I stood and walked across the mossy grass, snapping off the pinecone's brown claws. The graves were in no particular order. No. 1178 was next to No. 1209, which was next to No. 554.
Jack said, “Give me the rundown. For the 302.”
Facts only. I described the death of SunTzu and how Mr. Yuck discovered the black tubing. I told him about the battery-operated contraption that was now in the lab, and as I spoke, I tried to ignore a persistent little thought camping in the back of my mind. Given this same situation, DeMott would've pressed me to talk about my feelings concerning my mom. He'd ask too many questions and then get upset when I had no answers. And if I changed the subject, he'd accuse me of shutting him out. Which meant I could feel guilty on top of already feeling sad.
“Wait a minute,” Jack said. “You're saying some kind of poisoned dart shot out of that tube? And it hit the horse?”
“I don't know. That's why I wanted to get into the lab. Whoever set up that tubing mechanism is smart. Really smart. The problem is, between the DNA backlog and the generic nature of the physical evidence, the evil genius might get away with it.”
On the other side of the hedge, a car splashed through a puddle. I kneeled down again, gazing at No. 329. Jack stretched and looked over the top of the bushes.
“Stay down,” he said. “Can't tell.”
Weather and time had eroded the headstone. A lacework of pale green lichen was growing into the engraved numbers, as if trying to obliterate the person again. No name in life, no number in death. I scratched at the fungus, ripping it off the granite. After several moments, I realized Jack was still standing there. I looked up, but his gaze had shifted. He was staring across the cemetery's hummocky field toward some spindly pines that looked equally abandoned. I knew this expression on his face. When his eyes turned aquamarine. I waited, feeling something like a moth flutter inside my chest. I tried to kill it.
“It doesn't fit,” he said.
“What doesn't?”
“This gizmo you're talking about. Fixing races is one thing. But you're describing murder. Premeditated murder. Maybe even chemical warfare.”
“It fits,” I said. “Somebody lit a fire to kill a horse.”
He turned, staring at me now. “Maybe you were just collateral damage?”
“That's what I told you, remember? In the hospital?”
But he wasn't listening. His eyes were still focused on some inward idea. “We should ask Lutini to do a profile.”
Lucia Lutini. I stared at the gravestone. Lutini was the person I wanted to be my case agent.
Let it go
.
“One more detail,” I said. “Sal Gagliardo's horse was slightly affected by the bad start. Cuppa Joe. He balked before he ran. He was the favorite. But only placed.”
“Fits the pattern.”
“Giddyup.”
“And his horse wasn't seriously injured?”
“No. Neither was the second horse. Just Eleanor's.”
“Gagliardo's horse being part of this is a great cover,” Jack said. “Makes it look like he didn't have motive.”
“Right. And the guy who runs the start bet on that horse. What if he looked the other way while it was being set up?” I thought back to Harrold's nervousness and the way Sal Gag stared at him. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not: Harrold was high-strung, and Sal Gagliardo didn't look at anyone with much warmth.
“Time?” Jack asked.
I checked my watch. Freud in ten minutes. I stood, feeling dizzy walking back to the Ghost. Jack stepped over the fence ahead of me and opened the car door.
“This thing suits you,” he said. “You realize that?”
I sat down, and he closed the door. But the window was open and the air suddenly smelled of pine and earth. I gazed at the ground, searching for conifers. But I knew that wasn't it. Jack. He had a deep green scent. Woodsy and warm. Sun on evergreens.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I was just thinking about how much money I would've won if the horse had come through.”
“Harmon, it's Monopoly money.”
I turned the key. The Ghost gave an impressive growl. But Jack didn't step back. Instead he leaned down into the window. “Do me a favor?” he said.
I felt a cynical smile tugging at my mouth.
I should've known
. “Do you a favor because you delivered some food I never asked for?”
“No,” he said calmly. “I told you, Harmon. You don't owe me.”
The heat flushed up my throat, burning into my cheeks. My comment sounded rude, out of line. “Okay, then what?”
“Don't hand him any ammo.”
“Who?”
“The shrink,” he said. “Don't let that guy have one bit of your true self. Understand?”
E
very time I walked into Western State Hospital I felt another layer of duality falling over my life. Outside, summer burst with color and vitality. But this place was darker than the deepest cave. The gothic architecture divided sunshine into tiny rays, a light too fractured to penetrate the diamond-shaped window panes and too cold to warm the pervasive atmosphere of trouble. Making my way down the second-floor hallway toward an arched doorway, I could hear laughter on the floor above. But it had no humor. Cheerless and remote, it sounded like mirth raised like a weapon, trying to deflect a wicked opponent.
I looked at my watch. Three seconds before 8:00 p.m. I knocked on his door.
Dr. Nathan Norbert might have seemed at home at the track, standing among the jockeys. He was about two inches over five feet, wearing creased blue jeans and a monogrammed button-down shirt, tucked in. We'd already had two visits during my first weekend at the track, and I'd never seen him without a colorful tie that looked like some conversation starter. Or Rorschach test. Today a bunch of pandas were cavorting on the blue silkâ
dancing? fighting? copulating?
His brown hair sprouted from a tightly lined forehead, and rimless glasses almost concealed the expression in his eyes. His clipped beard tried to disguise a lantern jaw. And failed.
“Ah, Raleigh,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder.”
