Salter, Anna C (22 page)

The phone rang around eleven. I was already in bed and not inclined to answer it, but when I heard Adam's voice on the answering machine I changed my mind. Adam said Camille was freaking out—screaming again —and Jonathan was absolutely positive no one else was in the house. He didn't tell me how Jonathan knew for sure no one had been hiding in there before he got there, but my guess was he had taken a look around while Camille was in therapy.

In any case, Jonathan insisted no one had entered since he got there, and —however he knew—he was sure no one was in there already—so there was no way around the conclusion that this time, anyway, whatever was going on was in Camille's head.

I agreed to drive in. I didn't really want to, and I didn't usually do that kind of thing. If I came in every time Camille got upset, I might as well pull up a camper on her lawn, but I could hardly say no. Small town police forces don't have enough people to do a twenty-four-hour stake-out, and I knew what a drain it was on Adam's resources to do this. So when he asked for help, I just said, "On my way."

But why? I wondered on the way in. Adam had seen lots of people upset and freaking out. Why was he dragging me in? I picked up the car phone and called him. I was getting used to the damn car phone. Worse, I was getting dependent on it, which, of course, was the problem with owning. You don't really own anything; things own you.

He picked it up on the first ring. "Adam," I said, "I'm on my way in, and I don't want you to misunderstand this. I don't mind going in, but I am curious why you thought it was important for me to see her tonight."

He didn't hesitate. "Somebody has to check out the screaming. Jonathan was concerned enough that he called me at home. He says it sounds completely out-of-control, and, already, the station is getting calls from the neighbors.

"Jonathan thinks nobody else could have gotten in there, but the whole thing is bothering him enough that he wants to go in and check it out, anyway. I think he's concerned she's going to hang herself, or maybe that damn dog we ran into last time is going to shoot her while Jonathan's standing outside twiddling his thumbs.

"I told him to hold off. You know a strange man can't just show up at her door, and there's no point in my going: She's never even met me. You're the only one she knows."

"Not a problem," I said. I couldn't argue with his thinking. One of Adam's strengths was that he thought things through under pressure. He didn't just rush in like some people I knew. "I'll go see what's going on."

Ten to one Camille was just horribly upset. In suicide assessment you always have to figure out the difference in "perturbation" and "lethality." Some of the people who are the most upset aren't always serious about dying, and some of the people who are serious about dying are deadly calm. But Jonathan didn't know Camille well enough to read her. And if they didn't check it out and something happened, everybody involved would be traumatized. Not to mention that Camille might be dead.

I pulled into her driveway and rolled down the window. I couldn't hear anything. The yelling had stopped. That doesn't mean anything, I reminded myself. It stopped last time too, and Camille was sitting in the house popping Haldol and still insisting she heard the perp. But silence is creepier than noise, and I found my heartbeat quickening. There was always the chance someone like Camille would hang herself or something, and the thought that I could be the one to find her unnerved the hell out of me.

I got out of the car and stared at the house. The lights were on, and there was no sign anything was wrong. Keeter wasn't barking. But that didn't mean anything. She had been trained to stay silent and ambush an intruder. Remind me, I thought one more time, not to crowd this dog.

I looked toward the park. No sign of Jonathan. Well, he was out there somewhere, but it looked like I wasn't going to get a welcoming committee.

I walked up to the doorway and knocked, but I didn't wait for a reply. "Camille," I said. "It's Michael. Are you all right?" How many times was I going to walk up to her silent house after a report of screaming? But even if it was a thousand, I'd bet each and every time I'd still be afraid something really bad had happened to her.

"Michael," a faint voice answered very close to the door. I let my breath out. Whatever was going on, she was definitely alive.

"Could you open the door, Camille?" I asked. "It really is me, and I'm alone."

Camille opened the door a crack and peered out. Then she closed it and pulled the chain off. She opened it wide, and I walked in. I immediately looked for Keeter. There she was, crouched on the floor, ready to spring. She didn't look that much friendlier than last time.

"Uh, do you think you could do something about Keeter?" I asked. Camille glanced at her and then made a hand signal. Keeter reluctantly got up and walked over to her, but she kept her eye on me the whole time.

