Done to Death (20 page)

‘Rachel, I need you to pull out of it,' the man's voice said.

His words snuck beneath the waves and the gulls. She felt numb and paralyzed; the warm sand and gentle waters did nothing as she froze in her brother's gaze. ‘Help me,' she called to him. He seemed caught, unmoving, his lower limbs below the surf, while blood pulsed from his chest. ‘Help me.'

‘I will,' the man said. ‘I need you to focus, Rachel. I want you to think of your breath and follow it in and out. Just the breath, nothing else. You don't see or hear anything other than your breath. Follow it in and follow it out.'

The man's voice was familiar − Dr Ebert. She felt a juvenile surge of rebellion but, caught between Richard's blood and the frightening emotions that tore at her like harpies, she surrendered to the voice's magnetic pull.
My breath, yes
,
I can do that. Nothing else, just the breath in and the breath out.

‘Good,' Dr Ebert encouraged. ‘Keep riding the breath, and when you're ready I'd like you to feel your weight against the mattress, see how it molds and sinks in. See how the breath going in and out changes that. Observe the subtleties.'

The cove and Richard retreated. Her fears were held at bay by her focus.

‘Perfect. Well done. Now listen to my voice, and when I tell you to open your eyes, I'd like you to do that. Is that OK?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Good, now Rachel open your eyes. We're going to get through this. You are going to get through this.'

She cracked her eyes open, and through the curtain of her hair saw Dr Amos Ebert's broad dark face.

‘It's OK,' he said. His voice was soft and deep.

‘It's not,' she said, too frightened to move, knowing that the minute reality found her, it would hurl her into an emotional free fall.

‘You're right,' he said. ‘And even so, you're going to survive this.'

‘He's dead. Richard is dead.' She heard the words through her lips. It didn't sound like her. They seemed far away, some other woman speaking them. She saw him standing in the cove, and then more real. He was banging on her door, and then stumbling through. At first she thought it was some horrible joke, but Richard never played pranks − that was her.

‘Tell me everything that you're thinking,' Dr Ebert urged. ‘You're in a safe place; nothing and no one can hurt you here.'

‘He was shot,' she said. She felt air rush through her lips. ‘He came into my room. There was blood on his chest, his hands.'

‘Yes, and what did you do?'

‘I went to him.' Her words like steps on wafer-thin ice. ‘There was too much blood. I put my hand on the wound.' She felt the blood, warm and sticky. She felt his pulse as his life bled out. ‘He died there. I held him as he died.' She knew he was gone, she cradled him, feeling the softness of his hair against her arms. ‘He was dead when I called nine one one. But I wouldn't leave him, because what if he'd died when I wasn't there?'

‘That was the kind thing to do. To comfort him.'

‘I knew. He was leaving me. I wouldn't leave him.' A tear formed, and then another. ‘I wouldn't ever leave him. Why?'

‘I don't know,' Dr Ebert said, his eyes fixed on Rachel.

‘Why would someone do that to Richard?' From beneath the curtain of her hair she looked at Ebert. ‘I'm the bitch. It should have been me.'

Ebert felt relief that she'd come back from her dissociative state. There'd been times − especially when she was in her early teens − when she'd zone out for days. He knew to tread carefully. The girl was exquisitely sensitive to rejection. Her brother's death, while tragic, could easily be the thing that made her follow through on her frequent impulses and threats to end her life. He also knew that if she ignored the pain and the grief, they would emerge in twisted and dangerous ways. ‘Tell me about Richard.'

Her tears fell. ‘He was perfect. Lenore should have stopped with him. He could handle her … he could handle me.' She made eye contact with her psychiatrist. ‘You know I'm pregnant.'

‘Yes.'

‘It's Richard's baby.'

In his early fifties, with over twenty years under his belt as a psychiatrist, little shocked Amos Ebert. He schooled his expression while searching for an appropriate response, discarding the ones that came first to mind, such as
What the fuck? Are you insane?
or the obvious
How the hell did that happen?
He settled on ‘Is this something you want?'

‘Yeah. No one's going to talk me out of it.'

‘Rachel, it's your body and your decision.'

‘People will judge me.'

