“You’re sure? You were scared and in a lot of pain and—”
“I’m sure. There’s another man involved in this.”
“And you want him brought to justice.”
“It’s more selfish than that. I’m scared to death of him.”
He idly fingered the pages of the closed book, then said, “Maybe you should tell me what happened.”
Why I found it easier to tell that story to Jack Fremont, whom I had known only for a number of days, than to friends I had known for years, I can’t say. He listened calmly, which somehow kept me calm as I sketched out the basics of what had happened.
When I finished, Jack was quiet for a while, then said, “There’s no immediate help for feeling afraid, I suppose. You’ve obviously been through a lot, and it will take time before you feel safe again.”
“That’s why I was hoping that somehow we could find this ‘Pony Player.’”
“You suspect someone in particular?”
I hesitated. I had suspicions, but they were based on seeing a limo at a funeral and one brief conversation with Murray Plummer. I didn’t even know how Malcolm Gannet might have earned the nickname “Pony Player.” I hadn’t had a chance to determine who else might be the Pony Player; as soon as I was able to go back to work, I intended to do some digging, but until then, I couldn’t do much more than guess.
“It’s not the kind of thing I’d like to say about anyone,” I answered uneasily, “at least, not without more reason to do so. I’m just saying that I’ll feel less afraid when the fourth person is caught.”
“I think it would be a mistake to believe that would be enough,” he said.
“You think there are
“No, no, that’s not what I mean. It’s a possibility, but not my point. I’m just saying that you need to start getting out and around a little, to work on overcoming your fears on your own. Don’t let finding or not finding the Pony Player decide whether you do or don’t get on with your life.”
I was about to ask him what the hell he thought he knew about overcoming fear, when the word “leukemia” occurred to me.
“You’re right,” I admitted. “But I’d still feel better if I knew more about the Pony Player. I guess you don’t think there’s much hope of catching him.”
“Irene, I’m living proof that you ought to expect the unexpected. I’d never tell you to give up.”
I WON’T CLAIM that I jumped right up, shouted hallelujah, and started dancing a jig, but I did slowly start taking Jack’s advice. I began by seeing an orthopedist and a physical therapist, which forced me to get out for a while each day. I had to fight down panic every time I stepped out the front door, and clutched Frank’s hand throughout each brief car ride to the doctor’s office, but at least I wasn’t cowering in the house.
That’s how things were going until the day we went sailing. Like Jack said — expect the unexpected.
31
BY THE WEEKEND before Thanksgiving, I thought Frank might sell me off to Sea World as the planet’s largest living crab. I was restless and frustrated and tired of not being able to do things for myself. I felt like I wasn’t getting any better.
In reality, I was making great progress, healing quickly and steadily, in perhaps everything but my nerves. Frank tried to be patient, but both the lack of sleep my nightmares caused him and my changeable moods took their toll, and after a while we started snapping at each other over little things.
We had a particularly nasty round about our Thanksgiving plans. He still wanted me to go with him to Bakersfield — while I worried that my casts and slings would be met with slings and arrows.
“Sure, Frank. I can see it now: ‘Hello, Mrs. Harriman, I’m Frank’s girlfriend. Live-in girlfriend. Yes, I know I look like I’ve gone a couple of rounds with Jack Dempsey.’”
“Irene—”
“‘Tutankhamen? The mummy? No, I don’t think I am related to the Egyptian Pharaoh, but why do you ask?’”
“It won’t be like that.”
“You’re right. It will be worse. ‘No, no, Mrs. Harriman, even before this happened to me, Frank cut up my food for me. Do you have a bib I could borrow?”
“You’re going to be fine. Do you think I’d let anyone give you a bad time?”
“You go. I’ll stay here.”
“If you don’t go, I don’t go.”
“Don’t be childish.”
“Look who’s talking! You’ve been whining like a damned baby for the past two days.”
“I didn’t ask to be brought here. Send me home.”
“That is a ridiculous suggestion and you know it.” And at that, he stormed out of the house.
As with every encounter of this nature, once I had simmered down a little, I felt overcome with guilt. That in turn fed a kind of depression that I found difficult to fend off. And so it was that I went into a funk not long after he had slammed the front door.
Cody came over to me, leapt up into my lap, and made a irksome yowling sound, acting like he would like to bite me.
“Not you, too.”
He turned around and gave me the cat version of a mooning and jumped down. Wonderful. Male bonding had
