“Don’t pity me, Dr. Corriger. That’s not why I’m here.” Savannah’s voice grew stronger. “My mother’s shenanigans earned me special attention from the authorities. The next four years in the state’s care were okay. Nobody touched me. I was safe from then on.”
Lydia let the weight of the revelation hang for several moments. “From then on is a long time. You would have graduated from the system when you were eighteen. That’s nearly ten years ago. What’s life been like since then?”
Savannah struck a pose and fluffed her hair. “Don’t I look like I’ve made a success of myself? Aren’t you proud of what I’ve become?” She slipped out of teasing and resumed her anger. “Like I said, I’m well aware of the effect I have on men.”
“Are you telling me you’re a prostitute, Savannah? Is that what you think is broken in you?”
Savannah laughed for the first time that session. “Aren’t we all prostitutes, Dr. Corriger? Don’t we all march to the tune someone else is calling just so we can get paid? I mean, look at you? You’re willing to accept my terms, my rudeness, in order to collect your fee. In cash.” She laughed again. “The only difference is you don’t accept tips.”
“Are we back to insults?” Lydia’s voice was calm and steady. “If so, I’ll ask you again. Do you think that gets you closer to your goal or farther away?”
Savannah looked at her watch, stood, and collected her coat and bag. “Sex isn’t the reason I get paid. It’s just a tool of my trade.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out an envelope, and laid it on the table next to the tissue box. “Exact amount.” She turned to go.
“We still have time left, Savannah,” Lydia said.
“I’m done for today.” Savannah walked toward the office door. “Have a nice Thanksgiving.”
The quiet isolation of Lydia’s cliffside home wasn’t working. A continuous loop of her session with Savannah played in her head. Cursing her sleeplessness, she tossed off the covers and climbed out of bed. She went into her kitchen, clicked on the lights, and pulled a favorite bonsai tree out of the window box over the sink. Lydia moved the tree to the table, got her trimmers and scissors out of the drawer, and set about the quiet work of snipping and cutting; mindfully training the tree to perfection. For twenty minutes she tried to focus on the branches and leaves; purposefully avoiding thoughts of the beautiful patient who was in such pain.
That wasn’t working, either.
She went into her bathroom, splashed water on her neck, and buried her face into a thick cotton towel. Savannah’s face danced in her memory. Lydia needed sleep.
She blew out a long tight breath and opened a drawer, fumbled past cosmetics and creams and grabbed a pink plastic soap box in the back. She placed the container on the commode and sat on the side of the tub. She stared at it, knowing it held the relief she needed. She took a deep breath, reached for the box, and brought it to her lap. She pulled her white cotton nightgown up, exposing her right thigh. She snapped the box open and stared at six double-edged razors.
Lydia inspected one after the other, holding each between her thumb and index finger. She surveyed their edges. Watched the light glint off the blades. Relished the foreplay.
She made her selection, set the box aside, and held the razor to her thigh.
One quick slice. Shallow.
A second slice. Deeper. No blood.
A third. Deeper still. Lydia watched the crimson ooze over her pale skin and shuddered in relief. She drew a finger across the wound, smearing her blood. Then a deep cleansing breath and a quick clean up. Peace could finally come.
Chapter Fourteen
Fred Bastian slammed his front door and threw his briefcase onto the dining table as he made his way into the kitchen of his University Heights home. “Bastards!” he shouted to the empty house. “Fuck them all.” He entered the butler’s pantry, pulled a bottle of scotch from the leaded glass cabinet, and filled a Waterford tumbler half-way with the amber liquid. Bastian looked at the clock. Four twenty. “Close enough,” he whispered before taking a long drink.
The day had been a disaster, starting with the invitation to Meredith Thornton’s office. An invitation he’d ignored. Who the hell was she to summon him? But in light of the morning’s faculty meeting he may have mis- stepped. Bastian made a mental note to call Carl Snelling for a read on Meredith. He’d need her in his corner.
He sensed the mood of his minions change over the past few months, but he’d been too preoccupied with his research to address it. He shook his head and re-lived their betrayal.
The boring rituals: roll call, minutes, announcements. Then the heart of the departmental meeting: consideration of new faculty. Six candidates for two available positions. Bastian let the thirty-six faculty members prattle on for twenty minutes and pretended their input mattered. When he’d had enough he nodded toward Fritz Walther. The portly faculty moderator pulled himself to his feet, called the discussion closed and announced the final agenda item: the annual vote giving Bastian the faculty’s proxy in all personnel matters. It was routine. A rubber stamp ceding him full power to hire or fire any member of the department.
The first warning came when Levine asked for a change from the customary voice vote. “Fucking know-it-all Jew,” Bastian called out to his empty kitchen. “I should have squashed his tenure when I had the chance.” He took another long pull from his scotch and remembered the pathetic look on Walther’s face as he fumbled for enough paper for the secret ballot.
Bastian held a cool smile as the votes were counted. No need to worry, he told himself. Just a few disgruntled idiots taking a naive swipe at power. He remembered shooting a look to Jerry Childress, his vice-chair. The one he counted on to keep the natives contained and cowed. Childress focused on his laptop and ignored him.
“Fucking Judas.” Bastian drained his glass and threw it against the sub-zero stainless steel refrigerator. Shards of crystal blanketed the tiled floor.
The count had been thirty-one to five against him. Bastian grasped the ramifications immediately. Every department chair in the university held their faculty’s proxy. This would be seen as a vote of no confidence. He’d be the laughing stock of campus before nightfall. By tomorrow the research community around the world would know. He’d have to think fast and call in some large chits if he was going to weather this storm.
Bastian poured himself another scotch and ignored the chimes. He felt no need to endure the false pity detail-hungry colleagues might offer on the other side of his front door. He took his glass and bottle to the sun porch at the rear of the house and cursed himself for relying on Childress to keep the underlings in line.
Bastian flopped onto a chaise and gazed into his back yard. The outdoor lights had been synchronized to the shortened days. A blanket of snow, rare for Washington, left dollops of white on the long curving bows of the fir trees. He remembered Christmas was next week. The dean of the medical school had invited him to his family’s ski lodge on Crystal Mountain. “Have to get new plans now,” he said to no one as he took a swig straight from the bottle.
He saw her approach from the west side of the house. Tall and thin. Long brown hair under a bright red beret. Struggling with an enormous poinsettia plant as she stepped gingerly over the snowy walk. Bastian cradled the scotch and watched her climb the icy stairs to the deck. The porch light caught her face. “An ethereal snow fairy,” he sang to the empty room. He saluted her beauty, took another drink, and watched her through the floor- to-ceiling windows. He felt a voyeur’s tingling excitement as he watched her struggle to balance the large pot. She brushed snow off an outdoor table and carefully set the flowers down. She reached inside her navy pea coat, pulled out a white envelope, and nestled it within the giant blooms. For a moment he contemplated inviting this delivery person in for a cup of holiday cheer. But he sat still. Watched her turn to go. Watched her slip on his stairs and land with a loud yelp.
“Oh, shit!” Bastian pulled himself off the chaise, set his bottle down, and took three heavy steps toward the deck. He leaned against the door and breathed deeply, trying to clear his head of scotch and irritation.
“What the hell happened?” he yelled as he yanked the door open. “Who the fuck are you and what are you
