Self-Defense (28 page)

The keys came out of his pocket, and he
jangled them. “Did it bother her, falling asleep?”

“I downplayed it, made it sound routine. I
was worried about getting into too much too quickly, but overall the session
seemed to help her. She left in good spirits. Other than the dream, her main
concern’s Puck. She’s well aware of his addiction, defends him as a sick guy.
And thinking about him helps her forget about her own troubles. You had any
thoughts on the note?”

“Not really.”

“Anything new on the copycat?”

“Not a thing, but I’m gonna check out the
Bogettes very seriously.” He got in the Porsche, started it, and lowered the
window.

“I went by the Sheas’ surf shop today,” I
said. “Bought a pair of shorts. Gwen arrived with their son. He’s got severe
cerebral palsy, needs constant care. Tom Shea drives a newish BMW 735, Gwen’s
got a customized van for transporting the boy, and both Best and Doris Reingold
said the Sheas have a house on the beach at La Costa. Even years ago that was
serious money. Not to mention all the medical expenses. The shop didn’t look
like any big cash cow, but even assuming it is, how’d they get the capital to
start up a business by tending bar and waiting tables? Now that we’re thinking
about Barnard getting paid off, it makes me wonder if they did, too.”

“Gwen was obviously an enterprising lady,
subcontracting catering. Maybe she had other things going.”

“It’s still quite a leap from moonlighting
to living on the sand. Coming into a little venture capital twenty-one years
ago would have helped. Be interesting to know what transpired between the time
the Sheas left for Aspen and returned. And why they left in the first place. If
it was just because Sherrell Best was bugging them, that would imply some kind
of guilt.”

“Well,” he said, “I gave the widow Barnard
plenty of information. Malibu’s still a small town, there should be some
whispering. Break a few eggs, and who knows?”

“Flushing out the prey?”

He turned his hand into a pistol and
pointed it at the windshield. “Boom.”

“I may have a shot at big game,” I said.
“Lucy and I decided I should accept Buck Lowell’s invitation to chat.”

His hand lowered. “Where you going to meet
with him?”

“Sanctum.”

“Don’t go snooping around the dirt looking
for burial plots.”

“I promise. Dad.”

“Listen, I know you.... Meanwhile, you
want to talk to Doris Reingold again, or should I try?”

“I can do it; we’re already pals. If she’s
got nothing to hide, another big tip might be enough to pry something loose.”

“Hoo-hah, Daddy Warbucks.”

“I expect to be reimbursed by the
department.”

“Oh, sure, absolutely. Officer Santa
Claus’ll deliver it to you personally. And no new taxes.”

The next morning, feeling like a hunter, I
called Sanctum. The same woman who’d answered the first time picked up. Before
I finished introducing myself, she said, “Hold on.”

Several minutes later: “He’ll see you
here, tomorrow at one. We’re hard to find, these are the directions.”

I copied them and she hung up.

I got Terry Trafficant’s book from the
bedroom and searched for mention of his editor, but there was none. At his
publisher, a confused receptionist said, “There isn’t anyone here by that
name.”

“He’s an author.”

“Fiction or nonfiction?”

Good question. “Nonfiction.”

“Hold on.”

A moment later, a man said, “Editorial.”

“I’m trying to locate Terrence
Trafficant’s editor.”

“Who?”

“Terrence Trafficant.
From Hunger to
Rage.”

“Is that on our current list?”

“No, it was published twenty-one years
ago.”

Click.

A woman said, “Remainders.”

I repeated my request.

“No,” she said, “that isn’t on our roster.
When was it published?”

“Twenty-one years ago.”

“Then I’m sure it’s long gone to the pulp
mill. Try a used bookstore.”

“I don’t want the book. I’m looking for
the editor.”

Click.
Back to the same man at Editorial, very unhappy to
hear from me. “I’m sure I have no idea who that was, sir. People come and go
all the time.”

“Would there be any way to find out?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Please connect me to your editorial
director.”

“That’s Bridget Bancroft,” he said, as if
that ended it.

“Then that’s who I’ll speak to.”

Click.

“Bridget Bancroft’s office.”

“I’d like to speak with Ms. Bancroft.”

“Regarding?”

“Excerpting one of your authors. My name
is Alex Printer, and I represent Delaware Press in California. We’d like to
include some selections from Terrence Trafficant’s
From
Hunger to Rage
in a—”

“You’d need to speak to our Rights
department about that.”

“Could you tell me who Mr. Trafficant’s
editor is?”

“What’s the author’s name?”

“Trafficant.
From Hunger to Rage.
Published twenty-one years ago.”

“I have no idea. People come and go.”

“Would Ms. Bancroft know?”

“Ms. Bancroft’s on vacation.”

“Would you please ask her to call me when
she gets back?”

“Certainly,” she said. “Would you like to
speak to Rights?”

“Please.”

Click.
Voice mail. I left another message and hung up.

Ah, fame.

Lucy arrived precisely on time for her
afternoon appointment. She looked energetic, and her eyes were bright.

“I got plenty of sleep last night—no
dream—so I shouldn’t doze off. It’s a little weird sleeping in someone else’s
bed, but Ken said I’d get used to it; he does it all the time.”

Suddenly, she clamped her lips. Her eyes
misted.

“Anything wrong?” I said.

