Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

“Cross was weak-willed, couldn’t cope.”

“You’re saying it was a genuine suicide?”

“Absolutely.”

“If he hadn’t done himself in, would you have let him live?”

He smiled and shook his head. “As I told you before, Doctor, I don’t squash people. Besides, Cross was no threat. No one believed him.”

The door was white and seamless. He placed his hand on the knob, looked at me, and let the message sink in:

Cross had poisoned the well when it came to Leland Belding stories.

No one would believe me. This day had never occurred.

I looked up at the dome. Starlight made it shimmer, like a giant jellyfish. The plastic panels gave off a new-car smell. Vidal twisted the knob.

I stepped in. The door closed behind me. A moment later, I heard the buggy depart.

I looked around, expecting screens, consoles, keyboards, a Flash Gordon tangle of electronic pasta.

But it was just a big room, interior walls sheathed in white plastic. The rest could have come out of any suburban tract home. Ice-blue carpet. Oak furniture. Console TV. Stereo components topping a record cabinet. Prefab bookcase and matching magazine basket. An efficiency kitchen off to one side. Potted plants. Framed samplers.

Apple drawings.

And three beds arranged parallel to one another, as in a bunk room. Or ward: the first two were hospital setups with push-button position controls and chromium swivel tables.

The nearest one was empty save for something on the pillow. I took a closer look. It was a toy airplane- a bomber, painted dark, with a forward-slanting M on the door.

In the second, a crippled woman lay under a cheerful quilt. Immobile, gape-mouthed, some gray streaking her black hair, but otherwise unchanged in the six years since I’d last seen her. As if disability had so dominated her body it rendered her ageless. She took a deep sucking breath and air came out in a squeak.

A waft of perfume filtered through the new-car ambience. Soap and water, fresh grass.

Sharon sat on the edge of the third bed, hands folded in her lap. A smile, tissue-thin, graced her lips.

She wore a long white dress that buttoned down the front. Her hair was combed out, parted in the middle. No makeup, no jewelry. Her eyes purplish in the light of the dome.

She fidgeted under my stare. Long fingers. Arms smooth as butter. Breasts straining against the dress. Silk. Expensive, but it resembled a nurse’s uniform.

“Hello, Alex.”

Shirlee Ransom’s swivel table held tissues, a hot water bottle, a mucus aspirator, a water pitcher, and an empty drinking glass. I picked up the glass, rolled it between my palms, and put it down.

“Come,” she said.

I sat down next to her, said, “Risen like Lazarus.”

“Never gone,” she said.

“Someone else is.”

She nodded.

I said, “The red dress? Strawberry daiquiris?”

“Her.”

“Sleeping with your patients?”

She shifted so that our flanks touched. “ Her . She wanted to hurt me, didn’t care she was hurting others in the process. I didn’t know a thing until the cancellations started pouring in. I couldn’t understand it. Everything had been going so well- mostly short-term cases, but everyone liked me. I phoned them. Most of them refused to talk to me. A couple of wives got on, full of rage, threatening. It was like a bad dream. Then Sherry told me what she’d done. Laughing. She’d been staying with me, had taken my office key and made a copy. Used it to get into my files, picked out the ones who sounded cute , offered them free follow-up visits and… did them, then dumped them. That’s the way she put it. When I was calm enough, I asked her why . She said she’d be damned if she’d let me play doctor and lord it over her.”

She placed her hand on my thigh. Her palm was wet. “I knew she resented me, Alex, but I never imagined she’d carry it that far. When we first got together, she acted as if she loved me.”

“When was that?”

“My second year of grad school. Autumn.”

Surprised, I said, “Not the summer?”

“No. Autumn. October.”

“What was the family business that prevented you from going to San Francisco?”

“Therapy.”

“Conducting or receiving?”

“My therapy.”

“With Kruse.”

Nod. “It was a crucial time. I couldn’t leave. We were dealing with issues… It really was family business.”

“Where were you staying?”

“His house.”

I’d gone there, looking for her, watching Kruse’s face split in two…

Have a nice day…

“It was pretty intense,” she said. “He wanted to monitor all the variables.”

“You had no trouble sleeping there?”

“I… No, he helped me. Relaxed me.”

“Hypnosis.”

“Yes. He was preparing me- for meeting her. He thought it would be a healing process. For both of us. But he underestimated how much hatred remained.”

She stayed calm but the pressure of her hand increased. “She was pretending, Alex. It was easy for her- she’d studied acting.”

Some gravitate to the stage and screen … “Interesting career choice,” I said.

“It wasn’t a career, just a fling. Just like everything else. First she used it to get close to me, then again to target what she knew was dearest to me: you; then, years later, my work. She knew how much my work meant to me.”

“Why didn’t you get licensed?”

She tugged her earlobe. “Too many… distractions. I wasn’t ready.”

“Paul’s opinion?”

“And mine.”

She pressed against me. Her touch felt burdensome.

“You’re the only man I’ve ever loved, Alex.”

“What about Jasper? And Paul.”

The mention of Kruse’s name made her flinch. “I mean romantic love. Physical love. You’re the only one who’s ever been inside of me.”

I said nothing.

“Alex, it’s true. I know you suspected things, but Paul and I were never like that. I was his patient- sleeping with a patient’s like incest. Even after therapy stops.”

Something in her voice made me back off. “Okay. But let’s not forget Mickey Starbuck.”

“Who?”

“Your co-star. Checkup .”

“Was that his name? Mickey? All I knew about him was that he was an actor whom Paul had treated for cocaine addiction. Back in Florida. I’ve never been to Florida.”

“Her?”

She nodded.

I said, “Who cast her?”

“I know what it looks like, but Paul thought it might be curative.”

“Radical therapy. Working it through.”

“You’d have to see it in context, Alex. He’d worked with her for years without much success. He had to try something.”

I looked away, took in my surroundings. Hooked rug on the blue carpet. The samplers spouting truisms. No goddam place like home.

Spaceship homey. As if extraterrestrials had swooped down on a specimen-hunt, plundered Middle America of its clichés.

When I turned back, she was smiling. A shiny smile. Too shiny. Like glaze before crackling.

“Alex, I understand how strange all this must sound to you. It’s hard to sum up so many years in just a few minutes.”

I smiled back, let my confusion show. “It’s overwhelming- the dynamics- how it all fits together.”

“I’ll do my best to clear it up for you.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Where would you like me to start?”

“Right at the beginning seems as good a place as any.”

She put her head on my shoulder. “That’s the problem. There really is no beginning,” she said, in the same disembodied voice she’d used years ago, to talk about the death of her “parents.” “My primal years are a blur. I’ve been told about them, but it’s like hearing a story about someone else. That’s what therapy was about, that summer. Paul was trying to unblock me.”