Part 7 (1/2)
”That's what all the reports say,” she agreed, trying to keep her voice neutral and professional. She reminded herself that Hobbs was in the other room, and wondered what exactly it was that was making her skin crawl. ”Jimmy, you never stood trial for whatever role you played in those murders. Instead, the court determined that because of your mental illness you couldn't be tried; you went to Croton. Now, because of this, and I know that I'm not telling you anything new, you must follow-to the letter-your release agreement. Do we understand each other?”
”Yes.”
”Good. Now let me ask you again; are you taking your medication?”
His nostrils flared, ”Yes, Dr. Conyors, I'm taking all of my medication.”
”Good. Then I'll have them draw levels in the morning.”
He said nothing, but she could see the rage behind his eyes.
The grandfather clock clicked as the gears for the hour mechanism engaged and the chimes resonated heavily through the room. It was five o'clock.
”We need to stop,” she said.
”Of course,” he replied.
Barrett uncrossed her legs and stood on shaky knees. Her thoughts were troubled by the competing bits of what she referred to as jagged data-things that didn't fit.
”Aren't you forgetting something?” he asked, still seated.
”What?”
He reached across the small eagle-footed Federal table and opened the drawer. He pulled out a linen envelope and getting to his feet, handed it to her. ”Your payment.”
Feeling his eyes on her, she took the envelope and pocketed it unopened. There was something contemptuous in the way he gave it to her, like a john paying a prost.i.tute.
”This time is good for you?” she asked.
”Yes.”
”Then same time next week.”
He nodded, his jaw set through clenched teeth.
Through the library's open door she saw Hobbs and Ca.s.sidy waiting for her in the foyer.
Without a word, Jimmy strode past them to the front door. He opened it, and keeping to the shadows he watched with hooded eyes as Dr. Barrett Conyors and her policemen left.
SEVEN.
Barrett felt rattled as she walked away from Ed Hobbs and from Jimmy Martin's opulent townhouse. With each step she rehashed the hour, thinking back over the pieces that didn't fit. Almost without thought, she pulled out her cell and dialed the forensic center.
”Give me the surveillance team,” she said, wondering why she felt so jangled.
A woman came on the line, and Barrett told her, ”I want to get some blood drawn on James Martin ... today, and send it stat. Get me a lithium level, basic electrolytes, drug-screen, Risperdal level, and you may as well check his liver, thyroid, and renal function at the same time.”
The woman read back her order; Barrett thanked her and hung up.
Nearing First Avenue, she noticed a sickly tingle in the tips of her fingers, and a mounting nausea. It took her a split-second to realize what was happening, and by then the sensations had leapfrogged to her feet, her throat. Her pulse sped, its beats ringing in her ears. Her thoughts skidded to a stop and she clutched her chest. This couldn't be happening; it had been years since the last one. She felt herself slipping out of her body and wondered if perhaps her therapist had been wrong all those years ago, and that perhaps this could kill her. It felt as though it were happening to someone else, as though she weren't there, standing on the corner of First and 21st Street.
”Barrett,” a man's voice called to her.
She turned and saw Hobbs running toward her. Could he see what was happening?
He stopped, not at all winded by his jog. ”I was thinking that maybe we could get some coffee, or something?”
”You're not on the clock?” she managed to ask, wondering if her voice betrayed what was happening inside.
”Nah, Bryan can take care of the vehicle. I'm just doing this to pick up some overtime.” He looked at her, his eyes searching. ”You okay?”
”Not great,” she admitted. ”I'm having a panic attack.”
”Can I help? You need a paper bag?”
”It'll pa.s.s,” she said, more as a reminder to herself. ”They always pa.s.s, the b.i.t.c.h is I haven't had one since I was a resident.”
”You think it had something to do with our boy, James?”
”Could be,” she agreed, noting that her palpitations had begun to subside. ”Here,” she offered him the underside of her hand, ”feel my pulse.”
Ed took her wrist, ”Like a rabbit,” he commented.
”That's what I can't stand,” she tried to slow her breath. ”It's such a paralyzing feeling. The funny thing is,” she started to walk, ”I never get them when I'm in the middle of a crisis; they always come after. Like in medical school, I'd finish some horrible exam and fifteen minutes later I'd be holed up in the bathroom wondering if I was going to die or not.”
”But you said you haven't had them in a while.”
”I know. I saw a therapist about them, and I'm pretty good at making them go away. I trained myself to where I can stop them before they take over.”
”Until now,” he commented.
”Lucky me, but it's going.”
”Greek diner?” he asked, looking across the street at a restaurant with a pink and purple neon sign that read Acropolis Restaurant-open 24 hours.
”Sure,” she said, wondering if maybe she should just take the rest of the day off.
He held the door for her, ”When do you have to be back at the office?”
”I just have some paperwork. I might blow it off,” she confessed, as a dark-haired waitress with heavy crescents of blue eye shadow led them back to a corner booth.
They were handed thick plastic menus, which promised everything from eggs and bacon to stuffed lobster tails. They both ordered coffee and a bagel and cream cheese.
After the waitress left, Barrett looked at Hobbs, and noted his worried expression. ”It's almost gone,” she admitted. ”They never last long; I thought I was done with them.”
”My wife used to get them,” he offered.