Missing Persons

74

Bob had indeed told Mallory about the tunnel.

She’d used it on Christmas night to get away from the bad guy she had convinced herself was waiting to do to her what had been done eight years before to her young friend. She’d discovered Bob watching movies in Doyle’s theater, and had asked him for help in getting away.

Bob had complied.

Mallory had stayed in Bob’s flat for the first few days after she’d left home. Once she’d recovered from her Christmas night fright, she ended up mostly terrified about the ruckus she’d caused by running away, and fearful of the repercussions she was sure she would face when she surfaced. She never was quite sure what to make of the fact that the therapist from whom she’d sought help had died.

Out of boredom as much as anything, she finally cajoled Bob into a road trip to see “our mothers.”

Their first stop was Las Vegas, where they picked up Rachel. The second stop was the assisted-living facility in southern Colorado where the trio paid a brief visit to Bob’s mother. That’s where Bob switched the Camaro-it had developed a problem with its clutch-for his mother’s pale-yellow ’88 DeVille, which was almost, but not quite, as cherry as Bob’s ’60s muscle car.

After the real fake Doyle was killed by Bill Miller in his basement, the police didn’t have too much difficulty piecing together the identity of the fake fake Doyle.

The man whose body had been discovered in the shallow grave near Allenspark turned out to be a homeless man named Eric Brewster whom Doyle had apparently hired to be an unidentifiable corpse rotting in the woods. That probably wasn’t the job description he’d offered Brewster when he’d recruited him off the streets of Cheyenne, but that was the job the poor man got. Doyle was ready for the Doyle Chandler identity to die, and he’d picked Brewster carefully, choosing a man about his size and coloring. He gave Brewster some of his own clothes before he led him out into the woods and shot him in the head. Doyle planted his ID on the body, reasonably figuring that a winter and spring in the elements would destroy any clues, except DNA, as to who the dead man really was. Without a sample for matching, he knew the DNA wouldn’t do law enforcement any good.

Doyle Chandler would be dead for at least the second time.

Raoul brought Diane home on a medical jet charter on Monday, the day after he rescued her. Medically she was going to be okay. Psychologically? We held our breaths; time would tell. She’d have love and support, all she needed. Would it be enough? I hoped it would. Diane was tough.

She used Scott Truscott’s assessment that Hannah Grant’s death was a tragic accident as a crutch to help herself get back on her feet. I wasn’t too surprised that Diane was back to work within a week. The first patient she saw on her initial day back?

Fittingly, it was the Cheetos lady. We passed each other in the hall as Diane led the woman from the waiting room to her office. She smiled at me as though we were buddies.

All, apparently, was forgiven.

With Diane safe, and Bob safe, and Mallory safe, I went back to keeping secrets. I was well aware that had Raoul found Diane even half a day later, I probably would have spilled all the beans I had on Bill Miller. With my friend out of harm’s way, though, I knew that revealing what I’d learned from my patients would have been nothing more than a self-destructive act of reprisal.

Still, believe me, I had considered it.

I didn’t reveal what I knew about Bill and Walter and the orthodontist. I’d initially learned all those things in my role as a psychologist, and couldn’t rationalize revealing them. Did I feel good about keeping those secrets? No, I didn’t.

Deep down, I’m quite fond of the idea of justice. But, as fond as I am of justice, it’s not the business that I’m in.

Walter’s family soon reported him missing, but I kept my mouth shut about the location of his body. Raoul did, too. I wouldn’t have known anything about Walter if I hadn’t been treating Bill, so I considered that information privileged. Was I haunted by the fact that I had knowledge that could help end a family’s fruitless search for a missing husband and father?

Yes, I was.

Nor did I ever publicly share my suspicions that Bill had enticed Doyle back to his house so he could murder him, once and for all, or that I thought he’d arranged for me to be there as his hapless witness. I couldn’t prove any of it, but I believed it all to be true. I think Sam did, too. He told me that the police had some phone records that provided circumstantial support to the theory.

But Sam didn’t think he could prove it either. Lauren admitted that when the DA reviewed the evidence, she’d concurred.

The Millers became a family again: Mallory was home, Reese came back from his sabbatical with out-of-state relatives, and Rachel moved back into the house. Would the familial bliss last? I had my doubts. Mary Black, still consumed with her triplets, referred Rachel to a psychiatrist in Denver who was having success treating people with symptoms like Rachel’s with some innovative pharmaceutical cocktails.

Miracles happen sometimes. Rachel needed one, probably deserved one.

Bill?

As the dust was starting to settle I phoned him, and asked politely for one last session.

He declined.

I rephrased my request, turning it into something a little less polite and a little stronger than an invitation. He relented, as I knew he would, and when he came to my office to see me I didn’t bother to waste any time on therapeutic niceties. I told him I wanted both of his kids in therapy, and gave him the names of the carefully chosen therapists I wanted each of them to see. I made it clear that I wasn’t making a suggestion; the consequences of not heeding my advice would be harsh.

“Yeah?” he said, cocky as shit. His attitude was, “What the hell can you do to me now?”

I had placed my walnut-framed Colorado psychologist’s license upside down on the table between us.

“Yeah,” I said, failing to match his cockiness.

He crossed his arms. “I don’t think so, although I appreciate your concern.”

It was readily apparent that he didn’t actually appreciate my concern. I reached down to the table and flipped the frame right-side up. In case he didn’t recognize the parchment document, I said, “That’s my psychology license.”

He looked down at it. “So?”

“I’m willing to lose it.”

He eyed me suspiciously. Disbelieving my resolve, I think.

I added, “What are you willing to lose, Bill?”

“You wouldn’t.”

I handed him a copy of a letter that I’d mailed the day before. “Read this. All it lacks is a name. Your name, actually.”

He took a moment to read the letter.

“You release my name like this, you’ll never work again.”

“Maybe. My colleagues on the state ethics board have always proven themselves to be rather lenient, even to a fault. Regardless, I’m willing to take the risk. If it does come to losing my license, I think I can find work, but something tells me it won’t come to that. Why? Because I don’t think you really want your role in this whole thing examined by a panel of skeptical strangers with Ph.D.’s.”

Was I blackmailing him?

Yes.

Bill knew plenty about blackmail. He’d seen it from both sides.

Ultimately, he accepted my prescription about his children because he didn’t have much choice. How did I know he followed through? Both therapists called and thanked me for referring the kids. I felt some consolation that Reese and Mallory were getting the best mental health care possible. Would it be enough to save them?

In truth, probably not. I wasn’t even sure what saving them would look like. But I held out hope for them anyway.