Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set

by Ellery A Kane

  My father’s watch ticks at me from my wrist. 6:50. “Have you seen the news? I’m probably not the best person to talk to right now. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to practice psychology after all this is over.”

  I have a flash of me and Marbles sitting face-to-face on cold metal benches at a table that’s bolted to the floor. The kind they have in prison. Where they can’t even trust you not to wield a piece of furniture as a weapon. “Tell me more,” I’ll say.

  “I heard about all that. And yeah, it was pretty fucked up of you to lie to me. You knew Pep. This whole time. Man, I can’t get over it.” He lowers his voice to a raspy whisper. “But I don’t think you killed him.”

  “Who, then?”

  “That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

  6:53. “Okay. But it has to be quick.”

  I lock the outer door and sit in my own waiting room. Waiting for David to speak. For him to give me what I’ve always needed. What I can’t give to myself. Absolution. Just like I’d told Ricky.

  “So I confessed everything to Tara last night. About the gambling. About the money I owed to Ian. How we’re up to our eyeballs in debt. And the one night . . . with that girl.”

  “Cleo.”

  His Croc-ed foot taps in time with the second hand, and I ache at the thought of Luke waiting, wondering if I’m coming at all. “Yeah. Cleo. Cleopatra. Whatever. Anyway, Tara had an epic meltdown like I knew she would. The whole I-should’ve-never-married-a-loser-like-you speech. No surprise there. But she said something bat-shit crazy.”

  I do the therapist nod, calm and reassuring. But inside, my heart slams against my chest. Like a prisoner who’s spotted a chink in the bars. A key left unguarded. A way out.

  “Get this. She said she already knew about Cleo. That she’d known since it happened. That she arranged for it to happen.”

  “Arranged for it? What do you mean?”

  “I mean, she went online and hired a fucking escort to test me. She said some of her friends had done it too. And that got me thinking.”

  The Fidelity Five. It sits like a rock in my throat and I can’t speak.

  “What if Kate hired Cleo too?”

  The empathic murmur is all I can manage.

  “It would explain why Cleo freaked the night she saw me and Ian at The Pearl. It was a while after we’d hooked up. I went to get a drink and she was there, talking up Ian. So damn nervous, she spilled my drink. She probably thought I’d tell him. Ruin the whole setup.”

  “Wow.” That’s what squeaks out. Just wow.

  “When I saw this story about Kate being knocked up by some other guy, it all made sense.”

  I try to find a thread to follow, but the tangle in my brain only knots tighter. My thoughts a jumbled mess, I stare down at my watch. 7:01. I’m already late. But I feel weighted here. To this chair. To the words he’s about to say. Sink me or save me, I have to hear them.

  “Tell me more,” I say, a hysterical laugh spurting out after.

  “Kate and Ian had a prenup like half of Carmel. If it had an infidelity clause, Kate would’ve been screwed. Literally and figuratively. But not if she got proof Ian cheated first, so—” He shrugs. “Now Kate’s dead. Ian’s dead. Cleo’s in the wind. And the only one missing is . . . well, whoever he is. That’s a heck of a coincidence.”

  David’s still talking. But I only hear Ian’s words as clear as if he’d spoken them to me himself: I picked the wrong girl to get it right with.

  “And it turns out Tara didn’t even care I screwed a call girl. It only matters now because she knows I’m broke. It’s just one more thing she can hold over my head. I feel like a man without a country.”

  Through the window, I glimpse the sleek McLaren, parked at least two feet from the curb and safe from any nasty scrapes to its rims. An exile with a half-million dollar car. He’d survive.

  “I’m sorry, David. I have to go.” I stand up and head for the door with newfound purpose.

  “Wait. What should I do? About Tara?” His voice trembles, his eyes tear, and it comes to me in an instant.

  “Money, fame, and glory may bring you the woman you want. But the woman you want is not always the woman you need.”

  “Hey, that’s good. Who said that?”

  “Ian.” I’d highlighted it, a bright-green mark of contempt, in Love CPR. But now, I wonder if he’d written the line from experience. And I marvel, not for the first time, at the irony. At the one lesson hard-learned in the years since graduate school. Therapists never can take their own advice. “Ian did.”

