Phantom Limb Page 10

  Which I fully intended to do. The lieutenant had informed me that CSU had already finished scouring my office, as well as the hall just outside the door. Meanwhile, Lisa’s car had been towed from the parking garage to the police impound, to be more thoroughly examined by lab techs.

  When I commented on the unusually fast turnaround at the crime scene, he explained that the area involved was relatively small. And that there was little likelihood of discovering any real evidence. What he didn’t say—and what I suspected—was that the sooner any signs of a police presence vanished, the better. Less chance of drawing the attention of any curious media types. Though whether this order came down from Chief Logan or Charles Harland was anybody’s guess.

  By the time I turned onto Forbes Avenue, the Oakland traffic had predictably slowed, impeded even further by blithely jaywalking Pitt students. The sun had risen enough to coat my windshield with a bright morning glare, and the grating bleat of car horns and downshifting semis drowned out my speakers.

  I let out a long, slow breath. After the horrors of that endless night, I felt suddenly, inexorably propelled into the sights and sounds of everyday life. The hustle, the noise. Busy commuters. People with shopping bags. Starbucks. For a moment, I couldn’t tell which experience felt more surreal.

  Finally, forcing my head clear, I arrived at my building. Biegler had been right. When I pulled into the parking garage, I noticed there wasn’t even a black-and-white unit at the curb, which meant that the second, expanded canvass of the area had concluded as well.

  I went up the elevator to my office. As expected, the crime scene tape was gone, too. I was grateful, since it wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted my first patient of the day—due in twenty minutes—to find at the entrance.

  But what of the office itself? I unlocked the door and stepped inside. Other than a few pieces of furniture moved slightly out of position, and some sprinkles of leftover fingerprint dust, the suite appeared completely unchanged.

  Eerily, disturbingly unchanged.

  As though Lisa’s kidnapping hadn’t even occurred.

  As though, in fact, nothing had happened at all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Noah Frye placed a draft Iron City in front of me.

  “Like the man said, beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”

  I lifted the glass to my lips. “Which man was that?”

  He placed his elbows on the bar, flannel sleeves rolled halfway up his beefy forearms.

  “Benjamin Franklin. And I’ll thank you to take that surprised look off your face. I may be crazy, but I happen to know lots o’ shit. Most of it’s pretty useless, but still…”

  A grin split his broad, bearded face. But I could tell from his slow, careful movements as he tended bar that his meds had been either changed or decreased. Though his eyes, while lacking their usual excited glint, still shone with intelligence.

  It was sometime after seven, an hour or so since I’d seen my last therapy patient out the door. Then, as I often did, I’d driven across town to my favorite saloon on Second Avenue. Called Noah’s Ark, it was a refurbished coal barge permanently moored at the edge of the Monongahela River. Bought by a retired businessman who named the place after him, it provided Noah and his long-suffering girlfriend, Charlene Hines, both employment and, in the rear, living quarters.

  The owner had done a good job converting the place, while retaining evidence of its nautical origins. Despite the brass-trimmed bar, café tables, and a small stage where jazz musicians performed nightly, tar paper hung from the ceiling. Portholes looked out on the shimmering, wind-creased waters. And there remained a faint though unmistakable riverfront smell.

  Sipping my beer, I noticed there were only a few other customers in the place. A quiet couple at a corner table. Secretaries sharing cocktails after work. Dusk still lingering outside, it was much too early for the serious drinkers and rabid jazz fans who normally crowded the intimate bar.

  “Hey, Danny!”

  I looked across the room. Bent over a table, wiping it with a cloth, was Charlene. Almost as big as Noah, her smiling face was framed with frizzy red hair. She waved the cloth at me.

  “Don’t go anywhere. I got someone I want you to meet. My brother’s in town. Be here any minute.”

  “Look forward to it.”

  When I turned back to the bar, I found Noah glaring at me.

