Blood Test (17 page)

“I don’t know. But it was high powered. Beverly Hills.”

Attorney to guru seemed an unlikely metamorphosis.

“Why the change of lifestyle?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Alex. Most charismatic leaders claim
some sort of cosmic vision, usually after a trauma. Your basic voice in the
desert stuff. Maybe he ran out of gas in the Mojave and saw God.”

I laughed.

“I wish I could tell you more, Alex. The group hasn’t
attracted much attention because it’s so small, maybe sixty members. And like I
said, they’re not out looking for converts, so it’ll probably stay small.
Whether or not that’ll change if there’s increased attrition remains to be
seen. They’ve only been around for three or four years. Another thing that’s
unusual is that most of their members are middle-aged. Groups that recruit tend
to go after young people. In practical terms that means you don’t have parents
screaming to the cops or calling in the deprogrammers.”

“Are they into holistic health?”

“Probably. Most of these groups are. It’s part of
rejecting the values of the greater society. But I haven’t heard about them
obsessing on it, if that’s what you mean. I think their focus is more on
self-sustenance. Growing their own food, making their own clothes. Like the
original Utopians—Oneida, Ephrata, New Harmony. Can I ask why you want to know
all of this?”

I told him about the Swopes’ decision not to treat Woody
and the family’s subsequent disappearance.

“Does that sound like something this group could be
involved in, Seth?”

“It doesn’t seem likely, because they’re reclusive.
Taking on the medical establishment would subject them to lots of scrutiny.”

“They did visit the family,” I reminded him.

“If they wanted to be subversive why do it so
publicly? You said the family lived near the Retreat?”

“From what I understand.”

“So maybe they were just being neighborly. In a small
town like La Vista there’s bound to be plenty of distrust of oddballs on the
part of the natives. A smart oddball makes a special effort to be friendly. It’s
good survival strategy.”

“Speaking of survival,” I asked, “how do they support
themselves?”

“My guess is member contributions. On the other hand,
Matthews was a rich man. He could be bankrolling the whole thing himself just
for the power and prestige. If they’re really into self-reliance the overhead
wouldn’t be that high.”

“One more thing, Seth. Why do they call themselves the
Touch?”

He laughed. “Damned if I know. I think I’ll sic a grad
student on it.”

Mal Worthy called me later that day.

“It appears that Mrs. Moody didn’t get a rat because
she was destined for bigger and better things. This morning she found a dog
eviscerated, hanging from the front doorknob by its entrails. He castrated it
too, stuffed the balls in its mouth.”

Revulsion kept me silent.

“What a guy, huh? On top of that he snuck in a phone
call, in defiance of the order, talked to the boy and told him to run away. The
kid obeyed and it took seven hours to find him. They finally caught up with him
late last night, wandering around the parking lot of some mall, five miles from
home. Apparently he thought his father was going to pick him up and take him
away. No one showed up and he was scared out of his mind, poor kid. Needless to
say Darlene is going bananas, and I’m calling to ask you to see the kids. More
for their mental health than anything else.”

“Did they see the dog?”

“Thank God, no. She cleaned it up before they had a
chance. How soon can you see them?”

“I won’t have access to the office until Saturday.” I’d
been renting space for forensic evaluations in the Brentwood suite of a
colleague, but only had use of the office on weekends.

“You can do it here. Just name the time.”

“Can you get them down there in a couple of hours?”

“You got it.”

The offices of Trenton, Worthy & La Rosa were
located on the penthouse floor of a high-prestige building at the intersection
of Roxbury and Wilshire. Mal, resplendent in a navy silk and worsted from
Bijan, was in the waiting room to greet me personally. He informed me I’d be
using his office. I remembered it as a cavernous, dark-walled room with an
oversized amorphous desk that looked like a piece of free-form sculpture,
saw-toothed abstract prints hanging from the paneling, and shelves full of
expensive—and breakable—mementos. Not an ideal place for child therapy but it
would have to do.

I rearranged some chairs, moved an end table, and
created a play area in the center of the room. Removing paper, pencils,
crayons, hand puppets, and a portable playhouse from my carrying case, I placed
them on the table. Then I went to fetch the Moody children.

They were waiting in the law library: Darlene, Carlton
Conley, and the children, who’d been dressed as if for church.

The three year old, April, wore a white taffeta dress
and white patent leather sandals over lace-hemmed socks. Her blond hair had
been ribboned and braided. She nestled sleepily in her mother’s lap, worrying a
knee scab and sucking her thumb.

Her brother’d been costumed in a white western shirt,
brown corduroy pants with the cuffs turned up, a snap-on tie and black oxfords.
His face had been scrubbed, his dark hair slicked down in an unsuccessful
attempt to make it behave. He looked as miserable in the getup as any nine year
old could. When he saw me he turned away.

“Now, Ricky, don’t be rude to the doctor,” admonished
his mother. “Say hello, nice and polite. Hello, Doctor.”

“Hello, Mrs. Moody.”

The boy shoved his hands in his pockets and scowled.

Conley got up from his seat next to her and shook my
hand, grinning awkwardly. The judge had been right. Except for being
significantly taller, he looked strikingly like the man he’d replaced.

“Doctor,” he said weakly.

“Hello, Mr. Conley.”

April stirred, opened her eyes, and smiled at me. She’d
been the easy one during the evaluation, an expressive, happy child. Because
she was a girl her father had chosen to ignore her and she’d been spared his
destructive love. Ricky was the favorite; he’d suffered for it.

“Hi, April.”

She batted her lashes, lowered her face, and giggled,
a natural coquette.

