Expert Witness (7 page)

Obviously, he wasn’t hitting the right notes because the woman’s hand was under the desk again. Archer looked over his shoulder expecting security to come through the door behind him, but it was the door behind her that opened instead. Archer’s head whipped around again.

“What’s going on out here, Gay?”

There in the doorway was the man Archer had come to see. He knew it in his bones and was across the room in three strides, his anxiety boiling over. Young watched him come, but all Archer saw was Hannah’s frightened eyes and Liz Driscoll’s sharp ones and Josie’s beautiful ones. He felt again the sinking sense he had as dawn broke over Hermosa and Josie hadn’t come home. He felt the loneliness in the night silence as he waited for a phone to ring, or a door to open, or a step to sound. All of that had been corralled and fenced in and managed until this moment.  Now the alarm roiled and mixed with anger and impotency to create an explosion that sent emotional shrapnel toward the guy standing in the doorway – the one who looked like he put talcum powder on his balls and cleaned his jackets with a horsehair brush.  Without thinking, without meaning to, Archer pushed him into the doorjamb and grabbed his shoulders.

“What do you know about Josie Bates?”

CHAPTER EIGHT:

An Outbuilding in the California Mountains

Josie dreamed of sex: satisfying, wet, affectionate sex with a man who loved her. She moaned sorrowfully. She couldn’t remember his name; she couldn’t see his face. She wanted to wake up in his arms and ask who he was.

Office of Dr. Daniel Young, Manhattan Beach

“Dr. Young’s office. Hurry!”

Archer heard the receptionist call, but he couldn’t stop himself. He pushed harder against the man, oddly aware that the doctor’s handsome face never registered fear. No, that wasn’t it. Young wasn’t surprised, but that probably came with a psychiatrist’s territory. That analysis was fleeting as Archer focused on the physical. Daniel Young matched Archer in height but not bulk.  Lean and narrow at the hip and waist, the man was fit and moved as smoothly as he spoke.

“Let me go. Do it now.” There was a moment, a beat. Young notched his head to the left, and his lips came closer to Archer’s ear. “Now, if you don’t mind.”

Archer blinked. The fingers clutching the man’s arms relaxed, but his body was as rigid as rebar. He couldn’t seem to move, to take that one step away that would bring some sanity back to the moment. Then he heard the sound of a gun being readied to fire.

“Let him go or I’ll shoot.”

Keeping hold of Daniel Young, Archer looked over his shoulder and saw a uniformed security guard. He was way too old to be carrying a weapon and that, more than anything, made Archer nervous. Beads of sweat dotted the old man’s hairline, but to his credit his hand was steady. The woman with the bangs and the gams sat back in her chair, and put her hands flat on the desk, alert, ready to push off at a moment’s notice. She chanced a look at Daniel.

“Dr. Young? What are you. . . ?”

“I should have told you I was here.”

Archer barely heard him. He and the guard had eyes only for each other.

“Let me go,” Young said again as he put his hands over Archer’s and eased them away.

Archer stepped back, in control of nothing. Daniel Young gave Archer’s shoulder a pat and moved on. Any other man wouldn’t have wanted his back to Archer, but this guy had probably seen a lot of crazies come through his door. Archer was just one more. Young had the security guard’s shoulder a second later.

“Shooting a man is never a first option, is it Frank? Let’s put that back where it belongs.”

 Syllables – not words - lingered in the back of the doctor’s throat as if they had a mind of their own. His hand went to the barrel of the gun, and like magic it was pointed to the floor.

“I don’t know, doc.” The security guard’s voice quavered.

“I’m good,” Archer muttered, embarrassed to find himself in this position.

“See, Frank?” Daniel Young chuckled softly. “Lots of folks with big problems in this world, don’t you know? Some are bigger than others, I dare say, but all important to the people who have them.”

Frank wasn’t convinced, but holstered the gun as Daniel turned him toward the door. “Do you want me to call the cops?”

“Do you think you should, Frank?” The old man shook his head slightly while he looked at the doctor for corroboration. “Ah, I didn’t think so either, but it’s always good to have an expert weigh in. Remember when I told you how my patients sometimes get upset, and we need to use all of our best judgment about how we handle situations like this?”

“He’s a patient?” Frank asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Not yet,” Daniel answered, more for Archer’s benefit than Frank’s. “But stay close. You’ll know what to do if either Gay or I call, won’t you?”

Archer rolled his eyes. What crap. Even in his darkest hours, Archer would have recognized this for what it was: Therapy 101. Frank was lapping it up like a puppy; happy to be relieved of responsibility while being led to believe he was calling the shots. What really ticked Archer off was that this had all been so unnecessary. All the receptionist had to do was call her boss out, Archer would have the information he needed and been on his way.  No harm, no foul, but nothing was ever simple. When the door closed, Young walked to the receptionist who put Archer’s card in his outstretched hand.

“Mr. Archer,” he muttered.

“Just Archer,” came the correction. It didn’t surprise Daniel Young. Archer was a simple name for a simple man.

“Gay, why don’t you go on down to the coffee shop and take a break.”  Daniel Young took a bill out of his pocket. She stood up and Archer took the time to notice that her skirt was shorter than he thought and her legs better than he had imagined. She rounded the desk and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her boss. Her now-bitchy eyes were still trained on Archer as she spoke to Daniel.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Give me a break,” Archer muttered.

“Off you go,” Young directed, and out she went.

When the door closed, Daniel Young turned and smiled. “That was quite an entrance. I can’t wait to see what’s next.”

