“Take a look,” she said, as Duran leaned over her shoulder and studied the screen. She scrolled down. “Worth calling them?”
He shook his head. “No. Different name, different address. There’s no point. If we had to, we could go to New York, but…”
“What’s on this tape, anyway?” she asked, tapping it with her fingernail.
“A client. Dutch guy.” As soon as he said it, his face turned ashen. “Oh, Jesus! What’s today?”
“Monday.”
He looked stricken. Turned on his heel. Turned back again. Ran his hand through his hair. “This is not good,” he told her.
“What isn’t?”
“I missed my appointment!” Duran glanced at the ceiling, and sighed.
“No kidding.”
He didn’t hear the sarcasm in her voice. He was beyond it. “Disappearing like this—I don’t know what he’ll do. The relationship between a client and his therapist… sometimes it’s the only relationship they trust! You break that trust and—”
“Earth to Duran?” Her fingers enclosed “Duran” in quotes. “You’re not a therapist, remember? In fact, you’re not even Duran. We don’t know who you are. You’re a—a ‘disturbed person’ with bogus credentials. This Dutch guy? Trust me: he’ll be okay without you!”
He looked at her for a long moment, seemingly confused, then flopped down on the couch in front of the television. “Y’know something?” he asked. “You can be a real bitch when you want to.”
The remark took her by surprise, and she started to laugh. He was right, of course.
Then he reactivated the sound on the TV, and disappeared behind a wall of chitchat. It was a talk show of some kind—Jenny Jones or Ricki Lake or Sally Jessy—Adrienne didn’t know the players. And she didn’t care. But it was interesting in its own way. A couple of dirt bags were sitting together on chairs, sharing a smirk of guilty pleasure. Their eyes shone as the women in the audience swayed and bounced, faces contorted, shouting, hooting, and rolling their eyes.
What had he called it? Adrienne wondered. What was the term Shaw used? A pseudotherapeutic conspiracy… Live, in your own living room.
Chapter 24
She hated calling people she didn’t know.
It wasn’t a phobia, exactly, but it made her uncomfortable enough that she procrastinated whenever she had to do it. And procrastination almost always backfired. Like this afternoon: if she’d called Shaw earlier, she wouldn’t have to do it now. She wouldn’t have to be doing it at night. And she wouldn’t be calling him at home—which was worse, somehow. Instead, she and Duran had gone to an outlet mall to buy some things they needed (which was basically everything) and here it was, a quarter to eight.
Reluctantly, she lifted the receiver and punched out the numbers, thinking I’ll hang up if he doesn’t answer by the second ring. If he doesn’t answer by the second ring, he’s probably busy, he’s probably—
“Ray Shaw.” The voice was low and sonorous.
She hesitated, then recovered. “Hello?”
“Yes?” He sounded dubious, as if he suspected she was a telemarketer.
So she took a deep breath, and dove in. “Doctor Shaw—this is Adrienne Cope at Slough, Hawley. Bill Fellowes gave me your name.”
“Oh? And how’s Bill?”
“He’s fine! Doing great. Said, ‘When you call Doctor Shaw, say hello.’”
Shaw chuckled. “Well, Bill’s a terrific kid.”
“He is!”
“So!” Shaw boomed, the niceties done. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, actually… I was hoping I could bring someone to see you.”
Silence at the other end.
“It’s a very unusual case,” Adrienne continued, “and—”
“I don’t know if Bill told you,” Shaw interrupted, “but… testifying in court isn’t something I have time for. I did it once, as a favor to an Old Blue—but that’s it. You know what they say: ‘Once a philosopher, twice a pervert.’”
She laughed politely. “I understand completely, and Bill did tell me that the Brewster case was a one-off proposition. But this isn’t one of those.”
“Oh?”
“No. As I said, I was hoping you could see someone—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You mean—a patient?” He pronounced the word as if she’d promised to produce a platypus.
“Yes.”
Rueful chuckle. “Well, I don’t think I can be of much help, then. Between teaching and research, I don’t really have a lot of time for patients. It’s a terrible thing to say, but—”
“I’m not asking you to take on a new patient, Doctor—I was just hoping we could get a sort of… ‘preliminary evaluation.’ It’s a very unusual case.”
His grunt was skeptical. “How so?”
Careful, she thought. Don’t tell him too much, or the men with the butterfly nets will come through the door. “Well, it’s a little awkward on the phone, but… the man we’re talking about is completely delusional.”
“Is he functioning?”
“Yes.”
“How highly?”
“He thinks he’s a therapist.”
“Really!” Shaw’s bemusement was as palpable as his earlier skepticism.
“Yes. And that wouldn’t be so bad, except: he treats people.”
“Oh.” Shaw’s tone went from sharp to flat in the space of a second. “Bring him in on Thursday,” he told her. “I can see him at ten.” Then he gave her the address, and she rang off, feeling virtuous.
Joining Duran in the living room, where he was finishing a beer, she told him “I’ve made an appointment for Thursday morning—”
“With who?”
“A neuropsychiatrist. In New York.”
Duran gave her a skeptical look. “And what’s that supposed to accomplish?”
Adrienne shrugged. “I thought a professional opinion might be useful.”
“An opinion of what?”
“Of you.”
“Me?” he asked.
She nodded, bracing for the objections she knew would be coming. There’s nothing wrong with me—I’m fine! In fact—
“Good idea,” he said.
The next morning, she got up early and drove to a little strip mall, south of town, where she bought a cheap tape recorder. On the way back to SeaSpray, she stopped at the Dream Cafe and picked up coffee and croissants for the two of them.
As she came into the house, Duran wandered out of the kitchen, running a hand through his hair, and yawning—as if he’d just gotten up. “I thought we could listen to the tape,” she suggested.
“Which tape?”
“The one you didn’t mail.”
“Oh,” he said, and frowned. “That one.”
“What’s the matter?”
He shook his head. “It’s complicated.”
“What is?”
“Well, for one thing, there are ethical issues. Henrik’s a client, and when he talks to me, it’s in confidence. It’s as if I were a priest.”
“You mean, it’s as if you were a therapist.”
He ignored the sarcasm. “And the other thing is: you’re suing me, so… I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”
“I’m not suing you.”
“Why not? You were.”
“But I’m not anymore. I’ll have the complaint dismissed as soon… as soon as things get back to normal.”
“How come?”
“Because it’s a mess. I can’t sue you one day, and check into a motel with you the next. It doesn’t look good. And, anyway, things aren’t as simple as I thought.”
He considered that for a moment. Finally, he said, “Okay, but—you don’t need to know the client’s identity.”
She inclined her head in agreement. “I just want to hear you work.”
The man’s voice was deep and tremulous, his English perfect, but with a Benelux lilt. Duran was sprawled in an armchair across from the couch, looking at the ceiling as the tape rolled. “You actually met him,” he said.