Bad Love

29

We spent the night at Milo's. After he left for work, I stayed and listened to the tape another dozen times.

The chanting man sounded like an accountant tallying up a sum.

That maddening hint of familiarity, but nothing jelled.

We returned to Benedict Canyon, where Robin took the dog to the garage and I called in for messages. One from Jean Jeffers- No record of Mr. G-and a request to phone Judge Stephen Huff.

I reached him in his chambers.

"Hi, Alex. I assume you heard."

"Is there anything I should know other than what's been on the news?"

"They're pretty positive who did it, but can't prove it yet. Two Mexican gang members- they're figuring some kind of drug war."

"That's probably it," I said.

"Well, that's one way to settle a case. Any word from the grandmother?"

"Not a one."

"Better off- the kids, I mean. Away from all of this- don't you think?"

"Depends on what environment they've been placed into."

"Oh, sure. Absolutely. Well, thanks for your help. Onward toward justice."

• • •

Several more tries at the tape, then I left for the Beverly Hills library.

I scoured four- and five-year-old editions of New York dailies all morning, reading very slowly and carefully, but finding no record of any "East Side Burglar."

No great surprise: the 19th Precinct serviced a high-priced zip code, and its inhabitants probably despised getting their names anywhere in the paper other than the society pages. The people who owned the papers and broadcast the news probably lived in the 19th. The rest of the city would know exactly what they wanted it to.

Lack of coverage still didn't mean Rosenblatt's killer had committed the earlier break-ins. Local residents might be aware of the burglaries, and a local could know who was on vacation and for how long. But the idea of a 19th Precinct resident owning burglary tools and robbing from his neighbors seemed less than likely. So Mr. Silk probably had burgled before. Ritualistically.

The same attempt to use what was at hand, to master and dominate the victim.

Bad love.

Myra Evans Paprock.

Rodney Shipler.

Katarina.

Only at those three scenes had the words been left behind.

Three bloody, undisguised murders. No attempt made to present them as anything else.

Stoumen, Lerner, and Rosenblatt, on the other hand, had been dispatched as phony accidents.

Two classes of victims… two kinds of revenge?

Butchery for the laypeople, falls for the therapists.

But Katarina had been a therapist…

Then I realized that at the time of Mr. Silk's trauma- sometime before seventy-nine, probably closer to seventy-three, the year Delmar Parker had gone off the mountain- she hadn't yet graduated. In her early twenties, still a grad student.

Two patterns… part of some elaborate rage-lust fantasy that a sane mind could never hope to understand?

And where did Becky Basille fit in?

Two killers…

I remembered the clean, bustling street where Harvey Rosenblatt had landed: French restaurants, flower boxes, and limos.

How long had it taken the poor man to realize what the swift, sharp shove at the small of his back meant?

I hoped he hadn't. Hoped, against logic, that he'd felt nothing but the Icarus-pleasure of pure flight.

A fall, always a fall.

Delmar Parker. Had to be.

Avenging an abused child?

Surely if de Bosch had been abusive, someone would remember.

Why hadn't anyone spoken out after all these years?

But no big puzzle there: without proof, who would believe them? And why rake up the dirt around a dead man's grave if it meant stirring up one's own childhood demons?

Still, someone had to know what happened to the boy in the stolen truck, and why it had set off a killer.

I sat there for a long time, staring at tiny, microfilmed words.

Corrective School alumni… how to get hold of them. Then I thought of one. Someone I'd never met, a name I'd never even learned.

A problem child whose treatment had given Katarina the leash to put around my neck.

• • •

I returned the microfilm spools and rushed to the pay phones in the library's lobby, trying to figure out who to call.

Western Pediatric, the late seventies…

The hospital had undergone a massive financial and professional overhaul during the past year. So many people gone.

But one notable one had returned.

Reuben Eagle had been chief resident when I'd started as a staff psychologist. He'd taken a professorship at the U's med school, a gifted teacher, specializing in medical education. The new Western Peds board had just wooed him back as general pediatrics division head. I'd just seen his picture in the hospital newsletter: the same tortoiseshell spectacles, the light brown hair thinner, grayer, the lean, ruddy outdoorsman's face adorned by a trimmed, graying beard.

His secretary said he was out on the wards and I asked her to page him. He answered a few moments later, saying, "Rube Eagle," in a soft, pleasant voice.

"Rube, it's Alex Delaware."

"Alex- wow, this is a surprise."

"How're things going?"

"Not bad, how about you?"

"Hanging in. Listen, Rube, I need a small favor. I'm trying to locate one of Henry Bork's daughters and I was wondering if you had any idea how to reach her."

"Which daughter? Henry and Mo had a bunch- three or four, I think."

