Sleight of Hand (37 page)

"Let me be blunt," White continued in his pedantic fashion.  "You haven't been very forth coming during our sessions–"

"Hey, doc, that's not fair," Drake protested.

"Want to tell me about the panic attacks?"  

Drake was silent.  No, he did not.  

"Or the nightmares?" White persisted.  "Any sexual dysfunction?  Blind rages you can't explain?"  Drake raked his hands through his hair, looking down at the floor.  "Any of this ringing a bell, Detective?"  White's voice had taken on an edge, unlike his usual genial, soft-spoken manner.

Drake jerked his head up.  "All of it.  Happy now?" 

White nodded.  "Tell me about it."

And Drake did.  About the flash backs, the red haze, the panic attacks, even the other night when he'd jumped Hart, then couldn't go up the steps to her house to apologize.  He spilled his guts like a perp rolling on a friend to get his own charges kicked.

And jeezit, it felt good.  Once he started, he couldn't stop, it was like a dam had burst.

"How well do you know Hart?"

"What's to know?" Drake replied, surprised by the abrupt change of subject.  "She's smart, beautiful, a good doctor–"

"I mean about her life.  What has she told you?"

Drake squirmed in his seat.  What did this have to do with him getting back on the streets?  Or his panic attacks?   "What's it matter what Hart tells me?  She's entitled to her privacy."

The shrink nodded.  "You said that she keeps her house," he leafed back through his notes, "like a museum to her family's memory.  And she hid there for several weeks after the shooting, withdrew from the world?"

He felt a frisson of fear.  "It's her way of coping when things become too much," he  said, defending Hart and resenting that he even had to.  "Look, where are you going with all this?"

"Just trying to get all the pieces.  Where do you think Hart fits into everything?"

"She doesn't.  This is about me getting shot."

"All right.  Then let's talk about that night.  What did you feel when the gunman confronted you?"  

Drake was silent.  He got up and began to move around the room.  

"You'd just opened the door to Hart's house," the doctor prompted, "and he, what brandished a gun in your face?  How exactly did he disarm you?"

Drake turned his back on the shrink and pretended to look out the window.  The lights of PPG place blazed like a fairy tale castle in the distance. 

"He was behind the door, I couldn't see him," he said, keeping his voice expressionless.  

"And you felt?"

"Surprised, ashamed, angry, terrified–I don't know, it all happened so fast."

"Ashamed?  Why ashamed?"

"Because I was helpless!" Drake flared, whirling to face the psychiatrist.  "There I was, hands full of fucking candy and roses.  What was I supposed to do?  Bat him over the head with the flowers?  Hart was down.  I could see her body, I didn't know if she was dead or alive.  All I could do was stand there while that bastard took my gun."

"You felt naked, vulnerable," the doctor suggested.

"Damned right.  You try staring down the muzzle of a thirty-eight and tell me how you feel."

"Completely understandable.  But let's go back in time.  How did you feel when you first arrived at Hart's?  As you climbed the steps, knocked at her door, anticipated her opening it?"

Drake stared at the shrink, opened his mouth, then closed it again.  How the hell should he know what he was feeling a given instant almost two months ago?  Why was it important anyway?

"I don't know."  He slumped back into the chair.  "I can't remember," he muttered, bouncing his fist idly against the chair arm.

"Try.  Just take a deep breath and picture yourself.  You're in your car, it's snowing, you pull up in front of Hart's house.  What are you thinking?"

The quiet, rhythmic tones relaxed Drake somewhat.  He pictured that night once more, for the first time in weeks his mind's eye seemed panoramic, filling in the nuances of light and shadow that escaped him every other time he dreamed of that night, relived it.  

"The snow is really coming down," he replied, his voice low and steady.  "I grab the flowers and candy and hope I don't slip on the steps up to her porch.  I imagine myself falling, sprawled on the sidewalk like an idiot and Hart having to rescue me."

"Is that thought upsetting?"

Drake closed his eyes, caught up in his reverie.  "No," he replied, his mouth stretching into a smile.  "I think it's hilarious.  Everything that night seems funny, exciting–I can't stop grinning like an idiot.  The only thing worrying me is what to do if Hart won't forgive me.  But even that isn't too disturbing.  I'm confident she'll accept my apology.  I imagine the look she'll give me when she answers the door and sees my arms filled with bright roses just for her.  I can hear her laugh and it thrills me to know I've made her happy, that she has that smile of delight because of me."

