John had agreed not to interfere with her therapy, no matter what. But how could he sit idly by and watch while she was in so much pain? Her breathing came in tortured gasps. Her complexion flushed a mottled red, and she trembled. Though nothing had touched her physically, Caroline’s fear was real.
Her therapist on the cell phone urged her to breathe and to hum but didn’t offer words of comfort or reassurance. Instead, Lola advised her client to confront her memory and to fight the terror. Caroline’s small bandaged hands drew into fists as though she could punch her way out of this nightmare.
Not what he’d expected. John never thought therapy would be so visceral. He’d imagined there was some kind of safe word to end the session. He’d seen a magic act in Reno where the magician clapped his hands to wake up the people who were in a trance. But this wasn’t a stage act. Caroline claimed this therapy had helped her deal with depression. Had it? To him, Lola’s directions seemed cruel.
In a barely audible voice, Caroline babbled about the demon steed with eyes like glowing embers and hooves of sharpened steel that would slice into her arms and legs. When she moaned, John shifted his weight in the chair. Uncomfortable, he was helpless and hated the feeling.
“Listen to me,” Lola snapped. “Forget about the damned horse, Caroline. Tell me about Virgil.”
“But I mustn’t turn my back on Baron.”
“Where’s Virgil? Find Virgil.”
“He’s not here. Nobody is in the barn but me and Baron. Nobody is in the saddle.” Her head whipped back and forth on the pillows as though she was searching for help, though her eyes were closed. “Here’s Baron. He’s coming at me. He lowers his big head. Drooling. Stinky. I’m trying to sneak away but he won’t let me. He shoves me with his nose. I’m up against the stall. The rough wood scrapes my hand and gives me splinters. Baron slobbers on my arm. He pushes me again. Ow!”
Her lips compressed into a tight horizontal line. With her right hand, she grasped her left wrist and cradled it against her chest. “It hurts, hurts so much.”
She went silent. Her eyes were still closed, and he wished he knew what was going on inside her head. He rose from the chair and walked toward the bed, ready to scoop her into his arms and rescue her...from what? He couldn’t save her from a memory.
Less than an hour ago, he’d wanted her to remember everything about her great-uncle. Now, it was the opposite. As he waited for Lola to continue, he heard traffic noises in the background on her phone. Was she attempting to manage this delicate situation while driving? He didn’t like her methods or her attitude. As far as he was concerned, she had the bedside manner of Lizzie Borden.
“Come on, Caroline.” Lola’s voice was demanding. “You need to leave the barn and go to the cabin, the place where Virgil lives.”
“Okay.” Though Caroline continued to gently clasp her wrist, her attitude changed. She was more confident, reminding him of when they’d first met. “Virgil’s cabin is made from logs. There’s a red door. I never told you that before.”
“Maybe it wasn’t always red.”
“Last night, it was locked, and I couldn’t get inside.”
“This isn’t about last night,” Lola said. “You’re seven years old, visiting your great-uncle. Go into the cabin and find him.”
“Okay.” Though she didn’t open her eyes, she said, “I see him. He’s in the kitchen, making chocolate-chip cookies.”
A smile played on her lips, and John was relieved. Though Max had told him Virgil was an abuser, this old cowboy baking treats for his little niece didn’t make him seem like a monster. Caroline sat up on the bed and held up her arm. “Look, Virgil. The bad horse hurt me. We better go to the doctor.”
If there was a regular doctor she saw as a child, he might be able to find records of her injuries A doctor would tell whether she’d been attacked by an abuser or had an accident with a “bad horse.” John needed facts to back up her memories.
Her smile widened. “Uncle Virgil hugs me really tight.”
He braced himself. Some abuse started with inappropriate touching from an adult. He needed to be alert to that possibility. The therapist reflected his concern.
Lola said, “How do you feel, Caroline? Where is he touching you?”
“His whiskers tickle.”
“Is he threatening you?”
“He wants to give me a special present from the treasure chest that’s hidden in the wall in my bedroom. He has a necklace with a gold coin.”
John made a mental note to look for a wall safe in that room when they returned to the cabin. Hiding precious metal in the wall counted as weird and possibly suspicious behavior. The coins might be contraband or stolen.
Caroline raised her arms over her head and yawned. “I’m ready to wake up, Lola.”
“In a minute, Caroline. First, you need to relax and hum your song, meditate.”
“And then...what?”
“Then we’ll be done.”
John stepped forward and picked up the cell phone. Speaking softly, he asked, “Ms. Powell, is this session finished? Can I wake her?”
“Please take the phone into the hallway,” Lola said. “We should talk.”
“Is it safe to leave Caroline alone?”
“Perfectly safe, Deputy Graystone, but if you’re concerned, leave the door open so you can keep an eye on her.”