"The youngest. She had learning problems, was sent to a remedial school in Santa Barbara around seventy-six or seventy-seven. She'd be around twenty-eight or twenty-nine now."

"That would have to be Meredith," he said. "Her I remember because one year Henry had the interns' party at his house and she was there- very good-looking, a real flirt. I thought she was older and ended up talking to her. Then someone warned me and I split fast."

"Warned you about her age?"

"That and her problems. Supposedly a wild kid. I remember hearing something about institutionalization. Apparently she really put Henry and Mo through it- did you know he died?"

"Yes," I said.

"Ben Wardley, too. And Milt Chenier… how come you're looking for Meredith?"

"Long story, Rube. It has to do with the school she was sent to."

"What about it?"

"Things may have happened there."

"Happened? Another mess?" He sounded more sad than surprised.

"It's possible."

"Anything I should know about?"

"Not unless you had something to do with the school- the Corrective School, founded by a psychologist named Andres de Bosch."

"Nope," he said. "Well, I hope you clear it up. And as far as Meredith's concerned, I think she still lives in L.A. Something to do with the film business."

"Is her name still Bork?"

"Hmm, don't know- if you'd like I can call Mo and find out. She's still pretty involved with the hospital- I can tell her I'm putting a mailing list together or something."

"I'd really appreciate that, Rube."

"Stay on the line, I'll see if I can get her."

I waited for fifteen minutes with the speaker to my mouth. Pretending to look busy each time someone came by to use the phone. Finally, Rube came back on the line.

"Alex?"

"Still here."

"Yes, Meredith's in L.A. She has her own public relations firm. I don't know if she ever married, but she still goes by Bork."

He gave me the address and phone number and I thanked him again.

"Sure bet… another mess. Too bad. How'd you get involved, Alex? Through a patient?"

"No," I said. "Someone sent me a message."

• • •

Bork and Hoffman Public Relations, 8845 Wilshire Boulevard, Suite 304.

The eastern edge of Beverly Hills. A five-minute ride from the library.

The receptionist said, "Ms. Bork is on another line."

"I'll hold."

"And what was the name again?"

"Dr. Alex Delaware. I worked with her father at Western Pediatric Medical Center."

"One moment, sir."

A few minutes later: "Sir? Ms. Bork will be right with you."

Then, a smoky female voice: "Meredith Bork."

I introduced myself.

She said, "I specialize in the entertainment industries, doctor- movies, theater. We do a few doctors when they write books. Have you written a book?"

"No-"

"Just want to beef up your practice, a little press exposure? Good idea in today's economy, but it's not our thing. Sorry. I'll be happy to give you the name of someone who does medical publicity, though-"

"Thanks, but I'm not looking for a publicist."

"Oh?"

"Ms. Bork, I'm sorry to bother you, but what I'm after is some information about Andres de Bosch and the Corrective School, in Santa Barbara."

Silence.

"Ms. Bork?"

"This is for real?"

"Some suspicions have come up about mistreatment at the school. Things that happened during the early seventies. An accident involving a boy named Delmar Parker."

No answer.

"May, nineteen seventy-three," I said. "Delmar Parker went off a mountain road and died. Do you remember hearing anything about him? Or anything about mistreatment?"

"This is too much," she said. "Why the fuck is this any of your business?"

"I work as a consultant to the police."

"The police are investigating the school?"

"They're doing a preliminary investigation."

Harsh laughter. "You're putting me on."

"No." I gave her Milo as a reference.

She said, "Okay, so? What makes you think I even went to this school?"

"I worked at Western Pediatric Medical Center when your father was chief of staff and-"

"Word got around. Oh, I'll just bet it did. Jesus."

"Ms. Bork, I'm really sorry-"

"I'll just bet it did… the Corrective School." Another angry laugh. "Finally."

Silence.

"After all these years. What a trip… the Corrective School. For bad little children in need of correction. Yeah, I was corrected, all right. I was corrected up the ying-yang."

"Were you mistreated?"

"Mistreated?" Peals of laughter so loud I backed away from the receiver. "How delicately put, doctor. Are you a delicate man? One of those sensitive guys really tuned in to people's feelings?"

"I try."

"Well, goody for you- I'm sorry, this is serious, isn't it. My problem- always was. Not taking things seriously. Not being mature. Being mature's a drag, isn't it, doc? I fucking refuse. That's why I work in entertainment. Nobody in entertainment's grown up. Why do you do what you do?"

"Fame and fortune," I said.

She laughed, harder and louder. "Psychologists, psychiatrists, I've known a shitload of them… how do I know you're for real- hey, this isn't some gag, is it? Did Ron put you up to this?"

"Who's Ron?"

"Another sensitive guy."

"Don't know him."

"I'll bet."

"I'd be happy to show you credentials."

"Sure, slip them through the phone."

