Authors: G. H. Ephron

Delusion (2 page)

BOOK: Delusion

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THAT PART of East Somerville at that hour, without the cars, with only the occasional homeless person huddled in a storefront, feels like a stage set. Building flats waiting for film crews to light, for actors to populate. Wooden triple-deckers like Annie's crowding the sidewalk. A pair of mongrels foraged in overturned trash barrels in front of a dingy brick apartment building.

Annie drove her black Jeep like a seasoned cabbie, weaving around the potholes that bloom each spring on the city streets. I related what little Chip had told me. She'd heard the name before. Nick Babikian. “We helped him out about six months ago,” she said. “Right after we opened the new office. He had a disgruntled employee. Theft, some vandalism. Bomb threat too, as I recall. It was one of our first cases in private practice. Felt weird, not working defense.”

I smiled. Now that they were no longer in the public defender's office, Annie and Chip had bills to pay. They had to be a whole lot more ecumenical about the cases they took.

“What's he like?” I asked, wondering what we'd be walking into.

“I never actually met the guy. Pays his bills on time, that much I know.”

Annie stopped at a red light and waited for no one. She revved the engine, her fingers tapping impatiently on the wheel. I was glad I wasn't driving. I'd probably have run the light, delighting the cop skulking in a shadowy alley alongside the corner building.

The light turned green and Annie peeled off, past a warren of garages and body shops. We approached a Dunkin' Donuts across from a plumbing supply with old sinks and toilets on the front lawn. I could smell the coffee. I tried to suppress a groan. I rationalized. Two minutes here versus being alert there. It was a no-brainer.

“Annie â¦” I started.

“All right, all right,” Annie muttered, and she pulled in and rolled up to the take-out window. A minute later, we were on our way again and I was burning my tongue on an extra-large, extra-light.

We continued into East Cambridge where the delis turn from Portuguese to Italian, then down into Central Square. A two-block detour and we could have stopped at my house. Instead, we headed for the entrance to the Pike. We couldn't see the river, but I knew it was there. I could almost smell it. Tonight's full moon would be reflecting off the still water. “So when are you going to let me teach you to row?” I asked.

Annie had just taken a sip of her coffee. She sputtered. “Is that what I've gotten myself into?”

“That's only a piece of what you've gotten yourself into,” I said and squeezed her thigh. “Besides, you promised. If I tried roller blading, you said you'dâ”

“In-line skating,” she corrected me.

“Right.”

“Which you didn't like.”

“Which I
did
,” I protested. “Just not enough to want to run right out and repeat the experience. It took a week for my feet to recover.” I'd expected my ankles to be sore, but it had been the balls of my feet that felt like someone stuck them with red-hot pokers.

“We'll see. Maybe.”

“No maybes.”

Annie had turned off onto 128. We continued up an exit and onto the winding road toward Weston. Gradually the landscape changed from industrial to residential to upscale-residential. In Weston, the houses that lined the road were a mishmash of overgrown Victorian relics, fifties ranch homes, and bloated mansions with columned facades. The occasional one-island gas station still pumped full-service gas and had its own gourmet convenience store.

We turned and started up a narrow road. The houses up here were modern, tucked discreetly into the hillside. Annie slowed so I could read the house numbers painted on the mailboxes. She stopped at the end of a driveway that disappeared into woods.

“Why don't you let me out here,” I said.

Just then, Chip rolled by. He parked in front of us.

“Shit,” I said. Why hadn't it hit me before now? Any idiot seeing us would realize that Annie and I had spent the night together. And Chip wasn't any idiot. “You okay with this?” I asked too late, reaching for Annie's hand.

Chip got out and walked back, his hand shading his eyes from the Jeep's headlights. “Annie?” He knew her car.

“If I wasn't okay with it, I'd have made you call a cab,” Annie said. She rolled down her window. She smiled at Chip and shrugged. “Peter's car is at the garage.”

I got out. Chip looked from the Jeep to me and back again. He grinned. I could read his thought:
Well, it's about time
.

“Since you're here anyway, Annie, mind hanging around? Just long enough to see what's what,” he said. “Frankly, I'm not sure what the story is, but I have a bad feeling about this.”

Annie got out.

Gravel crunched as we walked up the driveway and through a pair of open security gates. When we cleared the trees and emerged from the shadows, a low modern home sprawled before us. It had layers of a flat roof, narrow ribbon windows facing the driveway, walls of steel and stucco that stretched out on land surrounded by trees and bushes. There was a two-car garage connected on one side. Every light in the place seemed to be on.

Chip rang the bell. We waited. A breeze rustled the leaves. Not a sound from inside the house. Chip rang again and knocked.

“Maybe he's changed his mind,” Chip said. Just then, the peephole in the door went from light to dark. Someone had been looking out at us.

“Nick, it's me, Chip,” Chip called out.

The door opened a crack, a chain fastened across the opening. “Who are these people?” rasped a man's low voice.

“I told you I'd be over with a colleague, someone I work with.”

“I see two people,” the voice said. The door slammed shut.

Annie and I exchanged looks. I didn't need this. I'd have been just as happy to hang a U-turn and head back to Somerville.

Chip leaned on the bell. He shouted, “Nick, you asshole! We're here to help you. These are the people I work with all the time. I trust them. You can trust them too.”

“I'm not letting them in,” came from behind the door.

“Open up, you idiot!” Chip hollered, exasperated.

