The Girls He Adored (42 page)

Cazimir Buckley's yellow eyes were damp and dreamy. He kept his thumb on the infuser button for comfort. He seemed to have been energized by the social interaction, thought Pender—or perhaps he wasn't quite as indifferent to the prospect of a final reckoning as he'd pretended to be.

“So the Juvie here, man, to me it's like one a them, whatchacallem, Med Clubs, Club Meds. Big ol' farm, first horse I ever seen outside the TV that a cop wasn' ridin'. First cows and pigs I
ever
seen. And they fed us good. Best I ever ate in my life. I didn' even mind shovelin' cow shit—it's shit, but it's, like, clean shit. At night they lock us down in one big dormitory together, trusties in charge.

“Them farm boys, they ain't seen many brothers up here. I took some whuppins, give some whuppins. What save my ass from a real stompin', the trusties had this rule: all fights one on one. You want to mess with a dude, you call him out after lockdown. It's what we had instead a TV.”

Buckley closed his eyes, mashed his thumb down on the infuser button. As they waited for the morphine to take effect, Pender had a delicate decision to make. His customary interviewing technique allowed for digression—sometimes you learned things going up side roads you'd never learn on the highway. But Buckley was already weakening, and he didn't appear to have much strength in reserve.

“Max,” prompted Pender. “Tell me about Max.”

Buckley's eyes fluttered open. “I'm
gettin'
there, man, I'm
gettin'
there. He come to Juvie straight out of the hospital, his hands is all burned to shit, got gloves on for the skin graffs. No way that li'l dude belong in Juvie, but he don' have no place to go back to, either, and wouldn' no foster home take him in, 'cause he burn that last place down.

“Li'l sweet piece like that, you reckon he gon' be somebody's butt boy his first night. But got-damn if the li'l fucker couldn' fight like a man. Ka-ra-tay! He coulda taught Jackie Chan a move or two. First dude mess with him, kid kick his cracker ass just usin' his feet.

“Then when them bandages come off and he can use his hands, nobody fuck with him,
nobody
call him out. So he start callin' dudes out his own self. Now you take
me
back then—back then Caz
like
to fight. And some dudes, they
love
to fight. But little Max, he
need
to fight.

“One night, finely he call me out. My auntie, she come out to visit me, bring me a box a homemade cookies. Max, he say how come you don' give me no cookies, dude? Share and share alike. I act all scared and shit, say here, man, take all the fuckin' cookies you want. Then when he got both hands full of cookies, I jump him. Bloody his nose, kick the shit out of him while he still down, cause I don' want no part of him after he get up.

“Now you figure, after somethin' like that, dude gonna wait his chance, get some back. Not Max. It's like he my asshole buddy from there on. Follow me aroun' like a puppy dog—how you
do
that to me, Caz, how you
do
that? What I'm gonna tell him, wait til your man got his hands full of cookies and too greedy to let go? Got-damn, he'd a kicked my ass good, he figure that out. So I make some shit up 'bout countin' back from ten, and jumpin' your man before you get to one. Anytime 'fore you get to one, so long as you don't make up your mind too soon.”

“I have to tell you, Caz, you just might have been onto something there,” said Pender, thinking of how fast Casey—Max—had jumped him in the holding cell.

“Got-damn if
he
don' think so. He practice and practice—he just be out there feedin' his chickens—man, he love them chickens— and alla sudden, voom!—he bust a move. Standin' in the chow line, voom!—he bust a move. Got so good at it, finely wouldn' nobody on the ranch have no part of him, so they put him on the boxin' team. Unde-fuckin-feated. They hadn'a cut him loose, he'd a been junior lightweight Gold Gloves, maybe Oh-lympics, no lie.”

Buckley pressed the infuser again, but not enough time had elapsed. “Fuck me,” he muttered.

“You say they cut him loose?” said Pender quickly. “How'd that work?”

“Well, like I tol' you, he never shoulda been in Juvie in the first place—all this time, he on'y waitin' trial. Finely the ol' lady he burn up, she get better enough, finely she tessify he was savin' her ass— say the man Max kilt, he was rapin' her. Say she call for help, Max jump him with a ice pick. Say the fire was a accident.”

Again he pressed the button with his thumb. This time it clicked. Buckley closed his eyes and sighed with relief.

Pender waited another few seconds, then pressed on. “Do you remember her name?”

“Naw. All I remember, one day Max' PD show up, take him away to live with her.”

“Have you seen him since Juvie?” asked Pender.

“Thass a good question.”

Oh-ho.
“How do you mean?”

“Last year. I got my parole, account of my liver cancer. Compassionate parole, they call it, but it's just, you dyin' and too sick to do nobody no harm, they don' wanna have to take care a you. You right 'bout that prison hospital—man, thass a
hell
hole. I'da been anybody else, I coulda got one a them transplants, but you a con, they don' even put you on the list.

