Bound by Suggestion (26 page)

“Jeff’s death?”

“I
see
death. He’s in terrible danger. You’re the only one who can save him. From this woman, from himself.”

“What must I do?

“Listen to yourself. When the time comes to act, you will know what to do. You
must
listen to yourself. It may look to others like what you do for Jeffrey is wrong, but you will know in your heart what’s right. More important,
he
will know.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He thinks he has no connection to you because he doesn’t know what you feel, like he knows about so many others. He doesn’t yet realize that it is his connection to you that gives his life purpose.”

Richard blinked without comprehension.

“Without you, how could he help others? He would have never found Matt Sumner’s killer. He needed you to save Maggie in Vermont. Without you, he could not have found the person who stalked your wife. You two were meant to work together. You’re a part of each other.”

“Yin and yang?” he suggested.

“Eh—maybe Laurel and Hardy.”

She rose from her chair. “It’s time for you to go.”

Richard looked down. His tea was gone. He didn’t even remember drinking it. He stood, unhappy at being dismissed so soon.

“How can I contact you if I need you?”

“I’m always here for Jeffrey.”

What about me
? he wanted to ask, suddenly feeling needy, but thought better of it.

Richard paused at the door, offered his hand. Sophie looked at it, then a sly smile graced her face. He clasped her warm hand, his index finger sliding up her wrist where her pulse thrummed rhythmically.

No fool, her smile broadened. “Good night, Dr. Alpert.”

Strained relations made for another chilly breakfast with Brenda. At least the bedroom door had been unlocked when Richard had returned the night before.

Escaping to his study with his third cup of coffee, Richard sat behind his big mahogany desk and gazed out the window at another gray day.

He probably had a week before Wes Timberly would give him trouble, that brought the problem of Krista Marsh to the front burner. Jeff would be pissed to find Richard poking around in his personal affairs, but so be it. The question was where the hell should Richard start? Sophie had given him a clue: research the lady psychiatrist’s life like one of his projects back in Pasadena.

The first step: talk to people who knew her. The clinic Christmas Card list in the top desk drawer provided names, addresses and phone numbers for the entire staff. Richard ran a finger down the column of names until he came to the clinic’s secretary. He dialed, hoping nine forty-five wasn’t too early to call on a Sunday morning.

“Hello,” said a sunny voice.

“Donna, it’s Dr. Alpert from the clinic. I hope I’m not intruding on your weekend.”

“Hey, Dr. A. What can I do for you?

“I’m an alternate on the Bainbridge Grant committee.” Okay, so he was fibbing a little. “John Urmacher and Krista Marsh have both been nominated, and—”

“Don’t talk to me about Krista Marsh.”

“You don’t think she’s a good candidate?” Richard asked, taken aback by her sharp tone.

“John’s been on staff for over ten years. His research will benefit a lot more people than Dr. Marsh’s—” she started, then launched into additional litanies on Urmacher’s sterling qualities.

Richard listened patiently, waiting for her to run out of steam. “John’s lucky to have such an advocate like you. But I’m also interested in each candidate’s training and trying to get up to speed quickly. Do you know where Dr. Marsh went to med school? Did her graduate work?”

“Wouldn’t all that be in the committee’s report?”

Richard rustled papers, as though looking for the information. “Oh yes, here it is.” He tried again. “Is there something about Dr. Marsh’s approach to patient care that makes you think she doesn’t deserve the grant?”

“She cancels a lot of appointments. Especially during the past couple of weeks. You wouldn’t believe the trouble I have rescheduling.”

“Then her workload has shifted lately?”

“All to accommodate one of the patients in her private practice. I wish she’d just give up her clinic work. She blows off half of those patients anyway.”

“Do you know the name of her special patient?”

“A woman. Vander something,” she said, disgusted. “How would knowing her patient’s name effect the Bainbridge Grant?”

“You’re right, it wouldn’t. I guess I’m just overly curious. Why else don’t you think Dr. Marsh should get the grant?”

“Well, for one thing, I’ve seen the woman leave the Ladies Room without washing her hands. She’s a doctor, for chrissakes! Doesn’t she know anything about germs?”

Richard allowed himself a wry smile. “Thanks for speaking with me, Donna. I’ll see you on Friday.”

He hung up, his smile fading. Outside his window, the evergreens swayed. He could waste the entire day collecting gossip and anecdotal stories on Krista, or he could get down and dirty by calling in a favor from an old friend.

Richard pushed his coffee mug aside. When Sophie thought about Krista, she saw blackness—death. Yeah, but for whom? Too bad she couldn’t have provided more reliable evidence. Did the old woman possess the same psychic gifts as Jeff? Should he trust her cryptic ramblings? Could he afford not to?

Giving himself no time to change his mind, Richard sat up straight, grabbed the phone, then punched in the long-distance number.

“Sharon, it’s Richard Alpert.”

“Dr. Alpert!” the woman cried in delight. “Oh, we’ve missed you—and Brenda, too.”

“Not a day goes by that we don’t think of you guys, either.”

Her voice hardened. “You wouldn’t be calling on a Sunday if you didn’t need something urgently.” Sharon wasn’t the sharpest secretary in the western hemisphere for nothing.

“I need to talk to Michael. Today, if possible.”

“He hasn’t come in yet. It is only seven o’clock,” she said, reminding him of the time difference.

“I guess I forgot about that, but I’m glad you’re in.”

“Well, I do practically live here.”

He could hear the smile in her voice. He and Brenda had lived their jobs, too. And the years Richard had worked at the mansion-turned-think tank had been some of the best of his life.

