Therapy

Larsen smiled. “From time to time.”

Gull: “Yeah, probably some place in Africa, whatever. But you haven’t been a suspect. Let me tell you, it’s not fun.”

Thirteen seconds.

Gull: “They call it interviewing, but it’s interrogation. I swear, Albin, I feel like some character out of a goddamned movie. One of those Kafkaesque things, Hitchcock, everything happens to the unsuspecting fool, and I’m he.”

Larsen: “It sounds dreadful.”

Gull: “It’s horrendous. And disruptive- it’s starting to affect my work. How the hell am I supposed to concentrate on patients when the next message on my machine could be from them? What if they start shoving paper at me- subpoenas, whatever it is they use. What if they try to comb through my records?”

Larsen: “Did they use the word ‘subpoena’?”

Gull: “Who remembers? The point is, they’re rooting around like truffle pigs.”

Larsen: “Rooting. That’s all it is.”

Gull: “Albin, I feel I’m not getting through to you.” He took hold of Larsen’s shoulders. Larsen didn’t move, and Gull’s hands dropped. “Why are they focusing on Sentries? Tell me the truth: What were you and Mary up to?”

Silence. Six seconds.

Larsen: “We were attempting to inject some compassion into the American criminal justice system.”

Gull: “Yeah, yeah, I know all that. I mean nuts and bolts, the billing. It’s the billing they’re latching onto. They just about came out and said they suspect us of Medi-Cal fraud, Albin. Were you fooling with the billing?”

Larsen: “Why would I do that.”

Milo said, “Cagey bastard.”

Gull: “I don’t know. But they suspect something. Before this thing spins out of control, I need to know if there’s any truth to their suspicions. Even if it was some kind of mistake, some paperwork thing. Did you- or Mary- do anything- anything at all- that would give them fuel? Because I think they’re after blood, Albin. I really do. I think Mary’s death got them thinking in a whole bizarre direction. Obsessive. Like that patient of Mary’s who died- you know I treated him. Gavin Quick. Kid was four-plus OCD in addition to all his other problems. I was happy to dump him on Mary but I swear, Albin, dealing with them I started to feel I was being forced into some OCD soap opera. The same questions, over and over and over. As if they’re trying to break me down.”

Eighteen seconds.

Gull: “You’re not saying anything.”

Larsen: “I’m listening.”

“Fine… you know how it is with obsession. The patient gets into something and keeps going at it. Which is okay when you’re the therapist and can establish boundaries. But being on the receiving end- these are not sophisticated people, Albin, but they are persistent. They perceive the world in hunter-prey terms and have no respect for our profession. I’m feeling like I’m set up to be the prey, and I don’t want that. And I shouldn’t think you’d want it, either.”

Larsen: “Who would?”

Milo said, “Such empathy.”

Sam Diaz said, “If this guy was hooked up to the poly, the needles wouldn’t even be quivering. Gull, he’d make the machine explode.”

Gull waved his hands. Diaz backed the camera several feet farther, establishing postural context.

Larsen just sat there.

Thirty-two seconds of silence passed before Gull said, “I have to say, I’m feeling a little… dismissed, Albin. I asked you substantive questions, and you’ve given me nothing but bland reassurance.”

Larsen placed a hand on Gull’s shoulder. His voice was gentle. “There’s nothing for me to tell you, my friend.”

Gull: “Nothing?”

Larsen: “Nothing to be concerned about.” Three seconds. “Nothing to lose sleep over.”

Gull: “Easy for you to say, you’re not the one who’s being-”

Larsen: “Would it make you feel better if I spoke to them?”

Gull: “To the police?”

Larsen: “To the police, to the Medi-Cal people. Anyone you like. Would it make you feel better?”

Gull glanced back toward the truck, then he returned his attention to Larsen. Larsen was watching the children, again.

Gull: “Yes, as a matter of fact it would. It would make me feel substantially better, Albin.”

Larsen: “Then I will do that.”

Six seconds.

Gull: “What will you tell them?”

Larsen: “That nothing… untoward has gone on.”

Gull: “And that’s true?”

Larsen gave Gull’s shoulder another pat. “I’m not worried, Franco.”

Gull: “You really think you can clear things up.”

Larsen: “There’s nothing to clear up.”

Gull: “Nothing?”

Larsen: “Nothing.”

Milo said, “Cold bastard. He’s not go

Sam Diaz’s chair squeaked. He said, “Want another drumstick?”

“No, thanks.”

“Maybe I’ll try one of those orange bars, the vanilla half looks pretty creamy.”

On the monitor, Franco Gull ran his hands through his curls. “Okay, I sure hope so. Thanks, Albin.”

He rose to go.

“No, no, no,” said Milo. “Stay put, you idiot.”

The remaining maid collected her young charges and left.

Larsen stayed Gull with a hand on Gull’s cuff. “Let’s sit for a while, Franco.”

Gull: “Why?”

Larsen: “Enjoy the air. This beautiful park. Enjoy life.”

Gull: “You’re finished with patients for the day?”

Larsen: “I am, indeed.”

Ninety seconds. Neither of them talked.

At a hundred thirty-nine seconds, Sam Diaz said, “Approaching male. From the Roxbury side, again.”

Another figure, well in the distance, was crossing the park diagonally, from the east. Striding across the lawn, passing just north of the play area, and continuing into the shadow of the Chinese elms.

Diaz aimed the camera at him, zoomed in.

Good-sized man, broad-shouldered, barrel chest. Blue silk shirt turned teal green by the monitor, worn untucked over blue jeans.

Dark hair combed straight back. Graying mustache, but Raymond Degussa had shaved off his soul patch.

Milo said, “Bad guy, get ready for anything, Sam.”

He unsnapped his holster but didn’t remove his gun. Unlatching one of the ice-cream truck’s rear doors, he got out, closed the door quietly.

I turned back to the monitor. Gull and Larsen remained silent. Gull’s back was to Degussa as Degussa made his way over to the picnic table. Larsen saw Degussa, but didn’t react.

Then Franco Gull turned, and said, “What’s he doing here?”

No answer from Larsen.

Gull: “What’s going on, Albin- hey, let go of my sleeve, why are you holding me back, let go, what the hell’s going on-”

Degussa made a beeline for the table. Was six feet away, reaching under his shirt, when Gull broke free from Larsen’s grasp.

Larsen just sat there.

Degussa pulled out a small gun, toylike, pointed it in Gull’s direction. Probably a cheap.22, you could throw them away and buy another on the street for chump change.

Five feet from Gull, nice clean target. I thought about Jack Ruby picking off Oswald. Where was Milo?

Gull ducked and shoved Larsen in the path of Degussa’s gun and screamed, “Help!” as he dropped to the grass and rolled away. Diaz’s camera remained narrowly focused.

Degussa circled around Larsen to get a good shot at Gull. Larsen ducked, helping him along. Gull had tried to get up, but he was caught- legs stuck under the picnic bench, torso twisted.

He placed his hands atop his head, creating a useless shield.

Degussa leaned over the bench.

Aimed.

Crack. The sound of a single pair of hands clapping once.

A hole appeared on Degussa’s forehead- black tinted deep brown by the monitor, the same shade as Degussa’s customized Lincoln. His mouth dropped open. He frowned. A

He lifted his gun arm, still trying to shoot. Let it drop. Tumbled face-first onto the table. The.22 flew out of his hands and landed on the dirt. Albin Larsen dove for it. The man could mobilize when needed.