CHAPTER NINE:

An Outbuilding in the California Mountains

When Josie Bates was thirteen years and ten days old she woke up at two forty-one in the morning.  She did not wake with a start or in fear. She could not identify a noise that had disturbed her sleep, yet suddenly she was wide-eyed, staring into the darkness of her room. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she knew that whatever was wrong was very, very bad.

Josie sniffed but smelled nothing. She touched her brow and the shirt she slept in. Both were sticky with sweat despite the old fan her mother had put in the corner of her room.  She listened, but the silence was deafening. She turned to her side, pushed up, put her feet over the edge of the bed and got up.

 Josie wanted her father, but he was gone to Asia. He wore a uniform and killed people. Even at thirteen she understood what he did and why he did it. Her mother did not.

Carefully, she opened the door of her bedroom and slipped out into the narrow hall. The living room was to her left. The front door was closed and the furniture was still in place. Like all the other houses on the base, the kitchen was beyond that. Her mother’s room was eight steps away.  Josie took the first step and the second. She managed two more but went no further. Much as she wanted to open that door and reassure herself that the bad thing was not behind it, she could not. She was not as brave then as the woman she would become.

Josie went back to her room, stripped the covers off her narrow bed, lay down on her back and threw her arm over her eyes. She breathed fast through her nose, pulled her lips together tight, and sweated through every pore. That night she felt every inch of thirteen years: too old to be so afraid of nothing, too young not to be. She turned on her side, crooked her knees, folded her hands beneath her cheek, and closed her eyes thinking if she made herself small enough and didn’t look at anything she would not die of fright.

The next morning, Josie got up and her mother was gone. No word. No note. No sign that she had ever been there. At thirteen, Josie Bates was abandoned, alone and afraid in a hot little house in Texas.

The primal survival instinct that woke her that night, the same cloying, smothering heat she had experienced, woke her once more. She was no longer a child and she was not in Texas, yet she was in a place that felt as narrow as her childhood bed. This time she woke not with a start, but with a sudden awareness that her eyes were open and she was conscious. In front of her was a wall constructed of cement bricks. Best guess it was a little over eight feet tall. She was six.  There was a brick missing up near the top.

Her chin lowered to her chest. She could see her knees. Her khakis were dirty and torn.  She was shoeless. She could move her legs but they were weak. Raising her head as best she could, Josie saw that the wall at the end was about ten inches longer than she was. Okay. The place was almost seven feet long, eight feet high, maybe five feet across. It was hot and airless.

Her neck wobbled, her head crashed down. She saw stars and tasted dirt. She shook it off and looked up at the stake in the ground and the intricate knots that bound her wrists to it. The wall above her head was six inches away.

Suddenly, Josie’s body jackknifed. Her mouth opened wide, her gut twisted as she dry heaved, gagging on nothing. Once, twice, three times her neck extended, her stomach muscles tightened, her head swam, her brain crumbled. The sound she made was revolting. She was nothing but a reactive shell. One more time her intestines grabbed, pushed and threw her back against her restraints. When the spasm was over, she was gasping for breath, exhausted and sweating like a pig. Her eyes closed, but she was determined not to let go of the moment. When she opened them again she saw the water bottle. Before she could maneuver to reach it, the woman behind her moved.

Daniel Young’s Office, Manhattan Beach

Daniel Young’s inner sanctum was a curiosity. At first glance it appeared to be a comfortable place, but Archer wasn’t comfortable. It had nothing to do with his anxiety and everything to do with the furniture.

The couch against one wall was not the regulation six feet nor was it as small as a loveseat. A petite woman could lie on it with ease, but a man Archer’s size could not. But if a small woman sat on the couch, her legs would dangle over the side with her feet unable to touch the floor. It was low enough that if a large man sat on it his knees would be up to his chin.

There were a couple of wingback chairs - nobody was ever comfortable in a wingback chair – and tables that weren’t close enough to the furniture to be of use. Daniel Young’s desk was a table that was positioned kitty-corner, facing neither couch nor chairs. The walls were painted a restful sage color, but the artwork looked like giant Rorschach tests.

Diagnosis: passive aggressive decorating that seemed so out of character for the man himself. He was relaxed and in control and concerned for Archer despite his meltdown. Archer put him in his early fifties, yet he could be ten years younger or ten years older. He had that square-jawed look of an adventurer; still Archer doubted he lifted his own suitcase when he traveled. His skin was tanned but nearly seamless. It was a toss-up whether he had good genes, an excellent plastic surgeon or an amazing dermatologist.  Over near the door, which Archer assumed led to a bathroom, was a vanity wall of framed photographs and magazine covers.  Young motioned to the chair in front of the desk, but Archer wandered toward the pictures. Daniel Young had made the cover of L.A. Magazine twice but the covers were old. Archer had no way of telling if the photos at celeb events were dated, but one thing was for sure: Young liked beautiful women and the beautiful women in the photos looked adoringly at him. Archer stepped closer. This kind of PR was usually reserved for Beverly Hills types, not a doctor in Manhattan Beach. His eyes went to a picture because it was the only one where the woman with Young wasn’t as impressed as –

“I do remember Josie Bates.  I haven’t seen her in years, but I assume you think I have,” Daniel Young began conversationally.

Archer turned just in time to see Daniel ease himself into a burgundy leather chair replete with manly hobnails.

“I don’t know what I think, but I’ll show you what I’ve got.”

Archer dug in his pocket for the plastic bag, walked across the room and put it on the table. Young positioned it exactly in front of him, leaned over it dutifully, and took it in. When he was done, Daniel Young pushed the envelope over the table and sat back.

“Someone has very nice printing, but I can’t say the artwork is too impressive.”

Archer glanced at the paper. Names were neatly printed in two columns. Beside each were tiny avatars. Next to Daniel Young’s name someone had drawn something that looked like a donkey.