The Dirty Secrets Club (22 page)

Scott Southern belonged to the Dirty Secrets Club.

What was his secret? What gave the stringy man named Skunk such power over him? What caused such desolation, and such determination to end things?

To
stop it.

She chalked her hands and started again. Got off the ground, pressed herself to the rock, crept one arm up, and secured her fingers in a seam of stone. Pulled up and dyno'd, throwing her body dynamically upward, and this time she grabbed the wedge and stuck the hold.

Skunk was seemingly eating his way through the Dirty Secrets Club. First Dr. David Yoshida overdosed on pills, two days after his son died. Then Maki Prichingo killed his lover and put a shotgun under his own chin. Callie Harding drove off the Stockton Street Bridge. High flyers, every one. Linked by the freakish clique they belonged to, the glamour snake pit called the DSC.

She hung tight to the cold face of the rock, bending herself to its shape.
Use your legs so you don't wear yourself out five feet off the ground
—she heard herself laughing as she said it to Danny, the first time they went climbing. She blew out a breath, assured herself of her foothold, and pressed up. Grabbed the hammerhead of rock where the boulder began to flatten.

The Dirty Secrets Club was being wiped out one member at a time. And at an accelerating pace. But club members weren't being murdered. Somebody was twisting them into killing themselves.

With a hard lunge, she wedged herself upward and scrambled onto the top of the boulder.

She sat down. Her arms and legs were burning. Her heart was going like a racehorse. She felt pumped.

Skunk—and maybe somebody else—was convincing them to kill themselves. That meant he was confronting them with a choice so painful that they found death the lesser evil.

What was that choice? To find out, she needed to talk to the woman who had survived Callie's death plunge. Geli Meyer knew what had sent Callie over the edge. But Geli Meyer was as still and silent as these rocks. Jo sat atop the boulder and watched the evening star light up in the west.

What was worse to these people than death?

J
o parked the truck a block down the hill from her house. The

sun was a blood-orange in the western sky, gilding the Monterey pines in the park. The trees looked fire-lit. She hiked up the sidewalk, sorting through her keys. Hot tea, a hot shower, a bowl of udon noodles—that's what she needed, and now. She just had time to get ready before heading to UCSF to run the bereavement group session. Then Tina was picking her up, for their girls' night out. It had better be a doozy.

Lights glimmered from houses along the street. The dying sun reflected from apartment windows. She saw—late—that Ferd Bismuth's shades were up, his rent-a-mansion circus-bright. His front door swung open and he jogged outside, waving.

"Jo, come see."

Her last nerve had been fried several hours earlier. "Ferd, I'm sorry, I can't right now."

He pushed the door open wide. "I got that prescription."

What was he talking about? Come see his prescription—was it a dancing pill dispenser? He tilted his head and smiled as though Glinda the Good Witch had just told him how to get home again.

He was practically stamping with excitement. "You'll never guess."

He was right, she wouldn't. He had an allergist, an acupuncturist and an antiaging specialist, and those were just the As. Was it a

dehumidifier? A mobility cart? An electric mattress that contorted to keep his deviated septum elevated while he slept?

"I hope it's helpful," she said.

He stood in front of the doorway. Despite herself she stopped and peered past him into the dim hall. Something skittered in the shadows. She inhaled.

"Ferd, what..."

Grinning, he turned to the door. "Mr. Peebles? Come on out."

The shadows spidered again. She took a step back.

In the doorway two eyes appeared. The creature was small and twitchy, black with a white face and chest, and it clung with tiny hands to the doorjamb.

Jo heard the incredulity in her voice. "Ferd, you got a prescription monkey?"

"A capuchin." Ferd beckoned to it. "Mr. Peebles. Come say hello."

At the sound of his name the monkey jerked his head upward. He cringed farther back in the doorway.

"Mr. Peebles, that's impolite. Come here," Ferd said.