"Want me to fax them?"

"Nah… what's the diff? So what do you really want?"

"Just to talk to you a bit about the school."

"Good old school. School days, cruel days… hold on…" Click. Silence. Click. "Where are you calling from?"

"Not far from your office."

"What, the pay phone downstairs, like in the movies?"

"Mile away. I can be there in five minutes."

"How convenient. No, I don't want to bring my personal shit into the office. Meet me at Cafe Mocha in an hour, or forget it. Know where it is?"

"No."

"Wilshire near Crescent Heights. Tacky little strip mall on the… southeast corner. Great coffee, people pretending to be artistes. I'll be in a booth near the back. If you're late, I won't wait around."

• • •

The restaurant was a narrow storefront blocked by blue gingham curtains. Pine tables and booths, half of them empty. Sacks of coffee stood on the floor near the entrance, listing like melting snowmen. A few desperate-looking types sat far from one another, poring over screenplays.

Meredith Bork was in the last booth, her back to the wall, a mug in her left hand. A big, beautiful, dark-haired woman sitting high and straight. The moment I walked in, her eyes were on me and they didn't waver as I approached.

Her hair was true black and shiny, brushed straight back from her head and worn loose around her shoulders. Her face was olive tinted like Robin's, just a bit rounder than oval, with wide, full lips, a straight, narrow nose, and a perfect chin. Perfect cheekbones, too, below huge gray-blue eyes. Silver-blue nail polish to match her silk blouse. Two buttons undone, freckled chest, an inch of cleavage. Strong, square shoulders, lots of bracelets around surprisingly slender wrists. Lots of gold, all over. Even in the weak light, she sparkled.

She said, "Great. You're cute. I allow you to sit."

She put the mug down next to a plate bearing an oversized muffin.

"Fiber," she said. "The religion of the nineties."

A waitress came over and informed me the coffee of the day was Ethiopian. I said that was fine and received my own mug.

"Ethiopian," said Meredith Bork. "They're starving over there, aren't they? But they're exporting designer beans? Don't you think that's weird?"

"Someone always does okay," I said. "No matter how bad things get."

"How true, how true." She smiled. "I like this guy. Perfect mixture of sincerity and cynicism. Lots of women love it, right? You probably use it to get laid, then get bored and leave them weeping, right?"

I laughed involuntarily. "No."

"No, you don't get laid, or no, you don't get bored?"

"No, I'm not into conning women."

"Gay?"

"No."

"What's your problem, then?"

"Are we discussing that?"

"Why not?" Giant smile. Capped teeth. "You want to discuss my problems, jocko, fair is fair."

I raised my cup to my lips.

"How's the java?" she said. "Those starving Ethiopians know how to grow 'em?"

"Very good."

"I'm so veddy glad. Mine's Colombian. My regular fix. I keep hoping there'll be a packaging error and I'll get a little snort mixed in with the grind."

She rubbed her nose and winked, leaned forward, and showed more chest. A black lace bra cut into soft, freckled flesh. She wore a perfume I'd never smelled before. Lots of grass, lots of flowers, a bit of her own perspiration.

She giggled. "No, I'm just joshing you, Mr.- sorry, Doctor No Con. I know how touchy you healer types are about that. Daddy always had a bovine when someone called him mister."

"Alex is fine."

"Alex. The Great. Are you great? Wanna fuck and suck?"

Before my mouth could close, she said, "But seriously, folks."

Her smile was still on high beam and her breasts were still pushing forward. But she'd reddened and the muscles beneath one of the lovely cheekbones were twitching.

She said, "What a tasteless thing to say, right? Stupid, too, in the virus era. So let's forget about stripping off my clothes and concentrate on stripping my psyche, right?"

"Meredith-"

"That's the name, don't wear it out." Her hand brushed against the mug and a few droplets of coffee spilled on the table.

"Shit," she said, grabbing a napkin and blotting. "Now you've really got me spazzing."

"We don't need to talk about you, personally," I said. "Just about the school."

"Not talk about me? That's my favorite topic, Alex, the sincere shrink. I've spent Godknowshowmuch money talking to your ilk about me. They all pretended to be utterly fascinated, least you can do is fake it, too."

I sat back and smiled.

"I don't like you," she said. "Way too agreeable. Can you get a hard-on on demand- no, scratch that, no more dirty talk. This is going to be a platonic, asexual, antiseptic discussion… the Corrective School. How I spent my summer vacation by Meredith Spill-the-Coffee Bork."

"Were you there for only one summer?"

"It was enough, believe me."

The waitress came over and asked if we wanted anything else.

"No, dear, we're in love, we don't need anything else," said Meredith, waving her away. A wine list was propped between the salt and pepper shakers. She pulled it out and studied it. Moving her lips. Tiny droplets had formed over them. Her smooth, brown brow puckered.

