The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (38 page)

Oh, cut the drama, I told myself. Lettie and her vicious gang are gone. You’re perfectly safe now. Something about that basement has been nagging at you for decades; you need to go see what it is. Go on down. Get it over with.

I stood at the top of the basement steps, debating with myself, replaying the scene from my dream, seeing my mother float downstairs, wanting to stop her, calling out to her, knowing that something awful was about to happen as I saw her kneeling on the basement floor …I heard a thwack.

I stiffened, stood still, telling myself that the sound had been my imagination. I listened, deciding that there must be an animal downstairs. Maybe one of Lettie’s dogs had managed to escape the animal control officers. Or maybe it was just a squirrel. I waited, heard nothing, almost managed to convince myself that the sound had never happened. It was okay to go downstairs. I opened the door cautiously silently, and started down. Holding my cane in one hand, the banister in the other, I lowered myself onto my right foot. One step. Another. A third. A fourth. Then I heard it again.

T
HWACK.

I froze. The sound was not my imagination. It was a definite noise, and it didn’t sound at all like a dog or a squirrel. Thwack. Thwack. It was dense and scratchy Like a shovel.

Oh, God. Someone was definitely down there. Maybe Lettie’s assistant, Jimmy—no one had seen him since Lettie’s arrest. I stood there, heart racing, mouth dry, unable to move. Get out of here, I told myself. Turn around and go back up the steps. But I couldn’t. Not yet. I needed to see who was there, what they were doing, and I bent down low enough to see deep into the basement. And I froze.

There, across the dark expanse, in the shadows beside the cedar closet, I saw something impossible, the exact image of my dream. I blinked. I shook my head. But the image didn’t disappear. Someone stood right where my mother had stood, digging where she’d buried her treasure in my dreams. As I watched, the figure lifted a pick and brought it down again, shattering old tiles and loosening the concrete beneath. Thwack Again. Thwack What I was seeing made no sense. But immediately, without seeing his face, I knew who was digging in the shadows: my father. Obviously, he’d taken another cab ride and come back again to raid yet another secret stash from the house, the one buried by my mother. He needed more gambling money.

I almost called out to him. But at the last moment I hesitated, uncertain. The man seemed too steady, too agile to be my father. I squinted to see more clearly. Holding on to the banister, bending forward with my weight on my right leg, I peered into the darkness at the man near the cedar closet. As if he could feel my gaze, he stopped digging and looked over his shoulder toward the stairs, exposing his face.

He wasn’t my father. He wasn’t Jimmy or Digger or any of the other guys from the dogfight. Bertram Haggerty, the shrink, gazed at me across the darkness, his eyes startled, his pick poised to strike another thwack.

“B
ERTRAM?
”

His knees bent, his eyes darted around for an escape. I lowered myself step by step.

“What are you doing?” It was a challenge more than a question. I knew damned well what he was doing. Clearly, I’d told him about my dream while under hypnosis. No wonder he wouldn’t tell me what I’d talked about; I’d talked about the buried treasure. Probably, I’d subconsciously remembered all the details. Probably, I’d told him where all the family valuables had been hidden, and in the guise of helping me, he’d gathered all the information, coming here to collect the loot. He’d betrayed my confidence and all his professional ethics, not to mention the law. And he’d dug an impressive hole in the basement floor.

“Zoe.” He stuttered, stalling for time, still holding on to the pick. “Oh. Okay I didn’t, well, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

He babbled on, saying anything that came to mind, trying to think of what to do. Meantime, I made it to the bottom of the steps and started toward him, unafraid.

“How could you, Bertram? I trusted you.”

He stopped talking and eyed my bandaged foot, watched me hobble toward him on my cane.

“W-what happened to your foot?”

For a moment he was the old Bertram. Helpful, concerned. “No, Bertram. What happened to you? You used me. You used what I told you under hypnosis—”

“What? Listen to me, Zoe. You know I’d never—”

“Bullshit. Why would you be here otherwise? You betrayed my trust—” I was almost an arm’s length away from him now. Or a pick’s length. Or a cane’s.

“Okay. Yes. You’re right. I betrayed your trust. But I would never have done it if I weren’t desperate. I had no choice. Can we talk about it? Please, Zoe? Just let me explain.”

