When the Day of Evil Comes (8 page)

BOOK: When the Day of Evil Comes
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So here I was, with my dream job, thirty-three years old, single, no prospects for marriage. Not that I was looking to get married. But still. I hadn’t had a date in a year. And I consider myself to be eminently datable. I’m a smart, reasonably interesting, non-lumpy fairly athletic woman with my mother’s eyes and thick auburn hair that isn’t showing any gray yet.

I’m not the kind of girl who begs the John Mulvaneys of the world for dinner companionship.

Yet that was what he was out there saying about me. To my boss.

And even if I were the kind of girl who begged the John Mulvaneys of the world for dinner companionship, I wouldn’t be the kind of girl or the kind of psychologist who would hit on a patient.

It was utterly unthinkable. The most heinous of offenses.

Therapy patients trust their therapists with the deep, intimate details of their lives. They make themselves utterly vulnerable to us. They cry in front of us—I go through crates of tissue in my office—they tell us their secrets, they confide their hopes and confess their dismal, most humiliating failures.

To abuse this trust by violating that person sexually would be completely unconscionable to me. Not to mention that it would go against every moral fiber of my being. And it would get me thrown out of my chosen profession in less time than it would take to boil water.

And yet that was what someone was out there saying about me. To my boss.

Add to this that I was in the midst of a spiritual nightmare that was so macabre and so bizarre, I wouldn’t even wish it on John Mulvaney whom I was quickly beginning to abhor.

When I added it all up, I began to feel truly disoriented. Disoriented and afraid.

Afraid of what would happen to my career. Afraid of what would happen to my reputation. Afraid of the jewelry locked in my buffet. Afraid of flies. You name it, I was afraid of it.

So I did what most twenty-first century American Christians would do in such a circumstance. I sat there and worried about it. Sucking down a couple of gallons of tea, I sat there and fed the fear. Sheer, panicky, heart-fluttering, clammy-handed fear.

It wasn’t until long after the sun came up that it dawned on me to pray. And even then, it was as a last resort.

Somehow, even as long as I’ve known the Lord, I remain convinced that secretly. He wants me to make it without Him. Why I think this, I don’t know. The entirety of Scripture defies this stupid little theory of mine. And I don’t believe it in words, really. When I think about it, I know it doesn’t make any sense. But I live it out every day.

I pray easily for others. Tony DeStefano had reminded me of that. And I randomly thank God for parking places and for unexpected M&Ms in the bottom of my purse. But for some reason, I resist praying for myself when I really need help. I seem to prefer trudging along without an umbrella, in driving rain, moving under my own power, when the Ferrari of the Holy Spirit is revved up and ready to go, right there beside me, if I would just bother to get in and fasten the seat belt.

But finally, I gave up. I fixed myself another cup of tea and bowed my head.

The words didn’t come. They rarely do when I’m the subject of my own prayers. But I let myself sink into the fear and remembered Gavin’s story about his dream. His prayer was so simple. He didn’t want to be afraid anymore. Could God take away his fear? Would He?

It seemed like a good place to start. So that was what I asked for. Begged for, more like.

And I asked to be exonerated of the abuse charge. Immediately. I asked for clear and unambiguous information in that kid’s file that would let me off the hook. Now.

Rarely do I get a direct answer to prayer, and rarely is the answer such a stunning, resounding no. But soon after I breathed my amen, the phone rang.

It was Helene.

“Bad news,” she said.

“What?”

“Erik Zocci is a saint.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I were. I pulled his case file and his academic file this morning.” I heard her flipping pages. “Erik Michael Zocci. Hometown: Chicago. Religion: Catholic. Engineering major. SAT score 1480. Lived in Morrison dorm his freshman year. Takes a full load every semester. GPA 3.8.” She flipped some more pages. “No psych testing in either file.”

“You have my case notes there?” I asked.

