Part 14 (1/2)

”You always told me not to get attached to my clients,” she said. ”Remember? You said it was too easy to be blinded to them if you're emotionally involved.”

He frowned and peered at her over his gla.s.ses. ”I am not blinded by my emotions,” he said coldly.

”Probably not. But she was a very good looking fifty-three-year-old who might have been flattered by attention from someone that much younger, and might have believed whatever he said. She might have had to work at believing him, but was working at it. It happens.” Or, she thought but did not add, Hilde could have woven her own fantasy romance tale, complete with mad wife in the attic and happy ending.

”What would be in it for him?” he demanded.

”Oh, Dad, come on! He's a man, isn't he? What more do you need?”

”I remember that I also said more than once that if you start generalizing about people, you lose the individual,” he said, even colder.

”Well, since I don't have him, I can't lose him, now can I? Peace, Dad. I'm grasping at straws. I'll check out that book, put in a book search for it. Probably Talbot Grady is long dead, but I'll give him a shot, too, while I'm at it. No doubt it's a waste of time if what our guy wanted was something scribbled on the inside cover.”

The next morning she had just entered the kitchen, sniffing coffee, when the phone rang. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the kitchen wall phone when she heard Will's voice.

”Barbara, police are at Graham's with a search warrant. They want to question Alex. I'm on my way out.”

”So am I,” she said. ”Stall them as much as you can.”

”What the devil?” Frank said as she raced upstairs for her laptop, purse, briefcase, sandals. She raced back down.

”I have to leave,” she said, running past Frank. ”See you later.”

The waiting was over.

19.

Graham Minick had awakened very early that morning, before six, before the birdsong had become a full chorus. In no hurry to get up, he had thought about the strange thing that happened when a member of the household left. Like now, the house had an almost eerie stillness. It wasn't that Alex was a noisy sleeper, filling the house with snores and grunts; he never made a sound that escaped his closed door. It was rather as if a vacuum had formed, and it tugged at Minick throughout the day, the way it had done when Sal died so many years before.

He understood the pull of that emptiness, that absence of anything human; he had nearly succ.u.mbed to it before, and only after the fact had come to realize its power; only after the fact had he recognized how deep into depression he had sunk. He knew very well that for many the only escape from the void, the deepening depression of despair, was the ultimate escape. Alex had said more than once that Minick had saved his life, but Graham Minick knew that salvation had worked both ways.

For many people work, a busy social life, a full schedule, all served to seal off that black void of emptiness; some people even thrived on a hermitlike existence. But Minick was not a hermit, not a recluse. Years ago, he had filled his days, hour after hour scheduled, more cases than he could properly manage, and then, when he paused, when he became still, he had been aware that just out of sight, waiting, growing ever more powerful, was the void.

Then he was thinking of the many young desperate people he had counseled, how he had come to dread the empty eyes, knowing that the void had claimed those youngsters. Some he had saved, some he had lost.

Yesterday, walking down to the road to collect any new hate posters tacked to his trees, he had heard something off to the side. The sound grew louder, and he realized that it was coming from the Marchand woods. It sounded as if someone was dragging something through the brush.

He worked his way closer, then came to a stop behind a tree. The girl, Rachel Marchand, was dragging a tree branch, grunting and panting with effort. She was dressed in jeans and boots, a T-s.h.i.+rt, with her hair tied up in a ponytail, and not a trace of makeup. She stopped to rest, then began to drag the branch again.

She was on the track where she and her boyfriend had parked, and he realized that she was blocking it off from the road. One branch was already across the track and, with the one she was pulling, it would be impa.s.sable. Minick did not move as he watched her close off lover's lane.

When she had the branch in place, she stood up and looked about, and he was struck by the change in her. Before, garishly painted, she had looked like a child who had gotten into her mother's makeup; now she looked like a young adult, thinner than he remembered, pale and drawn, and with empty eyes.

She turned and trudged back toward the Marchand house, and he did not move until she vanished among the trees.

That afternoon he went to a strawberry farm and bought half a flat of berries, then he drove to the Marchand house. Mrs. Dufault opened the door at his knock.

”I brought you some strawberries,” he said. ”For you and the youngsters.” She looked fl.u.s.tered, unsure if she should invite him in, and he said, ”I'll just get them from the car.”

