Sandra could see the woman was confused and incapable of making decisions. This was the upside of the medical community, people in shock entered into an organized system that led them to some place where, maybe, they could find healing. The downside, it was a mechanical system that was deaf to the individuals' needs. On this day Sandra decided not to be deaf. These two were not the type for the subway, so Sandra leads them downstairs to the street and hails a cab, "Rucker Park." She says to the driver, who says nothing but you can tell what he is thinking ... Middle-class white girls going into THAT area?
Traffic was light through Manhattan and soon they rolled up to the basketball courts in Harlem. Mrs. Close looked even more confused, "As I said, Mrs. Close, the good Professor is a very different type of doctor. But I assure you, it is what your daughter needs."
In front of them, the place was full of negroes and Hispanics, playing basketball mostly, but there were skateboards, chess games, you name it. Harlem was a melting pot - there was a mix of races, all getting on fine. The mother was clearly fretting, this was a very strange situation. "There is no office?" she cautiously asked.
"John Smith!" Sandra leaned out of the cab window and shouted his pseudonym. "Client!"
The people n the basketball courts part like the Red Sea, revealing a gaunt white man, sweating, shirt off. Fit and trim for his obvious years, the man doesn't look up but continues to shoot the hoops. But he heard, she knew by the way he paused for a second, processing the voice. John Smith then goes to his bag, pulls out a towel, and wipes off the sweat. He then moves over to the waiting clients. He glances over to a large black man, obviously a sort of security guard, and nods that it is OK.
Bouncing the ball, thump, thump thump thump, thump, thump. He makes his way without looking up, singing quite clearly to himself, "How does it feel, to be on your own, a complete unknown, like a rolling stone...." Dylan, thinks Sandra, it was always Dylan. The poet of the generation, he had said. The heart and soul of the Sixties, along with Cohen and Bukowski. No wonder everyone thought him manic depressive.
She nods to Mrs. Close, indicating for she and her daughter to get out of the cab, while she hands the driver a fifty and asks him to wait.
'John Smith' says nothing, just steps up to look at the girl in shutdown. Then he bounces the ball towards her, and by reflex she catches it. "Good, you passed," He says to the little blonde thing. "You the mother?" he asks Mrs. Close. The confused woman stammers that she is. "You can afford treatment?"
She nods. "Ah, how much will it be?".
The woman is obviously clueless, confused, but by the jewelry, the perfect teeth, the flawless skin, she was clearly rich. 'John Smith' explains, "What I will charge you will be a donation. This donation will go to paying for treatment for a dozen kids who have had guns at their heads from some relative, kids who have been raped, imprisoned, treated like slaves. It will be Ten Thousand Dollars, but I promise you, the girl will be fine. I know her story, I know her problem. Payment is right now, and I will sort the problem for you."
"Dammit," thinks Sandra to herself. She has put her professional career on the line for this. Ten grand up front! If it doesn't work, she will be getting her ass sued. Why did she do this? Fuck. How could she be SO damn stupid, she knows what he is like. She can see the woman's husband now, talking to his lawyer, demanding why his wife gave Ten Thousand Dollars to 'John Smith' and why did this Sandra Caruthers set her up?
"You can truly heal her?" the mother asks, helpless, reaching for her checkbook.
"No, that is the vain dream of bad doctors. I can heal no one. However, she will heal herself, and it won't take long."
"Who do I write the check to?"
"Children's Aid Society, Madam. The good news, it is fully tax-deductible. Put your mailing address on the back and they will post you a receipt."
The woman does not hesitate to write the cheque, 'John Smith' takes it without so much as a thank you, and indicates for them to go to a nearby bench. "I need the ball kid," he says in an off-hand manner. The girl bounces it to him. 'John Smith' whistles and a golden retriever gallops up with enormous enthusiasm. "Kid, I have to work with your mother a bit. She has issues. Can you maybe play with the dog?"
