Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

Ursula shook her head weakly and sagged in her chair.

I said, “Where’d you take Mrs. Ramp after the Rolls was disposed of?”

“On a scenic drive. Through Angeles Crest Forest along the backroads. The precise route was Highway 39 to Mount Waterman, Highway 2 to Mountain High, 138 to Palmdale, 14 to Saugus, 126 to Santa Paula, then straight down to the 101 and onward to the ranch. Circuitous but pretty.”

“Nothing like that in Florida,” I said.

“Nothing at all.”

“Why the dam?” I said.

“It’s a rural spot, comparatively close to the clinic, yet remote- no one goes up there. I know, because I’d been there several times. To sell off horses my wife no longer wanted to ride.”

“That’s all?”

“What else should there be?”

“Well,” I said, “I’d be willing to wager you studied your wife’s clinical notes and knew Mrs. Ramp didn’t like water.”

He smiled.

I said, “I understand about the tinted windows providing cover. But wasn’t it risky using a car that conspicuous? Someone might have noticed.”

“And if they had, what would they have seen? A car that would have been traced to her - just as it was. The assumption would have been made that a mentally ill woman drove up there and either had an accident or committed suicide. Which is exactly what happened.”

“True,” I said, trying to look thoughtful.

“ Every thing was considered, Delaware. If Cleofais had reported being spotted, we would have moved on to another spot. I’d earmarked several. Even the unlikely chance of being stopped by a policeman didn’t worry me. I would have explained that I was a psychotherapist with a patient who’d had an anxiety attack and passed out, and shown my credentials to back it up. The facts would have backed me up. And when she regained consciousness, she would have backed me up, because that’s all she would have remembered. Isn’t that elegant?”

“Yes,” I said, causing him to look at me sharply. “Even traveling the back roads, you had plenty of time to set her up here, wait for your wife to call and report she hadn’t shown up for group therapy, then fake concern, drive back to Pasadena and make your appearance at the clinic.”

“Where,” he said, “I had the not altogether salutary experience of meeting you.”

“And trying to find out how much I knew about Mrs. Ramp.”

“Why else would I bother to talk to you? And for a moment you did have me concerned- something you said, about her having plans to make a new life. Then I realized you were just jawing, knew nothing of any importance.”

“When did your wife find out what you’d done?”

“When she woke up to find herself in that chair.”

Remembering Ursula’s hurried exit from the clinic, I said, “What’d you tell her to get her up here?”

“I phoned her, pretending to be ill, and begged her to come up and take care of me. Good wife that she is, she responded promptly.”

I said, “How will you explain her absence to her patients?”

“Bad flu. I’ll take over their care, don’t expect any complaints.”

“Two patients gone from the group, now the therapist- given the kind of anxiety you’re dealing with, it may not be so simple to reassure them.”

“Two? Ah.” Knowing smile. “Bonny Miss Kathleen, our intrepid girl reporter? How did you come across that?”

Not knowing if Kathy Moriarty was alive or dead, I said nothing.

“Well,” he said, smiling wider, “if you think your evasiveness is going to help her, forget it. Bonny Miss Kathleen won’t be reporting anything anymore- nasty little bull-dagger. The arrogance, thinking something as complex as agoraphobia could be faked in my presence. Trying to bluster her way out when I caught her, with threats and accusations. She sat right in that chair.” Pointing to Ursula’s. “Helped me refine the technique.”

“Where is she now?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“In the cold, cold ground, next to Cleofais. Probably the first time she’s been that intimate with a man.”

I looked over at Ursula. Her eyes were wide and frozen.

“So everything’s tied up,” I said. “Elegant.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“Mocking you isn’t my intention. On the contrary, I had the greatest respect for your work. Read all your publications- shock avoidance and escape paradigms, controlled frustration, schedules of fear-induced learning. This is just…” I shrugged.

He stared at me for a long time.

“You wouldn’t,” he finally said, “be trying to bullshit me?”

“No,” I said. “But if I am, big deal. What can I do to you?”

“True,” he said, flexing his fingers. “Fifteen seconds to deep-fry, you couldn’t bear being a party to that. And I’ve got other toys you haven’t even seen yet.”

“I’m sure you have. Just as I’m sure you’ve convinced yourself it’s okay to use them. On scientific grounds. Destroy the person to save her.”

“No one’s being destroyed.”

“What about Gina?”

“ She wasn’t much to begin with- look at the way she lived. Insular, selfish, corrupt- of no use to anyone. By using her, I’ve justified her.”

“I didn’t know she needed justifying.”

“Then know it, idiot. Life’s transactional, not some fluffy, theological fantasy. The world’s getting sucked dry. Resources are finite. Only the useful will survive.”

“Who determines what’s useful?”

“Those who control the stimuli.”

“One thing you might consider,” I said, “is that despite all this high-minded theorizing, you may not be aware of your true motivations.”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “Are you applying to be my analyst?”

I shook my head. “No way. Don’t have the stomach for it.”

His lips snapped down.

I said, “Women. The way they’ve let you down. The custody battle with your first wife, the way her drinking caused the fire that killed your son. The first time we met you mentioned a second wife- before Ursula. I didn’t get a sense of what she was like, but something tells me she wasn’t worthy either.”

“A nonentity,” he said. “Nothing there.”

“Is she still alive?”

He smiled. “Unfortunate accident. She wasn’t quite the swimmer she fancied herself to be.”

“Water,” I said. “You’ve used it twice. Freudian theory would say it has something to do with the womb.”

“Freudian theory is horse shit.”

“It could be right on the mark this time, Professor. Maybe this whole thing has nothing to do with science or love or any of that other horse shit you’ve been spreading, and everything to do with the fact that you hate women- really despise them and need to control them. It implies something nasty in your own childhood- neglect or abuse or whatever. I guess what I’m saying is that I’d sure like to know what your mother was like.”

His mouth opened, and he jammed his hand down on the button.

Machine screams. A higher frequency than before…

His voice above the whine- shouting but barely audible: “Fifteen seconds.”

I threw myself at him. He backed away, kicking and punching, throwing the black remote at me and hitting me in the nose. Fingers white on the gray module. The stench of burning flesh and hair clogged the room.

I tore at his hands, hit him in the belly, and he gasped and doubled. But his grip was like steel.

I had to break his wrist before he let go.

I put the remote in my pocket, kept my eye on him. He was stretched out on the floor, holding his wrist, crying.

The women didn’t stop jerking for a long, long time.

I unplugged the machines, ripped off the electrical cords, and used them to bind his arms and legs. When I was certain he was immobilized, I went to the women.