Читать книгу Dan Sharp Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Jeffrey Round - Страница 20

The blinds in Martin’s office were drawn, the desk lamps pointed down in little penumbras of shade and brightness, as though he’d a developed a light sensitivity. Dan waited for an explanation, though none was forthcoming. He turned down the offer of water and proceeded to describe his break-up with Bill, weaving in strands of the conversation with Donny in which he’d nearly ended their friendship.

As always, he was leery of how much to tell Martin. Was it just paranoia that whispered in his ear and said Martin might label him a psychopath or a menace to society? As Dan’s psychiatrist, he’d been granted the authority to judge Dan’s ability to function at his work. Maybe that extended to other areas in his life, like his suitability as a father. He imagined Martin standing at the gates of Auschwitz, pointing to various doorways: a set of twins directed to the left for experimentation, others to the right for a more succinct end. Though maybe that wasn’t fair. Perhaps Martin wasn’t the monster Dan believed him to be, but he wasn’t willing to take the chance. That he exhibited not a single sign of having emotions while isolating and observing emotions in others made him suspect. It was people like Martin who inspired books like Blade Runner.

Dan brought up his concern for Bill, explaining how he’d struggled to understand what Bill was going through being in love with his best friend while attempting to maintain a relationship with Dan. He thought Martin might award him a gold star for his efforts, as he had when he tried to get Dan to understand Ralph’s needs.

For once, Martin didn’t ask Dan how he felt about the situation. Instead, he said, “That’s a lot of responsibility you place on your shoulders — anticipating other people’s needs as well as your reaction to them. Are you trying to be perfect?”

Hardly, thought Dan. No one going for a good behaviour award would have done what I did afterwards. “No, I’m far from perfect. I have no illusions there. I bashed in a filing cabinet, remember.”

Martin scribbled something in his book. Was he marking the reference to the incident as mocking or simply noting that Dan had a sense of humour about it? He looked up. “Do you think you might be trying to make up for your perceived lack of perfection?”

“How is that?”

“You said Bill was particularly hard to please, ergo, you were never able to function to his satisfaction. You probably saw yourself as imperfect in Bill’s eyes….”

Dan interrupted. “I think Bill saw everyone as imperfect in Bill’s eyes. I never thought that was my fault.”

Martin smiled his patient smile, the one he wore when he wanted to coax Dan toward a conclusion of some sort. “Was there another relationship in your past where you tried to please a man who couldn’t or wouldn’t be pleased by anything you did?”

“I tried to make my father love me.”

“But you failed, didn’t you?”

“Miserably.”

“Because — as far as you believe — your father never loved you.”

Dan nodded.

“But you won’t accept that perhaps your father was incapable of love. You prefer to take on the responsibility for his lack of affection toward you.”

“Maybe. Does it matter now?”

Martin’s pencil poised over the pad. “It might help if you saw that Bill is another version of your father: a man impossible to please.”

Dan looked at the clock — twenty-five minutes left — then glanced at the framed diploma in psychiatry awarded to Martin Sanger. Googling his therapist in the early days of their sessions, along with a list of publication titles to his credit, Dan had come across the German translation for Martin’s last name: pincer. He envisioned a giant set of pliers tugging at the neurons in his brain. “Yes, I can see the connection,” he said.

Martin leaned forward. “Do you think that might be why you get angry with Ralph when he messes the floor or why you dent filing cabinets with your fists when something goes wrong at work? Is that why you want to cut off your closest friend when he tells you the truth about yourself? You want everyone around you to be perfect, because otherwise you feel you can’t love them.”

With a chill, Dan remembered his son’s words in the park: I’m just afraid that one day I’ll piss you off and you’ll stop loving me, too.

Martin looked pleased, as though he’d just inserted the last tile in a ten-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, completing the image of a damaged man unable to express love. Dan wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

“Is that what you think, Martin?”

Martin’s eye blinked, a lizard sunning itself on a rock. “I’m asking you.”

Dan swallowed. “I don’t have an opinion,” he lied.

He wanted to say, Don’t think you know me, to this grotesque impersonation of a man bent over his notepad beneath his Mondrian reproduction. Wasn’t it Mondrian who despised nature? Hated trees?

