Denial (21 page)

I was almost on empty by the time I climbed the five flights to Rachel's apartment.  I knocked on the door, waited a bit, then pounded.

"Who is it?" she yelled.

"Frank."

She slid the door open and stood there staring at me, a white silk robe tight around the curves of her breasts and hips.  She looked worried.  She reached out and touched my face.

I was surprised to feel my eyes fill up.

"Are you alright?"

"No," I said.  I made an effort to collect myself.  "But that's not new."  I walked inside and rolled the door closed.  When I turned back to her, she had dropped her robe and was standing in pink panties.

"Can I help?" she asked.  She came closer and started to unfasten my belt.

I could have urged her to wonder where she had learned to use her body to heal men; my guess was the lesson had come early, probably from an alcoholic father or a depressed uncle.  But I needed to be restored myself and I had nowhere else to go.

I took off my belt.  She turned around.  Part of me wanted to use the last of my energy to yank her panties to her knees and use the leather on her.  But another part of me, suddenly the greater part, wanted to give her something other than pain.  I stepped around her, so that we were facing one another, and kneeled down.  I brushed my lips against her stomach, then held her hips steady as she swayed back.  My tongue traced the borders of her panties.  She sighed.  I helped lower her to the floor.  She spread her legs.  I kissed her knees and thighs, then moved my mouth along the vertical line of pink cotton caught between her folds of skin.  Her breathing quickened.  I could smell and taste her excitement.  I pulled aside the cloth and moved inside her with my caresses.  Her abdomen started to quiver.  I moved my tongue faster, biting gently now and then.  She groaned, then screamed with pleasure as she arched off the floor.  I filled her with my fingers, which made her arch higher and cry out again before collapsing back to the hardwood.

I had nothing left.  I laid my head on her stomach and listened as her breathing slowed.  Her legs curved around my shoulders, her feet resting on the small of my back.  As her fingers moved through my hair, my eyes closed.  I forced them open, but only for an instant.

I didn't want to sleep.  There was too much I needed to do, and I worried my dreams would leave me anything but rested.  But I couldn’t fight off my fatigue.  I clung more tightly to Rachel and took a last, deep breath.

*            *            *

I awakened on the platform bed, not remembering how I had gotten there, tangled in sheets so tightly I could barely move.  I was naked and soaked with sweat.  My legs trembled.  I heard the shower running, glanced at the bedside clock and saw that it was six thirty-five in the evening.  Chelsea, I reminded myself.  With Rachel.  I had been passed out a couple hours — time I couldn't afford.  I freed my legs, sat up and let reality take me firmly in hand.

My clothes were folded neatly over an armchair.  I walked over and pulled on my jeans.  Then I grabbed the phone and had the operator connect me to information for Austin, Texas.  I got the number for University Hospital.

I dialed.  When the attendant answered, I asked her to page Ben Carlson, the cardiac surgeon who had been Sarah Johnston's lover.

"May I ask who's calling?" she asked.

"Frank.  Frank Clevenger."

"Will he know you, sir?"

Anyone with an ounce of authority uses it like a sledgehammer.  "I'm his analyst," I said.

"Sir?"

"His psychiatrist from Boston, ma’am.  He'll want the call."

A minute or so later Carlson picked up.  "Prozac is sixty bucks a month.  What the fuck do I need you for, Clevenger?"

His tone told me he hadn't heard about Sarah.  "Sixty bucks covers twenty milligrams a day," I stalled.  "We both know that wouldn’t touch your pathology."

"You assume I'm swallowing it.  I'm snorting it."

"Doesn’t the capsule get stuck?"

He chuckled.  "They really are peddling it on the streets out here, you know.  It brings five dollars a dose.  We're in the wrong business."

"It feels that way sometimes."

"What's it been?  Eight, nine months?"

"Around there."

"Still in forensics?"

"Right."

"You're probably better off.  HMOs are the only ones making money in patient care.  They're reaming everybody."  He paused.  "You were really good, though."

"Some of the time.  When I was bad, I sucked."

"Yes, well.  I know.  That kid.  How long you gonna beat yourself up over it?  People get fatal mental illnesses, just like they get fatal cardiac disease.  We're not magicians."  Several seconds passed in silence.  "You probably called for something besides a lecture."