When he returned, carrying the berries, she opened the door wider and he walked into the kitchen. ”They're so beautiful this year, I couldn't resist,” he said, ”and I thought maybe you folks would enjoy them, too.” He put the box of berries on the table.

”That's so kind of you,” Mrs. Dufault said. ”Thank you.” She hesitated, then said, ”Please, sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

”Don't go to any trouble,” he said, but he sat down, and she was already taking cups from the cabinet. ”How are the kids getting along?”

”Fine,” she said. ”Just fine.” She brought coffee to the table and sat down. ”Leona said you were a psychologist and a medical doctor. Is that right?”

”Well, I'm retired, you know. But that's what I was, what I did.”

”She said you worked with troubled youngsters in New York for many years.” She stirred her coffee, keeping her gaze on it. ”Actually,” she said then, ”I'm a bit concerned for Rachel. Probably it's nothing, and she'll get over it. Kids are so resilient. But she's like a different girl. I don't really know what to do for her. I've tried talking to her about... you know. But she won't say anything.”

”She's been deeply traumatized, Mrs. Dufault. They both have been. And she's at the most difficult age there is. Walking that tightrope between childhood and adulthood is a precarious time. And there's always a feeling of guilt if a child's parents die prematurely. They can't account for it and can't get rid of it without help in many instances, and it gnaws away at them. Have you considered counseling for her?”

”I brought it up, but she just ran up to her room crying.”

”Probably she doesn't understand how it works. She would be the client and whatever she talked about would be held confidential, sacred even. The counselor wouldn't tell you or anyone else a thing, you see. Grief counseling can be a healing process, Mrs. Dufault. The child has been deeply hurt; she needs help to heal.”

”I don't know where to begin,” Mrs. Dufault said in a strained voice.

”Perhaps her family doctor could recommend someone, or a teacher Rachel trusts, or her minister.”

She shook her head. ”She won't even talk to the minister. He tried, but she just sat like a lump, and then went to her room.”

”Her doctor then,” Minick said.

”I'll try,” Mrs. Dufault said. ”G.o.d knows, the child needs something. She just cries and cries. Or else she sits and stares at nothing. It's scary to see her like this.”

Minick nodded. Crying was all right; staring at nothing was not all right. ”Ask her doctor for the name of a counselor,” he said. ”A counselor will know how to approach her, what to say, how to help.” He stood up. ”I'll be on my way now.”

Lying in bed that Tuesday morning, he went over the incident in his mind once more; he had gone over it several times, and wished he had it to do over. But what more could he have said? Mrs. Dufault was an intelligent woman; she had understood what he meant. And she knew Rachel was in trouble. Those empty eyes, he thought bleakly.

His doorbell roused him out of bed; he pulled on his robe, thrust his feet into slippers, and went to see what idiot was calling at seven-thirty in the morning. Then, with a sense almost of relief, he saw that the waiting was over; the police had arrived.

Well, Barbara thought, pulling into the driveway, full house. There was a green sheriff's car, a black-and-white city police car, an unmarked black Ford, and Will's convertible. She parked behind the convertible and got out.

On the front porch a deputy stepped forward as she approached. ”Stop,” he said. ”Police business. You can't go in there now.” He was very young, blond, and nervous; his hand kept edging toward his holstered gun, then jerking away.

”Peace,” Barbara said, advancing. ”Mr. Feldman's attorney. I come in peace. Take me to your leader.”

”You got some ID?”

”If I reach inside my purse for ID, you promise not to shoot?” He flushed brick red, and at the same moment the screen door was pushed open; a plainclothes detective stepped out to the porch and said, ”Holloway. c.r.a.p, you shake a tree and the only nuts that fall out are lawyers. Where's Feldman?”

”And good morning to you, Detective c.u.mmins,” she said pleasantly. She smiled at the deputy, whose hands were now clasped behind his back. He stared straight ahead as she entered the house.

”Good morning, Will, Dr. Minick,” she said then. Dr. Minick, in his robe and slippers, looked pinched, both angry and frightened. ”Is there any coffee?” she asked him. ”Would you mind putting on some?” He nodded in relief and left the living room. A detective followed him. Barbara turned to Will. ”Have they taken anything out yet?”