Dan wondered about the others who sat in this chair revealing or hiding themselves from this man and his bloodless, probing intellect — a collection of damaged beings going through the motions of expressing their desires and fears, before letting themselves out the big doors to stand deflated in the hallway beside the elevator that never came. Before returning to the other world — the real world — where theories did nothing to piece together the shattered bits of themselves. The depressed, the despairing, and the broken: women whose spouses beat them, adult children of alcoholics who went through life feeling unworthy and unloved, the emotionally distraught. How did sitting here for this hour do anything to help? When they left, their time up, did they leave a residue of pain and disappointment, an invisible trail leading all the way from this chair down the hall? Did any of them think it a virtue to sit and suffer over all this? Perhaps Martin gave out badges after it was all over, and they’d divulged all there was to divulge. A little something to say, “I suffered.” Maybe, Dan thought, he could ask for a bumper sticker instead. What would Martin scribble in his little binder if he said that?

In the daytime, Bill had begun to revert to a bad memory, a sour taste on the tongue. Yet each morning on awakening, Dan’s first thoughts were of loss. He found it difficult to drag himself out of bed and suspected he was fighting a lingering depression over the split. He knew nothing would help get him through it but time — preferably time spent alone.

Ked was long past needing Dan’s help to get ready for school. Dan found the signs of his son’s passing each morning: the dog leash hung over the banister, a cereal bowl and spoon washed and left in the dish rack, the newspaper dropped on the side table in the hall. These were Ked’s morning footprints. For such a big kid, he took up relatively little space.

The days went by in a whirl of strategy meetings and negotiations with despairing or difficult clients. Dan hadn’t expected to hear from either Bill or Thom, so he was surprised to find on his desk an application bearing the name Killingworth. Not Lucille, Thom, or Ted, but Craig. Someone wanted him to make an inquiry into the disappearance of Lucille Killingworth’s missing husband.

The name of a solicitor was prominent, but there was no client named, nothing to say who’d requested the search. Dan flipped through the file. Was this Lucille Killingworth’s way of getting the better of him, by hiring him publicly after he’d turned her down privately? Could she be that stubborn or foolish to think he could be bought? If so, he was happy to show her otherwise.

He read over the letter — not yellow parchment this time — and pressed the intercom. His boss came on the line. Ed Burch was a straight-talking, no-nonsense retired cop who never took no for an answer. “What are the chances?” That’s all Ed ever asked. And then you were off on your own. He’d been the first to congratulate Dan for becoming a single gay dad. To Ed, the word “limitation” didn’t exist.

“It came through a solicitor,” was Ed’s reply. “That’s all I can tell you. Why?”

“I know these people,” Dan said. “I don’t like them. I don’t want to take this one on.”

“It has your name on it, Danny. The client specifically asked for you.”

“Well, tell them I’m not avail —”

His boss cut him off. “I can’t do that. You start things in motion and I’ll look into it once you’ve got it going. If I can, I’ll put someone else on it then.”

“And if not?”

“If not, we’ll see.”

Dan knew his options were limited. He was still doing penance for denting the filing cabinet. He felt like a schoolboy who’d been caught writing naughty words on the blackboard. He’d have to keep his fingers clean until someone else did something worse and his little indiscretion faded from memory.

He buzzed Sally, who came in wearing a sky blue sundress, orange loafers, and a violet kerchief. Not colourless. She stood waiting for orders. Dan wasn’t sure where to start. Most of his cases involved searches for people who’d disappeared within recent memory. Cases where he could start by asking the client about the last time they’d seen the misper. What did anyone expect him to find after more than twenty years?

“Check with the Picton OPP. They should still have the original files. You can tell Detective Constable Peter Saylor I requested this.”

Sally was scribbling on her pad.

“Also check with Toronto police. Tell them I want to look at their John Doe files from the time. Canada-wide. Especially anything that’s not online. You can give them the specs, but tell them not to narrow things down too far. They can leave that to me. I’m sure the report must have been filed in both places, even if he disappeared in Prince Edward County.”

Sally went off, pen in hand, a rainbow in motion, leaving his door open.