“For last week.”
Oh. “The session you missed? No, I won’t bill you for that.”
Bob acknowledged me with a nod, but he didn’t thank me. Did I expect him to? No, not really.
When he finally raised his face enough so that I could see it, I spotted a cold sore the size of a lug nut on his lower lip. The rounded wound was fresh and blistered. Had to hurt. I thought, Stress. He didn’t speak again for a while. Then, “I almost lost my job. It was stupid.”
“What was stupid?” I could have asked. But the recent idiocy options were numerous. Too numerous. Plenty by him, plenty by me.
More by him.
I waited. The Kinko’s box sat beside me on the small table next to my chair. Had Bob seen it when he walked in? I hadn’t noticed him even glancing in my direction.
“She asked. I didn’t kidnap her. Sheesh.”
No half head-shake, just the “sheesh.”
Although technically it was my turn to speak, Bob said, “I shouldn’t have shown her the tunnel in the first place.”
I could have argued with him at that point, suggesting that maybe what he shouldn’t have done was drive a minor who was the subject of a national manhunt across state lines, but time was on my side. An entire year of Tuesdays littered the calendar ahead. Bob and I would get there eventually.
“She was scared after that therapist died,” he said. “I thought she should know how to get out of her house.”
His tone, I thought, was defensive, which wasn’t too surprising. But was Mallory’s fear really the way Bob was going to try to rationalize his decision to help her stay hidden when the whole world was frantically looking for her? I suspected not.
Why? Pulling off that argument would require that Bob convince me that he’d suddenly developed a capacity for empathy. Sadly, the events of the previous couple of weeks would no more leave Bob with empathy than they would leave Bill Miller with a well-functioning superego. “Go on,” I said.
He sighed before he turned away, reached down, and rooted around in his rucksack. He lifted out an electronic device about the size of a paperback book and held it up for me to see.
I couldn’t help but smile. It was a fancy, programmable remote control. The one from Doyle’s basement, no doubt.
“Perhaps you should give that to your attorney,” I suggested.
He stuffed the remote back into the daypack and gazed out the window. The southern sky warned of dusk. He said, “She doesn’t look fourteen.”
My spleen didn’t spasm. I allowed the force of gravity to press me solidly against my chair.
“Tell me,” I said.
I thought I’d try to be a therapist for a while.
Acknowledgments
As usual, I got a lot of help.
My gratitude to the kind, talented people at Dutton, especially Carole Baron and Brian Tart, and to my agent, Lynn Nesbit.
Jane Davis, Elyse Morgan, and Al Silverman continue to support me in ways that are personal as well as professional. I’ve said thanks. I’ll say it again, knowing it’s not enough. Nancy Hall, once more, brought her critical eye to the process.
If I wore one, I’d tip my hat to Virginia Danna and Darrell C. R. Olson, Sr. Call it courage, call it blind faith, but they paid good money to charity to have their names used for characters in this book. I think I’ll just call it generosity. Norm Clarke, on the other hand, was a draftee. His gracious, one-of-a-kind introduction to Las Vegas and his willingness to let me give him an important role in the story were much appreciated.
Robert Greer, who does more things well than anyone I’ve ever met (other than perhaps his late wife, Phyllis), provided some consultation about one of his many specialties. And although I’ve long been indebted to them for pushing the swing, the Limericks-Jeffrey and Patricia-deserve some fresh credit for one of this book’s small secrets.
Xan, Rose, and my mother, Sara White Kellas, continue not to be surprised that I’m able to do this. They believe, and what is better than that?