She put the list down and wiped the sweat from her mouth.

"Caught me," she said. "Dyslexic. Not illiterate- I probably know more about what's going on than your average asshole senator. But it takes effort- little tricks so the words make sense." Another huge smile. "That's why I like to work with Hollywood assholes. None of them read."

"Is the dyslexia why you went to the Corrective School?"

"I didn't go, Alex. I was sent. And no, that wasn't the official reason. The official reason was I was acting out. One of you guys' quaint little terms for being a naughty girl- do you want to know how?"

"If you'd like to tell me."

"Of course I would, I'm an exhibitionist. No, scratch that. What's it your business?" She moistened her lips and smiled. "Suffice it to say I learned about cocks when I was much too young to appreciate them." She held out her mug to me, as if it were a microphone. "And why was that, Contestant Number One? Why, for the washer-dryer and the trip to Hawaii, did a sweet young thing from Sierra Madre besmirch herself?"

I didn't speak.

"Buzz," she said. "Sorry, Number One, that's not quick enough. The correct answer is: poor self-esteem. Twentieth-century root of all evil, right? I was fourteen and could barely read, so instead, I learned to give dynamite blow jobs."

I looked down at my coffee.

"Oh, look, I've embarrassed him- don't worry, I'm okay. Damn proud of my blow jobs. You work with what you've got." Her grin was huge but hard to gauge.

"One fateful morning, Mommy discovered strange, yucky stains on my junior high prom dress. Mommy consulted with learned Doctor Daddy and the two of them threw a joint shit-fit. The day school ended I was shipped off to the wild and woolly hills of Santa Barbara. Little brown uniforms, ugly shoes, girls' bunks separated from the boys' bunks by a scuzzy vegetable garden. Dr. Botch stroking his little goatee and telling us this could turn out to be the best summer we ever had."

She hid her mouth behind her mug, broke off a piece of muffin, and let it crumble between her fingers.

"I couldn't read, so they sent me to Buchenwald-on-the-Pacific. There's juvenile justice for you."

"Did de Bosch ever diagnose your dyslexia?" I said.

"You kidding? All he did was throw this Freudian shit at me: I was frustrated because Mommy had Daddy and I wanted him. So I was trying to be a woman, rather than a girl- acting out-in order to displace her."

She laughed. "Believe me, I knew what I wanted, and it wasn't Daddy. It was lean, young, well-hung bodies and James Dean faces. And I had the power to get it all back then. I believed in myself until Botch botched me up."

All at once her face changed, loosening and paling. She put the mug down hard, shook her hair like a wet puppy, and rubbed her temples.

"What did he do to you?" I said.

"Tore my soul out," she said glibly. But as she spoke she brought strands of hair forward and hid her face.

Long silence.

"Shit," she said finally. "This is harder than I thought it would be. How did he mess me up? Subtly. Nothing he could go to jail for, darling. So tell your police pals to go back to giving parking tickets, you'll never pin him. Besides, he must be ancient by now. Who's going to drag a poor old fart into court?"

"He's dead."

The hair fell away. Her eyes were very still. "Oh… well, that's okay by me, pal. Was it long and painful, by any chance?"

"He killed himself. He'd been sick for a while. Multiple strokes."

"Killed himself how?"

"Pills."

"When?"

"Nineteen-eighty."

The eyes tightened. "Eighty? So what's all this b.s. about an investigation?"

Her arm shot forward and she grabbed my wrist. Big, strong woman. "Fess up, psych-man: Who are you and what's all this really about?"

A few heads turned. She let go of my arm.

I pulled out ID, showed it to her, and said, "I've told you the truth, and what it's about is revenge."

I summarized the "bad love" murders, throwing out names of victims.

When I finished, she was smiling.

"Well, I'm sorry for those others, but…"

"But what?"

"Bad love," she said. "Turning his own crap against him. I like that."

"Bad love was something he did?"

"Oh, yeah," she said, through clenched jaws. "Bad love meant you were a worthless piece of shit who deserved to be mistreated. Bad love for bad little children-like psychological acupuncture, these tiny little needles, jabbing, twisting."

Her wrists rotated. Jewelry flashed. "But no scars. No, we didn't want to leave any marks on the beautiful little children."

"What did he actually do?"

"He bounced us. Good love one day, bad love the next. Publicly- when we were all together, in the lunch room, at an assembly- he was Joe Jolly. When visitors came, too. Joe Jolly. Laughing, telling jokes, lots of jokes. Tousling our hair, joining in our games- he was old but athletic. Used to like to play tether ball. When someone hurt their hand on the knob, he'd make a big show of cuddling them and kissing the boo-boo. Mister Compassionate- Doctor Compassionate. Telling us we were the most beautiful children in the world, the school was the most beautiful school, the teachers the most beautiful teachers. The goddamn vegetable garden was beautiful, even though the stuff we planted always came out stringy and we had to eat it anyway. We were one big happy, global family, a real sixties kind of thing- sometimes he even wore these puka shells around his neck, over his pukey tie."