His eyes popped open.  "Then the door opened." 

The shrink nodded.  "Then the door opened."

The clock ticked softly as Drake thought about that.  "I was so happy, then everything turned awful and I was powerless to stop it, to do anything."  He looked up.  "Is that why I haven't been able to touch Hart?  I mean, not the way I really want to.  It's because I've somehow tied up those feelings of pleasure with the terror and pain that followed."

"Is that what you think?"

He leaned forward, anxious to make himself clear.  "It was because of her that I was there, that I was vulnerable.  I've been blaming her, been swallowing my anger.  But she didn't do anything–it was just my feelings and memories about that night all jumbled up."  

The words came in a rush of a single breath.  Drake straightened up and inhaled deeper than he'd been able to in weeks.  He got to his feet and stretched his arms out, relishing the simple act of breathing.  

His hands weren't clenched in a death grip, he could feel the blood rushing to every part of his body as if his heart was finally free.  He spun around, noting the luminescent dust motes that caught the light and danced it about the room.  The doctor sat, impassive except for a slight twinkle in his eyes as he removed his glasses and polished them.

"There was nothing anyone could have done differently," Drake said.  "And if I had done it differently, we'd both be dead.  It was only because it was Hart and I together that we were able to survive."  

He paused, looked down at the shrink with a grin.  "Together, we're a force to be reckoned with–separate, we're each vulnerable.  God, I've been such a fool, pushing her away like that!"  He grabbed his jacket and started for the door.  "Thanks a lot, doc," he said, then called back over his shoulder.  "When can I hit the streets again?"

"Tomorrow.  I'll fax my report over to Commander Miller tonight," the psychiatrist replied, but Drake was gone before he finished.

<><><>

Cassie stroked her fingers along Muriel's arm as the older woman roused herself into consciousness.  A phone call from Drake had convinced  Nellie and Jacob to go back to their hotel for a few hours.  She wasn't exactly certain what he'd told them, they'd been gone when she arrived.  Denise Dolan had been waiting at Muriel's bedside instead, had told Cassie that Muriel had been awake and talking before Nellie left.

"How do you feel?"  Cassie asked Muriel as her eyelids fluttered open.

"Like someone's been using my head for a drum.  Where's Remy?"  Muriel's voice was a scratchy whisper.  Cassie held a glass of water with a straw to her lips.

"He had to go out for a while.  He'll be back soon."  Cassie didn't want to worry her with the details, but Muriel saw through her evasion.

"On a case?  He's with Jimmy, yes?"

"Yes.  Don't worry, he said all he'd be doing is preparing a warrant."

Muriel tilted her head, regarded Cassie with skepticism.  "And you believed him?"

Cassie smiled, remembering how exuberant Drake had sounded when he called her a short while ago.  "Of course not–but I let him think I did."

Muriel patted her hand.  "Good girl."

"Drake's closing one of his father's cases, one that he was working on when he died."

Muriel sank back onto the pillow.  "I wouldn't know.  Mickey never talked about his cases with me–it was the only part of his life I never shared.  But," she sighed, "he always had to be in control of everything: his emotions, his work," she chuckled, "the kitchen."

"I think your son inherited that."   

"Maybe, but he didn't get much else from his father–including the approval Remy always craved.  Now you, on the other hand, I think you're a lot like my Mickey."

"Me?"  Cassie thought a moment.  "I am kind of a control freak," she admitted.  "But I'm afraid I don't keep my emotions well controlled.  I can't even tell a simple lie without it showing all over my face."

Muriel smiled.  "Probably more healthy that way. And Remy needs someone to take the reins, so to speak.  He's always been searching for a," she searched for the right word, "counterpart, someone to bring balance to his life.  He needs someone who he can share his life–all of it–with.  Someone who won't hold back from him like his father did.  Don't get me wrong, those two loved each other a great deal, but they could never express it.  I think Remy is still trying to make his father proud."

It was Cassie's turn to smile.  She knew all about clinging to the expectations of family members long gone.   The weight of responsibility that never eased, that motivated every action.

