Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set

by Ellery A Kane

  “Uh, J. D. Briggs? Remember him?”

  Clare produced a laugh more canned than a television sitcom and made a decision. “Hello,” she said into the phone. The only reply came as a rattled breath. “Hello? This is Clare Keely.”

  “I knew it was you calling. Haven’t you put my family through enough already?

  “I think you have the wrong number.” It was Eliza Dumas, and she definitely had the right number. Clare cursed herself for not thinking of that *69 thing Lizzie always warned her about. It’s so hard to stalk boys nowadays, she’d teased at the time.

  “I don’t have the wrong number, Doctor. The guy from the prison, he told me about you. That you didn’t take care of James like you should have. You saw how depressed he was. Nobody told me he was on suicide watch. Nobody told me his therapist was fresh out of college. What the hell do you know about—” Clare returned the receiver to the hook, steadied herself, then turned to face Lizzie.

  “Wrong number.”

  ****

  Two margaritas in, and Lizzie wouldn’t let it go. “You seemed pretty shaken up. Are you sure it was a wrong number?”

  Clare downed the rest of her drink. “Positive.” She’d been careful to blot, not rub, but the lipstick ring on her glass worried her.

  “And the person didn’t say anything?”

  “Nope. It was probably some perv. He was doing the heavy breathing thing.”

  “He?”

  “Fine,” she conceded. “He said my name a few times, before I hung up on him.”

  “That SOB. I can’t believe he had the nerve to call you. Especially after you gave him a piece of your mind like you did.”

  “It wasn’t Rodney Taylor.”

  “The hell it wasn’t.”

  Clare shrugged, too tipsy to argue. “I guess it could’ve been.”

  “We should mess with him. Call him back. *69 his ass.”

  “I’m not calling him back.”

  “Fine. Then I will.” Lizzie headed for the phone with determination. And Clare felt something essential slipping away, just beyond her grasp.

  “Wait. Lizzie, wait.”

  “You want to do it, right? Pretend you’re the cops or something.”

  Clare shook her head. “I lied to you.”

  “About what?” The list had grown too long to catalog.

  “I never told Rodney Taylor off. I wanted to, but when he asked me how I was, I could barely muster the word fine.”

  With a deep sigh, Lizzie flopped back onto the sofa. “I think we need another round,” she said.

  ****

  After Lizzie left, insisting she was fine to drive, Clare scarfed the remaining taco and washed it down with tequila straight from the bottle. Vaguely nauseated, mostly anesthetized, she dialed Eliza Dumas once more. She tried counting the rings this time but kept losing her place, as if she was deep underwater, listening to the muted sounds of life up above. When the recorded voice scolded her again—no answer—she set the phone in its cradle and let the weight of exhaustion, heavy and absolute, pin her to the sofa. Her eyes closed.

  Ten minutes later, Clare startled awake, her heart rattling around like a pinball in her chest, her guilt awake too. But then, it was always there—amorphous—pulsing under her skin, just a fingernail’s scratch away. It took the shape of a wine-stained cotton dress … a ruby ring … an abandoned urn … a shoebox. And now, a carefully knotted prison bedsheet.

  Clare took a swig of tequila and dialed another number. The one she’d committed to memory, all the while telling herself she hadn’t. The one on the card she’d tossed out the window. It gave her a small bit of satisfaction to think of it discarded on the freeway like an empty potato chip bag or a used condom.

  “Hello, you’ve reached Rodney Taylor with Green River Trucking. I’m not available to take your call right now. Please leave your name and number at the beep, and I’ll get back to you soon.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  december 11, 1996

  Clare’s head pounded all day. She damned tequila. Damned Rodney Taylor. But tonight’s mission would require more alcohol, so she downed a few cups of coffee in-between sessions and told herself to suck it up. At five o’clock, she called Robocop at the control booth.

  “Dinner tonight, Officer Briggs?”

  “Of course, Dr. Keely.” He mimicked her come-hither tone. “You name the place.”

  “How about yours?” she cooed, revolted at the sound of her own voice. “You bring the wine. I’ll get takeout.”

