Lori, p.18
Lori, page 18
"I don't like her mind-set since she started therapy. Instead of helping Lori to understand her problems I think she's more confused now than when she started seeing him."
Not much objectivity there, Metz concluded, but then who was he to talk? When you came right down to it, he didn't have much use for shrinks himself unless they were testifying for the prosecution.
But at least one thing was clearly established: Carter had nothing specific against Dr. Leverett any more than Metz had against Carter. Yet for some unknown reason he found himself disliking this young man. Perhaps "disliking" was too strong a word, but there was something about him that Metz found annoying. The evasions, followed now by questions.
"Off the record, Lieutenant, are you making any progress on the case?"
Off the record. Metz managed to erase the scowl from his forehead, but he couldn't banish the irritation behind it. Since when did this smart-ass think he could come in here and play investigative reporter?
"I've already updated Miss Holmes. As of now, anything I can tell you she already knows." That ought to hold him. As he spoke, Metz suddenly realized just what it was about his visitor that he resented. The reportorial approach-the unspoken but all-too-evident attitude that nobody, from heads of state all the way up to the exalted ranks of police lieutenants, could afford to be less than accommodating to any representative of the media who wanted to poke his nose into their business. The fact was, Metz admitted to himself, he had no more use for reporters than he did for psychiatrists-and for the same reasons. Too many questions, too much elitism.
Somehow, arriving at these conclusions relieved his tension and he could even manage a smile as he rose to signal expectation of his visitor's departure.
"Thanks for the information you gave me. I'll follow through on those names and see what I can come up with."
And he would, Metz promised himself. At least he wanted to know why Ben Rupert glommed on to that yearbook-if indeed he did glom on to it-and why Lori Holmes got names from her nightmares, if that's really where they came from.
Metz waited until Carter almost reached the door before he spoke again. "While I think of it, there's one thing more. Did Miss Holmes happen to mention any other names besides the ones you gave me?"
"Not that I recall."
"She didn't have anything to say about a Walter Kestleman?" Carter shook his head. "What about Ross Barry?"
"No-the only names she came up with were the ones I gave you. Plus the school and the clinic, of course."
Metz nodded and gave him what was still left of his smile. "Thanks for coming in. I appreciate your help."
"Anything I can do, feel free."
What you can do for me is keep out of my hair-what's left of it. Metz waited until the young man closed the door behind him, then moved to his desk and picked up the phone.
"Get me Kestleman," he said.
THIRTY
Lori had lunch with Tansy (Gr.-"tenacious") Travis. The name was apt, because if Tansy hadn't been so damned persistent about it on the phone, Lori would have skipped luncheon altogether. On reflection, it seemed to her that for the past week or so she had spent most of her free time talking on the phone, visiting offices, or eating out. She had no appetite left for any of these pastimes, but Tansy was very persistent. After all, the two of them hadn't even spoken to one another since graduation. And perhaps seeing her might help reconfirm that occasion as graduation day. Up to now, try as she may, Lori could only think of it as the day of the fire.
In fact, that's just what she had been thinking about when Tansy called to insist that they meet at Romero's. That, and all the rest of the unpleasant memories which her confrontation with Russ had churned up. Better to pig out with Tansy than wallow in her own self-pity. At least Tansy didn't know it was her birthday, so there was no danger of any off-key serenade from, the waitress and assorted busboys. The luncheon itself, somewhat to her surprise, proved to be quite enjoyable, although Lori confined her pigging out to a Caesar salad and iced tea. Tansy, however, entered hog heaven whenever she sat down to eat, which was frequently. Her corpulent presence reminded Lori of Tansy's usual after-classes agenda-a formal dinner featuring the latest in junk food, followed by a trip to whichever local drive-in offered the largest Cokes and the biggest bags of popcorn, and ending with the obligatory midnight snack. Tansy's idea of dieting was to skip a side order of fries.
But somewhere along the line she had learned the art of combining mastication with conversation and Lori found herself enjoying their reunion. It had always been refreshing for her to share the company of someone who didn't share her inhibitions. Her girlfriend's other appetites were not held in check; given the opportunity, she would have devoured her male companions with as much gusto as she devoured appetizers and entrees. Unfortunately, her opportunities to emulate a praying mantis had always been somewhat limited, although she seemed blissfully unaware of the fact and blissfully aware of any masculine presence in the immediate vicinity.
Today was no exception. As their luncheon neared its end Tansy leaned forward over her chocolate mousse and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Don't look now, but there's a guy over there at that window table in the corner behind you who can't take his eyes off us. I think he's trying to come on to me."
Even without her philological background Lori would have recognized that "Don't look now" was actually an invitation rather than a prohibition.
Lori opened her purse and extracted her car keys, which she managed to drop on the floor beside her. As she stooped to pick them up, she caught a clear glimpse of the occupant of the deuce-table behind and to their left.
Tansy's smile indicated approval, both of Lori's maneuver and the object of her interest.
"Some hunk, right?" she said.
