The Fixer (6 page)

“I’m buying a beer for anybody knows an eleven-letter word for ‘accident’. Got an n and a d in the middle,” he’d called out all those years ago.

The smattering of teachers, nurses, and stay-at-home dads who made up the Crystal’s afternoon clientele had nothing. Mort shook his head and tapped his pen against his newspaper.

“Serendipity,” a low voice called. “Fate, luck, kismet, accident. Serendipity.”

Mort raised up on his bar stool to see who’d given him the obviously correct word. He waved the man over, bought him his beer, and thus began their weekly ritual. Five-thirty every Thursday. The first day of the week The New York Time’s crossword puzzle gets interesting.

Mort reached for the Guiness waiting for him. “Sorry I’m late.”

His friend glanced at his watch. “I’d say three minutes is well within allotted grace. You look like hell. Anything you care to talk about?”

Mort took a long sip. “Just trying to figure out how I can be such a fuck-up, is all.” He nodded to the newspaper in front of his friend. “You started? I gotta get mine from Mauser yet.”

L. Jackson Clark pulled a second copy of the Times from the seat beside him. “Here. Only three left when I got here.”

“Thanks.” Mort folded the paper to the puzzle and pulled out a pen. The two men worked the puzzle quietly for several minutes. “The prinicipal behind yin and yang. Forty-six down.” Mort looked up. “Make me happy I’m sitting with a professor of religious studies, Larry.”

“Dualism.” Larry counted letters on his fingers. “Or duality. Got a clue for the last two letters?”

“Dualism works.” Mort went back to the puzzle.

“This have anything to do with that young girl found dead at Seattle Center?” Larry asked. “Close to Allie’s age, wasn’t she?”

“She was.” Mort set his paper aside and watched two women at the bar playing cribbage. “What would someone with your oh-so-many years of schooling call someone who let their impatience and ego interfere with what they knew was right?”

Larry leaned back against the booth. “I think the term is ‘human’. What happened?”

Mort brought Larry up to speed on his failure to bring Angelo Satanell, Jr. in for the death of Meaghan Hane. “I had him, Larry. All those times Daddy got him off. This time I had him. I had the DNA. The witnesses. And I shoot my mouth off before the arrest warrant was ready. My money says Angelo, Sr. made one call. Set in motion a play that took me out of the game before I even suited up.”

“Now wait a minute. Surely you’ll investigate what happened in that evidence room.” Larry leaned in. “A blunder on your part, to be certain. But not a crime. That’s on someone else.”

Mort shook his head. “Investigation will turn up nothing. Our team’s spotless. It was some other way. Daddy’s money buys the best.”

“So Satanell walks.” Larry took a sip of beer. “Just like whoever took your Allie away. That what’s got you so angry at yourself?”

Mort leaned back and exhaled long and slow. “I don’t know. I guess I was hoping for a little justice in the world. Too much?”

Larry unrolled a slow smile. “Now you’re walking in my world. Is there room in your calculus for divine justice?” He nodded toward Mort’s paper. “That duality you just mentioned. Yin and yang. Good and evil. They make up a whole. Perhaps the evil this Santell does will be met with a celestial reckoning.”

“You talking karma?” Mort huffed out a laugh. “I’m the asshole who couldn’t wait for an arrest warrant. You think I have the patience for karma?”

“We’re a nation of laws, Mort. But we’re a universe of mystery. If the law can’t provide justice, what else have we but hope for a godly balancing?”

Mort’s eyes hardened. “There’s got to be another way.”

The world-renowned scholar shook his head and reached for his puzzle. “Keep your focus on your job, my friend. The other way lies trouble.”

Lydia Corriger said goodbye to her seventh patient of the day at five-thirty. She dreaded driving home with every state worker in Thurston County and was weighing her commuting options when she heard the front door to her office suite open.

“Dr. Corriger?” A female voice called from the reception area. “Hello?”

Lydia pushed away from her desk and crossed her office.

Savannah Samuels smiled and looked past Lydia’s shoulder. “Are you with someone? I know I don’t have an appointment.”

Lydia surveyed her unexpected visitor. Savannah’s jet black hair was shorter. She wore chinos and a soft grey flannel shirt. Suede moccasins. Far more comfortable than the picture of calculated chic she presented last time, but still the kind of beauty who inspires poets.