  He stammered, tripped over his tongue, before casually accepting. “Works for me.”

  Clare gathered her things in a hurry, hoping to slip out unnoticed by Fitzpatrick. After pointing out her makeup faux pas on Monday afternoon, he’d propositioned her for drinks again, and she was running out of excuses. Not to mention she’d planned a stop on her way out, a stop Fitzpatrick hadn’t signed off on.

  Clare didn’t knock on Lieutenant Bonner’s closed door. Not right away. Instead she pressed her ear to the door and listened, picturing him leaned back in his chair, shoes off, feet on his desk. That’s how he would sit, as if he owned all of San Quentin.

  “Did you catch that Niners game this weekend? Those refs had their heads up their … ” Bonner’s voice broke off into laughter so loud Clare jumped. “My ex-wife played better defense in the bedroom.”

  Can you blame her? Clare thought, rapping three times to end her misery.

  “Who is it?” Her silence was the purposeful kind, and she savored it. “Gotta go, man.” A moment of nothing and then, “It’s open.” He couldn’t even be bothered to get up, but his eyebrows rose when he saw her. She liked that, catching him off guard.

  “Ms. Keely. What a pleasant surprise.”

  She didn’t try to pretend any more than he did. “I’ve come to talk to you about Mr. Dumas. About the investigation.”

  “I’m not sure what there is to discuss. Case closed, remember?”

  Lips pursed to hold back the river, Clare nodded. “It’s just that I haven’t seen a copy of the report. The findings. I think I’m entitled—”

  “Confidential. Sorry.”

  “Could you at least tell me if Mr. Dumas’ alleged ties to gang activity were explored?” She sounded like a reporter, keeping it vague to protect her source.

  Bonner pushed back from his desk and Clare caught him stuffing his stockinged feet into his shiny wing tips. It gave her satisfaction to know she had him figured out. “Ms. Keely—”

  “Doctor.” She wanted to carve that word on his forehead with the sharpest pencil on his desk.

  “Dr. Keely, has someone been feeding you a line of Law and Order hogwash again? Or are you … What is it you shrinks call it? Projecting?” He stood up and began packing his briefcase. Clare knew it was all for show. As if he took anything home. “The EME had nothing to do with this.”

  “You seem pretty certain of that, Lieutenant. And I never named the EME. Maybe I’m not the only one projecting.” She hadn’t planned to say it. Not that bluntly. But now that she had, she didn’t want to take it back.

  “What exactly are you insinuating? Are you accusing me of something?”

  Clare stared blankly, batting her eyelashes. “Now who’s been watching too much Law and Order?” As he tried to recover, searched for a comeback, Clare removed the envelope from her jacket and slid it across the desk, where it stopped against his briefcase. “I’d like this added to the report. It’s my statement, the one no one ever bothered to ask for. I find that strange. Don’t you?”

  He stared at the envelope, but didn’t touch it. Like she was the Unabomber setting a trap. Clare wondered how long it would take him to open it, to discover she’d cc’d the Warden. “I assure you our investigation was thorough and detailed, and I stand behind the conclusion one hundred percent. Can you sa
y the same about your treatment of Mr. Dumas? I hear the Board of Psychology is wondering too. I guess you’re no Clarice Starling.” He gestured to the newest paperback book on his desk, Silence of the Lambs.

  Clare found the right smile. It was the one she would’ve given Rodney Taylor in the coffee shop if she’d had the nerve. “And you’re no Lennie Briscoe.”

  ****

  Clare perched on the edge of Robocop’s pool table as he collected the last of their dinner dishes. He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled his shirt up to his elbows, revealing the tattoo on his forearm. Semper Fi. Of course, she thought. Of course, he had a pool table. And a tattoo. It wouldn’t surprise her to find a poster of Cindy Crawford taped to his bedroom wall.

  “Do you play?” he asked. Clare shrugged, noncommittal.

  “A little. Maybe you could teach me.”

  “Alright.” He busied himself, sponging off a bit of stuck-on red sauce, but he couldn’t hide his arousal. Not from Clare. A divining rod, her stomach pitched and dipped at the hint of a man’s lust. Lightheaded, she took another sip of wine.

