Within four weeks, the nighttime work led to daytime progress, with Ozzie appearing calmer. Within two months, the boy had mastered the art of deep breathing, picturing seven angels giving him seven hugs. Within three months, he could produce his own protection barrier and his parents began weaning him off his medication, working with the consent of Ozzie’s doctor, Lightfoot had assured them.
“Powerful, powerful soul,” Lightfoot had said with apparent awe. “It is a beautiful thing to watch such a soul find itself again.”
D.D. had brought up the subject of Ozzie murdering neighborhood squirrels.
“A learning opportunity,” Lightfoot had informed her. “No one heals overnight. For every step forward, there are steps backwards.”
She decided the man loved his one-liners. And she decided that overwhelmed, stressed-out mothers must devour his words hook, line, and sinker. A televangelist for the alternative-medicine set.
“I think Lightfoot believes in what he does,” D.D. told Alex. “And… I think his kind of charisma combined with his kind of looks is a pretty dangerous combo. Strong man. Weak parents. My bullshit meter hit an all-time high.”
Alex cut off another piece of fudge. “Why?”
“Are you kidding me? Interplanes, spiritual healings, angel hugs. These kids have violent impulses. They bludgeon fathers, shoot mothers, stab siblings. I think they might need more than deep-breathing exercises.”
“What’s the more?” Alex asked with a shrug. “Remember nurse Danielle from the psych ward? Modern medicine doesn’t know what to do with these kids either. Not enough available medicines, too many side effects. I don’t know. I’ve never meditated a day in my life, but if I had a kid going crazy and the docs told me they were out of options… Sure, I’d give Lightfoot a call. Meditating isn’t gonna hurt a child. Nor is vegetable broth or organic fruits or nighttime visits to the interplanes. You can’t blame the parents for trying.”
“Exactly the danger,” D.D. said flatly.
Alex regarded her steadily. “You don’t buy any of it? What about his spiel on negative and positive personalities? I gotta say, my Aunt Jeanine could drive the president of the Optimist Club to suicide. That woman’s the walking, talking personification of a downer. I can believe she’s sending negative energy out into the universe.”
“Big leap from naturally happy or sad people to nighttime surfing of the spiritual superhighway.”
“I think cops know woo-woo,” Alex continued. “At least the good ones.”
“Instinct is instinct, not woo-woo,” D.D. said.
“Ah no. A lot of people would argue instinct is exactly woo-woo.”
“And they would be wrong. Instinct is evolutionary in nature. Darwinism one-oh-one. Those who can pick out the bad guys first live longer. And eventually produce generations of fine policing talent.”
Alex leaned forward, wiped a spot of peanut butter from the corner of her mouth with his fingertip. “Shaman boy got to you,” he repeated.
“Oh, shut up,” D.D. snapped. But shaman boy had gotten to her. Because if getting in touch with one’s inner love child was the secret to happiness, then she was well and truly screwed.
“Let’s pretend to be cops,” she declared three minutes later. “We have, oh”-she glanced at her watch, “about four hours before the evening news broadcasts that a second family was murdered last night, making it two households in forty-eight hours. If we’re lucky, given the differences in geography and socioeconomics, the reporters will assume it’s a tragic coincidence, and run sidebars on getting better social services for stressed families during these tough economic times. If we’re not lucky, some talking head will link the crimes, declare a serial killer loose in the greater Boston area, and there will be a run on handguns, possibly leading to a spike in accidental shootings of small children. Would you care to place your bet?”
“I think that’s negative energy,” Alex told her.
“What can I tell you? I’m playing to my strengths.”
Alex opened his mouth, looked like he might refute that, but then closed it again. The moment came and went. D.D. wished she understood the interlude better, but she didn’t.
“Opportunity,” Alex said tersely, and wrapped up his remaining fudge. “Lightfoot worked with the Harrington family over the past year and was obviously trusted by them. If he knocked on the front door during dinner, they would’ve let him in.”
“But his work with them was mostly done. Ozzie had ‘made great strides,’ the whole family was ‘making better choices,’ succeeding in their ‘learning opportunities,’ and… what was that last thing?”
“‘Listening to their inner truths.’”
“Exactly. Nothing says ‘happy family’ like listening to your inner truths.” D.D. paused, pushed away half a grilled cheese but didn’t touch the fudge. “We should download Lightfoot’s photo from the Internet and take it to the neighbors. See if they agree he hadn’t been around in a while. After all, can’t forget AndrewLightfoot.com.”
“Can’t forget,” Alex agreed. “So he has opportunity. What about motivation?”
“Hell if I know. Pick your poison. Had an affair with the wife…”
“Can’t picture him and Denise.”
“Had an affair with the daughter.”
“Interesting.”
“Parents found out. Seducing underaged girls definitely not good PR for an enlightened being. Lightfoot has to do something about it and, knowing Ozzie’s history, goes with family annihilation.”
“Except he didn’t frame Ozzie. He framed Patrick.”
“All right. Lightfoot’s obviously a master manipulator…”
“‘Obviously’?”
D.D. ignored him. “So he went to work on Patrick. Here’s a father who’s financially stressed and emotionally strained. Troubled kid is a lot of work. House is a lot of work. Now he finds out his ‘good daughter’ is dirty dancing with the local healer. Patrick confronts Andrew. Andrew twists it all around and convinces Patrick that all the ‘negative energies’ are winning, and Patrick should give up the fight.”
“Drives the man into killing his entire family?”
“Why not? We close the case, Lifetime makes the movie, I finally get sex.” D.D. stopped. Probably shouldn’t have said that last part out loud.
“Does the sex part involve Lightfoot or me?” Alex asked.
“In that scenario, Lightfoot’s gone to prison, so it doesn’t involve him.”
“Perfect. Let’s make the arrest.”
“Only after you solve the next problem: the Laraquette-Solis crime scene.”
Alex nodded, serious again. “Lightfoot claimed not to know them, and I gotta say, I don’t see them as the shaman type.”
“Though they do know their herbs.” D.D. shrugged, trying out different scenarios in her mind, not making much progress. She started to pack up her fudge. “Grilled cheese?” she asked Alex, gesturing to the remaining half a sandwich. He considered the matter, then helped himself to a few bites. The gesture struck D.D. as intimate. Look at them, sitting forearm to forearm at this tiny little table in this cute little fudge shop in this gorgeous little town, sharing a sandwich.
She felt discomfited again. Torn between the life she had and the life she wished she had. Or, more accurately, torn between the person she was and the person she wished she could be.
“All set?” Alex asked after finishing the grilled cheese. D.D. nodded, and he graciously carried her tray to the trash. She replaced her fudge in the plastic bag, adding Alex’s box on top. They waved goodbye to the proprietor, then stepped out onto the sun-drenched street, having to pick their way through the throng of summer tourists.
“Next stop?” Alex asked, angling automatically toward the ocean. At the end of the street, they could just make out a slice of blue water. It was tempting to walk toward it.