Authors: Daniel Hecht
T
HERE ARE PARTS ofa woman's body, Paul thought, that are perfection. Lia stood in the middle of the room, shaking out her hair, brushing it. After she'd come back from her supply run to Mt. Kisco, she hadn't said much all afternoon and evening. Something was on her mind. Now, with the gas heater in the carriage house front room turned on, she was wearing only her blue jeans, her shirt off, her feet bare. Paul lay with his arms behind his head, admiring her.
Draw a line from the bottom of a woman's jean pocket in back, around the outside of her thigh to the double-seamed crotch: that circle, if there's the right strength and fullness and delicacy, it's inexpressible.
No poets have ever gotten it. That circle of thigh didn't just awaken desire, although that was certainly there, so much as a nameless tenderness. Maybe
reverence
was the better word for it.
That line on Lia was perfect.
And then there was the line of the breast, the slope from her collarbone, forward and outward, trim and yet somehow generous, beckoning. Culminating in her two different nipples and then tucking back in the soft, shadowed undercurve. Suggesting nurture and compassion as much as erotic possibility. The softest and warmest place in a hard, cold world. Worshipful grace.
Too bad the current climate of gender relations discouraged talking or even thinking about that beauty, the real feelings it awakened. You couldn't even explain to one woman how beautiful she was: These feelings didn't fit in short phrases, even making love wasn't enough. The only way was to let her know it over a long period of time, let a thousand gestures and words add up until she knew. Over many years. Maybe if you were lucky she'd feel some female equivalent toward you.
Lia finished her hair and sat down on the bed next to him. "I ran into Mo in Mt. Kisco today," she said. "We had lunch together."
"Great. How was he?" Something was coming. Lia wasn't smiling.
"Pretty good. We talked about things."
She was stalling. Paul gave her time.
"Among . . . other things. . . we talked about you," she said quietly.
"I told him I was worried about you. That you're exhausted and you're getting into this in ways I'm not sure are good for you. That I feel there are a lot of things you're not talking to me about. That some of the papers we've been finding indicate some history of violent pathology in the past of this place, which you have avoided talking about. Mainly that you've been different, and I'm not sure I feel good leaving you here alone for the next three days."
"Oh, for God's sake! What, you wanted Mo to take care ofme? Christ!"
"You're getting secretive and morbid and paranoid, Paul."
"I thought our hero Mo had it all figured out, anyway—Royce, Rizal, Vivien's continuous occupancy, a neat package."
"But you don't believe it. What do you believe?"
He looked at her and away. "I've got a few things I need to work through. Give me a couple more days."
She nodded and was quiet for a time. "I guess there's something else you should know," she said at last. "Concerning Mo."
So here it was. They'd made more progress, faster, than he'd have imagined. The sharp, sensitive-tough detective, and brilliant, beautiful Lia. He felt impaled on a spear of pain.
"He basically told me he was in love with me."
"I know. Can't blame him. I am too."
Lia knelt on the bed, facing him, still tense. "I told him I wasn't available."
Paul couldn't look at her. "Why not? He's good-looking, employed, doesn't have Tourette's. He's got a nice, high-risk job—"
"Paul, you look at me, right now. Stop this! I told him I am in love with you, and that I valued our relationship beyond anything I—"
"So? All the better. I'd think you'd like the element of risk. You value it, you risk it, you get off on the tension there, right?"
Lia jumped forward, straddling him, pinning his arms with incredible strength. "You cut that out! Don't you fucking dare, Paul! I'm telling you something." She was shouting, on the verge of crying. "That wouldn't be risky, that'd be just stupid. I'm not stupid, Paul!" Then she did let the tears come, lowering himself against him, wrapping around him.
She had released his arms, and he stroked her sobbing back, loving the feel of her.
"Sunday? At Break Neck? The only reason I was right about why you wouldn't jump off was that
you
showed
me
about those feelings in the first place—the way you feel about Mark. I don't have a kid of my own to love that much. When I was caught on that rock in the cave, and afterward, I realized, these risks, it's not just
me
I'm risking. If all I cared about was me, it wouldn't matter so much if something happened, but it's—there's
you
too. And I, I wouldn't—you're the only person I've ever loved that much."
