The Survivors (12 page)

Russo had seemed almost in a trance, but he rallied, slowly shaking his head. “You've got me stumped here, Doctor. I can't explain those calls. We could look into it.” He squinted at the bill. “Old technology, a bill like this, listing out all the long distance calls.”

Russo tossed the paper on his desk. “Anyway, maybe I owe Mr. Glass an apology. It seems there was a good reason why he wanted to talk to me. I might have done the same thing if I'd been in his shoes.”

“Not so fast, Eric,” O'Shea said. “He didn't just try to talk to you. Those e-mails he sent were threats, with your home address. You've got your family to worry about, and the guy's got a record. Don't apologize for that.”

I said, “Wait, you said he had a record?”

“Scott Glass was up on an assault charge. You didn't know?” O'Shea made a faint frown. “Maybe you're not in such a good position to judge him, Doctor. After his arrest, he spent a week in a psych facility for evaluation. From what we hear, he was released only because they didn't have space to keep him.”

“What happened to the charges?”

“He plead out to a misdemeanor—”

“Cassandra,” someone yelled in the hallway, “you get away from there.”

We all turned as the girl stepped into the room, looking back over her shoulder.

A woman appeared in the doorway. She was in her late forties, maybe younger. It was hard to tell because her face was puffy and flushed. She had the same wide-set eyes and Roman nose as her daughter. “Cassie,” she said, “you know you've got to leave your father alone when he's working.” She nodded stiffly to me. “Sorry.”

Most of us have skeletons rattling around in our closets. Eric Russo handled his about as well as he could. “Dr. Henderson, this is my family—Cassandra and Charlene.” He beckoned with his fingers. “Cassie, I need to finish my meeting, so you go with your mom.”

The girl shook her head. She wasn't sad and droopy anymore. She had center stage and it gave her energy. “We didn't get to talk when you got home tonight. I want to show you the new shoes I bought.”

For a girl of thirteen or fourteen that was painfully babyish. Her mother stepped forward. She didn't seem steady on her feet. “Cassie,
now
.”

The girl slipped behind the desk. “It's getting late. I want to talk to daddy.”

“Young lady, enough of this nonsense.” Charlene took another step.

Cassie tried to dart past. Whether intentional or not, she bumped her mother so hard she sent her reeling. She would have fallen, but I grabbed her and held her up.

Cassie froze. Her eyes were wide and mortified.

Her mother took her arm, gently it seemed. “She didn't mean that. Now tell the man you're sorry, Cassie.”

“It's all right,” I said. “No harm done.”

She let her mother take her out.

Russo straightened his coat and the creases on his trousers, shaking off the after effects. “I apologize for that. Cassie's having a hard time with friends, and school's about to start. . . . Teenagers, you know.”

“It's like a day at my office,” I said. We all laughed, as if everything we'd just seen was already forgotten.

“So . . . Mr. Glass,” Russo said. “What do you think we should do about him?”

“He'll be under my care. I've already told Agent Weston I'll let her know if he seems to be having problems. Short of that, I'd like the FBI to leave him alone. He's under stress. I think he just needs time to decompress. If it works out, you can forget about him.”

“He's got a history of violence, Eric,” O'Shea said. “We at least—”

A crash came from somewhere back in the house, followed by an angry scream. I couldn't tell if it was the girl or her mother.

Russo stood up. “I'm sorry, but I have to deal with this. I'll think about what you've said.” He put his hand out to shake.

Taking it, I said, “If you want to calm her down, call her ‘Cass.'”

“What?”

“Her bracelet—it's the only pretty thing she's wearing. Not the ripped-up jeans and ratty punk-band T-shirt. The bracelet says ‘Cass.' I'll bet she bought it for herself.”

He slipped his hand from mine. “Thanks for stopping by, Doctor. Griffin, you can show him out.” He left then, stooped under his burden. How many men in Washington go to work each morning ready to run the world, then come home at night and can't run the dinner table?

O'Shea led me to the front door. “I'm going to advise Eric to stay out of it, let the FBI handle Mr. Glass.”

“Thanks for being honest,” I said. “But if you got a chance to know Scott, you'd feel differently.”

He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I spoke to him twice on the telephone. That was enough. I will promise to look into that phone bill. I expect we'll find that it's just a mistake.”

“There was one other thing,” I said. “Glass has been in contact with some people at Braeder Design. I might want to talk to someone over there. Does Mr. Russo still keep in touch with Ned Bowles?” I was only stalling, and that popped into my head. I wasn't going to walk away if I heard more screaming.

O'Shea hesitated, the first time in our whole conversation. “No, Ned and Eric had a falling out quite some time ago.”

He dipped his head in a butler's bow. “Good night, Doctor Henderson.” The door closed so fast I was barely able to step out of the way.

ELEVEN

I
sat for a while in my car, thinking about Russo. So much of him seemed right there on the surface, but nobody got as far as he did in Washington without a lot of guile. I could bet his first instinct would be to protect himself. That's why the phone bill was important. Hard evidence like that would be difficult to explain away. Being connected, no matter how remotely, to a twenty-five-year-old multiple-murder/suicide could turn into a real problem. Russo might decide to let Scottie off the hook just so the whole thing would go away.

