“What does that mean?” I manage. My voice is choked, my whole body trembling.
Starzyk doesn’t answer me as he walks away. I watch him in the side mirror as he gets back into his truck. I want so badly to drive away first, to be in control, but I’m shaken to the core. I feel the same way, almost, as when I hit the deer. It’s another impact.
Instead, I sit there as Starzyk pulls away from the curb and roars past in his truck. He doesn’t look at me as he goes — I just have this quick image of him in profile, sunglasses on.
How dare you, I think, as the truck heads down the road.
It’s like I’ve been violated. And that’s what this is: an abuse of power. Cops can’t just pull people over willy-nilly. This is obviously personal for him — he’s using his personal phone to call me. And his personal vehicle too — when I saw him in Bronxville, he was in an unmarked police car. Now he’s been following me around in his pickup truck.
I grab my phone, wondering if I should call 911, or if I can just google the number for BCI headquarters in Albany. The former seems a bit dramatic but might more readily connect me to the right people once I explain the situation. The latter, though, just seems more reasonable.
But I sit there, looking at my phone, not moving.
The person in the window is gone. The kid has mounted his bike and rides circles in the road, focused on childhood things once more.
Call.
But I don’t.
It’s still not a complete picture yet. Right now, all I’ve got is a cop acting weird. Maybe abusing his authority, sure. Getting pushy with his power. And it might be enough to get him in trouble, but what are we talking about? A reprimand, most likely, a slap on the wrist. I’m a respected doctor with a long history of working well with law enforcement, but Starzyk is also decorated. A call from me, no matter how earnest, would have far less impact on his life than he’s had on mine.
This isn’t about an eye for an eye. This is about justice. That’s how it’s got to be. I’ve got to be ready with everything — I need Michael’s whole story, need to know what and who he saw — and then I can make the move.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
I follow the directions Michael gave me, because once I’ve gone off the main roads and am deep enough into the woods, there’s no more satellite guidance. First the LTE indicator blips off, then the tower signal strength fades down to one bar as I pilot the Toyota rental over a narrow, bumpy dirt road. Finally, the phone claims No Service.
It’s even more remote and rustic out here than at our home on the lake. The sunlight shines bars of light through a high canopy of trees. Douglas firs and red birches make up the lower scrub. Deer flies nose-dive at the car as I make my way in. Deeper and deeper.
Seven-tenths of a mile later, I’m looking at it. A yurt. But like Sean described, it’s well-built, wooden. A real house.
I see a small chicken coop and a vegetable garden. A grouping of solar panels. A decent-sized generator with a large can of gas beside it probably serves as their backup power. As I drove in, I went up in elevation, where there were fewer larger trees to form the canopy; the unfettered sun burns down onto the panels. Nearby, a sturdy shed most likely holds the batteries. The other small outbuilding looks like a bathhouse.
This is where Madison Tremont, a childhood friend of Joni’s, has made her home with her boyfriend, Hunter. While I commend them for their spirit of adventure and the effort toward renewable energy, as Paul pointed out, the dark gray Escalade parked next to the pine trees seems a bit antithetical.
But I’m not here to judge.
The door to the yurt opens, and Michael takes the two steps down to the ground and approaches as I exit my car.
His eyes are puffy and reddened, as if he’s been crying. As he gets closer, his lip trembles, and he throws his arms around me in a big hug. “Thank you for coming,” he says into my shoulder and hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left last night.”
“It’s okay.” I’ve gone rigid at his embrace but force myself to squeeze him back before pulling free. I glance around. “Where is everyone else?”
He wipes his eyes and sniffs. “They’re hiking. They wanted to give us some space.”
I step back and keep looking, seeking any signs of danger. I don’t know what. Maybe someone lurking at the property’s edge. But all I hear are the clucking chickens and the songbirds; all I see are the white butterflies dancing amid the bright green ferns.
“We’re halfway up a mountain,” Michael says. “Madison and Hunter hike to the top all the time.”
For a moment, I think I catch the sound of an engine, but then it’s gone. I’ve been here five minutes. I checked the mirrors as I came. If Starzyk followed me, he’s keeping a distance.
You’re the one who needs to be afraid.
A warning? Or a threat? Well, Starzyk can’t know what Michael has told me in confidence. Even if he could, anything Michael has said so far is dubious as new evidence. No judge would hear of it — Michael’s mother-in-law-to-be eliciting memories through regression therapy, fifteen years after the fact?
What’s on the record, too, would be unbearably hard to budge: a young Thomas Bishop admitted to witnessing his father’s murder. He made a final statement to the cops naming his mother as the murderer. Laura then pled guilty. End of story.
At least, I hope so.
So what does Starzyk think he knows?
Michael is looking at me. I notice a smile playing at the edges of his mouth, a glimmer in his eye. “You need this as much as I do,” he says.
I take a breath, let it out slowly. “Maybe I do.”
*
We get started. In anticipation of my arrival, someone, probably Michael, has lit candles. There is a couch in the center of the room.
I’ve never been in a yurt. I expected it to be just one round space, but they’ve built two additional side rooms: a bathroom and what looks like a pantry. The ceiling is dome-shaped, with two skylights letting in the scattered sunlight. It smells nice, like earthy spices — cumin, maybe. Cinnamon. Hippie smells.
I ask Michael if he’s comfortable. He is. He lies like a corpse on the couch, his eyes closed.
I begin to talk him into deeper relaxation. I watch as his chest rises and falls, and his breathing slows. Not everyone is suggestible, not enough for regressive therapy. Michael seems to slide into it like a lake of oil.
We’re similar that way. Sarah had me under hypnosis a couple of times, and it seemed to go smoothly enough. It’s something fundamental about certain people, that they can be so persuaded. It doesn’t mean we’re weak-willed, but it’s something in the brain. A different way of processing stimuli. Paul, for instance, could never be hypnotized. Probably Joni would be resistant, too.
Sean would be susceptible. He’s more like me.