Inherit the Bones

Chapter Eighteen

Dr. Dean Pabst hid a keen intellect and a wicked sense of humor behind an extra two hundred pounds and a bad toupee. Despite the old saying, the world does judge books by their covers, and as his weight increased over the years, Pabst lost a number of clients, clients who felt that a man who couldn’t control his own size certainly couldn’t speak to their issues of self-control and life skills.

Pabst was good, though, and I trusted him. He was a keeper of secrets, of dark feelings and tangled thoughts that, in the sanctity of his office, tumbled from my mind and freed up space for the good things. It was strange to admit, but Pabst knew me better than anyone else on this planet.

The doctor settled into the easy chair behind his desk and I took my customary seat in the armchair that faced him. I hadn’t been to his office in a few years and I was pleased to see not much had changed. The spider plants in the windowsill looked healthy; the books on the shelves that lined the wall remained dust-free and orderly. The blue carpet was worn and the temperature was pleasant. It was a neutral space conducive to confession and healing.

Pabst began. “He’s returned, has he? I was afraid he might. Gemma, I fear the Woodsman will never leave you, not until you put some distance between the children’s murders and yourself.”

“I know, I know. That’s what you said the last time we spoke. But I can’t find the distance. I don’t know how.”

I hated how whiny I sounded. Pabst had worked so hard to get me in the habit of detailed journaling, diary therapy so to speak, and it was no one’s fault but mine that I let that practice slip. Life has a funny way of waylaying our best-laid plans; life keeps us busy in ways that seem, at the time, more important than self-care and introspection.

Maybe that was just an excuse, though. Maybe I was too afraid to take such deep, continuous searches into my own psyche.

Pabst stared at me over eyeglasses that were small on his pudgy face. He hadn’t worn glasses before; and I realized that Pabst had to be approaching seventy years old. Between his age and his weight, I feared for his health.

He said, “You do know how, Gemma. You’ve got all the tools, right there, in that toolbox we set up in your mind. You don’t give yourself enough credit, my dear. You never have.”

I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. “Dean, I thought we had done it. I really did; he was gone for so long. I don’t understand why he’s come back, now.”

“Gemma, you do know why the Woodsman has returned. You are afraid to say the words out loud, because that will give truth to them. But you must,” Pabst said.

I nodded. “It’s the baby. This little girl who’s not even here yet has changed everything. She’s called the Woodsman back, and this time he’s brought friends, dead children who seem to think I’m the only damn person who can help them. Why is that, do you think?”

Pabst shrugged. “It’s not meant for us to understand the ways of the dead, Gemma. That’s not how the world works. You told me once that you’ve never cried for your parents. And yet you are unable to stop crying, in a sense, for the McKenzie boys. Often, it is easier for us to grieve for those we don’t know, than it is to grieve for those we love most.”

“My grandmother used to beg me to cry. She said she couldn’t stand seeing me so cold; that it wasn’t natural. But I never felt cold, Dean. I didn’t. I felt there was a dam inside me, and if I cried one tear, the whole thing would burst. That’s not cold, that’s self-control. That’s a good thing.”

Pabst nodded. “This is very normal, especially for children. Instead of allowing the grief to heal their pain, they direct their energy toward strengthening that dam, building it up higher and stronger. At some point, though, and that point is different for everyone, the dam becomes too high, and too strong.”

“And you think that is what’s happened to me?”

“Yes. I think you’ve displaced the grief you feel for your parents’ deaths onto the deaths of the two boys. The ability to compartmentalize your emotions drives your relentlessness, and speaks to your success as a police officer. But it creates the nightmares, too. Gemma, we talked through this a few years back. Will you try the journaling again? I do think it will help tremendously,” Pabst said.

He stood up and went to a cooler in the corner of the office. It was stocked with sodas and sparkling water and he handed me a San Pellegrino, knowing my preference. He took a Diet Coke for himself and settled back into his chair.

“The world is full of monsters. It always has been. For every monster, though, there are a hundred heroes. Mankind simply could not survive if the bad guys outnumbered the good guys; you know that, you live that truth every day in your chosen field,” Pabst said. “It’s natural for you to feel fear and despair now, with the impending birth of your first child. The Woodsman is the embodiment of that fear, a man whose very existence speaks to havoc, a complete void of hope.”

I nodded. “So what do I do now? How do I fight this monster of my dreams?”

Pabst smiled. “With science, of course. A bit of rational thinking and some dedicated journaling and you’ll be back to tip-top shape in no time. But tell me, Gemma, are you wrapped up in this Bellington mess? I don’t like to think of you investigating the young man’s death in your condition.”

I stood. “What condition would that be, the pregnant condition, or the crazy condition? Thank you for seeing me, Dean. It’s been, as always, enlightening. But you know I can’t discuss a case.”

“And you know I can’t let you leave without at least trying to get some juicy tidbit out of you. Do say hello to the Woodsman tonight, Gemma, if he returns. Tell him the good doctor is anxious to see him put down for good.”