  ****

  As soon I start the car, I type Luke’s number into the burner phone to tell him I’m on my way, but I stop myself from dialing. Erase the digits one by one. Marianne is right. I’ve already gotten him in enough trouble.

  Still, I find myself heading up Ocean Avenue like a woman possessed. Toward First Murphy Park and The Valentine statue. It’s only 7:17. Surely he hasn’t given up yet.

  I take the left on Lincoln and slow to a crawl, obeying the primitive prickle at the back of my neck.

  Our spot is vacant. Just the stone couple fixed in love.

  Near the front of the park, a stack of media vans. All the local channels. A group of reporters, mic’d and waiting. An electric buzz in the air. And here I am, a dead woman walking. Well, driving. The Valentine Vixen on her way to her own burning at the stake.

  I make a sharp U-turn in the middle of the street. The need to flee, a power surge to my system. And everything accelerates. Heartbeat, breath, and foot on the gas pedal. It’s full speed ahead. Clear for takeoff.

  Mid-turn, I’m outed by a woman in a Channel Five News parka.

  “There she is!”

  “Ava!”

  I’ve got at least a ten-second head start, and I’m not about to lose it.

  I make a hard left. And blow through the stop sign on Ocean, pushing forty.

  When I look in the rearview, I see the stretch of a quiet tree-lined street. So I coast for a moment, high on relief and adrenaline. But a high like that isn’t meant to last.

  And I come down hard when the siren blares behind me. When the blue lights flash their urgent warning.

  And harder still when I recognize the swagger of the approaching officer, hear the soft, inevitable thud of his footsteps.

  I lower the window—what choice do I have?—and let the biting cold air inside. All hope rushes out on the wind and scatters wide, as unrecoverable as the seeds of a dandelion. “Good morning, Ava.”

  Cooper probably thinks I don’t want to look at him. But I smile, eager to take him in. The bluish-purple mark under his right eye peeks out at me from under his sunglasses, the flesh there slightly swollen. And he’s not in uniform. Which means he’s off duty. Which means he’s skirting the line of departmental policy by pulling me over.

  “You were going pretty fast back there. Fifty in a fifteen. That’s reckless driving. And you ran a stop sign.”

  “Don’t forget the illegal U-turn.”

  He lifts his glasses, and I get a glimpse of the blood spot in his eye. A tiny red moon eclipsing a blue planet. “Oh, so this is funny to you. We’ll see who’s laughing when Judge Pardee revokes your bail. But hey, I’m sure Luke will visit you in prison. He’ll still be your little bitch.”

  “Like you were Kate’s?” The arrow is flung. And Cooper steps back. Not in retreat but preparation. Poised and ready to strike.

  “You need help, Ava. My mom called me this morning, asking if I know something about Ian’s death. She said you’d told her I went to Cliffside. And you’ve already poisoned my own brother against me. It makes me wonder what you’ve got to hide. What bodies you’ve got buried.”

  I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, suddenly aware of Cooper’s gaze, fixed on Cleo’s folder sticking out of my bag. Cooper’s hand on his h
ip, his holster beneath it. Cooper’s excited breathing. But shooting me would almost be merciful. Instead, he leans forward, coolly, his head half-inside the window, and lets his words do the dirty work of eviscerating me.

  “I know about Wallace Bergman.”

  No one has spoken the name aloud to me in years. I’ve only heard it filtered through my own head, in my own voice. And I shudder when I hear it in his, as if he’d summoned a beast. Recited an ancient curse to loose the hounds of hell.

  “Wallace who—?” I’m cut off by the roar of an engine. Several engines, in fact. And the glorious shouting of the reporters who’ve managed to suss me out yet again. Channel Five leads the pack of them, camera trained on Cooper, even as he warns them off with his hand.

  “I think we’re done here, Officer,” I say, a little louder than necessary. “Unless you had some evidence you wanted to plant.”

