Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“Wandered off somewhere,” he said. “If you’re searching for a happy ending, that ain’t it. Not if the copters don’t find her damned soon. We’re talking fifty-plus hours of exposure. If I had a choice of which way to die, I’d opt for the lake.”

He stood again. Paced.

“Can you handle more ugly?” he said.

I spread my arms, thrust my chest forward. “Hit me.”

“There are at least two other scenarios we haven’t considered. One: She got to shore, waited by the road, and someone did pick her up. Someone nasty.”

“Psycho motorist?”

“It’s an alternative, Alex. Good-looking woman in a wet dress, helpless. It would appeal to a certain… appetite. Lord knows we see it often enough- women stranded on the freeway, Good Samaritans turning out not to be.”

I said, “That is ugly. No one deserves to suffer that much.”

“Since when has deserving had anything to do with it?”

“What’s Two?”

“Suicide. Gautier- the sheriff brought it up. Right after you and Melissa left, Chickering started explaining to everyone that you were her shrink, got into this little monologue about Gina’s problems- bad genetics. About San Labrador having lots of eccentrics. He may guard the rich folk’s palaces, but he doesn’t have much affection for them. Anyway, Gautier said, given all that, why not suicide? Apparently they’ve had other people jump in the reservoir. Chickering loved it.”

“What did Ramp have to say about that?”

“Ramp wasn’t there- Chickering wouldn’t have mouthed off in front of him. He didn’t even realize I was listening.”

“Where was Ramp?”

“Up on the highway. He started to look queasy- the paramedics took him to the ambulance for an EKG.”

“He okay?”

“EKG-wise he is. But he looked pretty shitty. When I left he was still getting tea and sympathy.”

“Acting?”

He shrugged.

“Chickering’s psychological insights notwithstanding,” I said, “I don’t see suicide. When I talked to her there was no evidence of depression- not even a hint of it. On the contrary, she was optimistic. She had twenty years of pain and misery to contemplate doing away with herself. Why would she do it just at the point where she was looking forward to some freedom?”

“Freedom can be scary.”

“Just a couple of days ago, you had her getting high on freedom- driving to Vegas to whoop it up.”

“Things change,” he said. Then: “You always have a way of complicating my life.”

“What better basis for friendship?”

We went to check on Melissa. She was lying on her side, face to the sofa back, the blanket twisted around her in a tight cocoon.

Madeleine sat at the foot of the sofa, only a small portion of her substantial buttocks making contact with the cushion. Crocheting something pink and formless and concentrating on her hands. She glanced up as we entered.

I said, “Has she been up at all?”

“ Non, monsieur.”

Milo said, “Has Mr. Ramp come home yet?”

“ Non, monsieur.” Her fingers stilled.

I said, “Why don’t we put her to bed.”

“ Oui, monsieur.”

I lifted Melissa, carried her up the stairs to her room, Madeleine and Milo behind me. Madeleine turned on the light, dimmed it, and drew back the covers of the four-poster. She spent a long time tucking Melissa in, then pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat. Reaching into a dressing-gown pocket, she drew out her crocheting and placed it in her lap. Sitting motionless, careful not to rock.

Melissa shifted position under the covers, moved again so that she was on her back. Her mouth was open and her breathing was slow and steady.

Milo watched the rise and fall of the comforter for a moment, then said, “I’m gonna get going. How about you?”

Remembering a small child’s night terrors, I said, “I’ll stay for a while.”

Milo nodded.

“I stay also,” said Madeleine. She engaged her yarn, looped it around her needle, and began dipping and tilting.

“Good,” I told her. “I’ll be downstairs. Call me if she wakes up.”

“ Oui, monsieur.”

I sat in one of the overstuffed chairs and thought about things that kept me awake. The final time I checked my watch, it was just after 1:00 A.M. I fell asleep, still sitting, and awoke stiff and cotton-mouthed, my arms tattooed.

Dazed and confused, I jerked upright. The tattooing shifted kaleidoscopically.

Luminous blue and red and emerald and amber splotches.

Sunlight sieved through lace curtains and daubed by stained glass.

Sunday.

I felt sacrilegious. As if I’d dozed off in a church.

Seven-twenty.

Silent house.

Overnight, a stale smell had settled in. Or maybe it had been there all along.

I rubbed my eyes and tried to clear my head. Stood, with some pain, straightened my clothes, ran my hand over my stubbled face, and stretched until it was obvious that the ache wasn’t ready to depart.

In a guest bathroom near the entry hall, I splashed water on my face, massaged my scalp, and headed upstairs.

Melissa was still asleep, hair spread on her pillow, too perfectly arranged to be accidental.

It reminded me of a Victorian funeral photo. Angelic children in lace-edged coffins.

I worked my way past that, smiled at Madeleine.

The pink thing was still formless but had stretched to a couple of feet. I wondered if she’d slept at all. Her feet were bare, bigger than mine. A pair of corduroy slippers was arranged neatly on the floor next to the rocker. Next to them was a telephone that she’d removed from Melissa’s nightstand.

I said, “Bonjour.”

She looked up, clear-eyed and grim, began working her needle faster.

“Monsieur.” She reached down and replaced the phone.

“Did Mr. Ramp come home?”

Glance at Melissa. Shake of the head. The movement made the chair creak.

Melissa opened her eyes.

Madeleine shot me an accusing look.

I approached the bed.

Madeleine began rocking. The chair complained louder.

Melissa looked up at me.

I smiled down at her, hoping it didn’t look ghoulish.

She widened her eyes. Moved her lips, seemed to be struggling.

“Hi,” I said.

“I- what-” Her eyes darted, unable to settle. Panic crossed her face. She pushed her head forward, fell back. Closed her eyes and opened them again.

I sat down and took her hand. Soft and hot. Felt her forehead. Warm, but not feverish.

Madeleine rocked faster.

Melissa was squeezing my fingers. “I- Wha- Mama.”

“They’re still looking for her, Melissa.”

“Mama.” Tears. She closed her eyes.

Madeleine was there with a tissue for her and a look of reproach for me.

A moment later Melissa was sleeping again.

I waited around until her slumber deepened, got what I needed from Madeleine, and went downstairs. Lupe and Rebecca were downstairs, vacuuming and scrubbing. When I passed, they averted their eyes.

I left the house, stepping out into sooty light that grayed the forest shielding the mansion. As I opened the door to the Seville, a white Saab Turbo came roaring up the drive. It came to a short stop, the engine quieted, and both Gabneys got out, Ursula from the driver’s side.

She had on a snugly tailored gray sharkskin suit over a white blouse and less makeup than she’d worn at the clinic. It made her look tired but younger. Every hair in place, but her coiffure lacked luster.

Her husband had exchanged cowboy duds for a brown-and-tan houndstooth jacket, beige slacks, chocolate suede wingtips, white shirt, and green tie.