The Unforgivable Fix (5 page)

Lydia did understand. She wondered what Dr. Gallagher, who had referred Will to her to develop coping strategies, thought would be a more appropriate paternal response to his daughter's abuse than absolute murderous rage.

“How did Walder respond to being brought in for questioning?”

“Like the calming winds on a stormy sea.” His voice was filled with sarcasm. “He called me and told me he
understood
my reaction. That any good father would do the same thing if confronted with such a
story.
That's what he said. He said ‘story.' You weren't in that room, Dr. Corriger. You don't know my kid. She wasn't lying.”

“I believe you.” At this point of the intake, it really didn't matter what the objective facts were. She needed to assure her patient she trusted everything he was telling her. “Where do things stand now?”

Will settled a bit. “The cops called him in, took his statement. You probably read that in the papers. They want Emma to be evaluated. You know, physical exam, mental exam. Till then the original custody arrangement holds.” Bitter sarcasm jumped back into his voice. “We have Saint Kenton to thank for that, too. Darlene was sputtering that Emma was not to be allowed any contact with me, but Walder told her it was important for Emma to have as much stability in her life as possible during the investigation. He insisted that all things remain the same with the fifty-fifty custody deal. I hate to admit it, but I'm grateful for that. I don't have the money to go up against his lawyers if he would have fought it.”

“And you? How are you doing?”

“I'm miserable. It's been two weeks. Emma's been with me one. I stick to her like glue and lock up all the sharp things in the house when she's over. I stay awake till I'm sure she's been asleep for an hour. Then I lie on the floor next to her bed and cry myself to sleep. When the time came I had to drive her to her mother's, I threw up all day. Emma tells me Walder's not laid a finger on her since the cops got involved, so I'm hanging my hat on that. The asshole knows all eyes are on him.”

“Has Emma's evaluation been scheduled?” Lydia knew the importance of securing a qualified therapist to conduct an assessment of an allegation of child abuse.

“Walder's got her scheduled with some social worker in Tacoma. Name's Beth Harton. You know her?”

Lydia knew all the qualified assessors in the area, but she didn't know that name. But a lot could have changed in the two years she'd been out of the clinic. “No, I don't.”

Will leaned forward, his eyes pleading. “How about you, Dr. Corriger? Dr. Gallagher recommended no one but you for me. I'm a good judge of character and you seem to really understand this stuff. Would you do it? Would you talk to my little girl? See what you can do to help her?”

Lydia had done scores of such interviews. She understood both the psychological importance of being skilled in this special area of assessment, as well as the legal implications of having a less than qualified interviewer conducting it. Whether Emma was telling the truth about her abuse or spinning a tale, any justice would hinge on the judge believing the results of the assessment. She was qualified. But the possibility of her conducting the interview was out of the question.

“I'm your therapist, Will.” Lydia explained the conflict of interest if she saw his daughter. “I just can't do it.”

“I'll fire you on the spot. Right now. This session never happened.” He was as close to begging as a man can get. “Help her, Dr. Corriger. Help my little girl. I have to keep that monster away from her.”

Lydia locked eyes with him for several long seconds. He was a father desperate for his daughter. Her mind dialed back to the countless young girls she'd known in similar situations…and then it crashed onto her own experiences. How different her life might have been if someone had believed her.

Lydia knew what was in store for little Emma. Foreign fingers and icy-cold medical instruments invading her most private parts as the physical exams were conducted. Complete strangers asking questions again and again about topics she'd want desperately to avoid. Police investigators. Lawyers, that Walder could afford and Will couldn't, earning their keep by dancing with smooth words to lead a frightened child into one small slip on which they could build a case against her, creating a scenario in which the only options were that she was either lying or mentally deranged.

She'd seen it too many times. She'd lived it herself.

I came back too soon. This is hurting too much. I can't shield my soul against what I know is coming.
Yet here she was. Lydia hesitated as she calculated her options. She took a shaky breath and made her decision.

