The Clinic (44 page)

I laughed.

He laughed, too, then turned serious. “Want to give it a try?”

“Can you keep it confidential?”

“She’s got no phone and I ain’t known as a blabbermouth.”

“All right,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “Come on, she’s in Three.”

Effort had been taken to make the room look homey: white wallpaper stamped with pale blue, wavelike abstractions; real wood furniture; a big window; flowers in a vase. But a closer look revealed padding under the paper, no sharp edges on the furniture, the light fixture Allen-bolted into the ceiling, external wooden bars striping the window. The vase was plastic and also bolted.

The flowers were real lilies. Lilies are related to onions. Nontoxic.

Tessa sat on the bed readingThe Atlantic Monthly. Other magazines were piled nearby. She wore a gray University sweatshirt and denim cutoffs. Both other times I’d seen her she’d been in all black. Her legs were long and skinny, nearly as white as the walls. A triangle of bandage peeked out from under her left sleeve.

She kept reading.

Hunched vulnerability. Muscadine had read it as fair game.

“Hello again,” said Emerson.

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She looked up, saw me, and that same look of panic filled her eyes.

“It’s all right, Tessa,” Emerson said, striding to her side. “Dr. Delaware’s a good guy. I vouch for him.”

Her lower lip shook.

I smiled.

She looked down at her magazine.

“Good article?” said Emerson.

She didn’t answer. Her chest was heaving.

Emerson came closer and read over her shoulder. “Reforestation of the Eastern seaboard.” He read some more. “Says here the trees are coming back on their own accord. What, they’re allowing in good news for a change?”

Tessa chewed her lip. “The trees are coming back because the economy sucks. As industries close down, people move out of small towns and the land regresses to wilderness.”

“Oh,” said Emerson. “So it’s what, bad news? Or a mixed bag?”

“You tell me.”

“What do you think?”

“That I don’t want to talk tohim .”

“Is it okay if he talks to you a bit?”

“About what?”

Emerson looked at me.

“About what Reed Muscadine did to you,” I said. “I know it’s true. Muscadine’s scum and he’s in jail.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Why?”

“This is going to be tough to hear, Tessa, but you’ll learn it soon enough. He’s the prime suspect in Professor Devane’s murder.”

Her eyes got wild.“Oh!” The word was as much animal cry as human speech.“Oh, oh, oh!”

She sprang up, fingers in her hair, crossing the three-pace room, returning and crossing again.

Stopping, said, “Oh God. . . God GodRobbie!”

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“What about Robbie?” said Emerson.

“Where is he?”

“Back home with your mom, Tess.”

“How do Iknow ?”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

She stretched her hands in front of her, fingers curled, tremoring.

“The phone!” she exclaimed.

“You want me to call home?” said Emerson. “Have your mom tell you Robbie’s okay?”

“Iwant to call!I want to speak to him!”

“It’s almost eleven, Tessa, I’m sure Robbie’s aslee—”

“Ihave to, Ineed to—please, Dr. Emerson. Let me call,please, please, please !” Sobbing.“Oh, please, let me speak to my little Robbie—”

“Okay, hon.” Emerson tried to put his arm around her but she backed away. Confusion tugged at his blue eyes as he unlocked the door and let her out.

At the nursing station, he got her an outside line and both of us watched as she dialed.

“Mom? Where’s Robbie? You’re sure? Go check . . . please, Mom.Please, Mom . . . justdo it!”

She waited, pulling at her hair, blinking, rolling her shoulders, twisting the skin of one cheek, shifting her feet.

Emerson observed her with a mixture of pity and fascination.

“You’resure— did you check to see if he’sbreathing ? What? I’m serious—from the nursing station. He let me, he’s right here—yes . . . no, I’m not tired . . . I was reading. What? Soon, soon

. . . yes . . . you’resure he’s okay, Mom? I know—I know you wouldn’t . . . sorry, Mom. Sorry for bothering—what? Okay, yes, thanks. Sorry to bother you. Just take care of him. Take real good care of him . . . loveyoutoo.”

She put down the phone. Sighed. Buried her face. Looked up.

“I’ll go back now.”

