‘What makes nowso different to before?’
‘Because however much the evidence against Durrant appears overwhelming, what happened with me and now Dr Thallerey convinces me of one thing: there’s something crucial I’m missing, something these people are keen for me not to find out. If only I could discover what?’
Alaysha shook her head. ‘But it’s not just what, Jac, you have no idea who— who is trying to kill you?’
‘True. That would certainly help. Know thy enemy. I’ll make a note to ask them when they next make contact.’ Then held one hand up in apology as he became more serious. ‘I know what you’re saying, Alaysha. But, like I said, it would be wrong to give up on Durrant right now. Just when I’ve seen the first strong sign that he might be innocent.’
Alaysha looked at him levelly, sombrely. ‘Even though it might end up costing you your life, Jac?’
Jac could see the brewing storm-clouds in her eyes, weighted emotions struggling for balance: one part of her admiring what he was doing in trying to save Durrant’s life, the other questioning the terrible risk he was taking. He couldn’t tell which one held sway.
‘I know. I know.’ Jac closed his eyes for a second in submission, as if accepting some of that weight and concern. She’d already almost lost him once; understandable that she wouldn’t want to go through that again. ‘But hopefully this little ploy of Bob Stratton’s will take their eye off of me, take most of the heat and danger away.’
As Alaysha looked down for a second in muted acceptance, she noticed that her hands were trembling. All this talk of danger and lives threatened had got to her; though not just because of Jac’s plight. She’d read the small entry in the Times-Picayunejust the day before: he was noted only as ‘missing’, but now with his family receiving no contact for two weeks, the police were beginning to fear the worst. Her mind had gone into a white-hot spin, wondering when the knock might come at her own door and she’d be next to go ‘missing’. Butterflies of unease writhed in her stomach, made her feel queasy. She gripped her hand tighter on her wine glass to kill the trembling as she raised it and looked up again at Jac.
‘Hopefully,’ she said, and took another sip.
But Jac could see that his attempt at reassurance had done little to shift her concern. The storm-clouds still lingered in her eyes.
‘So, Gary did more lines this week. How many?’
‘Three.’
‘And did you show your parents?’
‘Not at first. But I think they… they kinda guessed. So in the end I did show them what he did.’
‘And were they upset?’
‘A little, sure. But at least now they don’t blame me any more. They seem to accept that it’s Gary doing them — not me.’
Truelle nodded pensively. One of his most intriguing cases. Fourteen-year-old boy, Brad Fieschek, recommended by Social Services due to self-mutilation. Discovered by his parents three months back, although it had probably being going on for some time before that, the marks were thin knife or razor cuts on his arms and sometimes wrists. ‘Lines’, had quickly become his comfort-zone term for them, Truelle discovered; possibly to soften the impact in his mind, because some of the cuts had been so deep that when made on his wrists his parents were convinced that it was a suicide attempt.
But from there, the case became deeper and darker still, because Brad claimed a secondary character, Gary, was making the ‘lines’. Perhaps again to push away what was happening to him — but the worry now was that schizophrenia was developing. And that this secondary character might become increasingly violent: the self-mutilation would get worse.
It was a case that required all of his attention, all his skills; and so he should have known better than to schedule his meeting with Jac McElroy for earlier that day.
Truelle noticed his hand starting to shake again, and pressed his pen firmer on his pad to steady it.
He’d broken the golden rule when — with the excuse to his secretary that he was grabbing a coffee from the deli — he’d had a quick shot of bourbon before his appointment with McElroy. It steadied his hands slightly, but he kept them clasped as much as possible during the meeting to mask any remaining tell-tale signs.
He popped back a few peppermints to kill any smell on his breath, then sprayed himself with some cologne from his office cabinet just to make sure.
But the shaking in his hands was back after talking to McElroy, with a vengeance.
Phones bugged, an attempt on McElroy’s life, Jessica Roche’s obstetrician killed…
He managed somehow to brave it through the one remaining patient session before lunch, then dived out to the nearest bar. What he’d intended as just one more shot quickly became two, then three. The bourbon did little to quell his churning thoughts, but at least took most of the tremble out of his hands.
He looked at them again now: still not too heavy a tremble, not too noticeable. He focused past them to his notepad and took a fresh breath.
‘And, as I suggested last time — have you asked Gary to stop?’
‘No. No, I haven’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because… because, I’m afraid.’ Brad’s eyes flickered uncertainly. ‘I’m afraid that’ll make him angry, will just make it worse. He’ll give me more lines.’
Looked like he’d taken out those phone bugs and changed his insurance policies just in time. If he hadn’t, he’d have probably gone the same way as Thallerey by now…
‘I can understand that. But you know — as we also discussed last time — if you don’t confront Gary, he’ll just become bolder. It could become worse anyway.’
‘I know. But, like I said — I’m afraid. I just don’t know what to do.’
Confront them? Know what to do? Afraid.
Truelle’s hands were starting to shake harder. He clenched them tightly. Maybe it should be him laying on the couch. Maybe he could get one of his old colleagues from New York to pull him apart, guide him through what to do. Pull him apart before he fell apart.
He swallowed, took a fresh breath. ‘But sometimes, Brad, however hard it might seem at the time — we have to confront our worst fears.’
‘I know.’
‘Otherwise they just become stronger.’
‘I know, Doc… I know.’ Brad biting at his bottom lip, close to tears. ‘But sometimes it’s difficult.’
‘I know.’ Truelle in that moment feeling as if he wanted to join Brad in bursting into tears. He dabbed at some sweat beads on his forehead with the back of one hand. ‘And, uh… have you been able to find out why Gary is doing this? Why he’s giving you the lines?’
Brad looked quizzically at Truelle, his eyebrows furrowing. ‘Yes. We discussed that at my last session.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Truelle covered quickly, reminding himself. ‘What I meant was — have you been able to probe more about that with Gary? You were never really satisfied with what he said — because you thought that you werepleasing your parents with what you did.’
‘I could try, but I don’t think he’d tell me. It’s like… like his little secret, his main hold over me, knowing better than me what might please my parents…’
Truelle knew that he should have stopped the session there. He was far too distracted.