"That was good love," I said.

She nodded and gave a small, ugly laugh. "One big family- but if you got on his bad side- if you acted out, then he gave you a private session. And all of a sudden you weren't beautiful anymore, all of a sudden the world turned real ugly."

She sniffed and used her napkin to wipe her nose. Thinking of her Colombian coffee comment, I wondered if she'd fortified herself for our appointment. She cut me off midthought:

"Don't worry, it's not nasal candy, it's plain old emotion. And the emotion I feel for that bastard, even with his being dead, is pure hatred. Isn't that amazing- after all these years? I'm surprising myself with how much I hate him. Because he made me hate myself-it took years to get out from under his fucking bad love."

"The private sessions," I said.

"Real private… he hit me where it counted. I didn't need anyone tearing down my self-esteem- I was already fucked up enough, not able to read at thirteen. Everyone blaming me, me blaming myself… my sisters were all A students. I got D's. I was a premature baby. Difficult labor. Must have affected my brain- the dyslexia, my other prob-"

She threw up her hands and fluttered her fingers.

"So now it's out," she said, smiling. "I have yet another problem. Want a shot at that diagnosis, Contestant Number One?"

I shook my head.

"Not a gambler? Oh, well, there's no reason I should be ashamed, it's all chemistry- that was my point, wasn't it? Bipolar affective disorder. Your basic, garden variety manic-depressive maniac. You tell people you're manic and they say, oh yeah, I'm feeling really manic, too. And you say, no, no, no, this is different. This is real, my little pretties."

"Are you on lithium?"

Nod. "Unless the work piles up and I need the extra push. I finally found a psychiatrist who knew what the hell he was doing. All the others were ignorant assholes like Dr. Botch. Analyzing me, blaming me. Botch nearly convinced me I did want to fuck Daddy. He totally convinced me I was bad."

"With bad love?"

She stood suddenly and snatched up her purse. She was six feet tall, with a tiny waist, narrow hips, and long legs under a charcoal-colored silk miniskirt. The skirt had ridden up, revealing sleek thigh. If she realized it, she didn't choose to fix it.

"He's worried I'm leaving." She laughed. "Mellow out, son. Just going to pee."

She made an abrupt about-face and sashayed toward the rear of the restaurant. A few moments later, I got up and verified that the restrooms were back there, and the only exit a grimy gray door with a bar across it marked EMERGENCY.

She returned a few minutes later, hair fluffed, eyes puffy but freshly shadowed. Sitting down, she nudged my shin with a toe and gave a weak smile. Waving for the waitress, she got a refill and drank half the cup, taking long, silent swallows.

Looking ready to choke. My therapeutic impulse was to pat her hand. I resisted it.

"Bad love," she said softly. "Little rooms. Little locked cells. Bare bulbs- or sometimes he'd just light a candle. Candles we made in crafts. Beautiful candles- actually they were ugly pieces of shit, with this really disgusting scent. Nothing in the cell but two chairs. He'd sit opposite you, your knees almost touching. Nothing between you. Then he'd stare at you for a long time. A long time. Then he'd start talking in this low, relaxed voice- like it was just a chat, like it was just two people having a nice, civil conversation. And at first you'd think you were getting away easy, he'd sound so pleasant. Smiling, playing with that stupid little beard or his puka shells."

She said, "Shit," and drank coffee.

"What did he talk about?"

"He'd start off lecturing about human nature. How everyone had good parts of their character and bad parts and the difference between the successful people and the unsuccessful people was which part you used. And that we kids were there because we were using too much bad part and not enough good part. Because we'd gotten warped somehow- damaged was the way he put it- from wanting to sleep with our mommies and our daddies. But how everyone else at the school was now doing great. Everyone except you, young lady, is controlling their impulses and learning to use the good part. They are going to be okay. They deserve good love and are going to have happy lives."

She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Funneled her lips into a pinhole and blew air out through it.

"Then he'd stop. To let it all sink in. And stare some more. And get even closer. His breath always stank of cabbage… the room was so small the smell filled it- he filled it. He wasn't a big man, but in there he was huge. You felt like an ant, about to be crushed- like the room was running out of air and you were going to strangle… the way he stared- his eyes were like drills. And the look- when you got the bad love. After the soft talk was through. This hatred- letting you know you were scum.

