Flesh And Blood by Jonathan Kellerman

No, I’d told him. No one knew.

He asked for more 7UP, drank, sank back against the pillows, closed his eyes.

A controlled man. A kind man. Delivering toys to a church, with no ulterior motive. Donating 15 percent of his trust fund, every year, to charity.

No one had a bad word to say about him because there was nothing bad to say.

I’d persisted in thinking of him as a warped killer.

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

I supposed I’d saved his life, but given all that and the bullet he’d taken for me, it seemed a feeble twist of reciprocity.

He’d been charitable enough to grant me another false equality: sharing Lauren. As if my stint as a failed therapist could come close to the bond he’d shared with her. Only to have it ripped from him.

A nice guy. In another place, another time, I wouldn’t have minded shooting the breeze with him. Talking about psychology, learning what it had been like growing up Tony Duke’s son.

But I had nothing more to offer him, and what he’d been through— what Lauren had been through—would stay with me for a long, long time.

So would the loose ends.

Anita. Baxter and Sage.

And now I had my own problems to deal with.

As I rang for his nurse, I knew that most likely I’d never see him or anyone else in the Duke family again, and that would be just fine.

36

THE NURSE CALLED for someone to see me out, and another big man showed up, a lobster pink blond with a shaved head wearing a lime green suit over a black T-shirt. I gave Dugger a small salute and walked out of the yellow room.

“Nice day, sir,” said my escort, using the same elbow steer to guide me through the black walnut hallway. Gilded niches were filled with statuary, urns brimmed with flowers, monogrammed D’s punctuated the blue-and-gold carpeting at twenty-foot intervals.

On the way to the elevator we passed a room whose double doors had been shut when I’d arrived. Now they were spread open, and I caught a glimpse of a ballroom-sized space with zebra-striped walls.

Another hospital bed, the stoic Dr. Maccaferri standing by the headboard, drawing blood through a syringe that he’d jabbed into an IV line.

Another too-small bed. A tiny, bald head barely visible above blue satin covers. Wizened, elfin. Sleeping or approximating slumber. Gaping mouth, toothless. Motionless.

The pressure on my elbow intensified. Mr. Nice Day said, “Please keep moving, sir.”

I drove home, knowing the house would be empty.

After that night on the pier, I’d spent hours at St. John’s Hospital. Had phoned home twice, gotten the machine. Returned just after two A.M. to find Robin wide awake, in the bedroom, packing a suitcase.

When I tried to hold her, she said, “No.”

“Early vacation?” I said. Everything was wrong, and I was talking gibberish.

“By myself,” she said.

“Honey—”

She threw clothing into the valise. “I got home at ten, was worried sick until you just happened to call at midnight.”

“Honey, I—”

“Alex, I just can’t take this anymore. Need time to settle myself down.”

“We both do,” I said, touching her hair. “Let’s stick with the original plan and get away together. I promise—”

“Maybe in a few days,” she said, suddenly crying. “You don’t know the pictures that filled my head. You . . . again. Then Milo told me what happened—what were you thinking. A date with a bimbo*. Another undercover adventure that nearly got you killed\”

“Not an adventure. Anything but. I was trying to help . . . some kids. The last thing I thought would happen was—”

“You can help kids by doing what you were trained for. Sit and talk to them—”

“That’s how this started, Robin.” Unable to keep my voice steady. “Lauren was a patient. It just got . . .”

“Out of control? That’s the point. When you’re involved, things tend to … expand. It’s like you’re a magnet for ugliness. You know me, I’m a structured person—I work with wood and metal and machines, things that can be measured. I’m not saying that’s ideal, or the only way. Maybe it means there’s something wrong with my psyche. But there’s something in between. Alex, the uncertainty you keep putting me through—every time you step out the door, not knowing if you’ll come back.”

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