More hypnosis.
I took her back to two days before the Sanctum party, Thursday morning. Despite my attempt to cushion her with the TV screen technique, she lapsed into a child’s voice and began muttering about trees and horses and “Brudda.” Questions about a nanny or baby-sitter or anyone else elicited puzzled looks and an upstretched left index finger.
Further questioning revealed that “Brudda” was Puck, whom she called Petey.
Petey playing with her.
Petey throwing a ball.
The two of them tearing leaves and looking at ladybugs.
Petey smiling. She smiled, as she told it.
Then her own smile melted away, and I sensed that the present was beginning to intrude.
“What’s happening, Lucy?”
Frown.
I took her forward, past the dream, to Sunday. She remembered nothing.
Back to Saturday night.
This time she described her walk in the forest calmly. Even the “scared” look on the abducted girl’s face didn’t ruffle her.
I zeroed in on the three men.
Talking about her father made her eyes move frantically under her lids. She thought he looked angry. Described his clothing: “Long . . . uh . . . white . . . like a dress.”
The caftan the society column had described; she could have read it.
I asked her if there was anyone else she wanted to talk about, waiting to see if she’d move on to Hairy Lip without prodding.
Left finger.
I repeated my question about mustache versus beard, using simple phrasing a four-year-old could understand.
“Is it a big mustache or a little mustache?”
Pause. “Big.”
“Real big?”
Right finger.
“Does it hang down or go straight out?”
“Down.”
“It hangs down?”
“Dig . . .”
She grimaced; I thought she’d shifted forward to the burial.
“Now they’re digging?”
Left finger. Anguished head-shake.
“What is it, Lucy?”
“Dig . . . Diggity Dog.”
For a second, I was thrown. Then I remembered a cartoon character from the seventies. A lazy, slow-talking bassett-hound sheriff with a twenty-gallon hat and a drooping walrus mustache.
“The mustache hangs down like Diggity Dog’s?”
Right finger.
“What color is it?”
“Black.”
“A black mustache that hangs down like Diggity Dog’s.”
Right finger, rigid, jabbing upward. Hard.
“Anything else about the man with the mustache, Lucy?”
“Black.”
“A black mustache.”
She grimaced.
“Good,” I said. “You’re doing great. Now is there anything you can tell me about the other man, the one with his back to you?”
Contemplation. Eyes moving under the lids.
“He . . . he’s . . . says . . . says, In there. In there, in there, dammit, Buck. Hurry. Roll it, roll it. Hurrydammit rollit inthere!”
CHAPTER
30
After she left I sat thinking about her sudden change of heart.
Courage competing with self-defense.
Maybe courage was her self-defense.
No matter, I couldn’t allow her to face him. I’d hold her off, try to get her to discover as much as she could on her own.
I thought about what she’d seen today.
Hairy Lip. Maybe someone other than Trafficant.
The third man, always with his back to her.
In there, dammit, Buck.
Was he Trafficant? Barking at his patron? From what I’d seen of Lowell I couldn’t imagine his tolerating that. But maybe his relationship with Trafficant had been more complex than mentor and protÉgÉ.
As I thought about it, Ken Lowell called.
“I’m a little concerned about Lucy, doctor. She told me about this dream she’s been having. Now I understand what’s been getting her up at night.”
“She hasn’t been sleeping well?”
“She thinks she has, because when she asks I tell her she has. But she gets up two or three times every night and walks around. Usually she goes out onto the landing, stares at a wall for a second or so, then returns to her room. But last night was a little scary. I found her at the top of the stairs, about to step off. I tried to wake her, but I couldn’t. She let me guide her back to bed, but it was like moving a mannequin. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to upset her. Aside from that, I guess I’d like to know if you think there’s anything to the dream. I mean, he was no great shakes as a father, but a murderer?”