watch, it was just after 1:00 A.M. I fell asleep, still sitting, and awoke stiff and cotton-mouthed, my arms tattooed.
Dazed and confused, I jerked upright. The tattooing shifted kaleidoscopically.
Luminous blue and red and emerald and amber splotches.
Sunlight sieved through lace curtains and daubed by stained glass.
Sunday.
I felt sacrilegious. As if I’d dozed off in a church.
Seven-twenty.
Silent house.
Overnight, a stale smell had settled in. Or maybe it had been there all along.
I rubbed my eyes and tried to clear my head. Stood, with some pain, straightened my clothes, ran my hand over my stubbled face, and stretched until it was obvious that the ache wasn’t ready to depart.
In a guest bathroom near the entry hall, I splashed water on my face, massaged my scalp, and headed upstairs.
Melissa was still asleep, hair spread on her pillow, too perfectly arranged to be accidental.
It reminded me of a Victorian funeral photo. Angelic children in lace-edged coffins.
I worked my way past that, smiled at Madeleine.
The pink thing was still formless but had stretched to a couple of feet. I wondered if she’d slept at all. Her feet were bare, bigger than mine. A pair of corduroy slippers was arranged neatly on the floor next to the rocker. Next to them was a telephone that she’d removed from Melissa’s nightstand.
I said,
She looked up, clear-eyed and grim, began working her needle faster.
“Monsieur.” She reached down and replaced the phone.
“Did Mr. Ramp come home?”
Glance at Melissa. Shake of the head. The movement made the chair creak.
Melissa opened her eyes.
Madeleine shot me an accusing look.
I approached the bed.
Madeleine began rocking. The chair complained louder.
Melissa looked up at me.
I smiled down at her, hoping it didn’t look ghoulish.
She widened her eyes. Moved her lips, seemed to be struggling.
“Hi,” I said.
“I- what-” Her eyes darted, unable to settle. Panic crossed her face. She pushed her head forward, fell back. Closed her eyes and opened them again.
I sat down and took her hand. Soft and hot. Felt her forehead. Warm, but not feverish.
Madeleine rocked faster.
Melissa was squeezing my fingers. “I- Wha- Mama.”
“They’re still looking for her, Melissa.”
“Mama.” Tears. She closed her eyes.
Madeleine was there with a tissue for her and a look of reproach for me.
A moment later Melissa was sleeping again.
I waited around until her slumber deepened, got what I needed from Madeleine, and went downstairs. Lupe and Rebecca were downstairs, vacuuming and scrubbing. When I passed, they averted their eyes.
I left the house, stepping out into sooty light that grayed the forest shielding the mansion. As I opened the door to the Seville, a white Saab Turbo came roaring up the drive. It came to a short stop, the engine quieted, and both Gabneys got out, Ursula from the driver’s side.
She had on a snugly tailored gray sharkskin suit over a white blouse and less makeup than she’d worn at the clinic. It made her look tired but younger. Every hair in place, but her coiffure lacked luster.
Her husband had exchanged cowboy duds for a brown-and-tan houndstooth jacket, beige slacks, chocolate suede wingtips, white shirt, and green tie.
She waited until he took her arm. The difference in their heights seemed almost comical but their expressions killed the joke. They walked toward me, matching each other step for step, looking like pallbearers.
“Dr. Delaware,” said Leo Gabney. “We’ve been calling the police department regularly, just received the terrible news from Chief Chickering.” His free hand wiped his high brow. “Terrible.”
His wife bit her lip. He patted her arm.
“How’s Melissa?” she said, very softly.
Surprised by the question, I said, “Sleeping.”
“Oh?”
“It seems to be her major defense right now.”
“Not uncommon,” said Leo. “Protective withdrawal. I’m sure you’re aware of how important it is to monitor, because sometimes it’s a prelude to prolonged depression.”
I said, “I’ll be keeping an eye on her.”
Ursula said, “Has she been given anything? To make her sleep?”
“Not to my knowledge,” I said.
“Good,” she said. “It’s best that she not be tranquilized. In order to…” She bit her lip again. “God, I’m so sorry. I really- This is just…”
She shook her head, folded her lips inward, and looked at the sky. “What can you say at a time like this?”
“Horrible,” said her husband. “You can say it’s damned horrible and feel the pain while resigning yourself to the inadequacy of language.”
He patted some more. She gazed past him, at the big house’s peach facade. Her eyes seemed unfocused.
He said, “Horrible,” again, a professor trying to foment discussion. Then, “Who can account for the way things work out?”
When neither his wife nor I responded, he said, “Chickering suggested suicide- playing amateur psychologist. Pure nonsense, and I told him so. She never displayed an iota of depression, masked or overt. On the contrary, she was a robust woman, considering what she’d been through.”
He stopped again, meaningfully. Somewhere, from the trees, a mockingbird imitated a jay. Gabney gave an exasperated look and turned to his wife. She was somewhere else.
I said, “Did she ever mention anything in therapy that would explain why she drove up to that reservoir?”
“Nothing,” said Leo. “Not a thing. Driving off by herself in the first place was total improvisation. That’s the hell of it- had she adhered to the treatment plan, none of this would have happened. She’d never been anything but compliant before.”
Ursula continued to say nothing. She’d loosened her arm from her husband’s grip without my noticing.
I said, “Was there any unusual stress she was undergoing- apart from the agoraphobia?”
“No, nothing,” said Gabney. “Her stress level was
I turned to Ursula. She continued looking at the house but shook her head.
“No,” she said. “Nothing.”
“Why this line of inquiry, Dr. Delaware?” said Gabney. “Surely
“Just trying to make some sense of it.”
He placed a hand on my shoulder. “I understand. That’s only natural. But I’m afraid the sad