The Unforgivable Fix (11 page)

O
LYMPIA

“I told you, Mrs. Walder, I'm not able to take you on as a patient.” Lydia wished she'd let the phone go straight to voice mail. Wasn't it enough she had Mort's daughter to babysit? Did she really have to rehash why she needed to be one of the rare people who denied Kenton Walder's wife something she wanted? “There's really nothing more to say.”

“But Dr. Gallagher recommended your clinic specifically.” Dee Walder's determination to have her way came across clearly. “Quite frankly, I was surprised you're just a two-person operation, given his high praise. Still, he's been Emma's doctor for years. If he says you're the one for my family, that's good enough for me.”

Lydia wondered if the woman on the other end of the line had demonstrated this level of entitlement back in the days when she was Darlene, married to Emma's father and stretching every dollar of a government worker's salary. Had her dogged insistence been a skill she had only developed once she married the boss and moved into the mansion overlooking the sea?

“I appreciate his referral, but it's simply not possible. Dr. Edwards will submit his report, but that's the end of our involvement with either your daughter or you and your husband.”

“Emma's lying, Dr. Corriger.” Dee Walder ignored Lydia's remarks. “It's important you know that. My husband's a wonderful man. Kind and generous beyond anyone's expectations. One hates to use the phrase ‘pillar of the community,' but if it was ever an apt description, it's when applied to Kenton Walder. I'm sure you saw the quality of the man he is when you met him.”

You mean the time you both came in under assumed names and false pretenses?
Lydia glanced at the clock. She needed to get going.

“Could it be the high expectations Kenton and I have for Emma that drove her to this absurdity?” Dee asked. “She has to understand she's no longer one of the masses. When I married Kenton, my daughter became part of a family with a long tradition of service. Some may say it's unfair to expect her to be a role model at her tender age, but it is what it is. Emma may simply be rebelling because she's not allowed to be merely the computer tech's daughter anymore.” She paused. “Or perhaps it's her father urging her say these things in order to get his revenge for my leaving him. Whatever her reason, the stories she's telling are not true. Not one word. Kenton's been a prince about the whole thing, but quite frankly I'm at my wits' end. You know, of course, my husband isn't allowed to be alone with her. Can you imagine the logistical difficulty of that? The humiliation of a judge saying my husband needs supervision to be around his own stepdaughter? She'll be released from the hospital soon. Then what do we do? We need help parenting her. She needs to know she can't continue lying like this.”

Lydia had heard enough. She thought of Will's racking sobs as he told the tale of his daughter's rape by her mother's husband. While she'd never met Emma, she'd reviewed the recorded interview with Zach. She'd heard the plaintive voice of a wounded child caught in a situation for which there could be no happy ending. Lydia was touched by the young girl's hesitant efforts to find a safe place, and knew Emma understood she was paying for it by bringing pain to her parents. Emma loved her mother and father…and she had affection for Kenton Walder. She was a confused and anguished child.

And her mother was calling her a liar.

“Mrs. Walder, I'm hanging up. I wish you luck in your search for a therapist, but it cannot be me.” She couldn't resist one last remark. “And please know I certainly hope each and every member of your family gets the justice they deserve.”

She disconnected before Dee Walder could respond. She looked again at the clock. She was going to be late.

The spa attendant opened the door to the individual relaxation room and produced a smile born of years of meditation practice. “You'll find a robe and slippers in the locker. This key secures not only that, but the room as well.” The young blonde crossed to the windows and pulled the curtain open to reveal a lotus pool surrounded by a small bamboo garden. “The courtyard is surrounded by an eight-foot brick wall. Total privacy.” She opened a door to the left. “Your own bathroom with steam shower. It's stocked with the customary products, but if you need anything at all, just press the button next to the mirror and an attendant will bring you whatever you'd like.” She showed her the small refrigerator stocked with mineral waters, fruit, and health wafers before explaining how to work the surround sound. “Your massage isn't scheduled for an hour. Relax. You'll hear a gentle chiming five minutes before your appointment. Come out to the calming room and your provider will greet you there. Until then, enjoy your solitude.”