"He was here," Camille whispered. She looked like she was barely able to hold it together. Her pupils were dilated, and her eyes were open so wide I could almost see the whites all the way around. Uh-oh. It was beginning to look like paranoia after all. The only times I had ever seen the whites all around the eyes was in paranoids.

"Camille," I said. "Let's sit down and talk about it."

She took me to the living room, and I sat down, but Camille didn't. She was so agitated she couldn't. She rocked back and forth from one foot to the other. She looked like she might start pacing.

"How do you know he was here?" I asked.

"I heard him." She was still whispering. "He said he was coming for me soon. He said I'd die this time. He said . . . he . . ."

"Whoa, Camille, I know you thought he was here, but it couldn't have been real. There's a police officer outside named Jonathan, and he's been here all afternoon. He says no one could have gotten in. Do you want to talk to him?"

"No," she said quickly. "He's outside?" She went to the window and looked through the blinds. I had the bad feeling she was getting Jonathan and her attacker confused.

"Camille," I said. "The police are outside. The perp isn't."

"I know," she said turning around and looking all around the room. "He's here." Even though I knew he wasn't, the hair started to stand up on the back of my neck.

"Your mind is playing tricks on you," I said firmly. "He can't be here."

"He never comes out when you're here," she said. "He always waits. Will you stay? Please?"

"I can only stay for a while," I said. Oh, Jesus, what were the ethics of this? I was not only at a client's house involved in her private life, I couldn't get out.

"Please, Michael. Please don't leave me alone with him. Please don't." She had turned to face me, and her voice slid into pleading as she spoke.

It was painful to hear her beg, but the fear was so strong I doubt she even noticed she was begging. What, I wondered again, were the ethics of staying? On the other hand, what were the ethics of leaving?

"I would be all right," she said, "if you stayed—just for tonight. I could maybe even sleep. ... I can't sleep here alone. ..." Her voice trailed off.

What were my options? I could hospitalize her. I had no doubt they'd admit her in her present state, but where would that lead? Nowhere. She'd end up owing a ton of money to the hospital. We'd have another six-hour fight over Keeter, and Camille would be out tomorrow.

She had no friends or family I could call. It was too late to find a private duty nurse. There were no volunteer organizations I could think of to call, plus I wouldn't put a volunteer in with someone who might be paranoid. Paranoids are not too stable.

On the other hand, staying at a client's house is so unethical they hadn't bothered to put it in the code of ethics. It is one of those "duh" items. But what choice did I have? She wouldn't make it through the night alone in this state. And she wasn't Ginger. I didn't think she'd start manipulating around this.

"All right. I'll stay tonight," I said carefully. "I will sleep on the couch and leave early in the morning. And tomorrow we will make arrangements for a private nurse to stay with you — agreed?" Camille nodded vigorously. But then if I'd said, "I'll stay if you'll jump out of a ten-story window tomorrow," she'd also have agreed.

"Camille, you really need to understand this. I will not do this again."

"I know," she said. "I won't ask." And I believed her.

I sighed. I did not want to be there. I wanted to be home. I needed some time away from the world each and every day. Not to mention that I was acutely uncomfortable spending the night in a client's house. But there was no point in bitching, I was stuck.

I called Adam to tell him. He was apologetic for putting me in that position. I had my own apologies to make. It was beginning to look like the perp was in Camille's head after all.

I went out to the car and took off my fanny pack and locked it in the trunk. I'd been carrying it nonstop lately, but I wasn't going to go to sleep in Camille's house and leave a loaded gun lying around. The risks of a loaded gun around Camille outweighed the benefits. I didn't even want to think how I'd feel if she killed herself with my gun. Not to mention that if she got ahold of it in the night and had a major flashback, she could just as easily decide I was the perp and shoot me.

I got my travel bag and went back in. I found my toothbrush and my nightshirt, but decided I'd sleep in my clothes. It was bad enough to be in a client's house; I was not going to run around in my pj's. I spread out the blankets Camille provided on the couch.