‘If you tell them your brother was the father, that's true.' He'd worked with Rachel for nearly ten years. Had sessions with both her and Lenore − those had taxed his considerable talents. He'd met Richard on numerous occasions. Sitting here now with Rachel he realized that this very intelligent girl had deliberately, and until recently successfully, concealed at least one important aspect of her life. ‘How long had you and Richard been intimate?'

‘What makes you assume that?' she said, her green eyes wide, the hint of a smile on her lips. ‘I could be more like Lenore than you think. You know, the turkey baster method.'

‘I don't think so,' he said, remembering her staid brother. Probably the only person in the world who genuinely cared for Rachel.

‘You're right,' she said. ‘And it wasn't his fault. I'm the bad one. He never wanted to do it. He would have stopped if I'd let him.'

Dr Ebert listened to classic Rachel, self-hating and vulnerable. This made sense. On more than one occasion − the first time when she was twelve − Rachel had attempted to seduce him. Her efforts had been clumsy and motivated by an intense need to feel wanted, to fill an aching void and stem her emotional free fall. Resisting and redirecting her urges without leaving her feeling rejected took skill, which her young brother would not have had. Now, in the setting of Richard's murder, and her pregnancy, this material needed to be explored. ‘When did you and Richard start—'

‘Fucking?'

He gave her the hint of a smile. ‘I was going for something softer.'

‘I was twelve and he was fifteen.'

Ebert held his breath. Had she revealed any of this when she was still a minor, he would have been bound to report it to youth services. She was now nineteen and that wouldn't be necessary. ‘So all this time?'

‘No. Like I said, it was me. He did it for me. I was always the instigator. It would make me feel better, at least for a little. I'm such a piece of shit. What sort of person makes her brother do that?'

‘One in a lot of pain,' he offered. ‘I am curious as to why this is the first time you've brought this up.'

‘Yeah.' She pushed back against the wall and ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it off her face. ‘Dr Ebert, you've been good to me, and I know I've pulled a lot of stunts. Like even now, I'm sure you had appointments and stuff, and here you are in the middle of the day … and yes, I know Mom had you on a retainer. And when all of this is figured out, I still want you to be my psychiatrist.'

He felt a question in her words. ‘I'm not going anywhere, Rachel.'

‘Good. I couldn't tell you before.'

‘Because of your ages?'

‘Yeah. I'm crazy, but I'm not stupid.'

He laughed. ‘No, you are definitely not stupid. So, going with that, let's talk about what comes next.'

Her mouth gaped. She saw Richard, the blood. She felt him in her arms, his soft hair.

‘Rachel,' Ebert said. His voice direct. ‘Stay in the present. Tell me what's going on.'

They were interrupted by a knock at the door.

He shouted back, ‘We're in session.'

The door opened. ‘I'm sorry.' A male nurse in Silver Glen navy scrubs poked his head in the door. ‘There's a detective who wants to talk to Rachel.'

Rachel blinked. She saw Dr Ebert and the nurse. She also saw Richard's blue eyes staring into hers, as if it were happening again.

‘Not a good time,' Ebert said. ‘She's not ready for that.'

‘No,' Rachel said. ‘Is it that woman?'

‘It's a Detective Perez.'

‘Short, dark poodle hair, kind of stocky?' Rachel asked.

‘Yeah.'

She looked at Ebert. ‘I'll talk to her.'

‘You're certain?' Ebert asked.

‘Yeah.' As the nurse left, she added, ‘But I'm not going to tell her about Richard and me, and I don't want you to either.'

‘You got it.'

‘Don't write it down anywhere. This has got to stay secret … God.'

‘What?'

‘I'm turning into my mother. You'll stay?'

‘I think it's a good idea.'

The door opened and the nurse returned with Detective Perez. She looked at Dr Ebert seated in front of the platform bed and then at Rachel, pressed back against the wall.

‘I want Dr Ebert here,' Rachel said, looking at Mattie.

Mattie nodded and extended her hand. She and the doctor shook. ‘Do you have a card?' she asked, offering him one of hers.

‘Yes.'

She tucked his away and looked around the sparsely furnished room for a place to sit.

‘I'll get a chair,' the nurse said from the door.

‘They don't let you have things that aren't bolted down,' Rachel offered. ‘Or maybe it's just me. I've been here before … my reputation precedes me.' She smiled at Ebert.

