“They know I’m involved,” Cassidy said. “They don’t seem especially concerned about it. I’m sure my ego will recover eventually, but in the meantime, I’m thinking that Pete’s absolutely right — you shouldn’t go alone. Besides, I’d follow you out there anyway. No reason to take two cars. And I think it’d be easier to get my frail little old granny to climb Mount Everest than it would be to get that old car of yours over the Tejon Pass.”
“I hope your granny has fewer miles on her,” I said, and heard Pete laugh for the first time all day. I started to leave the room. I stopped and looked back at Cassidy. He was grinning. “Okay, you can drive me out there. Can you make a strong cup of coffee?”
“If we put my coffee in the tank of that Karmann Ghia, it just might make it over the pass after all.”
“Thermos is in the cabinet over the refrigerator,” I said. “I’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.”
“And they say Texans lie,” he said, but I was on my way to prove him wrong.
11
I DIDN’T DRINK ANY of Cassidy’s java-flavored rocket fuel until the trip was more than halfway over, after I awoke with a start while we were somewhere on I-5 between Castaic and Pyramid Lakes. At his suggestion I held off on the coffee before that, sleeping from Torrance to the Tehachapis. I had argued with him at first, insisting on trying to stay awake, but he does, after all, earn part of his living by negotiating, and he won that round. I’m still not sure how it happened.
My awakening was abrupt, but to a pleasant view. The previous winter’s rains had been heavy, so the mountainsides were softly covered in a hundred shades of green. Cassidy had turned off his air conditioner — a wise precaution on the steep grades leading up to the pass — and his window was rolled down. I rolled mine down, too. The air was cool and clean, the sky a deep, dark blue. L.A. was out of sight, out of mind.
I stretched, took in the scenery, and shook off the dream that had awakened me. Cassidy glanced over at me. I was startled to see him looking worried. Mr. Calm, worried? In the next moment I knew what had happened.
I uncapped the thermos, avoiding his eyes. Inhaled the aroma of the coffee, poured it, praying he wasn’t glancing at my hands. “What was it this time?” I asked. “Just talking, or did I yell and scream?”
“You didn’t scream,” he said. Calm again.
“Oh, so just yelling, then. Well! Not bad under the circumstances.”
“No need to be embarrassed,” he said.
“Who’s embarrassed?” I took a sip of the coffee. Strong. Very strong.
“You are. But you needn’t be. Fact of the matter is, I’d forgotten your history.”
“My history,” I said flatly. Held both hands around the cup, held it up close to my lips, felt the steam warm my face. “Now, that’s a term used for patients and parolees, isn’t it? People who can’t be trusted to behave themselves. ‘Subject has a history of — ’ ”
“Is that what you think I’m implying?”
I didn’t answer.
“By ‘your history,’ ” he said, “I was simply referring to what has happened to you in the past. The fact that you were once held captive.”
“I had forgotten that you’d have access to that information. No photos, of course. Did they do a pretty good job of describing it in the police files? The bruises, the dislocated shoulder?”
“More than that,” he said quietly.
“Oh, yes,” I said, looking out the window. “More than that.”
“You have any permanent physical problems?”
I shook my head, not caring if he could see my response.
“Your physical recovery isn’t what’s remarkable, you know.”
“Let’s just drop it, okay?”
“You’re doing very well. Most people—”
“How well I’m doing isn’t what’s really important right now,” I said. “Do you want any of this coffee?”
“Every hostage has dreams.”
“Thank you, Dr. Freud. Mine are of large bananas, snakes, tunnels, and pomegranates. What do you suppose it all means?”
He smiled but didn’t reply.
The silence stretched out. “Sorry,” I said after a while. “I just don’t like to talk about it.”
“I didn’t get the information from a department file,” he said, as if I had invited him to take up where he left off. “Frank talked to me after you came home.”
“What?”
“Oh, not very directly, ’least not at first. Stopped by my desk one day, started asking about posttraumatic syndrome in hostages. What was typical, how long did it last, and such.”
I just stared at him in disbelief.
“Frank’s a quiet man,” he went on. “I didn’t figure it was too easy on him to bring the subject up. I knew you had been home for a few days. Everyone else was patting him on the back, saying how glad they were that you had been found alive. He was glad, too, but he looked tired.”
“Exhausted,” I said. “We were both exhausted. For weeks afterward, I rarely slept through a night.”
“And now?”
“Better. Much better, for the most part. I wouldn’t leave the house at first.”
