Thriller (30 page)

something critical and she would shut down.

Was Lucy ready to go find Millay?

Was it within the realm of my responsibility to hold her back?

“I’m sure that I’m going to understand. Not to act out. Aren’t

you sure, Dr. Snow?”

“While we’ve considered that something may have happened

with Frank Millay that both closed you up emotionally and

caused him to disappear, I wish you would give it some more

time here. But I understand your frustration. How long are you

going to give yourself to find him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a couple of weeks?”

“Would you think about coming in for another session? Or

two? So we can make sure that if you find out what happened,

you will be prepared.”

Lucy grasped the implication immediately. She sat with her

back pressed into her chair, all defensiveness now, her legs tightly

crossed and turned sideways. “I’ve already done regressive-analysis hypnosis with my last therapist,” she said. “We didn’t uncover

anything like that.”

“Like what, Lucy?”

“Like rape.”

“But that doesn’t mean you haven’t buried the bare facts.”

“The bare facts.” Moisture was evident in Lucy’s eyes and her

voice came hot with anger, although she, too, modulated her volume. “Frank Millay did not rape me.”

“All right.”

“Please don’t ‘all right’ me, Doctor. I would remember that. I

promise you.”

I nodded, drew in a breath. I couldn’t hold her here.

“You’re searching for something that you’ve lost, and whatever

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that is has had a profound effect on your ability to feel things. If

you can find that something in the real world, rather than in my

office, or with some other psychoanalyst, yes, Lucy, yes, it might

start the healing.”

“Law offices of Bascom, Owen, Millay.”

“Oh. Could I speak to Frank Millay, please?”

“Certainly,” the cultured female voice said. “Can I tell him

who’s calling?”

“An old friend. I’m not sure if he’d remember me. My name

is Lucy Delrey.”

“Just a moment.”

On the one hand, it had been too easy; and on the other hand,

impossible. Before Dr. Snow’s suggestion that she try to physically locate Frank Millay, Lucy had looked in a haphazard fashion through gallery openings in the newspapers, or stopped in

at galleries when the art struck her in some way that seemed

vaguely familiar. She never consciously considered the fact that

the street artist had given up on his first love and entered another

field. Similarly, she had never before considered Googling the

name Frank Millay.

Where the name came up in two seconds.

An attorney in San Francisco.

It couldn’t possibly be the same man. But she had to call and

find out. She had to be sure.

“This is Frank Millay.”

For an instant, she found herself tongue-tied. But then, afraid

that he’d hang up if she didn’t speak, she found her voice. “Is this

the Frank Millay who used to be an artist in New York?”

Now the pause came from the other end. “Who used to paint

anyway. Yes.” Another hesitation. “I’m sorry. My secretary gave

me your name, but…”

“Lucy,” she said. “Lucy Delrey. I was a little girl…”

“Oh my God,” he said under his breath. “Little Lucy, of course.

How little were you then?”

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“Seven. I’m thirty now.”

“Thirty? God. Thirty is impossible.”

“Not if you’re about fifty. That would be about right.” She

couldn’t hold back a small, nervous laugh. It was
his
voice. She’d

have recognized it anywhere. Although it had an unaccustomed

seriousness to it, an adultness that she thought befit his new profession. “You’re a
lawyer
now?”

“Only for the past twenty years,” he said. “Wow, Lucy.” Words

seemed to fail him. “You looked me up?”

“Googled you actually, yes.”

“But…what are you doing? Where are you?”

“I’m home, still in New York. I’m a…” But her business didn’t

lend itself to easy explanation. “I’m a photographer,” she said.

“So somebody’s still doing art,” he said. Then, in an awkward

tone, filling in the space, “That’s good to hear.”

“Yeah, well…” A silence settled for a minute, until Lucy surprised herself. “Listen, Mr. Millay,” she began.

“Frank, please.”

“Okay, Frank. It just happens that I’m coming out to San Francisco next week on some business. Would it be too weird if I

came to see you? If we had lunch or something?” Sensing his reluctance over the line, she pressed on. “I wouldn’t blame you if

you said no, but in spite of this call, I promise I’m not a flake or

a stalker or anything… I just still remember what an incredible

impact your paintings had on me. Still do, as I remember them.

It…it would mean a lot. I just feel like I need to see you.”

Silence for a long beat. “I’m married now,” he said. “I’ve got three

children. I don’t know if my wife…” He let the sentence hang.

“Please,” she said. “She doesn’t have to know. It’s so important. We need to talk, that’s all.”

“You know I don’t paint anymore, Lucy. I haven’t touched a

brush in twenty years.”

“No, it’s more than that. It’s you, who you were.” Then, unsure

of exactly what she meant, she added, “It’s not just that, either.”

“No,” he said. “No, I suppose not.” Finally, when he did speak,

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his voice was nearly unrecognizable, constricted with that
adult

quality. “I’ll find some time,” he said. “What day next week?”

She didn’t sleep well over the next five days.

Frank Millay’s colors, particularly that muddy blue, seeped

into her dreams and woke her over and over again. It was a cold

blue under a cold sky and she woke up, paradoxically, dripping

with sweat. And sexually aroused.

All the dreams had the same setting. Millay’s whole room was a

womb enclosed in that dark, muddy blue—the river as he’d painted

it endlessly flowing along the windowless walls over the bed.

Which made no sense.

She had no memory that she had ever been to his bedroom.

She had never seen his bed.

But something was stirring things up.

