"Not even close to a tie," I said. "If you hadn't shown up—"
"Hey, it's a soft science," he said. "Psychology. We study, we guess, sometimes we're right, other times ..." Weak smile.
The door opened, and Dr. Rene Maccaferri marched in. Those same appraising eyes. White lab coat over black turtleneck and slacks, pointy little lizardskin shoes on too-small feet. He looked like a goombah playing doctor, and I told myself I could be forgiven my theories.
Mr. Wrong.
Maccaferri ignored me, checked the monitors, approached Dugger's bedside. "They taking good care of you?"
"Too good, Rene."
"What's too good?"
"I'm not used to it."
"Try," Maccaferri told him. "I talked to the vascular surgeon. He'll be over today to look you over, monitor you for infection, make sure no thromboses. You look good to me, but better to make sure."
"Whatever you say, Rene. How's Dad?"
Maccaferri's thick, black, fuzzy-caterpillar brows knitted, and he glanced at me.
"It's okay, Rene."
"Daddy is about the same," said the doctor, turning to leave.
"Okay, Rene. Thanks. As always."
Maccaferri stopped at the door. "There's always, and there's always."
Dugger's eyes went moist.
When the door closed I said, "I'm sorry to add to your burden."
Both of us knew what I meant: Life had thrown him a double dose of grief. Anticipation of the loss to come, pining for the sister he'd never really gotten to know.
Meeting her, losing her.
He turned his head to the side and fought back tears. "I know the road to hell's paved with good intentions, but I'm one of those people who still takes intention into account. Whatever you did, it was because you cared about Lauren— My throat's a little dry, could you please hand me that7UP?"
I poured soda into a paper cup, held it to his lips.
He drank. "Thanks— How long did you actually treat her? Tell me about that—tell me anything you can."
He'd shared his story. I had no option but to reciprocate. I recited, speaking automatically, while another lobe of my brain remembered.
The anxiety in his eyes when Milo had questioned him about Lauren. What I'd taken for guilt had been pain—a solitary ache.
Lauren and I agreed to do it the right way, not just spring it on everyone. There was Anita to think about—Dad's illness has plunged her lower than I've ever seen her, and she doesn't do well with change. And Dad, himself. I was concerned about the impact. So was Lauren, she wanted whatever happened to go smoothly or not at all. She said Dad knew about her—years ago, when Lauren's mother wrote to him, he called, wanted to meet Lauren, but her mother put it off, said Lauren had emotional problems, she wasn't ready. Dad tried a couple more times, then Dad backed off. That was just like him—make his offer, then not push. Maybe it's a character flaw— emotional laziness, I don't know. Sometimes, growing up, I felt Dad was too laid-back—as if he didn't care. But on balance it was better than his trying to dominate Anita and me. . . . In Lauren's case, maybe if he would've pushed . . . How can you second-guess'? By the time Lauren did build up the courage to meet me and tell me who she was, Dad was sick and weak. I was worried abut the shock. Maybe I— What's the use . . . ? Right from the beginning Lauren and I got along so well—clicked, as if we'd known each other our whole lives. And—this is going to sound childish—we had fun. Imagining what things would be like once we . . . Our little experiment, we called it—figuring out a way of integrating Lauren into the family.
I said, The phone booth.
He nodded, winced. Moved his leg and his breath caught. That was part of our . . . arrangement. When we built up the courage to bring Lauren to Dad's house. She'd call me at Point Dume, and if it was okay— relatively quiet at the house—I'd pick her up. I told people she was my friend—childish, I know. I think we both liked the cloak-and-dagger aspect. I would have so liked to know her better—longer. . . . My little sister.
At that point he'd broken down and sobbed, and I'd turned away, feeling low and intrusive, until his voice drew me back.
