Self-Defense (33 page)

“What’s happening, Lucy?”

Frown.

I took her forward, past the dream, to
Sunday. She remembered nothing.

Back to Saturday night.

This time she described her walk in the
forest calmly. Even the “scared” look on the abducted girl’s face didn’t ruffle
her.

I zeroed in on the three men.

Talking about her father made her eyes
move frantically under her lids. She thought he looked angry. Described his
clothing: “Long... uh... white... like a dress.”

The caftan the society column had
described; she could have read it.

I asked her if there was anyone else she
wanted to talk about, waiting to see if she’d move on to Hairy Lip without
prodding.

Left finger.

I repeated my question about mustache
versus beard, using simple phrasing a four-year-old could understand.

“Is it a big mustache or a little
mustache?”

Pause. “Big.”

“Real big?”

Right finger.

“Does it hang down or go straight out?”

“Down.”

“It hangs down?”

“Dig...”

She grimaced; I thought she’d shifted
forward to the burial.

“Now they’re digging?”

Left finger. Anguished head-shake.

“What is it, Lucy?”

“
Dig... Dig
gity Dog.”

For a second, I was thrown. Then I
remembered a cartoon character from the seventies. A lazy, slow-talking
Bassett-hound sheriff with a twenty-gallon hat and a drooping walrus mustache.

“The mustache hangs down like Diggity
Dog’s?”

Right finger.

“What color is it?”

“Black.”

“A black mustache that hangs down like
Diggity Dog’s.”

Right finger, rigid, jabbing upward. Hard.

“Anything else about the man with the
mustache, Lucy?”

“Black.”

“A black mustache.”

She grimaced.

“Good,” I said. “You’re doing great. Now
is there anything you can tell me about the other man, the one with his back to
you?”

Contemplation. Eyes moving under the lids.

“He... he’s... says... says,
In
there.
In
there,
in
there,
dammit,
Buck. Hurry. Roll it, roll it.
Hurry
dammit roll
it in there!
”

After she left I sat thinking about her
sudden change of heart.

Courage competing with self-defense.

Maybe courage
was
her self-defense.

No matter, I couldn’t allow her to face
him. I’d hold her off, try to get her to discover as much as she could on her
own.

I thought about what she’d seen today.

Hairy Lip. Maybe someone other than
Trafficant.

The third man, always with his back to
her.

In there, dammit, Buck.

Was
he
Trafficant? Barking at his patron? From
what I’d seen of Lowell I couldn’t imagine his tolerating that. But maybe his
relationship with Trafficant had been more complex than mentor and protégé.

As I thought about it, Ken Lowell called.

“I’m a little concerned about Lucy,
doctor. She told me about this dream she’s been having. Now I understand what’s
been getting her up at night.”

“She hasn’t been sleeping well?”

“She thinks she has, because when she asks
I tell her she has. But she gets up two or three times every night and walks
around. Usually she goes out onto the landing, stares at a wall for a second or
so, then returns to her room. But last night was a little scary. I found her at
the top of the stairs, about to step off. I tried to wake her, but I couldn’t.
She let me guide her back to bed, but it was like moving a mannequin. I didn’t
say anything because I didn’t want to upset her. Aside from that, I guess I’d
like to know if you think there’s anything to the dream. I mean, he was no
great shakes as a father, but a murderer?”

“What do you remember about that night?”

“Nothing, really. There was a party; it
was loud and wild. Jo and I were stuck in our cabin, not allowed to come out. I
do remember looking out through the curtains and seeing people laughing and
screaming and dancing around. Some had paint on their faces. A bunch of rock
bands were blasting.”

“Sounds like a love-in.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what it was.”

“So you never saw anything resembling
Lucy’s dream?”

“Three men carrying off a girl? No. Just
couples slinking off together. I remember Jo telling me, “Guess what they’re
doing?’ She was eleven, really into the facts of life.”

“Can you recall anything about Lucy and
Puck’s nanny?”

“I’ve been trying to. Actually, she might
not have been a nanny. Because I think she was wearing the same kind of uniform
the waiters and waitresses were wearing—all white. So maybe she was just a
waitress. To be honest, I don’t trust my memory on any of this. But if
something really happened... Is there anything I can do to help Lucy with her
sleepwalking?”

“Just keep her bedroom as safe as
possible—no sharp objects, lock the windows. If she doesn’t object, have her
lock the door before she goes to sleep.”

“Okay,” he said doubtfully.

“Is there a problem with that?”

“Not really. Just the thought of being
locked in. I’m a little claustrophobic. Probably because they did it to us that
summer: put us in a cabin and bolted the door from the outside. It was like
being caged. We hated it.”

Robin came home at six, kissed me, and
went into the shower. I sat on the floor tossing a ball to Spike, going along
with his retriever fantasies, until the phone got me up.

Sherrell Best said, “Sorry to bother you
again, Dr. Delaware, but is there anything new?”

“Nothing concrete yet, Reverend, I’m
sorry.”

“Nothing
concrete
? Does that mean
you’ve learned
something
?”

“I wish I could give you some real
progress, but—”

“Could I
please
meet your patient?
Maybe the two of us can put our heads together. I don’t want to cause any
problems, but it might even help ease the burden.”

“Let me think about it, Reverend.”

“Thank you, Doctor. God bless.”