In the room, I said, “Robbie was the wedge Muscadine used on you. He threatened to kill Robbie unless you dropped the charge at the hearing.”

She looked at me with what seemed like new respect.

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Nodded.

I didn’t ask the next question:Why didn’t you tell the police?

Because I knew the answer: She’d told the police before, had been sent away a liar.

His word against hers.

“He can’t hurt Robbie, now,” I said. “He can’t hurt anyone.” Wishing I were sure. Almost hoping Muscadine would walk so that Big Micky could apply his own brand of justice . . . God help me.

She slumped and began sobbing again.

Emerson let her go on for a while, gave her a tissue, stepped back.

Her pain was reflected in his eyes but he could tolerate it.

At the least, I might have found someone to refer to.

Finally she stopped and said, “He killed her because of me.”

“Definitely not,” I said. “It had nothing to do with you. It was between him and Professor Devane.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“When the facts come out you will.”

“Robbie,” she said.

“You protected Robbie,” I said. “At your expense.”

She didn’t answer.

“Did Professor Devane know about the threat?”

Headshake. “I couldn’t—I didn’t want—she understood me but I didn’t want her . . . didn’t want anyone in my mess.”

“But you did tell her he’d tied you up.”

Long silence. Long, slow nod.

Then she shocked me with a sudden, bright smile. Emerson was caught off-guard, too. He began twisting beard hairs.

“What, Tessa?” he said.

“So I’m a martyr,” she said. “Finally.”

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I drove through quiet streets, picturing the way it had happened.

Muscadine charming her, treating her well—courtly, even, til they got to his place.

Then turning.

Overpowering her.

Tying her up.

She’d told Hope.

Hope had listened—the expert listener—cool, supportive.

But the story had meant so much more to her than just another outrage.

Hating Muscadine. Thinking about him—big, strong.

Healthy.

Nice,big kidney, more than adequate for filtering garbage from the shrunken body of a man who considered her family.

Sweet.

Perfect.

Being tied down.

She knew whatthat felt like.

Though she’d never tell Tessa.

Empathy had its limits.

Ronald Oster was too young to be that cynical.

Maybe twenty-eight, with kinky flame-red hair and rampant freckles, he was soft around the middle and wore a vested blue suit one size too small.

I met him outside the county jail, off to one side, near the long line of women that forms every
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morning, waiting to visit prisoners. Some of the women looked at us but Oster paid them no notice as he gave me a long, hard look and kept smoking his British Oval.

“So why’d you change your mind?” he said.

“My own lawyer said you could force me. As long as I’m going to waste my time, I might as well get paid.”

He kept staring at me.

“Speaking of which,” I said, “my fee’s three hundred seventy-five dollars per hour, portal-to-portal. I’ll send you the bill and expect you to get it paid within thirty days. I also expect a contract from you to that effect within three days.”

I handed him my business card.

“So it’s the money,” he said, thumbing his vest pocket.

“I’d rather not do it at all but if I have to, it sureisn’t for the love of your client.”

He pressed the flat cigarette between his fingers. “Let’s get one thing clear, Doctor. From this point on if you work for anyone on this case, it’sfor my client. Anything he says to you as well as anything I say to youabout him falls under the purview of therapeutic confidentiality. Including this conversation.”

“Once we have an agreement.”

“We do. Though in terms of payment, I’m a civil servant. All I can do is go through channels.”

“Do your best—and one other exception. If your client threatens me in any way, it’ll fall under Tarasoff and I’ll report it immediately.”

That threw him, but he smiled. “Tarasoff applies to threats against third parties.”

“No one says it can’t apply to the therapist.”

“I sense hostility, Doctor.”

“Self-preservation.”

“Why would my client threaten you?”

“They say he’s murdered several times. I’m just talking theoretically, to make sure we’re clear about the rules.”

“Do you get thisclear with every attorney you work for?”

“I don’t work much for attorneys.”

“I’ve heard you do lots of child-custody work.”

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“When I do, I work for the court.”

“I see . . . so you’re afraid of Mr. Muscadine. Why?”

