Blinded Page 4

  “How’s your pain, Detective?” For some reason she was touching his toes as she inquired.

  “Hey, Snoopy,” Sam said, as though he’d just recognized she was in the room. “It’s still there. It’s hard to stay in this position for so long, you know. I feel like Ray Bourque kicked me in the kidneys and he’s been standing on my groin for most of the third period.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I hear it’s like,” she replied.

  I stole a glance at the hospital ID hanging around her neck. It indeed read “Snoopy.” Snoopy Lipner, R.N. I could tell she didn’t have a clue who Ray Bourque was and was more than content to go to her grave without learning why Sam Purdy would have an image of the man standing on his groin. I could’ve explained to her about hockey’s place in Sam’s universe and his peculiar love of traditional defensemen, but I didn’t think Snoopy really wanted to know that, either. I was tempted to ask her about her first name, but was guessing that just about everyone did and that she’d grown weary of the inquiries a long time before.

  She pulled a syringe from the front pocket of her tunic, uncapped it with her teeth, and had the needle in a port in Sam’s IV tube faster than Wyatt Earp could draw his six-shooter. She depressed the plunger and disposed of the empty in a sharps container in another blink of the eye. “This’ll make it easier for you. Just another hour or so, and we can take that thing off your groin. Hang in there, and I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

  “Can I have some more of those ice chips before you go?”

  She lifted a paper cup off the table and placed the edge against his lips.

  Sam tilted the cup and spilled a few slivers of ice into his mouth. Afterward he seemed to exhale for ten seconds as the medication from the syringe entered his bloodstream and the molecules started mating with the appropriate receptors in his brain.

  “What did you give him?” I asked.

  “Water, in the form of ice chips. Who are you?” Snoopy asked.

  “A friend.”

  “He’s the one who brought me in,” Sam said. “He’s a good guy, a doctor. Not a real doctor. You know, a Ph.D., a psychologist.”

  She eyed me as though she’d finally decided that she’d let me stay. She lofted the IV tubing. “That was fentanyl. For the pain. That position he’s in is a killer.” She returned Sam’s water glass to the bedside table. “You did good work yesterday,” she told me. “We got him early enough that we were able to bust his clot in the ER. Because of that he’s going to walk out of here with most of the heart he came in with.”

  She was gone in a flash.

  Sam mumbled, “Nurses are nice to cops. Don’t know why that is.”

  Gingerly, I placed the plastic heart on his rolling bedside tray and watched his eyelids grow heavy as the fentanyl continued its work and the inevitable sedation went along for the ride.

  His eyes suddenly popped open, and he said, “Marriage is a funny thing. Love isn’t enough, you know? People think it is, but it isn’t. Other things happen sometimes. They do.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, honestly curious.

  He didn’t respond.

  I sat beside him for a few moments more and watched his breathing get into the uniform rhythm of narcotic semisleep.

  I was aware of an impulse to run home and make Sam an umbrella for his heart. Rigid foam rubber, plastic strips, some filament tape. That should do it. Something to shield his heart from whatever out there might want to bruise it. And to protect it from whatever he might be inclined to do to it, too.

  I whispered, “Nurses are nice to cops because most of the time the cops deserve it, Sam. That’s why.”

  I sat beside him for a few more minutes, silently rehashing what Gibbs Storey had told me that morning. In my mind I asked Sam what a cop like him would say to a story like hers. I asked him what the Boulder police were likely to do after the police in California informed them that they had a killer in their town.

  Sam slept through it all.

  EIGHT

  In the dozen-plus years I’d been in practice in Boulder, I’d referred at least a dozen women-and one man-to Boulder Safe House. I helped Safe House raise money each year. I was an advocate for all they did.

  But I didn’t know where the actual sanctuary was located. None of my patients who used the services had ever told me. None of the Safe House staff had ever told me. My wife, the DA, had never told me.

  Why? The more people who knew the location of the building, the less safe Safe House was.