“Right in front of me. You saw him three times over a period of two months. This was last summer, not this recent one. Looks like this was between his freshman and sophomore years. He’d be starting his junior year now.”

“What was the presenting problem?”

“He was experiencing insomnia. Dropping weight. Having trouble with his summer courses. I’m getting this off the intake sheet.”

“What’s his diagnosis?”

“Diagnosis 309.28. Adjustment disorder with mixed features of anxiety and depression.”

“Did I list a precipitating event? Anything set it off?”

She paused. “Not that I can see.” I heard her turn the page. “Says he was waking up screaming. His roommate was the one who wanted him to see a counselor. Who could blame him?”

The light bulb went on in my head. “I remember him. Skinny kid. Tall. He was having nightmares, I think. Anything on the content of the nightmares?”

“Yep. Here it is. I’m going to quote directly. ‘Patient describes recurring nightmare involving pale, sickly white man. In his dream, the man chases Erik. Typical dream response—Erik paralyzed, unable to run in the dream. Erik always wakes up before the man catches him.’”

I felt my skin get cold. “Anything else about the dreams?”

“No. You speculate that it may have something to do with his fears of failure. Maybe a parallel between the man in the dream and Erik’s fears about himself. Running from his perceived weaknesses.”

Weak psychobabble on my part.

“Any mention in the file of anything awkward between me and him?” I asked.

“Nothing. He didn’t even terminate. He just stopped coming. You make a note that you called twice to follow up but didn’t get a return phone call.”

I thought for a moment. Nothing she’d read would help or hurt me. Half our students had adjustment disorders, which was just a fancy way of saying they were having a difficult but fairly normal experience in a time of their lives defined by change and adjustment. It didn’t mean he was unstable and certainly not that he was mentally ill.

“What about the academic file? Is there a complaint listed in there or anything?”

I heard Helene turning pages again. “I don’t see anything.” I waited while she read. “But it does say he transferred. End of his
sophomore year. To University of Dallas.”

“Transferred? He’s not even at SMU anymore?”

“Not according to this.”

“Is there any way we can get his file from UD without having to explain why we need it?”

“What would be the point? He’s been there a week. They won’t have any information I don’t have in front of me.”

I paused, letting it all sink in. “What do you think, Helene?”

She paused. I knew she didn’t want to say it. “I need to sit down with Erik Zocci and talk to him directly”

“So let’s do it. Did you arrange to meet with him or anything?”

“No. I wanted to talk to you first. But I’ll call him back and do a quick phone interview. And I’ll set up a meeting with him early this week.”

“Can I go with you?”

“Definitely not. Not until after I’ve spoken with him and figured out what we’re dealing with.”

“When are you going to call him?” I asked.

“What time is it?”

I looked at the clock on the wall. “Nine-thirty”

“I’ll call him now. I’ll call you back after I talk to him.”

We hung up and I paced the kitchen for a few minutes until the phone rang.

I snatched it up. “What did he say?”

“What did who say?” It was my father.

“Oh. Hi, Dad. No one. I thought you were someone else.”

“You should say hello when you pick up the phone.”

“Hello.”

“Much better. How are you, Dylan? I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Great. Doing just great. You?”

“Busy Working a lot.”

“Not slicing and dicing anyone this morning?”

“Not on a Saturday I’ve got a tee time in twenty minutes, though. What do you need?”

I’d forgotten I’d called him. “Oh. I wanted to talk to you about mom’s funeral.”

“Her funeral?” he said, clearly taken aback. A rare chink in the armor for my dad. “Why would you want to talk about that?”

“Long story. I just needed to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Okay. What?”

“Do you remember what she was wearing when we buried her?”

“A powder blue suit, I think. Why?”

“Anything else? Any jewelry?”

“Her wedding ring. You know that. That’s all I remember. Probably some earrings or something.”

“Do you remember seeing it on her hand? Her wedding ring, I mean. Or had we just talked about burying her in it?”