Robin and I took Spike for a chicken
dinner and a drive. He wedged himself between her legs and the passenger door
and stared out the window with a determined expression on his flat face.

Robin laughed. “He’s guarding us, Alex.
Look how seriously he’s taking it. Thank you, Spikey, I feel so secure with
you.”

“Joe Stud,” I said.

She put her hand on my knee. “I feel
secure with you, too.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but he takes up less room
and he doesn’t get emergency calls.”

The night sky turned violet. I’d driven
north and, just like last week, ended up near Ventura. This time it was more
than chance. Best’s call had gotten me thinking about Doris Reingold and the
Sheas. The discrepancy in their lifestyles. I turned off the highway and
entered the city limits. Robin looked at me but didn’t say anything.

We cruised the empty, quiet streets. The
first thing open was a gas station. The Seville had a quarter tank left. I
pulled in, filled up, washed the windows, then told Robin, “One sec,” and went
to the pay phone. The directory was on its chain, but half the pages were gone.
The R’s remained, though, and Reingold, D., was listed on Palomar Avenue.

The cashier told me that was ten blocks
up.

When I got in the car, Robin said, “Home?”

“Please indulge me for a second. There’s
something I want to check out.”

“Is it related to a patient?”

“Indirectly.”

“You’re going to drop
-in
on
someone?”

“No. I just want to see how someone lives.
It won’t take long.”

“Okay,” she said, stretching.

“Yeah, I know I’m a real fun date.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “If you don’t
behave yourself,
he
can drive me home.”

The address was a one-story bungalow court
on a treeless street, three units on each side of a U. Security floodlights
washed the stubble lawn. Some of the streetlights were out.

Six or seven college-age boys sat on the
grass in folding chairs, drinking beer. Bags of potato chips and Fritos lay at
their feet. They had long hair and, though the night was cool, all were
shirtless. When I got closer, a couple of them mumbled, “Evening,” and one of
them gave me the thumbs-up sign. The rest didn’t move at all.

I walked up to the thumber. His hair was
dark and down to his nipples. His cheeks were hollow above curly chin whiskers.

“Hey, man,” he said, in a slurred voice.
“Police?”

I shook my head.

“ ’Cause we been quiet after that time,
man.” He flicked hair out of his face and stared at me. “You with the
management?”

“No,” I said. “Just someone looking for—”

“We paid the rent, man. Cash to Mrs.
Patrillo. If she din’t give it to you, tha’s not our fault.”

“Doris Reingold,” I said. “Do you know
which unit is hers?”

He digested that. “Five. But she ain’t
here.”

“Do you know where she is?”

He scratched his head. “She packed up some
stuff and split.”

“When was this?”

Frown. Another head scratch.
“Yesterday—yesterday night.”

“What time?”

“Um... I was just comin’ home and she was
leavin’. It was at night. I said, You wan’ me to carry that stuff for you? but
she i’nored me.” He belched and I could smell the hops. Taking a swig, he said,
“Why you looking for her, man?”

“I’m a friend.”

He smiled. “Well, she’s okay... ackshally
she’s a old bitch.” Laughter from some of the others.

A crew-cut kid said, “You’re just pissed
’cause she cleaned you out, Kyle.”

Thumber moved his head fast and stared at
him. The other boy said, “Face it, Kyle.”

“Fuck you.” Kyle looked back at me. “She
cheats, the old bitch.”

“At what?” I said.

“Everything. Poker, craps, dice. What’d
you
play with her?”

“Chess.”

“Yeah? Well, hate to tell you, but maybe
she got herself a new boyfriend.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She split with a dude.”

Another of the boys said, “Pass the
rinds.”

Kyle bent and fumbled on the grass for a
long time, to a chorus of derision, before finally picking up a bag of pork
rinds. Rolling it up, he tossed it behind his head. Someone caught it. Someone
else said, “Shit! Watch it, asshole!”

I said, “Do you remember what this guy
looked like?”

“Nope, but he had a fine Beemerdubyou.” To
his friends: “Remember that Beemerdubyou? With the bitchin’ spoiler on its
ass?”

A round-faced boy with very long, wavy
blond hair said, “Din’t it have a bra?”

“Yeah,” said someone. “For its tits.”

Laugh track.

I looked back at the curb. The Seville was
five cars down the block, under a working streetlight. The driver’s window was
open, and I was pretty sure I saw Spike’s blocky head leaning out.

“A dark gray BMW?” I said. “Chrome
wheels?”

“Yeah,” said Kyle. He shifted imaginary
gears. “Gonna get me one of them.”

“Bullshit,” said another boy. “First you
got to get your license back. Then you gotta learn how to play cards not like
some asshole.”

“I’ll get it back, fuck you,” said Kyle.
Suddenly, his shoulders were hunched and he was drawing his hand back, as if
ready for a touchdown throw. He snapped his wrist and tossed his beer can. It
flew by me and landed in the street, clattering and rolling, narrowly missing a
parked car.

“Hey, man,” said someone. “Chill.”

“Fuck
you
!” Kyle was up on his feet. Both his hands
were tight and he was bouncing on bare feet. He had nothing on but baggies.
Tangles of tattoos on both arms.

He said, “Fuck you,” again.

No one answered. The snoring boy was
awake.

Kyle wheeled and looked at me.

“What do
you
want?” he said in a
new voice.

I gave him the thumbs-up sign and left.

As I got back in the car, Robin said, “Was
everything okay back there?”