The girl vacantly reaches out her hand and the dog cuddles up to her. Slowly she starts to pet him, and he licks her face. There is a faint hint of a smile. Sandra shakes her head, he makes it all look so damn simple. That was months of therapy anywhere else, months. Takes him two minutes: catch a ball, play with a dog, and the ice starts to break. The girl starts to form a tear in her eye.
"What's your name?" John Smith asks the mother.
"Amanda Close, it is there on the cheque."
"Your real name Amanda. the one you were born with. You obviously can't stand your husband, that's half the girl's problem. What is your maiden name?"
He sits her down on a park bench, takes her hands, and looks into her eyes. It is very disconcerting, She stammers, nervous, flushed. He is so close. It is so intimate. "I am not your boyfriend woman, I just want to know your maiden name."
"Cassidy, Amanda Cassidy," she says.
"That wasn't so hard, hey? Well Miss Cassidy, have you decided to leave the husband yet? He is obviously emotionally unavailable to you, and I am wondering why you are still there. Why? Is it money? For the sake of the girl? Both?"
There is something about this man, it demands she tell the truth, "Both."
"Why is the girl in shock?" He asks.
"She was kidnapped. We don't know what happened, Eric paid the ransom, we did it privately, not through the police, a private contractor. We don't know what happened, but she just came back to us like this. I don't know what to do!"
"Eric is the husband, your father? Who?"
"My husband."
"And he blames you for all that money because you didn't keep a close lookout, yes?"
"Yes." She starts weeping. "Yes, it is my fault. I was having coffee, she was in the park, I should have been there!"
'John Smith' gives the woman a sharp slap across the cheek. She is shocked back to the present. The girl stops her play and gasps. "NO!" she cries out. She leaves the dog and runs to her mother.
"There, the problem with the child is now solved. The real issue, however, is not. Your dear Eric hits you a lot, doesn't he?"
"Yes," the woman is now in tears and sobbing. She is embarrassed but relieved, confused, yet grateful. She is hugging her child, they are both weeping.
"Well, the kid's good now. The real problem is you, and the marriage. You need to head back home, pack your bags, and start divorce proceedings immediately. The little girl will be fine, but things are not what they appear." Then looking over to the little girl he nods, and says, "You did real good kid, getting your mum to come to me, it will all work out now. You did a great job, but the need for silence is done. You can talk freely now. Your job is to give your Mum the courage to do what needs to be done. You also need to tell the police what your father was doing to you, ok?"
The girl just nods. "Sandy, take them home, make sure she packs her bags. This whole thing has been a setup by the father to cover up what he has been doing to his daughter. You will probably find the 'ransom' was a way to move money to his own accounts. My guess is he was intending to kill off the wife and take the girl away, but that is for the police to sort out. Come back to see me when it is done."
In the cab, Sandra looks at the little girl, still with tears in her eyes. She has completely unlocked and is hugging her mother, and what's more the little girl is crying and telling her mother all about what her father was doing to her, but saying she will be OK. How the hell does he do this? It is like he reads their minds. Half from relief, half from stress, half from elation, she too is now crying opening with mother and daughter.
How the FUCK did he know?
Professor Mort Bogden
Central Park stretched out: A green pool of calm in the madness of the city. Sandy has laid out a picnic. He like
d open spaces and hated restaurant food, so this was all things she had prepared herself - simple ham and egg bagels, nuts, some fruit, and a pot of coffee. Professor Mort Bogden was walking towards her, he was in casual dress, jeans, white shirt, hair tied into a ponytail. As he approached she could see how his face was now lined with crevasses, but still unshaven, as always. He must be into his eighties by now, but he walked along like a carefree youth.
As he came closer, she could see the fine detail. The relaxed movement, the cat-like sense that he was watching everything. And he was! Those bluest of eyes still danced and saw every detail: They saw everything with uncompromising honesty. And now they were staring at her in that uncomfortable way that made you feel like a little girl.