Lori nodded, but out of politeness rather than conviction. There seemed nothing especially hunkish about the young man. Recalling her fleeting glance, she color-computerized him in her mind. Greying, pepper-and-salt hair and mustache, complexion almost fish-white without a California tan, blue jeans, and a Hawaiian shirt, probably purchased at some exotic, sun-drenched K-mart. In her hasty inspection Lori hadn't noted the color of his eyes, but that's because they had been focused down at the menu he was holding. Tansy might consider herself quite a dish, but it appeared his tastes lay elsewhere.
Not that it really mattered one way or the other. Her companion was already grabbing the check, putting down a tip, and preparing for departure. All that remained was the usual ritual.
Tansy apologized for running off like this, but it was already after two and she'd better get home and change because the barbecue was supposed to start at five and maybe she could beat the traffic. Not that she was all that steamy about barbecues; she'd rather get stoned indoors. Next time they got together they'd have a chance to really talk, let's make it soon, promise me you'll keep in touch. Lori's contributions included thanks, but I still wish you'd let me split the check, you're looking so great, I'll call you soon, and other phrases of farewell.
As is generally the case in Greater Los Angeles, the parking attendant seemed to favor blondes, so Lori's car was the first to arrive. Driving off, she smiled up at Tansy's image in the rearview mirror.
Lori turned right and Tansy's image vanished, both from the mirror and from her thoughts. The luncheon had been a pleasant distraction, but now it was over and Russ was back. Back on her mind.
Last night he had been on her body. Or had he? Of course it had been Russ, champagne or no champagne, who else could it have been?
But that wasn't the real question.
The real question-and she could avoid it no longer- was who else would she want it to have been, and why?
Let's face it, the sex itself was good, it had always been good with Russ. Not necessarily great sex, whatever that phrase might really mean, but satisfying. There was always a sense of security with Russ, never the feeling of a one-night stand. So why had she flashed onto Anthony Leverett? He was, after all, only her doctor, her therapist.
Therapist.
One word or two?
The rapist.
Now, where had that come from? Dr. Leverett wasn't a rapist. She didn't want to be raped by him, and she most emphatically didn't feel she was being violated last night. Not three times in a row.
Lori remembered how she had felt upon awakening this morning. Warm, relaxed, at peace with the world-and, more important, with herself. Why couldn't that feeling have lasted? Why did she have to get into that hassle with Russ, telling him off?
Overreaction. Now that she had time to consider it calmly she could understand why Russ told Ben Rupert about the yearbook. She was in the hospital, he was going away, he didn't know what might happen, and under the circumstances it was just a sensible precaution. As her attorney, Rupert was a logical choice; there had been no reason to suspect him at the time.
And no reason to flare up the way she had this morning. Or were there other reasons? Could it be possible she'd been looking for an excuse to pick a quarrel with Russ because she was in love with Tony?
Good question. But bad answers were all that came to her. One thing was certain: if she really did have a thing about Dr. Leverett, neither a one-night stand nor an entire glorious holiday weekend in beautiful Las Vegas would solve the situation. Little as she really knew about his private persona, she was certain of that much. But thoughts of a more lasting relationship were confusing. It wasn't easy to picture herself married to someone his age. Would they have children?
There would be children with Russ, she knew. Somehow she had always known from the very first-almost two years ago, when he'd come on campus to do those interviews. They'd been together ever since.
But what did "together" really mean? He had made a habit of driving up during most of the weekends of the school year, and they had seen each other with greater frequency the past two summers.
But togetherness involved more than sharing conversations, meals, recreation, entertainment, or bed. For almost the first time, Lori found herself confronting the fact that she really didn't know all that much more about Russ than she did about Tony Leverett.
She had, of course, spent time with Russ at his Wilshire District apartment, but the place itself offered little insight concerning its tenant. Plastic furniture and Thrifty Drug household utensils hardly served as clues to taste, let alone character. That lone Reebok on the back seat of his car probably provided a better clue than the entire contents of the furnished apartment.
Lori had come to know some of his habit patterns, of course; his preferences in food, drink, sex. But oddly enough, she had no idea about his personal convictions, if any, on a variety of subjects, including politics and religion.
Outside of her own first encounter with him as an interviewee on campus, Lori had never seen Russ at work, nor had she ever been invited to visit him downtown. Of course most of his assignments took him away from his desk, usually just for a day, but sometimes for as long a period as this Mexico trip. So perhaps her unconscious had been one jump ahead of her when it triggered their quarrel; if they married and had a family, how much time would he be able to spend with the kids?
That was something that had never come up, something they'd never bothered to discuss. Maybe it wasn't really their fault; people didn't seem to get all that close today, and intimacy was more apt to be confined to the bedroom.
The bedroom, or the therapist's office. Funny, she'd never been to Russ's office, but she had been to Leverett's. And she really knew more about his work, his views, his beliefs after a few days than she had learned about her lover's over the past two years.
And maybe it wasn't just part of the cultural pattern at this point in time. Perhaps Russ was deliberately holding back, just as he'd held out on her about Rupert and the yearbook until this morning.
But why should he? And now, preparing to park, why should a momentary glance at her rearview mirror make her think that the driver of the grey Honda behind her was the man Tansy had pointed out to her at the restaurant?