“There's always a way, Will.”

B
ARBADOS

“Will you sit down? You're making me nervous.”

Patrick Duncan stopped pacing near the opened sliding doors and gazed at the mountainous clouds drifting over the Atlantic. “I'm surprised you noticed, Olwen. You've had your nose riveted to that computer all morning.”

She watched him study the sea. His broad shoulders and ramrod posture still captured her attention, but she hated when he pouted. Still, it was her job to pull him back to a better frame of mind…a job she was good at and for which she was extremely well compensated. But ever since he'd learned about the Atlanta raid she'd been working too much overtime.

She set her laptop on the coffee table. “I'm researching our next move. How does Maui sound? It would be nice to spend time back in the States, don't you think?”

He joined her when she patted the spot next to her on the sofa.

“Wonderful resorts, spectacular weather, great fishing. All the things you like.”

“Sounds good.” Patrick looked over his shoulder toward the front door. “You pick where we stay. Don't forget about security.”

She nodded. It wasn't like him to be this disengaged about the move.“How many will we be taking with us?”

Patrick stood and resumed pacing across the marble floor. “We'll find local cooks who can be discreet. It's up to you if you want to bring along your sunbathing friend. Alyssa might enjoy Hawaii.”

He's done something.
Something he doesn't want me to know.
She went to him and put her hands on his arms, catching him in midstep. “Stop this. Talk to me, Patrick.”

Patrick's eyes flashed with anger. She dropped her hold and stepped back.

“No one tells me what to do, Olwen.” His rage suddenly flared. She'd heard it so often it would have bored her if he wasn't so dangerous. “Not even you. Do you understand me?”

So he's done something stupid. Something he needs me to devise a way of resolving and make him think it's his idea.

She lowered her eyes and walked to the balcony overlooking the sea. She crawled onto a chaise longue, pulled her knees up, and began to weep softly.

He came to her immediately. “Forgive me, Olwen. You know the stress I'm under.” He sat on the end of her chaise. “I shouldn't have spoken to you like that.”

Still no inkling of what he'd done. She kept her head turned away from him and continued her tears.

“Tell me more about Maui. I want to hear all about what you've chosen for us,” he pleaded. “I don't tell you enough how your support makes my work easier.” Patrick placed a hand on her ankle. “Look at me, darling.”

Still no explanation.
His blunder must have been huge. Has he slept with Alyssa? He knows I overlook a lot. But never that.
She shifted free of his touch and kept her eyes away from him.

Patrick sighed. “It's been rough on both of us, this business with Nigel. I know how fond you are of Jillian. But he'd grown sloppy. Income from his region was down fourteen percent last quarter. He needed a lesson. And now the raids. Brighton…Atlanta. It's a difficult time. A change of scenery will do us both good.”

This has nothing to do with another woman
.
This has to do with the cartel. It's something he's hesitant to tell me but makes him eager to move home base…which means it was bad for business.
She swung her legs off the chaise and walked away from him.

Patrick followed and put his arms around her. “We need to stay close to each other. We're all we've got, when you get down to it.”

She stiffened.
He's done something to put us in danger.
She pulled herself out of his embrace. “You've gone after Tokarev, haven't you?”

Patrick stood mute.

“My God, Patrick. Did you clear this with the others? With Mexico? Colombia?” She knew the answers before the questions left her mouth. The heads of the other cartels would never authorize an attack without first trying a nonviolent resolution. Blood always demanded more blood. Street employees used their knives and their guns to secure small blocks of territory. But the upper echelon understood the billions they made annually demanded order and predictability. “Tell me what you did.”

Patrick walked back and forth across the wide balcony, trying very hard to look like a man in complete control of his actions. But for nearly four years she'd charted every one of his moods. Every one of his mistakes. Every one of his impulses. He didn't have a clue how to repair the damage he'd done.