Mort then smiled, she had no time to ask any questions before he spoke. "Why do people never see the obvious? It is not 'how do I know things', which is what you were going to ask, but it is really the same question. People always ask 'how' I knew something about a person, but really, it is just reading the obvious. The truth, Sandy? I don't know anything. I improvise. On impulse, I bounce a ball to a little catatonic girl and she catches it. So now I know her reflexive mind and motor skills are good. She plays with a dog, so her emotional intelligence is still working. She is in shock from trauma, yet her mother is worse. Logically there is a connecting point, and my first guess is that the causative agent is whoever is between the two."
Sandra shakes her head. "There is a HUGE gap between guessing domestic violence, pedophilia and a father organizing a ransom for a kidnapped child that goes to his own accounts. What the fuck? I mean, it is just not possible to guess that!"
"Who said it was a guess? The details spelled out the obvious. No police, ransom organized through a private investigator AND the safe return of the child. These are not normally things that add up. ONE of those factors always goes wrong, and given that a sadistic husband has been proved, the most logical option is that he planned it."
"Leap of faith logic, I say," Sandra counters.
Mort smiles a genuine smile. "And why would you think a leap of faith is a bad thing?"
Sandy just shakes her head. "It went down exactly as you said. The Police came in, spoke to the PI - asked why they were never contacted about the kidnapping. The guy tells them the whole story to save his own bacon, and really, he was just the bagman. Turns our dear Eric already had tickets for Mexico and had filed for bankruptcy. His wife had a fat insurance policy, so you were most likely right, he would snuff her, and use the cash to set himself up outside of US jurisdiction."
Sandra laughed, "It got kind of crazy, the more they dug, the more dirt they found. Turns out the guy was a cocaine dealer. The wife knew about that, of course. But she didn't know he was fiddling with his own daughter. That will no doubt have issues with the girl later on, but for now, she is eating and safe. The mother is a mess, but they are both back home with family in Connecticut."
"Fear of intimacy. It's the disease of modern America." Mort says dryly.
"Ok, now I have to ask: Where do you get 'Fear of Intimacy' from a greedy pig of a cocaine dealer willing to rape his own daughter and murder his wife?"
"It is ALL driven by fear, Sandy. The question is only what fear is it that is driving the bus. Fear of Intimacy, fear of unworthiness, fear of God. It is wrapped up in shame, guilt, anger, lust, sloth or whatever ... These are all the emotions we wear to cover up our deepest fear. In the case of the girl and her mother, she told herself it was the money that was keeping her there - but it was fear of shame. A broken marriage meant she was a failure. She was scared, alone, and beaten every night. But WHY, you ask, WHY didn't she reach out to her family, like she finally has now?
"Fear of Intimacy. She could not open her heart to her mother, because all she ever got from the woman was judgment. But now, she goes back home as the wounded princess in need of love and care. It's a good end from a bad circle. And it is all circular: Our fears create our thoughts, the thoughts we have breed our emotions which in turn decide how we act. The trick to everything I do is understanding what precisely the circle is that someone is trapped in. Then you only need to find the ends that tie it all together and break them. The circle then becomes linear and people can now see the end result of their choices. They start to see the obvious - This means they can now choose a different path."
They ate in silence, or at least, they did not speak. Sandy's mind was ringing with questions but it seemed Mort was more interested in what was around him. Birdsong filled the air, while in the distance the ever-present growl of the traffic formed up as some weird seascape of white noise. Listening to New York from Central Park is a lot like putting a shell to your ear.
"I have something that will interest you," Mort says. "I have been invited to consult a shire council in England, of all places. A distance education student of mine works there, and he recommended me to work in developing community relations in a Council borough. Peterlee, in the North. I was surprised because I recalled for some reason that this was where you grew up, wasn't it?"
Sandra nodded. "Yes, that was a long time ago. What are you being invited to do?"