“So I been out about a month, I got me a room and board down by the river—my auntie done passed. I guess maybe it's July. I'm comin' outta the drugstore—the ol' one on Jackson Street, near the courthouse—I see this dude comin' in. I profile him pretty good, 'cause I'm thinking, got-damn, sure look like little Max. On'y he's too old to be Max—all gray-ass.

“And damn if he don' eyeball me too, like maybe he's thinkin' that sure looks like ol Caz Buckley from Juvie, on'y it's way too old to be Caz. On account a I was down about a hunnerd ten, hunnerd twenty, no hair, skin all yellow, color of a old Laker unie. But he don' say nothin' and I don' say nothin'. On'y now you tell me cops is lookin' for him, so coulda been it really
was
him, on'y in disguise.”

Buckley was at the end of his strength. His eyes had closed again, and his whisper was barely audible.

“Beg pardon?” Pender had to lean over to hear the last few words. His face was less than a foot from the yellow eyes when they finally opened again.

“I said, we done now, you and me?” asked Buckley.

Pender nodded.

“You ain' gon' make no trouble with my parole?” He clicked the morphine button again.

“No.”

“Do it help any, what I tol' you?”

“It helps. It helps more than you know,” said Pender, with a catch in his voice. He wasn't sure where all the emotion was coming from. It had something to do with the dying man in front of him, sure, but it was more than that. He knew this was his last case. He also knew that with the information Buckley had given him, he could break it—soon. It was a bittersweet realization, a valedictory sort of feeling.

“Good,” said Buckley, as the morphine eased him again. “Like the man say, do the right thing.”

“You did, Caz.” Pender patted Buckley's shoulder. “Anything I can do for you before I go?”

“Yeah,” said Buckley. “Gimme back the call button.”

“Oh—sorry. Here you go.”

“And lemme know how it turn out—you know, if you ketch him.”

Pender promised that he would, then hurried out of the room. The elevator door opened before he reached it, and the gray-haired black nurse stepped out, pushing a medication cart before her.

“You all right?” she asked him.

Pender nodded, adjusting his Stetson as he stepped into the elevator.

“Will you be coming back?”

Another nod.

“Don't wait too long,” she called, as the elevator door closed. She hoped he'd understood what she meant—that Buckley didn't have long to live. This big bald cowboy seemed like a strange fellow to be visiting poor Caz, but they were obviously close. She could have sworn she saw a tear in the man's eye.

B
EING A PSYCHIATRIST INVOLVED
a certain amount of acting. In some ways, a therapy session was like a long improvisation. The trouble was, Irene wasn't sure she was a good enough actress for the role she had to play.

Because as the morning session wore on, it had become clear to her just how high a price she would have to pay to maintain Christopher's dominance over Max and the other alters. Not only would she have to actively encourage his transference, she would have to feign a countertransference. It wasn't enough that Christopher was in love with her—she had to convince him that she was in love with him.

“My poor Christopher. It must have been so difficult for you, living with Miss Miller after what she'd done to Mary.”

“Not really. I went away for a few months.”

“Where were you?”

“It's hard to describe to somebody who hasn't been there. It's like the place you go when you're sleeping but not dreaming. Time doesn't pass.”

“And when you woke up, when you came back?”

“I opened my eyes in the morning, and I was me.”

“Was it of your own volition, do you think?”

“No. They needed me.”

“They?”

“Max and Miss Miller.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I was only there for part of it.”

“But you remember the rest? You and the others share memory?”

“I don't remember it directly, but I know what happened. Sort of like a dream. And of course there's always Mose, for the details. Like we always say, Mose knows.”

“Do you communicate directly with Mose?”

“Yes.”

“Any of the others?”

“Ish. Max, sometimes.”

“Now?”

“No.”

“Tell me what happened when you woke up, then—why did Max and Miss Miller need you?”

“You'll hate me.”

“I won't—I couldn't.”

He slid off the chaise, sat down on the carpet of needles, then reached out toward Irene. She climbed off her chair and sat crosslegged in front of him.

“Hold my hand,” he said. “Hold my hand and look into my eyes. And if you see me starting to switch, kiss me like you love me.”

“I will,” said Irene, trying not to sound as miserable as she felt. “I do.”

“The second one's name was Sandy Faircloth. It was Miss Miller's idea. Three months had gone by since Mary's death. At first Max was afraid somebody would come around asking questions, but as far as he could tell from reading the local paper, Mary was never even reported missing. The Witnesses may have just thought she ran away—who knows?

“He and Miss Miller settled back into the routine. He put all his energy into fixing up the place, gardening, raising the chickens, putting in the electric fence to keep the predators out.

“Then one day in August Max was out hoeing. Miss Miller was sitting in the shade watching him, wearing her new wig. It was hot, he was only wearing a pair of cutoffs, he had a hard-on, and frankly, he just didn't give a damn whether she saw it or not.