“And the media,” Angie said.
“Oh, God, yeah,” I said. “They’ll go nuts.”
She looked up and tears filled her eyes and her voice cracked when she spoke. “You’d take my career?”
“You took her life,” I said. “Have you watched this tape? Did you look in her eyes, Diane? There’s nothing there but self-hatred. You put that there. You and Miles and this blond guy.”
“It was an experiment,” she said, and her voice was clogged. “It was just an idea. I never thought she’d kill herself.”
“He did, though,” I said. “The blond guy. Didn’t he?”
She nodded.
“Give me his name.”
A hard shake of the head that sent her tears to the table.
I held up the tape. “It’s his name or your reputation and career.”
She continued to shake her head, softer now but continuous.
We gathered our things from the kitchen, took what was left of our beer from the fridge. Bubba found a Ziploc storage bag and dumped the remainder of the stuffing and potatoes in there, then took another one and filled it with turkey.
“What are you doing?” I said. “There’s glass in there.”
He gave me a look like I was autistic. “I’ll pick it out.”
We walked back into the dining room. Diane Bourne stared at her reflection in the copper, elbows on the table, the heels of both hands pressed to her forehead.
As we reached the foyer, she said, “You don’t want him in your life.”
I turned back and looked in her hollow eyes. She suddenly looked twice her age, and I could see her in a nursing home forty years from now, alone, spending her days lost in the bitter smoke of her memories.
“Let me decide that,” I said.
“He’ll destroy you. Or someone you love. For fun.”
“His name, Doctor.”
She lit a cigarette, exhaled loudly. She shook her head, lips tight and pale.
I started to leave, but Angie stopped me. She raised a finger, her gaze locked on Diane Bourne, her body very still.
“You’re ice,” Angie said. “Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
Diane Bourne’s pale eyes followed the trail of her smoke.
“I mean, you have this cool, patrician thing down pat.” Angie placed her hands on the back of a chair, leaned into the table slightly. “You never lose your poise, and you never get emotional.”
Diane Bourne took another hit off her cigarette. It was like watching a statue smoke. She gave no indication that we were still in the room.
Angie said, “But you did once, didn’t you?”
Diane Bourne blinked.
Angie looked over at me. “In her office, remember? The first time we spoke to her.”
Diane Bourne flicked some ash and missed the ashtray.
“And it wasn’t when she spoke about Karen,” Angie said. “It wasn’t when she spoke about Miles. Do you remember, Diane?”
Diane Bourne raised her eyes and they were pink, angry.
“It was when you spoke about Wesley Dawe.”
Diane Bourne cleared her throat. “Get the fuck out of my home.”
Angie smiled. “Wesley Dawe, who killed his little sister. Who-”
“He didn’t kill her,” she said. “You get that. Wesley wasn’t anywhere near her. But he was blamed. He was-”
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Angie’s smile broadened. “That’s who you’re protecting. That was the blond man on the bog. Wesley Dawe.”
She said nothing, just stared at the smoke as it flowed from her mouth.
“Why did he want to destroy Karen?”
She shook her head. “You’ve gotten the name, Mr. Kenzie. That’s all you get. And he already knows who you are.” She turned her head, gave me her pale, desolate eyes. “And he doesn’t like you, Patrick. He thinks you’re a meddler. He thinks you should have walked away from this when it was proven Karen’s death was by her own hand.” She held out her hand. “My tape, please.”
“No.”
She dropped her hand. “I gave you what you wanted.”
Angie shook her head. “I drew it out of you. Not the same thing.”
I said, “You’re the master of the psyche, Doctor, so turn your gaze inward for a moment. Which is more important to you-your reputation or your career?”
“I don’t see-”
“Pick,” I said sharply.
Her jaw set as if it were on steel pins, and she spoke through gritted teeth. “My reputation.”
I nodded. “You can keep it.”
Her jaw loosened and her eyes were bewildered behind her glowing cigarette coal as she took another long haul of smoke into her lungs. “What’s the catch?”
“Your career is over.”
“You can’t end my career.”
“I’m not going to. You’re going to.”
She laughed, but it was a nervous one. “Don’t overestimate yourself, Mr. Kenzie. I have no intention of-”
“You’ll close your office tomorrow,” I said. “You’ll refer all your clients to other doctors, and you’ll never practice in this state again.”
Her “Ha!” was louder, but sounded even less sure.
“You’ll do this, Doctor, and you’ll keep your reputation. Maybe you can write books, line up a talk show. But you’ll never work one-on-one with a patient again.”
“Or?” she said.
I held up the videocassette. “Or this thing starts playing cocktail parties.”
We left her there and as we opened the door, Angie said, “Tell Wesley we’re coming for him.”
“He already knows,” she said. “He already knows.”
20
Rain fell softly on sun-drenched streets the afternoon I met Vanessa Moore at a sidewalk cafe in Back Bay. She’d called and asked to meet so we could discuss Tony Traverna’s case. Vanessa was Tony T’s attorney; we’d first met the last time Tony jumped bail, and I had appeared as a witness for the prosecution. Vanessa had cross- examined me the same way she made love-with a cool hunger and sharpened nails.
I could have declined Vanessa’s invite, I suppose, but it had been a week since the night we’d cooked for Diane Bourne, and in that week, we seemed to have taken four steps back. Wesley Dawe did not exist. He wasn’t listed in census records or with the Registry of Motor Vehicles. He did not own a credit card. He had no bank account in the city of Boston or the state of Massachusetts, and after getting slightly desperate, Angie discovered no one by that name existed in New Hampshire, Maine, or Vermont.
We’d gone back to Diane Bourne’s office, but apparently she’d taken our advice to heart. The office was closed. Her town house, we soon discovered, was abandoned. In a week, she hadn’t shown up there, and a cursory search of the place revealed only that she may have taken enough clothing to get by for a week before she had to either do laundry or shop for more.
The Dawes went fishing. Literally, I found out, after I’d impersonated a patient of the doctor’s and learned they were at their summer home in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.