  Cooper’s expression is unreadable behind his shades. His eyes, two empty pits. But he keeps them trained on me as I drive away. And when I look back, a block down the road, he’s still standing there, the reporters gathered behind him like the devil’s brigade.

  ****

  I drive to Cliffside. The only place I know the cameras—and Cooper—won’t follow.

  In the parking lot, I slide the burner phone from my pocket and check the home page again. News of the impromptu traffic stop hasn’t gone viral yet. But there is a new headline. And it turns my stomach.

  “Valentine Vixen to Issue Statement at Famed Carmel Statue: Will She Confess?”

  According to The Downtown Star online, I’d emailed all the local networks this morning, with a titillating promise of a major announcement at The Valentine. I think of Luke and the last time I saw him—I believe you. But does he? Who would? Maybe it had all been a ploy.

  I walk inside, head down, gait clipped, and hurriedly scrawl my name in the log book, careful to avoid everyone’s eyes. And the whispers. I block them out, focus only on the sound of the wailing woman who’s somehow awake and steering her wheelchair with her pink-slippered feet.

  My mother is sleeping, her head lolled to one side, as if it’s come unloosed. On her nightstand, I see a red foil wrapper. She’s eaten one of Marianne’s chocolates. The ones Cooper plied her with. And I ride a wave of panic until I see the slow rise and fall of her chest. The twitch of her hand.

  I sit on the vinyl sofa and pull out Cleo’s file, starting at the very beginning. The first day she’d arrived at my office with her red bicycle. I don’t know what I’m looking for, only that it feels essential to look.

  My notes are as sparse as scattered bones.

  Name: Cleo Campbell

  Session Date: 7/19/17

  Client arrived on time for first session, oriented in all spheres. Reviewed limits of confidentiality and therapy agreement. Mood varied during the appointment. Initially, neutral. Then distraught, tearful. Discussed client’s goals for treatment related to relationship and intimacy issues. Next session scheduled for 7/26.

  But my memory is not. The vision of Cleo, cross-legged on the sofa, fidgeting with a strand of her hair, is as clear and shining as if I’d preserved it in amber.

  “I’m sleeping with a married man,” she’d said. And I’d nodded to cover my disgust, reeling inside. As if Kate had been sitting on my sofa. I’d briefly considered screaming at her, smothering her with a throw pillow. But then I’d realized what she was. A heaping dose of punishment. And I had to swallow it down like a big girl.

  “How long have you been seeing him?”

  “Not long, but it’s more than what I was, uh . . . it’s more than what I thought it would be. He’s different.” I’d wanted to say that different meant squat. That all cheaters are different. But exactly the same.

  “Did he tell you he was married?”

  “He didn’t have to. I knew.”

  “How?”

  “He was wearing a wedding ring.”

  A wedding ring. I nearly say it out loud. I’d taken her at her word. I couldn’t have known then it wasn’t true.

  I shut the file and tuck it back into my purse, just as my mother calls out from bed. Her eyes open wide and fix on me with childlike terror. “Who are you? What are you doing in my room?”

  I reach out to her from the sofa, but she pulls away, cowering. Hands shrinking to her chest like a bird’s talons. “Mom,” I say. And instantly regret it. I know better.

  “You’re not my daughter.” She’s so certain. So scornful. That I wonder if it comes from someplace real. Maybe I’m not the girl she once knew. The girl who’d tiptoed through the house, so careful not to crack the eggshells. The woman who’d compromised her soul for a man.

  “Get away from me! No, no, no!” She’s keening now, flailing her arms wildly. I try to latch onto the wrist nearest me, but she’s surprisingly fast, and it smacks against the bed rail with a vicious crack.

  Two nurses rush in and flank her, one armed with a needle. And I’m pushed to the side, powerless to do anything but watch. When it’s over, my mother lies there, nodding off, like a spent shell. Her damage already done.

  “I think she broke her wrist,” I say.

  “Okay, sweetie. We’ll check it out when she wakes up. The Haldol kicks in fast.” And when the nurse pats my shoulder, I’ve never felt more alone.

  Or more afraid. Because David is right. And I have to find Cleo before it’s too late.