She thanked the girl and locked the door behind her. She set her carryall next to the locker, took off her street clothes, and wrapped her nude body in the white cashmere robe. She crossed to the crystal urn sitting on the side table, poured herself a tall glass of chilled cucumber water, and settled onto the chaise facing the serene courtyard. Her gaze landed on a brass laughing Buddha sitting on the side of the lotus pond. She focused on the way the sunlight moved across the metal. The features of the statue's face were accentuated by a darkening patina, yet the belly of the happy icon was shiny and bright. Shadows from swaying bamboo leaves cast dancing arcs across the water. Small pebbles covered the ground. She zeroed in on one stone and counted how many shades of grey and beige she could discern. Calmness began to blanket her. Her heartbeat slowed as her breathing became deep and regular. She allowed herself several minutes of soothing peace before she rose and pulled a cell phone from her bag. She went into the bathroom, leaned against the marble vanity, and touched the screen marked in her contact list as A. As instructed, he answered before the second ring.

“Are you at a place we can talk?”

“Hey! Thanks for calling.” The jovial tone in his voice answered her question. “Let me get away from these computer geeks.” She heard good-humored male voices in the background fade away. Less than ten seconds later it was the sound of a door closing. “I'm here.” His voice was steady and stern.

“And you've followed my instructions to the letter. You're moving one step closer to your goal.”

“Do you understand?” he asked. “Do you know why I need him dead?”

“You've made that very clear. I need to have a few more things in place before I decide if I'm able to honor your request.”

His singular focus on his mission appeared to have rendered him deaf to her words. “I need him to suffer.”

“The nuances of your motivations are of no concern to me,” she said. “What
is
my concern is knowing there is no other way to accomplish this.”

“You're my only hope.” His voice cracked and he coughed to regain his composure. “It may be hard to believe, but I'm not a violent man by nature. If there was any other means of getting justice I wouldn't have contacted you. You have to know that.”

She knew full well the desperation it took for him to reach out to her. It was a motivation she'd seen in different guises throughout the years. People came to her only when all other avenues had been tried and found insufficient.

“You have the funds?” she asked.

“I do. You're expensive.”

She glanced at the thick towels hanging from the bar next to the steam shower and despaired at how even the most determined man will take time to haggle over price. But she needed him to understand the gravity of the situation…and that meant it would have to cost him more than he could easily afford. “We can end this right here.”

“No,” he said. “Please. I didn't mean to offend you.”

She decided not to tell him it wasn't offense she felt, but resignation…acceptance that this is how it had to be. “There's something I need you to do first.” She outlined his assignment before he had time to object. He didn't have many questions. His eagerness for her to do
her
job would insure he'd do this one task. “Let me give you the address.” She provided him with the last necessary detail. “I trust you remember what to do with the phone you're holding?”

“I do.”

“Tell me.”

“Take out the battery. Crush the casing. Dispose of each at least three miles apart.”

“And for phone B?”

“Always keep it on me. C and D will be kept locked up until I need them. Always answer before the second ring.”

“I'll be in touch.” She clicked off, left the bathroom, and tossed her phone back in her bag. She went back to the window overlooking the courtyard and tried to imagine what kept the Buddha smiling.

O
LYMPIA

“So then I decided, what the hell.” Tim Jenkins's grin threatened to rip his cheeks apart. “I walked into that Porta-Potty and stared right down into the putrid mess. I stood there for maybe thirty seconds…nothing. Nothing at all.”

Lydia shook her head. “I think I've created a monster. I'll give you this much, you're being faithful to the exposure treatment. And your anxiety was at a zero?”

