Rage (20 page)

“Cherish
Daney?”

“Pardon?”

“I
know a Cherish Daney.”

“Oh,
could be, this is Loretta’s handwriting— yeah, that could be it, Doctor. You
want me to hold her number or give it to you? She said it was no emergency.”

“I’ll
take it.”

She
clicked me in.

“Oh,”
said Cherish Daney. “Sorry, I was just going to leave a message. They didn’t
need to interrupt your evening.”

“No
problem. What’s up?”

“I
was actually trying to reach Lieutenant Sturgis, but they told me he’s out of
town. So I thought of calling you. I hope that’s okay.”

Out
of town?

“It’s
fine. What’s on your mind, Ms. Daney?”

“After
you left I realized I didn’t get a chance to talk much about Rand. My husband
spoke to you but there’s something I thought I should add.”

“Please.”

“Okay,”
she said. “This is probably nothing, but I thought you should know that Rand
was really upset the entire weekend. More than upset.
Highly
agitated.”

“Your
husband said he was afraid.”

“Did
Drew say why?”

I
remembered Daney’s protectiveness. Decided she was an adult and that I cared
more about her reaction. “He said Rand thought someone had prowled near his
window at night. In the morning Rand spotted a dark truck driving away from
your house and for some reason that worried him.”

“The
dark truck,” she said. “Drew told me all that, but I’m referring to something
different. Something heavy on Rand’s mind right
before
he was released.
It actually started a few weeks before. I wanted to open Rand up but felt I
should take it slow because of all he’d been through.”

“Open
him up,” I said.

“I’m
not a psychologist, but I do have a certificate in spiritual counseling. The
nonverbal signs were all there, Doctor. Lack of concentration, drop in
appetite, insomnia, general restlessness. I put it down to prerelease jitters,
but now I wonder. And it began well before we got Rand home, so I don’t think
it had anything to do with being stalked by a truck.”

“Can
you tell me more about it?” I said.

“As I
said, he’d been jumpy for a while. But when we picked him up in Camarillo, he
looked awful. Pale, shaky, really not himself. During the drive home we stopped
off to get some gas and my husband went to the men’s room and Rand and I had a
few minutes alone. By that time, he was barely able to sit still. I asked him
what the matter was but he didn’t answer. I decided to be a
little
persistent
and finally he said there was something he wanted to talk about. I asked what
and he hemmed and hawed and finally he said it was about what had happened to
Kristal. Then he started to cry. Which made him real embarrassed, he started
gulping back his tears and forcing himself to smile. Before I had a chance to
probe, Drew was back with the drinks and the snacks and I could tell Rand didn’t
want me to say anything. I planned to follow up over the weekend, but somehow
the timing was never right. I so wish I had, Doctor.”

“Something
about what happened to Kristal,” I said. “Any idea what?”

“My
assumption was he needed to unload. Because he’d never really dealt with what
had happened. During our visits he had expressed some remorse. But maybe now
that he could see freedom on the horizon, he was getting to a place where he
could take a higher level of responsibility.”

“Such
as?”

“Integrating
his atonements into his consciousness. Perhaps by making proactive gestures.”

“I’m
not sure I follow.”

“I
know,” she said. “This must sound like gobbledygook to you. And I’m not sure I
understand it myself. I guess I can’t help but think there was
something
Rand
wanted to say that he hadn’t said before. Whatever it was, I’m
kicking
myself
for not prying it out of him.”

“Sounds
like you did more for him than anyone else did.”

“That’s
kind, Doctor, but the truth is, with all the other fosters, there are so many
demands on my attention. I should have reacted more . . .
affirmatively.”

“Are
you saying Rand’s guilt had something to do with his murder?”

“I
don’t know what I’m saying. To be honest, I’m feeling pretty foolish right now.
For bothering you.”

“No
bother,” I said. “What had Rand told you before?”

“At
first, he claimed he didn’t remember a thing. Maybe that was even true— you
know, repression. Even if it wasn’t, the psychodynamic would be the same,
right, Doctor? The enormity of his transgression was just too much for his soul
to bear, so he closed up and marshaled his defenses. Am I making sense?”

“Sure,”
I said.

“I
mean, it was all that boy could do just to get through each day. They claim
it’s a juvenile facility but it’s not that at all.”

“There
were old scars on Rand’s body,” I said.

“Oh,
I know.” Her voice broke. “I heard about each assault but was never allowed to
visit him when he was in the infirmary. When we got home he changed into fresh
clothes and I took the old ones to wash. When he slipped off his T-shirt, I had
a quick look at his back. I shouldn’t have been shocked, but it was hideous.”

“Tell
me about the assaults.”

“The
worst was when he was jumped by some gang members and stabbed several times for
no reason at all. Rand wasn’t a fighter, just the opposite. But did that stop
them?”

“How
seriously was he hurt?”

“He
ended up in the infirmary for over a month. Another time he was surprised from
behind and hit on the head while taking a shower. I’m sure there were other
incidents he didn’t talk about. He was a big strong boy, so he recovered.
Physically. After the stabbing, I complained to the warden but I might as well
have spit into the wind. The guards beat the inmates, too. Do you know what
they call themselves? Counselors. They’re hardly that.”

“Those
types of experiences could make someone jumpy,” I said.

“Of
course they could,” she said. “But Rand had adjusted, it wasn’t until his
release approached that the symptoms began. He was an amazing person, Doctor. I
don’t know if I could’ve coped with eight years of that place and not gone
crazy. If only I could’ve guided him better . . . One thing
about working with people, you constantly get reminded that only God is
perfect.”

