Side Effects: An FBI Psychological Thriller (22 page)

Joe’s interest was a laser. “What happened last night?”

Bob shook his head. “Never mind.”

“
No
,” he nearly blurted. “No, Bob, you need to talk about it. Tell me what happened.”

Bob stared at his coffee, contemplating.

“Same storybook childhood, remember?” Joe put a hand on his shoulder. It felt right now.

Bob glanced up from his coffee. “I woke up with my hands on my wife’s throat.”

Joe’s interest in exploitation was now one of genuine curiosity. “What? Why?”

Bob offered up a helpless shrug. “Sleepwalking, I guess. I was dreaming about my father. Next thing I know my wife is screaming and my hands are on her neck.” He tossed his cup, still half-full, in the trash. “I still can’t wrap my head around it.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah…” Bob glanced back at the circle of chairs. “I think I’m gonna go. Take it easy, man.”

“
Wait
,” Joe said. “You can’t just leave.”

“And I can’t wait and see if I end up killing my wife in her fucking sleep. Take it easy, Tom.”

“Take me up on my offer!” Joe said. This time he
did
blurt it out. He’d expected more group sessions to pass, more get-to-know-ya chips to accrue before a measure of trust was established between them, affording him greater insurance when he made his move. He simply hadn’t planned nor was prepared to take him so soon.

But Bob was leaving now, claiming to never return. He couldn’t risk losing him. Bob was no consolation prize. Bob was perfect.

“Offer?”

“My outlet; the one that helped
me
cope,” Joe said.

“If it was so effective, what are you doing here?”

“Just a quick pick me up after falling off the wagon, remember? My outlet still works. Works
great
.”

An agonizing pause.

“Drinks on me, man,” Joe said. “Let’s go hit up a bar and I’ll tell you everything.”

Bob looked at his feet.

“What do you have to lose, Bob?”

Still looking at his feet, Bob began a slow nod. When he glanced back up, he was still nodding, looking like a man at the end of his rope. “Okay…” he said. “Okay, what the hell.”

Joe’s relief weakened his knees. Anticipation fixed it seconds later. Fixed it and then some. He felt spring-loaded.

“We’re going to a bar,” he said.

“What?”

“Yup—following him now.”

This seemed odd to me. “I’m surprised he would risk going out in public in the area so soon. Group is one thing, but a bar?”

“He told me it would take about ten minutes to get there. I’m guessing it’s more on the outskirts of the city. Maybe he feels it’s safer this way.”

“Still risky,” I said. Then: “So, am I to assume that if you’re on your way to a bar your bluff worked?”

“Yup. Told him I was quitting group. The nightmares, attacking my wife in her sleep, came in looking exhausted and unkempt.”

“Big stretch.”

He ignored that and said: “I’m gonna try and get him to take me back to his place—or at least someplace more private.”

“You make it sound like a date.”

“I don’t care what it sounds like. He’s not going to try anything in a public place.”

“So what’s the purpose of the drinks?” I looked at the clock on my wall. “And so early? Did group let out earlier than usual?”

“No—but I told him I was leaving early because I couldn’t cope anymore. He panicked and offered to take me out for a drink. He promised to tell me about this ‘outlet’ of his.”

“You don’t really think he’s going to tell you what he actually does, do you?”

“No, of course not. Besides, his word’s no good to us. We need to catch him in the act.”

“The act of killing you?”

“That won’t happen.”

“How many in your cover team?” I asked.

“Six.”

Six meant three cars. It didn’t seem like enough to me. It was killing me that I couldn’t be closer to it all.

“And if you
do
end up going back to his place or somewhere more private?” I said.

“The cover team will be listening, Mags; they’ll make the adjustment. Right now it’s all about building trust with the guy. We’re not expecting him to make a move so soon.”

“He went back to group so soon.”

“And I give full credit to Dr. Cole’s Jedi mind tricks for that. Point is it would be nice if he made a move tonight, but our hopes aren’t too high. If he does try something, we’ll be ready.”

