Blinded (16 page)

She made me some decaf in a little glass coffeepot with a spring thing in the middle. It looked like something from a high school chemistry lab. The results were pretty good. I bet Alan had a pot just like it. Probably most of Boulder had a pot just like it. Sherry and I would be last. More likely, everybody would move on to another kind of coffee-making appliance before we got around to getting the one with the little spring thing in the middle.

We’d get ours on the sale table at Target.

She served the coffee in a cup with a saucer and a little platter of cookies. Often when I go into people’s houses to talk, they offer me coffee, or a Coke, or even a beer, but I know it’s fake polite, not real polite. They’re seeking to grab some of my advantage; they don’t really want me there. I didn’t get that feeling from Gibbs. She seemed sincere with her coffee and cookies.

“About your husband’s disappearance, ma’am? If you can bring yourself to discuss it-I’m sure it’s painful-I’d very much like to hear your thoughts about what happened.”

Her eyes filled with tears again. Was that grief? If it wasn’t, it was a close approximation.

“I got a call just last night around bedtime. After eleven. It was from someone in Georgia, a policeman, I think. Maybe a firefighter. I don’t recall. They’re still looking for him, you know. I haven’t given up hope.”

“Yes, I know. That’s why I called it a disappearance. I’m sure they’re doing extraordinary things to find him.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Was last night like him? Like your husband? To stop and help someone like that? That was a courageous, selfless thing he did. An act of true heroics.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe it’s the work I do, maybe it’s just some inborn cynicism-I admit that’s a fault of mine-but I’ve come to believe that some of us are born with more of the Good Samaritan gene in us than others. I’m curious where Sterling fell on that spectrum.”

She thought about it for a moment.

“It wasn’t like him at all. Stopping to help someone like he did. Usually Sterling put his own self-interest first. It’s not one of his best traits. Love doesn’t require perfection, does it?” Her eyes found the small plate in front of me. “You don’t like the cookies. Some fruit, maybe, instead? I think I have grapes.”

I almost got stuck on that question. Not the cookies-and-fruit one. The one about perfection. Sherry hadn’t done what she did because I wasn’t perfect. No, that’s not why she left. That had to be true. The day I said “I do,” I knew I wasn’t perfect. I went to bed every night knowing I wasn’t perfect. I knew it the same way I knew that the stars felt like snowflakes under God’s feet. I just knew it.

She knew it, too. Sherry left me for some other reason then, something more.

Or something less.

“No, ma’am. No thank you on the fruit, and no, love doesn’t require perfection. So what evidently happened last night at the Ochlockonee River?” The name of the Georgia river rolled magically off my tongue. “Him stopping to rescue somebody. That would have been an exception then, what we might consider an anomaly?”

She nodded. “I’ve been comforting myself with the possibility that it was an act of… you know, contrition? Atonement?”

“Because he heard about the investigation that was going on? He was making up for what he had done?”

“Yes, I’d like to think so. I’d been keeping him informed of what was going on here, you know, legally. Sterling knew what kind of trouble he was in.”

I lowered my eyes and allowed my expression to soften before I looked back up. “My understanding is that at the time of the… tragedy, he was traveling to visit a friend?”

“Yes, an old college friend. A man named Brian Miles. Brian lives just outside Albany, Georgia. He’s a tech guy. An electronics genius of some kind. I don’t know him that well. He and Sterling used to chase girls together in school-he’s that kind of friend. They stayed in touch. We never socialized much together, though. I always thought Brian was kind of, you know, gay. Sterling says not.”

Relevance?
Got me; I filed it.

“And this visit? It was typical for Sterling to look up old friends during business trips?”

“No. Not male friends anyway, not just for the hell of it. Sterling likes women for company. He prefers women for company. Always has. He always will.”

She managed to state it as though it were a simple fact, as though he preferred Hilton to Hyatt or Pepsi to Coke. But there had to be something more, didn’t there? When people do unexpected things at unexpected times, it’s important.

“Has that been a problem for the two of you? That Sterling prefers women for company?”

She stared at me again. She had quite a repertoire of stares. This one was an it’s-none-of-your-business stare.

“All couples have issues, Detective. We have ours.” She glanced at my stubby left hand and spotted the thin gold band almost disappearing in the lard on my finger. “You’re married, aren’t you?”

I was tempted to get lost with her. Tell her about Sherry and Simon and having Thanksgiving alone. But I don’t tell stuff to strangers. Certainly not to strangers treading in homicide soup like Gibbs Storey. So I didn’t tell her. But I knew I’d come close.

I came close because she’s so pretty.

That was an ugly realization.

I moved my right hand so that the gold ring was no longer in view. What did I want to ask? I wanted to know how in the world a man could prefer the bed of another woman when he was married to the one who was sitting in front of me. I opened my mouth to ask at least twice, but each time I chickened out. Even rehearsing the words in my head, they sounded wrong.

