The Clinic

She kept reading.

Hunched vulnerability. Muscadine had read it as fair game.

“Hello again,” said Emerson.

She looked up, saw me, and that same look of panic filled her eyes.

“It's all right, Tessa,” Emerson said, striding to her side. “Dr. Delaware's a good guy. I vouch for him.”

Her lower lip shook.

I smiled.

She looked down at her magazine.

“Good article?” said Emerson.

She didn't answer. Her chest was heaving.

Emerson came closer and read over her shoulder. “Reforestation of the Eastern seaboard.” He read some more. “Says here the trees are coming back on their own accord. What, they're allowing in good news for a change?”

Tessa chewed her lip. “The trees are coming back because the economy sucks. As industries close down, people move out of small towns and the land regresses to wilderness.”

“Oh,” said Emerson. “So it's what, bad news? Or a mixed bag?”

“You tell me.”

“What do you think?”

“That I don't want to talk to him.”

“Is it okay if he talks to you a bit?”

“About what?”

Emerson looked at me.

“About what Reed Muscadine did to you,” I said. “I know it's true. Muscadine's scum and he's in jail.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Why?”

“This is going to be tough to hear, Tessa, but you'll learn it soon enough. He's the prime suspect in Professor Devane's murder.”

Her eyes got wild. “Oh!” The word was as much animal cry as human speech. “Oh, oh, oh!”

She sprang up, fingers in her hair, crossing the three-pace room, returning and crossing again.

Stopping, said, “Oh God… God GodRobbie!”

“What about Robbie?” said Emerson.

“Where is he?”

“Back home with your mom, Tess.”

“How do I know?”

“Why wouldn't he be?”

She stretched her hands in front of her, fingers curled, tremoring.

“The phone!” she exclaimed.

“You want me to call home?” said Emerson. “Have your mom tell you Robbie's okay?”

“I want to call! I want to speak to him!”

“It's almost eleven, Tessa, I'm sure Robbie's aslee-”

“I have to, I need to- please, Dr. Emerson. Let me call, please, please, please!” Sobbing. “Oh, please, let me speak to my little Robbie-”

“Okay, hon.” Emerson tried to put his arm around her but she backed away. Confusion tugged at his blue eyes as he unlocked the door and let her out.

At the nursing station, he got her an outside line and both of us watched as she dialed.

“Mom? Where's Robbie? You're sure? Go check… please, Mom. Please, Mom… just do it!”

She waited, pulling at her hair, blinking, rolling her shoulders, twisting the skin of one cheek, shifting her feet.

Emerson observed her with a mixture of pity and fascination.

“You're sure-did you check to see if he's breathing? What? I'm serious- from the nursing station. He let me, he's right here- yes… no, I'm not tired… I was reading. What? Soon, soon… yes… you're sure he's okay, Mom? I know- I know you wouldn't… sorry, Mom. Sorry for bothering- what? Okay, yes, thanks. Sorry to bother you. Just take care of him. Take real good care of him… loveyoutoo.”

She put down the phone. Sighed. Buried her face. Looked up.

“I'll go back now.”

In the room, I said, “Robbie was the wedge Muscadine used on you. He threatened to kill Robbie unless you dropped the charge at the hearing.”

She looked at me with what seemed like new respect.

Nodded.

I didn't ask the next question: Why didn't you tell the police?

Because I knew the answer: She'd told the police before, had been sent away a liar.

His word against hers.

“He can't hurt Robbie, now,” I said. “He can't hurt anyone.” Wishing I were sure. Almost hoping Muscadine would walk so that Big Micky could apply his own brand of justice… God help me.

She slumped and began sobbing again.

Emerson let her go on for a while, gave her a tissue, stepped back.

Her pain was reflected in his eyes but he could tolerate it.

At the least, I might have found someone to refer to.

Finally she stopped and said, “He killed her because of me.”

“Definitely not,” I said. “It had nothing to do with you. It was between him and Professor Devane.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“When the facts come out you will.”

“Robbie,” she said.

“You protected Robbie,” I said. “At your expense.”

She didn't answer.

“Did Professor Devane know about the threat?”

Headshake. “I couldn't- I didn't want- she understood me but I didn't want her… didn't want anyone in my mess.”

“But you did tell her he'd tied you up.”

Long silence. Long, slow nod.

Then she shocked me with a sudden, bright smile. Emerson was caught off-guard, too. He began twisting beard hairs.

“What, Tessa?” he said.

“So I'm a martyr,” she said. “Finally.”

I drove through quiet streets, picturing the way it had happened.

Muscadine charming her, treating her well- courtly, even, til they got to his place.

Then turning.

Overpowering her.

Tying her up.

She'd told Hope.

Hope had listened- the expert listener- cool, supportive.

But the story had meant so much more to her than just another outrage.

Hating Muscadine. Thinking about him- big, strong.

Healthy.

Nice, big kidney, more than adequate for filtering garbage from the shrunken body of a man who considered her family.

Sweet.

Perfect.

Being tied down.

She knew what that felt like.

Though she'd never tell Tessa.

Empathy had its limits.

40

Ronald Oster was too young to be that cynical.

Maybe twenty-eight, with kinky flame-red hair and rampant freckles, he was soft around the middle and wore a vested blue suit one size too small.

I met him outside the county jail, off to one side, near the long line of women that forms every morning, waiting to visit prisoners. Some of the women looked at us but Oster paid them no notice as he gave me a long, hard look and kept smoking his British Oval.

“So why'd you change your mind?” he said.

“My own lawyer said you could force me. As long as I'm going to waste my time, I might as well get paid.”

He kept staring at me.

“Speaking of which,” I said, “my fee's three hundred seventy-five dollars per hour, portal-to-portal. I'll send you the bill and expect you to get it paid within thirty days. I also expect a contract from you to that effect within three days.”

I handed him my business card.

“So it's the money,” he said, thumbing his vest pocket.

“I'd rather not do it at all but if I have to, it sure isn't for the love of your client.”

He pressed the flat cigarette between his fingers. “Let's get one thing clear, Doctor. From this point on if you work for anyone on this case, it's for my client. Anything he says to you as well as anything I say to you about him falls under the purview of therapeutic confidentiality. Including this conversation.”

“Once we have an agreement.”

“We do. Though in terms of payment, I'm a civil servant. All I can do is go through cha

“Do your best- and one other exception. If your client threatens me in any way, it'll fall under Tarasoff and I'll report it immediately.”

That threw him, but he smiled. “Tarasoff applies to threats against third parties.”

“No one says it can't apply to the therapist.”

“I sense hostility, Doctor.”

“Self-preservation.”

“Why would my client threaten you?”

“They say he's murdered several times. I'm just talking theoretically, to make sure we're clear about the rules.”