not much,” she says, placing the tray on her desk and beckoning to it, “but a little tide-me-over while we wait for the great man to pronounce.”
They thank her, devour the crackers, drink the coffee, and wait some more.
Five minutes later, Horatio opens his door. “You two will need a car to get around in. I’ve called Charlie. He’ll be here in a minute with a loaner. Won’t be much. An old Chevy, I’m told, but it’ll run. Get you to the house and back.”
“What house?” Elena says.
“The one you’re going to live in, young lady. That’s not much either, but it’s snug, furnished—it’ll keep the elements off your back.”
“And Charlie?” Tom asks.
“A client. Owns the Chevy dealership here. And the house. He’ll bring the key, show you where it is.”
Tom says, “So the brief’s okay?”
Horatio shrugs. “You can file it.”
“We’ll need a small advance. Walking-around money.”
“I’ve set up a small account at the bank.”
“Not in my name,” says Tom.
“Of course not. It’s in my name. But you can draw on it.”
“Using what name?”
“Pick anything you like,” Horatio says.
Tom thinks. “You’re Downs; I’ll be up. Upton. Tom Upton.”
“Has a ring to it.”
“Let’s hope not,” Tom says.
As they start to the door, Horatio says, “One more thing. Charlie’s also the town sheriff.”
He lets it hang there, reading their expressions.
Tom says, “Like our first trip to the diner.”
“Little riskier,” Horatio says, “but yeah, same principle.”
“And,” says Elena, “you couldn’t possibly be accused of harboring, if you put us right in the sheriff’s hands.”
“Oh, she’s good,” Horatio says approvingly.
Mike Skillan himself places a call to Harrison Stith and gets his secretary. She knows exactly who Skillan is, however, and puts him through directly to her boss.
“Mike?”
“How are you, Harry?”
“You mean after twenty years?”
“Been that long?”
“Gotta be,” Harry says. “I see you landed on your feet.”
“In a wobbly sort of way.”
“Not what I hear. You’re doing great. What’s up?”
“Your associate.”
“Weldon? You calling about him?”
“Yeah,” Mike says. “Heard from him?”
“I’d be the last.”
“Oh. Why’s that?”
“Firm stuff. Look, Mike ….” Stith thinks how best to put this. “I’ve no idea where the kid is. But there may be people here who do. At least one guy Weldon did get along with. You can try him. I’ll have him call you.”
“Rather call him myself, if that’s all right. Who is it?”
“It’s Perry Rauschenberg.”
“Perry? Weldon was doing criminal work?”
“Briefly. The sort we do here. White collar.”
“And you’re thinking he may have called him for advice?”
“It’s possible.”
“Thanks, Harry.”
“It’s nothing. See you in twenty years.”
Mike laughs. “Hey, we oughta have lunch.”
“Love to. Send me some dates.”
“I will,” Mike says. “Oh, and one more thing. You think Weldon did it?”
“Christ. I would never have thought. But who the hell knows about people?”
Mike, hanging up, immediately calls Stith’s partner. Perry Rauschenberg’s secretary, having two calls on her lines at once, gives her boss the choice of which to take.
“Mike?” says Rauschenberg, picking up on Skillan.
“Hey, Perry, how you been?”
“Since I took your A team down in the Bakeries case?”
“Hardly the A team,” Mike says.
“Right,” Perry says. “I forgot, you’re the A team. So, you still trying cases?”
“You kidding?”
“Yes. I’m kidding. So, what can I do for you, Mike?”
&nbs
p; “Tom Weldon.”
“What about him?”
“You heard from him?”
“If I had,” Rauschenberg says, “you know I couldn’t talk about it.”
“Don’t know that, actually. There are lots of things you could tell me that a privilege wouldn’t cover.”
Perry says nothing. Mike allows a second of dead air.
“So how should we handle this?” he says.
“You ask, I’ll answer, if I’ve no choice.”
“No need to get formal?”
“Waste of time.”
“Love dealing with smart people,” Mike says.
“Is that the end of the bullshit?”
“Very end,” Mike says. “You representing him?”
“Yes.”
“Have you gotten any emails from him?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“One.”
“Do you have any other documents relating to him?”
“How do you define documents?”
“Come on, Perry! Take out the last document demand you slapped on some poor bastard, and use that definition. I doubt there’s anything broader.”
“All right. There’s another email. Not from him.”
“From whom?”
“Looks like a truck driver.”
“A what?”
“You heard me.”
“So it’s not privileged.”
“That’s right.”
“Guess what,” Mike says.
“I read you.”
“And are we gonna have to go formal now?”
“I’ll forward it when I get a moment,” Perry says.
“How ’bout while I hold on?”
“Another call pending. But you’ve made the list, buddy. And I’m working my way toward you.”
Harry Stith calls in his secretary, Mariah. She’s one of the old-timers, one of the few left at the firm.
“You should tell what’s-her-name, Rauschenberg’s secretary—I think she’s new—you get a call from a partner and an outsider at the same time, you put the partner on first.”
“Right,” says Mariah, but she’s barely listening. “I didn’t know you knew the DA.”
“We were classmates at law school.”
“Ah, the network,” Mariah says.
“You being snippy with me?”
An innocent look forms on her face.
“Just call the girl,” Harry says.
“You think I haven’t? You think I haven’t told her exactly what you just said?”
“And?”
“The choice was Mr. Rauschenberg’s. She told him you were on.”