There didn't seem to be any adequate response. He tried hard to believe he was enough for her, to believe he could draw all of her, even her dark places, to him. But despite the sincerity of what she said, the worm still squirmed in his soul: He couldn't quite open himself and accept her love. He'd been Plodding Paul, Predictable Paul, Play it Safe Paul too long. Pathetic.
As if she saw it in him, Lia pressed herself against him so forcefully he could hardly breathe, as if she wanted to rub away their skin and merge their flesh and bones.
L
IA'S LEAVING ON WEDNESDAY MORNING left a hole in Paul, as if his heart had been wrenched from his chest.
Only three days,
he kept reminding himself,
she'll bring back Mark, it'll be wonderful to see them
both. The people you love most, under the same roof again, at last.
He turned to look at the lodge.
But not under this roof, thanks.
The three of them would stay at Dempsey and Elaine's for the final few days as he finished the job. Vivien would come, they'd work out some closure, and good-bye. The sooner he was done with this place, the better.
With the library papers done at last, the books stacked, the floor swept, he went to Vivien's bedroom and began digging through the rubble, scanning papers, setting some aside. It took less than an hour for him to realize that this was the gold mine.
She'd kept these papers close to
her, here in her always-locked room.
By noon he took what he'd culled to the smoking room to go over in detail.
These were in worse shape than the papers in the library, as if like everything else in her bedroom a particularly intense frenzy or rage had been directed at them. Many were ripped, wrinkled, stained. Rain had been blowing in the blasted windows. No document was complete. But what he found was enough.
Paul set the stack of papers on the game table, then went to the library and returned with several volumes: a medical dictionary, a
Physician's
Desk Reference,
a beat-up
DSMIV.
He should have seen it before: That Vivien possessed several editions of the
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual
was in itself suggestive. In the
Manual,
the American Psychiatric Association listed and described in detail 187 psychological disorders.
So many ways to go crazy,
Paul thought.
So much that can go wrong.
He was familiar with the
DSM,
having referred to it many times in his quest to solve Mark's problems. Now he needed it to help decipher some of the papers he'd found in Vivien's bedroom. Most of these were disordered pages of psychiatric diagnoses, using a lot of technical terms. Letters from doctors, dealing with psychological diagnoses. Bills for services and payment receipts.
Just the range of diagnostic records, what remained of them, was full of implications. Paul recognized several tests: the Reiss Screen for Maladaptive Behavior, the Psychopathology Inventory for Mentally Retarded Adults, the Apperceptive Personality Test. Not evaluatory procedures administered to just anybody.
Poor Vivien. Everyone had a different answer, another name for it, didn't
they? And none of them helped at all.
Turning back to the
DSM IV,
he looked up the diagnostic requirements for Intermittent Explosive Disorder. Criteria for IED included multiple episodes of uncontrolled aggressive impulses "resulting in serious assaultive acts or destruction of property," "behavior that is grossly out of proportion to any provocation or precipitating psychosocial stressor." The listing went on to note that the "spells" or "attacks" of explosive behavior were "preceded by a sense of tension or arousal" and were "followed immediately by a sense of relief."
Close but no cigar.
Another letter spoke of Psychotic Trigger Reaction. PTR was a lot like IED, with the twist that while a specific stimulus may trigger the violence, the violence may be directed toward inoffensive persons "at which time the aggressor is apparently reliving past experiences."
Almost,
Paul thought. Any one of these could describe part of the condition, but none grasped the whole picture.
Ultimately, it was one of the bills that gave him what he needed. For a long time, he stared at the two photos of the strange child. Then he went into the kitchen to call Morgan Ford. He and Mo had some unfinished business anyway.
"His name was Erik Hoffmann III," Paul told Mo. "He was my aunt's first child, Royce's older brother. I suspect he was born in the
Philippines when they lived there, probably around 1949. Maybe good medical care wasn't readily available in the islands then, maybe there were problems with the delivery. I say this because the type of neurological problems he suffered from often result from oxygen deprivation or other birth trauma."