“Is he dead?” she demanded. “Can it be traced back to us?” She grew impatient with his posturing. “Tell me, Patrick. Tell me now.” Despite her own rising anger, experience had taught her ultimatums wouldn't work with him. She softened her tone to what he wanted to hear: unconditional forgiveness. “There's a solution if we work together. You said it. We must rely on each other. Can you just tell me if the others approved of this? Can you give me that much?”

Patrick spun on his heels, his anger reignited. “Of course the cowards didn't approve. They say there's no way to know if Tokarev was behind the raids. It could have been anyone…even some government trying to break up the alliance. The Russian has taken no action against their territories. What do they care? It's not their men dead. Not their property stolen in the night by jackals. They've grown weak from the peace we've built. They're terrified of riling the Russian. They told me to leave Vadim Tokarev alone.”

“And did you?” If Patrick acted in direct defiance of the other cartels, the coalition that had allowed them all to become unimaginably wealthy would dissolve. The warring ways of the past would be resurrected. “Tell me.”

Patrick began to quake with rage. “I do not need the others to tell me what I know. Tokarev invaded what is mine. He killed my men. Stole my inventory. Do you think that spic in Mexico City would look the other way if his own soldiers were murdered? Or that Colombian asshole? Would he turn his other cheek? No, Olwen! The streets would run red with revenge.” He was yelling so loudly his voice was cracking. “And yet they tell
me
I should do nothing? They deny
me
the satisfaction of showing respect by avenging my men's killers?
I'm
to stand idly aside while I'm stolen from? I am not weak! No one pushes against me without feeling the heel of my boot!”

“Is the Russian dead?!” She matched him scream for scream. “Tell me!”

Her reaction stunned him into silence. “No,” he whispered. “He's alive.”

She exhaled in relief. He hadn't defied the alliance. “Thank God. Tell me what you're planning.”

His eyes betrayed one flash of fear before he resumed his pose of courageous champion of vengeance. “It's done, Olwen. There is no planning.”

The relief she felt a moment earlier disappeared.

“Tokarev has a woman,” Patrick continued. “Not a wife, but a favorite. He keeps her in an apartment in Montreal. Apparently she's Russian, but speaks fluent French and prefers Montreal to Moscow or Paris. She has him so enthralled he comes to her every month with a diamond ring bigger than the one he brought her last time. They say he doesn't treat any of his other whores as well.”

She wondered if people considered her to be Patrick's favorite whore.

“I'm told she plays the piano beautifully. Tokarev likes to sit back with his vodka while she plays Tchaikovsky for him in the nude.” A bitter smile twisted his lips. “He'll not have that pleasure again.”

A bead of sweat ran down her spine. “What did you do?”

His eyes focused on something far away. An image only he could see. “She was visited this afternoon. Two of my men went to her apartment to prepare a package. Sometime tomorrow Tokarev will receive a FedEx delivery. He'll open it and find his whore's hands. Wearing the last and biggest diamond he sent her.”

Her knees buckled. She staggered to the edge of the balcony, steadied herself against the limestone railing, and gulped salty sea air to control the vomit rising in her throat.

“Let him come for me.” Patrick puffed out his chest. “The others will have no choice but to take my side when the Russian makes his move. As they protected him against me, they'll protect me against Tokarev.”

She stumbled a few steps and collapsed into the chaise. Racing thoughts tumbled into a black swirling cloud of fear.
Tokarev won't come for you, you fool. He'll come for me.

O
LYMPIA

“I'm ashamed to think of how much money I spent today.” Mort held the door open for her. “I should have known the price of that houseboat was just the ante. Everything has to be seaworthy. That damned salty air. What the hell was I thinking?”

“You were thinking how much you hated that rhododendron bush.” Lydia waited for Mort to place his order. “I'll have a latte with honey,” she told the barista. “And I'm paying.”