He squirmed, trying to excuse his behavior. He told me again how funding for his research had been cut, how he had no money left, no credit, either. Over the past few years, he and his wife had overspent the equity in their house, maxed out their credit cards. Borrowed from his parents until they’d turned him down. Then, under hypnosis, I’d mentioned my father and the money and fortune in valuables hidden throughout the house. At first it hadn’t occurred to him to search for it. But one day, he’d found himself prowling through the house, seeking stashes of cash or objects of value. And when I’d told him of the treasure my mother had buried near the closet, he thought that no one would ever miss it. And it might help him save his marriage and his research, might see him through his financial crisis. He’d pay me back in time. His research depended on my decision. He seemed to think his actions, sneaking in and robbing the house, were justified.

And gradually I began to accept his viewpoint. His cadence was relaxing, assuring, and his voice gave familiar cues. “Don’t be upset, Zoe. Breathe deeply. Relax. Listen to me.” The rhythm of his voice seemed to caress me, and I felt less tense. Maybe I was being too harsh. His program had been cut, his funding withdrawn. What was the poor man supposed to do? Forget about his patients? Abandon his life’s work? Discontinue his vital research? He was only looking for the treasure in order to help others and make a lasting contribution to psychiatry. Maybe I should let him dig. After all, wasn’t it my dream about my mother that had brought both of us here? If he found the treasure, wouldn’t that answer my questions? Wouldn’t we both be better off? Besides, I owed him. He’d helped me when I’d needed it, easing my contractions, taking time out of his hectic schedule whenever I needed him.

Bertram was a gifted, generous man. Wasn’t it actually a privilege just to know him? Shouldn’t I do whatever I could to promote his work?

A shrill voice penetrated my haze, and I blinked, disoriented. I was sitting on a crate, facing Bertram, who’d turned toward the stairs, blinking rapidly. Obviously, I’d missed something, couldn’t remember sitting down.

“Pay no attention; the only sound you hear is my voice,” Bertram urged. But he was too late; I’d already heard something else.

“I swear, Zoe. This is your last chance. I’m leaving—”

Oh, it was Susan. She was up in the kitchen. “Susan?” I called to her, confused.

“Focus, Zoe. Relax. Listen only to my voice.” Bertram reached for my chin, turned it back to face his. Wait…he was trying to hypnotize me? I resisted, turning away, realizing too late that he must have already done so. When? For how long? I had no idea. But he was nervous now. Trembling, trying to sound calm. “Look at me, Zoe. Look at me.”

“What are you doing down here?” Susan thundered down the steps, slowing when she saw us.

Bertram jumped to his feet, his pick raised over my head like a weapon. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Who the hell is this?” Susan asked, undaunted, slowing her pace but not stopping.

“Stop there—” Bertram ordered.

“Dr. Bertram Haggerty, meet Susan Cummings, attorney at law.”

Bertram looked from me to Susan, Susan to me. “Stay away,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt anybody.” He danced around, nervous, not sure how to look threatening.

“Nice to meet you.” Susan stepped closer, as if about to shake hands, and as Bertram flustered, I swung my cane up suddenly, knocking the pick from his hands. It clattered to the floor and he leaped after it, but Susan was faster, pouncing on him, landing on his back. She held him down as I hobbled over and joined her, and we sat on him, planted comfortably until he quieted down.

“I told you not to come here.” Susan took out her cell phone, ready to call 9-I-I.

“It’s a good thing I did. He’d have dug up the whole basement.”

“Wait… please. Don’t call the police.”

Bertram whined so pathetically that Susan hesitated, looking at me. “Want me to call?”

I shrugged, uncertain. “What else are we going to do with him?”

“You could let me go,” Bertram pleaded. “Please.”

“Is he kidding?” Susan looked baffled. “Who the hell is this guy?”

I was about to tell her, but Bertram spoke first, breathless from our combined weight on his back. “I’m not a thief. Zoe, tell her. You know I’m not. Tell her I’m a psychiatrist. Tell her who I am. I’m not a criminal; I’m just desperate. It’s all been too much. My whole life’s come apart. Have some compassion…look at me, what I’ve been reduced to. I’m so desperate for cash I’m digging in a basement for buried treasure? I’m a zero. An absolute joke—”

“What’s he talking about? Is he nuts?” Susan whispered, as if not to offend him.

