Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

I said, “Is it possible Twohy took a turn for the worse?”

“That was my first thought, Doc. But then she would’ve stuck around and talked to a doctor, right? She was only in his room for a few minutes, so I’m figuring something more…I don’t know, interpersonal?”

Milo said, “No sense guessing.”

We left Boudreaux downstairs and climbed the steps. A round landing led to two open doors and one that was closed. Milo knocked softly, got no reply, turned a white porcelain doorknob that gave.

Cracking the door, he peeked in, curled his finger in a signal to follow, and stepped in.

Big bedroom, maybe twenty feet square, with high, hand-plastered ceilings, broad-plank oak floors, and vintage moldings. An open doorway to the left fed to an anteroom and a walk-in closet. A half-open door revealed a white-tiled bathroom.

Avocado-colored, gold-tasseled drapes were drawn over the windows. An off-kilter plastic lamp sat on one of two Ikea nightstands, oozing sickly chartreuse light. Next to the lamp sat a tissue box, a noise machine switched off, and several wads of used paper.

Enough space to house a king bed. Or two. Ellie had rented a queen with a cheap-looking slatted headboard, had added no other furniture.

The bedcovers were thin gray chenille that revealed the tight nautilus curl of her body. She’d wrapped herself in the flimsy cloth and drawn the covers over half her head.

A few strawberry strands laced the pillow. Medium-sized woman but the position made her look small, childlike.

Childhood is the essence of powerlessness. Yet for some reason, when we feel helpless, we try to time-travel in reverse.

Milo stepped close. “Ellie?”

Nothing. Then a sniffle followed by a nearly inaudible moan.

“It’s Milo, Ellie. I’m here with Dr. Alex.”

Prolonged silence. The hiss of a long sigh. Another moan as she labored to shift from her side to her back. Giving us a full view of her face but no emotional entrée: Her eyes remained clamped tight.

“Take your time, Ellie.”

As if rebelling, she puffed her lips, propped herself up, opened her eyes and studied the bedcovers. Her face looked eroded as if scrubbed by an overly zealous char. Strangely pretty in a waifish way.

Her lips worked a few seconds before producing sound. “Sorry.”

Milo said, “For what?”

She sat up higher, dared eye contact. “For being a baby.”

“How so, Ellie?”

“Mel didn’t tell you?”

“He said the visit to the hospital made you upset but he has no idea why.”

She shifted some more, finally attained a full sit, bracing herself against the too-low headboard. No upper back or neck support. She scooted forward. The covers fell to her waist.

She wore street clothes, a black knit top with white trim around the neckline. Part of a leg protruded. Jeans.

No energy to change when she got home. Collapsing the moment she had privacy and hoping for gray chenille sanctuary. Red-rimmed eyes said that hadn’t happened.

Milo perched on the edge of the bed.

Ellie said, “Mel asked but I didn’t answer him. Rude. Sorry about that, too.”

“Can’t see anything you need to be sorry for.”

Quivery smile. “According to him I have lots to be sorry for.”

“Brannon?”

She reached for the tissue box, snagged a chunk, and covered her eyes.

I’d been trained in strategic silence. So had Milo. The same goal: getting people to talk.

It didn’t work. Ellie Barker said nothing.

Milo smiled down at her. Every inch, the benevolent uncle.

I smiled, too. Ellie kept her eyes on Milo, never looked my way.

“Do I have to spell it out?” she said. “He dumped me. Right there in the hospital.”

“Sorry,” said Milo.

“So was I. So there it is, I’m pathetic. Yet another character flaw, apparently I have many. ”

“He told you that?”

She folded her arms across her chest.

Milo said, “He suffered a serious injury, maybe he’s not thinking straight.”

“He got shot in his back, not his brain, Lieutenant. Oh, he meant it, Brannon always says what he means. I’m stupid for being taken by surprise. Since we moved down here he’s been different.”

“How so?”

“All the usual warning signs that I of course ignored. Distant, restless, distracted—not there. When he told me today, I asked him if there was someone else. He laughed and said how could there be, he was too busy running. That was his real love. His damn marathons. ”

“Huh.”

“Huh, indeed—what an asshole !”

Her right hand flew to her lips and covered them. She let it drop. “I can’t believe I just said that. I told myself not to sink to a low level.”

I said, “I’m pretty sure you can be pardoned.”

Her head swung toward me. “Can I? I suppose I can. But I don’t like myself when I’m angry.”

Back to Milo. “Do you know what he said about what you’re doing? That I was obsessed and had no mental space for him. That it stressed him out. This from someone who’s gone all day churning his legs. I said, Bran, you’re never here. He said, That’s not the point. When I am here I need you to be and not running off on a wild-goose chase.”

Milo said, “Sounds kinda narcissistic.”

“You think? Someone who obsesses on his body twenty-four seven? Stretching, running, push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups? Drinking smoothies that smell like pond water? Then he said I shouldn’t even be interested in my mother. She abandoned me, I needed to move on.”

“Narcissistic and sensitive.”

“So what does that make me? A gullible idiot.”

I said, “It makes you someone in a relationship.”

She swiveled toward me again. Held her gaze. Hard eyes and mouth. Back to the same distrust I’d seen all along. Oh, well.

“Doctor,” she said, as if reminding herself why she resented me. Suddenly, her features softened and she threw up her hands. “I’m sure you’ve noticed I haven’t been super-warm to you. Sorry about that, too. If Lieutenant Sturgis thinks enough of you to work with you, I should go with the plan. It’s just that my experiences with shrinks—’scuse me, therapists—haven’t been so great.”

I said, “Understandable.”

She smiled. “That was eminently therapeutic—sorry, I know you’re being kind. Anyway, in the back of my head I always knew he’d do this. He’s got issues.”

Milo said, “Drugs and alcohol.”

“You know?”

“I research people related to cases.”

“Does that include me?”

“You bet.”

“What’d you learn?”

“Nothing you didn’t tell us.”

“I’m boring, huh?”

“I prefer non-criminal. So the Roadrunner blames you for looking into your mother’s death?”

“The Roadrunner?”

“Meep meep.”

She burst into laughter. Reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes. “And of course, he blames me for his getting shot and he’s probably right about that.”

“Actually, he’s pretty wrong, Ellie.”

“Pardon?”

He told her about the arrest.

“A jealous psycho? How bizarre. Part of me wants to rush over right now and let him know. At least one thing you accused me of is pure bull. ”

To me: “That would be pretty pathetic, huh? As if it would change anything.”

I said, “Do you want anything to change?”

“Now that,” she said, “was eminently therapeutic. Of course you’re right, I’ve probably known all along it was wrong—he was wrong for me. Why I even started with him…I’m so confused.”

Casting off the covers, she swung her feet over the mattress, inhaled, exhaled, and stood.