Judging Time

8

The office where Jason saw his patients was next door to his apartment on the fifth floor of an old-world building on Riverside Drive. At three minutes to four in the afternoon he came out of his office and walked five feet down the hall to his apartment. The day had a surreal quality to it, and he felt almost dizzy from changing dimensions so many times. He'd gotten up early, missed breakfast, spent much of the morning with Liberty, was in too much of a hurry to have lunch. After seeing four patients back-to-back, he was exhausted and desperately hungry. Outside it looked like the 'middle of the night again. And he had only twenty minutes until his next patient would be sitting in his waiting room counting the seconds until he returned. He needed a break, needed to check on Emma.

He turned the key in his front door lock, opening the door as quietly as he could in case she was asleep. Inside the apartment the lights were on and some of the nine clocks in the living room and hall had already started to chime the hour. They were mechanical, pendulum clocks, all old, less than precise, and it would take a full seven minutes for them to finish their racket. So much for quiet.

"Emma?"

"In here," she called over the noise.

Jason passed the untouched stack of mail on the hall table and turned right. Now he could see Emma in the living room, on the phone with her address book open in front of her. A tray with a teapot and milk jug sat on the coffee table. The cup near her hand was half full of milky tea. She waved at him, her face registering surprise at seeing him so soon.

"Yes, it's a terrible loss. Look, I have to go now. I'll call you later." She hung up and put out her hand to him, tears welling in her eyes.

He took her hand. "How are you doing?"

"Jason, thank you for staying with Rick and me. It meant so much to both of us."

"What's going on?"

"Rick's apartment is filled with people now. I had to leave. Oh, Jason, I love you so much." She kissed his hand, dragging him closer.

"What's this for?" he asked, the darkness in his heart easing a little at the unexpected sign of affection.

"It's so terrible to lose someone you love. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you." She pulled on his hand until he was sitting beside her on the couch. Then she folded herself into his arms.

"You tried to lose me once and couldn't, remember? I don't lose easily." He hugged her tight. In his embrace she felt fragile, smaller than usual, as if she'd lost some of herself since yesterday. Underneath the scent of her floral perfume, he could smell panic.

"How's Rick doing?" he asked.

"Not well. But neither would I in the situation." She mashed her face into his shoulder, wetting his shirt with her tears. "Jason, thanks for being there for us."

"What?" Jason was shocked to hear her thank him for so little. "God, Emma. You make me feel like a shit."

"No, no. I don't mean it like that. I mean—well, I know you never really liked Liberty."

He pushed her away so he could look at her. "Hey, that's not fair."

"Well, you didn't like him." She blew her nose.

"That's not true and not fair. I just didn't know either of them very well. You were the one who spent time with them." "You were always too busy working," she reminded him.

He didn't want to hear how alone she used to feel, how he didn't like her friends. He shook his head, didn't want to go there at all. She changed the subject.

"Jason, was this how it was for you?"

His stomach growled. He stared at the teapot, needing food. When she was kidnapped? "It was worse. I didn't know whether you were alive or dead. And if you were alive, whether I could save you. I was crazed."

"Did you love me that much?" she asked. "As much as Rick loved Merril?"

"Oh, Emma," he said softly. "I still do."

First her shoulders shook, and then her whole body. "Jason, I've been so selfish. I'm so sorry." She huddled against him, sobbing again.

"Hey. Let's say we've both been a little single-minded."

"I don't know what I'd do without you. I can see that now."

"Um . . . Emma?"

"Hmmm?”

"You're getting my shirt al wet, baby, and I have to eat something."

She detached herself and reached for the tea tray. "I'll make you a sandwich. Listen, Jason, what do the police think?"

"Here, I'll take the tray." He led the way to the kitchen. "Have you talked with April Woo yet?"

"She called and asked if she could come over later. But I didn't know what time you'd be free."

Emma started pulling plastic bags and containers from the refrigerator. Jason watched, thinking the detective would want to talk to Emma, not him. She was the one who'd been with the victims just before they died. "What did you tell her?"

"I told her to call you. Do the police have any leads?"

A sandwich took shape under Emma's trembling fingers. She thoughtfully filled a baguette with all the cholesterol Jason wasn't supposed to eat, all the stuff she loved and sneaked whenever he wasn't around. The sandwich she made consisted of salami, brie, pate, roasted peppers, arugula, and tomato. In earlier days, he would have complained of her insensitivity, taken it apart, and removed the bits dangerous to his heart and arteries. Now, he accepted her offering with pleasure and gobbled it hungrily, savoring every poisonous bite.

"Emma," he said cautiously. "April doesn't want me. She's going to want to talk to you. You knew them both better than I did. You were with them last night."

Emma's mood worsened. "I didn't see Rick last night," she said.

"Rick? No, but you were with the victims last night. Merrill and-"

"Tor." Emma wrinkled her nose.

"What about that? Did they have a relationship?"

The wrinkle turned into a frown. "I don't think so, but I don't know."

"Were they involved?"

"I said I don't know." Angrily, Emma removed a plate from the table, then banged it on the edge of the sink, chipping it. "Shit."

Jason watched her, chewing thoughtfully. He swallowed. "I'd guess you're worried about it."

"No."

"Turn around and look at me, baby. I know you're worried. I can feel it."

She turned on the water. "You'd worry, too," she said with her back to him.

He sighed. "They're going to ask you to tell them everything you know about Merrill, and Rick, and this other person, Tor—"

"Petersen, just about the richest and craziest man in America. I can't believe they're dead. I can't believe it. They were so alive last night. They loved my play."

Jason finished the sandwich.

"And I don't know what to tell them."

"You'll have to tell them the truth."

"The truth" She spat out the word. "The whole idea makes me sick. What if the truth doesn't have anything to do with who killed them?" Finally she turned around and stared at him. "Jason, do you know what I mean about this?"

"You mean you don't want to share the secrets of your closest friend. You don't want her life exposed. You don't want yourself exposed. You don't want Rick exposed." He sighed again. "What's your part in it?"

"They picked me up at the theater. We had dinner together. I left before dessert. I came home to you, Jason. I didn't want to keep you waiting." Her eyes teared. "We made love, remember?"

She'd been in high spirits, as she usually was after a performance. Jason had been exhausted, had fallen asleep. She'd woken him up to be with her, but it had been worth it. "I remember," he murmured, then, "Emma, Merrill's dead. The only thing that matters now is to find out who killed her."

"Jason, you do it."

"Do what?"

"You work with the police," Emma entreated him. "You find out who killed her."

Jason checked his watch. Ten past four. He'd eaten a huge sandwich, full of cholesterol, in four minutes flat and would suffer for it later. He groaned. "I'm a psychiatrist, not a detective."

"It's the same thing. Come on, do this for Rick, no—do it for me. Find out who did this."

"Then you'll have to tell me what you know. Try it out on me."

"It's probably nothing useful," she muttered.

"But still, you're afraid. Look, I have to go." He got up from the table to embrace her one last time before getting back to work.

She put her arms around him. "I'm afraid," she admitted.

"Well, you're safe," he told her. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

"It's not myself I'm worried about," she said softly as he left.

When Jason got back to his office, his patient—a young psychiatric resident who didn't know Jason lived next door—was sitting in the waiting room, tapping his foot impatiently. The man stared at the wet spots on Jason's shirt, and then his face, clearly trying to figure out where Jason had been in the dead of winter, and what he'd been doing, without his jacket or coat. Jason excused himself for a moment to go into his office and try April again. She still wasn't in.