Emily chose that moment to erupt; she’d apparently just realized that her homeland security had been violated and that a stranger was on her doorstep. Her fierce barking-even though it came from inside the house-caused Bob to retreat a few steps.
“She’s fine,” I said.
“I don’t like dogs. You know that.”
I didn’t think I knew that. “She’ll stay inside. Bob?” I waited until I thought I had his attention. “The police are looking for you. They want to talk with you about Mallory. I think you should get a lawyer and go see them. I can put you in touch with someone.”
“Sheesh,” he said, and did his little half head-shake thing.
I experienced an odd sense of relief that I’d finally lit on something I could share with Sam. I said, “You should know that whatever you decide to do, I’m going to tell the police you were here.”
He was puzzled. “Is that some… rule? You have to tell?”
“No. It might even be breaking some rule. It’s what I think is the right thing to do.”
He nodded. “That’s what I did, too. What I thought was the right thing.”
“You could be in danger. Doyle’s dead.”
“No, he’s not.”
Okay. I didn’t see a point in arguing. “The police need to talk with you.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“It’ll be fine then. Let me put you in touch with an attorney.”
My phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket and checked the screen: Sam. I said to Bob, “Excuse me. This will take just a second.” I turned away, putting a dozen feet between us. “Yes,” I whispered into the phone.
“I passed that DeVille on the way out of your neighborhood-the one we saw during our jog. Had a funny feeling, so I ran it. Expired tags, but it’s registered to somebody named Verna Brandt in-”
“I know.”
“He’s there?”
“Yes.”
“A deputy is on the way. I’ll be right behind them.”
I turned around. Bob was almost all the way back to the Cadillac. “Don’t,” I yelled.
He jumped in the car, spun the sedan in the dirt as though he practiced the maneuver on weekends, and was gone within seconds.
A huge gust of wind whooshed from the west. I didn’t sense it coming and the blunt force of the gale almost blew me over. When I finally caught my balance I looked toward the mountains the way somebody might look to check the identity of somebody who just sucker punched him. My conclusion? The forecast Chinooks had definitely arrived; the slopes of the Front Range were already haloed in snow that was being whipped off the glacial ice of the distant Divide.
I braced my feet and tried Sam on his cell, but didn’t get an answer. I waited until the sheriff’s deputy and Sam drove up, told Sam what had happened, and wished I could start the day all over again.
Lauren was planning to hang out with Grace on Saturday morning and then the two of them were going to do some clothes shopping at Flatiron. Later in the day, winds permitting, they were planning a mother-daughter “tablecloth restaurant” visit someplace Gracie kept insisting was a big secret. I spent the morning hoping to hear from Raoul or Sam. Didn’t. I filled the time writing a couple of reports that were long overdue, and did a few chores around the house before I cleaned up, hopped in my car, drove the few miles west to my office, and prepared to see Bill Miller.
I wasn’t looking forward to the visit, and half hoped he would bag the session because of the Chinooks.
65
Bill was waiting for me.
His car was parked where Diane usually left her Saab, not too far from the doors that led from our offices to the backyard. He was standing between the taillights, leaning back against the trunk, his arms folded over his chest. The January sun was already low over the southwest mountains and the fierce wind gusts were blowing anything that wasn’t bolted down from the west side of town to the east. Some day soon, one of these Chinook events was going to propel our rickety garage from our side of downtown to the other.
I stopped my wagon parallel to his car-but a few feet farther from the rickety garage than usual-and stepped out. I didn’t like that his car was parked in back. I didn’t like that he wasn’t waiting for me by the front door.
He greeted me with, “You knew.”
I chose defensiveness. Wise? Probably not. “I’d given my word to the police, Bill. I also knew you’d find out what happened soon enough. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. It would have made things easier for both of us.”
He nodded; he’d probably traversed that territory himself. “What’s your role in all this?” he asked. “Why were you at Doyle’s last night? And those other times?”
His voice seemed to carry better in the wind than mine did; mine felt like it was being swallowed up like spit in the ocean. “It has to do with what was making me concerned about the dual-relationship problem I talked about.”
Bill nodded as though he understood. But I wondered how he could even hear, let alone understand. The nod must have meant something else.
“When we talked last night did you know that Doyle was dead?” he asked. I had the sense that he was methodically going down a list of questions. I also had the sense that he didn’t really expect to learn anything novel in my responses.
“Same situation, Bill; I couldn’t talk about it with you. I knew you would find out this morning anyway.”
He turned his head momentarily so he was gazing west toward the mountains, frankly into the wind. His hair flew back behind him like he was a character in the cartoons. “Do you know where my daughter is?” he asked.
I half heard him, half read his lips. “No, I don’t. I wish I did,” I said.
“You’re sure?”
“I am.” Almost reflexively, I asked him the same question. “Do you know where she is, Bill?”
“No.”
“What’s the third option? The other night you suggested the possibility that running and kidnapping weren’t the only options.”
“Hiding.”
“Hiding? From what?”
He surprised me by taking a quick step closer to me, closer than I liked. “Life. Yes, hiding. I have a story to tell you.”
In retrospect, that was the point when I should have stopped him. Walked away. Told him therapy was over, or that it had never really begun. Handed him my license and let him use it for a coaster. Given him the phone number of the state board that censures wayward psychologists, like me. Something.
But I didn’t. I still had a scintilla of hope that Bill knew something that would help me find Diane.
“One day last spring,” he began, “I came home from work and found Doyle Chandler inside my house, sitting at my kitchen table drinking a beer. My beer. My records-my files, my bills, my checkbook, you name it-were spread out all over the table in front of him.”
“Bill, I-” I tried to interrupt him. Why? Something visceral was still telling me to get him to stop.
“I’m not done.” He raised both eyebrows and through a hissing exhale said, “Give me this. I deserve this.” I stepped back involuntarily. He immediately closed the distance between us. “Doyle knew everything about me. Said he’d spent almost a month going through my things. Paperwork, letters, tax returns, computer files. Passwords. Everything. He knew about Rachel, her… problems. He knew the kids’ grades, their teachers’ names. Knew I have a swollen prostate, that my LDL’s too high. Everything that makes our family different from the Crandalls across the street, everything that makes us who we are, he knew.”
I had an incongruous impulse to comfort, to tell Bill the truth about Doyle Chandler, his neighbor, and the truth about Doyle Chandler, the boy who’d died in a car accident in Roanoke with his parents back in 1967. I wanted to try to placate Bill with the fact that he’d been had by a damn good con man.