Phantom Limb (15 page)

Chapter Twenty

The big outlet store was at the back end of the Monroeville Mall, right off Route 22. The parking lot was crowded with Sunday shoppers, and I had to pull into a spot a fair distance from the entrance. As I approached the broad glass doors, I noticed a squad car parked at the curb, light flashing.

Inside the sprawling structure, and beyond the maze of aisles whose display shelves seemed to tower over bustling customers pushing their carts, I spotted a sign that read: “Employees Only.” My destination.

I pushed through the swinging metal doors and hurried down a corridor to the manager's office, where I found Skip Hines sitting in the airless, cluttered room. Head down, prosthetic leg jutting at an awkward angle. On either side of him stood two grim-faced men. One was short, round and bald, his brow dotted with sweat and his tie askew. The other—older, taller, and broad-chested—was a uniformed cop.

Skip's eyes snapped up, found mine.

“Thanks so much for comin', man. This whole thing is my fuck-up, but—”

The cop grumbled. “I'd keep my mouth shut, Hines. You're lucky I haven't run you in already.”

The shorter man looked over at the cop.

“I'm still thinking I ought to press charges, Officer.”

Then, stepping forward, he put out his hand to shake mine. “My name's Larraby. I'm the store manager. Your friend here got into an argument with one of my salesclerks and ended up taking a swing at him. I had to give my employee the rest of the day off—
with pay
—to keep him from making a federal case out of it.”

I introduced myself and gave Larraby my most sincere, solicitous smile.

“I appreciate your letting me come and help straighten this out, Mr. Larraby. You're obviously a reasonable man.”

“Don't thank
me
, Doctor. Thank Officer Parker here.”

I turned to the uniform. “Let me guess. You'd like to wrap this thing up without all the paperwork, right?”

Parker gave me a wry smile. “Not only that, Doc. When Mr. Hines said he knew you, and that you could vouch for him, I figgered, what the hell, why not? I mean, you're sorta on the job and everything. Right?”

“I'm a consultant with the Department, yes.”

“Besides, it'll get me some primo brownie points when I tell the wife I met you. She's seen you on the news a bunch o' times, thinks you look very distinguished. I told her it was just the beard, but—”

Skip stirred, reaching for the handle of a file cabinet next to him. Pulled himself to his feet.

“C'mon, guys. How many times do I gotta say I'm sorry? I lost my temper with that clerk and acted like an asshole. I admit it. I'll even call the guy and apologize if that'll help.”

The store manager scratched his chin, pondering.

“Look, Mr. Larraby,” I said, “Skip Hines is a veteran who lost his leg in combat. None of the rest of us in this room can imagine what he's been going through since then. The stress, the frustration. I'm hoping you'll cut him a break here.”

The uniform nodded. “I agree with the Doc, Mr. Larraby. Guy's a wounded vet, for Christ's sake.”

Larraby spread his hands. “Okay, you both can stop waving the flag. Just make sure Mr. Hines stays away from my store from now on. I don't need the grief…from him
or
my employees.”

Skip offered him a crooked grin. “Thanks, man.”

But Larraby had turned away, shaking his head in disgust. Meanwhile, the cop took out a notepad and handed it to me.

“How 'bout an autograph, Doc? For the wife.”

***

“Thanks again for havin' my six back there, Danny. Hell, maybe you shoulda been a lawyer instead of a shrink.”

“Word of advice, Skip. Don't thank a guy and insult him at the same time.”

He smiled, and took another healthy bite of his burger.

We were having lunch at a crowded diner on the other side of the mall. Skip was on his second beer.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I know it musta been a surprise when I called you. I mean, we hardly know each other. But I couldn't call Charlene. I…I was too ashamed to tell her what I did. She worries enough about me already.”

“I get it. And I'm glad I could help. Just don't make a habit of duking it out with store clerks.”

I'd finished my meal and was nursing a beer myself. Though it was a bit early in the day for me.

“Never again.” Skip raised a palm. “Honest. Thing is, the clerk was a real smart-ass, but…Anyway, I'll keep my cool from now on.”

“Good idea.” I leaned forward. “Look, at the risk of sounding like a therapist, I think you should consider seeing someone. A professional, who can help you deal with your feelings. About the war, your injury, whatever. If not, there are also plenty of support groups, and—”

“You mean, like anger management class?”

“Something like that. Or any place where you can get together with other vets. People going through the same things you are. Let me give you some referrals. Just hang on to the phone numbers 'til you think you might want to look into it. Couldn't hurt to think about it, right?”

“Right.”

He studied the rim of his beer glass as I wrote out a few numbers on the back of one of my business cards. When I handed it to him, he stuffed it in his shirt pocket without giving it a moment's glance. I regarded him coolly.

He frowned. “Hey, I said I'd think about it. Okay?”

