Devil’s Waltz. By: Jonathan Kellerman

done because you were hostile before I opened my mouth. So its obvious

you have something against psychologists, and I suspect its because

they’ve failed you or mistreated you.”

“What are you doing? Analyzing me?”

“Iflneedto.”

that’s not fair.”

“If you want to keep working the case, lets get it out in the open.

Lord knows its difficult enough as is. Cassie’s getting sicker each

time she comes in; no one knows what the hell’s going on. A few more

seizures like the one you saw and she could be at risk for some serious

brain damage. We can’t afford to get distracted by interpersonal

crap.”

Her lip shook and scooted forward.

“Tthere’s no need,” she said, “to swear.

“Sorry. Besides my foul mouth, what do you have against me?”

“Nothing.”

“Baloney, Vicki.”

“Tthere’s really no-” “You don’t like shrinks,” I said, “and my intuition

is you’ve got a good reason.”

She sat back. “That so?”

I nodded. “There are plenty of bad ones out there, happy to take your

money without doing anything for you. I happen not to be one of them

but I don’t expect you to believe that just because I say so.”

She screwed up her mouth. Relaxed it. Puckers remained above her

upper lip. Her face was streaked and smudged and weary and I felt like

the Grand Inquisitor.

“On the other hand,” I said, “maybe its just me you resentsome sort of

turf thing over Cassie, your wanting to be the boss.”

that’s not it at all!”

“Then what is it, Vicki?”

She didn’t answer. Looked down at her hands. Used a nail to push back

a cuticle. Her expression was blank but the tears hadn’t stopped.

“Why not get it out into the open and be done with it?” I said.

“If its not related to Cassie, it won’t leave this room.

She sniffed and pinched the tip of her nose.

I moved forward and softened my tone: “Look, this needn’t be a

marathon. I’m not out to expose you in any way. All I want to do is

clear the air-work out a real truce.”

“Won’t leave this room, huh?” Return of the smug smile. “I’ve heard

that before.”

Our eyes met. Hers blinked. Mine didn’t waver.

Suddenly her arms flew upward, hands scissoring. Ripping her cap from

her hair, she hurled it across the room. It landed on the floor.

She started to get up, but didn’t.

“Damn you!” she said. The top of her head was a bird’s nest.

I’d folded the handkerchief and rested it on one of my knees.

Such a neat boy, the Inquisitor.

She put her hands to her temples.

I got up and placed a hand on her shoulder, certain she’d fling it

off.

But she didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” I’ said.

She sobbed and started to talk, and I had nothing to do but listen.

She told only part of it. Ripping open old wounds while struggling to

hold on to some dignity.

The felonious Reggie transformed into an “active boy with school

problems.”

“He was smart enough, but he just couldn’t find anything that

interested him and his mind used to wander all over the place.”

The boy growing into a “restless” young man who “just couldn’t seem to

settle down.”

Years of petty crime reduced to “some problems.”

She sobbed some more. This time she took my handkerchief.

Weeping and whispering the punch line: her only child’s death at

nineteen, due to “an accident.”

Relieved of his secret, the Inquisitor held his tongue.

She was silent for a long time, dried her eyes, wiped her face, then

began talking again: Alcoholic husband upgraded to blue-collar hero.

Dead at thirtyeight, the victim of “high cholesterol.”

“Thank God we owned the house,” she said. “Besides that, the only

other thing Jimmy left us worth anything was an old HarleyDavidson

motorcycle-one of those choppers. He was always tinkering with that

thing, making a mess. Putting Reggie on the back and racing through

the neighborhood. He used to call it his hog. Till Reggie was four he

actually thought that’s what a hog was.”

Smiling.

“It was the first thing I sold,” she said. “I didn’t want Reggie