“You nearly missed me. What can I do for you, Savannah?”

The lovely woman fixed Lydia with pleading eyes. “You remember me. That’s nice.” Savannah hunched her shoulders and clenched her flawless face in supplication. “Could you maybe see me? Now, I mean?”

Lydia looked at her wristwatch.

“I know it’s late. Please. I’ll pay extra.”

Lydia raised her right eyebrow.

“That’s right. I forgot. I’m sorry.” Savannah offered a weak smile. “I’ll pay your published fee and not a penny more.”

Lydia glanced at her watch, remembered the traffic, and ushered her in. She settled into a chair and watched Savannah mill about her office, looking at framed diplomas before moving on to inspect titles on her shelf. She ran her finger across a row of books. “You can tell a lot about a person by how they decorate,” she said.

“It’s been, what?” Lydia scanned her memory bank. “Six weeks? Maybe seven? What brings you back?”

“For instance, you don’t have any photographs. Not on your shelves. Not on your walls.”

“Savannah, you didn’t come here to critique my decorating. Tell me what’s going on.” Lydia reached for her notebook but recalled Savannah’s request for no session notes.

“No photo of you shaking hands with an academic legend. No pictures of a smiling hubby or kids. Not even a dog.” Savannah’s blue eyes teased. “How very un-trophy of you, Dr. Corriger.”

“Savannah, you may talk about lots of things but you may not waste my time.” Lydia’s tone was gentle but unyielding.

“Not even one picture from the past?” Savannah whispered. “A childhood friend? Maybe someone special?”

“Have a seat, please.”

Savannah stood still. Lydia watched her in silence. Finally, she sat down, rigid and straight-backed, across from her therapist.

“Where should we start?” Savannah placed her canvas tote next to her feet and put her hands on clenched knees. Her right leg bobbed. A manic metronome beating the tempo of unrestrained anxiety.

“You’re afraid of something. Do you know what it is?” Lydia snuggled further down into her overstuffed chair. Model the opposite pose of a nervous patient, she reminded herself. Calm and steady.

Tears filled Savannah’s eyes. She reached for the tissue box on the table between the two women. “Of course I know. Did you think I’d be blissfully ignorant of my demons?”

“Demons, are they?” Lydia focused on her patient. “Tell me about them.”

Savannah wiped her eyes and pulled herself taller.

“You told me at our last visit you already trusted me.” Lydia let a few more moments pass in silence. “Does that still hold?” Voice steady and non-judgmental.

Savannah whispered. “It does. Thanks for seeing me. I know it’s late.”

“Then let’s make this time productive.” Lydia needed to press. Keep her patient focused. “I believe you were worried about something in you being broken. Am I right?”

Savannah was silent for several long moments. “I hurt people, Dr. Corriger. It didn’t used to bother me. Now it does.” Savannah reached for another tissue and held it in her clenched right hand.

“How do you hurt people?” Keep the probing neutral and focused. Use the patient’s own words. Build intimacy by creating the illusion they’re talking to themselves.

Savannah blinked a tear away and stared into middle space. “Do the details matter?”

“I think they do. There’s lots of ways we can hurt people,” Lydia said. “Intentional or accidental. Emotional. Physical. Sexual. Financial. Consistently or at random.” She watched her patient. “What ways do you think you hurt people, Savannah?”

The beautiful woman continued her numb gaze into nothingness. “I’ve hurt people every way you can conceive. Let’s leave it at that.”

Lydia recognized self-loathing. Normalizing was the next step, but she needed specifics. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

Savannah kept her eyes away from Lydia. “What’s the worst thing you can imagine? Think of that. Assume I’ve done it.”

Time for the challenge. Offer an absurd option. Lead the patient to realize their sins aren’t anywhere near as corrupt as they assume. “I’d say killing someone is as bad as it gets. Raping someone. Torturing someone.”

Savannah’s eyes were a blue Alaskan glacier; cold and unyielding. “Come on, Dr. Corriger. With what you know about me you can do better than that.” She tossed her tissue into the wastebasket a few feet away.

Lydia wondered what Savannah fantasized she knew. “Let’s switch gears. Maybe something less heated. What have you been up to since our last appointment? Seven weeks is a long time.”

Savannah focused her attention on the seam of her trousers. She traced its line with her fingernail. “I’ve been out of town.”

