Cold Judgment (3 page)

CHAPTER 3

Only three more to go. Dr. Elias resisted the urge to give up on his morning exercises. Surely he could do three more push-ups. He had followed a rigid program of exercise every morning for the past forty years. As a young man he had done sixty push-ups without strain. Now the twenty he had assigned himself were taxing his strength to the limit.

Slowly, painfully, he forced his body to obey. There was comfort in his daily regimen. He had to stay in shape. Dr. Elias was not ready to give up the fight yet. He would follow his normal routine until the very end.

Eighteen! He raised his body up from the mat with arms that trembled. In the walls of the mirrored exercise room his face looked haggard. The kindly, distinguished father figure was gone, replaced by the reflection of a tortured man. The disease was taking its toll. Now furrows of pain were permanently etched in his broad forehead beneath his styled silver hair. His eyes were deep wells of anguish. Two more. He could do it.

Nineteen! Where was the sense of inner peace that most victims of terminal illness claimed to experience? He had drawn up his will and put his affairs in order, but still there was no sense of calm acceptance. Instead, Dr. Elias's lips twisted in a grimace of frustration. How could he be at peace? He had not finished his work.

Twenty! He let his tired body fall against the mat to rest for a moment. His group was at fault. Officially they were no longer his patients. He had assigned them elsewhere, washed his hands of their problems and their fears. But Dr. Elias knew he could never let go. They were his. And he would not rest easy until he had provided for each one of them.

The pain made him gasp as he pulled himself to his feet. The ancient Greeks were right in their naming of
Karkinos
.The Crab. Cancer. There was a crab in his belly, gnawing at his vital organs. He could feel its sharp pincers ripping at his tender flesh. It was impossible to ignore the pain of being eaten alive. It could only be dulled by ever-increasing doses of powerful analgesics that clouded the mind and gave a false sense of euphoria.

A hot shower did not help to ease the pain. Dr. Elias bent nearly double as he made his way to the room he used as an office. He had prepared a syringe and it lay ready in the center desk drawer. He ached to plunge the needle into his vein, but there was work to do and his mind had to be clear. His hand was shaking as he closed the drawer firmly, the contents untouched.

His coffee was waiting for him, hot and strong, the espresso beans ground fresh in his expensive coffeemaker. One perfect croissant waited also, on the corner of his desk, delivered earlier by the French bakery in the IDS Center. He took a sip of pungent coffee and sighed deeply. Then a bite of the pastry, the thin layers flaking and dissolving in his mouth.

It was better. The pain had dulled of its own accord. Dr. Elias picked up the stack of reports that had come by messenger and began to read. A bitter smile appeared on his face as he paged through them. He was right about the new psychiatrists. They were unable to deal with his patients.

The reports were meticulous, as he had known they would be. The new therapists were adequate but uninspired. The spark of creativity that made great healers was not present.

Dr. Elias tried to be fair. He had not expected miracles. The new therapists did not have his advantage. He had been working with his patients for years and he knew them intimately. It was an easy matter for Dr. Elias to read between the lines. Every one of his patients was regressing, just as he had feared.

Greg was chain-smoking again. That observation was made in passing, but Dr. Elias alone realized its significance. The action of lighting cigarette after cigarette would soon give way to lighting other objects not socially acceptable.

Father Marx's therapist was hopeful. The priest seemed a little nervous, but that was to be expected in any new patient-doctor relationship. They had not discussed sex or prostitution. The new doctor intended to build up mutual trust before tackling the root of Father Marx's illness. That was a mistake. Father Marx needed to confront his problem constantly to defuse his violence.

Kay had wept under hypnosis. Her new therapist had noted that Kay's tears were cathartic. It was far from the truth. Kay's angry tears were fuel for her delusions. The cycle of hatred was starting again.

Nora's report was lengthy and detailed. She had spent most of the session discussing a young student and her handsome boyfriend. She confessed she was jealous of their relationship. Assuming that she was taking an interest in men, her doctor decided to foster Nora's heterosexual involvement. Even though the new therapist was wrong, Dr. Elias could not fault his conclusions. Nora had been devious. She'd been playing a part for her new therapist. And Nora was a consummate actress.

Dr. Elias poured himself another cup of espresso and frowned. His group was not responding to the new therapists. How could they be helped if they refused to cooperate? He had referred them to the best psychiatrists in the city.

Mac's report was next. The new therapist stated that Mac was jumpy and ill at ease. That could be significant. Although Mac did not seem to be regressing as rapidly as the rest, Dr. Elias held little hope for his recovery. Mac would break down, too. It was only a matter of time.