  ****

  Back in my car, I call the only number I have for Cleo. Seven times. And all seven reach the same dead end: This number has been disconnected or is no longer in service.

  With no choice, I pull up the Spellbound Services website and scroll down until I find her. The red-haired girl on her knees.

  I click “Make an Appointment,” and another screen loads. I fill in my details—when and where and for how long—and take a breath.

  I hope that, for once, I’m doing the right thing.

  Reserve Cleopatra Now.

  I push the button. And groan, defeated.

  Cleopatra is not accepting appointments at this time. Please contact Spellbound Services directly at the number below, and we will be happy to assist you in finding your perfect match.

  Before I can overthink it, I dial.

  “Hello. This is Spellbound Services, where your fantasies are only a wish away. How can I help you?” Yeah, a wish and a major credit card.

  “I need to speak to Cleo. Uh, I mean Cleopatra James.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. We don’t encourage personal contact between our staff and their clients.” I clear my throat with obvious disdain. Apparently, she has a loose definition of personal contact. “Well, I mean outside of your appointment time, of course.”

  “I’m not a client of hers. I just need to talk to her. And the number I have is disconnected. Could you possibly relay a message? It’s urgent.”

  A heavy sigh breaks her silence. “To tell you the truth, Cleopatra is no longer employed by this agency. Could we find another girl who might be suitable for your needs?”

  “I don’t have any needs!” I shout at the phone, then laugh at my own ridiculousness. “I told you I’m not a client. You must have some way to reach her. Please.”

  “Alright, alright. I’ll take the message, but I can’t make any promises.”

  “Fine. Just tell her to call Ava at this number.” I rattle off the digits I’d jotted from the screen of the burner phone. “And that I need to see her. It’s about The Professor. She’ll know what I mean.” I wonder if I sound the way I do in my own head. Like an utter lunatic.

  “I’m sure she will, ma’am.” That’s a yes. “Any other fantasies I can help you fulfill today?”

  The magic of new love only lasts so long. Midnight comes, the spell is broken, and you’ll be seen for the pumpkin you really are.

  —Ian Culpepper
, Love CPR

  Valentine’s Day

  One Year Earlier

  Ava nodded blankly at her new 10 a.m., Joan McCorkle. The nod had become one of her go-to moves in LA—along with the empathic murmur and the curious, but the not-too-curious, tell me more—and she’d hoped to leave it there.

  But the patients here in Carmel were just as pretentious. Maybe more so. They had the refinement that Los Angelians lacked. Mrs. McCorkle, for one, hid her expensive jewelry in a lockbox, in a safe room, behind the tall gates of her multimillion-dollar home. Because you can never be too careful, dear. In LA, she’d have shown up for a session wearing a ring on every finger.

  “I think today is the day I’ve been waiting for.” Undeterred by Ava’s half-hearted nod, Mrs. McCorkle bounced in her seat.

  “You seem excited.”

  “You have no idea. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Can you tell?” She widened her eyes at Ava, her lashes long and black as a spider’s legs.

  “Not at all.”

  “Well, I have been using a new caviar eye cream.”

  Empathic murmur. “So what has you so inspired today?”

  “My daughter, Jacqueline—the one I told you about last week—is getting engaged. And her fiancé, Spencer, is a brain surgeon. Can you believe that? Who actually marries a brain surgeon?”

  Ava gritted her teeth. Since you said the exact same thing last week, I looked it up, and there are about 3,600 neurosurgeons in the US, so plenty of people. Actually. “That’s wonderful. Tell me more.”

  ****

  “I’m thinking Bora Bora for the honeymoon, but I’ll fill you in on the details next week, dear.” Mrs. McCorkle handed Ava a wad of cash as she stood from the sofa. “This should cover our next four sessions.”

  Ava counted the bills out on her desk. “I think you’re one hundred dollars short. It’s two hundred dollars per session.”

  Grumbling, Mrs. McCorkle pinched another crisp bill from her wallet. “Everybody tells me I should’ve been a therapist. Getting paid a small fortune just to listen. Now that’s the life. But you know, I’d probably get bored.”