“I have no specific fear of him but I’m careful. Let’s say I don’t come to the conclusions he wants me to. If he has murdered all those people, it’s an indication he doesn’t take well to disappointment.”

“Disappointment?” He flicked away the cigarette. “That’s a mild way to describe loss of a vital organ.”

I looked at my watch.

He said, “Essentially, the man was raped, Dr. Delaware.”

“How does he claim it happened?”

“I’ll let him tell you that. If I let him talk to you at all. Even if I don’t, you’ll get the contract and a check for your time today.”

“Meaning I already belong to you and can’t cooperate voluntarily with the police.”

He smiled.

“Fine,” I said, looking at my watch again. “Far as I’m concerned, the less I have to do with any of this the better.”

He hooked a thumb in his vest. The line of waiting women inched past us.

“This,” he said, “may not work out.”

“Up to you.”

“I’m interested in your professional opinion because I think it’s a clear case of mental anguish—like what battered wives go through. But I’m not sure, given your history with the police, that you’ll render an impartial opinion.”

“If I get data, I’ll render. If you want someone you can play ventriloquist with, I’m not your man.”

He looked at my card. “I hear a clear prosecution bias.”

“Have it your way.”

“You don’t lean toward the other side?” he said.

“I keep an open mind. If you want a whore, drive down Hollywood Boulevard and flash a twenty.”

His freckles deepened in color and the skin between them turned pink. He gave a deep laugh.

“That’s good, I like that. Okay, you’re my guy. Because his mental anguish is so obvious
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evenyou’ll see it. And getting someone like you to testify to that will be all the more impressive.

A police consultant.”

He held out his hand and we shook. Some of the women in line watched and I could only imagine what they were thinking.

“Let’s go meet Reed,” he said. “And don’t worry, he can’t hurt you.”

“Therapy,” said Muscadine, smiling and flipping his long hair. “Quite a luxury for a starving actor.”

“Ever had any therapy?” I said.

“Just the mind games they put you through in acting class. Probably should’ve, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“My obvious emotional problems. Which is what you’re here to establish, right?”

“I want to know as much as I can about you, Reed.”

“That’s kind of flattering.” He smiled and flipped his hair again. He was in street clothes—a black T-shirt and jeans—but behind glass. A few days of incarceration hadn’t hurt his looks, and his muscles were still huge and well-defined. Push-ups in the cell, probably. He was big enough to defend himself.

The deputy in the corner of the visiting room turned toward us. Muscadine smiled at him, too, and he showed Muscadine a khaki back.

“How are they treating you?” I asked.

“Not bad, so far. Of course, I’m a model prisoner. No reason not to be—shall I tell you about my mother? She really was a piece of work.”

“Eventually,” I said. “But first, tell me about your love for animals.”

The smile left his face and returned, stiffer. I could hear a director shout, “Loosen up, go with the feeling, Reed!”

“Well,” he said, crossing his legs, “they do love me.”

“I know. The reason I’m asking is the day I visited you I noticed how well you got along with Mrs. Green’s bullmastiff.”

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“Samantha and I are good buddies.”

“Mrs. Green said Samantha’s very protective of her.”

“She is.”

“But not around you.”

“I lived there,” he said. “I belonged. But yes, you’re right. I do have a special rapport with animals. Probably ’cause they sense I’m at ease with them.”

“Did you have lots of pets as a child?”

“No,” he said.“Mom.”

“She wouldn’t let you have any?”

He shook his head. “Never.” White-toothed snarl/smile. “Mom was an extremelyneat woman.”

“And after you left home—how old were you, by the way?”

“College. Eighteen.”

“Ever return home?”

“Not a chance. I—”

“Did you get any pets once you were living on your own?”

“Couldn’t. The places I rented wouldn’t let me. Then my job got in the way.”

“Accounting.”

He nodded. “The old nine-to-five. It wasn’t fair to leave an animal alone all day. When I went back to school and got serious about acting, same thing. I did do some work as a groomer for a while.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, just for a few months, one of those mobile van things. One of the many things I did in order to pursue my craft.”

“Starving actor.”

“Yes, I know I’m a clichÉ, but so what?”