I ended up asking a safer question. “So this whole sojourn from Tallahassee was unusual? The trip to see an old friend, a man? Then stopping to aid a stranger. Were you aware that Sterling was going to visit Mr. Miles?”

“Yes. Yes, I was. Sterling called me during the football game in Tallahassee. He knew about the search of our home, about the detective waiting here from Laguna Beach. He knew what was facing him here. He really wanted to talk it out-you know, his situation-with someone he trusts. Sterling doesn’t have too many male friends, but Brian is someone he trusts. As much as he trusts anyone.”

“Mr. Miles?”

“Yes.”

“The one he chased girls with?”

“Yes.”

“Was Sterling angry with you for your role in exposing him to the police?”

She maintained her balance and matched my steps as though she was accustomed to following bad dancers.

“He was, and he wasn’t. I’ve been so torn-my loyalty to him, my love for him. An impossible choice. He understands that I’ve been placed in a difficult position by all this.”

“And you have, haven’t you?” I said. I meant two or three things with the question but figured she only heard one.

After a little sinus upshift she started to whimper again.

My decision-making process was abrupt, almost instinctive. I didn’t plan to say what I said next. I just said it.

“I have some time off from work. Personal time. I’d like to help you find your husband. Try to find out what happened that night. At least go… to Georgia and do what I can to make sure everything possible is being done to…” I didn’t know how to end the sentence.

Gibbs did. She said, “Find him.”

“Yes.”

She melted me with those eyes. “Please do that. Will you do that? Find him.” I didn’t know what to make of the stare she offered up next. But Gibbs Storey skipped third gear and went right into sniffle overdrive.

In seconds I had an arm around her, and she was leaning into my man-boobs. Want to know what it was like? Having her in my arms, having her delicate beauty against my fat flesh?

Comfort. Solace. Succor.

Giving, getting.

I felt like goddamned Shrek with the goddamned princess.

It felt like heaven.

Didn’t feel right, though. I can tell you that.

And it didn’t answer that question about why Sterling chose the bed of another woman. Or the question about why I’d volunteered to go ask him.

Nope, it didn’t do any of that.

The storm had departed and left the Colorado plains in bright sunshine, which was typically what happened after a fierce snowstorm along the Front Range. But our seventy-degree Saturday had become a high-thirties, low-forties Sunday. Less than a full day had passed, and we were in a whole different season.

Lauren slept most of Sunday, a bad sign. Grace and I ran some errands, played some toddler games for which neither of us understood the rules, built a snowman out of snow that was the consistency of a Slurpy, and the whole time I pretended that the big bad wolf wasn’t really at our door getting ready to huff and to puff and to blow our house down.

Once I succeeded in getting Grace into her crib for her midday nap, I checked my messages at the office. I was anticipating that I would be receiving a call from Gibbs seeking my compassion about her husband’s disappearance in Georgia. But the only voicemail wasn’t from Gibbs; it was a long message from Jim Zebid.

“Hey, Alan. It’s Jim. I assume you saw the
Camera
this morning. I have to admit I’m a little concerned about it… um… you see, my guy-I’m sure you remember the one I’m talking about-swears he hasn’t told anybody about his, you know, his thing with the guy, the one in the paper. And I certainly haven’t told anybody about it but you. And now the cops know, obviously, and it’s in the news. So it’s a concern, obviously, and I’m left wondering whether-this is hard to say-you might have been a little indiscreet after we talked earlier in the week.”

His tone wasn’t belligerent. It wasn’t even heated.

“I’m not accusing you, believe me, but the position my guy is in right now is really precarious. I mean, if her husband talks, you know-about, you know, it could be real bad for my guy. Anyway, if you have any thoughts about all this, I’d love to hear them. I’m on my cell all day. I think you have the number.”

He’s not accusing me?
What else would I call it?

I dialed his cell number. He answered after three rings. “This is Jim.”

“Alan Gregory, Jim.”

“Alan, hold on. I need to get someplace I can talk. It’ll take a minute, I’m downtown.” I heard the sounds of a soulful saxophone. I knew exactly where he was on the Mall. He was at the corner of Pearl and Thirteenth. Some cold air wouldn’t keep throngs away from the Mall on a sunny autumn Sunday when the number of shopping days until Christmas was dwindling away like Girl Scout cookies in a firehouse.

“Okay, this is better. Thanks for holding. So what do you think about what I was saying before?”

“What do I think?” I wasn’t about to start this conversation. That was going to be up to him.

“The article?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Were you, maybe, a little indiscreet?”

“No, Jim. Not even a little. Until I saw the paper this morning, I’d totally forgotten about that part of our conversation. I’m almost embarrassed to admit that before this morning I hadn’t given what happened with your client a thought since you left my office.”

“Yeah?”

“Totally.” I was determined not to sound defensive. I wasn’t sure I was pulling it off. Instead I feared I sounded callous.

Jim was quiet. From the change in the background sounds, I guessed he was walking around on Thirteenth Street, down from the corner where the old black guy played the saxophone weekends on the Mall. There wouldn’t be as many pedestrians on Thirteenth as there were on the Mall.