“I'm telling you, Dr. Corriger, I was more anxious about whether or not Jessica and her girls were going to meet up with us.” Tim stretched his lanky frame across her couch. “I can't believe how well it works. You told me it would…and that it would be tough.” His freckled face turned serious. “Man, did you ever get
that
right.” The dark cloud lifted and his eyes sparkled with pride. “But I stuck with it. Like the time last week. My buddies and I were walking back to the dorm. It was bar time and we saw this idiot stumbling down the sidewalk. Sure enough, he stops, bends over, and hurls right there in front of everybody.”

Lydia exaggerated her shudder to encourage her patient. “Ah, the joys of undergrad freedom. Please tell me you'll never let yourself get into that situation.”

“Not me, Dr. C.” He held up his hands in protest. “I like my mornings too much. Anyway, when this jerk's throwing up, my buddies are laughing and I felt my anxiety rise.”

“Give it a number,” Lydia reminded.

“I'm sure it was a six…maybe even a seven. All I wanted to do was turn and run. But I didn't. I forced myself to walk right up to it and look at it.”

“And what happened?”

“My anxiety climbed…high.” Tim's eyes were wide. “But I focused on the mess in front of me. I tried to figure out what the guy had eaten instead of thinking about how afraid I was.”

Lydia knew the power of the intervention. Still, she was impressed when folks made the decision to do the tough work necessary to rid themselves of self-imposed limits. “What did you come up with?”

“Near as I can tell it was tacos. I could see the salsa and lettuce—”

“Hey. I'm not the one who needs the exposure here. What happened next?”

“It was just like you told me,” he said. “Somewhere in there, while I was playing food detective, I realized my fear was gone.” Tim looked up at Lydia. “Why did I wait so long to do this?”

“Who cares? You're doing it now, Tim. And it's working. I'm not saying you're cured. I can pretty much guarantee that you'll hit a patch where you're feeling sad or lonely, or maybe just tired. You'll be vulnerable then to the old fears.”

He nodded. “But now I know what to do, Dr. C. It's like you say, I have to do what makes me scared. Or else my world gets so small it'll squash me.”

The aroma of long-simmered spices greeted Lydia the moment she opened her front door. Mort's Honda was parked in her driveway. She set her keys on the entryway table, leaned her briefcase against the wall, and walked into the kitchen. Mort and Allie sat at the breakfast nook table, both focused on a large scrapbook. Mort's murmuring was warm and gentle. His left arm rested on the back of his daughter's chair while he pointed to things with his right. They hadn't realized Lydia had entered the room.

Lydia scanned the kitchen. Three pots were on the stove. The counter was strewn with onion peels, celery stalks, an empty pasta box, and two opened cans of kidney beans. The bowl from her food processor and her copper colander peeked out of soapy bubbles in her sink. Pieces of gristle remained on a cutting board next to the knife she'd purchased years ago in Japan. A dusting of what Lydia assumed was flour clouded the floor.

Allie chuckled and leaned her head against her father's shoulder. Mort responded by lifting his hand off her chair and squeezing her arm. Lydia felt herself grow smaller and wondered if she could quietly step back. Out and away from this moment of tenderness between father and daughter she'd invaded.

But she couldn't move. She kept her eyes on them and marveled at the loving forgiveness Mort bestowed upon his errant daughter, suddenly returned to him from her life on the dark side. She'd never seen Mort like this. So relaxed. So easy. So comfortable with the person who had given him years of heartache.

I don't belong here.
I need to go.
More aggressive thoughts intruded.
This is my house. It's my kitchen that's a mess. Those are my utensils smearing sauce across my counters. That's my table. That's my—
She shook that thought out of her brain before it could be completed.

“I'm home.” She forced herself to sound pleasant.

The pair turned in unison. Mort stood and greeted her.

“Dad's been strolling us down memory lane.” Allie wore the apron Lydia kept on a shelf in the pantry. “I swear the man had a camera grafted to his hands my entire childhood.” She got up and went to the stove, her face a picture of pride. “I hope you're hungry. I felt like creating. Called dear old Pop and told him to come join us for some chow.” She lifted the lid off Lydia's largest casserole and a fresh wave of smell wafted across the kitchen. “A special beef dish I learned in the islands. The trick is to simmer it all day long.”

