Obsessed (6 page)

“That's very good. Now could you squeeze the ball in your left hand?”

I watched carefully, seeing the activity I expected in the right motor strip and the areas around it.

“Excellent,” Emily said. “Now squeeze the ball in your right hand.” This was the arm he wanted amputated.

We both watched intently. There was some activity in and around the left motor strip. Definitely not the zero response Emily must have hoped for. But was it what you'd expect in a “normal”? I had no idea.

Emily continued giving Mr. Black tasks to perform. Flex one foot, then the other. Hyperextend each knee. Shrug each shoulder.

By the end, Emily's breath had quickened and she could barely stay seated, she was so excited. “I'll have to analyze it, of course. But there's something here, I'm sure of it. I'll just save this—” She clicked a few times, typed something.

Quickly she showed me how to rerun it, how to control the speed of the replay. Then she went off to release Mr. Black.

It was just after nine-thirty. Plenty of time to pick up some food and get over to Annie's. I used the phone on the wall to call her house. There was no answer. I tried her cell phone next. No answer there either. She probably had it turned off. Damn. Still, it was early. Maybe by the time I left here, she'd be home.

I returned to the computer and stared into the screen.
She'll tell you what it's about when she's good and ready to,
I told myself.

I ran the animation again, fast-forwarding through the beginning, slowing down in the part where she'd asked him to squeeze the balls. The right squeeze had definitely elicited a different response on one side of the brain than a left squeeze had elicited on the other side. But was it a random difference or was it measurable and consistent? What about the legs—was there a generalized effect right to left? What if he'd been asked to create a mental image of his right arm and then of his left arm? What if he'd closed one eye and then the other? What if he'd been shown pictures of amputees? My mind was throwing off ideas like sparks from a grinding wheel.

I sat back, enjoying the rush of intellectual energy. None of this technology had existed when I'd been in grad school. If it had, I might easily have ended up a researcher instead of clinician.

I fingered a sheaf of stapled papers Emily had left on the desk. “Consent by Subject for Participation in Research Protocol.” It looked as if she'd quickly revised the standard one Shands used for his research. Purpose of the study. Procedures. Risks and discomforts. She hadn't had to change much. The procedure, an MRI, was the same. Some paragraphs just above Mr. Black's signature had been deleted, the text marked over with thick-tipped black marker and initialed by Mr. Black. I wondered what Shands routinely had as part of his consent form that Emily found inappropriate for her research. I was about to turn the paper over and see if I could read it from the back when the door opened and Emily returned.

“He's on his way home,” she told me. “No worse for wear.”

She picked up the consent form and the test protocol and I followed her up the corridor, out into the central area. I'd pocketed my change, wallet, and credit cards and was about to use my cell phone to call Annie again when I heard raised voices. Emily had grown still.

“I don't understand why you're taking chances.” It was a woman's voice. “We've been at this too long—”

A man's voice cut her off. I could only catch bits and pieces. “…overreacting…off your high horse…it's my business…”

“You're a fool, James—” Dr. Pullaski stormed out into the hall. Her words died when she saw us staring at her. “Next time,” she said, directing her words like darts at Emily, “please get
my
permission before you commandeer the resources of the Center.” She stalked off.

Shands came out, looking decidedly pissed. “Estelle!” he called after her. When he saw Emily, his look softened. “Emily, I'm sorry. I'll get this straightened out.” He followed Dr. Pullaski down the hall.

Emily's hands were shaking as she tried to slide the sheaf of papers into her briefcase.

“I'll walk you to your car,” I said, helping her off with her lab coat.

“You don't need to do that.”

“Humor me.”

We rode down in the elevator in silence. Emily's mouth was set, the clenching and unclenching of the muscles in her jaw the only indication she didn't have her emotions in check. She hesitated when the elevator doors opened. I looked out into the garage. There were plenty of shadowy corners between cars where someone might have been lurking. I found myself wanting to put my arm around Emily, to protect her from whatever bogeyman was about to jump out at her.

