Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

He stared past me.

Allison glanced at her purse. Blinked several times.

I said, “How ’bout I start like this: My name is Alex Demlaware, I’m a crinical psychologist licensed by the state of California, my license number is 45…”

Droning on. Hauser followed with choppy movements of his head. Warming to the recitation because it was everything he wanted to hear.

“Fine. Write.”

I leaned over the desk, shielding his view of my right hand with my left arm. Lowering the nib of the pen to just above the paper, I made writing motions.

“Oops,” I said. “Out of ink.”

“Bullshit, don’t try- ”

I held up the pen. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

Hauser thought. The knife drifted. “Get another one out of the drawer. Don’t agitate me.”

I struggled to my feet, holding the chair for support. “Should I lean over the desk or go around?”

“Go around. That way.” Pointing to the right.

Circling toward the front of the desk, I grazed Allison’s purse with my sleeve. Opened the drawer, took out several pens, rested for breath. No act; my ribs felt like bonemeal.

On the return trip, I touched the purse again, hazarded a look.

Unzipped. Allison’s bad habit. I’d given up lecturing to her about it.

I pretended to bang my knee against the desk corner. Cried out in pain and dropped the pens.

“Idiot!”

“My balance is off. I think you knocked something loose.”

“Bullshit, I didn’t hit you that hard.”

“I passed out. Maybe I’ve got a concussion.”

“Your head was stationary and if you had a rudimentary knowledge of neuropsych you’d know that severe concussions result most often from two objects in motion colliding.”

I looked at the carpet.

“Pick them up!”

I bent, collected the pens. Straightened and made my way back as Hauser watched.

The knife had shifted a few inches from Allison’s throat but his right hand kept a firm hold on her hair.

I met her eyes. Edged to the right, farther from Hauser. That relaxed him.

Allison blinked.

I said, “One thing…”

Before Hauser could answer, Allison struck out at his knife arm, twisted away, and slid out of his grasp.

He shouted. She ran toward the door. He went after her. I had the purse, groped with tingling fingers, found it.

Allison’s shiny little automatic, perfect for her small hand, too small for mine. She’d oiled it recently and maybe some of the lubricant had made its way to the grip. Or my motor skills were shot and that’s why my shaking arms bobbled the weapon.

I caught it, used both hands to steady my aim.

Hauser was a foot behind Allison, flushed and huffing, knife held high. He made a grab for her, caught another handful of hair, yanked her head back, chopped down.

I shot him in the back of the knee.

He didn’t fall immediately so I blew out the other knee.

For good measure.

I’d spent ten years working in a hospital. Some smells never change.

Robin and Allison sat across from my bed.

Next to each other. Like friends.

Robin in black, Allison still in the baby-blue suit.

I remembered pokes and probes and other indignities but not being transported here.

The CAT scan and X-rays had been boring, the MRI a bit of claustrophobic fun. The spinal tap was no kind of fun at all.

No more pain, though. What a tough guy I was.

Robin and Allison- or maybe it was Allison and Robin- smiled.

I said, “What is this, some kind of beauty contest?”

Milo stepped into view.

I said, “I redact and retract and refract any former statement vis-àvis aesthetic compete-tition.”

Smiles all around. I was a hit.

“At the risk of utterly bonanzal banalistical cliché, where the bleep am I hospital-wise?”

“Cedars,” said Milo in a slow, patient way that suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d answered the question.

“Didja get to see Rick? You really should, you guys don’t spend enough time together.”

Pained smiles. Timing, it’s all about timing. I said, “Ladies and germs.”

Milo edged closer. “Rick says hi. He made sure they did all the necessary crap. No concussion or hematomas and your brain’s not swollen- at least not more than it usually is. You do have some bruised disks in your cervical spine and a couple of cracked ribs. Ergo, King Tut.”

“Ergo. Pogo. Logo.” I touched my side, felt the stiff swaddle of bandages. “Rick didn’t get to operate? No unkindest cut?”

“Not this time, pal.”

He was blocking my view. I told him so and he retreated to a corner of the room.

I looked at the girls. My girls.

So serious, both of them. Maybe I hadn’t said it loud enough. “No unkindeness cutaroo?”

Two pretty attempts at sympathy chuckles. I was dying up here.

“Just got in from Lost Wages,” I said, “and boy, is my vertebral discography tired.”

Robin said something to Allison, or maybe it was the other way around, making sense of all this was a pretzel, a pretty girl pretzel, mustard and salt, who the hell could untangle it…

“What?” someone who sounded like me shouted. “What’s the conversational thread being woven into the warp of the contestants?”

“You need to sleep,” said Allison. She looked ready to cry.

Robin, too.

Time for new material…“I slept just fine yesterday. Girls! ”

“They sedated you,” said Robin. “You’re under sedation right now.”

“Demerol,” said Allison. “Later, you can take Percocet.”

“Why’d they do that?” I said. “I’m no doper, I get low on life.”

Robin got up and moved bedside. Allison followed, hanging slightly behind.

All that perfume. Whoa!

“You wearing Chanel?” I demanded of Milo. “Come on over, dude, and join the olfactory celebration.”

Allison caught my eye. No purse to look for now, she was holding it. “Where were you?” I said. “When I came into the office you weren’t.”

“He had me in the closet.”

Robin said, “Poor thing.”

I said, “Her or me?”

“Both of you.” Robin took Allison’s hand and squeezed.

Allison looked grateful.

Everyone, so sad. Utter waste of energy, time to get dressed and have juice and coffee, maybe an English muffin and be out of here in no time…where were my clothes…I’d get dressed in front of all of them, we were all chums.

I must’ve said something to that effect, maybe with a bit of vulgarity, because both of the girls- my pretty girls - looked shocked.

Robin inhaled and patted the hand without the I.V. Allison wanted to do the same thing, I could tell she really wanted to, maybe she even still liked me that way, but the I.V. stopped her.

I said, “No sweat, you can pat me, too.”

She obeyed.

“Hold my hands!” I commanded. “Both of you! Everyone join hands.”

They complied. Good pretty girls.

I told Milo, “You, on the other hand, can’t hold anything.”

He said, “Aw, shucks.”

I went back to sleep.

Rick wanted me to stay in the hospital another night for observation but I said enough.

He laid on all the medical authority but nothing helps in the face of industrial-strength obstinacy. I called a taxi and checked myself out, carrying a goody bag of painkillers, anti-inflammatories, steroids, and a small-print list of dire side effects.

Robin had been by earlier. Allison had called once but hadn’t shown up since the first time.

“I got to know her,” said Robin. “She’s lovely.”