  “She’s too nice to say so, but me and Charlene are really pissed about you standin’ us up last night. We ended up pickin’ out Dr. Mendors’ wedding present ourselves. Though you’re still on the hook for a third of the price.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t make it, man. Something came up.”

  “Right. Spare me your usual bullshit about some patient in crisis. I just hope you were out gettin’ your pole greased.”

  “I wish.” I offered my glass for a refill. With a grunt, he lumbered down the bar to the massive keg.

  Dr. Nancy Mendors was an old friend of mine from Ten Oaks, the private psychiatric clinic where we both met Noah. In the years since his discharge as a patient, Nancy had privately—and somewhat covertly—prescribed and monitored his meds. She’d also been instrumental in getting Noah his job at the bar.

  Though I ultimately left Ten Oaks to go into private practice, Nancy stayed on, eventually becoming clinic director.

  What nobody knew was that, prior to this, she and I had had a brief affair. I’d been devastated for months by the loss of my wife, and she from a bitter divorce, and so we’d more or less fallen into each other’s arms.

  This was many years ago, and we’d each moved on, our contact since then fairly casual. Until she told me last year of her engagement to a pediatric surgeon. In fact, it was to select a group gift for their upcoming wedding that Noah, Charlene, and I had planned to meet last night. Instead…

  I was still mulling this when Noah returned with my refill. On his way back, he’d casually picked up the TV remote and clicked on the wide-screen hanging above the bar. As expected, the local CNN affiliate was still leading with the discovery of a body at Allegheny Observatory.

  According to the news anchor, the murdered woman had just been identified as fifty-six-year-old Donna Swanson, apparently the victim of a gunshot. A registered nurse, Ms. Swanson had lived and worked for many years at the home of Charles Harland, attending to the well-known Pittsburgh businessman. The police were unwilling to divulge any further details of the homicide, claiming that the investigation was in its early stages.

  The report went on to say that Mr. Harland himself was unavailable for comment. However, Arthur Drake, an attorney and family spokesman, had just released a statement.

  I stared intently at the screen as the station cut to a live shot of Drake, standing at the gated entrance of the Harland compound, facing camera lights and upraised mikes.

  “On behalf of Charles Harland and his family, I want to convey how shocked and saddened we are at the news of Donna Swanson’s death. The fact that she was the victim of a brutal murder makes her loss even more painful, more incomprehensible. Ms. Swanson was a beloved employee, and will be greatly missed.”

  By now, Noah had become as riveted by the news report as I was. Then, when it ended, he gave me a wry look. “Given the kinda shit you usually get mixed up in, I’m surprised you didn’t find the body.”

  I offered him a brief smile and said nothing.

  “The observatory, eh?” Noah scratched his unruly hair. “I used to get stoned up there all the time. Damned shame.”

  I must admit, I was relieved when Noah sidled down the bar to serve another customer. I wanted a few moments alone, to drink my beer and collect my thoughts. I’d checked in with Gloria Reese at the Harland residence every few hours during the day, but was always told the same thing: no call from Julian. No contact of any kind from the kidnappers. And the search of the grounds had tu
rned up nothing.

  We’d spoken one last time before I left the office. Gloria told me that Charles Harland’s condition was still listed as critical. She also informed me that she was leaving the residence for a short while to check in at the FBI building downtown. Then, after filing her report and getting updated on other active cases, she’d head back to the house.

  I stared now at the half-finished beer in my hand, going over the day’s work in my mind.

  In the wake of last night’s events, it had been hard at first to stay focused on my patients. But soon enough I became absorbed in their stories, in helping them address long-held, shaming beliefs. This was often true among crime victims. Even those who’d survived an armed assault. A robbery. Rape.

  With many of these victims, their horrific experience prompted deep feelings of vulnerability, helplessness. With others, lacerating self-recrimination. The belief that what happened to them was their own fault. They’d been careless, cowardly. Maybe, some thought, they deserved what happened to them. Maybe they’d been asking for it…

  I pushed the beer glass across the counter and signaled for Noah. I wanted something stronger. As he came sauntering toward me, I heard Charlene suddenly and excitedly cry out.

