The heavy green velvet curtains were closed, but the sun streamed like a knife through a gap where they didn’t quite meet. Archie turned on the chandelier and put two pills in his mouth and swallowed them.
The carpet was different. They had changed the carpet. Maybe the crime lab had cut the coffee stain out; maybe too many cops had tracked in too much mud; maybe they had just redecorated. The big wooden desk was on the other side of the room, against the wall, rather than in front of the windows, where Gretchen had placed it. Other than that, it was the same: library bookshelves stacked two deep with books, the grandfather clock with its motionless hands still pointing at 3:30, the striped overstuffed chairs. He sunk into the chair he had sat in that day with Gretchen. He could remember everything now. The black long-sleeved dress she had been wearing, the cashmere cardigan the color of butter. He had admired her legs when she had sat down. A harmless observation and an obvious one. He was male, after all, and she was beautiful; he could be forgiven for noticing that.
“I’ve seen you out there a few times.” It was Sarah, standing in the doorway.
“I’m sorry,” Archie said. “It’s just that this place, your house, it’s the last place I remember feeling all right.”
“You’ve been through a terrible ordeal,” Sarah said. “Are you seeing anyone?”
Archie closed his eyes and leaned his head on the back of the chair. “Oh God,” he said smiling. “You’re a psychiatrist.”
“A psychologist, actually,” she said with a shrug. “I also teach up at Lewis & Clark. That’s how Gretchen Lowell found us. We’d posted the house through a faculty board. But I still have a practice.” She paused. “If you’re interested, I would love to have you as a patient.”
So that was why she had invited him in. A patient who’d been through what he had would prove endlessly interesting to a shrink. “I’m seeing someone,” Archie said. He gazed at the spot on the carpet where he’d fallen, unable to move, everything suddenly, horribly clear. “Every Sunday.”
“Is it helping?”
He considered this. “Her methodology is a little unorthodox,” he said slowly. “But I think that she’d tell you it’s working.”
“I’m glad,” Sarah said.
Archie glanced around the room one last time and then looked at his watch. “I should be going. Thanks for inviting me inside. It was very kind of you.”
“I’ve always loved this room,” Sarah said, looking at the big window. “When the curtains are open, you can see the plum trees.”
“Yeah,” Archie said, and as if they shared an old mutual friend, he added, “Gretchen liked that, too.”
CHAPTER
29
A rchie knew that Debbie would call him when she’d seen Susan’s second story. It didn’t matter that it was before 7:00 on Sunday morning. She knew that he’d be up. There was a killer loose and the clock was ticking, and even though there was little he could actually do but wait for something to happen, sleep seemed an admission of defeat. As it was, he was sitting on his couch reading printouts of Lee Robinson’s mash-note E-mails. Nothing like going through the private thoughts of a dead teenager to make you feel like a voyeuristic asshole. He had been up long enough to have already had coffee and two runny eggs, but only to have food in his stomach so he could take some Vicodin. He always allowed himself extra Vicodin on Sundays.
“Have you seen it?” Debbie asked.
Archie leaned back and closed his eyes. “No. Tell me about it.”
“She talks about Gretchen. What she did to you.”
They don’t know half of what she did to me, thought Archie. “Good. Are there pictures?”
“One of you and one of Gretchen.”
He opened his eyes. There were Vicodin on the table. He lined them up in a little row, like teeth. “Which one of Gretchen?”
“The mug shot.”
Archie knew the one. It was the first time Gretchen had been in the system. She had been picked up for writing a bad check in Salt Lake City in 1992. She was nineteen and her hair was shoulder length and teased, her expression startled, her face gaunt. Archie allowed himself a smirk. “Good. She hates that picture. She’ll be pissed. Anything else?” He picked up a pill and rolled it between his fingers.
“Susan Ward hints at sordid details to come of your much-speculated-upon captivity.”
“Good.” He put the Vicodin in his mouth, letting the bitter chalky taste sit on his tongue for a moment before washing it down with a sip of tepid black coffee.
“You’re using her.” Debbie’s voice was low and Archie could almost feel the heat of it against his neck. “It’s not fair of you.”
“I’m using me. She’s just a vehicle.”