A measured beat of silence followed. I watched as Skip occasionally stared up at other people in the diner—couples, working men, white-collar types. Civilians, comfortable in a world which I suspected now felt quite alien to Skip. Hard to navigate. As though, after years in the Middle East, it was America that had become a foreign country.

His lunch finished, Skip ordered a third beer. At one point, he shifted in his seat, and had to twist his torso to accommodate his prosthetic leg.

He noticed my noticing.

“I tell myself every day that I'm finally used to it.” He sighed. “But I'm not. And I still feel the damn thing at night. I'm lying in bed, the fake one's leanin' against the wall across the room, and I can feel my leg. Sometimes it's cold, sometimes it itches. Like it's still there. Crazy, eh?”

I shook my head. “Not at all. Even if you're consciously getting used to it, as you say, your brain's neurons aren't. But they will. I can't say when, but it'll happen.”

He nodded, unconvinced. Then, as if eager to change the subject, he talked about his efforts to find a job. And his plan to enroll in a junior college, though—as he jokingly admitted—he worried about being the oldest student on campus.

Even as I assured him that this wouldn't be the case, my thoughts were elsewhere. Skip's feeling that his missing leg was still there—his phantom limb—struck a chord. I remembered how I reacted when my father died. How for so many years after, it still was hard for me to believe he was gone. That he wasn't sitting at home in his favorite chair, getting drunk, casting a jaundiced eye on everything I said and did. Wistful yet bitter about his years as a cop. Mourning the loss of his sainted wife.

Then I thought about the weeks and months following Barbara's murder. Though our marriage had been a difficult one, her death tore my world apart. For the longest time, I couldn't accept what had happened to her. Even now, all these years later, I have to sometimes remind myself that the person she was is no longer on this Earth.

Yet, like with my father, a felt sense of her lingers. Perhaps this is true for everyone. That those with whom we're most intimately connected persist, not only in memory, but almost like missing parts of ourselves. Like phantom limbs, we feel their presence, even though they're gone forever….

I finished my beer and looked over at Skip, who was regarding me with an amused expression.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking.”

“No problem. I plan on takin' that up someday myself. And lunch is on me, by the way. Least I can do.”

I protested, but he wouldn't budge. Then, as we parted out on the street, he gripped my hand hard.

“Please don't tell Charlene about this, okay? I'll never hear the end of it.”

I gave him my word, and we each headed off to where our cars were parked. Though I kept glancing back over my shoulder, watching as he hobbled down the rows of parked cars. The proud, determined angle of his head. The speed of his awkward gait.

Which reminded me of something Noah once said. That no matter who someone was, no matter what his or her circumstances, “life kicks the shit outta people.” He'd said this without rancor, or self-pity, or easy pessimism. He'd merely reported it as a simple fact. The humane wisdom of a paranoid schizophrenic.

***

I'd found my car and had just slid behind the wheel when my cell phone rang. I picked up.

“Dr. Rinaldi? Arthur Drake here.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“The residence, of course. I'm in my office.”

“How did you get my cell number?”

A wry chuckle. “Mike Payton gave Charles a copy of his dossier on you, remember? I have it on the desk in front of me. Of course, all your numbers are there.”

Of course
, I thought. “How can I help you, Mr. Drake?”

“Frankly, I need to see you. I was hoping you could come to the house now. If it's convenient.”

“I don't know if Lieutenant Biegler would be so wild about that idea. Or Sergeant Polk, for that matter.”

His tone sharpened. “I'm a civilian, Doctor. As are you. If I invite you here as my personal guest, there's nothing the police can do to stop it. We're not interfering in the ongoing investigation. We're just going to have a drink.”

I paused. Something was definitely up with the lawyer, but I'd be damned if I knew what it was.

“And you'd like me to come by now?”

“As I said, only if it's convenient.”

To my ear, his words betrayed a certain urgency, despite the courtesy of his speech. He almost sounded…frightened.

I looked at the phone in my hand. For the second time today, someone was reaching out to me, asking for my assistance. Both relative strangers. Each from worlds as disparate from one another's as could be imagined.

At least I
liked
Skip Hines. Whereas my opinion of Arthur Drake was a lot more mixed.

So I'm not exactly sure why I agreed to meet him.

But I did.

Chapter Twenty-one

Compared to his employer's, Arthur Drake's office was of a modest size, though tastefully decorated. The requisite shelves laden with law books, memorabilia from two different Ivy League schools, a bag of golf clubs in the corner. Framed photos of the lawyer's wife and two grown daughters. Some award plaques on the walls from various charities and legal organizations.

The one discordant note was the disabled video camera hanging from a ceiling corner. As in the library, the casing had been opened. Wiring exposed, dangling.

Drake followed my gaze.

“I asked the FBI tech to take care of the security camera in here, too. And the microphone. After what's happened, I don't want to take any chances. Privacy is very important to me.”

