Bad Thoughts (13 page)

      
Sonofabitch coward.

      
She wanted to call him now and tell him to go fuck himself. That he could find himself another therapist. She caught herself in the middle of the thought and let a bitter smile pull up the corners of her mouth. A woman scorned, she chided herself angrily.

      
Of course, she got only what she deserved. She never thought about getting involved with a patient before, well, maybe thought about it, but not seriously, at least not to this degree. And this was not only a patient but a married one. So what did she expect? You play with matches, you get burned. You play with married men, you get dumped. And, what she had to keep telling herself, you play with patients, you lose your license. So she got off easy . . . But what the hell was it with him? Why couldn’t she keep him out of her mind? Probably the pheromones he put out, making it completely physical and beyond her rational control. That had to be it.

      
He was already ten minutes late for his appointment.

      
Lousy, stinking sonofabitch . . .

      
Successful therapy requires both human interaction and caring, but she had let things go too far with him. Even going shopping to buy those black lace panties for the sonofabitch. From now on her relationship with Shannon was going to be completely clinical. Nothing else.

      
There was a knock on the door. She felt the butterflies rise up in her stomach as she stammered out for the person to come in. At that moment she felt more like a fraud than ever in her life.

      
The door opened and Mark Bennett, the hypnotherapist, shoved his face in.

      
“Sorry I’m late,” he apologized, out of breath. “Parking out on Beacon Street now is murder. I ended up five blocks away.”

      
“That’s okay,” Horwitz said. The butterflies settled back down like lead weights. “My patient hasn’t shown up yet.”

      
Bennett nodded, took his overcoat off and folded it over a chair and sat down, crossing his legs. With his fleshy face and receding curly hair and pear-shaped body he looked a little like Larry Fine from the Three Stooges. This is what’s always interested in me, Horwitz thought, fucking stooges.

      
“Maybe you could tell me about the patient,” Bennett asked, smiling pleasantly.

      
“He’s a thirty-three-year-old police officer. As an adolescent he found his mother after she’d been brutally murdered. It seems that repressed guilt has manifested itself into both clinical depression and extended blackouts.”

      
“What’s he guilty about?”

      
“He feels if he’d come home earlier he could’ve saved her.” Elaine Horwitz smiled joylessly. “He wouldn’t have been able to.”

      
Bennett settled back into his chair. “It sounds like you already figured it out. What do you need me for?”

      
“I don’t have it all figured out,” Horwitz said. “There’s something else. I have no idea what it is.” She sighed heavily and let her shoulders slump. “There’s a yearly pattern to his breakdowns. I want to dig deep and see what we can find.”

      
Bennett was frowning, making his long, rubbery face seem even more comical. “Yearly breakdowns? How consistent are they?”

      
“Very consistent. Every year around the anniversary of his mother’s death. Same pattern of symptoms climaxing to a prolonged blackout, usually lasting a week, and without the patient having any memories of it.”

      
Mark Bennett was frowning deeply and shaking his head, a perturbed look spreading over his features. “Lasting a week?” he muttered to himself.

      
Horwitz nodded. It sounded a lot worse when spoken out loud. Bad enough, actually, to make her regret not trying to have Shannon hospitalized. It made her wonder how much she’d let her personal feelings interfere with her treatment. A sick feeling crept into her stomach. She glanced at her watch. “He should be here by now,” she said uneasily. “He’s already fifteen minutes late. Let me try giving him a call.”

      
She dialed his number and let it ring until the answering machine clicked on. When she put down the receiver she offered Bennett an apologetic smile.

      
“He could be on his way,” she said. “I don’t know. I hope so. He did have a setback yesterday.”

      
“How so?”

      
Horwitz paused for a moment, and then explained about Shannon’s latest homicide case and the similarities between it and his own mother’s death. “All in all, a bizarre coincidence,” she added.

      
Bennett shook his head. “One thing I’ve learned from years of hypnotherapy . . . there’s no such thing as a coincidence.”

      
“What do you mean?”

      
“Just that.”

      
“Don’t give me that crap. What are you trying to say?”

      
“I’m not really sure,” Bennett said, pausing, trying to smile. “I have to admit I’ve never heard of anything like this. This is pretty bizarre stuff. And now during the time when your patient suffers from his blackouts, a woman is murdered in the same freakish way as his mother—”

      
“You’re way off track,” Elaine Horwitz cut in, annoyance pushing some color into her cheeks. “First of all, my patient hasn’t blacked out yet—”

      
“Excuse me, but how do you know?”

      
“Because—” Horwitz stumbled, trying to explain the obvious, partly because it was no longer so obvious. “Well, for one reason, his blackouts last a week.”

      
“How do you know he doesn’t have shorter duration ones, also? Does he remember them when they happen?”

      
“He knows when he has them,” Horwitz argued. “Anyway, this wouldn’t fit his pattern—”

      
“Again, how do you know?”

      
The thought left her stunned. “This is ridiculous,” she said, her voice rising. “There’s physical evidence tying a boy to the murder, and besides—”

      
“Elaine.” The hypnotherapist had both hands up in an exaggerated sign of surrender. “I’m just talking. You know, just trying to kill some time.”

      
“That’s okay,” Elaine Horwitz offered grudgingly. They sat in silence for the next several minutes with Bennett’s attempts at small talk falling flat. Finally, he glanced at his watch and asked if it was safe to assume the patient wasn’t showing. That got to Horwitz. Pretentious little prick. Couldn’t just say that it looked like the patient wasn’t showing up. Had to ask if it was a safe thing to assume. Horwitz told him it appeared to be a safe thing to assume.

      
Bennett stopped at the door before leaving. “When you hear from him again give me a call,” he said, pausing as he stroked his chin. “I’m curious.”

* * * * *

      
February 7. Night.

