Jonathan Kellerman - Blood Test

“I’ll make it a point to do that.”

She looked away from me, talked to her diplomas.

“Do you have a lady friend, Alex?”

“Yes. She’s in Japan now.”

“Miss her?”

“Very much.”

“Figures,” she said good-naturedly. “The good ones get snapped up.” She rose to indicate the audience was concluded. “Good to meet you, Alex.”

“My pleasure, Diane. Good luck with the vines. What I tasted was great.”

“It’s gonna get better and better. I can feel it.”

Her handshake was firm and dry.

My Seville had cooked in the open parking lot and I pulled my hand away from the heat of the door handle. Midway through the motion I sensed his presence and turned to face him.

“S’cuse me, Doc.” He was looking into the sun and squinting. His forehead was sweat-glossed and the canary-colored shirt had darkened to mustard under the arms.

“I can’t talk now, Mr. Moody.”

“Just a sec, Doc. Just lemme connect with ya. Lemme zero in on some main points. Communicate , you know.” His words came out in a rush. As he spoke, the half-closed eyes darted back and forth, and he rocked on his boot heels. In rapid succession he smiled, grimaced, bobbed his head, scratched his Adam’s apple, and tweaked his nose. A discordant symphony of tics and twitches. I’d never seen him this way but I’d read Larry Daschoff’s report and had a good idea what was happening.

“I’m sorry. Not now.” I looked around the lot but we were alone. The rear of the court building faced a quiet side street in a run-down neighborhood. The sole sign of life was a scrawny mutt nuzzling a patch of overgrown grass on the other side of the road.

“Aw, c’mon, Doc. Just lemme make a few main points, lemme break on through, lemme zero in on the main facts, like the shysters say.” His speech picked up velocity.

I turned away from him and his hard brown hand closed on my wrist.

“Please let go, Mr. Moody,” I said with forced patience. He smiled.

“Hey, Doc, I jus wanna talk. State my case.”

“There’s no case. I can’t do anything for you. Let go of my arm.”

He tightened his grip but no tension registered on his face. It was a long face, sun-cured and leathery, with a broken pug nose at center, a thin-lipped mouth, and an oversized jaw — the kind of mandibular development you get from chewing tobacco or gritting your teeth.

I put my car keys in my pocket and reached around to pry his fingers loose but his strength was phenomenal. That, too, made sense, if what I suspected was true. It felt like his hand had become heat-welded to my arm and it was starting to hurt.

I found myself assessing my chances in a fight: we were the same height and probably just about the same weight. Years of hauling lumber had given him an edge in the physical strength department, but I’d been sufficiently diligent about karate practice to have a few good moves. I could stomp down hard on his instep, hit him when he was off-balance, and drive away as he writhed on the cement... I interrupted that train of thought, ashamed, telling myself that fighting him would be absurd. The guy was disturbed and if anyone should be able to defuse him, I should.

I dropped my free arm and let it fall idly to my side.

“Okay. I’ll listen to you. But first let go so I can concentrate on what you have to say.”

He thought about it for a second, then grinned broadly. His teeth were bad and I wondered why I hadn’t noticed it during the evaluation, but he’d been different then — morose and defeated, barely able to open his mouth to speak.

He released my wrist. The piece of sleeve where he’d held me was grimy and warm.

“I’m listening.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” His head continued to bob. “Just gotta connect with you, Doc, show you I got plans, tell you how she twisted you roun’ her little finger jus’ like she did me. There’s bad stuff in that house, my boys tell me how he’s makin’ the kids do things his way, and she lets it happen, she says okay, okay. Fine and dandy with her, they be cleanin’ up after a scumbag like that, who knows what kind of dirt he’s leavin’ around, the guy’s not normal, you know? Him wantin’ to be man of the house and all that, all I gotta say is har, har, you know.

“Know why I’m laughin’, doc, huh? To keep from cryin’, that’s why, keep from cryin’. For my babies. The boy and the girl. My boy tol’ me the two of them be sleeping together, him wantin’ to be the daddy, to be the big shot in the house that I built with these two hands here.”

He held out ten large-knuckled, bruised fingers. There was an oversized turquoise and Indian silver ring on each ring finger, one in the shape of a scorpion, the other a coiled snake.

“You unnerstan’, Doc, you grab what I’m tossin’ at you? Those kids are my life, I carry the burden, not nobody else, that’s what I tol’ the lady judge, the bitch in black. I carry it. From me, from here.” He grabbed his crotch. “My body into hers when she was still decent — she could be decent again, you unnerstan’, I get hold of her, speak some sense, straighten her out, right? But not with that Conley there, no way, no fuckin’ way. My kids, my life.”

He paused for breath and I took advantage of it.

“You’ll always be their father,” I said, trying to be reassuring without patronizing him. “No one can take that away from you.”

“Right. Hunnerd procent right. Now you go in there and tell that to the bitch in black, straighten her out. Tell her I got to have those kids.”

“I can’t do that.”

He pouted like a child denied dessert.

“You do it. Right now.”

“I can’t. You’re under a lot of stress. You’re not ready to take care of them.” You’re going through a full-fledged manic episode, Mr. Moody. You’re a manic-depressive and you need help badly...

“I can handle it, I got plans. Get a trailer, get a boat, take ’em outta the dirty city, outta the smogclouds, take ’em to the country, fish for trout, hunt for meat, teach ’em the way to survive. Like Hank Junior says, country boy will survive. Teach ’em to shovel shit and eat good breakfasts, get away from scumbags like him and her until she gets straightened out, who knows when it’ll come she keep up with him, humpin’ him in front of them, a disgrace.”

“Try to calm down.”

“Here, watch me calm down.” He inhaled deeply and let the air out in a noisy whoosh. I smelled the stench of his breath. He cracked his knuckles and the silver rings sparkled in the sun. “I’m relaxed, I’m clean, I’m ready for action, I’m the father, go in and tell her.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Why not?” he growled and grabbed the front of my jacket.

“Let go. We can’t talk if you keep doing that, Mr. Moody.”

Slowly his fingers parted. I tried to edge away from him but my back touched the car. We were close enough to slow-dance.

“Tell her! You fucked me up, you fix it, Headshrinker!”

His voice had taken a decidedly menacing tone. Manics could do damage when they got worked up. As bad as paranoid schizes. It was obvious that the power of persuasion wasn’t going to do the trick.

“Mr. Moody — Richard — you need help. I won’t do anything for you until you get it.”

He sputtered, sprayed me with saliva, and jacked upward viciously with his knee, a classic street brawler’s move. It was one of the gambits I’d figured him for and I swiveled so that all he made contact with was gabardine.

The miss threw him off-balance and he stumbled. Consciously sad, I caught his elbow and threw him off my hip. He landed on his back, stayed down for a quarter second, and was at me again, arms chopping like a thresher gone mad. I waited until he was almost on me, ducked low, and hit him in the belly just hard enough to knock some wind out. Moving out of the way I let him double over in privacy.