Читать книгу The Inquisitor - Gayle Wilson - Страница 12

“I saw the segment you did for Channel 47 on holiday depression. I confess that it struck a little too close to home. Especially the part about feeling let down that things don’t live up to your expectations.”

Despite Paul’s undoubtedly kind intentions in insisting she take yesterday afternoon off, it had made today a scheduling nightmare. And when Sheila had asked her this morning, Jenna had reluctantly given the okay for a new patient to be added to the end of her already full appointment calendar.

After less than five minutes spent with John Nolan, she was wishing she’d put him off until another day. Nothing he’d told her so far seemed to warrant the urgency he’d expressed when he’d called the office.

He had asked for her by name, however, and more importantly, he’d specifically mentioned the television interview. That had set off a few alarms. Enough that she had decided to work him in, just to see what kind of read she got.

Even before he’d arrived, she had discarded as ridiculous the idea that a serial killer would be brazen enough to show up at her office. Calls like Nolan’s resulted from most of the interviews the staff gave. Add that to the increased demand for counseling brought on by the pressures of the season, and there was nothing unusual about the guy’s request for an immediate appointment.

She’d already been booked solid the rest of the week with the makeups from yesterday and her regular patients, many of whom also had trouble dealing with the holidays. If she hadn’t agreed to see him today, Nolan would have been forced to wait until after the New Year, which Sheila said he really didn’t want to do.

“That’s something that’s extremely common,” she said, trying to sound interested. “Not only with Christmas, but with any occasion we look forward to with a lot of anticipation. Is this something you experienced last year?”

“Last year. Every year I can remember. It seems that nothing I do is quite good enough.”

“For your family? Or for yourself?”

“Both, I suppose. It just doesn’t seem to matter how much I plan or how hard I work, things…unravel. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“And that makes you feel…?” She hesitated, allowing him an opportunity to fill in the blank she’d left.

His lips pursed slightly as he looked down at his hands. They were well shaped, the nails clean and neatly trimmed.

On the paperwork John Nolan had filled out, he’d written self-employed. He hadn’t put anything in the section on insurance or in the one that asked for his occupation. Which meant he could be anything, she supposed, from a writer to a day trader.

Nor had she been able to glean much about either his education or financial status from his appearance. The maroon V-necked sweater, which he wore over a white button-down collar dress shirt and the khaki trousers were too generic to offer much socioeconomic information.

His hair, light brown and slightly sun-glazed, appeared to have been freshly cut, although it was a little longer than she normally found attractive. And yet he was, she admitted. Very attractive.

Just as she reached that conclusion, he glanced up, meeting her eyes. His were hazel, tending more toward green than brown. They widened as he realized she’d been watching him.

“So how does that make you feel?” she prodded.

“Inadequate.”

Her smile widened. “The human condition. At least for most of us. Do you want to talk specifics? Something particular that happened last Christmas?”

“Not really. Suffice it to say that I again fell short. And they let me know about it.”

“Your family,” she clarified.

“My mother in particular. She’s always been hard to please. I know I should be used to it by now, but for some reason I always think that this time I’ve found something she’ll have to approve of.”

“So this is a pattern that’s been repeated over and over, no matter what you give her.”

“Implying she’s the problem and not me?”

His question was a little too glib, but perhaps he’d done some reading on the subject. Many people did these days, especially with the proliferation of mental health information on the Web.

“Is that a possibility?” she asked, her tone neutral.

“More than a possibility. It’s almost certainly the case.”

“Then if you recognize that…” Again she hesitated, waiting for him to draw the obvious conclusion.

“I should be able to do something about it. You’re right, of course. And believe me, I’ve tried. I still manage to end up feeling as if I’ve failed. Her. And myself.”

“Then maybe the first step in changing your feelings is to acknowledge that no matter what you do or how much trouble you go to, you probably aren’t going to please her. That should lower your expectation to a more reasonable level.”

“It sounds simple, but…Look, I’m a grown man. I’ll be the first to admit that she shouldn’t have that much power over me. Not enough to spoil one holiday after another.”