I braced myself to tell him about the murder.  "I have bad news, Ben.  It's about Sarah."

"She's sick?"

"I should have called you sooner, but..."

"I've got an emergency bypass on deck, pal.  Let's have it."

"She was murdered.  They found her in the woods in back of the hospital."

"Murdered?  She's dead?"

"She was the first of two victims.  Looks like a serial killer."

He cleared his throat.  "When did this happen?"

I had to think.  "A couple days ago," I said.

"Jesus Christ.  Did they catch the guy?"

"No.  Not yet.  But I'm working on it.  That's why I called.  I have a question."

"Anything."

"Sarah had breast implants, right?"

"Uh-huh."

The shower stopped.  I heard Rachel's footsteps in the bathroom.  "Who put them in?"

"Why do you need to know that?"

"Sarah's body was cut up pretty badly.  The implants had been removed."

"They were cut out of her?"

"Right."

"Oh, my God."  He fell silent again.

"Ben?"

"I don't want to get anyone in trouble needlessly."

"Needlessly?  She was killed."

"Well, her surgeon didn't do it."

I didn't respond.

"Look," he said finally.  "Sarah had the surgery before she and I met.  The guy who did the procedure was dating her at the time."

"Tell me his name."

"I don't see any reason to hang him out to dry in the
Boston Herald
.  You know?  You screw a patient today, it's a big deal.  It's not like it used to be.  The Board of Medicine will stick its nose up your ass real fast and—"

"Was it Trevor Lucas?"

"Why would you think Trevor Lucas?"

"A wild guess."

"You didn't hear anything from me."

Real moral courage, I thought.  "Fair enough."

"He talked her into it, kept telling her she was beautiful, but flat.  And Sarah wasn't the most secure girl underneath it all.  Anyhow, she regretted her decision.  She had problems with the implants."

Rachel stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, walked to the mirror and started to brush her hair.  I wondered whether she had heard about Monique's murder.

"What sort of problems?" I asked.

"Subjective complaints.  Fatigue.  Joint pains.  Migraines, time to time.  She thought maybe the damn things were leaking."

"Did she think about suing?"

"Not in a million years.  I don't think she ever let Lucas know she was having trouble.  She said she felt strange bringing it up, seeing as we all worked at the same hospital.  But I didn't buy that for a second."

I watched Rachel drop her towel and wriggle into a flimsy skirt and T-shirt.  Even in the midst of talking about a murder, I felt myself getting hard.  "How did you figure it?" I asked Carlson.

"My opinion?  She was still hot for him.  She didn't want to disappoint him."

"Even when you two were together?"

He let out a long sigh.  "OK, I might as well tell you:  Lucas is one reason I decided to take this position.  I was wrecked over Sarah.  I thought I loved her."  He paused.  "Trouble was, she was still screwing him."

My excitement evaporated.  I felt light-headed.  Did every dark road lead to Lucas?  "Why do you say that?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Ben, I'm doing an investigation here.  Don't jerk me off.  I need to know everything I possibly can about Sarah."

"It's a strange reason."

I sat back down on the bed.  "Nothing surprises me."

"She started to shave.  Completely."

"Her vagina."

Rachel turned around and faced me.

"I didn't care for it," Carlson said.  "I haven't been into little girls since I was a little boy.  And when a woman does that, she's doing it because a man asked her to.  In this case, another man."

"The good Dr. Lucas."

"I can't even say I hold it against him.  I was never one to turn down pussy just because someone else had his name on it.  Neither were you, as I recall."

"No argument there."

"Hold on."  He covered the mouthpiece.  I couldn't make out his muffled words.  "Sorry," he said.  "I'm due in the OR.  Will you keep me up to date?"

"Of course."

"Uh... Frank?"

"I'm still here."

"Just for the record, what I said before wasn't true."

"What?  Which part?"

"I didn't
think
I loved Sarah.  I was absolutely certain of it."

I wanted to reach out to him, but I couldn't come up with anything to say.

"Take care, buddy."  He hung up.

I placed the phone back in its cradle.

"Was that about Monique?" Rachel asked.

