I scrambled to my feet. "I've never been in a position like this before. You have to admit these circumstances are unique."
His eyes flaring, he countered, "You have a patient who needs an objective outlet for exploring an issue that is troubling her. What, I ask you, is unique about that circumstance? It happens to both of us every day. The only thing that's unique about this situation is that you've decided to substitute your judgment for your patient's. How long do you think our profession can survive therapists doing that?"
"You know exactly what I mean. This is… different."
He dabbed at one corner of his mouth with the paper napkin. "Then act like it's different, Alan. The way I see it is that you're trying to straddle a high fence and you can't seem to get either foot on the ground. On one side you're making a case that your concerns are so great that they warrant your violating ethical principles that I know you hold dear. On the other side you're apparently not quite concerned enough about any of it to just go to the police and state your case. You have to get off the damn fence one way or another. Either it's a serious threat and you put your judgment ahead of your patient's, or it's not a serious threat and you shut up and help her with her struggles."
I pressed. "How would you get off the fence? If it were Cynthia in danger? Or one of your kids?"
"Is Lauren really in danger? Is Grace? Are you certain of that?"
"No, I'm not certain."
"Then your question about what I would do if it were Cynthia or one of my kids is too facile. I get to answer your question in the abstract. I get to play 'What if?' You? You have to make your decisions in the here and now when your head is full of nothing but I-don't-knows."
He stared at me while I struggled to reply. Finally, he said, "Where the heck did I leave my car?"
CHAPTER 14
Although I'd seen Royal and Susan Peterson's home plenty of times on the local television news in the days since Roy's murder, I hadn't been there again in person until Friday morning as I was parked across the street sitting in the front passenger seat of Sam Purdy's red Jeep Cherokee. The floor mats of Sam's old car were so caked with dried-on dirt and gravel that I couldn't tell whether they were made of carpet or rubber.
Sam had been quiet since he'd picked me up at my office. Now he'd started humming, never a good sign with Sam.
Out of nervousness as much as anything, I said, "It's just like seeing Plymouth Rock."
Two or three seconds passed before he said, "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Years ago, I drove to Plymouth Rock from Boston-it's a long way. The day I was there it was raining pretty good. You make the long drive, you find a place to park the car, you get out, you walk to the shore, you stand behind a little iron fence, you look down, and what do you see? You see a rock. That's it. A rock. Not a big rock, not an interesting rock. We're not talking Gibraltar. It's just a rock."
"Yeah, your point?"
"That's kind of how I feel right now, seeing Royal and Susan's house. I expected-seeing it in person after the murder, all that's happened there-that it would feel different, somehow, than it used to. More important, more moving. I don't know. But… it's just a house."
Sam harrumphed.
I continued, eager for him to understand. "It's like finding out Santa Claus is just a guy in a red suit."
Sam yawned. "I don't know. Lawn needs to be mowed. That never would have happened if Royal were alive. I think he was a keep-the-lawn-mowed-and-the-walkway-edged type of guy. I bet he was a regular Friday-after-work or Saturday-morning-first-thing-type yard guy. So that's different, the lawn not being mowed. In the winter, after a storm, I bet he was the first guy on the block out with his Toro, blowing snow halfway to Nederland."
I looked sideways at him. "Not in a particularly philosophical mood, are you, Sam?"
He laughed. "With what you told me to get me to do this, you're lucky I'm here at all. Don't hold your breath for Sartre."
I cracked open the car door. "I'm going to get the key. You want to come with or you want to stay here?"
"If it's all the same to you, I'll stay here and ponder the Plymouth Rock thing a little bit more. Maybe I'll get it."
As I walked across the street, I retrieved the yellow sticky note that I'd stuffed in my pocket and checked the address. The number matched the house right next door to the Petersons'. I walked up a flagstone path and rang the bell.
The woman who answered the door was young and harried. She had a toddler perched on one hip and another child, a girl around four, corralled between her legs. "Yes?" she asked. Her tone said, This better had be good.
"Ms. Wallace? I'm Alan Gregory; I'm a friend of Susan Peterson's. She said she would call you to authorize you to give me a key to her house. She said she left one with you for emergencies."
"Yeah, right. Hannah! You stay put, you hear me? How is Susan doing?" The little girl tried to squirm away. The woman trapped her with a knee and tried to smile at me. The expression ended up looking more like a grimace. "Such a tragedy what happened to Royal. Have to admit, it's scared the whole neighborhood. Hold on, I'll go get the key." She grabbed Hannah's hand, and mother and children disappeared down the hall.
I heard some insipid children's music playing in the background and reminded myself that my day listening to insipid children's music would soon come. I wondered whether the offensive sound was coming from a CD or a video and whether it involved a purple dinosaur or animated Japanese monsters.
I said a silent prayer that Grace would have good taste.
The woman returned with both children and with the key. She handed the fob out the door, and said, "Here you go. Just slip it back through the mail slot when you're done with it. Nice meeting you."
The door was closed before I said, "Thank you."
Sam met me on the road in front of the house. He said, "You never told me, what did you tell Susan Peterson to get her permission to do this?"
"You may not know this, but your friends at the police department only turned the house back over to her yesterday. Since she got out of the hospital, she's been staying with one of her daughters in Durango. I called down there and made up a story about something Royal and I were working on together, said I knew where the papers were in his study."
"She went for that?"
"She trusts me."
"Fool."
"Your guy is coming, right?"
"My guy is a girl and, yes, she's coming." He glanced at his watch. "We're early. She'll be here."
"She's off duty?"
"Way off duty. She's on disability after getting hurt on the job. Like I told you, she trains K-9s now, earns a little extra money."
Just then, a fifteen- or twenty-year-old Mercedes wagon rounded the corner and slowed as it pulled up to the curb. The paint on the car had oxidized to the point where I couldn't even guess at its original color. One front fender was liberally treated with rubbing compound. A young woman hopped out of the driver's side. She waved hello to Sam and walked to the rear hatch of the car. When she opened it, a medium-sized dog with floppy ears and indeterminate heritage jumped out and heeled beside her. She fixed a lead to the dog's collar and together they joined Sam and me on the sidewalk.
The woman limped noticeably.
Sam said, "Dorsey, this is Alan Gregory. Alan, Dorsey Hamm. Ex-Westminster Police Department, and this is her K-9 friend, uh…"
Dorsey was a stocky woman. Her skin showed evidence of a lost battle with adolescent acne. Her hair was cut carelessly. My impression was that she had long ago stopped trying to be attractive and that she was absolutely content with her decision.