Dark Eye (37 page)

“Rachel?”

“Yes. She’s joined the school team.”

“Rachel is playing a team sport?”

The woman was so tiny she seemed to bob when she spoke, like one of those mechanical storks you saw at truck stops poised over the rim of a glass. “She’s enjoying it. Making new friends.”

“Is she any good?”

“Well,” Mr. Shepherd explained, “she’s inexperienced. She hasn’t played as long as most of the other girls. But she has the height, and she’s not without talent. I think she has some natural athletic gifts. I’m surprised you didn’t encourage her to play.”

“Well, I… didn’t… I… thought it best to focus on academics.”

“Her first game is Monday night. You should come. I think she’d like that.”

“I’ll try. I’ve been busy with this investigation.”

“Of course.”

Delacourt shot me a look, and I amended, “But I’m always ready, willing, and able to spend time with Rachel.”

Goddamn those Shepherds, anyway. Did they do it on purpose-always making me feel inferior to their pedestrian middle-class blather? I threw myself into my chair. At least they hadn’t turned her into a cheerleader. Yet.

“You know the judge will be watching you,” Delacourt said to me quietly.

“Is it my hair or this new Wonderbra?”

“He’ll be watching your demeanor. Trying to judge whether you’re capable of raising Rachel. I told you this already, remember?”

“You also said nothing would be decided today.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t start thinking about it.”

“And he can tell what kind of parent I’d be from looking at me?”

“He can tell a lot. He’s been doing this for thirty years. He can tell if you’re drunk, which thank God you don’t appear to be. He can tell if you’re able to control your temper.”

“So I will.”

“Then we have nothing to worry about.”

The first fifteen minutes of the hearing were boring beyond belief. Lawyers talking lawyerspeak to other lawyers. Occasionally I’d hear my name and my interest level would increase. But after another ten seconds or so of
parens patriae
and
guardian ad litem
my head would be in another place.

“Ms. Pulaski?”

I was pretty stunned to realize the judge was talking to me. I rose to my feet. “Yes, Your Honor?”

“Do you agree with what the counsel for NDHS said?”

I hated these memory tests. Especially when I hadn’t been paying attention. But I figured if the lawyer who wanted to give Rachel to the Shepherds had said it, it couldn’t be good. “No, Your Honor, I certainly don’t.”

“Good. Neither do I.” I sat back down. Judge Gaynor was in his late fifties, but his hair was still jet black and his face relatively unlined. He had a clipped tone to his voice but seemed to make a point of avoiding rudeness to anyone. “In fact, I’m rather disappointed to hear the state make the argument.”

“Your Honor,” the other lawyer protested, but the judge waved it away.

“We need public servants. Now more than ever. We are perhaps only beginning to appreciate the enormous benefits provided to us on a daily basis by the law enforcement community. Their job is difficult and the hours are long. We should honor their dedication, not use it as a weapon against them. I’ve never heard of anyone losing custody because police work was inherently demanding. Or dangerous. And we’re not going to set a precedent in my courtroom.”

I only half understood what was happening. But I had the sense to know it was good. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

“I am aware that Ms. Pulaski is a behaviorist and that she is working on the current spate of killings that have plagued our community. I commend her for taking on this challenge.”

My God-was it possible? The judge actually liked me?

“The state’s concerns about her income and employment status seem to me totally without merit. I also note that you have found a new place to live.”

“Yes, sir. Although my job recently forced me to make yet another move. It’s small, but-”

He nodded. “We like our parents to have homes, but we’re certainly not going to evaluate their worthiness based upon square footage. Especially not for a dedicated public servant.”

For the first time, my spirits swelled. Maybe, just maybe, I had a chance to win this thing.

Of course, it couldn’t last. “I am, however, concerned about the state’s allegations regarding the personal problems that arose after the loss of your husband. According to the Human Services’ brief, you’re an alcoholic. Is this true, Ms. Pulaski?”

