Private Eyes

14

On the way to Pasadena I found myself peering up driveways, checking foliage, scanning the streets for a misplaced shadow, a flash of chrome. The crumpled outline of a woman down.

Irrational. Because the pros had been there already: I spotted three San Labrador police cruisers within a ten-block radius, one of which tailed me for half a block before resuming its prowl.

Irrational because the streets were naked- a stray tricycle could be spotted a block away.

A neighborhood that kept its secrets off the street.

Where had Gina Ramp taken hers?

Or had they been taken from her?

Despite my words of encouragement to Melissa, I hadn’t convinced myself the whole thing was an impromptu vacation from phobia.

From what I’d seen, Gina had been vulnerable. Fragile. Just arguing with her daughter had set off an attack.

How could she possibly handle the real world- whatever that meant.

So I kept searching as I drove. Spitting in the face of reason and feeling a little better for it.

The Gabney Clinic occupied a generous corner lot in a good residential neighborhood that had begun yielding reluctantly to apartments and shops. The building had once been a house. A big two-storied, shingle-sided, brown craftsman-style bungalow set back behind a flat, wide lawn. Three giant pines shadowed the grass. A front porch spanned the width of the structure, darkened by massive eaves. Shake roof, lots of wood-relief, stingy windows in oversized casements. Ungainly and dimly lit- some architectural hack’s sendup of Greene and Greene. No sign advertising what went on inside.

A low wall- rock chips in cement- fronted the property. A gateless gap in the center provided access to a cement walkway. On the left, a wood-plank gate had been propped open, exposing a long, narrow driveway. A white Saab Turbo 9000 was parked at the mouth of the drive, blocking further motor access. I left the Seville parked on the street- Pasadena was more tolerant than San Labrador- and made my way up the walk.

A white porcelain sign the size and shape of an hour cigar was nailed to the front door; GABNEY was painted on it in black block letters. The knocker was a snarling lion chewing on a brass ring, top-lit by a yellow bug bulb. I lifted it and let it fall. The door vibrated- C-sharp, I was pretty sure.

A second porch light went on. A moment later the door opened. Ursula Cunningham-Gabney stood in the doorway wearing a burgundy-colored scallop-necked knit dress that ended two inches above her knees and accentuated her height. Vertical ribs ran through the fabric, accentuating further. High-heeled pumps were the topper.

The perm she’d worn in the newspaper photo had been replaced by a glossy fudge-colored wedge. John Lennon eyeglasses hung from a chain around her neck, competing for chest-space with a string of pearls. The chest itself was convex and concave exactly where it should have been. Her waist was small, her legs sleek and very, very long. Her face was squarish, finely molded, much prettier than in the picture. Younger, too. She didn’t appear to be much older than thirty. Smooth neck, tight jawline, big hazel eyes, clean features that didn’t need camouflage. But she was wearing plenty: pale foundation, artfully applied blush, mauve eye shadow, deep-red lipstick. Aiming for severe and hitting the target.

“Dr. Delaware? Come in.”

“Alex,” I said. “Fair is fair.”

That confused her for a moment; then she said, “Yes, of course. Alex.” And smiled. And turned it off.

She motioned me into what would have seemed like a generous entry hall if I hadn’t just done time at Dickinson Manor. Parquet floors, architecturally paneled oak walls stained shoe-polish brown, plain-wrap craftsman benches and coat trees, a clock that said SANTA FE below the 12 and RAILROAD above the 6. On the walls was a scattering of muddy California plein-air landscapes- the kind of stuff the galleries in Carmel had been trying to palm off as masterpieces for years.

The living room was to the left, visible through half-open sliding wooden doors. More oak walls, more landscapes- Yosemite, Death Valley, the Monterey coast. Black-upholstered straight-backed chairs arranged in a circle. Heavy drapes hid the windows. What would have been the dining room was to the right, set up as a waiting area with mismatched couches and magazine tables.

She stayed a couple of steps in front of me, heading for the rear of the first floor. Quick, deliberate steps. Tight dress. Fluid glutei. No chitchat.

She stopped, opened a door, and held it.

I stepped into what had probably been a maid’s room. Small and dim and gray-walled, with a low ceiling. Furnished with simple contemporary pieces: a low-backed pine and gray-leather stenographer’s chair behind a pine table-desk. Two side chairs. Three bracketed shelves full of textbooks on the wall behind the desk. Diplomas filling the wall to the left. A single window on a side wall was covered by a gray pleated shade.

A single piece of art, next to the shelves. Cassatt drypoint etching. Soft color. Mother and child.

Yesterday I’d seen another piece by the same artist. Another simple gray room.

Therapeutic rapport taken to the nth?

Chicken-egg riddles jumped into my head.

Ursula Cunningham-Gabney went behind the desk, sat, and crossed her legs. The dress rode up. She left it that way. Put on her glasses and stared at me.

