Keeping Council Part 16

"The reason he's not here is because Mrs.

Rey had a breakthrough. I didn't mean to hear that, but I did. I can't even imagine what it is. I mean do you think Dr. Stan is like helping her have a religious experience or something since they're at the chapel?"

"I don't know," Tara answered quite seriously despite her amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I don't either. Well, that's the message. You okay now?" She held out a hand and touched Tara's shoulder, giving her a little push as if to see if she was stable.

"No problem. I'm fine. You don't know how long Mrs. Rey's religious experience is going to take, do you?"

The Green Girl shook her head.

"Haven't a clue."

"I think I'll go on over to the chapel and find him. What's he look like?"

"Oh, cute. Tall. You know. Thin." Those fingers went askew again.

"Right." Tara gave her a thumbs-up accepting the description as the best she was going to get "Good luck. Hope you find him. And don't worry, you'll be fine. He works wonders for people.

I was so depressed when I started seeing him and now, well." She held out both hands to show her self off in all her glory, and a glorious picture she was indeed.

"Need I say more?"

"Not another word," Tara panned. She was halfway to the front door, the Green Girl an equal distance down the hall heading toward the ficus, when Tara called, "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

" "Course not," she called back.

"It's snowing outside. Aren't you cold in those shorts?"

"Oh, no," she answered, "these socks are really heavy."

Tara nodded and left the office.

The plaza was quiet in midafternoon. A handful of people were milling about, ducking in and out of the shops. Late lunchers were lingering behind the windows of bistros and burger bars. Tara walked across the now brown gra.s.s slowly, rehas.h.i.+ng what she was going to say once she found Stanford Carrol. But the plaza wasn't big enough and she reached no decision by the time she stepped into the hush of G.o.d's house.

In the chapel, under a cross and under the high windows, a cl.u.s.ter of women knelt and prayed the rosary. One woman's voice called the prayers, while the beads slipped silently through their collectively devout fingers. A family*two parents and two kids*were viewing the stations of the cross, and in the corner, just outside an ancillary chapel, was the man she'd come to see.

He was one of those guys every woman under twenty fell in love with in the sixties. He was tall.

He was lanky. His gla.s.ses were round and rimless and his hair was long, straight, and parted in the middle. His face was drawn, sensitive-looking, and properly pale.

Tara walked down the aisle toward him. He had no interest in her approach, so lost in thought was he. One hand lay in his lap, the other was draped over the side of the pew. His fingers looked like marble, detailed like Jesus lying in the Pieta's lap.

They were exquisitely long and she imagined them plucking a guitar as he sat on some college campus warbling relevant songs that changed lives and broke hearts.

She was abreast of him now and saw that he wore his clothes well. A turtleneck. What else? Black. Why not? A pair of jeans. Of course. And boots. Well worn, naturally. He probably had a special occasion works.h.i.+rt and a tie in a closet somewhere.

There on the pew beside him was the requisite tweed jacket. She'd bet her bottom dollar there were leather patches on the elbows. His briefcase would be one that was fas.h.i.+oned by an Indian friend. The doctor would probably swear the leather was softened by the craftsman's teeth.

Tara smiled when she stopped. He did not when he looked at her. That didn't surprise her, the man had obviously been thinking deeply. She was taken aback by his voice, though.

"Tara Limey?" That voice was as deep as the Grand Canyon. The guy had obviously been in the wrong line when heaven was handing out vocal cords. She wondered if the Lord enjoyed the sound of it here in His house.

"Yes. I hope you don't mind my coming here."

She put out her hand. He half stood and took it.

"You made good time." He drew her into the pew and moved back to allow her room.

"And no, I don't mind your finding me here. I don't say things I don't mean. I gather you spoke to Paula."

"The Green Girl?" Tara grinned. Stanford Carrol looked at her pleasantly. She had his number. The man didn't like to laugh. Probably never cried. He was there as a receptacle for other people's emotions and what a fine one he was.

"Yes. She said that one of your patients was having a breakthrough."

The old receptacle actually tipped his lips at that one.

"The patient in question has a breakthrough once a month. It's like a progress report. If she has a breakthrough, she can tell her husband she has to continue with therapy."

"You don't mind that?"

"I'm not crazy about it. But I think she needs the attention, and there's merit in that. I'm sure you know people who sue other people just so they can feel as if they're accomplis.h.i.+ng something."

"Can't deny it." Tara popped the snaps on her denim jacket. It was hotter in the church than she'd first thought.

"Where is she?"

"The miraculous staircase." He tilted his head to the right.

Tara had seen it once, the staircase that St.

Joseph supposedly built for the nuns. Whoever did build it had to be a saint. They'd left without getting paid. The church now charged tourists to see it. Tara wondered why, since St. Joseph hadn't stuck them with a bill.

Stanford Carrol was still talking, his deep voice soothing in the twilight of the place.

"We come here every time she has a breakthrough. I wish all my patients were so kind as to give me a reflective moment on their hour. So," he said precisely, "I have reflected and here you are. My patient will be in there for at least ten more minutes. You're on."

Tara eyed him. He was so grounded, so up front.

She tried to imagine Bill Hamilton sitting with this calmly ordered man who didn't adorn himself, his workplace or, most likely, his life. Bill would have been put off by such austerity, frustrated by his inability to crack Stanford Carrol's demeanor. She could just see him prancing, spinning his tales, growing into the fake cowboy he'd become right in front of Stanford Carrol's eyes. And what had this man done to stop it? What did he know about the process and the end result that could help her now? That's what she had come to find out.