"Exactly how would you describe his, uh, condition? His problems?" The detective was looking over the array of tattered papers Paul had assembled. With Lia gone, the issue of her hanging between them, Mo seemed tense, uncomfortable, stiff. Paul thought of bringing it out into the open, then decided that it was Mo's job to bring it up. He could sweat a httle until he did.
"Sounds like a combination of conditions. He was able to do basic things for himself, like go to the bathroom, wash himself, and eat, had basic verbal skills, but was profoundly asocial, was never expected to live on his own. Most important, he had periodic outbursts of explosive violence. That he was extremely, unmanageably violent I can deduce from the level of supervision they assigned him, the occasional use of isolation and restraints—they obviously considered him a risk for his caretakers or other patients. Then there are the drugs they gave him: metoprolol, for example. Basically blocks the body's ability to use adrenaline. You can't get cranked up with that stuff in your veins."
Mo looked up. "How come you know so much about this stuff?"
"My own son has had some . . . problems," Paul said, turning away. "I've got a neurological problem myself—Tourette's syndrome. Done a lot of reading.
"Tourette's—I've heard of that." The focus in Mo's eyes sharpened with unabashed interest. "Fascinating. I've never met . . . one of you before."
"We' are a pretty diverse bunch," Paul said stiffly. "I can't claim to be representative."
Mo cracked a grin. "Okay. No stereotyping." He picked up some bills from several long-term psychiatric care facilities, which Paul had arranged in chronological order. "These—obviously he was institutionalized. It looks like they moved him several times. Any idea why?"
"There could be a lot of reasons, but I have a theory, sure."
"Which is?" "Personally, I don't think he was safe around his brother, Royce. I think we'll find that the Hoffmann Trust consisted of Erik III and Royce. Maybe their father was old-fashioned, traditional—he couldn't stand to disinherit his oldest son. If Erik had periods of comparative normahty, his father may have held out hope he'd recover."
Like the rest
of us.
"So Hoffmann set up the trust in both of their names. It would make sense anyway, a way to provide for Erik Ill's medical care."
"Which must have added up. What—forty, fifty thou a year? Over twenty, thirty years—" Mo scratched his head, calculating. "Erik III was spending a lot of trust money. And as long as he was alive, he stood between Royce and a lot more. Is that what you're saying?"
"If I'm right that Erik III was the other beneficiary of the trust, yes," Paul said. "One other consideration. If Erik was legally mentally incompetent, my aunt as custodial parent would retain his power of attorney. And at least some influence over the trust."
"Which, if I'm understanding the, uh, family dynamics, your cousin probably wasn't thrilled about." Mo chuckled at his own understatement.
"I tried to call my aunt today, to ask her about Erik III, but she didn't pick up the phone. I'm pissed because she's keeping things from me. I'd like to know why. I'll try her again later, but I'm not confident she'll tell me anything."
"So what's next? Where do you want to take it?"
"I want to know where Erik is. Whether she feels like telling me or not."
"I can see," Mo said, "how that would be nice to know."
"While we're at it, we should also figure out why the trust reverted to Royce alone."
"An excellent point, Inspector," Mo said.
"I mean," Paul went on, "what are the options? A timetable built into the trust from the beginning. Or a successful legal challenge by Royce, based on something like technical failings in Hoffmann's will or the way the trust was set up, or maybe on Erik Ill's mental competence.
Or Erik died. Can you think of any others?"
They both considered it. Outside, the bushes and trees above the garden shivered in the wind, full of nervous energy. As if the silence of the house reminded them both of Lia's absence, the tension grew between them. Mo fidgeted, picking up and discarding the handful of interesting trinkets Paul had found in the big room and left on the table along with the photographs. A ball of amber with a small dragonfly trapped inside, a queer earring consisting of a silver skull backed by a small red-and-green feather, a pewter paperweight in the form of a miniature steam locomotive. The detective's fingers returned several times to the earring.
"A weird piece, isn't it? My aunt has strange tastes," Paul said, feeling awkward.
Mo dropped it distractedly, shrugged. They were both stalling, Paul realized.