If only
, I thought, walking into his office.
If only you were the type who wondered
. But Dr. Nathan Norbert was a clinical critic. He diagnosed, contained, cataloged. When I had told him how much my parents loved each other, he gave me a new word for it: “codependent.”
I sat on the long brown couch that reminded me of a coffin while Freud lowered himself to his big chair that was placed to the side. He positioned the notepad on his knee and wrote something across the top of the page. Maybe noting that I showed up. Or that there was a scowl on my face. But I couldn't see the words because Freud kept his leg elevated, just so, tipping the pad away from my prying eyes.
“How are you?” he asked.
My palms were sweating. And I couldn't wipe them off because this was enemy territory. One vulnerable gesture, the predator would pounce.
“I'm fine.” I smiled. “You?”
“You missed our last appointment.”
“Short visit to the hospital.”
He stroked the beard. For Freud, the gesture was the equivalent of yelling,
What?
He said, “You didn't call to tell me.”
“I couldn't.”
He adjusted his position. The chair was one of those back-saving numbers, with heavily padded leather. The chair for people who sat around all day sticking their fingers in other people's business.
He said, “I did receive a message from your case agent. Something about an injury.”
“Just a few bruised ribs.”
He waited.
“Sort of painful.”
Waiting, waiting.
“I'm a little sore,” I added, hoping to score points for vulnerability. “And I would rather be resting, but I didn't want to miss another visit.”
He wrote something on the pad and I slid my palms over my jeans, pretending to adjust the sleeves of my jean jacket. When he turned his head, watching my movement, I smiled and glanced around his office, pretending to admire the place. The old wooden moldings were almost black with age, and the bookshelves swallowed most of the wall space. One window faced Steilacoom Boulevard. The diamond-paned glass was embedded with chicken wire. Iron bars over that, soldered together. No jumping allowed.
“Aside from the minor injury, how are things going?”
“Fine.”
“No problems?”
I searched for the right words. Silence only encouraged him. “My mom's dog is coming to live with me.”
His eyes showed almost genuine interest. I congratulated myself and kept talking. He wrote another note. Wrote and wrote. Then I stopped.
He looked up. “You say your fiancé will be bringing the dog. How do you feel about that?”
“Fine.”
He waited.
“I mean, excited. I'm excited to see DeMott. I miss him.”
“You miss DeMott,” he repeated as the pen scratched across the paper. “In what way do you miss him?”
“He's my fiancé.”
He looked up. “You haven't answered my question.”
Uh-oh
.
I glanced at the doctor's hands. The left hand. No ring. And here we were at eight o'clock on a Thursday night. At a mental asylum.
I said, “Are you married?”
He hesitated. “No, I am not married.”
“Have you ever been engaged?”
There was another pleasurable moment of silence. He scooted back into his chair. “No, I have not been engaged.”
“Well, let me tell you, it's the greatest thing. Just knowing that somebody wants to spend the rest of their life with you. Nothing compares to that.”
“Nothing compares?”
“No.”
“And you're not concerned that your fiancé's appearance might compromise your identity?”
“You mean my undercover status?”
“Do you feel that you have another identity, Raleigh?”
Oh boy
. Jack's words echoed in my mind.
“No ammo.”
“DeMott won't blow my cover.” I lifted my hand, flashing the engagement ring. “Raleigh David is engaged. And her fiancé is a wealthy guy who lives in Virginia. That pretty much describes DeMott. And he's a horse guy. So everything fits.”
“Everything fits?”
“Yes.”
“How long will he be here?”
“We haven't discussed that.”
“I see.”
The pen scratched the paper. The sound made my teeth itch.
He said, “You invited him, or he decided to come?”
“He's bringing my mom's dog.”
Freud looked up. “The animal, the one named Madame?”
“Yes.”
“Your mother talks about that dog. Frequently. It seems she misses it a great deal.”
This was the most intimate information he'd ever divulged to me about her. But it put me on the defensive somehow. Was he taunting me with how much he knew and wouldn't divulge? Was he retaliating for my marriage comment? I could see a mild expression on his face and decided Freud was just petty enough for this. As he might diagnose itâthe guy had some serious passive-aggressive tendencies because the heavy inference hung in the dimmed light.
My mother talked about her dog; she missed her dog. But she didn't miss her daughter
. Because I lied to her. Because I called the men in white who took her away.
No ammo
.
I straightened in my chair. “I'm glad she talks about Madame.”
“You're glad?”
“Yes. She loves her dog.”
“Animals are not allowed in the building.”
“That's pretty stupid.”
“Stupid?” His eyebrows rose.
“I mean silly.”
“Silly?”
“Unnecessary.” I smiled, tightly. “It seems like a visit with her own pet would be helpful.”
He was writing again. I considered telling him that Madame was depressed. Maybe the dog could come in for an appointment.
He said, “I concede the dog might improve her mood. Perhaps something can be arranged. A therapeutic visit. To elevate your mother's mental outlook.”
“What is her mental outlook right now?”
“Raleigh.” He laid the pen on the pad, the fountain tip like a miniature sword. “We've been over this.”
“These drugs you're giving her, what are they supposed to do?”
“We have privacy laws. Even with involuntary commitments. You know that, which means you're asking becauseâ”
“Because I have a right to know what you're doing to my mother.”