She said, “No sign of her yet?”

I shook my head.

She frowned, pushed the glasses higher on her thin, straight nose. “You’re younger than I expected.”

“Ditto. And you squeezed in two doctorates.”

“It really wasn’t that remarkable,” she said. “I skipped two grades in elementary school, started Tufts at fifteen, went to Harvard for grad school at nineteen. Leo Gabney was my major professor and he guided me through- helped me avoid some of the nonsense that can trip a person up. I did a double major in clinical and psychobiology- had taken all the premed courses as an undergrad. So Leo suggested I go to med school. I did my dissertation research during the first two years, combined my psych internship with my psychiatric residency, and ended up with licensure in both fields.”

“Sounds pretty hectic.”

“It was wonderful,” she said, without a trace of smile. “Those were wonderful years.”

She removed her glasses, set her hands flat on the desk.

“So,” she said. “What are we to make of Mrs. Ramp’s disappearance?”

“I thought you could cue me in.”

“I’d like to take advantage of the fact that you saw her more recently than I did.”

“I thought you saw her every day.”

She shook her head. “Not for some time. We’ve cut our individual sessions to two to four times a week, depending upon her needs. The last time I saw her was Tuesday- the day you called. She was doing quite well. That’s why I felt it was acceptable for you to speak with her. What happened with Melissa that upset her so?”

“She was trying to let Melissa know she was fine, that it was perfectly okay for her to go away to Harvard. Melissa got angry, ran out of the room, and her mother had an anxiety attack. But she handled it- inhaled a drug she described as a muscle relaxant and worked on her breathing until she’d recovered.”

She nodded. “Tranquizone. It shows great promise. My husband and I are among the first to use it clinically. The major advantage is that it’s very focused- works directly on the sympathetic nervous system and doesn’t appear to impact the thalamus or the limbic system. In fact, so far no one’s found any CNS impact at all. Which means the addictive potential is lower- none of the problems you get with Valium or Xanax. And respiratory administration means you get improved breathing quickly, which generalizes to the entire anxiety syndrome. The only drawback is that the effects are very short-lived.”

“It worked for her. She calmed down pretty quickly, felt good about handling the attack.”

“That’s what we work on,” she said. “Self-esteem. Using the drug as a springboard for cognitive restructuring. We give them a success experience, then train them to see themselves in a power role- see the attack as a challenge, not a tragedy. To zero in on small victories and build from there.”

“It was definitely a victory for her. After she calmed down, she realized the issue with Melissa was still unresolved. That upset her, but the anxiety didn’t recur.”

“How did she react to being upset?”

“She went looking for Melissa.”

“Good, good,” she said. “Action-orientation.”

“Unfortunately, Melissa was gone- had left the house with a friend of hers. I sat with Mrs. Ramp for about half an hour, waiting for her to come back. That’s the last I saw of her.”

“What was Mrs. Ramp’s demeanor while you waited?”

“Subdued. Worried about how she’d work things out with Melissa. But no panic- actually, she seemed quite calm.”

“When did Melissa finally show up?”

I realized I didn’t know and said so.

“Well,” she said, “the whole thing must have affected Gina more than she let on. Even to me. She called me this morning and said there’d been a confrontation. Sounded tense but insisted she was all right. The ability to perceive herself as masterful is so essential to the treatment that I didn’t argue with her. But I knew we had to talk. I offered her the choice of an individual session or discussing it in group. She said she’d try group- the next one was today- and if that didn’t resolve things for her, maybe she would stay late and talk one-on-one. That’s why I was especially surprised when she didn’t show up- I’d expected it to be an important session for her. When the group took its midsession break at four, I called her at home, spoke to her husband, and found out she’d left for group at two-thirty. I didn’t want to alarm him but I did suggest he call the police. Before the sentence was out of my mouth, I heard screaming in the background.”

She paused, pressed forward so that her breasts rested atop the desk. “Apparently Melissa had come into the room- hovering- asked her stepfather what was going on,found out, and gone hysterical.”

Another pause. The breasts remained there, like an offering.

I said, “You don’t seem to like Melissa very much.”

She lifted her shoulders, moved back against the chair. “That’s hardly the issue, is it?”

“Guess not.”

Tugging, now, at her hemline. Pulling harder when it didn’t yield.

“All right,” she said. “You’re her advocate. I know child people get into that kind of thing all the time- perhaps sometimes it’s necessary. But that’s totally irrelevant to the issue at hand. We’ve got a crisis situation here. A severely phobic woman- one of the most impaired patients I’ve ever treated, and I’ve treated lots. We’ve got her out on her own, dealing with stimuli she’s totally unprepared for, having broken her treatment regimen- taken steps she wasn’t ready for, due to pressure exerted by her relationship with an extremely neurotic teenage girl. And that’s where my advocacy comes in. I have to think about my patient. Surely you can see that the relationship between the two of them is pathological.”