“What’s this about, Dylan?” He sounded rattled.

“I’m just wondering. I thought I remembered seeing it on her finger, but I wasn’t sure. I wanted to check with you.”

“It was definitely on her finger. She never took it off.”

“I know she never took it off. But do you specifically remember seeing it on her finger before they closed the lid?”

“Dylan, I don’t remember.” He sounded angry now. “I wasn’t taking a detailed inventory of her burial attire at the time. My wife had just died.”

“Ex-wife.”

“Ex-wife. Fine. Why are you bringing this up now?”

“Do you remember if we saw them take the casket from the funeral home to the hearse? Or were we already in the car when they moved her?”

“I don’t remember. How am I supposed to remember something like that? What’s wrong with you?”

I heard my call-waiting click.

“I’ve got another call, Dad. I’ll call you back. Have fun on the golf course.” I hung up and clicked over.

“Hello?”

“Dylan, it’s me,” Helene said.

Something was wrong. I could tell from the sound of her voice.

“Well? What did you find out? Did you talk to him?”

“I called the number from this morning—the one he gave me. And it wasn’t a working number. So I tried his parents in Chicago.”

“And? Did you get them?”

“I talked to his mother.”

“Well? What did she say?”

“Erik Zocci is dead, Dylan.”

“Dead! Of what? What happened to him?”

“He committed suicide. He jumped off the balcony of the Vendome in Chicago. He fell twelve floors.”

“This morning? After you talked to him?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know it doesn’t.”

“Did he leave a note?” I asked.

“I didn’t ask. She was upset, and I didn’t explain why I was calling, for obvious reasons. I’ll have to call back and get details.”

I leaned back against the counter and tried to breathe. The air had completely come out of me. That nice kid. Dead. Just like that.

“What does this mean?” I asked. “For my situation, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Helene said. “I need to find out who called
me this morning. It’s probably just a sick prank. Hopefully that’s all it is and this will be the end of it.”

“Helene?”

“What?”

“I’m scared.”

“You should be,” she said. And hung up the phone.

9

M
Y MEETING WITH LURCH BECKONED
, whether my life was falling apart or not. I was determined to find out what had happened to my mother’s wedding ring. So I showered and got ready for my visit to Sutter Funeral Home.

What does one wear to meet with a funeral director? A suit? Something somber and conservative? I stared at my closet, mentally trying on outfits. I flirted with the idea of waltzing in wearing a wild little Bohemian number, just to freak him out, but decided in the end that I should work out my hostilities on my own time, not his. I finally pulled a pair of black pants off the hanger, found a blouse that didn’t need pressing, and threw it on.

Sutter Funeral Home is in the little town of Hillsboro, where my mom grew up. It’s about an hour south of Dallas.

I tried to clear my head on the drive, to steady myself, to tamp down the panic that was bubbling up inside me. I started by mentally cataloging my questions. I decided to go in chronological order.

First, and perhaps most intriguing, who was Peter Terry? The man obviously got around. He’d had some at least fleeting contact with both Gavin and Erik Zocci. He’d turned up in the dreams of both boys.

Was he someone they’d both managed to cross paths with, in some glancing, inconsequential way? And had they taken subliminal note of him, thus paving the way to their subconscious? Or was he, as Tony and Bob seemed to suggest, a spiritual being?

He was just strange-looking enough that if you saw him at the grocery store or something you would notice him, but not so strange that you would find yourself staring at him. The brain would take in, process, and spit out obvious stimuli—a loud, angry man, for instance—but someone like Peter Terry could sneak in unnoticed … unless you saw the gash.

The other issue was that I’d somehow ended up involved in both boys’ dreams. Zocci had told me about his dreams during therapy, and Gavin claimed I’d actually appeared in his. They both seemed credible to me. I believed them. It was too much of a stretch to be a coincidence.

BOOK: When the Day of Evil Comes
2.11Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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