“Give me a couple of hours,” Sharon said. “I’ll track him down and have him get back to you.”

“Thanks, Sharon.”

“Anything for you, Dr. Alpert.”

The TV
droned, images flickering, but I was beyond taking it in. Curled under a blanket on the couch, I lay on my side, staring at the wall. The headache was more or less gone, but it seemed like it had taken all that was left of me with it. I was a non-entity.

A nothing.

Zero.

The bathroom wasn’t visible from my vantage point, but I pictured all the pills in the medicine cabinet looking at me.

They called to me.

I tried not to listen.

The phone rang. I let the answering machine take it, but groped for the TV’s remote, hitting the mute button.

“Jeff? It’s Krista.”

No way did I want to talk to her.

“What happened last night? Your sister-in-law said you walked home,” she said, her voice filled with irritation. “You shouldn’t have done that. You made me look bad in front of her. God knows what she thinks—”

That you’re a bitch . . . .

“or what she told Richard.”

Which is all you
really
care about.

“Call me,” she commanded. “There’s something important we need to discuss. I’m home. Here’s the number.”

She read it off and hung up.

Somehow I mustered the energy to get up, shuffle over to the phone, and then unplug it. On my way back to the couch, I picked up my mother’s card. There’d been no other birthday greetings in the mail.

I headed back for the couch, setting the card on the end table. The TV still flickered. I didn’t bother to take it off mute. Instead, I lay there, eyes closed, just breathing.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Resist the insidious urge whispering through my brain, gnawing at my nerves, telling me to do something that was against everything I’d been taught—everything I believed in.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Minutes . . . or maybe hours . . . later the door to the stairs rattled. I didn’t move to open it. A key slid into the lock, then it clicked open.

“Jeffy?”

“Over here,” I said, not bothering to get up.

Brenda closed the door, and then came to stand before me. She bent down, placed her warm fingers against my forehead. “Cool as a cucumber.” She straightened. “I figured you’d be sick as a dog after walking home last night.”

“Viruses give you colds and fever, not rain.”

“Where’d you get your degree in medicine?”

“My brother’s a doctor. I learned through osmosis.”

Brenda frowned. “It’s stuffy in here. Want me to open a window?”

I shook my head.

“Do you always watch TV with the sound off?”

“I’m practicing lip reading.”

“Uh-huh.” She looked toward the kitchen. “Have you eaten today?”

I hauled myself into a sitting position. The room swam.

“Yes.”

“What?”

My mind scrambled. “Uh, cereal.” I picked up the remote and switched off the TV.

“What kind?”

“I don’t remember. Whatever’s in the cupboard.”

She marched to the kitchen cabinet, took out the only box inside—corn flakes. Frowning, she turned it upside down.

“How did you eat cereal from an unopened box? Did you teleport it into your bowl?”

She looked at Herschel’s dish on the floor. “You fed your cat, but not yourself. You didn’t eat last night, either. When
did
you last eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Brenda reopened the cupboard, replaced the cereal, then rummaged until she came up with a can of minestrone soup. Without a word, she took out a saucepan, opened the soup, dumped it in, and then set it on the stove to warm.

“Brenda, I don’t want—”

“Shut up. I’m a nurse. You’ll eat because I say so.”

It was easier to give in than to fight.

The niggling voice in my brain reminded me the medicine cabinet was still there, still waiting. My gaze wandered to the bathroom door.

Brenda followed my stare. “Is something going on in there?”

Herschel started digging in his litter box next to the toilet.

“Oh, only the kitty.” She wiped a spot of soup from the counter.

I dragged myself over to the breakfast bar. Brenda found a bowl, then opened a new box of crackers, placing a few of them on a plate. She set them before me, poured the soup and handed me a spoon, then waited until I finished the bowl.

“There, now don’t you feel better?”

“Yeah. Thanks. You’ll make a good mommy.”

She patted my hand. “Of course I will. Now I’ve got a cake to finish, birthday boy.” She rounded the breakfast bar. “Just don’t judge the decoration. You know I’m not as good at it as—”

Maggie.

“—as I could be.”

“Please don’t go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all, hon. Do you think you’ll feel better by tonight?”

Better? If by that she meant feel nothing . . . .

“Yes.”

“Good, because we’re having filet mignon.” She kissed my cheek. “I love you, Jeffy.” And she was gone.

Time dragged.

Richard made another pot of coffee, called three other clinic staff members, and then checked out a few internet sites. The New York State Department of Professional Licensing had nothing on Krista. But she had been cited for failure to maintain a patient record in Indiana two years before. Certainly not a hanging offense.

Jeff had mentioned experiencing sexual dreams soon after connecting with Krista. Was there a correlation? If she’d ever been accused of charges of a sexual nature, they weren’t listed. The very idea scared Richard down to his bones. What the hell was she doing involving a layman with a patient’s treatment anyway, and why hadn’t he questioned her ethics before now?

Two hours and twenty-three minutes after calling California, the phone shrilled. Richard snatched it on the first ring.

“Hey, old man, what’s up?” said a familiar voice, some three thousand miles away.

“Michael, I need your help.”

“That’s a first. It used to be me coming to you for advice.”

Richard couldn’t help but smile. Michael was a year or two older than Jeff. Taller, handsome, with an easy, friendly demeanor that promoted trust. Richard had taken to the younger man, whose dark eyes had reminded him of the kid brother he’d left behind all those years ago. They’d become close friends in the seven years they’d worked together.