“Like what?”
“Names of places. Cities and towns in South America. And animals like boas and piranhas, I remember her saying.”
“And you hadn’t taught them that?”
“No.”
Tess wasn’t sure why this was surprising to Michelle. He could have easily picked those things up while watching television.
“Did he say anything like that to you?”
“After she mentioned them, I noticed that some of his drawings had a different feel than what other kids would normally draw, but again, nothing too out of the ordinary. But there was one thing he did say that surprised me. I didn’t really think much of it until after his mom called.”
Tess felt a spark of anticipation. “What was it?”
“We were out in the park and I had the kids draw some of the flowers that were there. And Alex drew this white flower that was really gorgeous. But when I asked him which one he was drawing, he said it wasn’t one of the ones in the park. And then he said something else. He said, ‘They say it fixes your heart, but actually it kills people.’ ”
Tess wondered what kind of TV shows he’d been watching. “A flower that kills people?”
“I know, weird, right? But when I asked him what he meant, he didn’t want to say. It’s odd, though, ’cause lately, he’s been more articulate and seems to have a richer vocabulary than his classmates. But on that occasion, he didn’t want to say more.”
“So how did you leave it?”
“I told his mom I’d let her know if he said or did anything unusual or if he seemed at all unhappy about anything. I saw her when she dropped him off a couple of times. She said she was taking him to see a specialist but didn’t really go into detail.”
“What, like a shrink?”
“Yes. A child psychologist. Privately. She didn’t want to involve the school in it. She didn’t want Alex to be labeled in any way. You know how it is.”
Tess was familiar with that kind of pressure. “Do you know who she took him to see?”
“No.”
“Did she say anything about him?”
Fowden thought about it, then said, “No, I’m sorry. I got the feeling she was kicking herself for even mentioning it to me.”
Tess had to get more. “Was it a man or a woman?”
Fowden paused, then said, “A man. Yeah, I’m pretty sure she referred to him as ‘he.’ ”
Tess thanked her, got her number, and ended the call.
She didn’t have much. A first name that may or may not relate to a local shrink.
Tess left her room and saw that Jules had ended her call and was now playing with Alex. She hesitated to interrupt them, then picked up her iPad, went back to her room, fired up Safari, and started trawling the online listings for psychologists in the San Diego area named Dean.
38
We landed at Hooper Heliport at five thirty, took the elevator down to the street, and got straight into a Bureau Suburban that was waiting for us. Our destination was only five miles out. As we drove north toward the hills, the agent riding shotgun briefed us on the clinic.
“The place was founded about twenty years ago by Ursula Marshall, on an endowment. It’s got twenty beds. Day center caters to another ten. The patients don’t pay a dime, and the waiting list runs over two hundred. Ursula’s daughter was a runaway. Died of an overdose at nineteen. Ursula’s dad owned a big slice of Washington State at one point, and Ursula was an only child. This is one of the things she used her inheritance for.”
I asked, “And Frye is there full-time?”
“He runs the place, apparently. Does a bit of everything, including counseling. The place tends to cater to ex-military personnel.”
“Love the soldier, hate the war,” Munro said, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
He obviously hadn’t changed his stance since the last time we worked together, his stance being that the war isn’t over till every single enemy combatant is dead, whether it’s the wars in the Gulf, the War on Terror, or the War on Drugs. At this point, as long as he didn’t rile Pennebaker, I didn’t really care what he thought.
We left Griffin Avenue and climbed deeper into the Monterey Hills. The views were breathtaking, the houses few and far between. If you wanted somewhere secluded but still within reach of a city, the area was perfect. The last place recovering addicts needed to be was in the middle of downtown with all the treacherous distractions and lethal delights on offer.
The clinic was a sprawling three-floor building, hacienda style. A handful of palm trees edged the property on two sides, and a steeply sloping lawn ran down to the road. We climbed out of the Suburban and walked up to the main entrance. The door was open. We stepped into an atrium that was dominated by several tall indoor cacti. To the left was a common room filled with armchairs and sofas. To the right was a huge open-plan kitchen with a mess-style table dead center and running the room’s entire length. At the rear was a wide wooden staircase.
A young woman dressed in a T-shirt and faded jeans and sporting a long blonde ponytail walked down the stairs toward us.
“Hi. Can I help you?” She tucked her bangs behind her left ear. I bet the soldiers melted when she did that.
“We’re looking for Matthew Frye.”
She turned back up the stairs and called out.
“Matt? There’s some people here to speak to you.”
She turned back to face us and I immediately recognized the glint in her eye. She and Matthew were an item.
“This about Donaldson?” she asked.
“No, why?”
She waived it aside with a shrug. “One of our patients. He’s suing the army for compensation. Lost an arm in Afghanistan, got addicted to painkillers, but they didn’t cut it, so he switched to heroin. Failed a mandatory drug test and was fired. Didn’t work for three years. He’s been here three months, been clean for six weeks.”
This story certainly wasn’t going to change Pennebaker’s mind about anything. If Frye was indeed Pennebaker. But they do say that in time you tend to find yourself where your environment echoes your beliefs.
Our conversation was halted by a tall, wiry man descending the stairs.
“You guys from the Military Review Board?” he scoffed. “Not surprised you’re not in uniform. Probably never seen a day’s action in your lives.”
He came to a stop in front of us. He looked surprisingly like the photo of Frye. But it was definitely Pennebaker.
Munro couldn’t let his dig go by unchallenged. “We’ve seen action. Plenty of it. Just not in BDUs.”
Pennebaker cast a more analytical eye across the pair of us. I could see him revising his opinion, deciding whether he could take both of us if he were so inclined.
Munro took a couple of steps toward the door in case Pennebaker decided to charge for the exit.
The agent who had driven us out there would already be covering the rear. And the local FBI car was parked a couple of hundred yards down the street.
For a moment, Pennebaker rocked back onto the balls of both feet and tensed his limbs—the instinctive reaction of a soldier—then he relaxed his entire body and cocked his head to one side.
“You know who I am. Good for you.”
I walked toward the common room and sat down, and gestured for Pennebaker to join me. “Come on. Sit. We need to talk. It’s about the club.”
He took a deep, annoyed breath, then followed suit and grabbed a chair facing me. Munro joined us but stayed on his feet.
“I’ve got nothing to say about that. I’m out. Been out for years. End of story.”
There was no guilt or paranoia or rage on display. His words were calm and assured. Whatever path Pennebaker was on had turned potentially self-destructive feelings into confidence and what appeared to be a strong sense of self-worth.