“She’s your mother. Most of us were raised to care about pleasing our parents. Just not, I hope, to the detriment of our own well-being. You mentioned that my comments during the interview about holiday depression had struck a chord. Do you think that what you’ve felt over the years might be classified as depression?”

“I don’t know. I guess one person’s depression is another person’s excuse for a stiff drink and a good dinner.”

Not too far off the mark, Jenna thought with an inward smile. Not that depression wasn’t real and serious, but to some people, anytime they felt disappointment or sadness about something, even if those feelings were justified by the situation, that qualified in their minds as depression. John Nolan seemed to have a more realistic attitude.

“Is that what you do? Indulge yourself to make up for how she makes you feel?”

“Occasionally. After hearing you talk, I realized the mistake I make every year is in still having any expectation of pleasing her.”

“So will that help with the stress this year?”

“It should. But then, I am here.”

“Taking steps to deal with your feelings is definitely a move in the right direction. So what do you think you need to do next in order to feel better?”

“What do you think, Dr. Kincaid? That is why I came, you know. To hear your advice.”

Again, something about the exchange seemed contrived. It was all too pat.

Of course, some patients didn’t want to give voice to the obvious conclusions. They wanted to have them spelled out, so that they became more like directives. Since Nolan’s mother was obviously controlling if not domineering, perhaps he needed that kind of instruction.

“All right. Other than on gift-giving occasions, what kind of relationship do you have with your mother?”

“Distant,” he said with a laugh. “Both physically and emotionally. That’s by choice, by the way. Probably by both our choices.”

“And she doesn’t want a closer relationship?”

“If she does, she’s never given any indication of it.”

Which was strange, considering the apparent power play at Christmas. Still…

“Then if you’re both comfortable with not seeing one another, why not mail her presents to her. That way she can’t express any overt disappointment in them. Not any that will be up close and personal.”

“She’s the only family I have. I’d feel terrible not flying out there for the holidays.”

“And how would that be different from how you feel now?”

He laughed, and Jenna gave him points for acknowledging the absurdity of the caveat he’d just offered. Actually, she liked him better for the laughter.

Still, she’d begun to feel that he was a little old to be so thoroughly manipulated by his mother and perhaps less than truthful about why he was here. Somewhere in the back of her mind was a sliver of uneasiness.

“Maybe I’d just feel more guilty.”

“Or maybe you’d feel more in control,” she suggested. “You said it doesn’t matter what you give her. This year send her an expensive bouquet of roses and then go out and have that good dinner, knowing that you’ve done the best you can. If she doesn’t like your gift, you haven’t lost anything. Except the experience of watching her disapproval.”

“Do you really think something like that will work?”

“I think if you tell yourself this Christmas is going to be different, it will be. Call her and tell her you aren’t going to be able to make it this year. Send the flowers. Then tell yourself that you’ve done your part, and if she doesn’t like them, that’s her problem.”

“She is my mother.”

“Yes, she is. And ultimately it’s your choice as to how much control you’re going to allow her.”

His eyes again dropped to his hands. “You’re right, of course. I know that. It isn’t easy to change the dynamics of a relationship as it’s existed all your life.”

“You want to or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I think I believed that you would just give me something to make me feel better about myself.”

“I thought I was,” Jenna said, smiling at him when he looked up. “You thought I’d give you some medication.”

“I did, but…If I may, I’d like some time to think about what you’ve said.”

“Of course.”

“And I can call you again if I want to talk?”

“Call my secretary and ask for an appointment. I have to warn you, though. I may not be able to fit you in so quickly.”

“I know. And I appreciate that you saw me today. I didn’t expect it, to tell the truth. Not with what you said about how many people have problems this time of year.”

“That’s why we try to see anyone who needs us.”

He nodded, and then he stood. Jenna rose as he extended his hand. She took it and was surprised to find his handshake firm, his palm slightly callused. Of course, a couple of sessions a week at a gym could explain that.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly.

