Riders on the Storm (15 page)

“Say something to him, Sam.”

I picked up the wooden chair and moved it closer to him. After I sat down, I said, “I've been thinking about you, Will. I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing.”

I felt silly. When I was very small I had a plastic Roy Rogers figure that I probably got for a box top and a quarter from whatever cereal sponsored him. It was probably six, seven inches tall and showed Roy all decked out in his fancy cowboy attire. He was then the most popular cowboy on radio and in comic books. My dad used to laugh about me talking to Roy before I went to sleep at night. Dad said I carried on a lot of one-way conversations.

Will wasn't any more responsive than Roy had been all those long years ago.

He scratched his nose, he blinked a few times, he sneezed, he sighed and he shifted in his chair trying to get more comfortable. What he didn't do was show any recognition of me in his vacant gaze.

“Remember when we beat Taylor school in softball, Will?”

Over the next twenty minutes I tried a number of those memory shakers. None worked. Lindsey had left soon after I'd started in on them. She popped back in every few minutes.

I had the feeling I was talking to an alien life form. One of those invaders who look exactly like us but are unable to pass because they don't react the way they should.

Poor Karen; even worse, poor Peggy Ann.

He narrowed his eyes once. He was assessing me, that was what it felt like anyway. He could talk but he chose not to. I was sure of it.

On her reappearance Lindsey said, “You've certainly done your best, Sam.”

“I think he sort of acknowledged me at least. In his eyes. And a couple of times when I mentioned something we'd done together I saw his lips tug at the corners as if he might be trying to smile.”

“That's very good news.”

“So now what?”

“Doctor Rattigan has another drug he'd like to try.”

“You think he knows what he's doing? Shouldn't you be in the lead here? You're a shrink.”

“I should hire you to do my publicity. Doctor Rattigan is both a neurosurgeon and a psychiatrist. He'd be in a major hospital except he had a falling-out with his superior. He said, ‘I'm the undisputed star here and I don't have to have fools trying to second-guess everything I do.'”

“Remind me to kiss his ring when I finally meet him.”

She led me out of the room, closing the door almost silently behind her. “Randall's on his way now. We do shifts and then take breaks. He went home to take a nap. We have four other patients here so we keep busy. We quit around nine and then go home for a late supper. I finally broke down—I'm cheap—and hired a woman to cook all our dinners for us. They're there waiting in the fridge. I just pop them in the oven and we have some delicious food.”

Then we were back in the waiting area.

“If there's any change I'll let you know, Sam. But as you can see, Dr. Rattigan got pretty excited for nothing.”

“Are you going to point that out to him?”

The eyes were briefly winsome.

“Why, I thought you were going to do that for me.”

“If I even knew what he looked like I just might do it, the mood I'm in.”

“He's tall, dark, and handsome.” Then, “Just ask him.”

”I take it you're not a fan.”

“No, not especially. But if you've been around many surgeons you know he's pretty much par for the course.”

And with that she left me.

I rode down in the elevator, depressed about Will. That gaze; even when he got better I'd never forget it. The gaze was an open wound. I didn't know how Karen handled seeing him. She had to wonder if he'd ever be the same. Along with wondering if he'd ever be judged as innocent.

I stepped out of the air conditioning and into the long, hot day. The heat aggravated me.

On the drive out to Mary's I once again tried to puzzle through it all. If I could count on Valerie Donovan keeping her promise about not telling Anders that I had the photos—then confronting Anders was the likeliest move to make. He wouldn't be easy to intimidate but maybe knowing that he'd been under surveillance would damage his ego to the extent that he would make a mistake.

A long shot but everything available to me was a long shot now.

Then as I drove I started hearing the girls in my head. Their laughter. Crazy Kate and Serious Nicole. I'd enjoyed spending time with my sister's kids when I'd visited my mother in Chicago after leaving the military hospital. But they were in their early teens so they weren't as much spontaneous fun as Mary's girls.

And then I was pulling into her drive. And then Kate and Nicole were running out to meet me. And then Mary was standing on the
porch in jeans, blouse, and apron waving at me with a big wooden spoon.

The girls grabbed my hands and Kate said, “I helped Mommy make the tacos.”

“That means they'll be extra good, I bet.”

Kate nodded and grinned and clutched my hand tighter.

I was so tired and so down, I just let them rescue me.

A
FTER THE TACOS, AFTER THE GIRLS TOLD ME WHAT THEY'D
done during the day, after the one scoop of Rocky Road ice cream we each got, after Kate showed me the drawing of me she'd done, after Nicole showed me the drawing of me
she'd
done (I loved them both, even if Nicole's more resembled a human being though not necessarily me), after they were trotted in to take their baths, after they trotted out themselves in their nightshirts, after I read them
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
, after they took a turn at drama protesting bedtime, after they told Mommy that it was me who should put them to bed, after they persuaded me to tell them a story (not half bad if I do say so myself), after I turned their light out, after they peppered me with more questions as I made my way to their door, after I made a pit stop and after I wandered back to the living room, I said, “I'm
really happy they like me as much as they do, but I guess I don't quite understand why.”