  “There he is! My little bro!”

  I turned on my stool and saw a handsome, thick-shouldered man in his mid-thirties push through the door. V-necked sweater and jeans, under a military jacket. Close-cropped, reddish-brown hair. The same color as his sister’s.

  But there the resemblance to Charlene ended. Unlike her open, spirited features, his own face was pinched. Haunted. His returning smile to hers an effort.

  She seemed unmindful of this as she hurried across the floor and swept him up in a hug. He almost toppled in her embrace, which had them both laughing. Perhaps a bit too much.

  Instinctively, I thought of something Mike Payton had said about returning vets. Fried, freaked, and fucked.

  I slid from my seat to shake the man’s hand. Charlene had released him by now, and was brushing tears from her eyes.

  “Dr. Dan Rinaldi, this is my baby brother, Skip Hines.”

  His handshake was strong and sure. As was his gaze.

  “Funny name, eh? Since I don’t do much skippin’ nowadays.”

  Charlene’s brother had only one leg.

  ***

  Skip and I sat alone at a table near the back of the bar. Charlene had made a point of seating us there, then bringing her brother a schooner of Iron City and me a Jack Daniels, and then very deliberately backing away.

  Grinning, Skip shook his head. He sat at a slight angle, to give his prosthetic leg more room under the table. “Subtle, eh, Doc? She thinks I need to talk to someone about what happened over there. Someone like you.”

  “Well, if this was a setup, I’m as surprised as you.” I raised my glass. “Cheers.”

  We touched glasses. Then I watched him take a couple huge gulps of beer. Like a man dying of thirst.

  “As you probably guessed, I’m a vet. Afghanistan. A week before my tour is up, I trip over an IED. I don’t even feel it. Just hear a boom, then I wake up in a field hospital. Minus my left leg. One fucked-up Marine.”

  “I’m sorry. Truly.”

  “Luck of the draw. That’s what they say, right?”

  He took another long pull, draining the large glass. Called out for Charlene to bring over a pitcher.

  I thought then of someone else I knew who’d lost a leg. Angie Villanova’s husband, Sonny, a former construction worker whose right leg had been crushed in a job site accident. An angry, complaining bigot even before his forced retirement, he’d only grown more bitter with time.

  I could tell that Skip had already begun suppressing his own anger and grief. Masking the trauma of his war wound with sardonic humor. Military-style bravado.

  And, I was beginning to suspect, alcohol.

  Charlene weaved her way through a maze of tables and placed a full pitcher of beer before Skip. Then gave me a broad wink.

  “That takes care of him, Danny. What’ll you have?”

  I didn’t miss the anxiety in her voice. Neither did Skip.

  “We’re fine, Char. I’m fine. I’m just missin’ a leg, not my marbles. Not yet, anyway.” His short laugh seemed as inauthentic as her wink.

  “Hey, bro, if you’re fine, I’m fine. Now quit bothering me, I got actual paying customers to wait on.”

  After she’d left, Skip poured himself another beer. “Poor Charlene. The brother she remembers was a big jock in high school. Varsity football and baseball. I was popular, too. She used to tease me about it. Called me a ‘chick magnet.’ Whatever. Anyway, that was a long time ago…Things change.”

  A measured beat of silence.

  “Look, Skip,” I said carefully, “I am a psychologist, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m off the clock. We can talk about anything you want or nothing at all.”

  “I appreciate that, Doc…”

  “Please. Dan. Or Danny.”

  He nodded, then took a long pull.