He indicated a stuffed leather chair opposite his neat, orderly desk. I took a seat. Then he closed the office door and turned the lock.

“
Very
important,” he repeated as he returned to sit in the plush armchair behind his desk. Notable among the squared stack of files and gold-plated pen holder on the blotter was a bottle of Wild Turkey and two glasses. One was filled with the rich amber liquid. He raised the empty glass to me.

“Join me?”

“Why not?”

We each took a long swallow of the whiskey. Then, leaning back in his chair, he regarded me carefully.

“I'm taking a chance talking to you. Especially here in the house. But I don't dare leave, in case the kidnappers call.”

I nodded. “I saw the armored truck parked out front. The additional bearer bonds, I assume.”

“Correct. Another five million.”

“I also noticed a few more cops on the grounds and in the house. In fact, the front door was answered by a uniform. Was this additional police presence Biegler's idea?”

“After he'd cleared it with Chief Logan, yes. Now that Charles is out of commission, Logan and Biegler are seemingly emboldened to act with a freer hand. Let's hope their decision doesn't come back to haunt them.”

“You mean, in case it spooks Julian.”

A thin smile. “I understand from the lieutenant that the kidnapper's real name is Raymond Sykes.”

“News travels fast.”

“Surely you can understand why. The police wanted to know if Mr. Harland or anyone in the family had any connection to this Sykes. Obviously, the idea is ridiculous. Charles and Lisa are public figures. The perfect targets for a kidnapping. And once someone had access to the security cameras inside the residence—eyes and ears on their personal lives, as it were—it would be easy to orchestrate an abduction.”

“Makes sense. Though I still don't know why I'm here. Or why Sergeant Polk allowed it. I assume he's remained on duty in the library…?”

“Yes. But I told him I needed to speak to you privately, as a psychologist. A personal matter.”

“Is that true?”

His easy smile faded. “What do you think?”

“I think you're scared. Maybe you know something about Lisa's kidnapping. Or maybe it's something closer to home. Involving the family.”

“You're very perceptive, Doctor.”

He threw back the rest of his drink and poured another.

“I do have something to tell you, but I must first insist that you treat it with the same discretion as you would if I
were
your patient. Are you willing to do that?”

I shrugged. “Sure. As long as you don't reveal your plans to injure or murder someone. Then I have to amble down the hall and alert Sergeant Polk.”

Drake chuckled dryly. “The Tarasoff Law. Of course. Your duty to warn. However, I assure you that's not something you'll have to worry about.”

Again, the amusement quickly melted from his face. He seemed to be steeling himself for what he had to say.

“As you may know, James was not Mr. Harland's only son. Charles and his first wife had another child, Charles Junior. Though everyone called him Chuck. He was born three years after Jimmy came along.”

He paused, glass in hand, and peered out the office window at the broad expanse of manicured lawn stretching to the bank of trees beyond.

“Chuck was the proverbial apple of his father's eye. He grew into a fine young man. Model student, good at sports. Handsome, too. But the thing everyone loved about him was his character. It's rare to find a gifted young person who's also kind. Considerate.”

“Did you know him?”

“I knew both boys, though they were practically grown men by the time we met. Jimmy had already graduated college, and Chuck was a senior. That's when it happened.”

“What happened?”

“Chuck began to change. I mean, his personality. Almost overnight he became surly, foul-mouthed. He broke up with his fiancée and started hitting the clubs. Gambling, whoring, doing drugs. The kinds of things that…well, to be candid…that Jimmy had always done.”

“What do you mean?”

“Since his teens, Jimmy had been in and out of trouble with the law. Drugs. Petty crimes. Associating with undesirables. Low-life types. Though even the wealthy young people he partied with, men and women from prominent families, were of dubious character. Black sheep, if you will. Which made Charles furious, as you can imagine. It certainly broke his mother's heart.”

I had a sense of where this was going.

“Did the family believe that James had introduced Chuck to this lifestyle? The club scene, the drugs and women?”

“It wasn't a belief on our part. Jimmy
bragged
about it. He loved seeing the brother to whom he'd been unfavorably compared all his life brought low. The Golden Boy. His father's pride and joy. Now just another out-of-control trust fund kid, as embarrassing to the family as Jimmy. If not more so.”

By then I'd remembered what James had said to me after he'd found me in Lisa's bedroom. That following his brother's death, he'd been sent to a psychiatrist.

“I know that Chuck died,” I said carefully. “How?”

“An overdose. The police found him in an alley behind a club in Shadyside. The autopsy revealed that Chuck had enough meth and coke in his system to—” Drake lowered his glass to the desk. “It was…tragic. Obscene, really.”

“I don't remember hearing about it. Or seeing anything about it on the news.”

“That's one of the advantages of wealth and power, Doctor. Charles was able to cover up the true cause of Chuck's death. They created the story that he'd been killed by a hit-and-run driver who's unfortunately never been found.”

