28
Geagan and Stunden rose to their feet and prepared to leave.
‘Looks like I’m shit out of luck. Again,’ said Geagan. ‘Beg pardon, miss,’ he added.
‘No apology necessary,’ said Saunders. ‘And this is professional, not personal.’
‘Does that mean I still have a chance?’ asked Geagan.
‘No.’
Geagan gave an exaggerated sigh. Stunden patted him on the back.
‘Come on, let’s leave them to it. I’m sure I got a bottle somewhere at home that could help you with your troubles.’
‘Whiskey?’ said Geagan.
‘No,’ said Stunden. ‘Ethyl alcohol. You might need to cut it with something, though. . . .’
They made their excuses and left, although not before Geagan cast a final lingering glance in Saunders’s direction. The guy had clearly spent too long in the woods: if he didn’t get some action soon, even moose would be in danger from him.
‘Your fan club?’ asked Saunders, once the waitress had brought her a Mich Ultra.
‘Some of it.’
‘It’s bigger than I expected.’
‘I like to think of it as small but stable, unlike your patient base, which seems to be dwindling by the day. Maybe you should consider an alternative profession, or cut a deal with a mortuary.’
She scowled. Score one for the guy with the chip on his shoulder.
‘Harold Proctor wasn’t one of my patients. It looks like a local physician was prescribing his meds. I contacted him in an effort to have him participate in my study, but he didn’t want to cooperate, and he didn’t ask for my professional help. And I don’t appreciate your flippant attitude toward what I do, or toward the former servicemen who’ve died.’
‘Get off your soapbox, Dr. Saunders. You were in no hurry to offer me help the last time we met, when I was under the misguided impression that we wanted the same thing.’
‘Which was?’
‘To find out why a small group of men, all of whom knew one another, were dying by their own hands. Instead, I got the party line and some cheap analysis.’
‘That wasn’t what you wanted to find out.’
‘No? They teach you telepathy at head school too, or is that something you’ve been working on when you get tired of being supercilious?’
She gave me the hard stare. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah, why don’t you order a real drink? You’re embarrassing me.’
She broke. She had a nice smile, but she’d fallen out of the habit of using it.
‘A real drink: like a glass of red wine?’ she said. ‘This isn’t a church social. I’m surprised the bartender didn’t take you outside and beat you with a stick.’
I sat back and raised a hand in surrender. She put the Mich aside and signaled the waitress. ‘I’ll have what he’s having.’
‘It’ll look like we’re on a date,’ I said.
‘Only to a blind man, and then he’d probably have to be deaf as well.’
Saunders was certainly a looker, but anyone seriously considering engaging with her on an intimate level would need to wear body armor to counter the spikes. Her wine arrived. She sipped it, didn’t appear to actively disapprove, and sipped again.
‘How did you find me?’ I asked.
‘The cops told me that you were in Rangeley. One of them, Detective Walsh, even described your car for me. He told me that I should slash your tires when I found it, just to make sure you stayed put. Oh, and for the sake of it.’
‘The decision to stay was kind of forced upon me.’
‘By the cops? They must really love you.’
‘It’s tentative, but mutual. How did you find out about Harold Proctor?’ I asked.
‘The cops found my card in his cabin, and it seems that his physician is on vacation in the Bahamas.’
‘It’s a long way to drive for a man that you didn’t know well.’
‘He was a soldier, and another suicide. This is my work. The cops thought I might be able to shed some light on the circumstances of his death.’
‘And could you?’
‘Only what I could tell from my sole visit to his home before tonight. He lived alone, drank too much, smoked some pot, judging by the smell in his cabin, and he had little or no support structure.’
‘So he was a prime candidate for suicide?’
‘He was vulnerable, that’s all.’
‘Why now, though? He’d been out of the military for fifteen years or more. You told me that post-traumatic stress could take as long as a decade to undo, but fifteen years seems like a long time for it to begin in the first place.’
‘That I can’t explain.’
‘How did you come to find him?’
‘As I interviewed former soldiers, I asked them to suggest others who might be willing to participate, or those whom they felt were vulnerable and could use an informal approach. Someone suggested Harold.’
‘Do you remember who it was?’
‘No. I’d have to check my notes. It might have been Damien Patchett, but I couldn’t say for sure.’
‘It wouldn’t have been Joel Tobias, would it?’
She scowled. ‘Joel Tobias doesn’t hold with psychiatrists.’
‘So you tried?’
‘He conducted the last of his physical therapy at Togus, but there was a psychological component as well. He was assigned to me, but our progress was limited.’ She examined me steadily over the lip of her glass. ‘You don’t like him, do you?’