The last dream was different. It started with the smells of must

or animal or mold, and there was a bright light at the end of a

dark green tunnel. Then she turned and walked through a red

door and suddenly was in Millay’s muddy blue room. She felt the

skin on her thighs rubbing together and realized that she didn’t

have any clothes on. She was standing on a golden storage box

and he was painting her picture, although she could only see his

head behind the canvas. He had a blond beard that looked wet

somehow. He kept saying something in a deep voice that seemed

to echo in her bones and make her weak. Stepping around the

picture, he walked right up close to her. He smelled like that

other smell, and now she recognized that it was semen. He wore

an orange tie-dyed T-shirt, but no pants and no underwear. Because she was standing on the storage box, their faces were at

almost the same height and he held her eyes while he put his

hand between her legs. Then she looked down and something

muddy and blue was coming out of his penis and he was painting her with it. Stroke after stroke after stroke.

She woke up, sobbing, in the middle of an orgasm.

And finally it all came back.

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* * *

She knew now that in a fundamental way, she had at last

begun to heal. The recurring waves of what had been repressed

memory now throbbed with the persistence of a bone bruise,

painful enough on two more occasions to bring her to tears, but

at least she was no longer numb. She almost called Dr. Snow to

tell her that she’d begun to feel things again. If much of it was

negative and painful, that was okay. It was the price to get back

to normal. But she knew that she wasn’t quite finished yet. To

complete the recovery, she would have to assassinate one last

man. The one who’d all but destroyed her so many years ago.

Frank Millay clearly didn’t want her to come to his office. He’d

e-mailed her to say they should meet at the Slanted Door, a terrific and easy-to-find Vietnamese restaurant located in San Francisco’s newly renovated Ferry Building, at the foot of Market

Street. He had one o’clock reservations there under the name

York. He’d explained that it wasn’t a place where they were likely

to run into too many of his colleagues on a weekday afternoon.

She realized with a bit of a thrill that he was already afraid of exposure, even of being seen with her. And this led to the understanding that he only could have agreed to the meeting with her

for one of three very different reasons—to somehow try to explain what he’d done, to beg her to forgive him, or to get the details of her blackmail.

But Lucy knew fifty-year-old men. Once she started coming

on to him, in spite of what he’d done to her, he would never suspect her true motive. He would believe that, sick as it might be,

she was still, after all, attracted to him. She had her story down,

her cameras and microphones hidden and primed in her hotel

room at the Four Seasons a couple of blocks away.

She was ready.

Lucy, braless, and further turned out in a black slit skirt, low

heels and a tightly fitted red silk blouse, arrived and got seated

at their table—tucked away in a corner—twenty minutes early.

It was a cool day, and cool in the restaurant. It calmed and some-
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what gratified Lucy to realize that no man who looked her way

seemed to be able to avoid a glance at her erect nipples.

When Frank Millay came to the greeting station, she recognized him immediately, even though he was now the quintessential lawyer—clean-shaven, short-haired, dressed in a threepiece suit. He was still trim, still handsome, although slightly

gone to gray. But the face had no slackness to it, the jaw was firm.

Close up, she could see that the deep blue artist’s eyes still might

have the power to captivate. But not her. Not anymore.

When the hostess left him, he sat, assayed a bit of a worried

smile and said, “My God, you’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

A waiter came by, introduced himself and presented menus,

saying he’d be back in a couple of minutes. A busboy poured

water. Out the window, on the Bay, the Sausalito ferry with its

complement of screeching seagulls steamed out from its mooring under the scudding clouds.

Millay’s eyes darted down to her breasts, then came back up

to her face. He sighed. “This is awkward.”

Lucy reached out her hand and placed it over his for an instant, then withdrew it. “It’s all right,” she said. “I guess I should

have told you on the telephone. I contacted you because I wanted

you to know that I forgive you.”

“I don’t know why…” he began. “It’s why I left New York, to

get away from what I was doing. It was all getting out of control,

what I did to you was just part of it. I was going through a crazy

time.” He brought his hand to his face, rubbed the side of his

cheek. His look was something more than chagrin, touched by

a brush—still—of fear. “I can’t explain it.”

“You don’t have to,” Lucy said. “We all make mistakes.”

“Not like that. I’ve got a seven-year-old daughter right now.

The thought of what I did to you still makes me sick. I’m so sorry.

So sorry.”

“Were there others?”

“No!” Frank Millay nearly blurted it out. “No,” he said again.

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“It was just you, the pretty little girl who loved my paintings. The

only one who loved them, to tell you the truth. And who made

me take her up to my room one time to see them.”

“Was it only once?” Again, she touched his hand. “I really

don’t remember.”

“Just once,” he said. “Once was enough.”

The waiter arrived and took their order. She said she’d like to

have some wine, but only if he’d join her. By the time the waiter

left, Frank Millay had visibly relaxed. Pushed back from the

table, he sat with his ankle resting on the opposite knee. He wore

stunning black shoes of knitted leather, black socks that disappeared into his pants leg. Lucy, fidgeting now as though she

were slightly nervous, managed to undo the second button on

her blouse.

“So,” she said, “you’re married now?”

“Yes.”

“Happily?”

“Well, seventeen years. We’re okay.”

“That doesn’t sound very romantic.”

“It’s really not very romantic.”

“Do you miss it? Romance?”

“Not really,” he said. Then, “Sometimes, I guess. Who wouldn’t?”

“That seems a shame. You’re still a very good-looking man.

You must know that. You must hear it all the time.”

A small embarrassed chuckle. “Thank you, but I wouldn’t

quite say that I hear it all the time. And I for damn sure wouldn’t

call me good-looking anymore.”

She put her hand on his again, and this time she left it there

as she met his eyes. “I would,” she said. “Why do you think I’ve

remembered you after all this time? Do you think, that day, it was

all your idea?”

After that, it was easy.

At the Four Seasons, they went straight up from the hotel entrance to her two-room suite. As soon as they were inside, Lucy

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