I retreated from his pseudo-hug and made my face as neutral as possible. I observed the olourful skin paint that passed for running pants and noticed he still wasn’t reluctant to advertise all his products and services. I coaxed my eyes up to his face, straining my brain for something brilliant to say, but instead came out with the verbal equivalent of elevator music. “You’re still running every day?”
“Yes, indeed. I’ve got to keep one step ahead of Father Time.” He smiled and patted his tight stomach.
Dr. I. I wonder if this man ever has an original thought.
He pulled my arm and guided me over to a nearby bench and sat. “Can we sit for a minute? Now that I’ve got you here, I’d love to catch up. What are you up to? Are you writing? Are you married?”
I joined him on the bench. “Well...” I managed to get that one word out before he launched into:
“Things are going so super for me. My private practice in San Francisco is booming, both because of the success of my last book and my radio program. You wouldn’t believe how busy I am and how in demand I am as a speaker. Did you see me on Dr. Phil? I was one of the experts for a recent segment. Oprah’s people are talking to my people.
Can you imagine what an appearance on her show will do for my books? I live in a fabulous house in one of the finest sections of town and I just ordered a brand new Ferrari. I’ll take you for a ride the next time I see you . . .”
I just stared at him as he went on with his manic rant. He didn’t seem to notice that I hadn’t spoken or that I was gaping at him like he was a nasty squished bug on my windshield. Had he always been this way? What had I been thinking? Had I really been so dazzled by his appearance that I’d ignored his self-absorption? I amused myself for a few seconds by mentally thumbing through the list of personality disorders he fit into.
“So, whatever happened to Summer, the astrologer?” I interjected loudly.
“Who? Oh, yes. She was a sweet thing. Simply adored me. Thought I walked on water. But we were from two different worlds and she wasn’t a good fit for where I was going. We parted the best of friends.”
Yeah, sure. I bet. I wonder what her version of the break-up is.
He glanced down at his diamond-studded watch. “Oh, damn. Look at the time. I’ve got to hurry back and get dressed for my presentation. Hey, here’s an idea. Why don’t you come to the conference with me and you can listen to my lecture. I’ll bet you’d really learn a lot from it. What do you say?”
“Well, as tempting as that sounds,” I said sarcastically, which, judging by his solemn head-nodding, he’d totally missed, “I’ll have to pass. I have clients this morning.”
“Bummer! It’s a shame you can’t attend, but I know how seriously you take your work.”
He said that as if it was a bad thing. He’d always viewed my refusal to join him in the fast lane as a character flaw, as well as a personal disappointment.
“I was going to keep this as a surprise for you, but I guess I can tell you now. I expect I’ll be seeing a lot more of you because I’m doing a series of workshops in Colorado and I’d love to discuss the possibility of my using your office part-time while I’m here. Could we get together for dinner tonight and talk about it?” He flashed me a California smile.
Welcome to the wonderful world of Tom Radcliffe’s ego. Plenty of room for everyone, folks. Step right up. Enter at your own risk.
He stood, and began running in place. “Tell you what, I’ll just drop by your house after the conference is over at 9 p.m. I got your new address from the APA Directory.” Before I could answer he jogged away backward, yelling “I’ll see you then.”
I sat on the bench, shook my head and laughed out loud. Luckily, no clients were around to witness my temporary joyful insanity. I did have a reputation to uphold, after all.
Suddenly, everything about Tom Radcliffe seemed hilarious. How could I have been in love with such a narcissistic egomaniac? Such a superficial moron? I’d spent the last two years grieving and miserable, and now I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember why. And, as long as we kept enough miles between us and a bedroom, I might never be tempted to recover the memory.
I smiled through a brisk walk around the park and whistled all the way back to my house. Maybe things were looking up.