" 'You,' he'd say. And then he'd repeat it. "You, you, you.' And then it would start- you were the only one who wasn't doing good. You couldn't control your impulses, you weren't trying- you were acting just like an animal. A dirty, filthy animal- a vermin animal. That was a favorite of his. Vermin animals- in his creepy Inspector Clouseau accent. Vermeen aneemals. Then he'd start calling you other names. Fool, idiot, weakling, moron, savage, excrement. No curse words, just one insult after another, sometimes in French. Saying them so quietly you could barely hear them. But you had to hear them because there was nothing else to hear in that room. Just the wax dripping, sometimes a plumbing pipe would rumble, but mostly it was silent. You had to listen."

A lost look came into her eyes. She shifted as far from me as the booth would allow. When she spoke again, her voice was even softer, but deeper, almost masculine.

"You are acting like vermin animal, young lady. You are going to live like vermin animal and you will end up dying like vermin animal. And then he'd go into these detailed descriptions of how vermin lived and died and how no one loved them and gave them good love because they didn't deserve it and how the only thing they deserved was bad love and filth and humiliation."

She reached for her mug. Her hand shook and she braced it with the other one before raising the coffee to her lips.

"He'd keep going like that. Don't ask me how long because I don't know- it felt like years. Chanting. Over and over and over. You will get the bad love, you will get the bad love… pain, and suffering and loneliness that would never end- prison, where people will rape you and cut you and tie you up so you can't move. Horrible diseases you will get- he'd go into the symptoms. Talk about the loneliness, how you'd always be alone. Like a corpse left out in the desert to dry. Like a piece of dirt on some cold, distant planet- he was full of analogies, Dr. B. was, playing loneliness like an instrument. Your life will be as empty and dark as this room we are sitting in, young lady. Your entire future will be desolate. No good love from anyone- no good love, just bad love, filth, and degradation. Because that is what bad children deserve. A cold, lonely world for children who act like vermin animals. Then he'd show photos. Dead bodies, concentration camp stuff. This is how you will end up!"

She shifted closer.

"He'd just chant it," she said, touching my cuff. "Like some priest… throwing out these images. Not giving you a chance to speak. He made you feel you were the only bad person in a beautiful world- a shit smear on silk. And you believed him. You believed everyone was changing for the better, learning to control themselves. Everyone was on his side, you were the only piece of shit."

"Cutting you off," I said, "so you wouldn't confide in the other kids."

"It worked; I never confided in anyone. Later, when I was out of there- years later- I realized it was stupid, I couldn't have been the only one. I'd seen other kids go into the rooms- it seems so ridiculously logical now. But back then, I couldn't- he kept focusing me in on myself. On the bad parts of me. The vermin animal parts."

"You were isolated right from the beginning. New environment, new routine."

"Exactly!" she said, squeezing my arm. "I was scared shitless. My parents never told me where we were going, just shoved me in the car and tossed in a suitcase. The whole ride up there, they wouldn't speak to me. When we got there, they drove through the gates, dumped me in the office, left me there and drove away. Later I found out that's what he instructed them to do. Have a happy summer, Meredith…"

Her eyes got wet. "I'd just repeated seventh grade. Finally faked enough to barely pass and was looking forward to a vacation. I thought summer would be the beach and Lake Arrowhead- we had a cabin, always went there as a family. They dumped me and went without me… no apologies, no explanation. I thought I'd died and gone to hell- sitting in that office, all those brown uniforms, no one talking to me. Then he came out, smiling like a clown, saying, what a pretty girl you are, telling me to come with him, he'd be taking care of me. I thought: what a jerk, no problem putting it over on him. The first time I stepped out of line, he let it pass. The second time, he pulled me into a room and bad-loved me. I walked out of there in a semi-coma… blitzed, wasted- it's hard to explain, but it was almost like dying. Like bad dope- I felt I was on a rocky island in the middle of a storm. This crazy, black, roaring sea, with sharks all around… no escape, him working on my bad parts- chewing me up!"

"What a nightmare," I said.

"The first week I hardly slept or ate. Lost ten pounds. The worst part was that you believed him. He had a way of taking over your head- like he was sitting in your skull, scraping away at your brain. You really felt you were shit and belonged in hell."

"None of the kids ever talked to each other?"

"Maybe some did, I didn't. Maybe I could've, I don't know- I sure didn't feel I could. Everyone walking around smiling, saying how great Dr. B. was. Such a beautiful guy. You found yourself saying it, too, mouthing along without thinking, like one of those dumb camp songs. There was this- this feverish atmosphere to the place. Grinning idiots. Like a cult. You felt if you spoke out against him, someone would pour poison Kool-Aid down your throat."

"Was physical punishment ever part of bad love?"