I sighed into the phone so he could hear it. “Okay…then can you please tell me exactly what you have planned for tonight so my blood pressure doesn’t make me look like the purple girl in
Willy Wonka
?”

“Violet Beauregarde.”

“What?”

“The little girl’s name who turned big and purple in
Willy Wonka
was Violet Beauregarde.”

“You do realize six agents can hear you right now.”

“I’m ashamed of nothing.”

“Okay, so tell me—”

“Ah shit, we’re here. Hold on, I’m trying to park.” A pause and then: “He’s coming up to the car, Mags. Call me in twenty minutes. I’ll tell him it’s my wife and I have to go outside and take it. I’ll know more by then anyway.”

He hung up.

I looked at the glowing green numbers on my microwave. 8:14.

8:34 felt like weeks from now.

There was the chance of running into someone from the strip club, he supposed, but strip clubs are hardly spots for socializing. You go to look at tits, not your fellow man. Couple that with the fact that he’d bolted from the dimly lit place like his ass was on fire and chances were good the patrons there that day wouldn’t be able to place him in even the best of lineups.

That left the stripper and the bouncer. The bouncer had just been stabbed. Chances of him out on the town for drinks so soon after? Zilch. The stripper? Philadelphia, while not a huge city, was by no means small. And Joe had taken Bob to a place on City Line Avenue, on the outskirts of the city. Applebee’s—a family-type restaurant. What kind of stripper would hang out there? Maybe if she had a kid, but it was a long shot. No, Joe felt good about it all. He would be safe for a little while, and a little while was all he intended. His hope was to eventually get Bob alone. Back at his place would be ideal. Or hell, even Bob’s place would do. His first (and wasn’t Bob now considered his first? His starting-over first?) was improvised. Maybe Bob could be improvised too. Perhaps it would be even more special because of it.

Joe asked for a booth in the far corner of the restaurant. The hostess, a pretty little high-schooler who accommodated Joe’s request with practiced chirps and smiles, led them to the far corner of the restaurant where they took their seats, Joe making sure his back was to the masses, just in case.

“You live close by?” Bob asked.

“Kinda,” Joe said. “Why?”

Bob shrugged. “Just wondering why you chose this place.”

“You wanna go somewhere else?”

“No, no—this is fine. Just wondering is all.”

A young waitress approached and did a flirtatious welcome to Applebee’s thing. When it was time to order a drink, Joe insisted Bob choose first. He did and ordered a bottle of Sam Adams. Joe did the same. When the waitress asked if they wanted to put an order in for appetizers, Joe said no thank you; they would just be having a couple of drinks and that was all. The waitress wasn’t flirty after that.

“I don’t think she’s too happy we’re not ordering food,” Bob said.

“Are you hungry?” Joe asked. “We can.”

“No, I’m good.”

The waitress brought their beers.

“Cheers,” Joe said, raising his bottle.

They clinked necks and took a swig. After the incident at the strip club, Joe would have been okay if he never saw alcohol again. It was days ago and he
still
wasn’t a hundred percent. How did guys drink every day? What had his father said to him once, during one of those rare moments when he’d spoken to him without a curl of disgust on his lip?
Hair of the dog, kid
(he never spoke his name; it was something his mother and biological father had given him, and a pussy little girl’s name at that), he’d said, raising a tumbler of whiskey to his hungover lips.
Aspirin and coffee ain’t shit—hair of the dog is the only damn thing that works, kid.
Did Joe remember a smile after that? He was pretty sure he did. Though in retrospect, Joe knew the smile was a satiating one for what was to come pouring from the tumbler. Still, the message was clear:
Hair of the dog, kid.
To which Joe tacked on his own addendum:
Don’t be a pathetic pussy mama’s boy.

Joe took a deep pull on the bottle, taking nearly half of it down.

“Thirsty?” Bob said.

Joe burped into his fist. “Needed that,” he lied.

Bob gave what amounted to a short courtesy smile. “Listen, man, I’m not one for small talk, especially feeling the way I do now. Any chance we can get right to it?”

Joe frowned as though Bob had asked him a riddle. “It’s not really something you just
get right to
, Bob.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I’m just saying I don’t think it’s something I can sum up in a sentence or two. It might take time.”