So she did know.  "It was about the first victim, the nurse who was found in the woods, but it looks like the same killer."

"A Lynn cop stopped by.  Officer Malloy.  He said it was routine.  They're interviewing everyone who worked with her."

"I wasn't sure how close you and Monique were."

"Not very.  Mostly back room chitchat."

"Did Malloy tell you much?"

"I don't think he spared any details.  He told me she was found with her breasts and vagina mutilated.  He said her clitoris had been removed."  She landed against the bureau.  "He seemed to enjoy talking about it."

"I'm sure he did.  Did he frighten you?"

"I've never been shocked by what one person can do to another."

"Why not?"

She shrugged.  "I'll tell you some other time — when you’ve got less on your mind."

I nodded.  I was just as happy not to get into it.

"On thing Malloy said did surprise me:  He thinks Monique was a prostitute.  He wanted to know who her customers were."

"Did you give him any names?"

"I didn't realize she was selling herself.  I told him I'd be working at the Lynx Club tonight with five other girls.  Maybe one of them would know."

"I thought you said Monique had a
professional
relationship with Trevor Lucas."

"She did.  A doctor-patient relationship.  She went to him for her surgery.  He does all the dancers.  Breasts.  Butts.  Thighs."

"Naturally."  At least I could let Hancock know her niece wasn't prostituting — not for cash, anyhow.  "I wanted to get here sooner so I could tell you everything myself."

"I wouldn't have put odds on you getting here at all."

I thought about that.  "Neither would I," I said.

"But you did."  She stared out the window at the Tobin Bridge.  "You know, you don't sleep well."

"No.  I don't.  Did I do anything strange?"

"Not really."  She looked back at me.  "Grimaced.  Twisted.  Turned.  Screamed."

"I've had nightmares for as long as I can remember."

"What happens in them?"

I was even less anxious to turn Rachel into my therapist than into my patient.  "I run as fast as I can," I said, and left it at that.

"But why are you running?  What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing."

Her head fell to one side.  "I think you need a guardian angel of your own, until you can figure all this out."

I smiled.  "I probably could have used one a lot sooner."

Chapter 12

Thursday,  6:55
P.M.

Rachel left for the Lynx Club, and I started back to Marblehead.  My mood was melancholy, and my stomach was in knots.  Halfway down the Lynnway, I called Hancock's office from the Rover and learned she was still out, presumably searching for Lucas.  I had the impulse to take the downtown exit and stop in front of the Emerson Hotel for a boost.  As I thought about it, my tongue flicked back and forth over my gums, and I swallowed again and again, imagining the tissues numb.  I started to think that coming clean cold turkey might do me damage.  My neurons might be better preserved if I withdrew from the coke slowly, especially given the stress I'd been under.  Yet I knew from treating addicts that rationalizations like that one are symptoms of dependency. 
Dependency
.  That was a good word to describe my relationship with cocaine.  I had always searched it out when I needed support, the chemical equivalent of a shoulder to cry on, without every having to cry to anyone.

I lit a Marlboro, inhaled deeply and accelerated past the downtown exit.

If I found it so hard to share moments of weakness, what had Kathy provided me?  Isolation?  I shook my head, picturing the games we had played, like competing to stay longer under the cold spray in the shower.  More than once we had held lighted matches between our fingertips, betting which one of us would blow out the flame first.  I was no better at fire than I was at water.  Kathy won every time.  But why test each other's capacity to deny pain, unless our romantic contract was to help each other ignore it?

I took another drag and blew the smoke against the windshield.

Could I bear life with a woman like Rachel, keeping pain in clear focus?  I thought of the photograph of the old woman on oxygen not he wall of Rachel's loft.  I remembered the taxidermy scene under her coffee table — a coyote struggling to finish off a raccoon trapped in its jaws.  Was my problem with intimacy really a fear of being consumed?  Did I think I could cheat death by avoiding life?

"Too damn many questions," I said out loud.  I was thinking too much.  Obsessing.  That can be a defense against feeling, in and of itself.  I had tried practicing elements of Zen Buddhism a couple years back, at least the version of it I could pick up by reading books on the subject, but mindlessness and desirelessness had evaded me — except, it seemed, when I was high.