My one fear was that Camille was so wired she would stay awake all night and keep me up. Once the nervous system goes on red alert like hers had, it doesn't usually settle down very fast. But after Camille knew I was staying, she started losing steam.

Her energy drained quickly, and she got rid of all of her agitation. Once she let go of the fear-energy, there didn't seem to be anything else holding her up. I told her firmly to go to bed —and take Keeter with her. I'd be in the living room on the couch, and I promised not to go anywhere.

Camille insisted on leaving the door open to her room, which I wasn't too happy about. I had fantasies of waking up and finding I was nose to nose with a snarling Rottweiler. It would have been nice if the couch had had a top bunk.

It didn't take long before I was drifting off. I wondered sleepily if Adam had called off Jonathan. If this one was in Camille's head, probably the other ones were too. Everything seemed turned upside down lately. I was trying to protect myself from Willy, but I had almost shot a client instead, and I'd yet to see Willy, who was hovering out there somewhere in Never-Never Land. I was sleeping at a client's house; try to explain that to Ginger who —dear God —I hoped wouldn't drive by. Marv and I had punched holes the size of golf balls in our friendship. How easy would it be to repair that? In the meantime, the only way I could get near Adam was to bring him a police problem. I didn't want Adam in his police uniform; I wanted him out of it.

I could start with the top buttons. One at a time. As the buttons opened I could run my fingers through the soft, curly hair on his chest. Somewhere around that taut stomach I'd run out of hair—briefly. As I kept going lower his breathing would change. I loved the way it deepened as his . . . interest . . . grew. I was smiling as I drifted off.

I was dreaming that I was facing ethics charges in the World Court in the Hague. The prosecutor was walking toward me when suddenly, he turned into Willy. He got very close to me and started whispering, almost hissing, in my face.

I woke in the dark, disoriented and confused with my heart rate doing 80 miles an hour. It took me a minute to realize where I was. It took me another minute to get the dream out of my head. I could still hear him whispering and another sound too, a sort of whimpering.

I couldn't get the whispering to stop. Jesus, what a dream. I sat up and looked around. And then I stopped breathing. I was wide awake, and I could still hear a man whispering, almost hissing. The whimpering was Camille.

I hit the deck and crawled around behind the couch while I tried to figure things out. I was wide awake now, but still confused. At first I couldn't even tell where the voice was coming from—and I couldn't begin to figure out how he had gotten in, with Keeter on the inside and Jonathan on the outside. Maybe Jonathan had left after I called Adam.

I tried to remember where I'd put my fanny pack and realized I had left it in the car. Great. I'd been carrying my gun to the bathroom lately, but I hadn't brought it into Camille's house.

Where was the goddamn phone? I had used it once. I remembered it was cordless. So where had I put it? I couldn't remember. The room was dark now, and nothing looked familiar. Oh, shit. I had handed the phone back to Camille. I didn't have a clue where it was, and I couldn't see Jack shit.

I could yell. If Jonathan was still outside, he'd hear me. But if the perp was in here, Jonathan probably wasn't out there. And what a chance to take. If Jonathan wasn't outside, calling him might turn out badly. Jesus, the perp had probably walked right by me while I was asleep. Had he seen me? Did he know I was here? If not, where did he think that car came from?

Keeter, you bitch. Go after the bastard. She must know him. That has to be it. I stopped and listened again. I could try to make it to the car and get the car phone, but I didn't even remember if it would work without the car being turned on, and I'd have to leave Camille alone.

First, I had to find out where he was. I started crawling toward Camille's room. The sound was coming from in there. I crawled forward expecting any minute to find a gun the size of a canon pointed at my head, but the voice just kept going. What was he saying? I was close enough to hear, and I dropped down to listen.

"Ah, your clitoris —what a juicy little morsel. I'll give you a choice. A lighted cigarette? A scalpel? That might be best for you. Once I cut it off, it won't hurt anymore. Except, of course for the gaping wound. Maybe pliers. But I'd like to save those for your nipples. You'll have to choose which instrument. If you don't choose, I'll just cut off your fingers, one joint at a time, until you change your mind."