He spoke to it as he would to a small child. A small disobedient child who was fussing with electronic gadgets at the computer store where he worked.

He gestured to Jo. "This is my friend Johanna. She's a doctor. A
psychiatrist.''''
He pronounced it slowly. "So you'd better behave in front of her, or she might send you to the booby hatch."

"Ferd, please." She walked up the steps to his porch. "What's he doing here?"

"He's my service animal."

Oh, God. "A health-care professional prescribed him for you?"

"My hypnotherapist."

She rubbed her forehead. "Why?"

"He's my emotional-support companion. To soothe me when I feel panicky. It's been medically proven that animals calm the nerves."

"I know. But..."

"Isn't he wonderful?" He leaned over and clucked at the creature. "Come here, fella."

The monkey cowered, its little face screwed with suspicion.

Ferd bent and picked it up. "Okay. Take your time."

It grabbed the collar of his shirt and crouched on his arm, looking around frantically, as though expecting an attack from flying bats.

"This is much healthier than drugs or therapy. And a real time-saver— he can do all sorts of things for me." Again Ferd adopted the stern parent voice. "Mr. Peebles, get me my iPod."

The monkey crouched down and scratched its backside.

"That's okay. Mr. Peebles, give me a hug."

The monkey's eyes darted around as if the hallucinatory bats were dive-bombing it. Then it settled its hot stare on Jo. It pursed its tiny lips.

Her neighbor beamed. "He's like a little Ferd."

Jo swallowed. "Dude, if this thing is your id, I'm seeing more than any therapist ever wants to know."

"He'll keep me on an even keel. No more panic attacks at restaurants or on the Bay Bridge."

Jo knew that emotional-support animals could genuinely help people. But the thought of this critter flinging food in a restaurant, much less loose in Ferd's car at sixty miles per hour, made her woozy.

"Get him a booster seat," she said. "With five-point restraints."

Mr. Peebles stared at her with black eyes. He bared his teeth and shrieked.

She walked along the sidewalk toward her house. Right outside, parking space
numero uno
was taken by a black Toyota 4Runner. As she approached, the driver's door opened. Gabe Quintana got out.

She couldn't believe the way the sunset seemed to flare at the sight of him walking toward her. She put her hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt. The dome light was on in the 4Runner. She saw a little girl sitting in the front passenger seat.

"Hey," she said.

Gabe sauntered up. "You forgot these."

He had the notebook and pen she had left at the taqueria, and a paper plate covered with aluminum foil. Her lunch.

She took them. "Thank you, Sergeant."

"What did I tell you about that?"

"Yeah, you're a rebel. Bringing me my meals." She smiled. "Rebel all you want. I like it. What happens if I snap my fingers?"

"You want to find out?"

His smile was slow and knowing, and made her blink with heat. She looked down, embarrassed. His face turned wry.

"Sophie and I are on our way to grab a bite before I drop her off. It's her mom's night."

Jo looked at the car. Sophie was singing to herself and playing with a doll.

"When did Bratz take over the world?" Jo said.

"Her mom bought her a complete set. Yasmin, Jade, Pouty, and Gimme."

"I should sell anti-Bratz accessories to irate parents. Say, a small acetylene torch."

"Naw, I don't sweat the small stuff."

"You mean you'd go for the doll factory."

"C-4 would do it." He was grinning now. "Come with us?"

In the evening light he looked flat-out handsome. Not in any Hollywood way—he wasn't pretty, not even close. His smile was crooked. His eyes were dark and watching her. Under his gaze, she felt as though she'd stepped into an electrically charged field.

It confounded her. She stepped back. When she spoke, her voice sounded distant.

"Sorry, I can't. I have a meeting at UCSE But can I meet Sophie?"

"Sure." If he was disappointed, he brushed it off. He waved to his daughter. "Come here, cricket."

Sophie Quintana hopped out of the 4Runner and came over. She held her Bratz doll like it was Supergirl. It flew alongside her, hair flopping, a sulky demiheroine.

