“I’m sorry, doc, but like I said, I had proof that I needed to show my wife.”
“Nonetheless, Mr. Prager, I am alarmed at how you simply disregarded my prohibition against your visiting Katy without my prior consent.”
“Prohibition?”
“Yes, your daughter assured me that she discussed it with-”
What the fuck are you talking about? “Oh, that! Yeah, we discussed it. Like I said, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Dr. Rauch looked from me to Sarah and back again. “Yes, I see. Make sure that it doesn’t. Sarah, could you please give me a minute alone with your father? He’ll be right out.”
When Sarah closed the door behind her, I nodded across the desk. “You first, doc.”
“So I assume your daughter didn’t discuss it with you.”
“Not in so many words. She asked me to give her and her mom a few days. I guess she didn’t think I’d react well to being ordered not to visit.”
“Was she correct?”
“Probably.”
“Look, Mr. Prager, Katy is my patient and therefore necessarily the focus of my efforts. That doesn’t mean, however, that I am unconcerned about you. So I am going to give you some free advice that I have come by honestly. We can’t escape our pasts. We can neither undo them nor make up for them, but ultimately they must be dealt with. Not everyone pays the same prices for their perceived transgressions. In a very real sense, the prices we each pay are dependent upon how we choose to pay them. Take a long hard look at the price Katy is paying. Know this, that regardless of how you may have contributed to her difficulties, the bill is hers to deal with, Mr. Prager, not yours. And no grand or sweeping gesture on your part can change that.”
“Thanks, doc. I know Katy’s your patient and you can’t really discuss too much with me, but why did she freak out like that before? I would’ve thought she’d be relieved to know she wasn’t seeing things.”
“Part of her was relieved, but part of her was also disappointed. Can you understand that?”
“Yeah, I guess I can.”
“You must also understand that logic and reason will not just make Katy’s issues vanish. You can’t argue her out of her depression. You can’t just say, ‘Snap out of it.’ So no matter what proof or evidence or whatever you and the sheriff come across, you mustn’t ever repeat today’s episode. Please, if you want to see Katy, you must clear it with me beforehand.”
“I give you my word.” I stood. We shook hands on it. “One more thing, Dr. Rauch, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything else my daughter conveniently neglected to mention to me in her attempt to manage the situation?”
“It would be difficult for me to know what she didn’t tell you as I don’t know what she did tell you.”
“Well, on the phone earlier, she kept saying Katy was embarrassed. I’m a pretty smart guy and I can understand why a person who survives a suicide attempt might be ashamed, but Sarah didn’t say ashamed. She said embarrassed and my kid chooses her words pretty carefully.”
“I’m not sure. I suppose it could be a reference to what she says drove her to overdose.”
“The videotape?”
“That, and seeing her brother looking through the front window.”
“What?”
“I thought you knew. While she was watching the videotape, she saw who she thought was her brother staring at her through the window. Given Katy’s fragile state of mind and her serendipitous viewing of the security tape, it’s easily understandable how his appearance, imagined or otherwise, might have been the precipitating event…”
But I had stopped listening. “Fuck me! Now I gotcha.”
I ran out of the office without saying goodbye. Sarah was pacing circles in the hail outside the office. She called after me, but I didn’t hear a word.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dramatic as the image might be, it wasn’t like Day-Glo puzzle pieces assembling themselves on a black felt backdrop in the void. Things are apart. Things come together. It’s not there, then it is. You can only see pieces come together in retrospect. As Dr. Rauch spoke, it wasn’t his words I heard. I was transported back to the ER the night of Katy’s attempted suicide.
“Had to lay my hog down when some asshole in a SUV ran the light at Blyden and Van Camp.”
That was Crank’s exact quote to Sheriff Vandervoort in the ER waiting area. What he said registered with me, but not in any way my brain was prepared to handle at the time. I was too agitated about Katy to grasp the implications of what a bloody-faced biker said about some minor motorcycle accident. When I saw Crank the following day, something about the time and place of the accident made more of an impact. Still, I couldn’t quite pull it all together. But now that I knew the kid in the videotape had been snooping around the Hanover Street house, I had the questions to ask and, more importantly, some of the answers. To access Hanover Street, you needed to turn off Van Camp. To get out of Janus and head toward New York City, you had to go through the intersection of Blyden and Van Camp.
“That biker, the one we saw in the ER.”
“What about him?” Vandervoort asked, his eyes skeptical.
“Did he come in the next day to talk about the accident like you asked?”
“Hell, with all the excitement, I forgot about him.”
“Shit!”
“Why, is he important?”
“Could be. I gotta go find him. In the meantime, do us both a favor.”
“What?”
“Go back to the PrimeOil station and look over all their security tapes, inside and out, for the day that Katy tried-for the day Katy saw her brother in town. Look for any SUVs and try and get their tag numbers. Also, go back over the station’s credit card receipts for that day and try to match it to the SUVs.”
“Why?”
“Because I think our ghost drives a SUV.”
Dusk had just passed the baton noir to the night when I pulled up outside Henry’s Hog. I’ll tell you what, the joint wasn’t a damned thing like red wine. It didn’t grow on you with repeated exposure and it sure as shit didn’t improve with age. Jesus, maybe I had been in the fucking wine business too long.
Unlike my two previous visits, when horse flies outnumbered patrons, the place was buzzing with more than beating wings. There were a good fifty motorcycles parked out in front of the roadhouse, but the machines were all of a type. Ducatis, Moto Guzzis, BMWs, and Suzuki dirt bikes need not apply. These were Harleys, Indians, and custom choppers. There was the occasional Japanese faux hog mixed in with the odd classic Norton and Triumph as well.
I could almost smell the sweat, black leather, and cigarette smoke as I got out of my car. That “Born to be Wild” wasn’t blaring on the juke was the only missing part of the cliche. I felt for the familiar bulge at the small of my back. My snub-nosed. 38 was now as old and as much a classic as a Norton or Triumph: a museum piece, just like me. Currently, Glocks, and Sigs were the rage. It was all about rates of fire and walls of lead, but sometimes it came down to a single bullet. My hopes were to never find out and for my revolver to stay holstered until the next time I cleaned it.
I had worn it nearly every day for the last thirty-three years. First it was my off-duty piece. Then it was my insurance when I worked my cases as a PI. Eventually, although I was loath to admit it to myself, the little. 38 had morphed into a shopkeeper’s gun, something to keep me safe when I made bank drops or closed one of our stores late at night. A shopkeeper! I mean, who says I wanna be a shopkeeper when I grow up? But that’s what I was, a