Blinking hard several times. Real color deepening the rouge on her cheeks.

I said, “Maybe. But Melissa didn’t invent the relationship. She was made, not born, so why blame the victim?”

“I assure you-”

“I also don’t see why you feel the need to pin the disappearance on mother-daughter conflict. Gina Ramp never let Melissa get in the way of her pathology before.”

She wheeled her chair back several inches, never breaking eye contact. “Now who’s blaming the victim?”

“All right,” I said. “This isn’t productive.”

“No, it isn’t. Have you any other information for me?”

“I assume you’re familiar with the circumstances leading up to her phobia- the acid attack?”

Barely moving her lips, she said, “You assume correctly.”

“The man who did it- Joel McCloskey- is back in town.”

Her mouth formed an O. No sound came out. She uncrossed her legs, pressed her knees together.

“Oh, shit,” she said. “When did this happen?”

“Six months ago, but he hasn’t called or harassed the family. There’s no evidence he has anything to do with this. The police questioned him and he had an alibi, so they released him. And if he wanted to cause trouble, he’s had plenty of time- been out of prison for six years. Never contacted her or anyone else in the family.”

“Six years!”

“Six years since his release from prison. He spent most of it out of state.”

“She never said a thing.”

“She didn’t know.”

“Then how do you know?”

“Melissa found out recently and told me.”

Her nostrils widened. “And she didn’t tell her mother?”

“She didn’t want to alarm her. Planned to hire a private investigator to check McCloskey out.”

“Brilliant. Just brilliant.” Shaking her head. “In light of what’s happened, do you concur with that judgment?”

“At the time it seemed reasonable not to traumatize Mrs. Ramp. If the detective learned McCloskey was a threat, it would have been communicated.”

“How did Melissa find out McCloskey was back?”

I repeated what I’d been told.

She said, “Unbelievable. Well, the child has initiative, I’ll grant her that. But her meddling is-”

“It was a judgment call and it’s still far from clear that it was wrong. Can you say for sure you would have told Mrs. Ramp?”

“It would have been nice to have had the choice.”

She looked more hurt than angry.

Part of me wanted to apologize. The other wanted to lecture her about proper communication with the patient’s family.

She said, “All this time I’ve been working on showing her the world’s a safe place, and he’s been out there.”

I said, “Look, there really is no reason to believe anything ominous has happened. She could have had car trouble. Or just decided to stretch her wings a bit- the fact that she chose to drive over here by herself may indicate she was yearning to stretch.”

“This man’s being back doesn’t bother you at all? The possibility that he might have been stalking her for six months?”

“You were at that house frequently. When you walked around the block with her did you ever notice him- or anyone else?”

“No, but I wouldn’t have. I was focusing on her.”

“Even so,” I said. “San Labrador’s the last place you could stalk anybody and get away with it. No people, no cars- making intruders conspicuous is exactly why they do it. And the police function as private guards. Keeping an eye out for strangers is their specialty.”

“Granted,” she said. “But what if he didn’t sit around and make himself obvious? What if he just drove around- not every day, just once in a while? Different times of day. Hoping to grab a glimpse of her? And today he succeeded- spotted her leaving the house alone and went after her. Or maybe it wasn’t him at all- he hired someone to hurt her once, could have done it again. So the fact that he has an alibi is meaningless as far as I’m concerned. What about the man who actually attacked her- the one McCloskey paid? Maybe he’s back in town, too.”

“Melvin Findlay,” I said. “Not the man I’d choose for the job.”

“What do you mean?”

“A black man driving around San Labrador without a good reason wouldn’t last two minutes. And Findlay served hard time in prison for being hired help. It’s hard to believe he’d be stupid enough to go after her again.”

“Maybe,” she said. “I hope you’re right. But I’ve studied the criminal mind, and I long ago gave up assuming anything about human intelligence.”

“Speaking of the criminal mind, did Mrs. Ramp ever say what McCloskey had against her?”

She took off her glasses, drummed her fingers, picked a piece of lint from the desk, and flicked it away. “No, she didn’t. Because she didn’t know. Had no idea why he hated her so much. There’d once been a romance, but they’d parted as friends. She was truly baffled. It made it even more difficult for her- not knowing, not understanding. I spent a long time working on that.”

She drummed some more. “This is totally uncharacteristic of her. She was always a good patient, never deviated from plan. Even if it is nothing more than car trouble, I have an image of her stranded somewhere, panicking and going out of control.”

“Does she carry medication with her?”

“She should- her instructions are to have her Tranquizone with her at all times.”

“From what I saw, she knows how to use it.”

She stared at me, gave a close-lipped smile that tightened her jawline. “You’re quite the optimist, Dr. Delaware.”