“You’re welcome. Call again if you want to talk more.”

“I will.”

He released her hand, stepping away from the desk. He had almost reached the door before he turned back, nodding once more before he went through it.

Jenna blew out a breath, before sinking back into her chair. She should write up her notes on the session, but instead she pushed the folder that held John Nolan’s paperwork to the middle of her desk.

She crossed her arms over her chest and exhaled again, this one audible in the silence of her office. All she wanted to do now…

…was to have a stiff drink and a good dinner.

Maybe her last patient was a better therapist than she was. She picked up the phone and punched Sheila’s extension.

“I’m gone,” she said when the secretary answered. “Nothing at eight tomorrow, right?”

“And a cancellation at nine. You’re in luck.”

“Thanks, Sheila. Hold that thought.”

“I will, believe me. See you tomorrow.”

Jenna put the phone down and pushed her chair away from the desk. As she did, she turned to look out the expanse of glass behind her. Although she was an hour later than usual leaving, for some reason she was surprised to find that night had fallen with seasonal suddenness.

The anxiety she’d managed to hold at bay most of the day bubbled up again. She was no longer able to distinguish between the unease caused by the general hysteria that gripped the city and that created by her personal nemesis. All she knew was that she hadn’t had time to take care of the restraining order, and that she now faced the prospect of returning to her apartment to find him waiting for her again.

She thought about giving in and driving out to spend the night at her parents’ home. Only the knowledge of how isolated that big, empty house was made her decide that going back to her own apartment was the lesser of two evils. And if Sean Murphy was there again—

She would call the police. And this time she would keep calling until someone paid attention.

Head lowered against the wind, Jenna hurried across the parking deck, the sound of her heels echoing off the concrete. She had deliberately parked nearer the building this morning.

A good idea, she decided, since the staff lot was practically deserted. Of course, this close to Christmas everyone was eager to get away from the office as quickly as they could to take care of the hundred and one things that still needed to be done in preparation for the holiday.

She was going to have to learn to say no to additional appointments at the end of an already full day. It wasn’t good for her or for the client.

Tonight she had felt her patience unraveling as John Nolan droned on and on about not being able to please his mother. Normally that kind of thing wouldn’t have bothered her, but she’d had to fight the urge to tell him to get a grip.

Maybe that’s what she should have done, she thought as she fumbled in her bag to retrieve her keys. She had already punched the unlock command before she looked up.

The driver’s side of the dark blue Accord was directly in front of her. In the accumulation of road splatter from the last few rainy days, someone had written “Help me” on its side.

The H began on the left side of the door, the other letters tracking neatly across its length. She stopped, reading the words twice to make sure they said what she thought they did.

Help me? Why would someone write “Help me” on her car?

She glanced at the three remaining automobiles on this level. None of them bore a similar message.

Some kind of prank? Except this was a monitored area, used only by the staff. And they gained access to it with a card.

She was sure the words hadn’t been there this morning. Given their position, she would definitely have noticed.

“Something wrong?”

She turned to find Gary Evers, one of the other psychologists on staff, watching her. She shook her head, embarrassed to admit she’d been stopped in her tracks by some words scrawled in the road dirt on the side of her car.

“Just trying to figure out who’s been leaving me messages,” she said, nodding toward the Honda.

Gary looked at the door and then back at her. “Help me? The tradition where I come from is ‘wash me.’”

Jenna tried to remember where Gary was from, but all she knew was that it wasn’t anywhere in the South. Of course, the tradition here was the same as the one he’d quoted.

“That would make more sense.”

“Maybe it’s a message from someone who feels he can’t afford your services.” Gary’s smile invited her to share his amusement.

For some reason, she couldn’t see the humor in the situation. Maybe it was the result of the long hours she’d put in today. Or—more likely—the result of everything that had happened during the last three. Of second-guessing her own actions and reactions. Just as she was now.

Was this a staff member’s idea of a joke because she’d come across as sympathetic to the killer? Or had it been written in anger by someone else, someone who had taken her research-based explanation about the forces that created such a monster as a defense of his actions.