“Work or pleasure?”

Savannah slowly brought her head up. “I thought we were headed for less heated waters, Dr. Corriger.” When Lydia didn’t respond Savannah’s face softened. “I’m sorry. That sounded confrontational.”

“I’m not sure confrontational is the word. Maybe defensive,” Lydia said. “Tell me why such a routine question scares you.”

“It’s not that the question scares me. I’m not used to talking about myself.”

“You said at our last meeting you’d tell me lies but everything would be true. Are you wondering whether to be honest with me? Wondering if I’ve earned your confidence enough to be trusted with a minor detail like where you’ve been?”

Savannah smiled. “You remembered that? You’re really good.”

“Good enough to know you’re dodging the question. Let’s try again. What took you travelling for seven weeks?”

Savannah’s smile disappeared. Lydia could almost hear the decision process her beautiful and terrified patient was calculating. “Business,” she finally answered. “You could say it was a business trip.”

“Ah. Where did you go?”

A shorter hesitation this time. “Out of the country. Someplace warm. I needed a break.”

Lydia decided not to press for destination details. “What is it you do for a living? I don’t believe you ever mentioned it.”

Savannah concentrated on the tissue she was shredding. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Try me.” Vague encouragement. No pressure. Keep the patient undefended and talking.

“You could call me a freelancer and be accurate enough.” Savannah gathered the shreds of paper and wadded them into a ball. She glanced to the wastebasket, leaned back, and scored another two-point toss.

“What type?”

“Whatever needs doing.” Savannah’s voice had a clipped air of finality. She reached for her tote and stood. “Thanks for taking the time to see me. You’ve saved me again.” She pulled two hundred dollar bills from her hip pocket. “I looked up your webpage. I take it this is a follow-up session?”

“I’d code it as that,” Lydia answered as she stood. “But follow-up’s are typically forty-five minutes. We’ve barely taken half that time.”

Savannah placed the bills on the coffee table. “I’m well aware I’m cutting the session short. You should be paid for your services. I know I expect to be.” She pulled her tote over her shoulder and headed for the office door.

“Would you like another appointment? We could schedule something for next week.”

Savannah pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and stared at her moccasins. “I’d like that very much, Dr. Corriger. I’ll try to last longer.” Her voice was choked with tears. “Maybe next Wednesday?”

Lydia scanned her calendar. “Looks like I’m open at nine o’clock and again at six.”

“Can we say six? Last appointment of the day?”

“Six o’clock it is.” Lydia wrote her in. “And yes, it will be my last for the day. Are you okay to drive home?”

Savannah nodded her lovely head. “I’m much tougher than I look.”

Lydia arrived home just before seven. She poured herself the single glass of merlot she allowed herself every other day and walked out to her deck. She took a sip before tossing corn cobs to the squirrels and re-filling the bird feeders. Dusk was well underway. She felt a small stab of melancholy for the shortening days. She spent too much time in darkness. Lydia settled into a lawn chair and took in the mountains, the islands, and the water. She listened to the screech of the hawks and the call of the seagulls. She breathed in the scent of salt and pine until the last bird sounded and the majesty of her perfect world slipped into darkness.

Mort Grant tossed the sandpaper to the floor, brushed the sawdust off his hands and reached for the ringing phone.

“Hey, Dad. It’s me. Good time?”

“Good as any.” Mort held the cordless receiver in one hand and cleared a stool of old magazines with another. “I’m down in the shop. Thought I’d get back to those dollhouses I promised the girls. How are they? How are you?”

A soft chuckle came through the line. “They’re fine. They’re six years old, how do you think I’m doing?”

Mort matched his son’s laugh. “Twins. Double the fun.”

“Double the something. Hayden has decided she’s tired of dressing like Hadley and Hadley won’t leave the house if she can’t mirror what Hayden’s wearing. Imagine the hilarity in the morning.” Robbie’s voice softened. “Down in the shop, huh? About time you got back to your hobbies.”

Mort hated the calendar of recovery people expected. Did his son really think that lathes and saws could erase the pain of waking up every morning without Edie?

“How are things out in Denver? You running that paper yet?”

“Not yet, Dad. Crime beat keeps me busy enough. I’m working on a national story, though. That’s always good for the career. It’s why I’m calling. What’s the use of having a homicide detective for a dad if you can’t hit him up for help?”