Джонатан Келлерман - When the Bough Breaks

I called Robin, got no answer, dressed and went for dinner. I remembered a place from my previous visit, a cedar-paneled room overlooking Lake Union, where they barbecued salmon over alder wood. I found it, using my memory and a map, arrived early enough to get a table with a view, and proceeded to put away a large salad with Roquefort, a beautiful coral-colored chinook filet, potatoes, beans, a basket of hot cornbread and two Coors. I topped it off with homemade blackberry ice cream and coffee and, with a full belly, watched the sun go down over the lake.

I browsed a couple of bookstores in the University District, found nothing exciting or uplifting, and drove back to the hotel. There was an Oriental imports shop in the lobby, still open. I went in, bought a green coloisonne necklace for Robin, and rode the elevator back up to my room. At nine I called her again. This time she answered.

“Alex! I was hoping it was you.”

“How are you, doll? I called you a couple of hours ago.”

“I went out for dinner. By my lonesome. Ate an omelette in a corner of the Cafe Pelican all by myself. Isn’t that a pathetic image?”

“I supped alone, too, my lady.”

“How sad. Come home soon, Alex. I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“Was the trip productive?”

“Very.” I filled her in on the details, careful to exclude my encounter with Otto.

“You’re really on to something. Don’t you feel strange, uncovering all those secrets?”

“Not really, but I’m not looking at it from the outside.”

“I am, and believe me, it’s freaky, Alex. I’ll just be glad when Milo gets back and he can take over.”

“Yes. How are things going with you?”

“Nothing nearly as exciting. One thing new. This morning I got a call from the head of a new feminist group – it’s a kind of a women’s chamber of commerce. I fixed this woman’s banjo, she came down to pick it up and we got to talking. This was a couple of months ago. Anyway, she called and invited me to give a lecture to their group next week. The topic’s something like The Female Artisan in Contemporary Society subtitle Creativity Meets the Business World .”

“That’s fantastic. I’ll be sure to be there listening if they let me in.”

“Don’t you dare! I’m scared enough as it is. Alex, I’ve never given a speech before – I’m absolutely petrified.”

“Don’t worry. You know what you’re talking about, you’re bright and articulate, they’ll love you.”

“So you say.”

“So I say. Listen, if you’re really nervous I’ll do a little hypnosis with you. To help you relax. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

“You think hypnosis will help?”

“Sure. With your imagination and creativity you’ll be a terrific subject.”

“I’ve heard you talk about it, how you used to do it with patients, but I never thought of asking you to do it with me.”

“Usually, darling, we find other ways to occupy our time together.”

“Hypnosis,” she said. “Now I’ve got something else to worry about.”

“Don’t worry. It’s harmless.”

“Totally?”

“Yes. Totally, in your case. The only time you run into a problem is when the subject has major emotional conflicts or deep-seated problems. In those cases hypnosis can dredge up primal memories. You get a stress reaction, some terror. But even that can be helpful. The trained psychotherapist uses the anxiety constructively, to help the patient work it through.”

“And that couldn’t happen to me?”

“Certainly not. I guarantee it. You’re the most normal person I’ve ever met.”

“Ha. You’ve been retired too long!”

“I challenge you to come up with one single symptom of psychopathology.”

“How about extreme horniness, hearing your voice and wanting to be able to touch you and grab you and put you in me?”

“Hmmm. Sounds serious.”

“Then come on back and do something about it, Doctor.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Treatment will commence immediately.”

“What time?”

“The plane lands at ten – a half-hour after that.”

“Damn, I forgot – I have to go to Santa Barbara tomorrow morning. My aunt’s sick, in the I.C.U. at Cottage Hospital. It’s a family thing, I have to be there. If you came in earlier we could have breakfast before I leave.”

“I’m taking the earliest flight, hon”

“I suppose I could postpone it, show up later.”

“Visit your aunt. We’ll have dinner.”

“It might be a late dinner.”

“Drive straight to my place and we’ll take it from there.”

“All right. I’ll try to make it by eight.”

“That’s great. Speedy recovery to your aunt. I love you.”

“Love you too. Take care.”

Something bothered me the next morning. The troubled feeling persisted during the ride to Sea-Tac and up the ramp to the plane. I couldn’t get a handle on what is was that lurked in a bottom drawer of my mind, that lingered through the serving of the plastic food, the forced smiles of the flight attendants, the copilot’s bad jokes. The harder I tried to bring it to the forefront of my consciousness the further back it sank. I felt the impatience and frustration of a child encountering a Chinese finger puzzle for the first time. So I decided to just ride with it, sit back and wait and see if it came to me on its own.

It wasn’t until shortly before landing that it did. What had stuck in my head was last night’s conversation with Robin. She’d asked me about the dangers of hypnosis and I’d given her a speech about it being harmless unless the experience stirred up latent conflicts. Dredged up primal memories had been my exact words. Dredge up primal memories and the reaction is often terror… I was stuffed with tension as the landing wheels touched down. Once free, I jogged through and out of the airport, picked up the Seville in the overnight lot, paid a considerable ransom to get it out the gate and headed east on Century Boulevard. Caltrans, in its in finite wisdom, had chosen to set up construction in the middle of the road during the morning rush in and out of LAX and, caught in a jam, I cooked in the Cadillac for the mile to the San Diego Freeway on-ramp. I took the freeway north, connected to Santa Monica West, and exited just before Pacific Coast Highway. A drive down Ocean and a few turns brought me to the Palisades and the place where Morton Handler and Elena Gutierrez had lost their lives.

The door to Bonita Quinn’s apartment was open. I heard cursing from within and entered. A man was standing in the front room kicking the floral sofa and muttering under his breath. He was in his forties, curly-haired, flabby and putty-colored with discouraged eyes and a steel-wool goatee separating his first chin from his second. He wore black slacks and a light blue nylon shirt that clung to every tuck and roll of his gelatinous torso. One hand held a cigarette and flicked ashes onto the carpet. The other groped for treasure behind a meaty ear. He kicked the couch again, looked up, saw me and waved the smoking hand around the tiny room.

“Okay, you can get to work.”

“Doing what?”

“Loading this shit outta here – aren’t you the mover–” he looked at me again, this time with sharpened eyes. “No, you don’t look like a mover. Excuse me.” He threw back his shoulders. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Bonita Quinn and her daughter.”

“You and me both.”

“She’s gone?”

“Three friggin’ days. With who knows how many rent checks. I’ve got tenants complaining their calls weren’t answered, repairs that haven’t been done. I call her, no answer. So I come down here myself and find she’s been gone for three days, left all this junk, hightailed it. I never had a good feeling about her. You do someone a favor, you get shafted. Happens every time.”