Bob sipped his beer and looked away. Was he losing interest?

“Something wrong?” Joe asked.

“I thought I made myself clear back at group that time was something I didn’t have. I can’t keep going on like this.”

Joe started an understanding nod. “No, you did; you made it clear. You also said you were at your wit’s end, desperate to try anything.”

Bob gave a grudging but agreeable nod. “I am,” he said. “But I can’t keep drudging up all this stuff like we did in group. And if I do, I need to exorcise it quick— right now I feel as if I’ve got one hell of a demon inside me.
Ten
demons.”

He needed something. He was losing interest and needed something to keep from leaving. Joe was a used car salesman with a restless mark if there ever was one.

“Let me ask you something, Bob. Who do you blame for your childhood being the way it was?”

Bob squinted. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Do you blame your father? Your mother? Or do you blame yourself?”

“Why would I blame myself?”

“For being weak.”

Bob sat back in his booth. “I
was
weak. I was a child.”

“You said in group that you had a son,” Joe said.

“That’s right.”

“And that lately you’ve been losing your temper with him.”

Bob didn’t reply. Joe kept going.

“Do you think maybe you’re losing your temper with him because he’s a reminder of the way
you
were?”

Bob leaned forward now, elbows resting on the table. “How would you know whether or not my kid is anything like I was?”

“I
don’t
know,” Joe said. “That’s why I’m asking.”

Bob drained the remainder of his beer and slid the empty bottle against the wall, inconspicuous next to the stack of menus and condiments. Joe felt that if Bob wanted another beer, he would have slid the empty bottle to the edge of the table for the waitress to see. The restless mark was close to leaving the dealership, and Joe knew the parallels between his situation and the metaphor shared one undeniable and worrying truth: once you let them leave, they never come back.

Joe held up both hands and began moving them around in full placating sweeps. “Listen, man; that came out all wrong. All of it. Thing is, I’ve never told anyone about my outlet. You’re the first. I guess for my first time I did a crappy job trying to explain it.”

Bob took his empty bottle from the wall of menus and condiments and placed it on the edge of the table for the waitress to see. Joe bit back a smile and continued.

“I have an idea; hear me out. Let’s stay here and have another beer, loosen up a bit. After that then we can head back to my place. I can
show
you what I’m talking about without making a mess of it all by trying to explain it in a crowded restaurant.”

“Your place?” Bob said warily.

“Sure, why not? I won’t have to weigh my words so carefully for fear of people overhearing.”

“Why would you be afraid of people overhearing what you have to say?”

The right words came to Joe instantly and he was elated. “Because it’s all very personal to me. I’m sure they wouldn’t care one whit if they did overhear, but I would. This is for your ears only. Your eyes too.”

“You’re not some psycho that’s going to put my head in the fridge, are you?”

Joe genuinely laughed. “I don’t need
that
much therapy!”

The waitress approached.

“Can we get another round?” Joe asked.

She left with their order.

“What do you have to lose, Bob?”

“My head,” he said with a smile.

Joe laughed genuinely again. He had him.

The waitress brought their second round of beers and they clinked necks again, Joe stifling a giggle at the notion of drinking to one’s health.

Bob’s cell phone rang. “It’s my wife,” he said, looking at his phone. “Mind if I take this?”

“Of course not.”

Bob left the table and headed outside.

Joe was nearly rocking with anticipation when another waitress approached. “Hi,” she said.

“We’re good,” Joe said. “Another waitress took our order.”

“Are you with Agent Morris?”

“Huh?”

“You were sitting with Agent Morris. I work at a coffee shop in West Chester during the day. He and his partner came in to question me a few days ago.”

Joe could only stare at her in disbelief. “West Chester?” he managed.

“I know, right? But I’m only here a few nights a week. My father lives in Ardmore, so I just crash at his place when my shift is done.”

“West Chester,” Joe said again.

“Yeah…” she said, now with a bit of uncertainty. “The West Chester student who was murdered? You
are
with Agent Morris, aren’t you?”