“Nothing.... I was just thinking of the
summer I worked for Raymond. Sleeping in that bed.... I used to have to put on
stuff for the customers: lots of makeup, skimpy outfits, sometimes wigs.
Costume jewelry, so they could pretend they were rich.”

She hunched and dropped her head. Each
hand gripped a bicep and she hugged herself very tightly.

“They had their fantasies,” she said.

The ocean roared. She didn’t move.

“I hated it,” she said softly. “I really
hated
it. Being
invaded,
hour after
hour,
day after
day
!
I put myself somewhere else—like hypnosis, I guess. Maybe that’s why it’s easy
for me.”

“Cutting yourself off.”

Nod.

“Where’d you go?”

“To the beach.” She laughed. “How’s that
for karma? Usually it worked. But sometimes I’d come back to the real world,
lying there—someone
on
me. I don’t want
ever
to lose control like
that again.”

Straightening her back, she said, “No
offense, but no man can ever really understand. Men don’t get invaded. Maybe
that’s why the dream’s coming back. All those years ago I saw
Karen
invaded and it stuck in my head, and somehow...”

She reached for a tissue.

“So,” she said, “time for hypnosis? I
won’t go bananas on you, I promise.”

“Scout’s honor?”

“Scout’s honor.”

I had her relax and stare at the ocean as
I explained that age regression wasn’t always effective or accurate. How some
people couldn’t get in touch with childhood memories, even under the deepest
hypnotic trance. How others imagined or manufactured false memories.

She nodded, dreamy already.

I began the induction and she went under
almost immediately, achieving waxy limbs and surface anesthesia to a pinprick.

I had her go to a “favorite place” and
left her there for a while. She looked serene.

I said, “Lucy, can you talk to me?”

Her “yes” was low and throaty, nearly
inaudible over the waves.

“You can,” I said, “but talking’s hard
work, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re comfortable.”

“Yes.”

“And you want to communicate with me.”

“Yes.”

“Talking’s hard work because you’re so
relaxed, Lucy. That’s good. To make it easier for you to communicate, you can
answer yes or no with finger signals. If the answer’s “yes,’ raise your right
index finger. If it’s “no,’ raise your left index finger. Do you understand?”

She mouthed something. Then her right
finger rose.

“Very good. Put it down now; from here on,
you just have to leave it up for a second. Now, let’s try a “no’ for
practice—good. You’re going to stay deeply relaxed and be able to say what you
need to say. Understand?”

The right finger rose and dropped.

“Do you want to stop our hypnosis right
here?”

Left finger.

“You want to go on.”

Right finger.

“Do you remember what we discussed about
age regression?”

Right finger.

“Would you like to try that now?”

Right finger.

“Okay, take a nice deep breath and get
even more relaxed, more and more peaceful, very much in control, hearing the
sound of my voice but staying totally in control of your own feelings and
perceptions. Good.... Now I’d like you to picture yourself in a room with a
giant TV screen. A very pleasant, comfortable room. You’re in a comfortable
chair and the screen is in front of you. You’re watching the screen and feeling
very relaxed. On the screen is a calendar with today’s date on it. A desk
calendar, the type with pages that flip. Can you see it?”

Right finger.

“Good. This calendar is special. Instead
of each page being a day, this calendar holds the same date and changes years.
The top page is today’s date, this year. The one under it is today’s date, last
year—watch as I flip it.”

Her right hand twitched and her eyes
moved.

“Can you see last year’s date?”

Right finger.

“Now I’m going to flip the next page.”

Twitch.

“What date is it?”

Her lips moved. “Two... years ago.”

“Right. Today’s date, two years ago. Let’s
stay with that date for a minute. Take a deep breath and count to three, and at
three you can go to where you were on that date. But you’ll be watching
yourself on the screen. As if you’re watching someone else. Seeing what you
need to see. But no matter what happens on the screen, it doesn’t have to
bother you. Understand? Good. Okay, ready: One. Two. Three.”

She inhaled and let it out through an open
mouth. The faintest of nods.

“Where are you now, Lucy?”

Pause. “Work.”

“At work?”

Right finger.

“Where at work?”

“Desk.”

“At your desk. Good. Now tell me what
you’re doing at your desk.”

She tightened her face; then it loosened
very slowly.

“Simkins... Manufacturing... accounts
receivable.”

“Doing the books on Simkins Manufacturing.
Is it a big job?”

Right finger.

“A big accounting job. How do the books
look?”

Pause. Her brows knitted. “Sloppy.”

“Sloppy.”

Right finger.

“But that doesn’t bother you, because
you’re just watching it, you’re not experiencing it.”

Her brow relaxed.

“Good. Do you want to stay there for a
while, working?”

Left finger. Smile.

“No?”

“Boring.”

“Okay, let’s go to another year. Take a
deep breath, count to three, and we’ll return to our calendar on the screen.
One. Two. Three.”

I took her back in time, gradually,
careful to avoid the summer in Boston. She remembered her sixteenth summer,
playing gin rummy with a cleaning maid in her summer school dorm room, no other
children around. Twelve was similar isolation, reading
Jane Eyre
in a
room with a single bed. As she felt herself younger, her posture loosened and
her voice got higher, more tentative, displaying an occasional stammer.

I brought her back to the age of eight—a
summer at yet another boarding school. Riding horseback with the headmistress
but unable to remember any other children.