“Did
you visit Troy as well?”

“Twice.
There wasn’t much time, was there?”

“Did
Troy ever express any guilt?”

Silence.
“Troy never got the chance to grow spiritually, Doctor. That child didn’t have
a chance in the world. Anyway, that’s what I wanted to tell you. Whether it’s
relevant, I don’t know.”

“I’ll
pass it along to Detective Sturgis.”

“Thanks . . .
one more thing, Dr. Delaware.”

“What’s
that?”

“Your
report on the boys. I never got a chance to tell you at the time, but I thought
you did a very fine job.”

* * *

Rick
Silverman answered at Milo’s house. “I’m out the door, Alex. Big Guy flew to
Sacramento a couple of hours ago.”

“Where’s
he’s staying?”

“Somewhere
in Stockton, near some youth prison. Got to run, car crash, multiple traumas.
I’m off-call but the hospital needs extra docs.”

“Go.”

“Nice
talking to you,” he said. “If you speak to him before I do, tell him I’ll
handle Maui.”

“Vacation
plans?”

“Allegedly.”

F
un.

A
woman’s body curled next to yours, inhaling her skin, her hair.

Cupping
your hand over the swell of hip, tracing the xylophone of ribs, the knob of
shoulder.

* * *

I
propped myself up and watched Allison sleep. Absorbed the rhythm of her
breathing and followed the slow fade of the flush that had spread across her
chest.

I got
out of bed, slipped on shorts and a T-shirt, and made my escape.

* * *

By
the time she wandered into the kitchen wearing my ratty yellow robe, I’d made
coffee and checked my service for messages and thought a lot about Cherish
Daney’s call.

Rand
wanting to talk about Kristal. Same thing he’d told me.

No,
that wasn’t quite right. He had mumbled and I’d raised the topic and he’d
agreed.

Opening
him up.

Allison
mumbled something that might’ve been “Hi.” Her gait was unsteady and her black
hair was loose and unruly in that nice way really thick hair can pull off. She
blinked a few times, struggled to keep her eyes open, made it over to the sink,
ran the tap and wet her face. Cinching the robe’s belt tight, she patted
herself dry with a paper towel, shook her head like a puppy.

Gaping
yawn. Her hand reached her mouth belatedly. “ ‘Scuse me.”

When
I took her in my arms she fell against me so heavily I wondered if she’d
dropped back to sleep. In heels, she’s no giant. Barefoot, she barely reaches
my shoulder. I kissed the top of her head. She patted my back, a curiously
platonic gesture.

I
steered her to a chair, filled a mug with coffee, put some ginger cookies on a
plate. She’d bought them weeks ago. They’d never been opened. I keep telling
myself to learn some serious cooking skills, but when I’m alone it’s whatever’s
easy to fix.

She
stared at the cookies as if they were some exotic curiosity. I placed one at
her lips and she nibbled, chewed with effort, swallowed with a gulp.

I got
some coffee in her and she smiled up at me woozily. “What time is it?”

“Two
p.m.”

“Oh . . .
where’d you go?”

“Just
here.”

“Couldn’t
sleep?”

“I
had a catnap.”

“I
passed out like a wino,” she said. “I don’t even know what time zone I’m
in . . .”

Her
eyes swung to the mug. “More? Thanks. Please.”

* * *

Half
an hour later, she was showered, made-up, hair combed flat down her back,
wearing a white linen shirt, black slacks, demi-boots with heels too thin to
support a chihuahua.

She
hadn’t eaten since tea with Grandma the previous afternoon and wondered aloud
about protein. The choice was mutual and easy: a steak house in Santa Monica
that we frequented when we needed quiet. Dry-aged beef, good bar. Also, the
place we’d first met.

The
air outside was a brutal seventy-five and we took her black Jaguar XJS because
it’s a convertible. I drove and she kept her eyes closed during the trip,
rested a hand on my thigh.

Glorious
day. I wondered about the weather in Stockton.

I’d
been there once, years ago, on a court-ordered evaluation. It’s a nice aggie
town east of Sacramento, in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley, with a river
port. That far inland, all those flat fields, it had to be hotter.

By
now, Milo would be sweating, probably cursing.

Thinking
about Maui?

The
case that had drawn me to Stockton was for Family Court. A recently divorced
Croatian taxi driver had absconded with his three children only to be picked up
three months later outside Delano, trying to rob a convenience store while
using the kids as lookouts. Sentenced to ten years, he settled himself in jail
and demanded joint custody and regular prison visits. The fact that the mother
was a meth addict who started riding with outlaw bikers gave his claim enough
substance to nudge the legal machinery.

I’d
done my best to protect the kids. A stupid judge had wreaked havoc with
that. . . .

Allison’s
hand left my knee and pressed against my cheek. “What’re you thinking about?”

Robin
had always hated hearing about the ugly stuff. Allison loves it. She carries a
little gun in her purse, but my impulse is always to shield her.

“Alex?”

“Yes?”

“It
wasn’t a trick question, dear.”

We
were a block from the restaurant. I started talking.

* * *

Brief
interruption as we ordered a T-bone for two and a bottle of French red.

She
said, “It sounds as if Mr. and Mrs. Daney don’t communicate that great.”

“Why
do you say that?”

“Mister
keeps a secret from Missus and tells you about Rand’s fear of being stalked,
the dark truck. All of which seems well founded, Rand
was
murdered. But
Missus minimizes that and points you in another direction.”

“She
really didn’t point me anywhere,” I said. “Mostly recited a bunch of
psychobabble.”

“Her
guilt about not ‘opening him up.’ She actually used those words?”