Part 2 (1/2)

”I know you do.”

After she hung up, Barrett closed the chart and handed it off to the records clerk. As she pa.s.sed through the security check and retrieved her briefcase and pocketbook, she asked the guard in the booth, ”So what happened?” Her voice was shaky.

The silver-haired old-timer shrugged his shoulders. ”I just got on.”

”I'm not saying it was your fault. I just want to know how it happened. Why didn't his gun get picked up by the metal detector? Not to mention that there are signs everywhere telling officers to surrender their weapons before entering.”

”He was young, Dr. Conyors-maybe he couldn't read.”

Barrett looked through the bulletproof window. There was something in the man's expression, indifference ... contempt. Many of the guards had been here for decades-just like the patients. They were inst.i.tutionalized and resistant to change. Psychiatrists were viewed as patient-coddlers, and a woman psychiatrist, well that was just wrong.

She stared him down, ”Someone didn't do their job, and because of it, my patient is dead and a twenty-two-year-old law officer might not live through the night.”

The guard said nothing as he slid the sign-out clipboard beneath the opening in the window.

Barrett found her name two pages back and logged out. She needed to get out of there. What made this even worse was that she'd been on a committee appointed by the Croton superintendent to develop a policy on firearms four years ago. That committee had been formed following another incident, one that had left two guards wounded and a patient and his wife dead in a murder-suicide. The instrument of destruction had been a guard's Ruger Speed Six.

At the time, she'd visited every forensic hospital in New England. When they'd wrapped up the study it was clear-Croton was years behind in allowing its aging force of guards to carry firearms into patient areas. What she hadn't counted on was the powerful resistance to the new policy. She had no doubt that the rosy-cheeked deputy had been waved through with a nudge and a wink, his firearm clearly visible from the guard's observation booth. It would stretch out into a long investigation, and as typically happened, if it stayed out of the papers-and it would-whoever was responsible would get off with a wrist slap.

Dusk was falling on the warm late-April night as she retrieved her two-year-old leased Saab 9-3 convertible from the physician's lot. With trembling fingers she undid the latches and opened the top. Pus.h.i.+ng eighty, she cranked up a Neville Brothers CD, needing the feel of speed and wind as it whipped through her hair. An hour and fifteen minutes later she pulled off the Henry Hudson and headed east on 28th. She signaled left and took the ramp to the underground garage that cost her $1,000 a month.

From there it was just a block's walk to her one-bedroom co-op between 8th and 9th Avenue. Her body felt tight and she wished that she could cancel dinner. Just have a shot or two of whiskey and soak in the tub. But as she got off the elevator on the fourth floor and saw a band of light spilling from her condo, she tensed.

Adrenalin pumped at the sound of a man's voice. She pushed open the door and saw her husband, Ralph, dressed in his concert tux, ensconced on their cream-colored sofa. ”What are you doing here?” she asked, feeling the room spin. She did not want to see him, her anger still too hot.

”Barrett, what happened?” A look of concern crossed his face.

Justine, her long hair up, appeared from behind the galley kitchen, she stared at her sister. ”Jesus! Are you okay?”

Barrett caught her reflection in the chrome-framed mirror next to the door. What she saw was a tall, dark-haired woman in a crumpled navy suit with a bloodstained linen s.h.i.+rt, torn and stained panty hose, and a jagged tear up the side of her skirt.

Justine went to her, ”You okay?”

”What's he doing here?” Barrett asked, trying to avoid Ralph's worried gaze. ”And where's Mom?”

”I couldn't stop him. And Mom decided we're having fried chicken and biscuits. She went to D'Agostinos.”

Barrett turned to Ralph, avoiding his rich brown eyes. ”Please leave,” she said, while a part of her so wanted him to hold her.

”We have to talk, Barrett. I don't know what to say.” He lowered his voice, ”I'm sorry. It was a mistake.”

”Look,” she said, noticing how his jet-black hair was starting to turn silver around his sideburns, and that his smile still made something inside of her go weak. ”I thought we agreed ...” she needed to stay strong, to not give in. ”I need time.”