For a moment, Paul felt the old tics building, the itching inside. To cover the bell-ringing gesture, he stretched and stood up. "You want some coffee?" he asked.
"Coffee'd be good."
Paul turned to the table and poured coffee into Styrofoam cups.
"Black okay? We've got powdered white stuff* if you want it."
"Black's fine."
"I've been drinking a lot of this shit the last few days. I don't know if I told you, my aunt's supposed to come out this weekend. I'd like to be further along. I'm trying to catch up—a lot of late nights."
"Yeah, Lia mentioned she was coming back." The detective's eyebrows jumped involuntarily as he realized he'd backed into the issue.
"She, uh, told you we had lunch yesterday?"
"Yes, she did."
Mo nodded. "I figured she would."
Paul didn't answer.
"I've been working too hard," Mo said. "One of the kids I've been talking to about this whole thing killed herself, it kind of bent me out of shape. So I got drunk the night before, I was a little off when I ran into Lia. I guess you could say I, uh, came on to her. I don't mean anything physical, but—she told you this?"
Paul nodded.
Mo looked at his hands. Then he seemed to get over his need to apologize. "She's an exceptional person. You are a very, very fortunate son ofa bitch."
"You're divorced, aren't you?" Paul said mildly. "Sometime within the last year or so?"
"I tell you that earlier?"
"Let's just say I recognize the state of mind. From first-hand experience." Mo had handled it well, humbling himself only so far and no further, paying some dues but not more. You had to like him. "Mo, if I met Lia now, I'd go for her like crazy, I'd try for her, no matter who she was with. I don't blame you."
He sat back down, facing Mo. They drank coffee in silence.
"Anyway," Mo said, calmer.
"So where do we go from here? I can't go running any outside research, I don't have the time. I'm scrambling to get this job done, with my aunt coming. I want to get the rest of my pay and get
the fuck
out of here. Can you look into Erik III for me?"
"It's on my agenda. I'll start with the last place we know he was—this Westford Center in Schenectady." Mo slapped the wrinkled papers.
"This is Michael Stropes." The voice was deep, cultured. Not a crackpot's voice.
"Dr. Stropes, this is Paul Skoglund. I wrote to you recently about hyperdynamism.''
"Oh, yes. Did you get my letter?"
"Yes, I did. I wanted to thank you, and also to ask if there was any chance you and I could meet. Preferably sometime soon. I'll gladly accommodate your schedule if you can spare me the time."
Stropes was quiet, and Paul wondered if the doctor had noticed the urgency in his request. "As a matter of fact, Thursday afternoon has suddenly opened up for me. A cancellation. Not that there hasn't been a rush to fill the vacuum, but I'll gladly set aside some time to see you, if you can make it tomorrow."
They settled on one o'clock, at Stropes's office in Manhattan.
After talking to Stropes, Paul tried Vivien in San Francisco, and again she didn't answer. He hung up, feeling speedy, full of energy, full of pressure. Through the kitchen windows, he could see that the weather had darkened and seemed to be mirroring his internal state: The trees and undergrowth jerked as if something were scurrying among them.
Without really thinking about it, he brought Ted's .38 upstairs when he went back to work in Vivien's bedroom. The feel of the gun tucked under his waistband wasn't too bad, he decided.
He filled bag after bag with shattered things, putting valuables or reparable items into boxes he stacked along one wall. The more he saw the details, the more the damage registered. Here was a solid rosewood drawer-front, folded in thirds as if it were cardboard. The heavy ebony legs of what had once been a canopy bed, broken and
twisted.
What finally stopped him was a crushed, grapefruit-size sphere of brass, elaborately etched with Arabic designs. The sphere was hollow, with threaded holes at both ends, and from the shred of electrical wiring running through it Paul deduced that it had served as the base ofa lamp. Turning the heavy thing in his hands, he could see that the brass was over half an inch thick, yet had been squeezed almost flat by some incalculable pressure. Looking closely, he saw a familiar pattern in the four evenly spaced parallel dents that marred one side. He slid his fingers into them and found it a perfect fit. On the other side, the rounded dent ofa thumb.