"They read a recent paper of mine about community dynamics and thought I could help them with interpersonal issues, community contact, that sort of thing. I said I would spend a few weeks there and, purely by coincidence, you turn up, so universes colliding and all that - I had the sense that you might like to come along?" He just looked at her, saying nothing.
Sandy covered up the shock that Mort was still publishing papers with the greater shock he was inviting her along. "You are asking me to drop everything and go to England?"
"Well, you have family there you haven't seen for decades, and with all the publicity you have gotten for cracking this case, I was thinking that you might like to lie low for a bit."
It was true, she was getting calls from every crackpot with a problem in Manhattan since it had been HER name put into the press as the savior of the day. The Kidnap Konman Kaper they called it. The mother saying that 'John Smith' solved it was laughed at, and everyone presumed it was Sandy using a decoy. After all, she had booked into Sandra's office, so logically, as there was no 'John Smith' - she had to be the secret wizard who solved the case. Now every relative with a missing person was calling, asking to book in.
Sandra caught her astonishment with a reality shock. Was she REALLY thinking of dropping everything and heading off to England? Fact was, her Mum was getting on, and she had been putting this off going for too long now. "When are you leaving?"
"Tomorrow, I already have a ticket booked in your name. See you at JFK at 11.45." Mort hands Sandy a ticket. "I took the liberty of making sure your passport was up to date."
Sandy looks down, her name was on the ticket, JFK, 11.45 flying British Airways. "But, how do you know my passport is up to date? How do you even know I have a passport?"
"You were my student, remember. You filled out forms. As a British citizen, as you were at that time, you had to fill out your passport details. Not hard, I called a friend, who called a friend, just to make sure I wasn't wasting the money, you understand. And if I gave you time to think about it, you would out-think yourself and not go. I believe you will love it! You know what I mean: a breakaway, getting back to roots, getting some real beer into you. You will be helping me, of course, and paid, so I guessed you would take up the opportunity. Plus you KNOW my view on coincidence."
Mort looked away to some birds that were landing on a lake and laughed. "I love Central Park. Great choice for a meeting."
"I haven't even said I will come, and you just presume you know me well enough to know what I will choose. HOW? That is what I want to know, and yes, of course, I will come, and yes you are right, the practice is a disaster with every crackpot in the city calling up. But HOW can you be so certain?" Sandra asks, still astonished with this man.
"I have no certainty about anything, which is why I have to place my trust in the universe. In MY view, this thi
ng was a certainty after I saw you with the little girl. There is NO coincidence that I am invited to the place of your birth, then have you turn up out the blue with an important case. Even your skeptical head would have trouble arguing these things are not connected. They are part of a circle formed for a specific purpose, and you can consider the airfares as your commission for the Ten Grand. OK?"
Somewhat stunned, Sandy finds herself nodding in agreement. "OK, tomorrow at JFK. I just have to find someone to look after the cat."
"Oh, and another 'coincidence'! I found someone to look after your cat. You remember your old flatmate when you were studying at Columbia?"
"Cynthia? I haven't heard from her in years."
"Well, she has been interstate, and looked me up yesterday, saying she needs a place to stay for a month. I said your place would be free, I presumed you were coming and wouldn't mind."
Just as he spoke, her phone rings. She picks up to hear, "Sandy? This is Cynthia ... Professor Bogden gave me your number"
Flight to London
It was nine hours to London, then a short hop to Newcastle, where they were to be picked up by a representative of the Peterlee Council. Mort had thoughtfully given her a seat away from himself, most probably so he didn't feel any compulsion to talk, or more specifically to listen, the entire time. He also understood she liked her space. She smiled - In many ways, he was a substitute father for her.
The short hop to Newcastle was when he sat beside her, discussing a few of the details about what he would like her to do while they were there. Would she help out? Of course, she had expected to be doing so.
"Did you ever wonder about hell, Sandy?" He asked, completely out the blue.
"No, you know I am agnostic. Why would I be thinking about hell?" she answered.
Witch Hunters and Other Stories (2018-2019) Page 5