Ричард Деминг - The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

“Well, it’s not really likely to, you know,” she said finally.

I hiked my eyebrows. “I know he had a bad time in Vietnam, but I thought everybody eventually got over combat fatigue.”

“Most do, when there’s no physical damage accompanying it. But Lyle’s problem is a little more than just combat fatigue.”

“Oh?”

“Since I was his nurse, naturally I know his complete medical history. He had a rather severe emotional problem before he ever entered the Army. In fact, he spent a year in a Wisconsin mental hospital.”

I stared at her. “Diagnosed as what?”

“Mild schizophrenia.”

“Schizophrenia!” I said incredulously. “How’d he ever get in the Army?”

“He neglected to mention it, and the Army didn’t discover it until he’d been returned to the States. Under Army regulations he could have been discharged as mentally unfit for service, or even have been given a discharge other than honorable. That’s not the same as a dishonorable discharge. You still have all veterans’ rights. It’s just sort of like graduating with a D-minus average. But Lyle had picked up a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star Medal in action, and the brass tends to overlook minor indiscretions by war heroes. Since he was being discharged in any event, they gave him an honorable one.”

“But schizophrenia!” I said. “Doesn’t that mean he’s dangerous?”

“Of course not,” she said, frowning at me. “Severe cases of schizophrenia can be dangerous, but I told you Lyle’s was diagnosed as mild. He’s far from psychotic. You probably know a dozen people you consider normal who have schizophrenic tendencies. It isn’t that uncommon.”

“Suppose he gets worse?”

“He isn’t likely to. He isn’t likely to get better either, though. It’s just a matter of learning to live with his occasional withdrawals into some private little world of his own.”

I took a long, slow sip of my drink before saying, “Don’t misunderstand this, Sis, because I like Lyle. But knowing his diagnosis, how’d you ever happen to marry him?”

She stared at me. “I love him.”

“That’s no answer,” I said. “Would you have married Jack-the-Ripper if you had loved him?”

“That’s hardly a comparable example!”

“Don’t get sore,” I said placatingly. “I’m not trying to run Lyle down. I’m just trying to understand how a girl with your background in psychiatry brought herself to taking the risky step of marrying a diagnosed schizophrenic.”

“Not a schizophrenic, dammit, Tod. Merely with schizophrenic tendencies.”

“Okay, okay. But despite what you say about his condition not being likely to worsen, you must have known before you married him that it could. And that seems pretty risky to me.”

She made no reply for nearly a minute, during which she took several angry pulls at her drink. Then she calmed down and gave me a sheepish smile.

“I know you’re just being protective, so I have no right to get mad at you. Particularly since you’re right. I did consider the risk. But he loved me too, you see.”

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “What’s that got to do with the element of risk?”

“Nothing, really,” she said with a shrug. “But Lyle’s the only man who ever gave me a second look.” When I frowned at her, she said quickly, “Don’t misunderstand me. It wasn’t just a matter of a love-starved spinster jumping at the only chance she ever had. I wasn’t just settling for what I could get. Even if I had been the belle of the hospital, I would have picked Lyle. He’s the handsomest, most charming, most wonderful man I ever met.”

I said nothing, merely taking a gulp of my drink.

“You’ve never been in love, Tod,” she said softly. “The way I feel about Lyle, I’d continue to love him if he became a raving maniac. I’d do anything in the world for him.”

The drinks were affecting me too, or I would never have said what I did. “Even stand still for a bullet if he decided to kill you?” I asked bluntly.

She blinked, but instead of getting angry again, she merely turned defensive. “That’s not fair,” she said. “He’s not going to get worse.” After a beat she added, “Yes, I guess I would, though.”

I felt a chill crawl along my spine as I suddenly had a mental vision of Martha standing with an expression of loving forgiveness on her face as Lyle, his face maniacally contorted, pumped bullets into her.

Shaking myself, I said, “Maybe we’d better drop the subject. You love him and I like him, and all we’re doing is getting each other upset. You want a nightcap?”

“I think I could use one.” Then she glanced at her wristwatch and said in a surprised tone, “Maybe we’d better not. It’s nearly eleven, and don’t you have to get up at six?”

“I never sleep more than six hours,” I told her. “One more isn’t going to hurt either of us.”

In the kitchen I set the empty glasses on the counter next to the sink and was turning toward the refrigerator for ice when a sight across the alley caught my eye. The window over the sink looked directly at the rear of the house across the alley. Through a lighted second-story window I could see into a bedroom where a young and shapely blonde was just beginning to undress.

I don’t think I’m any more of a Peeping Tom than the average guy. It wouldn’t even occur to me to make a deliberate attempt to see into a neighbor’s window, but I doubt that any normal man deliberately turns his back when a view such as that is unexpectedly offered. I stood there and watched.

She took quite a while to undress, because she was neat. She hung her dress on a hanger and put it in a closet. After removing her stockings, she disappeared from view for a while, then reappeared without the stockings and in no further stage of undress. I guessed that she had washed them and hung them to dry in the bathroom.

The rest of her undressing didn’t take very long, and she was stark naked when Martha came into the kitchen to see what was delaying me.

When she saw, she burst out laughing instead of being shocked by my depravity.

“You too?” she said. “I catch Lyle in here watching the show about once a week.”

“Doesn’t she ever draw her drapes?” I asked without taking my eyes off the blonde. She was now putting on a filmy nightgown.

“Only on weekends, when her husband is home. He works nights. Then I imagine it’s he who draws them. Lyle and I have decided she’s not an exhibitionist, though, because she never shows the least self-consciousness. She would almost have to if she suspected she were being watched, don’t you think? Besides, we’ve had a little casual neighborly conversation with them, and she’s quite obviously fond of her husband, so it seems unlikely she’s looking for anything. We think she’s just careless about drawing drapes.”

The light in the bedroom suddenly went out. Belatedly I began mixing the drinks.

“Doesn’t it upset you when you find Lyle watching her?” I asked.

“Why should it?” she asked cheerfully. “It’s me he goes to bed with, not her. And the show always puts him in the mood for love.” The next morning on the way to work an unsettling thought occurred to me. I had left word at the city desk that I would be staying with my sister for a week, so they knew where to find me in an emergency, which meant I could be called out on some special assignment in the middle of the night before Lyle returned from Chicago.

That didn’t happen too often but, just in case, I decided to take Lyle’s suggestion and install drawbolts on both the front and back doors.

En route back to the paper from an assignment, I stopped at a hardware store and bought two bolts.