Debra's therapist believed she was making progress. She had entered willingly into role-playing therapy. The report was brief, only a quarter of a page. There were no alarming observations. Dr. Elias shook his head wearily. He knew Debra didn't have the strength to carry on without him. Surely she was crumbling. The new therapist had been unobservant, but it was not his fault. Debra was an expert at hiding her true feelings.

Jerry's report consisted of a single line. He had not kept his initial appointment. Efforts to reach him by telephone had been fruitless. His therapist was still waiting for Jerry to return his call.

Dr. Elias glanced at his calendar and frowned. Jerry's niece was due to arrive on Sunday, the sixteenth. If Jerry had not gone in for therapy by Saturday at the latest, he would have to take action.

Doug's therapist seemed to have things well in hand. Dr. Elias nodded as he read the report. Doug's depression was deepening, but young Dr. Wilkenson had recommended that he stop flying for the duration. Doug's therapy schedule was increased to three sessions a week. If Doug took his doctor's advice, he would be safe for a while longer.

There was a sound in the hallway, the clanging of pails and a cheerful exchange in Spanish. Dr. Elias stacked the reports neatly and put them into a file folder. The cleaning crew was leaving.

“
Hasta luego, Doctor
. Have a nice day!”

Dr. Elias smiled in spite of himself. The new cleaning crew was Chicano. They knew little English, but somehow they had picked up the most banal of clichés.

By the time he'd made his way to the living room, it was deserted. His cleaning crew had left. Wooden surfaces gleamed. Windows sparkled. His newspaper was neatly folded on the arm of his leather chair.

Dr. Elias frowned as he straightened a picture and repositioned his marble ashtray in the exact center of the end table. It was unreasonable to expect complete perfection. Actually the new cleaning crew was very competent.

The temperature was in the low teens today. Dr. Elias stood at the huge window overlooking the bank building and watched the bank sign with its time and temperature flash on and off. The temperature was of no interest to him. His environment was thermostatically controlled at a constant seventy-six degrees, and he seldom left it. There was no reason to leave. It was a simple matter to pick up the telephone and order whatever he needed. There were six excellent restaurants within a four-block area. Dayton's department store delivered his espresso coffee beans and the cases of fine wine he ordered. His work was here, with his office and conference room directly across the hall. And if he occasionally felt like walking, the seventeen miles of climate-controlled connecting bridges between the buildings in the downtown area made winter clothing unnecessary.

The sun was bright today, glancing off the mirrored walls of the City Center building. Dr. Elias pulled the heavy drapes to block out the view. The patterns of traffic on the street below did not interest him. Women in fur coats, carrying parcels of Christmas presents, could not possibly identify with his agony.

It was nearly noon and time to choose his pipe for the day. In the early morning, with his espresso and croissant, he smoked imported Balkan Sobranie cigarettes. Choosing a pipe for the afternoon was habit, pleasure, and ritual. His glass-enclosed pipe rack was filled with over three hundred briars.

When things were going badly, he needed a pipe that would not disappoint him. Dr. Elias reached unhesitantly for his Peterson's bent. It was a big, solid, homely clunker of a pipe, but of all his briars it had never turned sour on him.

Dr. Elias sat down in his leather chair. He filled the Peterson's carefully and lit and tamped it. Then he opened his newspaper. There might be an article by Debra today.

The Social Security controversy was raging again. Dr. Elias read the lead story with some amusement. A couple in their seventies had refused to legalize their relationship, claiming they would lose a large share of their benefits. The grandchildren of both families were staging a demonstration against the ruling that forced their grandparents to “live in sin.”

There was trouble in Lebanon again and another Mother's March for complete nuclear disarmament. And down at the bottom of the first page, tucked in a corner, was the account of a plane crash.

Dr. Elias read the article with a sense of dread. Doug's plane had gone down. There were no survivors. The Federal Aeronautics Board placed the blame on unusual weather conditions, but Dr. Elias knew the truth. Doug had taken the flight, despite Dr. Wilkenson's warning. And he had indulged his death wish, at last.

It was his fault! The paper slipped from Dr. Elias's hands. Doug would have listened to him. He would have refused to fly if Dr. Elias had warned him. Now Doug was dead and he had taken four innocent passengers with him.

Doug's crash was proof that the group could not function without Dr. Elias. They would break down, one by one, killing other innocent people in the process. Somehow he had to ensure that the rest of his group did not run amuck. He had a responsibility to protect society from his patients.

Dr. Elias felt his anger grow. Damn this disease that kept him from continuing his group's therapy! He was weak when he should be strong. Inwardly he raged at his own mortality. He could have cured them all, but there was no time.