  So I wasn’t surprised when Diane’s message informed me that the five-thirty meeting with the Safe House director to discuss Gibbs Storey’s situation would be at our offices on Walnut Street, not at Safe House.

  Celeste Clayton-CeeCee to her friends-was a contemporary urbanbalabosta. She was all smiles and hugs, competence and compassion. If she couldn’t tuck you in, feed you, or wipe away a tear, her day was ruined. Ten minutes late for our meeting, she bustled into my office with a big smile and with her arms spread wide to engulf Diane in an embrace.

  My turn was next. I’d been perfunctorily introduced to Celeste at a couple of fund-raisers and had spoken with her on the phone a few times about mutual clients. Still, the hug she gave me was every bit as robust as the one she gave Diane.

  She plopped onto the chair across from me, looked around my office, and said, “Nice digs.”

  Diane said, “Don’t be fooled. The decorating panache is mine. He just wrote the checks.”

  It wasn’t completely true, but Diane knew that I wouldn’t contradict her in front of company. I said, “Celeste, thanks for doing this on such short notice.”

  “ ‘Notice’ is a foreign concept in my business. People don’t usually anticipate when they will need emergency shelter from abusers. So what’s up? Diane said this one would raise my eyebrows. That’ll take some doing. I’ve been in the battered spouse business for so many years that I know most of the stories before anybody tells me word one.”

  I handed Celeste a signed release from Gibbs Storey. She glanced at it and proceeded to stick it into a fat Day-Timer that screamed “black hole.” I was confident there were papers stuffed in that book that were older than my Social Security card.

  “Years ago, ten or so, Diane and I briefly treated a married couple. The wife’s name is Gibbs Storey. They left-”

  “Gibbs. That’sb-s?”

  Diane laughed. I said, “Yes. Well, twobs and ans.”

  “Go on.”

  “The Storeys left town after what, Diane, three or four sessions?” Diane nodded. “Neither of us heard from them again until ten days ago when Gibbs called me for an appointment that took place this morning. She told me they’d moved back to town a few months ago. Within a few minutes she went on to implicate her husband in an unsolved murder in California.”

  “Implicate?” Celeste asked.

  “She accused him of murdering a friend of theirs with whom he was having an extramarital affair.”

  “Wow.” My impression was that Celeste wasn’t registering amazement at the facts. She was registering amazement that she was really hearing a new battered woman story.

  “Gibbs feels that she will be in significant physical danger from her husband once he discovers that she has spoken with the police. I don’t have any valid reason to question her conclusion.”

  “Is there a history of battering?”

  Diane spoke up. “We’re in a difficult position with you on that, CeeCee. Alan and I saw the Storeys as a couple. Virtually all of what we know about him comes from that couples treatment. That therapy is confidential-we can’t talk about it without his permission.”

  “Even if she’s in danger?”

  “Danger’s not enough,” Diane replied. “He would have had to make a threat against her for us to breach privilege. Sterling”-she cleared her throat-“hasn’t done that. At least not in our presence. Absent the overt threat, we can’t talk about him without a release.”

  Celeste said,
“Something tells me he’s unlikely to grant the release, isn’t he? How about I just assume that I wouldn’t be here if his history in the bully department was untarnished? Is that an assumption that we all can live with?”

  Neither Diane nor I contradicted her.

  I thought,Andthatis how the high hurdles of confidentiality are effortlessly cleared.

  “Well, good. Where is Ms. Storey right now?”

  I said, “She went home after our session this morning. She feels certain that her husband doesn’t suspect anything. She insists she’ll be safe until the police show up to talk with him.”

  Celeste smiled ruefully. “I can name this song in three notes. In case you’re wondering, it’s a very sad song.”

  “I did my best to keep her from going home.” I don’t know why I felt the need to protest my innocence, but I did.

  “I know how it goes. I’ve beaten my head on that wall a few hundred times myself, Alan. Kids? Please tell me there are no kids.”

  “None, thankfully.”