I let a silent moment settle between us.

“Now I understand Harland's antipathy toward James,” I said at last. “The insulting way they speak to each other.”

Drake slowly nodded. “Charles has never forgiven Jimmy. And never will. But Jimmy suffers, too. He's confided in me over the years how guilty he feels about Chuck's death. I believe that's why he drinks so heavily. Which only disgusts his father more. No wonder Jimmy's so embittered. So…lost. Can you imagine? Despised by one's own father…”

Once more, the lawyer peered out the window.

“As far as I'm concerned, Jimmy's paid enough for what he did. Emotionally, I mean.
He's
a victim, too.”

Another long pause. Eyes still averted, Drake spoke again, voice as soft as breath.

“I
love
Jimmy, Doctor. I've loved him for years, despite his flaws. His drinking. His insolence.”

I nodded, though I knew he didn't see it. His gaze still fixed on the opulent stand of trees. The wind had picked up again, its fingers combing through the full, leafy branches.

“It cost me my marriage,” he went on. “And my daughters look at me now like I'm a stranger. Someone they don't recognize anymore. We still have dinner occasionally, but…”

“I'm sorry, Arthur. Really. Does James know how you feel?”

A bitter laugh. “Oh, yes. I made the mistake of…I tried to touch him once. To stroke his face, that's all. And he…he rebuffed me. Has nothing but contempt for me now. But I still care for him. I'm the only one who does.”

“Yes, I got that impression.”

He took a breath. “The way everyone treats him…It's terrible. Unfair. Mike Payton shares Mr. Harland's disgust. As did poor Donna Swanson, Charles' nurse. She
hated
Jimmy, probably for the pain he's always caused his father.”

Drake turned back to face me, his eyes moist. He dabbed them with the knuckle of a finger.

I kept my voice even. “I also got the impression that James doesn't care much for Lisa Campbell….”

The lawyer sniffed. “Obviously not. The age difference, for one thing. It infuriates him. He thinks it's ludicrous. Plus, Jimmy sees her as an interloper. Only after his father's money.”

“Which could mean a lot less leftover for James when Daddy dies. Is Lisa now the primary beneficiary of Harland's estate? As the family lawyer, I assume you would execute any new will—whatever revisions were made after Charles and Lisa married.”

“You know I'm not at liberty to discuss that.”

“Right.” I leaned forward in my chair. “One more question. You still haven't told me what you're afraid of.”

He very deliberately folded his hands in front of him.

“I have no proof of this, you understand. But I'm convinced that Mike Payton is behind Lisa's kidnapping.”

“Based on what?”

“As I say, nothing concrete. Of course, he appears to be very upset about it.
Over
reacting, in my opinion. And I know he's always seemed friendly to Lisa since she married Charles. But he
is
the head of security for Harland Industries. And the Harland family. He's the one who contracted with the security company that installed all the cameras in the house. So he'd certainly be able to help whoever hacked into the system. Maybe even did it himself.”

“Anything else?”

“Don't forget, at Lisa's request he prepared the dossier on you. He knew she was going to see you. She'd probably even told him when. No matter who this Raymond Sykes is, I think it's possible that Payton was behind this all along. That Sykes and his thugs work for
him
.”

“But why would Payton do this?”

“Why would anyone, Doctor? The money. Believe me, I've seen it before. A person spends years around all that wealth, and suddenly wants some of it for himself. Even feels entitled to it, after all his hard work and dedication. His sacrifice.”

I thought this over. “I don't know, Drake. Seems pretty flimsy to me.”

“And to me. I'm a lawyer, after all. I know circumstantial evidence when I hear it. That's why I haven't shared my concerns with the police.”

“So why share them with me?”

“In case something happens to me, I…well, I want someone to take my theory to the proper authorities.”

“But why
me
?”

“I'm pretty perceptive myself, Doctor, and my instincts tell me you can be trusted. Certainly more than anyone else in this house. Even Jimmy. Even given the way I feel about him…”

He managed a rueful grin. “Funny. A man my age, lusting after a rebel. A bad boy…”

“James is hardly a boy. Not anymore.”

“Oh, there you're wrong, Doctor. In all the ways that matter, Jimmy's stayed a very young man…Impulsive, unashamed of his appetites, unwilling to conform to being what his father wants him to be…”

I was struck by the wistfulness in his voice. The unmet yearning. The sober desperation of unrequited love.

Drake himself seemed aware of it, and quickly looked down.

Suddenly there was a pounding at the door. And a harsh voice, bellowing. Harry Polk.

“Drake! It's Sergeant Polk. Open the damn door!”

The lawyer climbed out from behind his desk and unlocked the office door. Polk, face flushed, stood on the threshold.

“That prick Julian finally called. He's on the line in the library. It's go time!”