His pipe was cold. The pleasure Dr. Elias took in the first pipe of the day was gone. He knocked it into the marble ashtray, not caring about the consequences. The dottle, the plug of wet and partially burned tobacco, should have been smoked completely to keep his good briar from souring, but Dr. Elias's mind was no longer on his smoking. The pain was back, sharper than before, and he clutched at it as he got to his feet and made his way to his studio.

Sunlight streamed in through the glass walls and highlighted his group portrait. The unpainted canvas ovals were naked and white. Dr. Elias stood in the center of the sunlight, feet planted slightly apart as he stared with unseeing eyes at his painting. His gaze was turned inward, remembering the beginnings, the first hesitant steps his group had taken toward recovery.

The room was warm. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead and rolled down his face. He did not notice. Even the pain had ceased to exist. He was remembering, lost in the time when he had been omnipotent, omniscient, a god to his patients. He had controlled their destinies. He had given them life!

The room was so silent that the sound of muted conversation from the floor below was clearly audible. Dr. Elias was not listening. Other voices were echoing in his mind, the voices of the past, with Doug's among them. They filled his head with their pleading. He had to help them. He was the only one who knew how.

His mind shouted out for silence. They had no right to plague him with their piteous cries. He had tried to help them, but they'd refused to listen. They should have responded to their new therapists!

His hands began to tremble and he tightened them into fists. His anger was back in full force, and it spread to include his group. They were breaking down, one by one, and there was only one solution. He had nurtured and counseled them to the best of his ability. But now they were doomed.

Dr. Elias moved at last. He had come to a decision. His eyes were bright as he squeezed paint on the palette and took up his brush. Doug's case was closed. And when he finished Doug's portrait, he would deal with the others.

CHAPTER 4

“It was an accident!” Jerry set down his cup so hard the coffee sloshed out on Kay's rosewood table. “I know what you're thinking, but just forget it. Accidents happen all the time in those small planes. The paper said there were unusual weather conditions.”

They faced him like a panel of accusers. Jerry had known this was coming when Mac had called the emergency meeting. He'd spent the whole night agonizing over Doug's accident, trying to convince himself that he was not to blame. And now he had to convince them.

“Stifle it, Jerry!” Nora's eyes were blazing. “We all know Doug crashed deliberately. And you're the one who told him to fly.”

“You
did
talk him into flying, Jerry.” Greg patted Nora's shoulder as she burst into tears. “We all thought he should cancel the flight the way his therapist suggested.”

Jerry's face turned red and his hands shook. His eyes searched each face in the group for an ally. Surely they didn't all blame him. There had to be someone who was sympathetic.

Father Marx fingered his cross. His expression was kind, but that didn't count. Priests were supposed to be forgiving. It was their profession. Kay looked nervous as she mopped up the spilled coffee, and she made no move to come to his defense. Debra's eyes slid away as he tried to make contact with her. His friends and confidants were turning on him. They all blamed him for Doug's death, with one possible exception. Mac looked carefully neutral.

He met Mac's level gaze. The big Irishman was thinking. Jerry had always liked Mac. He was usually impartial and he never spoke unless he had considered his words carefully. Surely Mac would not condemn him!

“I can see you feel bad, Jerry.” Mac spoke up at last. “We all do. And I know you didn't deliberately try to hurt Doug. Do you want to talk about it?”

Mac had turned on him, too! His statements were carefully couched in the proper psychoanalytic terms, but Mac blamed him as much as the rest. There was no use staying there. They all condemned him!

“There's nothing to talk about!” Jerry stood up and glared at them. “I've got a root canal scheduled for this afternoon, so you can have your stupid therapy without me. Trying to meet without Dr. Elias is crazy! You're all
meshuggenas
!”

He knew they were watching as he slammed out the door. The sidewalk was slippery and he had forgotten his boots in Kay's closet, but he wasn't about to go back. He'd never see any of them again. They were all sick, and he was the only one who had guts enough to get along without Dr. Elias.

Jerry didn't know why he was crying as he got on the freeway and drove toward downtown. They weren't worth it. Maybe the tears were for Doug. He had been a good buddy and the accident was a tragedy, but it
was
an accident. He had to keep on remembering that.

He got off at the Lyndale exit and turned onto Hennepin. He had to pick up a Christmas tree on the way back to the office. As he drove past the basilica, he had a crazy urge to turn in and confess his fears to a priest. He had seen
Going My Way
on television last night. Barry Fitzgerald was perfect as the Father-confessor, but real priests were probably more like Father Marx.

Jerry began to chuckle as the copper dome receded in his rearview mirror. His grandparents would spin in their graves if they knew he had been tempted to set foot in a Catholic church. They had been Orthodox Jews. Jerry had lived with them until he went away to school, and then he had shed his restrictive life gratefully. All those dietary laws and traditions were a bother. Now he was a confirmed atheist. Religion meant nothing to him.

The Christmas decorations were up along Hennepin. Giant six-pointed stars flanked by evergreen boughs hung from every light post. Jerry couldn't help it. He started to laugh again. Leave it to the goyim to use a Star of David for a Christmas decoration!

The Dayton building loomed on his right as he stopped for the light on Seventh Street. Each year Jerry and Dotty walked around the Dayton's block to see the animated displays. Last year the huge department store had done the Twelve Days of Christmas, one window for each scene. They would have to take Betsy with them this year.

Just the thought of his niece made Jerry's hands sweat inside his gloves. She had arrived last night, ten years old, with a sweet young body and a golden California tan. He kept Dotty by his side as a shield. Things would work out just fine as long as he was never alone with Betsy.

Cars were honking behind him. Jerry put his foot on the gas and his car jumped through the intersection. He could think about it later. Right now he had to pick up the Christmas tree and get back to the office.

 

 

“Dr. Feldman! You remembered!”

His receptionist smiled as he came through the door carrying the tree. Jerry supposed the girls would spend all afternoon decorating the damn thing. He still felt a twinge of guilt each time he passed the tree in his waiting room, but he had learned to live with it. Dotty even put up a tree at home.

“Mr. Jackson called, Dr. Feldman. He'll be a little late.”

Jerry nodded and went to wash up. He hadn't done a root canal in years, but Herb Jackson was an old college friend. Cosmetic reconstruction was his specialty now.

When Herb arrived, red-faced from the cold, Jerry suffered through the hail-fellow-well-met routine. He put Herb on nitrous oxide as fast as he could and shot him up with plenty of Novocain. With Herb set up with two suction tubes and a tiny rubber dam in his mouth Jerry was safe from his corny jokes.

The root canal went off without a hitch. Herb got a huge kick out of the card Jerry gave him:
I'm not on drugs. I've just come from my dentist's office.
The cards were Dotty's invention, her Christmas gift to him last year. It was past four when Herb left, his face still stiff with Novocain.

At four-thirty the girls locked up and Jerry was alone. He went to his office and reheated the last of the coffee. There was no work left to do, but he didn't want to go home yet. He was still too upset. Dotty would notice and he'd be tempted to break down and tell her about the group. Dotty had no idea he was in therapy. She had never guessed his carefully guarded secret.

There was a message on his desk. Dr. Pearson had called again. Jerry crumpled the pink sheet of paper into a ball and tossed it into his wastebasket. He refused to start up with a new shrink. His therapy had begun and ended with Dr. Elias. He was cured. Nothing bad would happen if he kept himself under tight control.

Even though he tried not to think about it, Jerry's mind slipped back to the girl and the awful secret that had sent him to Dr. Elias. Years later, he could still feel the sticky heat of that August night. Dotty had gone to visit her mother for a week. The apartment was lonely and stifling. The air-conditioning was broken. And Jerry was restless without his wife.

He needed some air. Jerry took the car out of the underground garage and zipped onto the freeway. He was wearing his oldest shorts and a thin shirt. The night air felt good on his body and he rolled down the windows all the way. He took an exit at random, Bass Lake Road. He'd never been out in that part of the suburbs before.

The streets were wide and lined with trees. In some places the branches almost met overhead. Old-fashioned lampposts stood on every corner. Their bulbs glowed softly. It was a stage setting of a small town, only fifteen minutes from the heart of the city.

There was a church, the old-fashioned kind with a bell tower and steeple, painted white. And a small corner drugstore, the kind he had only seen in movies. As he turned the corner he could hear children laughing and splashing in the community swimming pool.

He pulled up and parked across the street. There was a breeze and the leaves rustled overhead. A rustic wooden sign told him this was Lawrence Park. Jerry got out to sit on a green slatted bench beneath a huge oak tree.

The lights at the pool across the street blinked three times. It was too dark to see his watch, but Jerry thought it must be about ten in the evening, obviously closing time. In a few minutes a group of boys passed him, carrying towels and wet bathing suits. They were laughing and friendly. One or two smiled at him as if they knew him.

Five minutes later, the lights went off at the pool. Now Jerry was alone again and he leaned back against the bench. The stars were bright and he heard the rustle of small animals in the park. A dog ran down the path, stopping to sniff at several bushes. It was so quiet and peaceful there that Jerry began to long for a house in the suburbs. Then he saw her.