Someone like Sean Murphy?

However the words had been meant, she could find nothing the least bit amusing about them. “I don’t think that’s the proper avenue for someone seeking pro bono therapy. Or for a co-worker having a laugh at my expense.”

“You think someone here did that?” Gary’s eyes again touched on the scrawl.

“It is a secure lot.”

“Yeah, but…” Realizing she’d been serious, Gary shook his head. His smile had been replaced by a slightly quizzical expression. “You want me to wipe it off?”

Realizing that she was making herself ridiculous, Jenna forced a smile. “I have to get the car washed, anyway. Maybe that was the intent.”

“To get you to wash your car?” His tone had lightened in response to hers. “Think Paul’s been out here nosing around?”

Although Carlisle was a stickler for having the staff present their best faces to the world at all times, the thought of him prowling the parking deck looking for dirty cars was also ridiculous. Pointing that out was obviously Gary’s intent.

“If not Paul, then somebody,” she said. “I get the message.”

Gary laughed. “I’ll let you know tomorrow if I’ve got a similar inscription on mine. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Just tired. I’m going home to a long, hot bath and a tall drink.” Something that was getting to be a habit. “I have no idea why this…” She stopped, refusing to admit how much the writing had bothered her.

“Everybody’s on edge right now. With good reason. God, you weren’t thinking—” He stopped, realizing that was exactly what she’d been thinking. “Look, this is somebody’s idea of a joke. A stupid one, granted, but…You can’t really think he did this.”

“I think maybe someone who was angered or annoyed by what I said in the interview decided to mock what I do.”

“Why would anyone have been angered by your interview?”

“Did you hear it?”

“Just the part about the killer.”

The clip they’d played over and over. The one without her take on holiday depression.

“Did you think I came across as sympathetic?”

“You came across as a professional discussing someone who’s obviously mentally ill. And doing it in a reasoned manner.”

“And if you weren’t a psychologist? How would it have come across to you then?”

His hesitation was slight, but it was enough. “Look, I don’t—”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Jenna said, her words strained and flat. “Thanks for trying, though.”

“You can’t let yourself be held hostage to the morons of the world. If you do, then they win. You said nothing wrong, Jenna. Believe me, nobody here thinks so.”

That at least sounded genuine. It didn’t explain the writing on her car, but it did make her feel marginally better about who might have put it there.

“You want me to follow you home?” Gary asked.

“I appreciate the offer, but I have a couple of things to pick up on the way. I’ll be fine. Really.”

“Everybody’s feeling the pressure. I honestly don’t mind following you, even on your round of errands. We could stop and grab a bite to eat. Or get a head start on that drink you mentioned.”

She was a little surprised by the offer. Although Gary had been a member of the practice for well over a year, she’d gotten no vibes that he found her attractive.

Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was being kind because it was obvious she’d been upset by the message. She was reading more into the gesture than it warranted.

“That’s really very sweet, but…maybe I can get a rain check. Some night when we haven’t both been working late.”

“You got it.”

Jenna couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed. As he made the agreement, he’d stepped forward, reaching for the door handle of the Honda.

She realized that she hadn’t punched the remote. The accompanying beep when she did echoed through the nearly empty deck, just as her footsteps had.

Gary opened her door, and she slipped into the seat, using the excuse of fastening her seat belt to delay looking up at him. When she did, he was peering down into the car, his lips slightly pursed.

“Lock your doors.”

“You think—”

“I think I’d tell any woman in this city the same thing right now. Better safe than sorry.”

Unsure how to respond, she nodded. “I will.”

“Be careful,” he added, closing the door. He put the tips of the fingers of his right hand against the glass for a moment before he straightened, allowing her room to back out.

She inserted the key and started the engine. Then she looked out through the window to smile at him again. Before she put the car into Reverse, she lifted her hand and waved.

He didn’t return the gesture, but he stood watching as she headed toward the exit. When she looked back, just before she began the descent to the lower level, he was still standing in the same spot. And he was still watching her.