  “You’ll talk to her again when?”

  “Tomorrow morning. At that point I hope to get her permission to contact the police in Laguna Beach and pass along her suspicions about her husband. She prefers not to do it herself. Obviously, the moment that occurs-should they believe her-she’ll need protection.”

  Celeste said, “Her suite at the palace is ready.”

  Diane said, “This could be high profile, CeeCee. You sure you’re ready for the publicity?”

  “There’s no reason for anyone to know she’s at Safe House. If someone does connect the dots and is irresponsible enough to go public with the information, we’ll deal with it. That’s what we do. We’re here to protect women at risk. This sounds like a woman at risk.”

  “You’re sure?” Diane asked. “The press will be all over this.”

  Celeste took a moment to move her gaze between Diane and me, then back to Diane.

  “What don’t you like about her?”

  “Me?” Diane asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play with me, Diane. What is it about this woman you don’t like? Something’s bugging you.”

  Diane uncrossed her arms and crossed her legs instead. She started to speak and stopped. When she started again, her words came out as though she’d floored her tongue and her transmission was locked in first gear. “Gibbs Storey is an alpha bitch, CeeCee. She’s everything I-I-I hate about everyüber-popular girl wrapped up into one too-cute, too-thin, too-precious, too”-Diane actually growled at this juncture-“too-perfect little package.”

  Without the slightest alteration in her tone, Celeste said, “You know I love you, right, Diane? Good. Then please take this the way I intend it: It’s obvious your high school years left you with some unresolved issues, dear.” She paused. “I suggest you get over them. I’m happy to refer you to someone who will be delighted to help you exorcise those demons.”

  Celeste’s hand disappeared into the Day-Timer and miraculously emerged with a business card. She handed it to me. “That’s my cell number. Call me when your lady’s ready for our services. I’ll have someone come over here and get her. I don’t want her followed to the shelter. Anything else? You guys know about the Christmas benefit? Good, I thought so. I’ll see you there. Be sure to bring your checkbooks.”

  And she was gone.

  I looked at Diane and said, “Über-popular alpha bitch?”

  NINE

  I was late getting home.

  After the meeting with CeeCee ended I squeezed in a few minutes of decompression with Diane before I drove out to Louisville to visit Sam again. The torture contraption had been removed from his groin, and he’d been turfed from the coronary care facility to a telemetry unit. I found him propped up in bed staring at a muted TV screen. He’d already trashed the hospital gown and was wearing nothing but a pair of running shorts and a tangle of wires that snaked to an array of sensors plastered to shaved rectangles in the thick mat of hair on his chest.

  Sherry plodded into the room a minute or two after I arrived. We hugged. I explained that Sam had just asked me a poignant question about his son Simon’s reaction to the heart attack. Sherry stood with her arms folded across her chest while I finished telling Sam what I thought he might expect to see.

  Sam’s wife had lost weight since I’d last seen her. Her face was thin, almost gaunt. I wasn’t totally convinced that the gauntness wasn’t a side effect of the makeup that was liberally applied around her eyes. Saturday night makeup in the middle of the day, I wondered.Stress,I thought.What’s that about? Sam’s health, probably.

  I excused myself moments later, kissing Sherry on the cheek. I implored her to call if she needed anything from Lauren or me. Anything. I told Sam I’d see him the next day.

  Before I made it to the door he said, “Alan?”

  I turned back toward him. He pinched a thick roll of skin at his waist-the roll of flesh had the heft of a healthy brisket-and asked me if I thought he was fat, adding, “I think my cardiologist thinks I’m fat. He hasn’t said so exactly, but that’s what he thinks.”

  I glanced at Sherry before I looked my friend in the eye and said, “Yes, Sam, I think you’re kind of fat.”

  For a split second he looked injured, then he said, “Yeah, me too.”

  My laugh echoed in the room.

  It sounded like a fart at the opera. The tension between Sam and his wife was as thick as plasma.