She was lovely. A small blond girl, budding breasts hugged tightly by last year's swimsuit. She smiled at him, a complete stranger, in a very adult way. Jerry felt his heartbeat quicken. She took the path through the park, towel swinging lightly over her shoulder and just touching the rounded curve of her buttocks. She turned to look back at him once or twice. It was dark, but he was sure she was smiling.

Before he could think, he was following her into the heart of the park. It covered an extended city block, paths winding among huge trees and bushes. He could hear her footsteps on the path ahead, and the white towel she carried gleamed in the moonlight.

The lamppost in the center of the park was burned out. Jerry watched as she stopped and trailed one slim hand in the fountain. Then she turned and looked in his direction. He was sure he saw her hand rise and beckon to him in the shadows. Could she be older than she looked?

Something seemed to snap inside him. All the dark urges surfaced and he was running. She was running, too, but that was only a game. She wanted him. Hadn't she deliberately beckoned to him in the darkness?

He caught her at the darkest spot in the park and wrestled her to the ground. Yes, she was playing at resisting. He could tell. His hand covered her mouth and she whipped her head from side to side, wet blond hair stinging against his fingers. Her skin was blazing with soft heat as he pulled down the top of her bathing suit and grasped her young breasts. As she squirmed and fought, he laughed, playing the game, taming her token resistance. She wanted him. It was her dream, her fantasy, and he would give it to her.

Hot and tight. He could not believe the power of her young muscles as he spread her legs. He was a match for her, his body hard and well-muscled from hours of tennis and racquetball. His fingers found her, explored her roughly, the way she wanted. She was so small and fierce beneath him. He threw himself on her, covering her completely.

As he lunged forward, his hand slipped from her mouth and she screamed. His mind cleared with the sudden shock. He looked down at her closely, without the cloud of his fantasy, and he knew the truth.

He ran and took the nightmare with him. How close he'd come! How terribly close to losing his wife, his career, his sanity.

Jerry had started with Dr. Elias the next day. He'd paid the high therapy costs and never told anyone he was in the group. And everything had been fine until Betsy had arrived. Betsy, the same face, the same age as the girl in the park. What if he lost control and raped his own niece!

His coffee was cold. It was after five and Dotty didn't expect him home until nine-thirty or so. She approved of his rigid physical fitness program and she always had a light dinner waiting when he came in from the spa.

Jerry took out his running outfit and sighed. He didn't feel like jogging his usual six miles. He was still upset about the way the group had turned on him and he wanted to see Dotty. She had a knack for jollying him out of his bad moods. He put his Adidas back in the closet and locked up the office. Then he drove to his Lake Minnetonka home. He hadn't told Dotty he loved her in an awfully long time.

“Hi, Uncle Jerry!” Betsy was just coming down the stairs from her bath, wrapped in a fluffy towel. She ran to him and hugged him tightly.

“Hi, honey.” Jerry kissed the top of her blond head and managed to disengage himself. “Where's Aunt Dotty?”

“Oh, she went out to get a pizza.” Betsy watched as he sat down in his recliner chair and then hopped up in his lap. She reached over to get the remote control and turned on the console television. “What do you want to watch, Uncle Jerry?”

“The news, I guess.” Jerry cleared his throat uncomfortably. He really wanted to tell Betsy to sit in another chair, but she was probably missing her parents and he didn't want to be abrupt with her.

“You smell like my daddy.” Betsy giggled and squirmed on his lap. “That's Pierre Cardin aftershave, isn't it, Uncle Jerry? All the girls in my class think it's sexy.”

Betsy moved to nuzzle his neck and Jerry noticed that one bare leg was completely exposed. He couldn't help but stare at it. Light blond hair glistened on her thigh. Jerry tried not to notice, but the towel was just tucked in on top and it was starting to come loose. He could see the budding swell of her small breasts. Even though he knew that his niece was not being deliberately provocative, it was all Jerry could do to hang on to his control as he put her down firmly and made a show of glancing at his watch.

“I'm going jogging, honey. Tell your Aunt Dotty to save a piece of pizza for me and I'll heat it in the microwave later. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

He saw Betsy's face fall as he rushed out the door, but that couldn't be helped. He had to get away from her! His hands were shaking so hard he had trouble fitting the key in the ignition.

Jerry didn't relax until he was back on the freeway, heading toward downtown. He had thought that part of his life was over, but now it was happening again. All those years in therapy hadn't helped. For a moment he actually considered calling the new therapist, but that was ridiculous. If Dr. Elias hadn't cured him, no one could. He was better off with his own method of coping. He'd jog the full circuit and exercise until he was exhausted. And he wouldn't go home until Betsy was safely in bed for the night.