Don't worry, I've had enough therapy not to be ashamed of my feelings. I guess what I want you to know is that Lauren had value to me—dammit, she deserves to be cried over. Maybe that's what bothers me the most. There's no one left to cry for her but me. That time you and Sturgis showed up at my apartment and told me what happened to her—it was as if my entire world was imploding. I'm not the most spontaneous person, but right then I could've just. . .gone mad. Of course, I didn't. Too controlled . . . too much at risk . . . The thing about Lauren was that she made me feel like a kid— something I rarely felt when I actually was a kid. The two of us were planning and scheming, laughing about what we had in common. Our differences—she'd find something we just couldn't see eye to eye on and laugh and say, "So much for chromosomes." That kind of thing— No one knew. Not Anita or the women at the office, no one. At least I thought so. . . . Then I started seeing things. Looks passing between Kent and Cheryl, and Lauren would be going off with Cheryl talking. When I asked her about it, she just said, Cheryl was nice but not too bright. I never liked Kent, but never did I imagine—how can you imagine things like that'?. . . Poor Anita— outwardly she's tough, but it's an act. She's always been frail, has irritable bowel syndrome, asthma, migraines—most of her childhood was spent in doctors' offices. . . . Kent was . . . vulgar, but how could I know?... 7 keep asking myself that— Lauren going off with Cheryl, more and more— Was there some way to know ?
No, I'd told him. No one knew.
He asked for more 7UP, drank, sank back against the pillows, closed his eyes.
A controlled man. A kind man. Delivering toys to a church, with no ulterior motive. Donating 15 percent of his trust fund, every year, to charity.
No one had a bad word to say about him because there was nothing bad to say.
I'd persisted in thinking of him as a warped killer.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
I supposed I'd saved his life, but given all that and the bullet he'd taken for me, it seemed a feeble twist of reciprocity.
He'd been charitable enough to grant me another false equality: sharing Lauren. As if my stint as a failed therapist could come close to the bond he'd shared with her. Only to have it ripped from him.
A nice guy. In another place, another time, I wouldn't have minded shooting the breeze with him. Talking about psychology, learning what it had been like growing up Tony Duke's son.
But I had nothing more to offer him, and what he'd been through— what Lauren had been through—would stay with me for a long, long time.
So would the loose ends.
Anita. Baxter and Sage.
And now I had my own problems to deal with.
As I rang for his nurse, I knew that most likely I'd never see him or anyone else in the Duke family again, and that would be just fine.
36
THE NURSE CALLED for someone to see me out, and another big man showed up, a lobster pink blond with a shaved head wearing a lime green suit over a black T-shirt. I gave Dugger a small salute and walked out of the yellow room.
"Nice day, sir," said my escort, using the same elbow steer to guide me through the black walnut hallway. Gilded niches were filled with statuary, urns brimmed with flowers, monogrammed D's punctuated the blue-and-gold carpeting at twenty-foot intervals.
On the way to the elevator we passed a room whose double doors had been shut when I'd arrived. Now they were spread open, and I caught a glimpse of a ballroom-sized space with zebra-striped walls.
Another hospital bed, the stoic Dr. Maccaferri standing by the headboard, drawing blood through a syringe that he'd jabbed into an IV line.
Another too-small bed. A tiny, bald head barely visible above blue satin covers. Wizened, elfin. Sleeping or approximating slumber. Gaping mouth, toothless. Motionless.
The pressure on my elbow intensified. Mr. Nice Day said, "Please keep moving, sir."
I drove home, knowing the house would be empty.
After that night on the pier, I'd spent hours at St. John's Hospital. Had phoned home twice, gotten the machine. Returned just after two A.M. to find Robin wide awake, in the bedroom, packing a suitcase.
When I tried to hold her, she said, "No."
"Early vacation?" I said. Everything was wrong, and I was talking gibberish.
"By myself," she said.
"Honey—"
She threw clothing into the valise. "I got home at ten, was worried sick until you just happened to call at midnight."
"Honey, I—"
"Alex, I just can't take this anymore. Need time to settle myself down."
"We both do," I said, touching her hair. "Let's stick with the original plan and get away together. I promise—"
"Maybe in a few days," she said, suddenly crying. "You don't know the pictures that filled my head. You . . . again. Then Milo told me what happened—what were you thinking. A date with a bimbo*. Another undercover adventure that nearly got you killed\"
"Not an adventure. Anything but. I was trying to help . . . some kids. The last thing I thought would happen was—"
"You can help kids by doing what you were trained for. Sit and talk to them—"
"That's how this started, Robin." Unable to keep my voice steady. "Lauren was a patient. It just got . . ."
