For a second he considered changing the footing by insisting they use last names. Then he elected to let it pass.
“Jason, what’s wrong?”
What was wrong was he let the temperature drop when she put him off. Now he let it drop some more.
“What’s going on?” he said finally.
“I’ve been so nervous since you opened this whole thing with the police. I can’t contain myself.”
Her voice took on a baby-talk quality. Childish was not a style that appealed to him. Jason had to remind himself that this was how Milicia acted with all men. It had nothing to do with him. She had learned to appear vulnerable because most men could be relied on to respond well to cute and cuddly. But Jason knew this girl had a steel blade for a heart.
“But you’ve been to the police.”
“I know, but it really weirded me out.”
Jason didn’t say anything. He could see how it would.
“I need to see you. I need to compare notes with you. We need to be together on this.”
“Why?” Jason looked at the bull clock on the shelf. He had thirty seconds before he saw his last patient. Then he was going to go out into the evening and get something to eat.
She’d already seen him that day. Why did Milicia need to see him again? He told himself that this was how she was with men. But at the same time, in the sleeping part of his mind, he thought maybe this wasn’t the way Milicia acted with all men. Maybe this was how she chose to be with him.
“Remember when you were a kid, and sometimes you had to go to a scary place that seemed to have monsters in the shadows? Well, I want you to tell me there are no monsters in the shadows. I want you to tell me my fears are silly. Jason, I need to feel protected, and you’re not protecting me.”
Jason shifted in his chair, genuinely irritated now. He was really put off when grown women talked baby talk to him. He struggled to shake off his annoyance. This was an open clinical situation. The idea of murder—homicide—was disconcerting. It was a horrible thing. He didn’t have patients who came to him worried their siblings were killers.
Milicia had held that piece of information back until the second murder. Horrible.
He felt manipulated.
“When I was there,” he said suddenly, “they gave me a tuna fish sandwich. I was surprised how homey it was.”
“You were at the precinct today?” Milicia jumped on the revelation. “What did you say?”
“Not today,” Jason told her. “I was there for something else.”
“Well, what did you tell them today? Tell me exactly what you said.”
“You were here. You heard what I said.”
There was a brief pause. “Are you sure?”
What did she mean? Jason couldn’t let it go by. What was she really asking?
“Do you think there’s something wrong with my memory?” he persisted.
“No, no.”
“Do you think I’m not telling the truth?”
“No, silly. Sometimes little things slip away, that’s all.”
The door closed in the waiting room. His next patient was there. It was time to go. Jason did not reassure Milicia there were no monsters in the shadows.
52
By nine-thirty Jason was exhausted and overstimulated. He had returned from California only the night before, had seen ten patients that day, one of whom ended up at the police station accusing her sister of murder. All through his session with his last patient, the conversation with Milicia played over and over in Jason’s mind. He didn’t want to think about it. He had other things to think about.
When he returned home, he lingered in the kitchen debating whether to ratchet down with a beer or a martini with three olives. He’d have a drink, think about Emma and California. Later, he’d read a book.
He decided on the martini, built it, threw a frozen pizza in the toaster oven, and took his first burning swallow. Yes. Alcohol helped. He grabbed three more olives from the jar and savored the salty taste. Glass in hand, he wandered into the living room, thinking about making love to his wife. He concentrated on that, didn’t want to crash with the weight of being alone again.
Sipping the martini slowly, he told himself this was okay. He didn’t have to have a wife with him every second. They could live together sometimes. He tried to walk around a little with that conviction.
But underneath it all the Milicia tape played on and on. Her voice calling him silly, talking baby talk about monsters in the shadows, clicked on without his bidding.
What did you tell them? Tell me exactly what you said.
He turned on the television and listened to the weather report, couldn’t pay attention, and turned it off. He was trained to look at time sequences for branch points without making judgments or conclusions.
At every fork in the tree he asked himself what was going on. Why did she say “We have to be together on this”?
Why was she worried about what he told the police? Why did she pretend not to know what he’d said?
He wandered around the living room, picking up one book after another, trying to unwind. He wanted to stay with Emma, think about her. Read a book. But the more he tried to escape, the harder it was to get away from Milicia and Camille.
Against his will Jason had been drawn deep into their story. That bothered him. He was a quick study. He could put together any number of disparate elements of personality and character almost from the very start. It wasn’t like him not to be able to come to a conclusion right away.
It occurred to him that maybe the reason he couldn’t get it this time was that Milicia was lying about something. He reviewed how she had started with him. Bits and pieces about the day in the Hamptons, the ride home in her car. How she had asked to see him. Her calls when he was in California. It was all unusual, ambiguous. Nothing in this life was truly random.
He turned away from the books, looking for another diversionary tactic. He had to calm down or he wouldn’t get to sleep that night. He didn’t want murder hanging over his dreams.
The martini was almost gone. He decided to have another. The phone on the table rang. He picked up on the first ring, hoping it was Emma.
“Hello, Jason?”
He sighed. It was April the detective. Now she was calling him Jason. Earlier that day she’d called him Dr. Frank. He couldn’t help smiling. He knew if she was calling him by his first name, she wanted something.
“Hello, April.”
“It’s nine-thirty. Am I getting you in the middle of dinner?”
Jason jerked his head toward the kitchen, suddenly remembering the pizza in the toaster oven. Shit. “No, I haven’t had it yet.”
“Ah. Then you’re probably sitting there with a gin martini. May or may not have olives in it.”
“Yes, gin martini, and yes, it has olives.” He looked down at the glass. Had olives. It was empty now.
“You’re unwinding after a long day of patients. Am I right?”
“Yes, again.” He wouldn’t mind a few more martinis so he could unwind further. He had a strong suspicion by the way she was talking to him that he wasn’t going to get them.
“It’s really nice to chat with you, April. But I have this really uneasy feeling you’re not calling to chat. And I don’t really feel like chatting right now anyway. Am I right?”
“You’re right. Something’s come up that’s a quasi-emergency—well, it’s not the Twin Towers blowing up, or anything like that. But I need some input about a medical problem I have here at the precinct this minute.…” Her voice trailed off.