”I know. I just came to pick up some stuff before the concert.”

Barrett found it hard to speak. It had been less than two weeks since she'd come home in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon with the news that her research, on the cla.s.sification of sociopaths into those who could be safely brought back into the community and those who needed to be indefinitely locked up, had been accepted for publication in the prestigious American Journal of Medicine. They'd even suggested that, with a little more work, they'd publish her groundbreaking work as a book. Ralph-the princ.i.p.al trombonist for the Manhattan symphony-had no rehearsal on Wednesdays, so she had wanted to celebrate. What she hadn't expected was to find him with Carol Gartner-a woman she considered her friend-naked in their bed.

Barrett looked at her sister, needing the anchor of her closeness. ”Please go, Ralph.”

Justine stood by her sister, ”You should leave.”

Barrett felt the tears; her throat tightened, and she couldn't speak.

”I'll go,” he said. ”But we have to talk. I don't want us to be over, Barrett. I'll do whatever you want.” His full lips softened into a smile, dimples formed.

d.a.m.n him, she thought, wis.h.i.+ng she could be angrier. As he turned to go, she realized he hadn't taken anything, that he'd come here just to talk, to try and make things better. But how do you do that? How do you erase the image of Carol's blond curls matted with sweat on your own pillow? How could she trust him? And why did she want to stop him from leaving? To feel his warmth against her, the velvet of his smooth olive skin. d.a.m.n him!

She stared at the open door as Ralph's footsteps grew fainter. She felt numb as Justine came from behind and hugged her. They listened as the outer door opened, closed, and then opened again.

High heels clicked on the hallway tiles, there was a rustle of plastic bags, and then Ruth Conyors, who, from a distance, could have pa.s.sed for Barrett and Justine's older sister, appeared in the doorway. Her auburn hair-once natural and now from a bottle- was pinned up; large gold hoops accented her long neck and still-firm jaw line, which she had pa.s.sed on to her daughters.

”Sweet Jesus! What happened, Barrett?” Ruth's Georgia accent still as strong as the day she left the state.

”It's nothing,” Barrett, said. ”Let me get changed and then we can go out.”

”Don't be ridiculous,” Ruth said. ”Was that Ralph?”

Justine nodded.

”Is someone going to tell me what's going on?” Ruth asked.

”I feel sick,” Barrett sank onto the roughly woven pale-cotton upholstery; she stopped herself. ”Look at this,” she turned around to show them the bloodied-back of her ruined skirt, ”it's all over my car. I should have changed, but I just wanted to get home.”

Ruth deposited her bags on the galley kitchen counter that opened into the living area, which contained a small dining nook, a couch, two stuffed chairs, and a ma.s.sive Mason and Hamlin piano that had been a gift from Barrett's beloved mentor, Sophie.

Ruth looked at her two beautiful daughters, both of them doctors, Justine just finis.h.i.+ng her training as a surgeon, and Barrett with her odd choice to work with mentally ill criminals. ”Are you hurt?”

”I don't think so.”

”You're covered in blood. What happened?”

”It's not mine,” Barrett shook her head. ”I'm not hurt.”

”But someone is.”

”I don't want to talk about it ... someone got careless and because of it ...” She couldn't speak for a moment. ”Because of it, my patient is dead. He killed himself, and I watched him do it.”

”Oh, Barrett. I'm so sorry.”

Feeling as though her head were about to explode, she ripped off her skirt and bloodied slip, and sank onto the sofa, unable to stop the convulsive sobs that shook her.

Justine silently sat beside her and cradled her head against her neck. ”It's going to be okay,” she said smoothing her sister's silky hair.

Barrett wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ”Why did Ralph have to be here? This day was awful enough. Why? Why did he have to do this? Why wasn't I enough? Why?” Tears flowed.

Ruth, busying herself in the kitchen, felt her daughter's heartache, as she pulled down a saucepan and emptied in a bottle of peanut oil. Conyors women, she thought, have bitter luck with men.