"I'm afraid all I've brought to my relationship with your son is pain and hardship.  And to you," she added.  "I'm so sorry this happened."

"Nonsense, dear.  I saw what you did.  You had plenty of room to jump clear of that van but instead you turned to get me out of the way.  You probably saved my life."  Cassie looked away, silent.  "Do you know why it happened?  Was there something wrong with the driver or the car?"

"It happened because I was trying to save a little boy's life," Cassie said.  "And someone didn't want me to."

"Tried?  Is he dead, then?" Muriel seemed more concerned about Charlie's safety than her own injuries.  Cassie looked at her in admiration. 

"No.  He's all right for now."

"Then you can't give up.  Not because of this."  She gestured to her IV and the medical equipment surrounding her.  "Tell me all about it.  I'm certain we can think of something."

Cassie told her Charlie's story and her suspicions, leaving nothing, including the ambiguous medical facts and Sterling's and Adeena's doubts about her own mental health, out.  Muriel was an excellent listener and despite her weakened state, she grasped the intricacies of the situation immediately.  

"So you can't prove that Charlie's mother is going to do anything, but you believe he's in danger?"  

"Yes, ma'am."  Cassie sat in silence for a moment.  She was ecstatic that Muriel was going to be all right, but felt like she was there under false pretenses.  "Your sister and her husband don't agree with me, either."  

"And my son?"

She couldn't stop her smile as she remembered Drake's last words to her at his apartment.  Words she'd been too stunned to acknowledge.  "He believes."

"Good enough for me."  Muriel squeezed her hand.  "I think I see what my son likes about you.  You don't do anything half heartedly, do you?"

Cassie blushed.  "That's a kind way to put it.  I believe the words your sister used were: incorrigible, stubborn and obstinate."

"That's Nellie.  Once a journalist, always a journalist.  Has to show how erudite she is.  I would call it spunk–or better yet, passion.  Zeal, zest, a crusading spirit.  No wonder you and Nellie butted heads.  She's the same when she's after a story.  Poor Jacob would go about crazy with worry at times."  She shook her head.  "Young lady, you should fit right in with our family, believe me."

Cassie gawked at her.  Although she'd tried to make it clear that her actions were responsible for Muriel's injuries, it was obvious that Drake's mother hadn't heard. 

"You don't understand.  If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't be lying there.  And it was because of me that Mickey got hurt last month–"

"And because of you he's alive today, a murderer is dead, a dangerous drug epidemic was stopped, and a little boy is safe in protective custody.  Have I missed anything?"

"No, but–"

She raised a finger to silence Cassie.  "It's been obvious for quite sometime that my son is in love with you.  And after meeting you, I heartily approve of his choice.  So what's the problem?  You do love him, don't you?"

"You just don't understand," Cassie stammered.  "After last month, the shooting, nothing's been the same."

Muriel nodded.  "I know. That's why I flew back so soon.  I had to do something.  I couldn't bear to watch Remy make another horrible mistake, to let you slip away.  And I thought it was about time we met."  She grinned.  "My son turns thirty-five in October, and I think it's high time he grows up and enjoys a mature relationship with a woman."

"I'm afraid I don't have a very good track record in that department," Cassie admitted.

"Neither does he, so you're perfect for each other."  Muriel's eyes fluttered, and Cassie could see that she was getting tired.

"I'd better go now," she said.

"No, stay."  Muriel took her hand.  "I seem to remember you telling me a story about a woman named Rosa."  She frowned.  "Or was that a dream?  These drugs, they give you such strange dreams."

"No, that was real.  Rosa is my grandmother.  Was.  She's been dead three years now."

"Tell me another story.  Tell me about your family."  Her eyelids slid to half-mast.

Cassie stroked her hand rhythmically, feeling Muriel relax into sleep beneath her touch.  "Rosa was Rom, a gypsy, of the Kalderasha clan," she began.

Cassie awoke with a start when someone tapped on her shoulder.  "Muriel?" she asked, looking around at the monitors.  But everything was reading normal.

"She's fine, Dr. Hart," the ward clerk told her.  "I just got a call from the Peds ICU for you.  They were asking if you could come see a patient of theirs, a Tony Washington?"