CHAPTER

29

“A caricature,” said Lucy, trying to smile. But there was fear in her eyes.

Outside, the sun hid behind a cloud bank and the ocean was a restless gray curdle. Very low tide. I heard the breakers die far back, slapping the sand like slow, monstrous applause.

It was eight in the morning; I’d just finished telling her about my visit. Nicolette Verdugo’s murder was all over the news. Jobe Shwandt was giving death-row interviews, lecturing on astrology and utopianism and the proper way to cut up a side of beef. One of the Bogettes had told the Times the day had come for all victims to rise up and slaughter the oppressors. Lucy had come in holding the morning paper, but she hadn’t wanted to talk about any of that.

“So what’s his angle?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “In his own bizarre way, he may be reaching out. Or just trying to regain some control.”

She shook her head and smiled. Then her mouth turned down. “See any lacy trees?”

“There are trees all over the place. The house is set into a forest.”

“A log house.”

“Yes,” I said. “Like a giant log cabin. Ken told me that’s where you and Puck slept. You were being cared for by a nanny. Any memory of that?”

“I know,” she said. “He told me, too. Some woman with short hair, and he remembers her as being grumpy. But that didn’t trigger anything for me.”

“Has he come up with anything else about that summer?”

She shook her head. “Apparently we had nothing to do with each other. It’s frustrating. Why would I block out something like a nanny?”

“Maybe she wasn’t with you very long. Not every memory registers.”

“Guess not.” The tendons in her neck were stretched tight. “Maybe I should jog my memory directly—go up there. From what you’ve told me, I should be able to handle him.”

“Let’s not rush things,” I said.

“I need to know the truth.”

“He’s old and feeble but far from innocuous, Lucy. Remember how manipulative he was with Puck.”

“I understand that. I’ll go in expecting a total monster. And no matter what he tries, it’s not going to work. Because I’m not Puck. He doesn’t have anything I need. I just want to look for those trees.”

The tide broke thunderously and she jumped.

I said, “Humor an overcautious therapist, Lucy. Let’s take our time.”

She was looking at the water. “Does it get that loud often?”

“Once in a while. Is there anything else you want to talk about?” I said.

“I want to talk about putting together a battle plan. Going up there and learning what happened.”

“Going up there doesn’t mean you’ll learn anything.”

“But not going up there means I definitely won’t. He’s a crippled old man. What can he do to me?”

“He has a way with words.”

“That’s all a writer ever has.”

“The point is, he may be reaching out to you because he’s dying.”

Her eyes flickered but she didn’t move.

“I’ve seen it plenty of times, Lucy. The most abusive, neglectful parents wanting some sort of relationship before they die. You need to sort out your own feelings about that very carefully. What if you go up there expecting brutality and he turns tender?”

“I could handle it,” she said. “He can’t collect debts that aren’t owed to him.”

She fooled with her hair and looked out at the ocean.

“I just thought of something. It’s horribly mean, but it’s funny. If he really gets obnoxious, I’ll handle him by falling asleep. Doze right off. That’ll get the message across.”

   

More hypnosis.

I took her back to two days before the Sanctum party, Thursday morning. Despite my attempt to cushion her with the TV screen technique, she lapsed into a child’s voice and began muttering about trees and horses and “Brudda.” Questions about a nanny or baby-sitter or anyone else elicited puzzled looks and an upstretched left index finger.

Further questioning revealed that “Brudda” was Puck, whom she called Petey.

Petey playing with her.

Petey throwing a ball.

The two of them tearing leaves and looking at ladybugs.

Petey smiling. She smiled, as she told it.

Then her own smile melted away, and I sensed that the present was beginning to intrude.

“What’s happening, Lucy?”

Frown.

I took her forward, past the dream, to Sunday. She remembered nothing.

Back to Saturday night.

This time she described her walk in the forest calmly. Even the “scared” look on the abducted girl’s face didn’t ruffle her.

I zeroed in on the three men.

Talking about her father made her eyes move frantically under her lids. She thought he looked angry. Described his clothing: “Long … uh … white … like a dress.”

The caftan the society column had described; she could have read it.

I asked her if there was anyone else she wanted to talk about, waiting to see if she’d move on to Hairy Lip without prodding.

Left finger.

I repeated my question about mustache versus beard, using simple phrasing a four-year-old could understand.

“Is it a big mustache or a little mustache?”

Pause. “Big.”

“Real big?”

Right finger.

“Does it hang down or go straight out?”

“Down.”

“It hangs down?”

“Dig …”

She grimaced; I thought she’d shifted forward to the burial.

“Now they’re digging?”

Left finger. Anguished head-shake.

“What is it, Lucy?”

“Dig … Diggity Dog.”

For a second, I was thrown. Then I remembered a cartoon character from the seventies. A lazy, slow-talking bassett-hound sheriff with a twenty-gallon hat and a drooping walrus mustache.

“The mustache hangs down like Diggity Dog’s?”

Right finger.

“What color is it?”

“Black.”

“A black mustache that hangs down like Diggity Dog’s.”

Right finger, rigid, jabbing upward. Hard.

“Anything else about the man with the mustache, Lucy?”

“Black.”

“A black mustache.”

She grimaced.

“Good,” I said. “You’re doing great. Now is there anything you can tell me about the other man, the one with his back to you?”

Contemplation. Eyes moving under the lids.

“He … he’s … says … says, In there. In there, in there, dammit, Buck. Hurry. Roll it, roll it. Hurrydammit rollit inthere!”