“Remember the toys we played with last time?”

She nodded and giggled again.

“I have them here. Would you like to play with them
again?”

She looked at her mother, requesting permission.

“Go ’head, honey.”

The little girl climbed down and took my hand.

“I’ll see you in a while, Ricky,” I said to the sullen
boy.

I spent twenty minutes with April, mostly observing as
she manipulated the miniature inhabitants of the playhouse. Her play was
organized and structured and relatively untroubled. Though she enacted several
episodes of parental conflict, she was able to resolve them by having the
father leave and the family live happily ever after. For the most part, hope
and determination emanated from the scenarios she constructed.

I drew her out about the situation at home and found
that she had an age-appropriate understanding of what was going on. Daddy was
angry at mommy, mommy was angry at daddy, so they weren’t going to live with
each other anymore. She knew it wasn’t her fault or Ricky’s and she liked
Carlton.

Everything was consistent with what I’d learned during
the initial evaluation. At that time she’d expressed little anxiety over her
father’s absence and had seemed to be growing attached to Conley. When I
questioned her about him now her face lit up.

“Carlton’s so nice, Docka Alek. He take me to da zoo.
We saw da diraffe. An da cockadile.” Her eyes widened with wonder, the memory
alive.

She went on singing his praises and I prayed Judge
Severe’s cynical prophecy would be proved wrong. I’d treated countless girls
who’d suffered tortured relationships with their fathers or no relationship at
all, and had witnessed the psychic damage they’d incurred, grievously
handicapped in the relationship game. This little sweetheart deserved better.

When I’d observed long enough to convince myself she
was functioning reasonably well, I took her back. She stood on tippy toes and
reached out toothpick arms. I bent and she kissed my cheek.

“Bye, Docka Alek.”

“Bye, honey. If you ever want to talk to me, tell your
mommy. She’ll help you call.”

She said okay and crawled back to the pillowy
sanctuary of her mother’s thighs.

Ricky’d moved to a far corner where he stood alone,
staring out the window. I walked over him, put my hand on his shoulder, and
spoke softly so only he could hear: “I know you’re really mad about having to
do this.”

He thrust out his lower lip, stiffened his neck, and
crossed his arms across his chest. Darlene got up, still holding April, and
started to say something but I motioned her down.

“It must be real hard not to see your dad,” I said.

He stood as straight as a Marine, trying hard to look
tough and grim.

“I heard you ran away.”

No reply.

“That must have been a real adventure.”

The hint of a smile danced across his lips and
escaped.

“I knew you had strong legs, Ricky, but to go five
miles all by yourself. Whew!”

The smile returned, staying a little longer this time.

“See anything interesting?”

“Uh huh.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

He looked back at the others.

“Not here,” I assured him. “Let’s go to another room.
We can draw and play like the last time. Okay?”

He frowned but followed me.

Mal’s office amazed him and he circled the immense
room several times before settling down.

“Ever see a place like this?”

“Uh huh. In a movie.”

“Oh yeah? Which one?”

“It was about bad guys who were taking over the world.
They had an office with lasers and stuff. It looked like this.”

“Bad guy headquarters, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think Mr. Worthy’s a bad guy?”

“My dad said he was.”

“Did he tell you anyone else was a bad guy?”

He looked uneasy.

“Like me? And Dr. Daschoff?”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you understand why your father said that?”

“He’s mad.”

“That’s right. He’s really mad. Not because of
anything you or April did, but because he doesn’t want your mom and him to get
divorced.”

“Yeah,” the boy said with sudden ferocity, “it’s her
damn fault!”

“The divorce?”

“Yeah! She kicked him out and he even paid for the
house with his money!”

I sat him down, took a chair opposite him, and put my
hands on his small shoulders as I spoke:

“Ricky, I’m sorry everything is so sad. I know you
want your mom and dad to get back together. But that’s not going to happen. Do
you remember how they used to fight all the time?”

“Yeah, but then they’d stop fighting and be happy to
us.”

“When that happened it was nice.”

“Yup.”

“But the fighting got worse and worse and there wasn’t
much happiness left.”

He shook his head.

“Divorce is terrible,” I said. “Like everything’s
falling apart.” He looked away.

“It’s okay to be angry, Ricky. I’d be angry, too, if
my parents were getting divorced. But it’s not okay to run away because you
could get hurt that way.”

“My dad’ll take care of me.”

“Ricky, I know you love your dad very much. You
should. A dad is someone special. And a dad should be able to be with his
children, even after a divorce. I hope some day your dad can see you a lot, and
take you places and do fun stuff with you. But right now—and this is really sad—it’s
not a good idea for him to spend a lot of time with you and April. Do you
understand why?”

“Cause he’s sick?”

“Right. Do you know what kind of sickness?”

He ruminated on the question.

“He gets mad?”

“That’s part of it. He gets real mad or real sad or
real happy all of a sudden. Sometimes without a good reason. When he’s real mad
he could do mad things that wouldn’t be right, like fight with somebody. That
could be dangerous.”

“Uh
uh!
He could beat ’em up!”

“That’s true, but it would be dangerous for the person
he beat up. And you or April could get hurt, accidentally. Do you understand?”

A grudging nod.

“I’m not saying he’ll always be sick. There are
medicines he can take that can help. And talking to doctors, like me, can help,
too. But right now your dad doesn’t want to admit that he needs help. So the
judge said he couldn’t see you until he got better. That made him really mad
and now he thinks everyone is a bad guy trying to hurt him. But we’re really
trying to help him. And to protect you.”