North of Montana (27 page)

“I’m from Boston,” he says. “I know all about Massachusetts drivers.”

He writes on the chart. I watch the muscles in his smooth tan forearms.

“You’re in great shape,” says Amanda Griffin, who is a bit of a dork. “Do they pump iron in Boston?”

“Not like here. I have to work out for two reasons: to practice orthopedics and keep up with my kids.”

“They keep you running, don’t they?”

“My little girl is a climber. I swear she’s part monkey. You come home and she’s sitting on top of the piano. You should see her balancing on the edge of the play structure with the seven-year-olds, it gives me arrhythmia. And quickly her baby brother is following in her footsteps. Were you looking up in the rearview mirror when you were hit?”

“No, I was looking down, trying to read a map.”

“Probably saved your neck from getting whiplash.”

“I don’t have kids, I’m not even married,” volunteers Amanda.

“Kids give you perspective on what’s important.”

“What’s important, doctor?”

“The
only
thing that’s important to me is my wife and children.”

“And making a lot of money helps.”

“I like making money,” Randall Eberhardt admits with easy candor, rubbing the side of his nose. “But I don’t care about ‘stuff,’ which means in this town people look at you like you’re some other life form.”

“I know. You’ve got all those film stars showing off all over the place.”

“I actually enjoy entertainment people. I’m basically a boring uncreative jock, so I find them fascinating.”

I can see why Jayne Mason liked to take Randall Eberhardt around in her limousine. In the still close smog of Los Angeles he is an impertinent gust of a crisp New England fall. And cute, too.

He continues to ask questions, writing down Amanda Griffin’s answers with a Mont Blanc pen held between large powerful fingers. There is no gray in his hair; he carries his age and stress in deep brown bags beneath his eyes. It is now my job to discover what other darkness might be hidden there.

“I need some painkillers, Dr. Eberhardt. My back is killing me, I can’t sleep.”

He puts the chart down and climbs off the table.

“Let’s take a look.”

I get up and stand in the middle of the floor.

Our voices are being transmitted to Donnato’s ear and simultaneously onto magnetic recording tape, a manipulated dialogue that will be studied later as if it were scientific fact.

But the tape cannot document the illicit thrill of his warm, firm fingertips as I stand naked before him, turning as requested so he may part the gown, so my vulnerable bare back may be exposed and spine examined by his intelligent hands slowly, curiously, piece by piece. Can a healer locate the site of one’s pain just by touch? Perhaps Dr. Eberhardt will discover mine. Not Amanda Griffin’s, but Ana Grey’s. It must be there in the bones, only to be read.

I am staring at the striped aqua wallpaper. My Poppy was examined in a medical room like this, a professionally designed environment meant to be dim and soothing to the patient who is being told the bumps in his neck are cancerous, while the desert sun hurtles itself against the tinted window like a fireball from hell.

Randall Eberhardt’s thumbs are pressing the trigger points along the top ridge of the pelvis and around the curve of the hips expertly, knowingly, putting my mind into a trance.
Does it hurt when I do this? Yes. No
. Playing along the tendons of the back of the neck, chin falling forward, the medicine man touches my naked body while Donnato listens in the car, like having two lovers at the same time, one man caressing you while the other man watches.

He puts his hands around my waist and tells me to bend over and touch my toes. The gown falls away and my bare buttocks are pushed up toward him and exposed. Gently he gathers the edges and holds them closed. Sweat falls from my armpits to the floor in large audible drops.

On the table now, lying flat, he is holding my foot with instructions to press against his hand. My fingers tear the tissue paper beneath me, telling him how much it hurts, everything hurts, I am breathless.

A memory comes of a time once before when I was this vulnerable and defenseless. I am in the backyard of Poppy’s house on Twelfth Street. It is night and I can’t see very well except when headlights rake through the cracks in the wooden fence as cars pass in the alley. I am again between two males, both of whom love me and want to possess me. One is my young immigrant father and the other is Poppy.

They argue in loud voices. They pull my arms in opposite directions. My father wins and holds me to his chest in the most forceful sense memory of him I have ever experienced. My arms are wrapped around his neck and my legs are around his slight waist and I am clinging to him with my entire being. I want my father at this moment, as I lie here as a patient, now. The yearning is so intense that it burns through my most present emotion, which I thought was sadness concerning Poppy’s diagnosis. As the sadness dissolves I can see it has been nothing but a curtain to mask my true sentiment about my grandfather, a feeling that hurtles at me now like that comet from hell smashing through the tinted window glass: I wish Poppy were dead.

The thought propels me off the table and sends me reaching for my clothes.

“What is it, Amanda?”

“I feel much better. Whatever you did to my back, it worked.”

“I don’t think I’m that much of a genius.”

I am hooking on my bra at top speed under the gown. Dr. Eberhardt has one hand on the doorknob. He’s uncomfortable watching me dress.

“See me in my consulting room.”

“I don’t think I need to, thanks.”

He frowns, worried.

“Something’s going on here. Let’s talk about it.”

My first clear thought: he’s found us out. And then, oh, God, this is all on tape.

“I was really in shock after the accident but just talking about it helped.”

Randall Eberhardt is standing close enough to show his concern and far enough away to give me space. His brown eyes have lost their academic preoccupation and are communicating sincerity and calm.

“Your back looks fine. Your muscle tone is excellent. You don’t need X rays or physical therapy or any of that stuff. I’ll bet you can beat this thing by yourself.”

