ineffectual.”
Frustration on her face. My eyes drifted to the Cassatt print.
She noticed and appeared to grow even more tense. “Wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Cassatt was a genius. The expressiveness, particularly the way she brought out the essence of children.”
“I’ve heard she didn’t like children.”
“Oh, really?”
“Have you had the print for a long time?”
“A while.” She touched her hair. Another locked-jaw smile. “You didn’t come here to discuss art. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Can you think of any other psychological factors that might explain Gina’s disappearance?”
“Such as?”
“Dissociative episodes- amnesia, fugue. Could she have had some sort of break, be out there wandering, unaware of who she is?”
She thought for a while. “There’s nothing like that in her history. Her ego was intact- remarkably so, considering everything she’s been through. In fact I always thought of her as one of my most
“Makes sense,” I said. “I suppose even after she turns up, we may never know what happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“The life she leads- the insularity. In her own way she’s quite self-sufficient. That can lead a person to treasure secrecy. Even luxuriate in it. Back when I treated Melissa, I remember thinking that for this family, secrets were the coin of the realm. That an outsider would never really know what was going on. Gina may have stockpiled plenty of coins.”
“That’s the goal of therapy,” she said. “To break into that stockpile. Her progress has been remarkable.”
“I’m sure it has. All I’m saying is that she still may decide to hold on to a private reserve.”
Her face tightened as she prepared to defend against that. But she waited until she’d calmed before speaking. “I suppose you’re right. We all hold on to something, don’t we? The private gardens we choose to water and feed.” Turning away from me. “ “Gardens brimming with iron flowers. Iron roots and stems and petals.’ A paranoid schizophrenic once told me that, and I do believe it’s an apt image. Not even the deepest probing can uproot iron flowers when they don’t want to be dug up, can it?”
She faced me again. Looking hurt once more.
“No, it can’t,” I said. “Still, if she does choose to dig them up, you’ll probably be the one she hands the bouquet.”
Weak smile. Teeth. White and straight and gleaming. “Are you patronizing me, Dr. Delaware?”
“No, and if it sounds that way, I’m sorry, Dr. Cunningham hyphen Gabney.”
That pumped some strength into the smile.
I said, “What about the members of her group? Would they know anything useful?”
“No. She never saw any of them socially.”
“How many are there?”
“Just two.”
“Small group.”
“It’s a rare disorder. Finding motivated patients and those with the financial means to embark on the extensive treatment we offer cuts the number even further.”
“How are the other two patients doing?”
“Well enough to leave home and come to group.”
“Well enough to be interviewed?”
“By whom?”
“The police. The private detective- he’ll be looking for her in addition to investigating McCloskey.”
“Absolutely not. These are fragile individuals. They’re not even aware she’s missing, yet.”
“They know she didn’t show up today.”
“No-shows aren’t unusual, given the diagnosis. Most of them have missed sessions at one time or another.”
“Has Mrs. Ramp missed any before today?”
“No, but that’s not the point. No one’s absence would be especially noteworthy.”
“Will they be curious if she doesn’t show up by next Monday?”
“If they are, I’ll deal with it. Now if you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to discuss the other patients. They haven’t lost their right to confidentiality.”
“Okay.”
She started to cross her legs again. Thought better of it and kept her feet flat on the floor.
“Well,” she said, “this hasn’t been very profitable, has it?”
She stood, smoothed her dress, looked past me toward the door.
I said, “Would there be any reason for her to walk out- voluntarily?”
She snapped her head around. “What do you mean?”
“The great escape,” I said. “Trading in her life-style for something new. Jumping the therapeutic gun and going for total independence.”
“Total independence?” she said. “That makes no sense at all. Not a lick.”
The door swung open before she was able to get me to it. A man charged in and race-walked across the entry hall. Leo Gabney. But even though I’d seen his photo just a few days ago, I had to look twice before his identity registered.
He noticed us mid-stride, stopped so suddenly I expected to see skid marks on the parquet.
It was his get-up that had thrown me off: red-and-white flannel western shirt, pipestem blue jeans, pointy-toed bullhide boots with riding heels. His belt was tooled cowhide, the buckle a big brass letter
Urban Cowboy, but he lacked the brawn to make it work. Despite his age, his build was almost boyish. Five nine, 130, sunken thorax, shoulders narrower than his wife’s. The bushy hair stark white over a face sun-baked the color of sour-mash whiskey. Active blue eyes. Bristly white brows. Liver-spotted cranial dome high enough to host half a dozen worry lines; prominent, high-bridged nose with pinched nostrils; less chin than he deserved. His neck was wattled. A bramble of white chest hair ended at his gullet. The entire assemblage elfin but not whimsical.
He gave his wife a peck on the cheek, gave me a laboratory look.
She said, “This is Dr. Delaware.”
“Ah, Dr. Delaware. I’m Dr. Gabney.”
Strong voice. Basso profundo- too deep a tone for such a narrow box. A New England accent that turned my name into
He extended his hand. Thin and soft- he hadn’t been roping steers. Even the bones felt soft, as if they’d been soaked in vinegar. The skin around them was loose and dry and cool, like that of a lizard in the shade.
“Has she shown up yet?” he said.
She said, “I’m afraid not, Leo.”
He clucked his tongue. “Hellish thing. I came down just as soon as I could.”
She said, “Dr. Delaware informed me that McCloskey- the man who assaulted her- is back in town.”