“No way, Liddy.” Mort handed the man a twenty. “When I invite, I pay.” He stuffed two bucks into the tip jar, motioned for her to find them a seat, and followed her to the back room and a table with a view of the woods.

“Why all the way to Olympia?” Lydia asked. “Seattle is houseboat heaven. They've got to have a bigger selection up there.”

Mort stirred the steam out of his coffee. “I like the service I get from Skipper's. They take the time to teach a rookie like me about living on the water. Besides, the ride down gives me a chance to clear my head.” He grinned. “And if I'm lucky I get to have coffee with my favorite psychologist.”

She stiffened. “You mean check up on me.”

“Will you give it a rest? I'm in town, you're in town, I called, you were free.” Mort set his spoon aside. “End of story. Now tell me what's new with you.”

Lydia held back for a second. He'd expect her to say nothing had changed, that she was still holing up at home. “I'm back at work.”

Mort blinked and worked to swallow as he set his mug down. “Don't tell me something like that when I've just taken a drink. And here I thought you were all dressed up for me. This is big news.”

“What can I say? Maybe your lecture got to me.”

“It wasn't a lecture, Liddy. It was concern.”

She struggled to accept the notion that Mort could genuinely care about her well-being. “Someone wanted a favor. I agreed to help her out with a graduate student and figured, why not? Maybe I could see if I still have what it takes.”

“And just like that the mental-health scene in southern Washington State got a whole lot rosier.”

Her defenses went up again at the compliment, but she pushed back against her discomfort. “I'm easing in. Ten patients this week, twelve next. And of course, I've got this guy to supervise.”

“What's your sense? Pacing, I mean.” Mort's interest felt real. “You're not dipping chocolates for a living. How you holding up?”

Thoughts of Will Sorens and his daughter, Emma, charged into her brain. She didn't want to tell Mort about her doubts regarding her own ability to provide objective service to someone negotiating the rocky rapids of sexual abuse. So Lydia used the skill she always did when she didn't want to answer, yet didn't want to lie.

“It's not like your job is a walk on a sunny Sunday, either.” She took a sip from her own mug. Too much honey. There was only one coffee shop in Olympia that prepared her favorite drink the way she liked it. “How's the murder scene in Seattle these days?”

Mort raised an eyebrow before answering. He'd caught her dodging his question.

“October's always a quiet month for us.” His answer signaled he'd let this one slide. “Weather's too nice for mayhem.”

“How are you filling the idleness a lull in the crime wave brings?”

“Paperwork, of course,” Mort said. “I've got budgets and staff assignments. Annual reviews and promotions to recommend.” He relaxed back into his chair. “A new crop of rookies is getting ready to graduate from the academy next month. Chief's asked me to give a speech.”

“Sounds like he's over his snit about the whole Trixie thing.”

Mort shook his head. “He's never going to let me forget it.” He lowered his voice. “But then again, he's operating under the mistaken impression I single-handedly took Trixie out after she damned near killed me. That seems to carry some weight with him.”

Lydia held his gaze for several moments in silent acceptance of his gratitude.

“Micki and Jimmy? How are they?” she asked about the detectives who were such close friends of his. “And especially, how's Jimmy's canine sidekick? Bruiser, right?”

“That's right.” Mort laughed. “Daphne…that's our departmental secretary, you remember her?”

Lydia thought. “Nasal voice? Big blonde hair? Looks like she might need a map to find her way to the Kleenex box on her desk?”

“That's her. Day before yesterday she orders in lunch. How she worked the phone to do it is any man's guess. Just about the time she unwraps her burger and fries I walk by with Jimmy and Micki. Bruiser's following Jimmy tight behind.”

“As he always does.”

“Correct.” Mort laughed again at the memory. “Well, Daphne calls out and asks could Bruiser come in for a quick visit. Jimmy says, ‘Sure.' Daphne, now she's sitting at her desk, mind you, pats her legs.”

“Like she's calling a Chihuahua?”