In the hallway outside the master suite, he watched Caroline as she slept on her side. Her hair was mussed, and the gauze patch had slipped away from her head wound, but her breathing was steady and calm. The outer sweatshirt tangled around her body and the too-large cargo pants hung low on her slender hips, making her look like a kid playing dress-up. She’d kicked off her sneakers, and her bare feet curled under her.
He spoke into the phone. “Was this a typical session?”
“Actually, no. And the variations worry me. Caroline and I have been working on her PTSD for months with sessions once or twice a week. A change in her central narrative could unravel her recovery.”
“What is that change?”
“She has identified Virgil as her abuser, the source of her traumatic memories. Now, she’s talking about him as a cookie baker and blaming a horse for her panic.”
“How can you tell which version is correct?”
“Maybe it’s both,” she said. “It’s no secret that she used to hate horses.”
“Used to?” Her fear had sounded clear and present to him.
“When she was a kid. As she grew older, I believe the animals were symbolic of speed and related to her mother’s death in a car crash.”
“You got all that from what Caroline just said?”
“Of course not.” Her tone was brusque. “My conclusions are drawn after months of sessions similar to this one and from talk therapy. In some of our early sessions, I encouraged her to face her equinophobia, the psychological term for fear of horses. She signed up for riding lessons and is no longer crippled by that panic.”
An impressive victory for the therapist. Again, he heard traffic noises on her end. “Are you in your car?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m just pulling out into traffic. I was parked while I was directing Caroline. I have a full schedule, Deputy. This was the only way I could work in an appointment at short notice.” Briskly, she demanded, “Switch your phone to FaceTime so I can see you.”
After adjusting a setting, he and Lola were staring at each other on their tiny screens. Though he could only see her face and a colorful gold-and-green scarf around her neck, he had the impression that she was thin. Her long nose drew a straight line down the middle of her face, and her mouth was a narrow slash highlighted by scarlet lipstick. She was probably in her early thirties, and her brown hair was scraped into a high ponytail. With the tip of her little finger, she touched the corners of her mouth. “Nice to meet you, John.”
“Same here, Ms. Powell.” He didn’t presume to be on a first name basis. John didn’t know much about psychology, other than criminal behavior that applied to addicts and drunks. But he didn’t like the haphazard way Lola Powell had only dedicated partial attention to Caroline while parked at the side of the road. “Where did you learn your methods?”
“Are you questioning my training?”
“Should I?”
“I went to Berkeley, and I’ve taken dozens of specialized courses on depression and PTSD. Caroline has been seeing therapists off and on for most of her life. After her mother died, eight years ago, her depression worsened, and she went more regularly. I’m the first to make progress with her. Not that I owe you an explanation.”
“Ms. Powell, this is a murder investigation,” he explained. “If you’re called to testify on Caroline’s behalf, you will damn sure need to outline your credentials for the court. A recommendation from Maxwell Sherman isn’t enough.”
“Max told me you had a problem with him.”
John put a lid on his temper. It wouldn’t do any good to erupt. “Since we’re on the subject of Max, what do you think of their sudden engagement?”
“I can’t say. You understand, patient-therapist confidentiality.”
“I’m not asking for a diagnosis, just an opinion.”
“Sorry, John.” He could hear the smirk in her voice.
He was done with this conversation. “Is there anything I need to do after Caroline wakes up?”
“Frankly, I’m concerned about her. She’s sliding back into denial about Virgil and his abuse. I ought to fly out to Colorado and spend some time with my client.”
Much as he wanted to keep her and Max at bay, he couldn’t stop either of them. “I’m sure we all want what’s best for Caroline. In the meantime, please send an email with your credentials to my office for my files.”
“Why? Are you planning to take her to trial? Put her in handcuffs again? Charge her with murder?”
“I can’t talk about my plans.” He took pleasure in turning her confidentiality comment back at her. “Not during an ongoing investigation.”
Before she could snarl a hostile response, he disconnected the call. He wasn’t establishing good rapport with the women involved in this case. Edie Valdez brushed him off like an annoying gnat, and Lola Powell was openly hostile. Sheriff Bishop wouldn’t be surprised; he thought John didn’t handle women well. Possibly true. Not that it mattered. The only woman he cared about and wanted a connection with was Caroline.
At the far end of the hallway, two of the other guests at the Devereaux B and B headed toward their room. A white-haired couple, they were giggling and trying to hide the bottle of red wine from Fox Fire Farms in the Valley, as if Dolly would mind. After a friendly wave, he closed the bedroom door, crossed the room and sat beside Caroline on the bed.
On her back, she was lying—still and relaxed—with her right hand still holding the left wrist. Below her straight bangs, her complexion was pale. A light sprinkle of freckles was scattered across her button nose. Her thick, black lashes formed crescents on her cheeks. She blinked. Slowly, her eyes opened. For a moment, his questions and concerns faded while he focused on this lovely, delicate woman. How had sweet Caroline gotten entangled in a bloody murder?