What to say? I didn’t like being labeled, and I didn’t think it was fair or accurate, but if I quibbled with him, they would say I was in denial. As I peered into the judge’s eyes, I realized that he already had all the factual information he needed. He had asked the question to see how I would respond.

“I have problems with alcohol, Your Honor. That is absolutely true. But I’m dealing with it. I’ve given up drinking. Totally.”

He looked at me intently but didn’t say anything.

“I’ve completed a detoxification clinic. I’m attending Intensive Outpatient classes downtown.”

He shuffled some papers. “I have a report from a… Dr. Coutant, who treated you at the detox center.”

I felt as if my heart had been stabbed with a dull pizza knife.

“According to him, you haven’t been attending the IOP classes. Is that true?”

“I… uh… I have been absent for a while. This case takes up so much of my time.”

“Surely your recovery comes first.”

“I plan to start up again, just as soon as-”

Judge Gaynor cut me off. “Alcoholics always plan to do something in the future. Just as they always say they’re not going to drink anymore. It’s part of the disease.”

“But-”

“I admire your work, Ms. Pulaski. Truly I do. But unless and until you’ve dealt with this problem, no court on earth is going to grant you custody. It would be irresponsible. And certainly not in the best interests of the child. Quentin?”

My lawyer rose. “Yes, Your Honor?”

“At our court date, I’m going to want full and complete medical records on your client.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll want attendance records from the IOP classes. And evidence of enrollment in a certified AA program. And I want periodic blood tests.”

He breathed heavily. “Yes, sir.”

The judge gave me one last look. “If those tests show alcohol in your bloodstream, Ms. Pulaski, you might as well not bother coming to court.”

The rest of the hearing was a blur. I don’t remember what happened. I know Delacourt got me to a car, made some inquiries about my state of mind, and entrusted me to the care of my security detail. Meanwhile, my brain stayed on one topic. What the judge had said. How he’d built my hopes up. Then cut them out from under me with a single swath of his vicious scythe.

The hardest part was not the embarrassment, not being called a drunk in open court. Nor was it the judge’s demands and requirements. Not even the blood test. Damned intrusive, but in my heart I knew it was a perfectly reasonable request under the circumstances. No, my problem was not the fact that the judge was trying to force me to give up drinking.

My problem was that I knew I couldn’t do it.

Why won’t the letters do what I want them to do? Normally they dance around and they tell me what they mean and I get it and I can tell Susan but this time I can’t tell her anything. I know the Bad Man made it harder because he knew I was good at this just like that teacher in the tenth grade who was mad at me because I showed him that he was working the quadratic equation wrong and so he made me stand at the front of the class and gave me calculus problems and he was trying to make me sad because I hadn’t read any calculus books and he made me stand there the whole time and work on it and I did get it eventually I did but by then everyone had gone home and when I showed the teacher the next day he said that I had cheated and I got in trouble. I don’t know why I always get in trouble and I’ll probably get in trouble if I solve this puzzle but I want to do it because Susan wants it and if Susan wants it then I have to do it.

He’s trying to fool me he’s using the same letters over and over again but changing what they stand for like before but more often it’s like the letter only appears once and then it’s something else and that’s why the letters can’t talk to me he won’t let them. But I can sorta see the words even when he keeps changing everything and he won’t tell me where one word ends and the next begins and I think he messed it up in a few places but there’s still a pattern and I can trace that letter that keeps coming over and over again I thought it must be
E
but it isn’t
E
and if it isn’t
E
maybe it’s
S
and if it’s
S
why does it keep coming up again and again like one word with two
S
’s close together like he’s talking to someone and-

Susan.

This was a letter to Susan like maybe they were all letters to Susan but this one really is because her name is in it.
Talk to me!