"Once in a while- usually a slap, a pinch, nothing that hurt too much. It was mostly the humiliation- the surprise. When he wanted to hurt you, he'd poke you in the elbow or the shoulder. Flick his finger on the bone. He knew all the spots… nothing that would leave a scar, not that anyone would have believed us, anyway. Who were we? Truants, fuckups, rejects. Even now, would I be credible? Four abortions, Valium, Librium, Thorazine, Elavil, lithium? All the other things I've done? Wouldn't some lawyer dig that up and put me on trial? Wouldn't I be a piece of shit all over again?"

"Probably."

Her smile was rich with disgust. "I'm jazzed that he's dead- doubly jazzed he did it to himself- his turn for humiliation."

She looked up at the ceiling.

"What is it?" I said.

"Killing himself- do you think he could have felt some guilt?"

"With what you've told me, it's hard to imagine."

"Yeah. You're probably right… yeah, he slapped me plenty of times, but the pain was welcome. 'Cause when he was getting physical, he wasn't talking. His voice. His words. He could reach into your center and squeeze the life out of you… did you know he used to write columns in magazines- humane child rearing? People sent in problems and he'd offer fucking solutions?"

I sighed.

"Yes," she said. "My sad, sad story- such pathos." Looking around the restaurant, she cupped one ear. "Any daytime-serial people listening? Got a bitchin' script for you."

"You never told anyone?"

"Not until you, dear." Smile. "Aren't you flattered? All those shrinks and you're the very first- why, you've deflowered me- busted my psychological cherry!"

"Interesting way to put it."

"But fitting, right? Therapy's just like fucking- you open yourself up to a stranger and hope for the best."

I said, "You said you saw other kids going into the rooms. Were they taken by other people, or just de Bosch?"

"Mostly by him, sometimes by that creepy daughter of his. I always got personal attention from the big cheese- Daddy's social position and all that."

"Katarina was involved in treatment? When exactly were you there?"

"Seventy-six."

"She was only twenty-three. Still a student."

Shrug. "Everyone treated her as if she was a shrink. What she was was a real bitch. Walking around with this smug look on her face- Daddy was the king and she was the princess. Now there's one dutiful daughter who really did want to fuck Papa."

"Did you have any direct dealings with her?"

"Other than a sneer in the hall? No."

"What about other staffers? Did you see any of them doing private sessions?"

"No."

"None of those names I mentioned rang a bell?"

She gave a pained look. "It all blurs- I've been through changes, my whole life until a few years ago is a blur."

"Can I go over those names again?"

"Sure, why not." She picked up her cup and drank.

"Grant Stoumen."

Headshake.

"Mitchell Lerner."

"Maybe… that one's a little familiar, but I have no face to go with it."

I gave her some time to think.

She said, "Nope."

"Harvey Rosenblatt."

"Uh-uh."

"Wilbert Harrison."

"No."

"He's a little man who wears purple all the time."

"Does he ride a pink elephant?" Grin.

"Myra Evans."

Eyeblink. Frown.

I repeated the name.

"You used another name before," she said. "Myra something hyphenated."

"Evans-Paprock- Paprock was her married name."

"Evans." Another smile, not at all happy. "Myra Evans- Myra the Bitch. She was a teacher, right? A little blond with a tight butt and an attitude- am I right?"

I nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "Myra the Bitch. She was assigned to tread where others had failed. Like teaching moi how to read. She kept drilling me, harassing me, forcing me to do stupid exercises that didn't do a fucking bit of good because the words stayed all scrambled. When I got something wrong, she'd clap her hands together and say no in this loud voice. Like training a dog. Telling me I was stupid, a moron, not paying attention- she used to clamp her hands on my face and force me to look into her eyes."

She placed her hands on my cheeks and pressed them together, hard. Her palms were wet and her mouth was parted. She brought me forward and I thought she might kiss me. Instead, she said, "Pay attention! Listen, you moron!" in a grating voice.

I suppressed the impulse to twist free. That instant of confinement drove my empathy up another notch.

"Pay attention! Stop wandering, stupid! This is important! You need to learn this! If you don't pay attention, you can't learn!"

She squeezed harder. Let go. Smiled again. "Breath mints- that was her smell. Isn't it funny how you remember the smells? Mints, but her breath was still shitty. She thought she was hot. Kinda young, little miniskirts, big boobs… maybe she was letting Dr. B. slip it to her."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because of the way she acted around him. Looks. Following him around. She reported directly to him. One thing you could count on, after a difficult session with Miss Bitch, you'd soon be seeing Dr. Botch for candles and needle twisting. So she got murdered, huh?"

"Very nastily."

"Too bad." She pouted, then smiled. "See, I can be a hypocrite, too. It's called acting, I work with people who do it for a living- we all do, actually, don't we?"

"What about Rodney Shipler? Does that name mean anything to you?"

"Nope."

"Delmar Parker- the boy I told you about over the phone."