The door pulled open again, this time with the chain unhooked. Nick Babikian stood peering out at us, still not inviting us in. He was about average height, a wiry build. He had on a white polo shirt and jeans. Dark eyes gleamed from beneath the navy blue brim of a Red Sox cap.

“I asked
you
to come. I don't know who these people are andâ”

“Mr. Babikian,” I said, cutting him off, “I'm Dr. Peter Zak. I'm a psychologist. I've known Chip for ages, as I gather have you. I work with him and Annie Squires, here, all the time. For the life of me, I don't know why, but he must care about you because he dragged us out in the middle of the night.”

His eyes were in shadow. I couldn't see his expression to tell if this was making any impact on him. I went on. “We're here to help. We won't say or do anything you don't want us to.”

Nick opened his mouth, closed it. Started to turn, hesitated. He was like a wind-up toy that was running down. He looked at Chip.

“You can trust them. Really, you can,” Chip said.

Nick slumped, his chin sinking into his chest, and let the door swing open. He followed us into a large open living area, dragging his feet like a sleepwalker. The place had a hard-edged, antiseptic feel to itâwhite marble floor, white walls, chrome and black leather chairs, and chrome and glass tables.

I stopped and did a 360. The walls were hung with masks. There was a gaudy lacquered Mardi Gras maskâa laughing white face with features outlined in black, red plumes on top. Beside it leered a primitive, distorted human face with one eye partly closed and a wrinkled forehead carved in wood. Nearby, a brilliantly painted red devil mask with white horns and a green tongue grinned. The masks were sensuous and grotesque at the same time.

There were several masks made from bird feathers. On one,
an obsidian-black bird skull and beak formed the nose; glossy black and iridescent feathers shaped the upper part of a face. It reminded me of one of my Rorschach cards.

I scanned the room again. Regardless of their expressions, the masks seemed emotionless. And despite the empty eye sockets, I had the suffocating sense that I was being watched.

I'd already drawn a tentative conclusion from the obvious. Nick Babikian was paranoid. Masks were an odd decorating choice for a man who was suspicious and distrustful to begin with.

Annie and Chip had followed Nick into the kitchen. I joined them. The three of us sat around a white kitchen table. There were dirty dishes on the table, the remains of a meal of scrambled eggs and toast. A late-late dinner or an early-early breakfast? My stomach rumbled and the smell of bacon made my mouth water. Annie and I hadn't eaten. Nick picked up the two dirty plates.

“Leave it,” Chip said. “Tell us what happened.”

Nick didn't answer. He stared down at his feet. The boat shoes were splattered with reddish-brown spots. I glanced over at Annie. She'd noticed the same thing.

“Your mother,” Chip said. “Is your mother all right? Is she here?”

“She was hungry,” Nick said. “I gave her breakfast.” He gestured at the dishes. “That's how it is with Alzheimer's.”

“Where is she now?”

“I took her”âNick's eyes darted around the room, as if the words for where he'd taken her would appear in the airâ“took her to Oakvale House.” I knew the place. It was an assisted-living facility. We'd actually passed it on the way here.

“When?” Chip asked.

“They didn't want to admit her, but I had to leave her there.”

“When?” Chip said, louder this time.

“I just got back.”

I could imagine the scene. Oakvale was a good retirement community, but it was in no way equipped to handle someone with Alzheimer's. Besides, you couldn't leave an elderly parent on the steps of a nursing home in the middle of the night, any more than you could leave a baby on the steps of a church.

“There isn't anyone here who can take care of her now,” Nick added.

“What about your wife?” Chip asked. “Where's Lisa?”

“She's â¦” Nick's voice caught in his throat. “Oh, God, she's dead. He killed her.”

The three of us exhaled in unison.

“What do you mean
he
killed her?” Chip asked, his voice going flinty.

“I was working. I always work late. Down in the basement. When I came up, there was blood all over. Everywhere. My mother woke up. She came out and started screaming and screaming and screaming.”

Chip stood. “Where's Lisa? Are you sure she's dead?”

Nick gave a haggard stare. “Oh, she's dead all right. She's out there.” He pointed a shaking finger toward the back of the house.

We followed him through the living room and into a family room. The room was chilly, its double doors thrown open to the back of the house. I barely registered the leather couch and chairs that softened the space, or the masks on these walls too. Alongside a wrought-iron-and-tile coffee table was an area of dried blood on the blond oak floor.

A trail of red tracked across the room, ending at the doors to the outside. There were reddish footprints everywhere.

“Keep back,” Annie said. “It's a crime scene.”

Heedless of her words, Nick Babikian drifted over to the outside door. He flipped a switch and the patio sprang to light. The
lights in the pool came on. Nick groaned, as if someone had punched him in the gut. Even from where I stood, through a thin layer of mist that coated the pool I could see a woman floating facedown in the near end. Her long blond hair spread out around her in water tinged pink.

I felt queasy, the coffee trying to make its way back up my throat. I leaned against a leather chair and focused on breathing, in and out, trying to keep the floor under me and the maskladen walls from spinning.

Annie hugged the wall, working her way around the trail of blood. She went out, up to the pool's edge. The body rocked gently in the water, head bumping up against the blue tile at the edge. The bare back, buttocks, and legs were pale and perfect.

Nick Babikian seemed mute with shock. What in God's name had gone on here?

Annie crouched, reached out, and touched the woman's neck. Then she stood and shook her head at us. She came back in, returning as carefully as she'd left. She looked somber and shaken.

“We should all go back into the kitchen,” she said. “Try not to muck things up for the investigators.”

“Investigators?” Nick said, coming alive.

BOOK: Delusion

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