“If you let me go, I swear, I’ll never do anything like this again. Ever. I’ll live in the street before I rob anyone.” Bertram’s voice was wobbly, as if he was about to cry. “I only did this for my patients. For their sake.” He dissolved into tears, not a pretty sound. “Please don’t call the police. Please. I’ll do anything.”

Susan blinked, baffled. “What should we do?”

“Hold on a sec.” I needed to think. Bertram had betrayed my trust, and, moments ago, he’d tried to hypnotize me to get away. But he was pathetic, and I knew, as he insisted, that he wasn’t really a thief. No doubt, after this he’d never attempt another criminal act. And actually he’d saved me some trouble by digging that hole.

Beneath our butts, Bertram’s body shook, sobbing. “I’m begging you, Zoe.”

“Okay,” I decided. “We’ll let you go on one condition.”

“Anything.” He stopped crying.

“You tell me everything.”

“What do you mean?” The question was a duet; Susan and Bertram asked it together.

“I want to know everything I told you under hypnosis. Including why I cried during every session.”

Bertram was quiet for a moment. Why? A minute ago, he’d been begging for freedom; now he was hesitating?

“Deal?” I asked.

He remained silent, struggling to breathe.

“Or we can call the cops.”

“No…don’t.”

“Fine. Tell me. All of it.”

“Zoe, think about it. The only reason you don’t consciously remember on your own is that you don’t want to. There are reasons for that. I can’t be responsible for what happens—”

“Okay, your choice. Go ahead, Susan. Call—”

“No. Okay. I’ll tell you. Just don’t blame me afterward. I’m doing this under duress.”

OF COURSE WE had to let him up first so he could breathe. Then, mussed up from our tussle, Bertram sat on the basement floor and gave a list of disclaimers. He didn’t know for sure that anything he was about to say was true. After all, the events he was about to describe had been told to him by the voice of a child. Under hypnosis, I had revealed what I’d seen when I’d been young and unsophisticated. The truth may have been colored by emotion, distorted by time. Et cetera. Finally, though, he began.

I listened as he reviewed my parents’ repeated arguments, my mother’s frustrations with my father’s gambling. Bertram knew that she’d stashed away money and valuables, protecting them from his gaming so that she could pay the electric bill or the grocery. But, apparently, money wasn’t the only thing my mother hid.

“According to what you said, I think your mother had a form of OCD.”

“OCD?” Susan echoed.

“Obsessive compulsive disorder.” My mother?

“That’s right.” Bertram nodded too enthusiastically. “She hid things, all sorts of things, not just money. Apparently, she felt compelled to protect all kinds of possessions, concealing them. Protecting them.”

“I told you that?”

“Not in those words. You told me what you saw her hiding. Sometimes it was jewelry or cash. Sometimes it was a box of laundry detergent.” He pointed to the floor. To a soiled and crushed box of Tide that he’d unearthed.

Tide?

“Your father couldn’t understand her behavior,” he went on. “So tensions built. Your parents fought, and you saw their fights. Nothing was secret from you. You watched your mother sneaking around, hiding her shoes, jars of peanut butter, family heirlooms, wads of cash. Like most children, you knew what went on in that house better than anyone else. But, like most children, you lacked context and maturity to understand its significance. So, in your mind, you linked two behaviors, trying to make sense of them. Mommy was mad at Daddy for gambling; that must be why Mommy hid money and other things from him. That idea was how you made sense of your world. But, in reality, I think your father gambled, and your mother hid things. The two behaviors became entangled in your mind, but actually occurred independently of each other.”

What? My father gambled, and my mother hid things. My mother had obsessive compulsive disorder? I saw her again, sneaking down through the hallways, tiptoeing down the stairs, hiding bundles.

“Louise,” I heard my father pleading. “Where is the money?”

“You’ll never find it.”

“Think, Louise. Try to remember. There are bills to pay.”

My mother shrugged with hopeless eyes. “You knew it would be like this, Walter. You shouldn’t have married me.”

All these years, I’d thought that comment had been my mother blaming my father. Had she in fact been lamenting her own compulsive behavior?