  “I paid Bonner a visit today,” she announced to distract them both.

  Briggs stopped scrubbing and frowned at her. “I told you to let me handle it, Clare. You’re kicking up a hornet’s nest. What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing really. I gave him a memo I wrote about Dumas documenting my treatment and my opinion about his alleged suicide. I have a right to my opinion, you know.”

  He toweled off his hands and walked to her. “Of course you do.” Just like that, he was close to her. Too close, too fast. His thumb making small circles on her goose-fleshed arm. And all she could smell, think, see was Rodney Taylor. The thing she liked best about Neal, he always took it slow. But she couldn’t blame Briggs. He was right where she wanted him. “Does it really matter if he killed himself? You saw him, what, five times? I don’t want to sound cold-hearted, but—”

  She stepped away so she could think straight and breathed in deep. “I’m being investigated by the Board of Psychology. So yes, it matters.”

  “Investigated? Why?”

  “Substandard treatment. That’s what they said. But Bonner is the real reason. He doesn’t like me.” Persistent, Briggs closed the gap between them again. “Is he in cahoots with the EME?” she asked.

  “Cahoots? That’s cute, Clare. Really cute, but can we not talk about work anymore?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes then.”

  Briggs groaned as if the weight of the conversation—the weight of her demand—was too much to bear. But he was in deep, and Clare knew it. Desperate to get lucky, presuming it even, he wouldn’t screw it up now. “Bonner is no different than the rest of us. It’s just prison politics. Whoever told you otherwise is just blowing smoke.”

  He grabbed her at the hips and scooted her closer. Taking his forearms in her hands, she meant to move him away. But he didn’t get it. Not at all. “Like my tattoo, huh? Did you know I was a leatherneck? United States Marine Corps, baby. Through and through.” Her body stiffened, but she smiled to be polite. “Let me put some music on. It’ll help you relax.”

  When she didn’t protest, he selected a CD from his collection, and Clare prepared to be amused. She counted on it. If it turned out to be something cheesy—and she knew it would be—maybe she could get through what was coming. Backstreet Boys, Bryan Adams. Whatever he thought would get him laid. “This song is a little old, but it’s one of my favorites.” He was already partway to her, when the song began.

  The first few notes, and her heart iced over, the rest of her fever hot. Briggs hardly noticed, not with his clumsy fingers preoccupied by the buttons on her shirt, his face already buried in her neck. “Do you like it?” he asked, humming along, half-singing the words in her ear. “I can’t fight this feeling anymore … forgotten what I started … for … time to bring this ship into … Clare?”

  Things were expected of her. An answer, the least of it. “It’s a classic,” she heard herself say.

  december 13, 1996

  Well, I’m wait-ing.” Lizzie leaned forward, speaking over the morning din of the coffee shop. “And I want details.”

  “A lady never kisses and tells.” Clare stalled, delaying the inevitable. Lizzie would never let her dodge the question.

  “It’s a good thing you aren’t one then, Doctor.”

  Clare sipped her coffee and prayed for an earthquake. Any natural disaster would do. “C’mon. It’s bad luck.”

  With a hard roll of her eyes, Lizzie retorted, “You’re not seriously trying to convince me you’re superstitious, are you? The girl who wanted to play with my mom’s Ouija board on Halloween? Puh-lease.” Truthfully, five months pregnant at the time, Clare had secretly hoped for black magic, poltergeist style. A curse. A portal to the dark side. Any way to wind time back to the day she met Rodney Taylor. And erase it entirely.

  “It’s Friday the thirteenth.”

  “I’m not asking you to adopt a black cat. I just want to know if Officer Briggs lived up to my lofty expectations.”

  Clare nodded fast. Just get it over with. “It was fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “I mean, it wasn’t all that memorable.” That was the truth. She’d awakened in Briggs’ twin bed at 3 a.m., wearing nothing but his shirt. Unequivocal evidence they’d had sex, but beyond him singing that song, she couldn’t remember a thing. She hoped he used protection at least, but Briggs wasn’t reliable like Neal, and she doubted it. When she insisted she’d go home, he seemed worried, but didn’t stop her.