"This is Jo," Gabe said.

"Hi, Sophie."

Sophie had a shy smile and Gabe's brown eyes. They were deep and bright, and held more cares than Jo wanted to see in a kid. She was wearing a Disney Princess-medley T-shirt. Snow White, Ariel, Jasmine.

"Thanks for bringing me my stuff," Jo said.

"Sure." Sophie leaned against Gabe's side, holding the Super-Bratz close to her chest.

Jo's phone rang. She excused herself to answer it, waving goodbye to Sophie as Gabe ushered her back to the car. Her heartbeat was rushing in her ears.

Amy Tang brought her back to earth.

"Get up to Marin. They found him."

The coast guard cutter was tied up alongside the pier at Fort Baker. The water on the inlet was violet in the setting sun. The Golden Gate Bridge loomed above, its towers vividly lit. Across the bay, the city sparkled with light. Jo walked toward the dock. Gabe was three feet behind her.

An investigator from the Marin County coroner's office was waiting. He stubbed out his cigarette and extended his hand. "Walt Czerny."

"Jo Beckett. This is Gabe Quintana from the 129th Rescue Wing."

Czerny nodded toward the water. "This way."

His voice was heavy with resignation. Jo's spirits slid a little deeper. Sotto voce she said to Gabe, "Thanks again."

He had insisted on accompanying her. The moment she said, "Bad news," he told her she shouldn't go alone. They'd dropped Sophie at her mom's apartment. Jo had found a substitute to lead the bereavement group and canceled her girls' night with Tina. Now that they were here, she realized how grateful she felt for his presence. She'd had enough of broken bodies in the past twenty-four hours, and a fresh dose of raw death was waiting at the end of the dock.

"I've got your six," Gabe said. He was backing her up.

She walked with the investigator toward the boat. "ID?"

"Driver's license. Scott Grayson Southern."

The coast guard had found the body floating faceup in the open ocean. The Marin coroner's office had called SFPD when they saw a San Francisco address on the license. Amy Tang had then called her.

"Have you notified next of kin?" Jo said.

"SFPD is doing it now."

"They'd better hurry. A dozen people saw him jump. Somebody's going to call the media." If they hadn't already.

The cutter rocked on the water. Near it, on the wooden dock in a long plastic tray, the body lay covered with a yellow tarp. Czerny crouched beside the tray, took hold of the tarp, and looked up at Jo.

"Ready?"

She nodded. He pulled the tarp aside.

Though she'd prepared herself, her diaphragm still caught.
Multiple blunt force trauma.
The coroner would write it on the death certificate.
Existential despair
wouldn't be listed. But that's what had turned Scott Southern into this broken thing. His polo shirt was rucked up under his armpits. His jeans were shredded, his shoes and socks ripped off. His eyes were open and clouded.

The pain, the stupidity, the blind thoughtlessness all came to her in one sweep. What had convinced this young man that death was his way out?

She knew the lure. In the weeks after Daniel died, the truth had cascaded down on her—that she couldn't bring him back and couldn't vanquish the grief. She felt his loss like a steel spike driven clean through her, and had ached for something to
make it stop.

Death: the instant, permanent cure.

She looked at Scott Southern with sadness. He hadn't found a way to shoulder the weight.

People who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge would never step in front of an eighteen-wheeler on the Bayshore Freeway. They chose the bridge for its lethal beauty, for the romance and drama of the exit, and because they believed the lies peddled by suicide Web sites—that death off the bridge was gentle and painless.

But hitting the water at seventy-five miles per hour has exactly the same effect as being smashed by a big rig. Jumpers don't slip quietly beneath the surface. The impact crushes their sternum and can tear the heart away from the aorta. It shatters their ribs, which pierce their lungs and liver. If they struggle for the surface, as most do, they find their pelvis and femurs broken, or their neck. Many are seen flailing on the water, trying too late to live. They drown in seawater or their own blood.