Private Eyes

“I’m a psychologist. The message I left for Bridget explained how I could be-”

“Yeah, yeah, I got all that, too. So you’re a shrink. So excuse me if that’s not real comforting.”

“You’ve had bad experiences with shrinks?”

Silence. “I like myself just fine.”

I said, “Eileen Wagner. That’s why you called.”

Long silence. For a moment I thought she’d left the line.

Then: “You knew Eileen?”

“I met her when she was a pediatrician out here. She referred a patient to me, but when I tried to get in touch with her to talk about it, she never got back to me. Guess she’d left town by then. Went overseas.”

“Guess so.”

“Were she and Kate friends?”

Laughter. “No.”

“But Kate was interested in Eileen’s death- I found a clipping she’d put in her scrapbook. Boston Globe, no byline. Was Kate free-lancing for the Globe at that time?”

“I don’t know,” she said harshly. “Why the hell should I care what the hell she was doing and who the hell she was working for?”

Definite booze slur.

More silence.

I said, “I’m sorry if this is upsetting you.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

That caught me off guard, and before I found my answer, she said, “You don’t know me from Eve- why the hell should you care how I feel?”

“Okay,” I said. “It’s not compassion for you specifically. It’s force of habit. I like making people happy- maybe it’s partly an ego trip. I went to school to be a yea-sayer.”

“Yea-sayer. Yeah, I like that. Yea, yea, yea- you and the Beatles. John, Paul, Whatsisname, and Ringo. And Shrink. Psyching the crowd… I wanna hold your gland.”

Brittle laughter. In the background, James Brown was begging for something. Love or mercy.

I said, “Eileen was also a yea-sayer. I’m not surprised she went into psychiatry.”

Four more beats of Brown.

“Ms. Etheridge?”

Nothing.

“Sally?”

“Yeah, I’m here. God knows why.”

“Tell me about Eileen.”

Eight bars. I held my tongue.

Finally she said, “I’ve got nothing to tell. It was a waste. A fucking waste.”

“Why’d she do it, Sally?”

“Why do you think? ’Cause she didn’t wanna be what she was… after all the…”

“All the what?”

“The fucking time! The hours and hours of bullshit-rapping. With shrinks, counselors, whatever. I thought we’d put that fucking shit behind us. I fucking thought she was happy. I fucking thought she was fucking convinced she was okay the way God in Her infinite mercy made her. God damn her!”

“Maybe someone told her the opposite. Maybe someone tried to change her.”

Ten bars of Brown. The song title popped into my head: “Baby, Please Don’t Go.”

She said, “Maybe. I don’t fucking know.”

“Kate Moriarty thought so, Sally. She found out something about Eileen’s therapists, didn’t she? That’s what brought her all the way out to California.”

“I don’t know,” she repeated. “I don’t know. All she ever did was ask questions. She never talked much about what she was doing, thought I was obligated to talk to her because she was gay.”

“How’d she get in contact with you?”

“GALA. I did all the wiring on their goddam offices. Opened my mouth and told her about… Eileen. She lit up like a Christmas tree. All of a sudden we were sisters in arms. But she never talked, only asked. She had all these rules- what she could talk about, what she couldn’t… I thought we were- But she- Oh, fuck this! Fuck this whole thing. It’s been too fucking long and I’m not putting myself through it again, so fucking forget it and fuck you!”

Dead air. No music.

I waited a moment, called back. Busy signal. Tried five minutes later, same result.

I sat there putting it together. Seeing things in another light. Another context that caused everything to make sense.

Time to ring another number.

Different area code.

This one was listed. Surname and first initial only. I copied, dialed, waited five rings until someone picked up and said, “Hello.”

I hung up without returning the greeting. No air blowing through the vents, but the room felt even colder. After draping a second cloth around Ramp’s shoulders, I left.

35

Five minutes of studying the Thomas Guide. A hundred and twenty minutes on Freeway 101 north, following through.

Twilight arrived midway through the drive. By the time I reached Santa Barbara the sky was black. I picked up the 154 near Goleta, found the San Marcos pass with little difficulty, and drove through the mountains all the way to Lake Cachuma.

Locating what I was looking for was more of a challenge. This was ranch country, no street signs or lamps or Chamber of Commerce puffery. I overshot the first time, didn’t realize it until I hit the town of Ballard. Reversing direction, I cruised slowly. Despite straining eyes and a heavy foot on the brake, I passed it going the other way, too. But my headlights trapped a wooden sign just long enough for the image to register as I rolled by.

INCENTIVE RANCH

PRIVATE PROPERTY

I cut the lights, backed up, and stuck my head out the car window. Cooler up here. A breeze that smelled of dust and dry grass. The sign was handmade, nailhead letters in pine, swinging gently over a square wooden gate. The gate was low and squat. Horizontal planks in a wooden frame. Maybe five feet high, connected to tongue-and- groove fencing that blocked the entry.

Leaving the engine running, I got out of the Seville and walked to the gate. It yielded a bit when I pushed, but remained shut. After a couple of false starts I found a toehold between two of the planks, hoisted myself up, and ran my hand over the inner side of the gate. Metal latch. Big padlock. The view beyond, barely starlit. Below, a narrow dirt road, passing between what looked to be tall trees. Mountains in the background, sharp and black as a witch’s cap.

Returning to the car, I edged out and drove a hundred yards or so until I found a spot where the shoulder was shaded by trees. Shrubs, really. Scrawny, wind-whipped things that appeared to grow out of the mountainside and