Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

He hefted the charts and transferred them to one hand. “Pretty dicey, huh?”

I said, “Maybe we should consult her on Cassie.”

He smiled. Patients continued to stream in, even though there was no room for them. Some of them greeted him and he responded with winks.

I thanked him again for his time.

He said, “Sorry we won’t have a chance to work together.”

“Good luck in Colorado.”

“Yup,” he said. “You ski?”

“No.”

“Me neither...” He looked back at the waiting room, shook his head. “What a place... Originally, I was gonna be a surgeon, slice and dice. Then, when I was a second-year med student, I came down with diabetes. No dramatic symptoms, just some weight loss that I didn’t think much about because I wasn’t eating properly. I went into shock in the middle of gross anatomy lab, collapsed on top of my cadaver. It was just before Christmas. I got home and my family handled it by passing the honey-baked ham right by me, no one saying anything. I handled that by rolling my pants up, hoisting my leg up on the table and jabbing it, in front of everyone. Eventually, I figured it was time to forget about scalpels and think about people. That’s what appealed to me about this place — working with kids and families. But when I got here I found out that was all gone. Bad vibes is right. That gypsy lady could tell the moment she walked in the door. It might sound nuts to you, but she crystallized what had been going on in my head for a while. Sure, Colorado’s gonna be boring — sniffles and sneezes and diaper rash. And I haven’t been here long enough to collect any pension, so financially the two years have been a wash. But at least I won’t be sitting on the fence. Cock-a-doodle-doo.”

Robin called at seven to say she was on her way over. She was at my door a half hour later, hair drawn back and French-braided, accentuating the sweet, clean lines of her neck. She wore black teardrop earrings and a cool-pink denim dress that hugged her hips. In her arms were bags of Chinese takeout.

When we’d lived together, Chinese had been the cue for dinner in bed. Back in the good old days I’d have led her into the bedroom, Joe Suave. But two years apart and a reconciliation that was still confusing had shaken my instincts. I took the bags, placed them on the dining room table, and kissed her lightly on the lips.

She put an arm around me, pressed the back of my head, and enlarged the kiss.

When we broke for breath she said, “I hope this is okay — not going out?”

“I’ve been out plenty today.”

“Me too. Delivering the Stealths to the boys’ hotel. They wanted me to stay and party.”

“They’ve got better taste in women than in music.”

She laughed, kissed me again, pulled back, and did some exaggerated heavy breathing.

“Enough with the hormones,” she said. “First things first. Let me heat this up and we’ll have ourselves an indoor picnic.”

She took the food into the kitchen. I hung back and watched her move. All these years I’d never tired of watching her move.

The dress was nouveau-rodeo sweetheart — lots of leather fringe and old lace on the yoke. She wore ankle-high boots that echoed sharply on the kitchen floor. Her braid swung as she walked. So did the rest of her but I found myself looking at the braid. Shorter than Cindy Jones’s and auburn instead of dark-brown, but it got me thinking about the hospital again.

She deposited the bags on the counter, started to say something, then realized I hadn’t followed her in. Looking over her shoulder, she said, “Something the matter, Alex?”

“No,” I lied, “just admiring.”

One of her hands darted to her hair and I realized she was nervous. That made me want to kiss her again.

I said, “You look gorgeous.”

She flashed a smile that tightened my chest and held out her arms. I went into the kitchen.

“Tricky,” she said later, trying to knit my chest hair with chopsticks.

“The idea,” I said, “is to show your devotion by knitting me a sweater. Not turning me into one.”

She laughed. “Cold moo goo. What a gourmet treat.”

“At this moment, wet sand on toast would be okay.” I stroked her face.

Placing the chopsticks on the nightstand, she moved closer. Our sweaty flanks stuck together and made wet-plastic noises. She turned her hand into a glider and flew it over my chest, barely touching skin. Propping herself up, she bumped her nose against mine, kissed my chin. Her hair was still braided. As we’d made love, I’d held it, passing the smooth rope between my fingers, finally letting go when I began to lose control, for fear of hurting her. Some of the curly strands had come loose and they tickled my face. I smoothed them back and nuzzled her under her chin.

Her head lifted. She massaged my chest some more, stopped, inspected, looped a finger under a single hair, and said, “Hmm.”

“What?”

“A gray one — isn’t that cute. ”

“Adorable.”

“It is, Alex. You’re maturing. ”

“What’s that, the euphemism of the day?”

“The truth , Doctor. Time’s a sexist pig — women decay; men acquire a vintage. Even guys who weren’t all that cute when they were young have a second shot at studliness if they don’t let themselves go completely to seed. The ones like you, who were adorable to begin with, can really clean up.”

I started panting.

“I’m serious, Alex. You’ll probably get all craggy and wise — look like you really understand the mysteries of life.”

“Talk about false advertising.”

She inspected each of my temples, turning my head gently with strong fingers and burrowing through the hair.

“This is the ideal place to start silvering,” she said in a teacher’s voice. “Maximum class-and-wisdom quotient. Hmm, nope, I don’t see anything yet, just this one little guy, down here.” Touching a nail to the chest hair, she brushed my nipple again. “Too bad you’re still a callow youth.”

“Hey, babe, let’s party.”

She put her head back down and reached lower, under the blanket.

“Well,” she said, “there’s something to be said for callow too.”

We moved to the living room and listened to some tapes she’d brought. The new Warren Zevon casting cold light upon the dark side of life — a novel in miniature. A Texas genius named Eric Johnson who produced musical textures from the guitar that made me want to burn my instruments. A young woman named Lucinda Williams with a beautiful, bruised voice and lyrics straight from the heart.

Robin sat on my lap, curled small, her head on my chest, breathing shallowly.

When the music was over she said, “Is everything okay?”

“Sure. Why?”

“You seem a little distracted.”

“Don’t mean to be,” I said, wondering how she could tell.

She sat up and undid her braid. Her curls had matted and she began separating the strands. When she’d fluffed them and restored the natural perm, she said, “Anything you want to talk about?”

“It really isn’t anything,” I said. “Just work — a tough case. I’m probably letting it get to me too much.”

I expected her to let that go, but she said, “Confidential, right?” with just a trace of regret.

“Limited confidentiality,” I said. “I’m a consultant and this one may spill over into the criminal justice system.”

“Oh. That kind of case.”

She touched my face. Waited.

I told her the story of Cassie Jones, leaving out names and identifying marks.

When I finished, she said, “Isn’t there anything that can be done?”