‘How are you doing?' Mattie asked.

‘Honestly, I don't know.' She glanced at Ebert. ‘I'm not suicidal, not now.'

‘Good,' he said, as the nurse returned with a chunky wooden chair.

‘Let me know when you're done,' the nurse said. ‘I'll come and take it away.'

‘Thanks.' Mattie waited for the nurse to leave. She glanced around the room, noting the dome camera in the ceiling. ‘They tape the patients?' she asked the psychiatrist.

‘Sometimes. If they're particularly concerned that someone might try to hurt themselves, but it's not routine.'

‘Are they taping now?' she asked.

‘Yes, but just video, not audio.'

‘I see.' She wondered if a subpoena for the tapes of Rachel would bear fruit. The hospital would push back with patient confidentiality. ‘Rachel, I need to ask you about last night and I'd like to tape this interview. Will you be OK with that?'

‘We'll see,' Rachel said.

‘Is that a yes or a no?'

‘Sure, go ahead. Yes.'

Mattie pulled out a tiny digital recorder and clicked it on. ‘This is Detective Mattie Perez.' She stated the time and date, who was present and where they were. ‘Rachel, I'd like you to tell me everything you remember about last night.'

Rachel's shoulders slumped and her hair fell forward. ‘I didn't hear anything, no gunshot. He just came into my room. I was sleeping.'

‘Who came in?' Mattie asked.

‘Richard. I heard him at the door.'
Rachel felt the room shift as Richard's hand fumbled at her door, pulling her from sleep. ‘Rachel,' he called out. His voice was wrong; she could hear his pain. ‘Are you OK?' he asked.
‘He asked me if I was OK, and he was dying. Those were his last words.'
She heard him fall, his knee landing too hard. That was the instant she knew, even before she turned on the light. The sound of his knees hitting the wood floor, that's when she knew he was dying. She hadn't even seen the blood yet.
‘Isn't that strange? I knew it was awful, and then I was out of bed and he was on the floor.'
Her hands in his hair, on his chest.
‘There was so much blood. I remembered you're supposed to apply pressure, and I did. I felt his heart beating and the blood just pushed out into my hand. I knew I was supposed to call nine one one, but I couldn't just leave him. He was looking at me, I think he wanted to speak, but it was too late. We just stared into each other's eyes. I loved him so much.' Her shoulders heaved and she sobbed. ‘Richard, how could you leave me?'

Dr Ebert leaned forward. ‘Good girl,' he said. ‘You've got to feel this.'

‘It hurts.' Her mouth twisted.

‘I know. It has to,' he said. He glanced at the detective. There were tears in his eyes.

‘Can I continue?' Mattie asked, prepared to terminate the interview if the doctor felt it would be too much.

‘Rachel?' he asked.

She swallowed and accepted the box of tissues he held. She blew her nose. ‘He had the softest hair,' she said, ‘and the bluest eyes. We always figured they were our father's eyes. I, of course, got Lenore's.'

‘Who is your father?' Mattie asked.

‘That's top secret,' Rachel said. ‘Sorry, that was bitchy. I don't know. It was on my list of things to do to figure that out. We had our suspicions. There's a queer actor Mom was besties with. He has dark hair and beautiful eyes like Richard.' Rachel stared at the detective. ‘I'm sure you know by now that Lenore was a dyke, another well-guarded secret.'

Mattie nodded. ‘Did you know she was planning to have another child, possibly more than one, using a surrogate?'

Rachel started. ‘You're kidding … who? Did it actually happen? Is this a theory or fact? It's pure Lenore, but who's the surrogate?'

‘It seems likely, but no, I'm not one hundred percent certain. I was hoping you might know.'

‘Isn't that a kick in the pants? Richard – I bet she told him, and screw him for not telling me.'

‘You and your mom fought a lot.'

‘Yeah, and no, I didn't kill her.' Rachel looked to her doctor. ‘Why Richard?' She glanced from him back to the detective. ‘Why him and not me? It wasn't a robbery. Why?'
And again she was there, hands slick with blood, staring into his beautiful eyes as his life went out.
‘Why Richard? It should have been me. It should have been me.'