Inside Passage. Burt Weissbourd
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“We’ll do the best we can,” he said.
She looked down and thought about that. Finally, she offered, “Thanks.” And looked his way again.
He was leaning against the edge of his table, reviewing her file.
He could use a new, lightweight jacket, she decided, and his hair needed cutting too.
Eventually he set the file down, lifted one of his blackened pipes, a question.
She shrugged. “Your landlord know about this?”
“He lives in Hong Kong.”
“You got a fire extinguisher?”
His laugh was a low rumble. “I prefer Diet Coke.”
The guy was trying to make a joke, she decided. “No problem.”
“I’m absent-minded,” he explained. “Not a good quality for a pipe smoker.”
Absent-minded? Lost in space was more like it. She liked his rumbly laugh, though. And she liked that he had explained.
For maybe half an hour, he asked the routine questions. Easy stuff—address, phone numbers, medical history, more or less the bare bones facts of her life. It made her feel a little more comfortable, almost like she could talk to this guy.
When she finally settled into her chair, he lit a fresh pipe. Then he leaned toward her. “Can I ask some more difficult questions?” It came out kind of tentative, as if he was afraid she might say no.
She thought about saying speak up, but didn’t. “You’ve read my file. Do your worst.”
“That’s actually a good idea,” Abe said.
The “actually” pissed her off.
“It says here,” he tapped her file with the stem of his pipe, “that you stabbed a woman in prison.”
“Yeah. She came at me with some kind of knife.”
“You stabbed her with a pencil.”
“What I had.”
“They never found a knife.”
“So?”
“You’re sure she had a knife?”
“Mister, how can this ever work if you don’t believe what I tell you?”
He looked at the ceiling, took a puff. “Point taken.”
Corey wasn’t done. She touched the scar on her neck. “You think I did this to myself?”
“What happened to her knife?” he asked, his voice flat.
She decided to give him a chance, tell him the whole story. “Okay. It was about seven at night. I was finishing up my shift in the laundry, folding sheets. Two of them came at me from behind. The one gal had a shank, like the pointy part of a screwdriver, filed sharp, and duct-taped to a piece of wood. She cut me. I had this pencil I used for the laundry list. I stuck it into her neck. I didn’t even think about it. Agh.”
Her face tightened, an involuntary reflex. “She went down, bleeding, you know…” She was frowning now, trying to get this right. “You ever kill an elk, or a deer?”
He shook his head.
Corey nodded. Dumb question. She was starting to sweat. “Anyway, the woman I stabbed started gasping and shaking. The other one went for the shank. I scrambled over the table. I was bleeding pretty badly. Next thing I know, my one friend is there. She’s got me down on the floor, and she’s standing over me with a long mop handle. This other gal takes one look at Suze, that’s what we called my friend, and she backs off. Before I know what’s what, Suze’s gone and I’m being cuffed. The one that got away must have grabbed the shank.”
“Who’s Suze?”
“Great big girl. I listened to her stories. We got to be friends.”
Abe was taking notes. “I see.” And after a short silence, “Why were they trying to hurt you?”
“They weren’t trying to hurt me, they were trying to kill me.”
“But why?”
Nick Season was why. But she couldn’t tell him that. Un-unh. Not ever. Corey closed her eyes, massaged the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. When she was back on track, she opened her eyes. “Have you ever been inside a prison at night?”
“No.”
“Guy doing your job, he should spend a night inside.” She hesitated. “People kill each other in prison over little things. I don’t know what I did. Maybe it was just a mistake…some kind of unmeant insult, or a gang deal. Happens all the time.”
“How did you feel after you stabbed her?”
Every shrink she saw asked her that. What did he think she would say…“great?”
She looked right at him. “She was on her knees, making throaty noises, with this pencil sticking out of her neck. How do you think I felt? Out of control. Afraid. Relieved it was her and not me. Mostly, I felt like screaming. But when I opened my mouth, no sound came out.” Her shirt was sticking now, under her arms and at the small of her back.
He set down his pipe, glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid we have to stop.”
Now? She had just done the hard part. “Why?”
“I schedule forty-five minutes for a session. An evaluation usually takes three or four sessions.”
“How can you get me started talking about stuff like that then just turn it off?”
“I’m sorry. I thought you knew how I worked. There are time constraints. I should have explained.”
“That’s not right. Do you think it’s easy to talk about this? It makes me sweaty and cold at the same time.”
“We can continue for another few minutes—”
She interrupted. “I haven’t even talked about Billy, my son. I’m worried about him.”
He checked a calendar. “Can you come tomorrow? Say eleven-thirty?”
“I guess.” She wanted to tell him that he wasn’t getting this, that he was screwing it up. Instead she said, “The picture.” She pointed at the colorful abstract painting behind her. He hadn’t bought that picture. “Your mother give you that?”
“How did you know?” he asked.
“A hunch.” She stood. He directed her out through a door she hadn’t even noticed. It opened right into the hallway. Weird, one door for coming, another for going. She recalled the schoolgirl’s scornful look. Corey wondered if she would ever get this right.
Nick checked his smile, working with a hand mirror he kept in his desk. He flashed on Corey Logan. The woman was worming her way into his mind, a nagging, nasty, waking dream.
He hit a button on his phone, then two numbers.
When Lester picked up the phone, Nick could hear him breathing. No greeting, nothing. He wondered if he waited long enough, Lester might say something. Not likely.
“Corey Logan?” Nick finally asked.
“Her probation guy’s got a history. I’m on it.”
“Speed up the program. Put Riley on it.” Riley was a hot-shot P.I. and sometime bounty hunter. Hiring Riley made this a big deal.
“And her kid?”
“Suggest what we’re capable of. Give her a taste.” Nick cracked his knuckles. “I’ve got a bad feeling,” he added, mostly to himself. Nick knew that feelings didn’t mean much to Lester, one way or another. He, on the other hand, paid attention to his worries.