One time he had a fight with my mother, a loud and nasty one. In anger he went to the case and snatched at the first thing he put his hands on - a Luger: Teutonically efficient. He pointed it at her. I could see it now: she screaming "Harry!"; he realizing what he was doing; horrified, dropping the gun as if it were a venomous sea creature; reaching out to her, stuttering apologies. He never did it again, but the memory changed him, them - and me, five years old, standing, blanket in hand, half - hidden by the door, watching. Since then I've hated guns. But at that moment I loved the feel of the .38 as it dented Towle's blazer.
"Get in the car," I whispered. "Sit behind the wheel and don't move or I'll blow your guts out."
He obeyed. Quickly I ran to the passenger side and in beside him.
"You," he said.
"Start the engine." I put the gun in his side, rougher than I had to be.
The little car coughed to life.
"Pull it to the side of the road, so that the driver's door is right up against that rock. Then turn off the engine and throw the key out the window." He did as he was told, the noble profile steady.
I got out and ordered him to do likewise. The way I'd had him park, the exit from the driver's side was blocked by forty feet of granite. He slid out the passenger's side and stood motionless and stoic at the edge of the empty road.
"Hands up."
He gave me a superior look and complied.
"This is outrageous," he said.
"Use one hand to remove your car keys. Toss them gently on the ground over there." I pointed to a spot fifteen feet away. Keeping the gun trained on him, I scooped them up.
"Walk to your car, get in on the driver's side. Put both hands on the wheel where I can see them."
I followed him to the Lincoln. I got in the back, right behind him, and placed the tip of the gun in the hollow at the base of his skull.
"You know your anatomy," I said softly. "One bullet to the medulla oblongata and the lights go out forever."
He said nothing. "You've done a find job of mucking up your life and the lives of plenty of others. Now it's coming down on you. What I'm offering you is a chance for partial redemption. Save a life for once, instead of destroying it."
"I've saved many lived in my day. I'm a physician."
"I know, you're a saintly healer. Where were you when it came to saving Gary Nemeth?"
A dry, croaking sound came from deep inside of him. But he maintained his composure.
"You know everything, I suppose."
"Just about. Cousin Tim can be talkative when the circumstances are right." I gave him a few examples of what I knew. He was unmoved, stoic, hands melded to the wheel, a white - haired mannikin set up for display.
"You knew my name before we met," I said, "from the Hickle thing. When I called you invited me to the office. To see how much Melody had told me. It didn't make sense to me then, a busy pediatrician taking the time to sit and chat face - to - face. Anything we spoke about could have been discussed over the phone.
You wanted to sound me out. Then you tried to block me."
"You had a reputation as a persistent young man," he said. "Things were piling up."
"Things? Don't you mean bodies?"
"There's no need to be melodramatic." He talked like a Disneyland android: flat, without inflection, devoid of self - doubt.
"I'm not trying to be. It's just that multiple murder still gets to me. The Nemeth boy. Handler. Elena Gutierrez. Morry Bruno. Now, Bonita Quinn and good old Ronnie Lee."
At the mention of the last name he gave a small, but noticeable start.
"Ronnie Lee's death bother you, in particular?"
"I'm not familiar with that name. That's all."
"Ronnie Lee Quinn. Bonita's ex. Melody's father. R.L. A blond fellow, tall, crazy - looking, with a bad left side. Hemiparesis. With McCaffrey's southern accent it may have sounded like he was calling him Earl."
"Ah," he said, pleased that things made sense once again, "Earl. Disgusting fellow. Unwashed. I remember meeting him once or twice."
"Piss - poor protoplasm, right?"
"If you will."
"He was one of McCaffrey's bad guys from Mexico, brought back to do a dirty job or two. Probably wanted to see his kid, so McCaffrey found her and Bonita for him. Then it dawned on him how she could fit in. She was a bright one, Bonita, wasn't she? Probably thought you were Santa Claus when you got her the job managing Minassian's building."
"She was appreciative," said Towle.
"You were doing her a big favor. You set her up so you could have access to Handler's apartment. She's the manager, she gets a master key. Then the next time she's in the office for Melody's checkup, she 'loses' her purse. It's easy to do, the lady's a scatterbrain. She didn't have it together. That's what your office girl told me. Always losing things. Meanwhile you lift the key and McCaffrey's monsters can get in whenever they want - look for tapes, do a little smashing and hacking. No sweat off poor Bonita's back, except when she becomes expendable and ends up as food for next season's zucchini crop. A dull woman. More piss - poor protoplasm."
"It wasn't supposed to happen that way. That wasn't in the plan."
"You know how it is, the best - laid plans and all that."
"You're a sarcastic young man. I hope you aren't that way with your patients."
"Ronnie Lee finishes off Bonita - he may have done it because McCaffrey told him to, or perhaps it was just settling an old score. But now McCaffrey has to get rid of Ronnie Lee, too, because fiend that he is, even he may balk at watching his own daughter die."
"You're very bright, Alex," he said. "But the sarcasm really is an unattractive trait."
"Thanks for the advice. I know you're an expert on bedside manner."
"As a matter of fact, I am. I pride myself on it. Obtain early rapport with the child and family no matter how disparate your background may be from theirs. That's the first step in delivering good care. It's what I instruct the first - year students when I proctor the pediatric section of Introduction to Clinical Medicine."
"Fascinating."
"The students give me excellent ratings on my teaching. I'm an excellent teacher."
I exerted forward pressure with the .38. His silver hair parted but he didn't flinch. I smelled his hair tonic, cloves and lime.
"Start the car and pull it to the side of the road. Just behind that giant eucalyptus."
The Lincoln rumbled and rolled, then stopped.
"Turn off the engine."
"Don't be rude," he said. "There's no need to try to intimidate me."
"Turn it off, Will."
"Doctor Towle."
"Doctor Towle."
"Is it necessary to keep that thing at the back of my head?"
"I'll ask the questions."
"It seems needless - superfluous. This isn't some cheap Western movie."
"It's worse. The blood is real and nobody gets up and walks away when the smoke clears."
"More melodrama. Mellow drama. Strange phrase."
"Stop playing around," I said angrily.
"Playing? Are we playing? I thought only children played. Jump rope, Hopscotch." His voice rose in pitch.
"Grownups play too," I said. "Nasty games."
"Games. Games help the child maintain ego integrity. I read that somewhere - Erikson? Piaget?"
Either Kruger wasn't the only actor in the family or something was happening that I hadn't been prepared for… "Anna Freud," I whispered.