The Door To December

'I suppose so. I don't know how much something like that costs, but I'm not poor. If you think it'll be for only a few days—'

'I have a hunch this one's going to unravel fast. All this killing, all the chances someone's been taking — it indicates they're under a lot of pressure, that there's a time limit of some kind. I haven't the faintest goddamned idea what they've been doing to your kid or why they're so desperate to get their hands on her again, but I sense this situation's like a giant snowball, rolling fast down a mountain, fast as an express train, getting bigger and bigger as it goes. Right now, already, it's real big, gigantic, and it's not far from the bottom of the mountain. When it finally hits, it's going to bust into hundreds of pieces.'

As a pediatric psychiatrist, Laura was self-confident, never uncertain as to how she should proceed with a new patient. Of course she deliberated before choosing a course of therapy, but once she had decided on her approach, she implemented it without hesitation. She was a successful healer, a mender, a repairman of the psyche, and her success had given her the confidence and authority that generated more success. But now she was lost. She felt small, vulnerable, powerless. That was a feeling that she hadn't known for a few years, not since she had learned to accept Melanie's disappearance.

She said, 'I… I don't even know how you… how a person goes about finding bodyguards.'

Haldane pulled out his wallet, fished in it, withdrew a card. 'Most of the private investigators you sent after Dylan, years ago, probably also offer bodyguard service. We're not supposed to make recommendations. But I know these guys are good, and their rates are competitive.'

She took the card, looked at it:

CALIFORNIA PALADIN, INC.

PRIVATE INVESTIGATION

Personal Security

A phone number was provided at the bottom.

Laura tucked the card in her purse. 'Thanks.'

'Call them before you leave the hospital.'

'I will.'

'Have them send a man here. He can follow you home.'

She felt numb. 'All right.' She turned toward the hospital doors.

'Wait.' He handed her another card, his own. 'The printed number on the front is my line at Central, but you won't be able to get me there. I'm on assignment to the East Valley Division right now, so I've written that number on the back. I want you to call me if anything occurs to you, anything about Dylan's past or old research that might have a bearing on this.'

She turned the card over. 'There's two numbers here.'

'Bottom one's my home number, in case I'm not in the office.'

'Won't your office forward messages?'

'Yeah, but they might be slow about it. If you want to get me in a hurry, I want to be sure you can.'

'You usually give out your home phone like this?'

'No.'

'Then, why?'

'The thing I hate most of all…'

'What's that?'

'A crime like this. Child abuse of any kind is so infuriating and frustrating. Makes me sick. Makes my blood boil.'

'I know what you mean,' she said.

'Yeah, I guess you do.'

12

Dr. Rafael Ybarra, chief of pediatrics at Valley Medical, met with Laura in a small room near the nurses' station, where the staff took their coffee breaks. Two vending machines stood against one wall. An icemaker chugged, clinked, and clattered. Behind Laura a refrigerator hummed softly. She sat across from Ybarra at a long table on which were dog-eared magazines and two ashtrays full of cold cigarette butts.

The pediatrician — dark, slim, with aquiline features — was prim, even prissy. His perfectly combed hair seemed like a laquered wig. His shirt collar was crisp and stiff, tie perfectly knotted, lab coat tailored. He walked as though afraid of getting his shoes dirty, and he sat with his shoulders back and his head up, stiff and formal. He surveyed the crumbs and the cigarette ashes on the table, wrinkled his nose, and kept his hands in his lap.

Laura decided she didn't like the man.

Dr. Ybarra spoke with brisk authority, biting the words off: 'Physically, your daughter's in good condition, surprisingly good considering the circumstances. She is somewhat underweight, but not seriously so. Her right arm is bruised from repeated insertion of an IV needle by someone who wasn't very skilled at it. Her urethra is mildly inflamed, perhaps from catheterization. I have prescribed medication for that condition. And that's the extent of her physical problems.'

Laura nodded. 'I know. I've come to take her home.'

'No, no. I wouldn't advise that,' Ybarra said. 'For one thing, she'll be too difficult to care for at home.'

'She's not actually ill?'

'No, but—'

'She's not incontinent?'

'No. She uses the bathroom.'

'She can feed herself?'

'In a fashion. You have to start feeding her, then she'll take over. And you've got to keep watching her as she eats because after a few bites she seems to forget what she's doing, loses interest. You have to continue urging her to eat. She needs help to dress herself too.'

'I can handle all that.'

'I'm still reluctant to discharge her,' Ybarra said.

'But last night Doctor Pantangello said—'

At the mention of Pantangello, Ybarra wrinkled his nose. His distaste was evident in his voice. 'Doctor Pantangello only finished his residency last autumn and was accredited to this hospital last month. I am the head of pediatrics, and it is my opinion that your daughter should stay here.'

'How long?'

'Her behaviour is symptomatic of severe inhibited catatonia — not unusual in cases of prolonged confinement and mistreatment. She should remain here for a complete psychiatric evaluation. A week… ten days.'

'No.'

'It's the best thing for the child.' His voice was so cold and measured that it was hard to believe he ever gave a thought to what was best for anyone other than Rafael Ybarra.

She wondered how kids could possibly relate to a stuffy doctor like this.

'I'm a psychiatrist,' Laura said. 'I can evaluate her condition and give her the proper care at home.'

'Be your own daughter's therapist?' He raised his eyebrows. 'I don't think that's wise.'

'I disagree.' She wasn't going to explain herself to this man.

'Here, once an evaluation is completed and a course of treatment recommended, we have the proper facilities to provide that treatment. You simply don't have the right equipment at home.'

Laura frowned. 'Equipment? What equipment? Exactly what kind of treatment are you talking about?'

'That would be a decision for Doctor Gehagen in psychiatry. But if Melanie should continue in this severe catatonic state or if she should sink deeper into it, well… barbiturates and electroconvulsive therapy—'

'Like hell,' Laura said sharply, pushing her chair away from the table and getting to her feet.

Ybarra blinked, surprised by her hostility.

She said, 'Drugs and electric shock — that's part of what her goddamned father was doing to her the past six years.'

'Well, of course, we wouldn't be using the same drugs or the same kind of electric shock, and our intentions would be different from—'

'Yeah, sure, but how the hell is Melanie supposed to know what your intentions are? I know there are cases where barbiturates and even electroconvulsive therapy achieve desirable results, but they're not right for my daughter. She needs to regain her confidence, her feeling of self-worth. She needs freedom from fear and pain. She needs stability. She needs… to be loved.'