Part 32 (1/2)

Sixteen.

”I'd give anything to get this guy into the office for a session. He is a piece of work.” Ben shook his head, amazed at the story he'd just heard.

”You know, I didn't think I was missing anything in my work, but Hamilton sounds like the kind of challenge that comes along once in a lifetime.”

They dined in the living room. The sun porch where they'd eaten pizza was just off to the right, the kitchen was straight ahead. Tonight they feasted on chicken. No bucket. Ben had cooked.

Tara was impressed. The sauce was creamy, Albuquerque chiles forsaken. There were peas, a salad, and bread. She'd run out for wine and dessert while he managed the feast in record time.

One gallon of cherry marble fudge had found its way into her basket. Ben was kind enough to rave over her choice; Tara was smart enough to know she could have left out the cherry and made him happier with more fudge. Either he'd changed over the years or, as when they were teenagers, he'd let her run roughshod over life's little decisions.

Tara stood in the doorway of the kitchen and held up the ice cream.

”More?”

Ben patted his middle.

”Better not. I've only got half of me to keep in shape, but I still have to work at it full time.”

Tara put away the carton, grateful to have a minute to herself. It was hard to listen to his jokes.

She went back, folding herself into the chair, winegla.s.s in her hand.

”So the bottom line is?” she asked.

She put aside the dessert bowls. Little dotted cows painted on the bottom caught her eye. They were unlike Ben, who seemed to prefer clean lines.

Perhaps he hadn't chosen the cow bowls at all.

Perhaps a woman had been with him, lived with him. Maybe they'd sat like this one night when she gave him this frivolous gift. Maybe he'd smiled at her the same way he smiled at Tara now. The notion made Tara feel odd. She was jealous. After all these years, she still cared. After all he'd been through, she still wanted him.

”I haven't the foggiest idea what the bottom line is.” Ben laughed and she joined in, ignoring the painted cows. His laugh faded, but not the pleasure she saw in his eyes.

”You look so beautiful when you do that.”

”Thank you,” she answered, only to find herself uncomfortable in the silence that followed. She prodded.

”Where were we?”

”A dead end. I haven't got a clue what to tell you.” He put his elbows on the table. One finger drew little sketches on the hard wood as he thought.

”Since I haven't met Bill, I can only speculate on the outline you've sketched for me.

I can't see the dimensions. In my line of work you don't discount vibes.

”For instance, I could interpret his offhandedness with the police any number of ways. He doesn't rock the boat by acting normal, he skirts arrest on a lesser charge. On the other hand, he could be pus.h.i.+ng the system to the limit. Kind of thumbing his nose at it. I'd tend to think it's the latter since he knew there would be some consequences for sending you that shredded blouse.”

”Where do I fit in? If that's what he wants to do, let him play games with the police. George would love it.”

”If he wanted to do that, he'd kill someone else.” Ben laid his hands flat on the table.

”Then it would be between him and the cops. But that's not what he wants. You're the system. You're successful within it, you're able to work through it, understand it, and he thinks you can manipulate it. Maybe it's keeping you on edge that's fun.

When you get the commitment papers, he's won.

If he was playing the same game with the police, he'd eventually lose and be put in prison.”

Tara set down her winegla.s.s and pushed it away.

”Ben, do you think he really wants help?”

”At first he asked for it as honestly as he could.

Just because he seems up all the time doesn't mean there isn't something eating away at him. He could be tortured, he could be troubled, he could be evil.” Ben shrugged as if to say take your choice.

”When we were by the river, I drought he was a tortured soul, but he changes so quickly. The things he says sound normal, yet the look behind his eyes isn't.”

”Content and form of thought,” Ben said, his bottom lip disappearing for a moment. He bit it and Tara had incredibly juvenile romantic thoughts about die way he looked. Ben's, tfiough, were still on the problem at hand.

”From what you say, there seem to be disturbances in those areas. Let's a.s.sume that his actions were imposed upon him by some external force when he killed that woman.”

”Oh. The hand of G.o.d came down and helped him pull the trigger?”

”Not quite. He might have seen something that reminded him of a particularly terrible time in his life. The woman he killed is doing something, and it's that something that triggers his violence. The content of this fugacious tableau intersects with reality and boom.” Delighted, Ben opened his hands as if to show her how realistic all this was. Tara tapped one of those hands.

”In English, please.”

”Sorry. There's a delusional explosion, so to speak. When Bill complains about being nowhere and feeling nothing, that could be what he's describing.

Bang, that poor lady is dead and he doesn't actually remember the other bang*the one in his head. His memory of a particular incident blacks out an actual physical response to it.”

Ben let her think about that for a minute, then added, ”The form of thought problem seems a possibility, too. Statements that seem to lack meaningful relations.h.i.+ps to one another when you and he are one-on-one.”

Tara unwound her legs. Bending over the table, she became reflective as their heads came closer and she shared her secret thoughts.

”He was so charming, and part of the charm was that he was surprising. Talking about his mother, then about country-Western songs, then about needing help.”

”Did you notice any change in tone when he spoke? Like a flat, inappropriate affect in speech pattern or expression? For instance, his voice monotonous, his face sort of immobile, like he's not reacting?”

”Yes and no.” Tara sat away again, smiling as she realized the futility of trying to describe Bill Hamilton.

”I can't tell, Ben. Ever since I found out what he did, I think my vision of him is clouded by the danger he might present to Donna.

That's exactly what I've been fighting against, that emotional involvement. It's not possible for me to be completely objective,” Tara answered as honestly as she could.

”And now he's out of my reach.