I started the engine and pulled away. The neighborhood had the overpolished feel of Disneyland after the lights went out. My plan was to drive to Felix's place and pick up Scottie, but in a few blocks I found myself lost on another winding cul-de-sac. I pulled over and brought up a map on my phone. After I got started again, I made a left on Macomb Street, and I saw lights in my mirror. At the next turn, they stayed with me. That was odd given the zigzag route I was taking. I pulled over again, expecting the car to pass, but it stopped. It was a low-slung Acura, brand new from what I could see. The muffler was tuned to make a throaty rumble.

I shut down the engine and waited. The driver doused his lights. Two minutes passed, then four. I couldn't sit there all night. Then the other car's lights popped back on. It backed up smoothly to the closest intersection and turned away.

Shaking my head, I pulled back onto the street. Two blocks later, lights flashed up again in my mirror, this time farther behind. I wasn't sure it was the same car. The whole thing might be my imagination, brought on by the weird feel of Palisades at night. Still, it was enough to make me worried. I didn't want to lead somebody to Scottie.

I turned and came out on MacArthur Boulevard. Half a mile on, I pulled into the parking lot of a bank. I rolled down my window and thought I could hear the rumble of that engine. Then I changed my mind: nothing there. Anyway, I'd already decided.

I took out my phone and dialed Felix's number. “How's it going with Scottie?” I said after he picked up.

“Pretty good. He's quite a character.”

“Right.”

“You don't sound too happy,” Felix said.

“No. I've got a—” Problem wasn't quite the right word. “I've got to take a detour. I know it's an imposition, but can he spend the night with you?”

“Might as well. He's already asleep. About an hour ago he opened all the windows in the sunroom and sacked out on the sofa in there.”

“He didn't sleep well at my place last night. He's just catching up.”

“I offered him the guest room, but he wouldn't hear of it. He said he wanted to sleep somewhere ‘better ventilated.'”

The couch in Felix's sunroom was a lot more comfortable than a sling chair on my balcony. Maybe this wasn't such a bad thing after all.

“How are you doing?” Felix asked.

“I just came from talking to someone. I think things may start to turn around. Maybe the FBI's going to call off the dogs on Scottie.”

“That sounds like good news, but I asked how you were doing.”

“Better than you figured. Do you remember that conference we went to on Gestalt? There was a woman on the last panel who said some patients are gifts and therapists just need to learn how to receive.”

“Sure,” Felix said. “And I remember what I said—horse crap.”

“Loud enough for the whole room to hear. But I've been thinking. Maybe Scottie's just that for me, a gift. All day I've been going back, remembering, and it didn't bother me. I learned a few things from the people I talked to tonight. Not anything major, just a few details. The point is, I could cope. More than cope. I was interested, tuned in. No side effects.”

“Well, you know what my feeling is.”

“Forward, not back,” I recited. And now I wanted to change the subject. “What did you two get up to today?”

“This and that. I never did beat him at chess. He wouldn't watch television or read, so we talked quite a bit. It's amazing the things he knows. He says he can't cook, but he told me exactly what I did wrong making lasagna for dinner. It was so bad I chucked it in the trash. We walked all the way to the McDonald's on Van Ness to get something.”

“Sounds like you enjoyed having him around,” I said.

“I did, to tell you the truth. He's halfway between a guest and patient. Maybe that makes him a puzzle. Anyway, this story is like the oyster and the grain of sand. Long term, he's an irritant, and I'm too old to be making any pearls.”

“I hear you. And Scottie may not have the manners to say it, but thanks for everything you're doing for him.”

“He thinks a lot of you, Cal. The things he told me about when you were kids together were priceless.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like going into the field down the road from your house and trying to get the bull and cow to mate.”

“He remembered that?” I said.

“He said it was the most arousing thing he's ever seen.”

“He should date more.”

“That he should. Good night, buckaroo.”

I was still smiling when I turned off MacArthur Boulevard, heading for Dupont Circle and home. If that Acura was following me, it didn't much matter now. Scottie was safely tucked in for the night, and I would be soon.

I parked in my usual spot behind my building. A car passed on the street, but there was no low rumble. I waited a few minutes, then made a circuit around the block. If the Acura was out there, I didn't spot it.

There was a message on my answering machine from Tori telling me she'd be late getting to work tomorrow—no explanation given. There was also a call from Tim Regis. He'd finished his meeting in New York and was on the train back to DC. He sounded as if he'd had a long day, and maybe a few glasses of wine, so I decided I'd wait until morning to bother him with a return call.

I made my promised call to Jamie Weston. It switched over to voice mail. “Jamie, this is Cal Henderson. Thanks for setting up the meeting with Eric Russo. He didn't commit to anything, but I think our talk was helpful. Give me a call if you want the details.”

I should have signed off then, kept it all business. Instead, I scrambled for a pithy way to end. “A funny thing happened. I thought somebody was following me when I left Russo's house. It turned out not to be anything, but it made me think of you.”
Where was I going with this?
“They probably teach you people evasive driving. Maybe you can give me some pointers sometime.”