“Where did you get the beef?” Lydia asked. “I had salmon steaks thawing in the refrigerator.”

Allie waved her hand. “We can grill those tomorrow. I wanted to do something special.”

“Where did you get the beef?” Lydia repeated.

Allie's coquettish attitude disappeared. She looked to her father. Mort stepped toward Lydia with a “settle down” look on his face.

“Would you prefer salmon, Liddy?” he asked. “I can broil them if you'd like.”

Lydia ignored him. “I want to know where you got the meat, Allie.” She pointed to the mess on the counter. “And the vegetables. And those beans. Where did you get them?”

Allie again looked at Mort before answering. “I went into town. That lovely Bayview Market had everything I needed. I only got lost once coming back…which is saying something. I mean, this place is really out in the boonies.”

Mort's face hardened. “You didn't tell me you left the property, Allie.” He turned to Lydia. “I assumed you had this stuff here.”

“How'd you get into town?” Lydia asked Allie.

Allie walked down the hall, opened the top drawer of the entryway table, and pulled out a set of keys. She jangled them. “You were out of here at the crack of dawn. Busy, busy. I can't believe people want to get their heads shrunk so early in the morning.” She came back into the kitchen. “Anyway, you were gone, I had the itch to cook, and you have that shiny SUV just sitting in your garage. Don't worry, I filled up the tank.”

Mort exploded. “You are
not
to leave this house. You know the rules, Allie.”

Allie tossed the keys on the counter. “I didn't do anything wrong. I made us all a nice dinner. Where's the harm in that?”

“Did you stop for a minute to think about the possibility someone could see you?” Mort demanded. “The whole idea of you being here is to keep you out of sight. Dammit, Allison.”

“Nobody's going to look for me in Olympia, Daddy.” Now Allie was yelling. “Especially not in a grocery store. I was gone maybe an hour. If that. You can't keep me locked up like some sort of prisoner.” She turned to Lydia, her voice quieter. “You understand that, don't you, Liddy?”

Lydia flinched at Allie's use of Mort's nickname for her. She shared his concern for security. Allie had acted recklessly. But the fact that Allie had found her car keys, her apron, her food processor…that was of greater concern to her than the possibility she might be seen by Patrick Duncan or Vadim Tokarev or any other drug lord from Allie's recent sojourn in a life of crime.
If Allie didn't mind opening drawers and cabinets looking for what she needed, what else might she find?
Lydia didn't need Allie getting curious about the numbered keypad on the door leading to the lower level. She shot Mort a “you take care of this” look.

“I'm going to my room.” Lydia looked around the kitchen. “And if you think I'm going to clean up this mess, think again.”

Lydia took her time changing from her work clothes into yoga pants, oversized T-shirt, and running shoes. She pulled her auburn hair up into a ponytail. By the time she returned to the kitchen, Mort was setting the table and Allie was cleaning up the chaos her cooking had created. Allie seemed reserved, and Lydia assumed Mort had done his best to impress upon his headstrong daughter the need to stay put.

Lydia uncorked a bottle of pinot noir, but it did little to ease the tense conversation at dinner. Mort asked Lydia about her day. He seemed interested in her work as a supervisor to Zach.

“So he sees the patients and then talks to you about what he did?” he asked. “What if he screws up?”

Lydia assured him Zach was a well-trained psychologist completing the last step before practicing independently. “Besides, he records his sessions. I listen to them. It's like I'm in the room.”

Mort raised an eyebrow. “Yeah…after the fact. But who am I to say? All I know is he's got the best teaching him.”

Allie started talking about Barbados. She seemed to have genuinely fallen under the spell of the tropical paradise that had become her home. She regaled them with the history of the island and the accomplishments of its citizens. “Did you know it's the only country in the world with a one hundred percent literacy rate?” She went on to discuss Barbadian arts and music and, of course, food. The mood lightened when she told of the many ways she'd eaten goat.