"Out of control? That's the point. When you're involved, things tend to ... expand. It's like you're a magnet for ugliness. You know me, I'm a structured person—I work with wood and metal and machines, things that can be measured. I'm not saying that's ideal, or the only way. Maybe it means there's something wrong with my psyche. But there's something in between. Alex, the uncertainty you keep putting me through—every time you step out the door, not knowing if you'll come back."
"I always come back." I reached for her again, but she shook her head and said, "Let me go."
"I'm sorry, let's talk about it—"
She shook her head. "I need . . . perspective. Then maybe we'll talk."
"Where are you going?"
"San Diego—my friend Debby."
"The dentist."
"The dentist," she said. "She and I used to have fun together. I used to have friends. Now all I've got is you and Spike and my work. I need to expand."
"Me too," I said. "I'll take up a hobby—golf."
"Sure," she said, smiling in spite of herself. "That'll be the day."
"What—impossible?"
"If there was something less likely than impossible, you and golf would be it. Alex, I'm not trying to tame you. I want you healthy—that's the point. You standing around on the links in funny shoes, all that dead time, is not a prescription for well-being. Let's not prolong this. I'll call you."
Latching the suitcase, she headed for the door. "Spike's in the truck. I'm sure you won't mind that."
"Not only am I abandoned, it's for another man."
She kissed me hard on the lips, turned the doorknob, said, "Take care."
"When will you call?"
"Soon. A couple of days." Short, hard laugh.
"What?" I said.
"I was just about to say, 'Be careful, baby.' Like I always do when we're about to go our separate ways. Rotten habit. I shouldn't have to say that."
37
THE FIRST DAY she was gone, I was miserable, and the next one was shaping up the same way when Milo dropped by at nine A.M. and showed me Jane Abbot's correspondence with Tony Duke.
"She kept copies," he said. "In her safe-deposit box. On the bottom, under some stock certificates."
Two letters. In the first Jane reminded Duke of their time in Hawaii and informed him he had a daughter. A penciled notation on the bottom was dated five days later:
TD called, 3pm, no prob with $, wants to meet L. I said probs, maybe later.
In the second Jane thanked Duke for his quick response, apologized for restricting him from Lauren, describing her as "a very bright young lady, but unfortunately—through no fault of yours, dear Tony—she is currently emotionally ill and highly troubled."
TD called 3X, says be knows doctors. Put him off. Lauren gone, again, no idea where. Next time, bail or not?
A final page in Jane's handwriting laid out the financial agreement. Fifty thousand dollars a year placed in trust for Lauren, to be supervised by Jane, with the understanding that Jane would do everything in her power to effect a reunion and that, by the time Lauren reached twenty-six, Duke would get to meet her.
Father and daughter had fallen short by six months.
I gave him back the papers. "What's the status on Mel Abbot?"
"He should be released soon, though no one's sure where to put him. The closest relative they can find is a cousin in New Jersey, almost as old as Mel. Meanwhile, Irving's right down the hall from Abbot, in the jail ward—you did good work on his face. The D.A. will file multiple counts of conspiracy and first-degree homicide with special circumstances for mass murder, cruelty, and profit motive. Gretchen's helping them put the case together in order to plea down her own conspiracy rap— The feds finally came through and verified that Irving had been one of her big-time clients. All we've got on her is her pal Ingrid knowing I was looking for Michelle and your seeing Gretchen enter the Duke estate the next day."
"Gretchen works the system again," I said.
"What the D.A. wants is Irving on a platter, and Gretchen can fill in the blanks. She can also supply the motive for Michelle—no, there wasn't any blackmail, no one's sure Michelle even knew anything dangerous. But Irving thought she did—to be brutally honest, my mentioning Michelle's name to Gretchen signed her death warrant—and no, I'm not blaming myself, I was doing my job. It's just the way things happen sometimes."
He rubbed his face. "And Gretchen's still claiming she's never heard of Shawna. I'd like to say I've been right about Shawna not being part of this, but at this point I don't know what's real and what isn't. For all I know Irving took pictures of her, boffed her, killed her."
"Gretchen set up Michelle and Lance and she walks."
"Maybe she'll get hers one day. ... I also found out that Irving's rag biz went under because of 'financial irregularities'—he left behind an army of creditors, and that beach construction project is leveraged to the hilt. Plenty of claws being sharpened— He ain't gonna find too many character witnesses."