He gazed into the depths of her deep brown eyes, noticing flecks of gold at the outer rim of the irises. Thinking of their connection, he was tempted to kiss her forehead, her cheek or her full, pink lips. For most of his life, he’d done what was expected, what was honorable and right. With a cop for a mom and a lieutenant colonel for a father, he hadn’t been encouraged to take risks. Kissing a murder suspect fell into the category of super-inappropriate.
Lightly, he stroked her smooth brown hair and removed the gauze pad. The area surrounding her head wound had been carefully shaved to avoid creating a large bald spot. She’d mentioned eight stitches, and he could see where she had been treated. “Not much blood,” he said. “You might want to wash it off.”
“Would you do it for me?” she asked. “I can’t really see the top of my head.”
He stood and held out his hand to help her to her feet. “We’ll clean your wound in the bathroom.”
As she trotted along behind him, she said, “I’d really like to get my suitcase so I could change clothes, but I don’t want to see Max. I can’t believe I agreed to be engaged to him. He’s not even a good friend.”
John couldn’t help grinning. He wanted to do a fist pump and victory yell but held back. “Does that mean you’d rather stay here at Dolly’s place?”
“Absolutely. It’s charming.”
And, he’d noticed, Dolly didn’t have many guests. She’d be happy to rent out another room. “After we get you cleaned up, we’ll go down to the kitchen and see if we can talk Dolly out of lunch.”
She closed the toilet seat and sat so he could see her head wound clearly. “What did you think of the therapy session?”
“I could use more explanation.” Lola was too hostile and defensive to be much help. “How does it work?”
“My sessions with Lola are like dreams or nightmares. Some bits I can recall in detail. Others are vague. Mostly, the session floats out of my mind.” She paused, frowning. “It’s not like amnesia, where the memory is nonexistent until I get it back, and then it fills out.”
“Give me an example.”
“You mentioned my condo in Portland’s Pearl District. In my mind, I can see those streets and I know the menus of my favorite restaurants.”
“And this recent session. What do you remember?” He reached into a drawer beside the sink and found a comb with wide-spaced tines. Carefully, he stroked through her straight, chin-length hair, trying not to pull at the stitches. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“It’s fine.” Without moving her head, she peeked up at him. “Let me think. What do I recall? Oh, the horse in that photo. His name was Baron, and he was mean. I got stuck in the barn with him, and he scared me. I was certain that he was going to stomp on me with his giant hooves or knock me to the ground.”
“Did he hurt you?”
She held up her left hand. “He pushed me up against a stall, and I sprained my wrist.”
“Did you go to the doctor?”
“I must have.” She stared at her wrist. “I think I remember. The doc wrapped it in a pink wrist brace. Virgil always took good care of me.”
He made a mental note to check on medical records for her. “Do you remember the doctor’s name?”
“No.”
“What did your mother say when she heard about the injury?”
“I guess she was okay with it. Mom was back in Portland doing her art while I was staying with Virgil for a few months in the summer. Mom wanted me to learn how to ride, but I couldn’t get over my fear of horses. Not until recently, when I took riding lessons.”
“Lola told me that was her idea.” He took a clean white washcloth from the shelf and dampened the end to gently dab at her stitches. “Is that true? Were the lessons her idea?”
“Maybe. I don’t know,” she said. “Lola can be really insistent. The first time I talked about Virgil hurting me, she labeled him an abuser.”
“And you don’t think that’s true,” John said.
“Sure, he was gruff, and he didn’t hesitate to scold me or give me a swat on my bottom. But abuse?” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Max said you intended to confront him.”
“I was angry,” she admitted, “but I just wanted to talk. Lola advised me to meet him, and she’s given me good advice. I’ve been to psychiatrists, psychologists, psychics and faith healers. She’s the only one who has made a difference.”
But was the difference positive? Was she coming closer to the truth? “Do you know where Lola got her training? She said she went to Berkeley.”
“But I don’t think she graduated, not that it matters to me. Do you know what’s really unfair?”
“What?”
“My insurance won’t pay for my sessions with Lola. Just because she doesn’t have some kind of whoop-de-do degree.”
Not often did John agree with insurance companies, but in this case...he could understand. Lola wasn’t necessarily a phony, but she didn’t have the credentials to practice psychotherapy and meddle in people’s lives. “You mentioned a necklace with a gold coin and a treasure chest hidden in your bedroom wall.”
She quickly nodded. “Virgil had secret hiding places all over that cabin.”
He needed to contact his deputies and the CBI forensic investigators immediately. While they were at the cabin, they could search for the old man’s caches. Virgil had more to hide than anyone had expected, and one of those secrets had gotten him killed.