Because she was still paranoid, that's why. Russ wasn't holding out on her, and there must be at least a hundred thousand men with greyish hair and mustaches in Greater Los Angeles who had chosen to wear short-sleeved Hawaiian shirts on this warm and muggy day.
All very reassuring, but it didn't prevent her from glancing left to make certain that the grey Honda had continued on its way up the street.
Parking, picking up the mail, and extracting her house keys served her as occupational therapy, but when she entered the apartment it was impossible to escape a moment of automatic apprehension. Only a moment, because the place was empty and nothing had been disturbed. Except herself, of course. After all she'd been through, was going through-
Knock it off. Things might be worse. You could be at that barbecue with Tansy.
With the windows closed all day, the apartment might very well have served as a barbecue pit itself. Now, as the rays of the afternoon sun were starting to slant, Lori made the rounds, opening windows. Air began to circulate, lowering the temperature but doing nothing to elevate her mood. Kicking off her shoes, she sat down at the kitchen table and began to sort her mail. No problem-bills were stacked neatly on the tabletop at her right, junk mail was left for filing later in the trash bag under the kitchen sink. But there were no personal letters today. And no birthday cards.
A twenty-first birthday is supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime event. Of course the same is true for every birthday, but this one was special; didn't they know that?
They did-but they were dead. Dad, Mom, Ben Rupert. There was no reason why Tansy or other schoolmates should remember her birthday any more than she recalled theirs. The date was probably recorded in the files of the hospital and on both Drs. Justin's and Leverett's medical charts, but there was no regulation in the health-care industry which required physicians to send Hallmark cards to their patients. Only Russ had bothered to give her a greeting, under circumstances which made it seem more sarcasm than congratulation.
All right, so there wasn't going to be any parade. She'd settle for that, nor would she insist on fireworks- particularly not the kind that had exploded here this morning.
The sunlight was starting to fade noticeably, and so was she. Removing her shoes had been a good idea and taking this wrinkled linen suit off would be even better. There'd be plenty of time to think about dinner later. At the moment all she wanted to do was stretch out for a while as the temperature in the apartment began to cool. That was something she was going to have to look into; in her relief when Rupert found a place for her so quickly, she hadn't given any thought to its lack of air-conditioning. Maybe she could get a window unit installed in the kitchen, or here in the bedroom.
But that could wait. She could wait. Just put everything on hold and stretch out on the bed. Close your eyes, close your mind, imagine yourself as a gisant.
Gisant (Fr.-present participle of gesir, "to lie flat"). That's what they called those sculptured figures lying recumbent on top of a tomb with their arms crossed.
Tombs. Why should she think of such things right now? Now, when everything was cooling. But nights are always cooler, particularly when the breeze comes. The branches and boughs arching her pathway overhead were swaying slightly and the faint rustling of leaves confirmed the source of their movement.
It was dark here in the shadows cast by the trees and it was dark when the path she followed wound up along the open hillside. The moon-vaguely she remembered that there had been a moon-was behind a ragged veil of cloud.
But when she reached the hilltop and gazed down at the expanse below, the veil parted, and suddenly Lori recognized her surroundings. The last time she was here she had come in daylight by car through that distant gateway to her right; tonight she had arrived by a different route, but in the end all roads lead back to their beginnings. And here is where it had begun. Here, at Hopeland Cemetery.
As she started her descent on the far slope of the hillside she tried to visualize the area where Dad and Mom rested. If indeed they did rest, or if cemeteries were a place of rest for anyone. That's not what Lori had come here to learn, and she certainly wasn't resting herself. Gisants rest, but she was hurrying down the hill, her pace quickening as it led her past the headstones on either side rising like rows of teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Out of the mouths of graves.
Graves, not tombs. She was looking for a grave. Or was the grave looking for her? Hard to know, hard to tell, and now hard to see as the moon veiled its face once again.
Salome. The Dance of the Seven Veils. That was an odd thing to think about at this moment. Even odder was the possibility that the thought was not her own. But how could that be? Who was doing the thinking for her? Who was guiding her footsteps now, around this curve in the path which led directly into another clump of trees, and why did these surroundings seem familiar? To her certain knowledge she had never seen this part of the cemetery before, but then her knowledge was not all that certain. Nothing is certain but the grave.
And here it was, just off the path to her left, where dark trees guarded the granite tomb rising behind and beyond them. Dark trees above, dark mounds of earth below, but now the dark veil was again lifting from the moon overhead. A shaft of silver swept across the surface of the headstone directly before her-the headstone and the inscription it bore.
ROYAL S. FAIRMOUNT
1913-1968
So he was buried there too! They were all buried here, every living one of them-every dead one of them, that is. Or isn't.
It isn't, because it is calling to her now. The voice is calling, commanding her to move to the grave beside Dr. Fairmount's and stare into the shadows that cover the weed-choked slab, the shadows that bend in the breeze as the light brightens, the sound of the voice heightens, and a crumbling marker reveals the identity of what lies beneath. The name and the date:
