“But he transported some paintings for her.”
“Yes, four or five times. She knew he had a truck, and she asked him once about a year and a half ago when Tyler’s was broken down and she was desperate to get them off to some show.”
“Did he pack them up for her, too?”
“No, Vaun had Tommy Chesler help her. They built these big crates, one for each painting, and Tommy’d help Tony load them. A couple of times Tommy went with him to the airport, but Tommy doesn’t much like cities.”
“Did Vaun go?”
“No.”
“Tell me about when Tony was away. Did he go regularly? What was he doing? Do you know where he went?”
“Earning money, doing odd jobs in town or over the hill. Never anything regular, just a day here and there or overnight. Never more than four days in a row. It worked out to about two or three days a week, I suppose, just to keep us in spending money. It wasn’t regular. Sometimes his friends would leave a message with Tyler telling him there’d be work on a certain day, other times he’d just go.”
“Do you know the names of any of those friends?”
“There was a Tim who left messages sometimes, and another guy in San Jose named Carl, but I don’t remember ever hearing their last names. Tyler or Anna might know.”
“I’ll ask them. You can’t think of anywhere he might go, any favorite places?”
“San Jose, I guess. We went there, once. He took me to a bar. I don’t like bars, but he thought I might enjoy it. It had a funny name, like a joke. Gold something. Gold girl? No, that’s right, Golden Grill. Stupid pun. On one wall they have an enormous painting of a naked blond woman tied to a barbecue. Disgusting, really.” She suddenly noticed the identical expression on the faces of her three listeners, the sort of expression an Olympic archer makes when he hits the bull’s-eye in the final round. “Did that help any?”
“My dear Angie, you have given us much food for thought, almost as nourishing as your onion soup. I thank you, profoundly.”
The matchbook found near the body of Samantha Donaldson had come from a bar in San Jose called the Golden Grill.
Angie could tell them little more. She did not know what he’d been wearing, how much money he had, or whether or not he’d taken a gun, but she said he was a good shot with both rifle and pistol. A quick check showed his truck in the shed and no other vehicles missing. Hawkin sent Trujillo up with Angie to try to find out what her husband had taken with him, and told him to have the nurse, Terry Allen, stay with Angie for a while and then to go and pick what brains he could find in Tommy Chesler’s head for any possible leads. Tyler he sent out front, requesting that he obfuscate matters as much as possible in the eyes of the media while Hawkin and Kate made their escape.
The uniformed policewoman in Vaun’s room was tall and formidable and blocked the doorway most effectively until she was satisfied with their credentials. She left them alone in the room.
It was the first time Kate had seen Vaun since early Saturday. Her face was slack, her lips were slightly parted, her skin was almost as white as her pillow but for the red mouth and the dark smudges under her eyes. The intense contrasts of white and black and red gave her the aloof, other-worldly beauty of a geisha. Kate would have thought her dead but for the monitor.
Hawkin grunted and left after a minute, but Kate lingered. She was struck with the irrational wish to see Vaun’s hands, but they were under the covers and she hesitated to touch her. Finally she left, and the policewoman returned to the room.
Dr. Tanaka’s office held five people. Hawkin stood at the window looking down at the entrance parking lot. Kate sat with a notebook. Dr. Tanaka himself wore a neat blue suit and spoke with great precision. The other two doctors wore white jackets over their clothing, and the woman, whose name was Gardner, had a stethoscope in her pocket, an obvious sign of low status, Kate thought in amusement. Hawkin turned back to the room.
“So, to put it in English,” he said, “it’s too early to know what’s going on.”
“That is an oversimplification, but in essence, true. Her symptoms and her brain waves are neither those of a coma nor of catatonia, but they have characteristics of both. Until we know more, all we can do is continue to support the bodily functions.”
“Then, Dr. Tanaka, I do not envy you and your hospital the next few days. The press has arrived.”
An undignified scramble for the window ensued, the telephone rang, and Hawkin stalked off with Kate close behind. He sent her off to warn Vaun’s guard and call in the hospital security for reinforcements while he went to close himself in with a telephone. Within hours the world would know that Eva Vaughn lay in this small hospital. He no longer had any time to wait. When Kate returned he handed her a slip of paper.
“You will meet this plane tonight.”
“He’s coming, then? Dr. Bruckner?”
“I gave him no choice. You go home now and sleep for a few hours. It’s going to be a long night.”
22
The plane from Chicago was late. Kate spent the time in an all-night cafeteria at San Francisco International’s north terminal, drinking bad coffee and fighting her way into an introduction to the theory of art that she had taken from Lee’s shelves at midnight. At two o’clock she went for a walk through the other-worldly halls, and found herself in a display of the work of local artists. She long contemplated two pieces, one a battered briefcase that was actually made out of clay, the other a massive and highly realistic section of adobe wall formed entirely out of styrofoam and leather. She finally decided that any intended symbolism was beyond her ability to decipher, thrust the book into her shoulder bag, and retreated into the cafeteria for more coffee (Was it actually made of hot stewed twigs? Was the artificial creamer formed entirely of styrofoam?) and the evening paper. Eva Vaughn was on the front page, and Kate tortured herself by reading every word.
The plane touched down at 3:15, and a few minutes later Kate planted herself firmly in the flow of dazed passengers, watching for the self-described “little fellow with a brown briefcase.” (Presumably made of actual leather.) A likely candidate appeared, and she spoke vaguely in the direction of the short, foreign-looking man with the gray goatee, spotless white shirt, and bow tie.
“Dr. Bruckner?”
But it was the surprisingly young-looking man next to him who stopped in front of her and held out his hand.
“Yes I know I don’t look like a psychiatrist,” he said rapidly, “and yes I know you didn’t expect me to be so young, but then if you’re ‘one of our inspectors name of Martinelli’ I wasn’t expecting you either, so we’re even.”
He had an unidentifiably eastern nasal voice and a crooked grin, and his hair was too long and he needed a shave, and he was indeed a little man, barely taller than Kate, and she laughed and took his hand, which surprised her with the calluses of a laborer.
“Casey Martinelli, and Al may have forgotten to tell you I was a she or he may have been aiming at the truly liberated attitude of not noticing or he may have had some obscure reason of his own. At any rate, I’m glad to meet you, and thank you for coming.”
“I would have come tomorrow even if you people hadn’t called, as soon as I read the morning paper. No, no luggage, just this. I hope you haven’t been up all night to meet me.”
“Oh, no, I set my alarm clock for midnight. That’s my car, over there.” She had to scurry to keep up with him, for despite the bulky case he bounced off the balls of his feet in an energetic stride. She pegged him for a handball player.
“Do the police always park under No Parking signs?” he asked curiously as she reached past him to unlock his door.
“Only when we know that the person on duty won’t have it towed. Inconvenient, that. Do you want your case in the back? No? Okay.”
Kate buckled herself in and settled down for a nice fast drive on a nearly deserted freeway. As they passed the Bufano statue, Bruckner stretched until his joints cracked and then slumped do
wn in the seat with a little sigh of pleasure.
“Hard flight?” she asked.
“Flying is the pits. A surefire way to produce long-term symptoms of hostility towards humankind. Particularly its younger generation,” he said sourly.
“I take it you didn’t get much sleep. Well, there’s no need to make conversation now, if you want to close your eyes.”
“I’ll sleep later. First of all, cards on the table. Your Inspector Hawkin said that Vaun is no longer under suspicion of committing those murders. Is that true, or did he just want to manipulate me into coming out to treat her? It’s difficult to tell, over the telephone.”
“Wouldn’t you have come in either case?”
“No.” Kate glanced over at him. “I said I would have come out, but only to see her and her family. I’m not going to bring Vaun back to life just for you people to lock her up. If that’s the choice, you can let me out now and I’ll make my own arrangements.”
“I thought you were her friend. They say she’ll die if she’s left like this.”
“That’s her choice. She’d die anyway, if she was imprisoned again. It would be deliberate cruelty, and I’ll have nothing to do with it. Vaun isn’t my client, my patient. She’s a beloved friend, and I refuse to interfere in her life that way merely for the convenience of the police.”
Kate, hardened cop that she was, found it difficult not to be shocked. She cleared her throat.
“Yes. Well, you don’t need to worry, it’s obvious now that she’s a victim, not a perpetrator.” She gave him a synopsis of the last few days, ending with what they knew of Andy Lewis/Tony Dodson. He made no comment for several miles.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I know about Andy. We worked on that for a long time, Vaun and I.”
“What—” she began, then realized that he would undoubtedly refuse to talk about Vaun’s revelations during therapy, and changed it to, “Is all this possible? I mean, it seems such an unlikely scenario, even to us—some lunatic who goes to such elaborate lengths to make life hell for a woman he resents, then tries to kill her, and all without giving himself away.”
“Oh yes, it’s quite possible. And, from what I know of Andy Lewis, through Vaun, you’re probably looking at the right man.”
“I wish I could understand it.” Kate heard the plaintive undertone in her voice and hastened to modify it. “I mean, I’ve been a cop for six years now, and God knows I’ve seen what people can do to each other. But this one, it makes even a torture-murder look straightforward. I just can’t get a handle on it, can’t imagine his motives.”
“The mind of someone like Andy Lewis is not finally comprehensible to a normal, sane human being. You can trace patterns, even analyze the labyrinth enough to plot its development, but motives and sequences are very slippery things, even at the best of times.”
“But if he’s so abnormal, why didn’t we see him earlier?”
“Because he’s very good at keeping up the front. When you track him down you’ll probably find all kinds of criminal, even pathological, behavior, but until you pry up the lid, all will look normal. Actually, I would venture a theory that had it not been for Vaun, it would have remained at that. He would never have taken to murdering children, or not for many years at any rate.”
“You mean Vaun set him off?”
“Triggered him, yes. She must never suspect this, by the way.”
“No. Oh, God no. You don’t mean she did anything deliberately, I take it.”