The Miata was parked across from the elevator. She opened her trunk and tossed in her briefcase. When I put my hand on her shoulder, Emily shuddered.

“Sure you're okay?” I asked.

“Sure I'm sure. I'm fine.” Her voice was tense.

She got into her car. I stood aside as she started it up and pulled out. When she stopped at the top of the ramp, no taillights came on.

I didn't like it. If someone had tampered with her brake lights, there was no telling what else they'd messed with. And what was that gasoline smell? Maybe he'd punctured the tank. I didn't see any wet spots on the floor, but the smell seemed overpowering to me.

“Hey,” I shouted, starting to run after her. But she'd already taken off.

I
RAN
to my car and jumped in. I pulled out and gunned it. By the time I got to the attendant's booth, the wooden barrier was coming down and Emily's Miata was gone. I threw a ten-dollar bill at the guy and bit my tongue while I waited for change.

I knew she lived in Brookline. Best guess, she was headed down toward the river. The tires screeched as I peeled out. With the three-or four-block head start she had and without any taillights visible, I'd have to go on instinct. I'd never be able to see her ahead of me in the maze of back streets. I thought I caught sight of a red sports car crossing the BU Bridge. I tried to zigzag around other drivers to close the gap between us.

On Comm. Ave. I got stuck at a light behind a bus. When the light turned green, I swerved around it, my tires scraping against the curb of the trolley platform that ran down the middle of the street.

I caught a glimpse of the car again as we crossed the border into Brookline. After a few streets, she took a left. I'd almost caught up with her when she pulled into the well-lit parking lot of a multistory brick apartment building, one of those sturdy ones built in the forties. I slid to a stop under a tree. I was about to get out when I saw a shadowy figure, skirting the corner of the building under cover of trees.

Emily got out carrying a pile of clothing. She'd popped the trunk. She went around and pulled out her briefcase.

I flipped off the dome light, opened my car door, and slipped out. Now Emily was walking across the parking lot, her heels tapping on the concrete. She gave an anxious look over her shoulder.

There was definitely someone out there, pressed up against the side of the building, moving closer. Now Emily was almost under the ornate carved archway. I debated what to do. I could slam the car door and call out her name. That would scare him off. Or I could stalk him the way he was stalking Emily, catch him in the act. It was no contest. Unmasking him was far preferable to getting him spooked.

I moved closer. The figure moved closer, too. Emily was at the door. She was rummaging in her bag for her key. Using a row of parked cars for cover, I crouched and made my way to the building. I was almost clear of the last car when I heard the front door of the building close. I hovered, just able to see Emily inside, waiting at the elevator. She punched the button impatiently.

I scanned the parking lot. The base of the building. Whoever had been lurking there had vanished. I froze and listened. A car whooshed past. The trees rustled in a light breeze. Then I heard footsteps behind me and adrenaline shot through me. Before I could turn and rear back, something large hit me from behind and I was flat on the ground, gasping for breath. Someone was pushing my face down into the concrete.

“You got a problem, buddy?” the man growled at me. He ground his knee into my back. I couldn't move, never mind argue with him. It felt like I had a two-hundred-pound gorilla sitting on me.

He had me by the collar now and was lifting me up. “Get your fucking hands off me,” I said, gasping as I scrambled to my feet. His fist connected with my face and I staggered back.

I was coming at him, ready to punch him out when Emily came running across the parking lot.

“Kyle!” she shouted. “Leave him alone!”

Kyle? I wondered if this guy, who looked like he could play fullback for the Pats, knew that Emily referred to him as her “ex”-boyfriend.

“I caught him in the act,” Kyle said. “Lousy sonofabitch.”

“You idiot,” Emily said. She stood in front of Kyle, her hands on his chest. “Take it easy. Time out.” She touched his face.

I'd never seen anyone hypnotize an alligator, but this must be what it was like. Kyle went from tense and raging to calm and docile in about ten seconds. The guy was handsome in a frat-boy kind of way, dark wavy hair that was beginning to recede, broad shoulders, and a strong chin and jaw that was starting to grow jowls.