“Well,” he said, “my guy had no reason to talk. And he assures me that he’s told nobody but me what happened.”

“Cops have other ways of finding out things, Jim. I assure you that nobody heard it from me. Directly or indirectly.”

“What about your notes?”

“I don’t put things like this in my notes. Ever.” So much for not sounding defensive. Should I have told him that I wasn’t even certain I’d written any notes about the session? Nothing was to be gained by going down that road. “I think there might be something else going on here, Jim.”

“Good, I’d love an explanation. I’m planning on talking with my guy later on today.”

“I think it’s something we should talk about on Tuesday during our regular appointment.”

“This can’t wait until Tuesday. What do you have Monday?”

“I have a cancellation at eleven-fifteen. You want that?”

“Fine.”

“Jim, I suspect this has more to do with you and me-issues in the therapy; I suspect that trust is high on that list-than with whatever you told me during our last session.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“Jesus.”

He hung up. Or the signal died. Either way, the deadness in my ear let me know I wasn’t talking with him any longer.

The bedroom was dimly lit, blinds tilted to filter the western sun. The air had already taken on the stuffiness and stillness of an infirmary. Lauren didn’t lift her head from the pillow as I entered. But she said, “Hi, baby. How’s Grace doing?”

“Good. She’s down for her nap. She ate a good lunch.”

For a long moment I listened to her breathing, watched the bedding rise and fall above her chest.

She said, “Would you call the neurologist for me? Set up the steroids? I’m ready to start.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Here, or at the hospital?”

“Here.”

“He may want to see you. That’s cool?”

“Of course. And call somebody at work, tell them I won’t be in for-God, I don’t know-a few days.”

“Sure. Is Elliot okay?” Elliot was one of Lauren’s favorite people at the office.

“Elliot’s good.”

I touched her through the bedding. “I love you. Know that.”

“I know. I love you, too. And I’m sorry.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and placed my hand against her cheek. I said, “Don’t be.”

“I just am.”

The home care nurse the neurologist sent over to our house arrived at dinnertime. She was a young woman named Petra, and I tried to engage her a little as she was gathering supplies. It didn’t work. My clinical antennae said she was battling chronic depression. For some reason-maybe it was the barely restrained scowl she shot my way when she learned my profession-I guessed that she had already suffered through a bad stint or two of psychotherapy and had been the unfortunate victim of multiple antidepressant failures-a couple of tricyclics, some SSRIs, and maybe even an MAOI or two.

The good news is that what Petra gave up in gregariousness, she made up in efficiency. The IV was running and taped in place within ten minutes of her initial knock on our door. Moments after that she loaded the first gram of Solumedrol into a fat syringe and began pushing the liquid in it hard into the tube that led to Lauren’s purple vein.

How much is a gram of steroids? If a healthy person were to injure a shoulder, say, or a hip, and a physician determined that major anti-inflammatory drugs were required, the doctor might prescribe oral steroids. Over five days of treatment the dose would decrease from a high of maybe thirty milligrams a day down to zero.

Lauren had just received over thirty times that maximum dose, and she’d had it forced directly into her bloodstream all at once. And the exact same procedure-with the same megadose-would be repeated on each of the next three days.

As I watched the blood pressure cuff inflate on her arm, Lauren managed a smile. She mounted the smile, I knew, for me. The syringe had just relinquished its final drops of steroids into the IV tube. She said, “The first twenty-four hours aren’t all bad, you know.”

I touched her hair.
And after that?
I thought. After the first day became the second and the first gram of steroids was followed by another, and another, and then, damn it, another?

After that, well, after that we’ll just jump off that damn bridge when we get to it, won’t we?

It wasn’t until after Petra had departed-she’d left a buffalo cap behind affixed to the indwelling IV in Lauren’s forearm-that I realized that Gibbs had never called me about Sterling’s disappearance and possible demise in Georgia.

I usually didn’t waste even a solitary calorie of effort worrying about patients who
didn’t
call me after hours. My consistent message as therapist to my patients was that I expected they could handle life’s stresses without checking in with me. I expected them not to call me after hours.

But emergencies are emergencies. And missing husbands who are feared drowned are usually considered emergencies.

As I prepared Grace’s dinner, I couldn’t help thinking that Gibbs
should
have called. Since I left her at her house during the search warrant execution on Friday, she’d had to endure an uncomfortable interview by Carmen Reynoso. Her husband had disappeared and was feared dead in some river I’d never heard of in Georgia. That had to be stressful.

I couldn’t help wondering why she didn’t call.

I thought of calling her, checking on her. I really did. The very fact that I was considering it was so unusual that it caused me to recall Diane’s admonition that I was treating Gibbs differently than I would treat some other patient, which for some reason caused me to jump to a very disconcerting association to Teri Reginelli and
hachas en cabezas
.

I had an appointment with Gibbs Monday morning near dawn. If she could wait until then, I could wait until then.