Susan oh no no no no no Susan I have to call Dad or someone or that Patrick and get them to get to Susan oh no quickly Susan oh no oh no oh no no no no no no…

DAM YOU IM ACELERATING YOUR EDUCATION YOURE NEXT SUSAN

I felt like death on a soda cracker, to use one of David’s favorite phrases. I felt as if I had wrapped Rachel up in a box and gift-wrapped her for those narrow-minded prigs she’d been living with. I’d been kidding myself, pretending that I might be smart enough to catch this killer when I knew damn well I wasn’t. Not now. Probably not ever. I was as depressed as I ever remembered being in my entire life. And the worst part of it-I wasn’t even free to drink. Not in a public place, anyway, not when I knew spies might be watching me at any time.

Why did they have to make everything so hard? Why couldn’t they understand? I’m trying, but I’m not Wonder Woman. I’m not perfect. But Rachel wants to live with me, and I want to live with her. Why isn’t that enough?

Just to make matters worse, Lisa was out with some new kisser of the week, and Patrick was too busy babysitting the new feds to step out with me. Not that I really wanted to wake up handcuffed to the headboard again. But I didn’t want to be alone, either. So instead of chatting with a handsome FBI agent, I was in The White Feather wondering if one of the security guys posted outside could be lured in for a club soda.

Was there anything I hadn’t screwed up? Would there ever be?

David could answer that question. Yes, he certainly could. But I might not like the answer.

“Susan? Is this chair taken?”

You can imagine my relief when I saw that accountant-informant guy, Ethan, standing at the other end of the table. He was a small guy, but still reasonably attractive. He wasn’t Patrick, but now that I looked at him, I realized they did have a similar look about them. And Patrick had given me a pass. So a girl could hardly be faulted for exploring alternatives.

I invited him to have a seat. He ordered a Coke. I continued nursing my club soda. We talked about nothing in particular for a while.

“I know you’ve been buried in that case,” he commented after a while. “But you haven’t said anything about it.”

“And I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”

“What do you think that guy wants?”

“Who? The killer?”

“I can’t help being curious. After all, I saw the man.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants. He’s delusional. Psychos of his caliber work up these grandiose schemes that only make sense in their own minds. If there.”

“Are you sure? I’m no expert, but it seems to me as if he might be… working toward something.”

“And this is based on seeing him in the parking lot?”

“And everything I’ve read. You don’t think he has a greater plan?”

“Not one that makes any rational sense.”

“Do you think you’re close to catching him?” He seemed awfully interested in this killer. Didn’t he get that I didn’t want to talk about it? “I mean, I’m wondering if I might have to come in and pick him out of a lineup or something.”

“It’s possible. I can’t talk about how close we are.”

“Sure. I understand.” Finally we moved on to other topics. A few minutes later he got around to asking if I was married.

“Widowed. You?”

“No. Wanted to. But never met the right girl.”

“You wanted to be married? Why? Just for the pleasure of sharing a bathroom?”

He smiled shyly-almost boyishly. “A stable lifestyle is the key to harmony. A family. You have any children?”

I felt my buzz fading. “No.”

“Pity. You’d make a great mom.”

“Tell it to the judge.” He couldn’t possibly know how sensitive a nerve he’d just struck. “I’m sorry, long story. Stupid.”

“No, not at all.” To my surprise, he put his arm around me and held me. Warmly. There was nothing sexual about it. He was just… comforting. “Best to let it out.”

“No. I just… oh, God.”

The bartender came by, obviously wondering if something was wrong, if he was a masher trying to overpower me or something. “She’s just not feeling well,” he explained, and now that he mentioned it, I realized I wasn’t feeling well. My eyesight was getting fuzzy. My limbs were stiffening.

“I-I think I may need to go to the bathroom.”

“That’s okay,” Ethan said. “Let me help you.”

“I-don’t-need-” All of a sudden, I could barely move. Or speak. He helped me off the stool and all but carried me back to the ladies’ room. To my surprise, he went in with me.

And locked the door behind us.

“Is your head feeling heavy, dear? You’re starting to slur, and for once, it isn’t the copious quantities of booze you’ve imbibed. I put a little treat in your drink.”