“I know you think you're protecting me,” she said, “but I don't want you hanging around anymore. This has to stop. I mean it.”

“But he was…” Kyle gave me a hard look.

“Kyle Ronan, this is Dr. Peter Zak. He's my supervisor at the Pearce.”

“At the Pearce? But I thought…aw, shit,” he said. I wondered what he'd expected. “I'm sorry.” Kyle started straightening my jacket. I pushed him away.

“You thought I was stalking Emily?”

“You followed her.”

“Her taillights were out,” I said. “And I smelled gas. I thought maybe someone punctured her gas tank, too.”

“What?” Emily said, turning pale. She walked back to her car. “They're not broken.”

“Open the trunk. Let's have a look,” I said.

She opened the trunk. I felt around inside. There were loose wires.

“Wires have been yanked.”

“Let me see that,” Kyle said, pushing me aside.

“But it's a brand-new car,” Emily said, her voice trembling.

Kyle was down on his hands and knees, looking under the car. “I don't smell any gas leak,” he said. “Still, you should get the rest of the car checked out. You never know what else he might have screwed around with.”

“Goddammit,” Emily said. “This isn't going away.”

“Now we know why I'm here,” I told Kyle. “Why were
you
skulking around in the shadows?”

“Give me a break,” he said, getting back to his feet. “I wanted to catch the bastard.” Kyle gave Emily a sideways look, as if gauging her reaction. She looked exhausted as she tucked back a strand of hair. “Double-lock your door, babe. You know where to find me if you need—”

“I'm not going to need you,” Emily said wearily. “Not now. Not ever.” She turned on him, her eyes blazing. “And if you keep creeping around, I'm going to get a restraining order.”

Kyle took a step back.

“I'm not kidding. Stay away.”

Kyle's mouth turned down and his expression turned ugly. “Ungrateful bitch,” he muttered, and slammed his fist into the side of the car. Then he turned on his heel and strode over to a black Range Rover. He climbed in. The engine roared to life and he took off.

“You okay?” Emily asked.

“I'm fine,” I said. I brushed the dirt off my pants and tucked in my shirt. Then I took off my tie and stuffed it into my pocket. I took a deep breath. It felt as if I'd been run over by a truck, but nothing seemed broken. “Promise me you'll get your car checked out before you drive it again.”

Emily smiled. “Promise.” She reached up and smoothed my collar. “And you'd better put something on that eye.” Then she went into the building.

The flesh felt singed where her fingers had grazed my neck.

I got into my car and turned on the dome light. I examined my face in the mirror. My right eye was starting to swell shut. I was going to have a formidable shiner. A shower and an icepack, that's what I needed. I tried Annie one more time before heading home, but no luck.

On the way, I rolled into a Dunkin Donuts and got myself a coffee and a cup of crushed ice. I wrapped the ice in my handkerchief and drove one-handed, pressing the makeshift icepack to my eye.

When I got home I dumped the leftover ice in the driveway. My mother had left the porch light on. She'd lived in the other half of my side-by-side two-family ever since she and my father moved in five years ago at the start of his slide into Alzheimer's.

I mind my business, and my mother minds mine, too. If she heard me say that, she'd shoot back: “Just like your brother—always with the jokes.” Truth is, we watch out for each other but pretty much stay out of each other's hair. Like that light that she'd left on for me. She didn't want me to call or knock when I got in. Just turn off the porch light, she'd tell me, “So I shouldn't worry.”

She's never been happy that one of the things I do is evaluate accused criminals. Seeing my face turning various shades of purple wasn't going to allay her fears. I hurried up the walk. I didn't want to have to figure out an explanation.

I was just unlocking my door when my mother poked her head out. “It's about time,” she said.

Time for what, I wondered. I looked at my watch. It was nearly ten.

I bent down to get a peck on the cheek. I knew she was preoccupied when she didn't notice my eye.