“Correct again. Bruiser looks up, Jimmy gives him the all clear, and Bruiser jumps ninety pounds of German-shepherd bulk square onto Daphne's lap. He's got his back to her and, of course, he's head and shoulders taller than she is. Daphne's chair is tilted far back from the weight of both of 'em, but she's loving it. She's hugging him and kissing his fur, telling him what a good boy he is.”

“Meanwhile there's the burger and fries on her desk.”

“You're batting a thousand today, Doc. The three of us are in the hallway watching Bruiser devour Daphne's lunch while she's loving him up. When Bruiser's done, he looks over his shoulder and gives Daphne one wet lick to the cheek. He hops off her lap and trots back to Jimmy like the satisfied hound he is.”

“So what became of Daphne?”

“That's the best part. Around two o'clock I pass her office again and she waves me in. She asks in that Betty Boop voice of hers if I have any candy, crackers, anything up in my office. ‘I must've eaten my lunch so fast I don't even remember it, Mort,' she says. ‘I'm starving here.' ”

The two of them laughed so hard they each reached for their napkins to wipe tears from their eyes.

“Lydia?” A male voice intruded on their amusement. “Mort?”

Lydia looked up and her heart stuttered. She shot a look at Mort, who stood and offered his hand to the tall, shaggy-haired man.

“Oliver, right? My ICU buddy.” Mort smiled and looked down to where Lydia sat motionless. “Look who's here, Liddy.” He turned back as he shook Oliver's hand. “Great to see you. We were just chewing the fat. Got time to join us?”

Oliver turned to Lydia. She saw golden flecks floating in his brown eyes. She pushed her coffee aside and hoped her legs would support her as she stood.

“Actually, I was just saying my goodbyes to Mort.” Lydia reached out her hand to touch the soft suede of his jacket. “Stay if you'd like.” She reached for her purse. “Lovely to see you, Oliver.” She tossed a grim stare at Mort. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Lydia walked into the glow of the October sun, forcing her feet to keep moving.

Lydia clicked off the tape player. “Well done, Zach. Apparently you haven't forgotten a thing you've been taught.”

Zach smiled from across her desk. It was their first supervisory session. “I'm happy to hear you say that, Dr. Corriger.” Zach rubbed his right arm with a skinny hand. “To tell you the truth, I hadn't expected so interesting a situation for my first assignment. But I enjoyed working with Emma.” His voice was filled with concern. “It turns my stomach to think what that girl's been through.”

Lydia was pleased to have this to focus on after her morning coffee with Mort. Seeing Oliver again had rattled her. “I wasn't going to give you so meaty a case first time out, but Emma's father is shaken by all this, as you can imagine. He wants what's best for his daughter and he's convinced this is the place she can get it.” It wasn't necessary for Zach to know her reasons for not taking on Emma as her own client. “You rotated through six months at the Oregon Center for Sexually Abused Children, so you've got the experience. I knew I could supervise you through this and wanted you to be satisfied with the level of cases you'll be learning from here.”

“I'm happy you have faith in me.”

“Let's say I had confidence.” Lydia tapped the tape player. “I hope you didn't mind sitting through me listening to your entire encounter with Emma. This is one time I need to know your every word.”

“It's always weird hearing the sound of your own voice.” Zach toyed with a button on his polyester shirt and Lydia wondered if he had any idea what young men wore these days.

“You sounded fine,” she said.

“So how'd I do?” Zach looked like a kindergartner trying to please his teacher.

“You did great. Open-ended questions, no assumptions. No leading. Gentle with Emma as she described some pretty horrific experiences. You handled it like a pro.”

Zach beamed. “Thanks for that. It means a lot.”

Lydia thought for a moment. “Tell me your impressions. What's your take on her?”

Zach took his time before answering. Lydia was impressed with how he resisted impulsively offering a knee-jerk opinion.