"Yeah, the truck. That's how I knew you were for real. He was before my time."

"May seventy-three. You heard about it?"

"I heard about it from Botch. Boy, did I."

"During a bad love session?"

Nod. "The wages of sin. I'd committed some major felony- I think it was not wearing underwear, or something. Or maybe he caught me with a boy- I don't remember. He said I was a vermeen aneemal and stupid, then gave me this whole spiel about a vermeen aneemal boy who'd received the ultimate punishment for his stupidity. "Death, young lady. Death.' "

"What did he say happened?"

"The kid stole a truck, ran it off the road, and got killed. Proof positive of what happened to vermeen aneemal moron children. Botch had a good time with it- making fun of the kid, laughing a lot, as if it were just a big joke. "Do you comprehend, you bad, styupid girl? A boy so styupid, he steals a truck even though he doesn't know how to drive? Ha ha ha. A boy so styupid he virtually choreographs his own death? Ha ha ha.' "

"He used that word? "Choreograph'?"

"Yes," she said, looking surprised. "I believe he actually did."

"What else did he say about the accident?"

"Disgusting details- that was part of bad love. Grossing you out. He had a ball with this one. How they didn't find the boy right away and when they did there were maggots in his mouth and crawling in and out of his eyes-"He is being eaten by maggots, my dear Meredith. Feasted upon. Consumed. And the animals have feasted upon him, too. Chewed away most of his face- it is a real mess- just like your character, styupid Meredith. You are not listening, you are not concentrating, you bad, styupid girl. We are trying to mold you into something decent but you refuse to cooperate. Think, Meredith. Think of that styupid boy. The bad love he received from the maggots. That is what happens when vermeen aneemals don't change their ways.' "

She gave a hard, dry laugh and dabbed her nose again.

"That might not be an exact quote, but it's pretty damn close. He also got into this whole racist rap- said the kid in the truck was black. "A savage, Meredith. A jungle native. Why would you want to imitate the savages when there's a world of civilization out there?' On top of everything else, he's a racist, too. Even without the rap, you could tell. The looks he gave the minority kids."

"Were there a lot of minority kids?"

She shook her head. "Just a few. Tokens, probably- part of the public image. In public he was Mr. Liberal- pictures of Martin Luther King and Gandhi and the Kennedys all over the place. Like I said, it's all acting- the world is a fucking stage."

She placed her hands flat on the table, looking ready to get up again.

"A couple more names," I said. "Silk."

Headshake.

"Merino."

"What is this, a fabric show? Uh-uh."

"Lyle Gritz?"

"Grits and toast," she said. "Nope. How many people have gotten bumped off, anyway?"

"Lots. I'm on the list, too."

Her eyes rounded. "You? Why?"

"I co-chaired a symposium on de Bosch's work. At Western Peds."

"Why?" she said coldly. "Were you a fan?"

"No. Actually, your father requested it of me."

"Requested it, huh? What approach did he take? Squeezing your balls or kissing your ass?"

"Squeezing. He did it as a favor to Katarina."

"Symposium, huh? Gee thanks, Dad. The man tortures me, so you throw him a party- when did this take place?"

"Seventy-nine."

She thought. "Seventy-nine- I was in Boston in seventy-nine. Catholic girls' school, even though we weren't Catholic… a symposium." She laughed.

"You never told your parents anything that happened at the Corrective School?"

"Nothing- I was too numb, and they wouldn't have listened, anyway. After that summer, I didn't talk to anyone, just went along, like some robot. They handed Botch a naughty acting-out girl and got back this compliant little zombie. They thought it was a miracle cure. Years later, they were still saying it was the best decision they ever made. I'd just stare at them, want to kill them, keep my feelings all inside."

The pale eyes were wet.

"How long did you stay that way?" I said softly.

"I don't know- months, years- like I said, it blurs. All I know is it took a real long time to get back to my true self, get smart enough to mess around and cover my tracks. No sticky stains on the clothes."

She licked her lips and grinned. A tear dripped down one cheek. She wiped it away angrily.

"When I was eighteen, I told them "fuck you' and left- ran away with a guy who came to unclog the toilet."

"Sounds like you've done pretty well since."

"How kind of you to say so, dear- oh yeah, it's been a blast. PR's a bullshit business, so I'm perfect for it. Throwing parties, setting up promos. Feeding rumors to the idiot press. Well, the show must go on. Ciao. It was real, stud."

She stood and nearly ran out of the restaurant.

I put money on the table and followed her, caught up as she was getting into a red Mustang convertible. The car looked new, but there were dings and dents all along the driver's side.

"Uh-uh, no more," she said, starting the engine. "You get a quickie mind-fuck for your ten bucks, and that's it."

"Just wanted to thank you," I said.

"Polite, too," she said. "I really don't like you."