  “Okay, I get it. You don’t want to dish.”

  Clare smiled at Lizzie, as if she’d gotten it right. “I’ve got to run anyway. Early session this morning.”

  When they reached the door, Lizzie grabbed her arm. “Hey, I almost forgot. Have you talked to Neal?” Define talk, Clare thought. She’d listened to all his messages. Surely that counted for something. “He called me at work yesterday. I think he’s worried about you.”

  “He just wants me to forget about that fight and get back together with him. But he said some awful things, Liz. He told me I have issues, and he just left me there.”

  “And he took the urn?” she asked.

  Clare’s coffee forced its way back up, and she swallowed hard, her throat burning. “What? Of course he did. I told you already. I was so upset I left it in the car. He said I could stop by to pick it up this weekend.”

  “Oh. Well, he told me he didn’t have it. That you took it.”

  She laughed so she wouldn’t have to speak right away, afraid her voice would come out as a croak. “And he thinks I’m the crazy one.”

  ****

  Briggs waited outside her office door, his back to the stairs. Clare stopped on the second step, watching. Broad shoulders, strong hands, arms that stretched the fabric of his uniform, yet he seemed small somehow. Vulnerable. Probably because you’ve seen him naked. Or maybe it was the photo of his mother he kept next to the bed. Or that he’d mussed her hair and kissed her before she hightailed it out of there. Or that he was holding a single yellow rose intended for her. Admiring him from afar, she felt herself warm to him, the last thing she needed.

  “What are you doing here, asshole?” Clare pressed herself flat against the wall, the wind knocked out of her. His voice—harder than the Robocop she knew—frightened her. Her warm feelings scattered like birds.

  “I’m here to see my therapist,” Cullen answered back. “Is that a problem?”

  “Get of here before I take a closer look at that ducat you forged. You’re the last face Dr. Keely wants to see this morning.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Clare understood she should do something. Say something. But she stayed fixed to the wall like a petal pressed between pages. She prayed for invisibility.

  “I’m warning you, punk
. You’ve got five seconds to scram. Unless you want to spend the rest of the day in Ad Seg—or the infirmary, if that suits you better.” Clare winced.

  “Does she know what a bully you are?”

  Briggs’ laugh came from someplace dark. It made Clare wonder if she knew him at all. “Some women like it rough. But you already know that, don’t you, Cutthroat?” In the long silence, Clare imagined them standing chest to chest, breathing wildly through their nostrils. And a possibility she had never considered crept in like moss growing thick, thicker, until she felt suffocated. Briggs had raped her. Threw her against the pool table, forced up her skirt, back-handed her once for good measure. She touched her face, certain her cheek would be tender with a bruise.

  But then Cullen snickered, and the vision evaporated. “Yellow roses mean friendship, genius.”

  Clare counted to one hundred before she continued the walk up to her office, shaky and disoriented as if she’d awakened from a nightmare. Briggs offered her a sheepish smile, but nothing else. “Good morning, beautiful.”

  “J. D.! What a pleasant surprise.” Clare marveled at her capacity for make-believe.

  After he left, she found the rose discarded in the trash can at the end of the hall. She felt a little sad for it, a blameless casualty of war. She couldn’t help but chuckle now that she was composed. Victory and spoils to Cullen.

  ***

  Clare refused to admit it to herself, but she kept one eye on the door all day and felt disappointed when Cullen didn’t return. Not that she blamed him. But inside she bubbled over with the feeling she wanted to tell him something. That she’d seen him with Briggs? That she knew he’d sent those chrysanthemums? That she pegged him as her secret admirer? Not so secret anymore. Whatever it was, she tucked it away and acted like a good therapist. Even when Fitzpatrick poked his head in with his usual song and dance.

  “It’s been few weeks now since Mr. Dumas … ” He leaned in the doorway, hand on one hip, trying to look cool. “How would you feel about taking on a new client? Mondays at 10:30?”

  Clare frowned. It was unusual for Fitzpatrick to dictate her schedule. “Uh, okay. Who is it?”