Lydia reflected on Allie's gift of charm.
You have your father smiling at you through the candlelight. So funny. So glib. Not one mention that your time in the tropics was bankrolled by one of the world's most notorious criminals.

They finished their dessert of peaches broiled in a brandied sauce, served warm over vanilla ice cream, and the conversation turned to Grant family memories. Somewhere around the fourth “Remember the time when…” Lydia excused herself. Mort and Allie continued their conversation without pause as she carried her cup of tea out to the deck.

The night sky was sprinkled with stars. The moon threw silver coins from a cloudless sky to float on the waters of Dana Passage. Lydia settled into a lawn chair and reminded herself why October was her favorite month. The evenings were cool. The rains took a bit of a break. The grim grey of winter was still weeks away. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and tried to relax.

She opened her eyes when Mort came out to say good night. “I'm heading home. I've got a budget meeting first thing, but I'll be back down as soon as it's finished.” He nodded back toward the kitchen. “Don't worry about Allie. She won't be taking any more unauthorized field trips.”

Lydia stayed quiet and recalled Allie's admission that, to her, men were merely useful tools. She wondered if that included her father.

“You okay? If you want me to stay, I can get an early start and still make the meeting with the bean counters.”

“Go,” Lydia said. “We'll be fine here.”

Lydia tried to tune out the warm words Mort and Allie exchanged as they said goodbye, but the part of her brain dedicated to self-torture wouldn't let her. She heard the front door close, followed by the sound of Mort's Honda pulling away. The clinking of dishes and glass told her Allie was clearing up. Lydia imagined it would be polite to go in and offer to help, but she had no interest in participating in whatever act Allie had planned for her evening's entertainment. Instead, Lydia returned her attention to the starlit stillness of her property.

She heard the hoot of an owl, looked up, and tried to orient herself to the direction of the call. The owl cried out again. Lydia looked high and to the south and saw nothing. The owl was hiding in the Douglas fir on the far corner of her property. She hoped it was the little fellow she'd rescued, and sent her good wishes up into the boughs.

The owl hooted again. Lydia sat up. Owls sounded only in warning. His first call would have been to let her know he'd seen her. A second sounding was unnecessary. She hadn't moved or given him any indication of threat. Lydia had seen foxes over her years on the high cliff overlooking the sea. Was one on the prowl? She sat motionless and surveyed her lawn.

Again the owl hooted. Lydia heard the faint rustle of a bush far on her left. Slowly she pulled her feet back under her chair and shifted her weight. The lights of the interior spilling out onto the deck should keep any fox at bay, but she wanted to be ready to move should the predator dart toward her.

A tight, red beam shot from the far bush across the width of her yard. It was met by another coming across from the right. The beams intersected forty feet in front of her, crisscrossing in the darkness.

Lydia stood slowly and inched her way to the door. She kept her eyes on the laser sights sweeping her lawn. She opened the door, stepped back in the house and into the kitchen, where Allie was humming over a sink filled with suds.

“Go to your room right now, Allie.”

“What are you—” Allie's protest was cut short when Lydia grabbed her by the arm. Water and soap dripped as Lydia dragged her along and shoved her into the guest bedroom. “What's going—”

“Quiet!” Lydia's whisper was fierce. “Not one word. Stay here until I get back. Keep this door locked.”

Lydia closed the door on the wide-eyed Allie and hurried across the house. She punched in the code on the door leading to the lower level, scrambled silently down the stairs and straight to the bookcase in her office. She reached to the lower shelf, pulled out her copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird,
and pressed the red button mounted behind it. The bookcase swung wide, revealing her arsenal. With the quick precision born of practiced drills, Lydia grabbed a laser scope, night-vision goggles, and an AK-47. She opened the second drawer of the wide chest on the far wall and pulled out two additional magazines. Thirty shots were loaded into her automatic rifle. Each magazine held thirty more.