  “Thing is…Danny…There’s nothin’ to talk about. Shit happens. I got disability pay, sooner or later I’ll find the right job. I’ll be fine. I’m fine already, like I said. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He raised his glass again, then stopped. “Well, there is this one thing…I mean, I’d heard about it before, but it’s still pretty weird…”

  He leaned in closer. “See, the damned thing itches. My leg, I mean…the one I lost…”

  “It’s pretty common. The feeling—”

  “That it’s still there, I know. Drives me crazy, especially at night. In bed. I’m half-asleep, and all of a sudden I’m tryin’ to scratch it. Scratch empty air…”

  “It’s called a phantom limb. Think of it as the body’s nervous system short-circuiting. Reacting as if the leg were still attached. Sending signals to your brain.”

  “Well, whatever it’s called, I wish my brain would get with the program. The leg’s gone. Sucker’s in pieces in the Afghan desert somewhere. End of story.”

  “I don’t know about that, Skip. I’d say your story’s far from over.”

  He raised the schooner to his lips again.

  “Your mouth to God’s ears, Danny.”

  Just then, my cell rang. Gloria Reese.

  “Sorry, Skip. I have to take this.”

  He waved a hand, and I picked up.

  “Any news?”

  Her voice was breathless. Urgent. “Julian just called and left instructions for handing over the next ransom.”

  “That’s great, Gloria. That means—”

  “Yes, Lisa’s still alive. He put her on the phone. But she doesn’t sound too good.”

  “Jesus…”

  “Danny, listen. I was wrong. Julian still wants you to make the drop. In fact, he insisted on it. Says it has to be you.”

  I paused. Long enough for Skip to notice and give me a quizzical look.

  Finally, I said, “Okay. I’m on my way.”

  Now there was a pause on her end. When she spoke again, her voice was more like a whisper. Strained, hushed. “Look, Danny, you know you don’t have to do this. You’re under no obligation to—”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  I clicked off before she could reply. Then got to my feet. “Look, Skip, I—”

  He shrugged. “Sounds like you got places to go, people to see. Totally cool. I’ll catch ya later.”

  I extended my hand. “Great meeting you, though.”

  “Back atcha, Danny.”

  ***

  Thirty seconds later, I was outside, without having said good-bye to Noah or Charlene. For all I knew, Julian had put a time clock on his new delivery instructions. Which meant that every moment counted.

 
Though not yet nine, a deep darkness flowed down, the kind that froze your heart. And, once more, that insistent March wind, whistling. Making knife-edged divots on the black waters of the Monongahela. Across the river, the glistening, fast-growing urban skyline, silhouetted against prehistoric hills.

  My Mustang was parked at the curb about half a block east on Second, in front of a recently shuttered store. I quickened my pace to get there.

  I almost made it.

  Suddenly, stepping from the shadows of the storefront, a man blocked my path. Big. Black jacket and jeans. Face hidden by the brim of a cap. But I knew who it was.

  The man who’d stood at my office door.

  Except this time he had a gun.

  And he wasn’t alone.

  His arm was around her shoulders, clutching her slight body close. The ugly automatic at her throat. Gloria Reese. Cell phone still in hand.

  Trembling. Eyes edged with tears.

  “I’m sorry, Danny,” she said haltingly. “So sorry…”

  I stared at the big man. Though his face was in shadow, I could just make out his easy, assured grin.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Turn around, Doc. Slowly. Or the bitch dies.”

  The big man’s voice was crisp, his words clipped and uncompromising. As he buried the gun barrel deeper into the flesh of Gloria’s throat.

  For a moment, I hesitated. Risked a glance around. The sidewalk was empty. Silent. No help was coming.

  I gazed again at Gloria. Her breathing had slowed, and the fear had left her eyes. Replaced with a glint of defiance.

  “I said, turn around, asshole.”

  He knew what he was doing. From the moment he’d stepped in front of me, holding Gloria hard against his side, he’d kept a measured distance between us. A safe distance.

  I had no choice but to turn around. As soon as my back was to him, I heard a metallic rattle. He spoke to Gloria. “Put these on him.”