"I'm here about Bill Hamilton. As I told you on the phone, I'm his attorney, and I have some questions for you."

"Do you have a release from Bill?"

"No, I don't." She held his gaze.

"Then I could have saved you a long drive. We could have discussed all that I'm free to discuss over the phone. You realize that, of course."

"I do," Tara admitted.

"But I needed to see you.

I thought that might tell me something about Bill, too. And truthfully, I was hoping I might be able to convince you otherwise. You're not Bill's favorite person. I didn't want him to know I was coming to see you. This visit is to help me make appropriate decisions regarding Bill's legal standing. I want to a.s.sure you, though, I'm not talking a specific point of law at the moment."

"I'm not sure I really understand." He adjusted his gla.s.ses from the side, took them off, and held them up to the altar light. Satisfied with what he saw, he put them back on and gave her all his attention.

"Bill hasn't been charged with a crime. I've been retained to a.s.sist him in navigating around a problem so that he will not be incarcerated." Tara pushed up the sleeves of her sweater and crossed her legs, ready to work.

"Isn't that what lawyers are supposed to do?" The question wasn't easy. Dr. Carrol went on when she didn't answer.

"I find it hard to believe Bill would be involved in anything small. He was a grandiose person."

"He is unusual, and the specifics of his problem aren't really important at the moment. I'm looking for general information. I believe you treated him for a number of years?"

"He was an adolescent when I first started seeing him."

"How young?"

"Twelve, I think. Maybe thirteen. He didn't tell you?"

Tara pressed on, quietly. The family followed the stations of the cross toward their pew.

"Is yours a pediatric practice?"

"No. General. I tend to see more men than women. That's simply a personal preference. I like women too much to want to be disillusioned in my personal life by what I hear in my professional one."

Stanford looked at Tara, and waited for her next question.

"Interesting." She pushed back her hair, trying to find words that would get her what she wanted.

Unfortunately, Tara didn't really know what that was. She started to fish.

"Can we talk about Bill's family?"

"In general." He agreed and s.h.i.+fted, recrossing his long legs.

"I saw his mother the first time Bill came in. She seemed reasonable, rational. A nice looking woman. Other than that, I'm not at liberty to discuss his family. Money? Would that be of interest?"

Tara nodded.

"I can tell you that I was always paid. I got the feeling that it bothered Bill when there wasn't money*not just for me but other things. I never raised my rates for Bill. As we grew older together, I realized I didn't like to see him agitated."

"Did it frighten you when he was like that?"

Tara whispered now. The family was right behind them, staring at Christ fallen under his cross. A priest had come onto the altar. The place was beginning to feel crowded. She wished they could go back to his office.

"It didn't make me happy. Bill was not an unusual guy on some levels. On others ..." Stanford stopped, then picked up his jacket. He held it in his hands, twisting it while he considered what to say next.

"But then, to follow that line of thought would be discussing the specifics of that patient, wouldn't it?"

"Not really. This could be a general conversation about, say, Bill Hamilton's tendency to truthfulness.

Does Bill tell tales? Does he hallucinate? I suppose we could discuss how reliable those tales are. Neither of us have to talk about what he's told us," Tara contended, though that was exactly what she wanted to do. Strangely, she had the feeling Dr. Carrol wouldn't be averse to a little soul baring either.

Tara moved on the hard, s.h.i.+ny wood of the pew, pus.h.i.+ng him as far as he would go. But Dr. Carrol was staunch. Tara tried again.

"Maybe we could talk about his tendency to violence. Could Bill Hamilton be violent? That's the real question. That's the one I need answered."

The doctor held up a hand. He turned his head away, thought a moment, then looked back at Tara.

"This is walking a real fine line. I could ask you if you're concerned for your safety, or if Bill has made any threats. You might even lie and tell me you fear for your life, but I have a feeling fudging isn't your style." His expression clouded; his body language was that of an irritable man.

"Okay. Let's talk clinically." He tossed the jacket aside. Obviously it gave him no inspiration, or comfort, to hold it.

He gazed at the altar, not Tara.

"Where there are violent tendencies, there are no hard-and-fast rules.

For some people, violence is manifested quickly and sporadically. This is almost a physical necessity like breathing. Others are violent at will for psychological reasons. The violence makes them feel better about themselves, satisfies a desire for power, that kind of thing. Generally drugs such as Prozac and lithium can be used for control.

That might be of interest to you. You could extrapolate from there.

Other than that, may I suggest you call when you have a signed release from Bill."

"Okay. How about this." Tara knew she'd been given a gift, but it wasn't what she wanted. She wanted to return it for something bigger.

"Can these people work? People with violent tendencies?"

The doctor's eyes flickered with something-amus.e.m.e.nt or irritation, she wasn't sure.

"Many of my patients are well enough to hold jobs. Some are actually cla.s.sified as disabled. Then Social Security picks up the tab."

"Was that the case with a certain patient?"

The doctor was tiring. It had been irritation behind his eyes.

"I never really concerned myself with where the money came from."

"Can I see his emergency information?" Tara asked.

"No," he answered smoothly and started to rise in the same way. He was standing when Tara put her hand on his arm. They must have made quite a picture, the tall man, the woman pleading with him, her hair falling down her back. Very biblical.

"Doctor, there's a lot at stake here. I'm scared and I don't know if I should be. I'm afraid for other people, too, but he hasn't really done anything."

"And all I have is your word that you represent Bill Hamilton," he reminded her. The family had moved on. A small woman in a plaid dress had come through the chapel doors and tagged Stanford.

Tara didn't have much time.