Annie was standing in the hall behind my mother. Her curly reddish hair was tied back and her gray eyes looked tense. She had on jeans and a Boston University sweatshirt that I knew she sometimes pulled on in the morning over nothing. This was her standard hanging-around-the-house outfit. There was some dirt streaked across her cheek, and her arms were folded tight across her front, as if she were cold, but I knew my mother's apartment was always toasty. What was she doing here? I knew something was wrong.

Annie noticed my eye right off.

“What happened to you?”

Now my mother noticed. “You evaluated another criminal?”

“I didn't. Actually it was a case of mistaken identity. This guy thought I was someone else.”

“This guy?” my mother asked, her voice laced with skepticism.

I followed my mother and Annie through the living room, with its comfortable stuffed furniture and dark patterned carpeting, and into the kitchen. The countertops gleamed. My mother was taking an ice tray from the freezer.

“I tried calling you,” I told Annie.

She reached into her pocket for her phone. “I'm sorry. I forgot I had it turned off.”

Now my mother was at the sink, knocking ice cubes into a dishcloth.

“What's wrong?” I whispered to Annie, my stomach doing flip-flops. It was amazing how little it took to catapult me back to where I'd been after Kate was killed, sure that any moment another person I cared about would be tossed off the precipice.

“I needed to talk to you.” She had her arms across her middle again, as if she were protecting something fragile. “I need your advice.”

I realized this was the first time I'd ever heard Annie say she needed me.

My mother handed me the ice, now wrapped in a moist dish-towel. She pressed it into my hand while giving the rest of me the once-over.

“Your mom heard me knocking,” Annie said. “I knew you were going over to watch that brain scan but I thought you said you'd be home by now.”

“I didn't realize you were here. I'd have brought Chinese take-out.”

Annie managed a smile. “And Toscanini's?”

“You haven't eaten?” My mother sucked in her breath. “Neither of you has eaten?” Her look dared either of us to deny it. “Sit.”

As ordered, I sat on one of the vinyl-seated chairs with metal tube frames that had been in our kitchen in Brooklyn. My mother had already taken a pot roast out of the fridge and put it on the stove to warm. Now she was taking out a casserole of leftover noodle pudding and sliding it into the microwave. She started it up. We weren't going to starve.

“So?” I asked over the oven's hum.

Now my mother had a can of fruit cocktail wedged into the electric can opener. A minute later she'd plopped two bowls of the stuff on the table. I've never understood why my mother, a woman who waxes eloquent about healthy eating, doesn't understand that fruit cocktail is to fruit what Styrofoam is to bread.

My mother bustled about, putting out silverware, napkins, and water. She propelled Annie to the table and made her sit. My mother had her rules, and hearing bad news on an empty stomach was strictly
verboten.
I stifled myself and had a spoonful of fruit cocktail. The microwave dinged.

“What is it?” I tried once more.

“It's my Uncle Jack,” Annie said.

I breathed a guilty sigh of relief—it really was a “family emergency.”

“He was married to my mother's sister. Remember, I told you about him? He's the cop who arrested me when I was seventeen for drunk driving. Threw me in jail overnight.” Annie smiled at the memory.

I did remember. Annie had told me how she was driving home after having a few beers with friends. Uncle Jack pulled her over, shined a flashlight in her face, and made her recite the alphabet. She couldn't even sing it past H.

“Anyway, he's always been a little odd, but not cuckoo or anything. He's a collector, one of those guys who can't throw anything away. Since Aunt Felicia died it's gotten worse.”

“Uh-oh,” my mother said, giving me a meaningful look. “Uncle Louie.” She put plates of pot roast and noodle pudding in front of me and Annie.

I only dimly remembered my parents making an emergency trip to Florida. I must have been about ten years old. They'd returned with an emaciated, vacant-looking soul who they told me had once been the most charming retiree on the boardwalk. Uncle Louie, my dad's older brother, had lived with us for a year before he had a stroke and went to the hospital. He'd died soon after that.

“Mom keeps an eye on Uncle Jack. Sees him about once a week. Day before yesterday she goes over there. Usually he won't let her in the apartment, meets her at the deli across the street. But now he lets her in.