  Ten minutes later I was home.

  Grace was sick. Lauren had her hands full with a work problem that had followed her home from the office. She was short-tempered and fearful that our daughter had croup. I was determined not to join in the chorus of catastrophizing-rare things happen rarely, after all, and common things happen commonly-and I decided that I would act as though my daughter had a cold until her symptoms insisted otherwise. But it was clear that both of my girls required some immediate attention.

  The dogs hadn’t been out all day, and Emily in particular was restless. Her paw umbrella had fallen like a forty-year-old’s butt so that itclack-clackedon the wood floors with every step she took. The noise, coupled with whatever was going on at work, was driving Lauren closer and closer to distraction, or worse.

  “Do that first,” she directed me as I went to relieve her of Grace. She was pointing at Emily’s paw. “Fix that thing, please.”

  I did what I was told. It took me fifteen minutes to check Emily’s paw wound-it looked terrific-to dress it with antiseptic, to retape the plastic umbrella into place, and to walk both the dogs down the lane and back.

  Lauren tucked the portable phone between her ear and shoulder and carried Grace to the nursery while I threw together some pasta and bean soup. Experience told me that if I hurried I could make a passable version in twenty-five minutes.

  During the half hour or so until I had dinner on the table, Grace finally fell asleep. Lauren came into the kitchen for dinner with her hair wet. She appeared much less harried after her quick shower, and with a smile she told me that the work problem was solved.

  I poured her a glass of wine and filled her in on developments with Sam and Sherry.

  She asked a few questions. I answered as best I could.

  “Has Sherry said anything to you, Lauren? Is there any trouble brewing between them? She seems really angry at him.”

  “I haven’t talked to her in a while, and the last couple of times we did talk she wasn’t very open with me. But you know that Sam was a heart-attack-in-waiting. His weight, his stress, his diet. His family history. I’m not surprised she’s furious. He should have been taking care of himself.”

  Not the level of compassion I’d expected to hear from her. “Tough day?” I finally asked. “You feeling all right?”

  The second question was a back-door way of wondering out loud about the current status of her struggle with multiple sclerosis. New symptoms? Aggravated fatigue? Anything?

  I hated asking. She hated answering. I think I hated ask
ing because of how much she hated answering. She hated answering because she believed that her chronic illness and its myriad symptoms constituted the most grievously tedious subjects in the world.

  “I just realized what I said about Sam and Sherry. Do you get angry with me, Alan? Because I’m sick? Do you think it’s my fault when I’m not feeling well? That I do something to… or I don’t do something that…”

  I sat back. “I get angry that you’re sick. But no, I don’t get angry at you for having MS.”

  “I do,” she said. “I get angry at me. I think it’s okay if you do, too.”

  No, it’s not,I thought.It’s not. You would like it to be okay, I know you would. But it’s not.

  Lauren sipped some wine. “Grace isn’t going to let us sleep tonight,” she warned, having successfully ignored my question regarding the current state of her health. “We can’t let her stay down too long.”

  “Let’s leave her down long enough to have dinner. We’ll get her up after. Maybe she’ll be in a better mood.”

  Lauren lifted a spoonful of soup. “Yeah, that’s likely to happen. So, is there anything new at the office?” she asked in a playful, I’ll-go-along-someplace-else-with-you voice.

  I surprised her. I said, “Actually, there is something that came up. I could use your advice.”

  Without using any names or revealing in what state, let alone in what city, the events had taken place, I gave Lauren the broad outlines of the tale of Gibbs and Sterling Storey. I included my suspicions about the psychological and likely physical abuse that were part of the fabric of their relationship.

  My indiscretion with Lauren was a gray area in confidentiality that I usually tried to avoid. These “I have a patient who…” conversations happen all too frequently between psychotherapists and colleagues or laypeople. Most mental health professionals engage in them with a rationalization that if they do not reveal sufficient details to allow the listener to identify the patient in question, then the letter of the patient’s confidentiality has not been violated.