***
The first thing I noticed when I got off the elevator in my office building a while later was a bulging manila envelope propped against my waiting room door. I picked it up, tucked it under my arm and unlocked the doors leading to my reception area and then to my office. I sat down at my desk and inspected the package. There was nothing unusual about it—no address on the front, postage or writing of any kind. I opened the clasp. Inside the envelope was some kind of light blue fabric with extensive stains on it. I had an immediate bad feeling and picked up a pencil to lift the cloth out of its container. I'd seen enough cop shows to know about not contaminating evidence, and my intuition told me that I was in possession of something awful.
Using the pencil to spread out the fabric on top of my desk, I could see it was one of those flimsy gowns they use in hospitals. The ones that never close in the back. The stains looked and smelled like dried blood.
Something about dried blood made me think of Emerald. Would she have worn this kind of gown?
No. There must be hundreds of explanations for this gown turning up in front of my door. It probably had nothing to do with Emerald at all. Just a case of someone leaving the package at the wrong place.
Even though I tried hard to delude myself, none of the rationalizations were working and I began to feel nauseous. The smell of the package reminded me of my dream, and I unconsciously reached up to touch the wound on my neck, which I'd covered with a band-aid. I had the unpleasant realization that if I didn't get to the bathroom in ten seconds, I'd throw up on the floor. I made a mad dash and reached the toilet just in time to lose my morning coffee
Feeling hot and cold at the same time, my stomach completely empty, I went over to the sink and swished some water around in my mouth. It was a good thing I always carried a toothbrush, toothpaste, and mouthwash in my purse. I stared into the mirror and reaffirmed Alan's earlier assertion that I did, indeed, look like death today. Sometimes even the best makeup job wasn't enough. Having such fair skin was a blessing most of the time, because I always appeared younger than I was, but today I had definitely crossed the line between an ivory glow and an anemic pallor.
I shuffled back into my office and rummaged through my briefcase, searching for the business card Alan had given me, and I called the number. He answered on the first ring.
"Stevens."
"Alan, someone left me a bloody hospital gown."
"Kismet? Is that you? What about a hospital gown?"
I told him what I'd found. He said he'd alert the local police and they'd be right over.
I fished the dental hygiene products out of my purse and scurried to the bathroom, where I brushed and swished until I felt almost normal, then headed back to my office.
I sat at my desk, scrutinizing the blood-stained material, and I wondered again what I'd gotten myself into. I'd spent the last week bouncing back and forth between fear, confusion, and arousal, and I was exhausted. I didn't think I'd been of help to anyone, and I certainly hadn't done myself any good.
Staring off into space, I realized I hadn't checked my messages, so I punched in the retrieval code for my business voice mail and found several. The first was from Ronald, asking if we could reschedule his appointment because he'd been up all night searching for Emerald. It was a good thing he couldn't make it, because he'd be due at the same time the police would likely arrive and I hadn't even taken that into account. In fact, I'd totally forgotten I had a client coming. Another indication of my impending mental breakdown. I made a note to call him back later.
I paused the messages and scanned my appointment book to make sure I hadn't neglected any other important business, and smiled. Fran, my 76-year-old UFO abductee client was scheduled in this morning for her long-standing appointment, but it wasn't going to work today. One of Fran's challenges was a deep distrust of authority figures. I could only imagine what would happen if the police were still here when she arrived. Fran, who weighed no more than 90 pounds soaking wet, had been known to start screaming and flailing at the sight of a uniform, which usually guaranteed problems with whoever was wearing the offending garment at the time. Yes, I was definitely going to reschedule Fran.
And after Fran was Spock. Spock's real name was Henry Madison, but he got very upset if anyone called him that. He lived in a perpetual Star Trek episode, even going as far as having his ears surgically altered to be "Vulcan." He had his costumes tailor-made and shaved his eyebrows so he could draw on the "correct" ones. Interestingly enough, Spock hadn't come to therapy for any of the reasons one might assume. He'd come because he wanted to explore his poor choices with women. He just couldn't seem to find the woman of his dreams. He suspected Mother issues. I thought that was only the tip of the iceberg.