“As innocent as one chemical reacting with another. No, that’s not a good analogy, because in a reaction both chemicals are changed, and in this case Vaun remains Vaun. Vaun doesn’t need to do anything deliberately to change people’s lives. Perhaps a better image is that of a black hole, one of those things the astronomers love to speculate about, so massive they influence the motions of everything around them in space, so immensely powerful that even light particles can’t escape, so that they cannot even be seen except by inference, by reading the erratic movements of nearby planets and stars. Vaun passes by, utterly tied up with her own inner workings, and people begin to wobble. Tommy Chesler makes adult friends for the first time in his life. John Tyler gets serious. Angie Dodson looks at her hobbies and sees a mature art form. Andy Lewis is nudged from criminality to pathology. A psychiatrist in Chicago tears his thinning hair out and finds himself practicing a style of psychotherapy unknown to modern science, and damned if it doesn’t work. God only knows what effect she’s having on a couple of unsuspecting homicide detectives from the big city,” he laughed. “And none of it deliberate. Vaun is as passive and as powerful as a force of nature. Her only deliberate actions are on canvas, and even then she would insist that there’s no choice, only the recognition of what’s needed next. Someday Vaun may be forced into action. I can’t imagine what would do it—certainly not a threat to herself; perhaps to protect someone she loved—but I can imagine that the results would be spectacular. Or perhaps catastrophic.”
Bruckner talked with the enthusiasm of a man finally permitted to speak about something that has long fascinated him, and Kate was not certain what was required of her in the role of coenthusiast.
“You sound like you’ve given this a great deal of thought.” She settled for a cheap therapist’s tell-me-more noise. He caught her uncertainty and laughed happily.
“Said she, dubiously. Yes, Vaun is the sort of person one tends to think about. My wife wants me to work up a paper on the ‘triggering personality’ concept, but I can’t see that it would do much good. After all, you can’t very well treat the innocent trigger, even if the explosive personality blames him, or her. And it’s hardly a new idea, after all. Do you know Othello?”
“Er….”
“Iago is a nasty, sly, traitorous character, but even he needs his self-respect. To justify to himself the enormity of his own evil, he blames his victim Cassio for it, saying, ‘He hath a daily beauty in his life that makes me ugly.’ Count on it, when you find Andy, he’ll blame Vaun.”
“He’s proving a slippery character to find.”
“If you’re patient, he’ll come to you. Not turn himself in, I don’t mean that, but he’ll come. He won’t be able to help himself, not now. It’s gone too far. However. Enough of Andy Lewis and black holes, and chemical reactions. Metaphors and analogies are the curse of cheap psychotherapy. Tell me about Vaun. How she is.”
“Vaun? No change, they say, over and over.”
“I don’t want that ‘they’ way. I know what ‘they’ say, endlessly. How do you think she looks?” he pressed.
“I don’t know how she looks. She’s unconscious. She looks like someone who got run over by an overdose, is how she looks. I’m no doctor.”
“Good, I don’t want a doctor’s eyes, I want your eyes. In one word, don’t stop to think about it, how does she look?”
“Dead. Dead is how she looks. I’m sorry, you’re her friend, but you did ask.”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” He sighed. “All right, tell me about her. What kind of room do they have her in? Who comes in contact with her, and how do they touch her? And what do they smell like?” He spoke as if unaware of the lunacy of his words, and Kate looked closely to see if he was serious before she began hesitantly to answer him. He made short notes by the light of the glove compartment in a small notebook that he pulled from his jacket pocket, and asked more questions. Then, abruptly, he flipped the glove compartment shut and leaned back.
“Right, that’ll do for now. I’ll need a few things—any chance of getting someone started on them at this hour?”
Kate reached for the car phone, got the hospital exchange, asked for the extension of the room Hawkin had said he would be using. He answered on the second ring.
“Hawkin.”
“Sorry to wake you Al, but Dr. Bruckner has a list of things he’s going to need, and it might save some time if he has them there when we get in.”
“Go ahead.”
She handed th
e instrument to her passenger, who first asked about Vaun; listened; asked about her pulse rate; told Hawkin not to bother, it wasn’t that important; and asked if he had a pen. He read from his notebook: a cassette player; some roses, any color so long as they had a smell; a bristle hairbrush; some dark orange velvet; a patchwork quilt—perhaps one made by Angie Dodson?—a large pad of artist’s watercolor paper; a can of turpentine; Vaun’s most recent painting; and finally, complete privacy and quiet in Vaun’s wing.
“That means no voices in the hall, no rattling trays, no televisions, telephones, or clacking heels. Yes, I know they’ll raise holy hell, but get it done. Yes, that’s all for the moment. The orange velvet may have to wait until the shops open—I’ll need a couple of yards. Right, see you soon.”
A smile played across Kate’s lips at the thought of Hawkin following this younger man’s emphatic orders and sending out for patchwork quilts and velvet at five o’clock in the morning. Bruckner’s matter-of-factness was daunting—did he not consider that extraordinary list just the least bit odd? She glanced over and saw that he was studying his hands, lost in thought, slightly ill-looking in the green dashboard lights.
“Do you mind my asking what you have in mind?” she asked him. His head came up and his teeth gleamed white at her.