“I'm so tired by the end of the day I'm not always a lot of fun. And they love playing with you. Plus you're sweet with them. And it got so bitter by the time of our divorce. They really appreciate a man who is nice to their mom. Poor Nicole saw her father kissing the woman he was cheating with. He'd taken her along with him to pick up some things at the store. Then he apparently couldn't control himself and drove over to see the woman. He went inside her house and stayed longer than he apparently realized. Nicole had to go to the bathroom very badly. So she just followed where he'd gone. The house had a side door, a glass one, and when Nicole got up to it there was her dad and this woman really making out. She's never gotten over it. I sent her to a counselor. The counselor said she's making progress. I guess I've talked about you so much in the last year or so the kids couldn't wait to meet you. You're fun and easygoing, Sam. You know how my ex is. Control freaks don't have much fun in life. They're always worrying that there's somebody who's doing something they wouldn't approve of. Then one night he hit me very hard in the face.”

“What? He hit you?”

“With his full fist. I had a big bruise on my left cheek. He knocked me to the floor and I think I was unconscious for a minute or so. I remember Nicole kissing me and kissing me and screaming for me to wake up. Kate was just sobbing. They really turned against him after that. But I feel so sorry for them; they're conflicted. As much as they think they hate him they still love him. That's what's so terrible about divorce. All the conflicts kids develop.”

“Remind me to deck that bastard the next time I see him.”

“That's what we need, Sam. More violence.”

I laughed. “Well, he sure as hell has it coming.”

“How about you shut up and we just watch TV?”

We were on the couch. She was in my arms. We were idly watching
The Glen Campbell Show
. Enjoying it at one remove as we
necked and vaguely fooled around. I liked her looks, her flesh, her scents and most especially I liked her.

When the phone rang we had to untangle and she grabbed it with a thumb and two fingers from the table next to the couch.

“Hello.” Then, “Yes, he's right here.”

She handed me the receiver and then stood up to smooth down her Levi's and straighten her blouse. Without a bra she had become my goddess.

“Hello.”

Lindsey Shepard. “Randall and Chief Foster are in with Will now. He's talking semi-coherently.”

“What changed since this afternoon?”

“There's no way of knowing. I need to tell you something that you won't like. Chief Foster was very gentle with him but he did ask the questions he normally would in an interrogation. And when he talked about Donovan dying Will broke down. Sobbing. He just kept saying he didn't mean to kill Donovan. Chief Foster took that as a confession but I'm not sure it is. Will is so confused we had to remind him of his name a few times.”

“He didn't kill Donovan.”

“I know, Sam, I'm on
your
side. I'm trying to
help
Will but Foster's trying to put him in prison. I was against allowing Foster in here until we'd spent more time with Will but he insisted and finally Randall gave in and said all right.”

“I wish Randall had held out longer.”

“Foster puts on a good front. He pretends he's so easygoing and understanding, but when I watched him with Will this afternoon I saw the predator side of him. He stayed calm and he even apologized to Will a few times. But it was all part of his act. He's a master at head games. He led Will right into saying that he didn't mean to kill Donovan. You should have heard him. He started talking about the girl Will had killed in Vietnam and then he asked Will how he would feel if he knew that some people thought he'd also killed Donovan. Very clever. He kept working that until Will broke down and said
what he said.” Fatigue was her tone of voice now. She'd been there most of the day and what a day it had been. Getting nowhere and then Will suddenly speaking only to implicate himself in the killing.

“I'd better go now, Sam. Randall and I need to go home. Doctor Rattigan gave Will a heavy-duty sleeping pill.”

“I hope someday Will'll be able to realize all you've done for him, Lindsey.”

“How about you, Sam? Look what you're doing for him.”

“Right now that feels like very little.”

“All we can do is keep working, hoping.”

We said our good-nights.

Mary, who was standing over me, watched me replace the receiver and then handed me a cold bottle of Hamm's. “So Will is talking?”

“Not making a lot of sense sometimes. And when he made a little bit of sense he implicated himself in Donovan's killing.” The beer was magical elixir. I put the chilled bottle next to my forehead. I flashed on the military hospital, the headaches. If the mystical power of the icy glass against my head couldn't stave one off, what could?

“Feel like messing around?”

“I hate to say it, but I'm wasted.”

She took my hand. “That's fine, Sam. You're not my gigolo.”

The image was so comic my groin responded faintly. “Well, for now let's say that my last statement may be subject to revision.”

“I'm tired myself so either way is good for me. I enjoy just sitting here with you.”

I'd been involved three or four times in what I'd imagined were serious relationships but more and more I realized that this one was different. There was a comfort, an ease with Mary the other affairs had lacked. I'd always been afraid they would leave me, an anxiety that never quite disappeared. It wasn't that I took Mary for granted—she could always leave me, too—but that I trusted her. I'd known her as a friend, even as a buddy sometimes, and as a substitute girlfriend to carry me through the worst patches with Pamela Forrest, and finally as a lover. I was just more relaxed now.

So we ended up in bed about twenty minutes later. There are numerous types of lovemaking. That night we created a new kind, exhausted sex. Short and sweet, followed with her spooning me and deep, deep sleep.

Anders had built his glass-and-wood faux manse on a hill overlooking a long stretch of meadow on the north end of town. Like a good detective, I'd brought along my binoculars so I could see if his Porsche was there. And it was.

I was parked on the gravel road that ran past his place. I knew an investigator who claimed that the only way to get through a stakeout was to jerk off. He liked to tell the story that one night he had three sessions with himself he was so bored. My stakeout was less rewarding. I thought about Gordon Niven, how he was doing. I'd lost sight of him in all the pressure of other things.

But Niven didn't last long in my thoughts. I concentrated on Anders. The concrete driveway from his house to the road was narrow enough to play a trick on him. A trick that would rattle and piss him off enough to take me seriously. Laying the photos on him, I would at least become dangerous.