Trying so hard to engage her, entertain her, make her sit up and get excited about something. Trying so hard just to get her to talk to me.
After I acted out the stories, I always ended the way the shows did, with me playing the part of my mother’s sidekick and delivering the next-to-last sign-off line.
“And what happened next?” I’d say to the pale, beautiful woman lying on the lumpy couch.
“They all lived happily never after,” she’d say.
Half drugged, half asleep, sick with her addiction, it didn’t matter: she always knew her last line. The line her character had ended every episode with.
Just once I had wanted my mother to tell me a story. For her to be the mommy and me the little girl, with me under the covers and her sitting up.
And in my imagination, when she asked me what happened at the end, I would say something very different: I would smile and say, “They all lived happily ever after.”
Because that, of course, was my dream.
The doorbell rang.
As I walked from the kitchen into the living room, I wondered how it was going to end for Cleo. If there was any chance she would live happily ever after. Or if she would even live.
27
We sat in the kitchen while I made coffee. The detective was dressed more informally than he had been when he came to my office. Instead of the white cotton shirt and blazer with his jeans, he was wearing a blue chambray shirt and a windbreaker. Same loafers, same sunglasses stuck into the top button of his shirt, hanging precariously, as if he might need them at any second.
Instead of being nervous, once he was there, I felt calmer. I don’t like admitting that part of it was simply that he was a big man and he was in my apartment and he certainly was armed. Feeling unsafe wasn’t something I thought about. Until I felt safe. And then I became aware that I often felt frightened. I operated from a constant stance of being just slightly afraid.
Knowing too much about how the brain works, about the fragility of sanity, about the very thin line that separates the functional human being from the madman, made me wary of people. Even people I should have been able to trust.
I put the coffeepot, mugs, sugar and milk on the table.
“Spoon?” he asked.
It took a minute for the word to compute. I picked up a spoon and handed it to him. Long fingers reached out. I looked away and my eyes settled on his face. A flash of his serene blue eyes. And then I looked away from his eyes, too.
I don’t know where he looked. Turning my back on him, I rummaged in the cabinets for something else to put out and found a package of Dulcie’s favorite Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. So I got a plate and spent a few minutes laying them out, my Martha Stewart consciousness causing me to try to lay them out in some kind of pattern.
When I put them down on the table, I didn’t look back at him, but poured myself a cup of coffee and then used his spoon to stir in a teaspoon of sugar.
“We have had our profiler on this since the first woman was found.”
I nodded, waiting.
“And what we’ve put together is fine as far as it goes. But we are up against it on this one and time isn’t on our side anymore.” He shook his head. “Not that it ever was, but it’s worse now. He’s speeding up and we haven’t caught a break. No one remembers seeing him. We don’t have a clue what he looks like. He picks the busiest hotels, ones with hundreds of guests. And there are so many fingerprints, fibers and hair samples it’s like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack.
“Our teams are working on it. We have some leads with the religious-supply houses. But even there I’m not holding out much hope. It’s not like he’s bought any one item to the exclusion of others. We’ve got it all. Nuns’ habits, communion wafers, what we think is holy water, and anointing oil. Basically, we are as on top of all the physical aspects of this case as we can be, but we’re just not moving as fast as I’d like.”
He reached out, took one of the cookies and ate half of it before continuing. “I can’t sit around and wait. I have to get ahead of him. But to do that I need to get into the mind of this man.”
“And your forensic psychiatrist can’t do that because…?”
“He is trying to do that. But I want to involve you. Perez says you are the best person he has ever met at getting into the mind of someone with a sexual problem. He and Hobart-that’s our guy. You remember him?”
I nodded. Perez was good, Jordain was right. But he wasn’t always creative enough when it came to the more bizarre sex crimes.
“Well, Hobart agreed with Perez. I was surprised. It takes a healthy ego to agree to consult with someone from the outside.” He stopped, waiting, looking at me and expecting me to comment. I didn’t. But I did note that Jordain was talking shrink talk.
He sipped his coffee. When I didn’t say anything, he continued.
“Let me lay it all out for you. Show you the pictures. Go over the details of the cases. The ones that the reporters don’t have. All I’m asking are two things of you.
“One is that you let me tell you what we know. Get any insight you might have. The other is, I know that you’re worried about Cleo Thane’s disappearance and you’re going to, in your own way, try to find her. No, don’t argue with me. Just listen. I know you will. Even if you don’t know it yet. Because you can hardly even sit still when I talk about her. And what I want is an open communication with you in case you come across a connection. You won’t recognize it unless you know what page I’m on. Are you game?”
“No. The last thing I am is game.” I shook my head. “The one time I agreed to consult with you guys, Hobart secondguessed everything I said and didn’t follow up. And I had nailed the guy’s psychosis. I don’t play well with teams.”
“I did my homework. Perez told me all about what happened last time. And about Sam Butterfield.”
I didn’t even acknowledge that but asked, “So why do you think I’d change my mind?”
“Because you care about Cleo. Besides, I’m not asking you to work with us. I’m just asking you to help me. And keep your eyes open. Take my cell phone number and call me whenever you want and let me know what you’re doing and thinking, and if there is anything-anything at all-that strikes you as a possible connection.”
He had been looking at me the whole time he was talking, but his gaze was becoming more intense. As if he was trying to see inside of me. To find someone there.
I knew the problem. I am so damn good at putting up a wall. At separating the patient from the shrink. And the shrink from the patient. At closing down emotionally so that I can just absorb and compute the information, the other person’s emotion and his or her dilemma. I make myself disappear. It makes me a good therapist.
I was doing it with Jordain, and he had not only noticed, he was fighting me for entry. Two points for the detective. Most people don’t. I don’t want my patients to, and don’t expect it of them. They are caught up in their own dramas-and the very point of the therapy is for them to connect to their own selves, their secrets, their souls. Not mine.
But my problem was that, since Mitch and I had separated, I’d gotten into the habit of closing myself off and staying in my comfort zone with everyone, not just my patients. Cut off and removed-that’s what I called it. No one could get to me when I was there. It was not only easy to venture forth without connecting, it was painless. And lately I had been afraid of pain.
“Dr. Snow, I will not take advantage of you.”
I wanted to smile. His voice was just a shade too intimate, and it made totally acceptable comments strike me as absurdly flirtatious, even though there was nothing at all flirtatious in his demeanor or attitude.