"Then there's no reason for the gun."
"Does it make you nervous, Mr. Dwyer?"
"Of course it makes me nervous, Dr. Evans. You're an amateur. Amateurs terrify me."
He glanced down at the weapon in his hand as if it were a growth slowly eating its way up his arm. "I don't suppose I am very good at this sort of thing."
"No," I said, reaching out and gently taking the gun from his hand, "I don't suppose you are."
"I violated half the ethics I'm supposed to believe in."
"You want me to call you names?"
"Maybe I'd feel better if you did, Mr. Dwyer."
This was half an hour later. We sat in the breakfast nook. We were sipping some of his Wild Turkey again. The night sky was purple and starry. Jets rumbled in the gloom above like gods displeased.
"Tell me what happened."
"Drugs," he said. "I gave her drugs."
"How many times?"
"Twice."
I had some more whiskey and just stared at my fists.
"I–I thought it was the only way I could keep her." He shook his head as if it hurt to do so. "I'd never had to deal with anything like it before." He had some whiskey himself. "You know how I told you I rode around in Lincolns growing up?"
I nodded.
"Well, it was the same with women. Never any problem. My color rarely seemed to matter. I just naturally seemed to be attractive to women and I always took that for granted." More whiskey. A sigh half anger, half remorse. "I was a good lover. I know I was. I don't mean in bed necessarily, though even there I always tried to make sure that they had their satisfaction before I took mine." He waved a hand. "I mean I was a good lover in the sense that I tried to be as attentive and sensitive as possible. When things ended, it was always me who ended them, but even then I tried to make it as easy as possible. And it wasn't because I was bored, it was just-I knew there were more things I needed to learn from women. They're the great teachers, you know, women; the best ones are, at any rate."
I laughed. "It's true. But let's not let them know that."
He smiled. "I'm afraid some of them do." Then he went back to frowning. "I'd never had anybody treat me the way Karen did."
"As good and as bad."
"Exactly."
"But it's the bad things you remember, isn't it?"
"That's what's so odd. I know we must have had hundreds of good times-but now I can barely remember any of them."
I was just letting him talk, easing him into his confession. He was eager to give it and I was eager to hear it. We both just kind of had to be in the right emotional spot. I poured him more whiskey.
He said, "For two decades I've been telling men and women alike that the idea of sexual enslavement is largely a myth. Now I know better."
I said, "You must have been getting pretty desperate when you started with the Pentothal."
He surprised me by laughing. "In other words, you want me to tell you what I found out."
I shrugged. "There's no easy way to say this, Doctor, but it's not a case of you violating your ethics because you didn't have any ethics to begin with."
"I wish I could get indignant and argue with you."
"So what did you learn?"
"Nothing."
"What?"
"Contrary to popular belief, drugs don't always dislodge memories, at least not the kind I could give Karen without her being aware of them. If I could have strapped her down to an electro-shock table and given her Pentothal. . but I had to do this on the sly, of course, over the course of long weekends up here."
"And you didn't find out anything at all?"
"I found out only one thing for sure." He hesitated.
"Yes?"
"The odd thing is, I still feel very protective of her. Even after all she put me through."
I poured more whiskey.
"Go ahead," I said.
"She may have killed somebody."
I did a double take Jackie Gleason would have been proud of.
He nodded. "The boy's name was Sonny Howard."
"Christ."
"Something happened the summer of her senior year. She had repressed it to the point that she couldn't talk about it even under the influence of the drugs. But she did begin talking about this Sonny Howard, and then she just broke down, sobbing and saying 'I killed Sonny, I killed Sonny' over and over again. I had to use a different drug to calm her down."
"You mind if I open this?" '
"What's wrong?"
"I'm getting claustrophobic."
So I leaned over and opened the window and smelled the fresh pine and listened to birds and crickets and dogs. Evans started to say something, but I waved off his words.
"It getting to you?" he said after a time.
"You really think she could have killed somebody?"
He did not hesitate. "Yes."
"And you think she really might have killed Sonny Howard?"
"Yes."
"It would explain a lot, wouldn't it?"
"It would indeed, Mr. Dwyer. Her inability to make a commitment of any kind, her living in a sort of soap-opera fantasy world half the time, the sense she always gave you of somehow being afraid of virtually everything."
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. I was beginning to realize there was one person I needed to talk to. The woman on the black Honda motorcycle.
"You're leaving?"
I was on my feet. I put out my hand.
"Are you going to report this?" he asked.
"Don't see any reason to."
"I'm a good doctor, Mr. Dwyer. Despite the way I behaved."
"I guess I'm going to have to take your word for that, aren't I?"
He tried to smile. It wasn't especially convincing. "Yes," he said, "yes, I guess you are."
Chapter 25
The aerobics class was going on — women in expensive exercise suits doing boot-camp jumping jacks now-but the Honda was not in the parking lot to the left of the shopper.
The disco music was overpowering when I walked inside. I moved along the right-hand corridor, trying to keep my eyes from all the breasts and thighs and buttocks my gaze gravitated to so naturally. The women were as curious about me as I was about them. A few even smiled in my direction, not in the inviting way women do at private investigators in books, but just because this was a female domain and there was something vaguely naughty about my being there and that made them curious.
The west wall was all mirrors to make the place look bigger; the carpet was cheap indoor-outdoor stuff hopelessly worn; the stereo speakers could have sufficed at Yankee stadium. (At least the owners had great taste in music, the Crusaders working their asses off on a killer number called "Sometimes You Can Take It or Leave It," the pure unremitting jazz of it as exhilarating as any exercise you could do.) The place smelled of perfume and sweat. Lined up along the back were a rowing machine, a ballet bar, a stationary bicycle, and a Coke machine where, with two quarters, you could put back all the calories you'd worked off.
On the other side of a glass wall, a chunky woman with a bad red dye job and arms as thick as a fullback's sat working over books. Occasionally she poked a fat finger at a calculator so hard you wondered if she had something against it.
I knocked on the window. When she glanced up and saw me, she did not look happy.
I pantomimed Can I Come In, the music too loud for me to be heard otherwise.
She didn't pantomime. She just made a face.
I went over to the door and opened it up and went inside.
She said, "We don't get a lot of men here."
"So I see."
She picked up a package of Winston Lights, tamped one out, got it going, exhaled a long blue stream of smoke, and said, "So how can I help you?" She looked like Ethel Merman with a bad hangover. Her nametag said HI, I'M IRENE.
"There's a woman who works here."
The flesh around her eyes grew tight and her mouth got unpleasant again. "Yeah. So?"