Continuing with the messages, up next was my daily reminder from Brother Luther about the current state of my immortal soul. He usually gave me a portion of the sermon-of-the-week, and kept his remarks very general and impersonal. Today's message had a different tone. He seemed agitated, and he talked a lot about being "washed in the blood," and made a comment about being a warrior for God. He continued on until the allotted message time ran out and he was cut off mid-tirade. That was the first time one of his messages caused me to feel uncomfortable, and, in light of the other events of the morning, I considered whether or not I needed to tell the police about Brother Luther, too.
Chapter Eight
Within an hour, my office was inundated with police officers and forensics specialists. They bagged up the manila envelope and its contents, confiscated the pencil I used to move the cloth around, and were in the midst of seeking clues by crawling inch-by-inch along the hallway in front of my waiting room door. Alan stood next to my desk, silently observing the investigation and writing in his ever-present notebook.
A noticeably physically substantial female officer approached me. She was big the way that a weightlifter is big. Not fat, but solid and muscular. She must have been six feet tall. Dressed in a no-nonsense, dark blue pantsuit, she appeared to be in her late forties, but the years hadn't been kind. Her gray-streaked hair was cut very short, in a style that required little upkeep, and the lines in her face had formed themselves into a continuous scowl. I'd guess she'd been someone for whom high school had been hell, and she'd taken the Gold in the Olympic Holding A Grudge competition. Not someone I'd want to mess with, even if she hadn't been wearing a gun at her waist.
She marched purposefully over to me and snarled, "You Dr. Knight?"
"Yes." Gazing up at her, I suddenly felt six years old, called to the principal's office.
"Lieutenant Bullock. I need to get your statement." She pointed with her thumb back over her shoulder. "Let's go over there."
I nodded. We walked over to the couch, sat down, and I told her everything about finding the envelope, taking out the bloody, blue gown and calling Special Agent Stevens. She stopped writing and cocked her head, observing me, waiting, I supposed, for me to say something else. When I didn't, she prompted, her voice deceptively even, "I understand you have a missing client?"
"I'm afraid I'm not able to respond to that question."
She lowered her chin ever so slightly. "Why is that, Dr. Knight? You're the one who called us." Her voice became very quiet and controlled.
Feeling the chill of her frosty gaze, I swallowed loudly and cleared my throat. "Under the rules of confidentiality, I'm not able to discuss whether someone is or isn't a client. I called Special Agent Stevens because finding a package containing a bloody anything is out of my area of expertise. I thought it might be something he could deal with."
She held my gaze for a moment. "Why would someone leave a blood-stained hospital gown in front of your door, doctor?"
"I have no idea."
She gave an unfriendly smile and raised an eyebrow. "Do you know Emerald Addison?"
I sat silently, keeping my face pleasantly neutral.
She moved closer and locked eyes with me. "I know Emerald Addison is your client. You're obstructing a police investigation by refusing to cooperate. I'll need copies of the records you have on her friends, who are also your clients," she demanded, her voice getting louder.
I tensed. "Lieutenant Bullock, I can only repeat what I've already said. I'm unable to respond. I'm bound by the rules of confidentiality."
She bolted up off the couch. "You're starting to piss me off, Dr. Knight."
She paced around in front of me, stopped and bent down so that our faces were inches apart. She whispered loudly, "If the blood on that gown matches the blood of the missing girl, you're going to have a lot more questions to answer. Maybe you didn't just find the gown. Maybe you had it all along. Maybe you're hiding something. Maybe I'll get a court order to force you to give me your records."
Every time she said the word "maybe," she accented and held out the first syllable, allowing each repetition to rise in pitch.
My heart pounded in my chest and I felt sweat breaking out on my forehead. I'd never had anyone get in my face and threaten me that way before, and I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything. That seemed to make her even angrier.