      
It didn’t surprise Susan Shannon to find an empty apartment when she arrived home from work. When ten o’clock rolled around and Shannon still hadn’t come home it didn’t faze her a bit. It was what she expected and all she felt about it was a heavy weariness. For the last few days she knew it was inevitable. So she called Joe DiGrazia, apologized for waking him, and told him that Shannon had disappeared. After that she had her first good night’s sleep in weeks.

      
When she woke it was as if a hundred-pound weight had been rolled from her back. She pulled suitcases out of the closet and started packing her clothes. She had them filled when Joe DiGrazia called. He just wanted to tell her that he’d been out all night looking for Shannon, hadn’t had any luck yet, but was going to take the day off and see what he could do. After she hung up the phone the weariness that had hit her the night before fell back on her like cement. All her resolve, her determination, crumbled away. She just sat on the edge of the bed and started weeping. It came out of her like a faucet.

      
It seemed a long time before she could slow it down, before she could breathe normally. Her lungs and chest ached from the crying. The thought struck her how a friend of Shannon’s spent the night driving the streets for him while his own wife was all set to bail out, and as the thought stuck in her mind the sobbing started again. This time, though, it was silent and tearless. There wasn’t anything left inside for tears.

      
When she was done, she stood up and unpacked the suitcases. After that she got the phone book and found a number she had circled months earlier.

* * * * *

      
Phil Dornich knocked on the door at eleven o’clock and Susan Shannon showed him in. A short, round man in his middle fifties wearing a cheap suit and a stained overcoat. As he smiled at her, she noticed he didn’t have many teeth left in his mouth and what was there was in pretty bad shape.

      
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he greeted her as he extended a hand. He had a handkerchief balled up in his other hand and was mopping his forehead with it. A cold winter’s day and the guy was sweating like a pig. It nauseated her. Susan Shannon took the extended hand and let go on contact. She asked if he’d like a seat and maybe some coffee. He accepted both. First thing in the kitchen she washed her hands under the kitchen faucet.

      
When she brought the coffee in, Dornich was perched on the sofa in the living room, his overcoat opened and both a large paunch and a holstered revolver showing.

      
He grinned as Susan noticed the revolver. “I’m fully licensed to carry, ma’am,” he said. “I hope this doesn’t upset you.”

      
Susan handed him his coffee and sat down across from him. “No, not at all,” she said, smiling weakly. “I’ve been married to a police officer long enough that I’m used to it.” She paused and looked down at her hands. “I’d like to thank you for coming. I don’t think I was up to leaving the apartment.”

      
“That’s quite all right,” Dornich took a sip of the coffee and then put it down so he could mop the back of his neck with his handkerchief. “Something about my metabolism,” he smiled slightly. “I just can’t keep from sweating.

      
“Now, just to explain,” he continued as he shifted his body forward. “I’m fully licensed by the state of Massachusetts as a private investigator. My business, Dornich Investigations, has been around for eight years now. Before that I was a Boston police officer for twenty-five years and before my retirement I was head of detectives—”

      
“Very impressive,” Susan said.

      
“Yes, thank you,” Dornich wiped his handkerchief behind his ear and then along the side of his neck and under his chin. He leaned forward a little more so he had his elbows resting against his knees. “So there’s no misunderstanding, let me go over my rates. One hundred and twenty dollars an hour plus any reasonable expenses. We won’t charge you for gas or mileage or postage or stuff like that, but if we need to travel you will get charged for the airfare and hotel. By the way, how did you hear of us?”

      
“A friend recommended you,” Susan lied. Actually, she had picked his ad out at random from the yellow pages. Dornich nodded, having the good sense not to push her for a name. Susan Shannon felt a sense of deflation. “I didn’t know it would be this expensive,” she murmured under her breath.

      
Dornich reached forward with his stubby arms and took hold of the coffee and sipped it slowly. “Well, it can be expensive,” he agreed. “But we’re the most experienced firm in Boston. All of my investigators are ex–police officers. My chief investigator worked on the Son of Sam cases in New York. Our forensics expert is often called on by municipalities all over the country.”

      
Susan stared straight ahead as Dornich smiled sympathetically. With his mouth open all she could count were five teeth and a couple of them were nothing more than stumps. She found herself nodding slowly. For a long time she had convinced herself she was saving the money for them to buy a house, but she now knew she had only been kidding herself. The money had been her escape hatch and she had just nailed it shut. “Okay,” she said. “I’d like to hire you.”

      
“Well, now, that’s good.” He let his lips form a fragile smile. “And what would you like to hire me to do?”

      
“To find my husband.”

      
He straightened up on the sofa, letting his head nod in a knowing way. “It happens all the time,” he started.

      
“No, it doesn’t. Not like this, anyway. My husband’s sick. He’s got some sort of amnesia.”

      
“How long has he been missing?”

      
“Since last night.”

      
“Last night, huh?” Dornich rubbed his face, his thick, stubby fingers kneading into the flesh. “What makes you think he’s got amnesia?”

      
“Because he gets it every year,” Susan said.

      
Dornich wiped his handkerchief across his face and then shifted his round body forward as he attempted to broach the delicate subject. “I had a client once,” he began, “whose husband would sleepwalk every couple of months. He’d just get out of bed, hands held out in front of his face, and walk out of the house and then drive off.” He demonstrated briefly, holding out his own two arms and looking ridiculous.

      
“A couple of days later,” he continued, talking quickly, “he’d come back home completely disoriented, claiming he had no clue where he’d been. Well, one time the wife was worried so sick she hired me to find him.

      
“I found him shacked up,” he said after taking time to wipe his face. “His girlfriend would come in from Atlanta every couple of months and he’d go through his sleepwalking act. Now, maybe your husband has some sort of yearly rendezvous—”