“But the pain comes back at night.” I am doing my job like a robot broken into pieces still making meaningless sounds.

“Try aspirin and hot baths.”

I have pulled on all my clothes except the panty hose, which I have jammed into the shoulder bag. I am wearing a wool skirt with no underpants and bare feet in heels.

“Is that all you can give me?”

“Amanda, if you are having a problem with drugs, I would like to refer you to a clinic.”

•  •  •

I climb back into the car.

“Let’s go.”

Donnato takes his time rewinding the tape.

“That was the worst performance by an undercover operative I have ever witnessed.”

“So I won’t win the Academy Award, let’s go.”

“I want you to hear yourself.”

“No”—I close the lid of the briefcase—“thanks.”

Still Donnato doesn’t start the car.

“He made you by the end of it.”

“No way.”

“He knew you were not a patient, that you were looking for drugs. That wasn’t the plan.” Donnato’s voice is rising in an unsettling way.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’ve seen you perform some pretty reckless acts lately. I’ve seen you try to destroy your telephone—”

“Donnato—”

“I’ve seen you get into a pointless fight with Duane Carter and then threaten a lawsuit that could totally jeopardize your career, and now, after you drag me into it, you abort an undercover assignment.”

“An
unauthonzed
undercover assignment.”

“Even better.”

“That’s why you’re mad. I dragged you out here and now you’re all … nervous.”

“I am not nervous, Ana. I have concerns about your stability.”

I am quiet. I take two deep breaths. “Just before I came here I found out my grandfather has cancer. I know it shouldn’t make a difference on a case, but it did and I’m sorry.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“You know Poppy. He’ll beat it.”

“Good.”

But still Donnato does not start the car.

“I’m concerned that you’re over the edge emotionally. It comes from being hypervigilant and eating soup at midnight and not having a life. If it’s too much, be a grown-up and get help. That’s what Harvey McGinnis is there for,” he says, referring to the shrink the Bureau keeps on retainer for agents who have gone around the bend.

“Harvey McGinnis wears a skirt,” I retort. He does, he puts on a kilt for Christmas and for funerals when he gets to play the bagpipes.

“I care about you and you are being a wise ass.” His cheeks are flushed, he is furious. “If you wig out again, I will have to notify Duane Carter that you should be evaluated as to your ability to carry a weapon.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I found out what I needed to know, so just lighten up.”

Finally he turns the engine and we drive. Neither of us says anything more all the way back to Westwood.

I am glad he doesn’t know about the locked cabinet. Now the only way to bust into it would be with a court order.

But I don’t need a court order. I don’t need to look inside the cabinet, I don’t even need the taped conversation to support the findings of my investigation.

Because I knew, from the moment he laid his doctor’s healing hands on me, that Randall Eberhardt is innocent.

EIGHTEEN

I PUT ON the navy blue suit and go to see Galloway.

“I have been unable to substantiate Jayne Mason’s claims against Dr. Randall Eberhardt.”

Galloway has the blinds closed against the early afternoon glare. He is sitting stock-still, one elbow resting on the arm of the chair, two fingers propped up on the side of his head with a tense look as if he’s got a killer headache.

“Keep going.”

“A deep background check on the doctor turned up negative. A current investigation proved negative.”

“Keep going.”

His sullen passivity is unnerving.

“There is no evidence of illegal narcotics, of a Mexican connection, previous infractions, or other patients with the same complaint. All we have is Jayne Mason’s story, which remains unconfirmed. She has also been found to lie about facts concerning her own life, which casts doubts on her character. And”—I pause—“I have reason to believe she stole your belt buckle.”

“Now you’re blowing my mind.”

“Sorry.”

Galloway delicately shifts the heavy weight of his head to two fingers of the opposite hand. “What about that lady back in Boston?”

“She … didn’t turn out to be good.”

I am suddenly mumbling as if my lips were shot up with Novocain, so Galloway asks me to repeat what I said and I have to say it twice.

“Since Jayne Mason’s allegations against her physician have been investigated,” I continue, “and no evidence of criminality has been found, I recommend that we drop the case. I’m sorry. That’s not what you want to hear.”

“Stop being so sorry.”

“I took it as far as it goes.”

Then there is silence.

“Let me ask you something.” His eyelids lower like a drowsy crocodile. “If the doc is clean, why is Mason going after his balls?”

“I don’t know.”

“He fucking her?”

“I don’t think so. I think she’s just …”

“Nuts?”

“No, an actress and a known drug addict.”

He nods with understanding. He knows an addict is an addict and it doesn’t matter if she’s paid five million dollars a picture; like Dennis Hill on cocaine and Wild Bill Walker on booze and John Roth in bed, her existence is simply about feeding an insatiable maw.

“She needs the power.”

Galloway only grunts.

“I’m writing a report but I thought you’d want to know the results ASAP because of the … political situation.”

After a moment Galloway stands, smooths his hair with both hands, and tugs back and forth on the belt of his slacks like an old man trying to get his undershorts to lie right after a long sit.

“I’ll take care of it.”

He seems refreshed. Out of the uneasiness. Resolved.

He even tells me I did a good job.

When I relate the play-by-play of the meeting to Barbara she gives me a high five, certain I will be getting my promotion to the Kidnapping and Extortion Squad by the end of the month.

•  •  •

But an hour later I receive a phone call from Magda Stockman.

“I have just spoken with Mr. Galloway and I am quite upset. Why did you close this case?”