Despite his hunger and his impatience and a lot of apprehension, Raoul eventually got it. The last piece of Tico’s heritage puzzle?
Pacific islands. Maybe even Hawaii. Raoul smiled to himself, momentarily savoring the unknowable hows and the whys of the lives that had intersected and the passions that had collided and ultimately melded together in the startling mitotic process that had eventually created this Tibetan/Pacific Islander/African American who was driving a classic old German car out into the scruffy desert beyond the urban boundaries of Las Vegas, Nevada.
But, right then, in Tico’s VW bug, Raoul was-like me-thinking mostly about Diane, and about Canada.
Canada was never far from his mind.
57
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Bill.”
I’d actually already made a guess. Bill was continuing the conversation we’d had earlier that day in my office, the one about all he did to support Rachel in her home away from home in Nevada.
“The caretaker for Rachel in Vegas? It’s a guy. Canada’s a guy. Canada-it’s his name. Street name, I don’t know. He’s, um, kind of adopted Rachel. He looks after her. Keeps her safe. I owe him a lot for what he’s done over the years. I’m… grateful to him.”
Kind of adopted? What does that mean?
Bill’s sentences came out in a series of discrete bursts. Each succeeding sentence was tagged on as though it were a complete afterthought to what had come before. The choppy cadence was something I’d never heard before from him, which told me that he was feeling something right then that he hadn’t felt before in my presence. What was that? What was he feeling?
Anxious was the best descriptor I could conjure. As an explanation though, it felt insufficient.
I said, “Okay.” I didn’t feel anything remotely resembling okay, but that’s what I said.
“You know about him already?” he asked me.
“About who?” I stammered.
“Canada?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
It was a lie. Was it a smooth lie? Probably not. I lie like I ski. Not as well as most people I know, and my form tends to leave a lot to be desired.
“Canada’s help doesn’t come cheap. These things are expensive.”
These things? Was Bill telling me that he had financial issues about Rachel’s care after all? I had the good sense to stay quiet while I waited to find out.
But he changed gears. He said, “We’ve been together, what, three times? You haven’t asked me a thing about Mallory. Do you know how weird that is after what I’ve been through for the last few weeks?”
I thought: Well, Bill, we’ve been together, what, three times? You haven’t really mentioned a thing about Mallory, either. Do you know how weird that is after what you’ve been through the last few weeks?
I didn’t say that. I said something else that was just as true, though not quite as honest. “It’s not my call. I thought you would get there when you were ready.”
“Ready? What the hell does that mean? Ready? You’ve got to be kidding. Hell, what’s wrong with you?”
He grew quiet again. I decided to try being a therapist. I said, “You mentioned a man-Canada?-someone you said looks after your wife. And then you obliquely referred to your daughter’s situation. Is it possible that there might be a connection of some kind between the two?” I feared that I’d been way too obvious with my question.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m not saying anything. My job as a therapist is to follow closely behind you, see where you’re going, look over your shoulder. Hopefully, I can point out things that you don’t see or aren’t prepared to see.”
“And that’s what exactly? What are you implying I’m not prepared to see?”
Bill wasn’t curious to hear my response, not in any sincere way. He was challenging me, provoking me, poking a finger into my chest, trying to get me to back off of… something.
“You also mentioned money,” I added. I added it because I guessed that money was what Bill didn’t want to talk about.
“No, you’re the one who mentioned money.”
“This afternoon, I did. Tonight, you did.”
“All I said is that it’s expensive.”
I was too tired for verbal sparring. I wanted to go home, hug my wife, hold my daughter, play with my dogs. Eat something hot. Drink something with alcohol in it. I wanted to spend a couple of hours without anyone doing any inferring or any implying or any alluding. My impulse to flee felt selfish and cowardly, at least partly because I was certain that I was missing something that a more contemplative person would see, but I tried for an out anyway. “Bill, these are important things for you, obviously. But I don’t see any reason that they can’t wait until our scheduled appointment time.”
Something about my suggestion seemed to shake him free, allow him to change tracks again. Not exactly what I had hoped for, but at least momentarily I felt the air between us settle.
“What was going on next door?” he asked. “Why all the cops? Nobody will talk to me. I can’t reach my lawyer.”
“I can’t say. The police asked for my help with something.”
“Is it about my daughter?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve promised them that I wouldn’t discuss it.”
“Is it?”
“Bill, I’m sorry. I can’t say what it is. I can’t say what it’s not. I’ve been told not to discuss it.”
“Doyle gave them permission to go into his house?”
Doyle’s dead, Bill. His giving-permission days are behind him, I thought as I replayed Bill’s question in my head, tasting for disingenuousness. I was wondering if Bill already knew that Doyle was dead.
“I’m sorry.”
“This is bullshit.” Bill’s voice suddenly became a hoarse whisper and the anger in it was unmistakable. “If this is the way it’s going to be, I’m not sure I can continue seeing you.”
If that was a threat, it was lame, like holding a rubber knife to my throat. “That’s certainly your choice, Bill. I’ll be happy to make a referral, if you would like.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed. “That worked out well last time.”
And what does that mean? Mary Black bent over backward to help Rachel.
“Mallory saw a therapist. Did you know that?” he asked.
I was startled. I managed a flustered, “What?”
“The woman who died. Mallory went to see her a couple of weeks before Christmas. She didn’t tell me; she left a note about it in her journal.”
I had a thousand questions. One of them was: Have you told the police about that journal? I chose a different one: “Why did she see a therapist?”
“I don’t know that exactly.”
“Do the police know? The therapist may have left some… records behind.”
He didn’t answer my question. He cracked open the door of the car and prepared to climb out, but stopped. “Do you know anything about her? Are you keeping something from me? You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
Now those were tough questions. I didn’t have an immediate answer for any of them.
“I’m talking father to father right now, Alan. Father to father.”
“I wish I knew something that could help you find your daughter. I’d tell you if I did.”
He considered my words, tasting them for the sweetness of truth. “You’re a father. You have a daughter, too. Imagine losing her. You have to understand the vulnerability I’m feeling.”
I swallowed. I didn’t want to be reminded of that vulnerability.
Bill went on. “A father would do anything to protect his family. Anything. You know that. The things that can happen to kids? Daughters. You wouldn’t wish that on me, would you? I wouldn’t wish it on you.”
I immediately began pondering the question of how truthful my answer had been. Surprisingly, I decided that, other than the existence of the tunnel, and the fact that I knew she’d seen Hannah for a single therapy session, I didn’t actually know anything substantive about Mallory. I really didn’t. How odd.