“She's younger than a typical fourteen-year-old,” he replied. “It's evident her parents have sheltered her…shielded her from movies or television shows that may have been inappropriate for someone her age.”

Lydia recalled Will's description of his time with his daughter. Her Barbie dolls and cupcake pajamas. Zach had recognized Emma's innocence.

“She's scared,” he continued. “And torn. She wants desperately to protect her parents. Both of them. As you heard on the tape, she talks about how happy her mother is. It's clear she's worried about what these allegations will do to her mother's marriage. At the same time she's grateful her father stepped in and stopped what Emma says her stepfather is doing. When she speaks of her father, she talks about wanting to make sure she gets to keep her time with him. It's clear she's a little girl who loves both mommy and daddy very much. She'll want to please them both, of course. As all kids do.”

Lydia nodded. She'd picked up the same sense from listening to the recording of their session together. So far Zach's insights were spot-on.

“And when she describes the abuse by her stepfather, what's your read there?”

Again Zach deliberated before speaking. Lydia couldn't help but think he'd make an excellent witness should this case come to trial. “She recognizes the authority he has over her, both as her mother's husband and simply by the type of guy he is. The big house, the trips, the standing in the community. Emma may be innocent, but she's extremely bright. She's confused. On the one hand she's terrified by his actions, yet she's grown to love him, as odd as that may sound.”

Lydia knew too well the different types of abuse. In some ways violent rape was easier for the victim to come to terms with, despite its horror. Wrong place, wrong time. But intentional sexual abuse was more insidious. The good-guy grooming. The insistence that what they were doing was special and needed to be kept their own little secret. The reality that abusers were often loving and generous in other interactions with their victims. They all converged to keep the victim off-kilter, feeling somehow responsible. Not only for the abuse itself, but even for protecting their own rapists.

“Your thoughts for therapy?” Lydia asked.

“Oh, she'll need some.” Zach sounded confident. “You heard her. She's blaming herself. She feels different. Dirty. Isolated from other kids her age. She feels she can't go to her mom and she was embarrassed to go to her dad. Even when Emma reports she's glad her dad took action, she's scared he's going to do something that will get him in trouble, and she'd be responsible for that. And in some sad and innocent way she even wants to make sure her stepfather comes out of this okay. Her idea of self has been fractured. Her notion of agency is shattered. She feels helpless. The pain mounts in her, she's convinced nothing and no one can help. Add to that, she feels weighted with responsibility that is not hers. She starts to see herself as wicked. All that torment turns inward. She lashes out at the one constant she sees in all this: herself.” Zach's face was solemn. “So she reaches for a knife, or a razor, or a box cutter. She starts to wale away at the one evil person she can clearly identify. From there it's biochemical. She feels a release from her agony. For a while. Then she's shamed and feels guilty about cutting. Her agony is then multiplied. She keeps cutting because her pain keeps growing and it's the only thing that eases it, if only for a moment. It's a bitter cycle that always escalates.”

Zach had conceptualized Emma's case with the wisdom of a well-experienced clinician.

“What about the bottom line, Zach?”

He looked confused. “What do you mean?”

Lydia tapped her pen against her desk.

“You used words like ‘allege' and ‘what Emma says happened.' You've spent time with her. Got a sense of what she's about. Kenton Walder is a well-respected man in this town. He's showing every indication that he cares deeply for his stepdaughter. And he denies these actions categorically.”

Zach nodded. “I read the papers, Dr. Corriger.”

Lydia trusted her own instincts enough to form her own opinion about Will Sorens's sincerity. He believed his daughter. But Kenton Walder was a man of considerable means, both financially and politically. Lydia would need more than her trust of Will Sorens to move forward. She needed to know what Zach thought. “What's your take? Do you believe her?”

Zach stuck with his habit of thinking before he spoke. He fully understood the gravity of what he was about to say.

“Yes, Dr. Corriger. I believe Emma. I have no doubt at all that she's been victimized and betrayed by her stepfather.”