I smiled back. “Gets me through the night.”

Her face softened. For a moment I thought she might actually show me some teeth. Then she grimaced and said, “Excuse me. I’m feeling a real lack of closure- have to deal with it.”

She reached for the phone, punched 911. When the operator came on the line, she identified herself as Gina Ramp’s doctor and asked to be put through to the chief of police.

As she waited I said, “His name is Chickering.”

She nodded, held up an index finger, and said, “Chief Chickering? This is Dr. Ursula Cunningham-Gabney, Gina Ramp’s physician… No, I haven’t… Nothing… Yes, of course… Yes, she did. Three o’clock this afternoon… No, she didn’t, and I haven’t… No, there’s nothing… No, not in the least.” Look of exasperation. “Chief Chickering, I assure you she was in full possession of her faculties. Absolutely… No, not at all… I don’t feel that would be prudent or necessary… No, I assure you, she was totally rational… Yes. Yes, I understand… Excuse me, sir, there is one thing I thought you might want to consider. The man who attacked her… No, not him. The one who actually threw the acid. Findlay. Melvin Findlay- has he been located?… Oh. Oh, I see… Yes, of course. Thank you, Chief.”

She hung up and shook her head. “Findlay’s dead. Died in prison several years ago. Chickering was offended that I even asked- seems to think I’m casting aspersions on his professional abilities.”

“It sounded as if he’s questioning Gina’s mental stability.”

She gave a look of distaste. “He wanted to know if she was “all there’- how’s that for a choice of words?” Rolling her eyes. “I actually think he wanted me to tell him she was crazy. As if that would make it acceptable for her to be missing.”

“Make it acceptable if he didn’t find her,” I said. “Who can be responsible for the actions of a crazy person?”

She blinked several more times. Gazed down at the desk top and let all the severity drop from her face. I was willing to bet her beauty had bloomed late. For a moment I saw her as a myopic little girl. Growing up smarter than her peers. Unable to relate. Sitting up in her room, reading and wondering if she’d ever fit in anywhere.

“We’re responsible,” she said. “We’ve taken on the responsibility to care for them. And here we sit, ineffectual.”

Frustration on her face. My eyes drifted to the Cassatt print.

She noticed and appeared to grow even more tense. “Wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Cassatt was a genius. The expressiveness, particularly the way she brought out the essence of children.”

“I’ve heard she didn’t like children.”

“Oh, really?”

“Have you had the print for a long time?”

“A while.” She touched her hair. Another locked-jaw smile. “You didn’t come here to discuss art. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Can you think of any other psychological factors that might explain Gina’s disappearance?”

“Such as?”

“Dissociative episodes- amnesia, fugue. Could she have had some sort of break, be out there wandering, unaware of who she is?”

She thought for a while. “There’s nothing like that in her history. Her ego was intact- remarkably so, considering everything she’s been through. In fact I always thought of her as one of my most rational agoraphobics. In terms of the origin of her symptoms. With some of them, you never know how it starts- there’s no trauma you can put your finger on. But in her case the symptoms manifested following a tremendous amount of physical and emotional stress. Multiple surgeries, prolonged stretches of time when she was ordered to remain in bed so that her face could heal- medically prescribed agoraphobia, if you will. Combine that with the fact that the assault took place when she stepped out of her home and it would be almost irrational for her not to behave the way she did. Maybe even in a biological sense- data are coming out showing actual structural change in the midbrain following trauma.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “I suppose even after she turns up, we may never know what happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“The life she leads- the insularity. In her own way she’s quite self-sufficient. That can lead a person to treasure secrecy. Even luxuriate in it. Back when I treated Melissa, I remember thinking that for this family, secrets were the coin of the realm. That an outsider would never really know what was going on. Gina may have stockpiled plenty of coins.”

“That’s the goal of therapy,” she said. “To break into that stockpile. Her progress has been remarkable.”

“I’m sure it has. All I’m saying is that she still may decide to hold on to a private reserve.”

Her face tightened as she prepared to defend against that. But she waited until she’d calmed before speaking. “I suppose you’re right. We all hold on to something, don’t we? The private gardens we choose to water and feed.” Turning away from me. “ “Gardens brimming with iron flowers. Iron roots and stems and petals.’ A paranoid schizophrenic once told me that, and I do believe it’s an apt image. Not even the deepest probing can uproot iron flowers when they don’t want to be dug up, can it?”

She faced me again. Looking hurt once more.

“No, it can’t,” I said. “Still, if she does choose to dig them up, you’ll probably be the one she hands the bouquet.”

Weak smile. Teeth. White and straight and gleaming. “Are you patronizing me, Dr. Delaware?”

“No, and if it sounds that way, I’m sorry, Dr. Cunningham hyphen Gabney.”

That pumped some strength into the smile.

I said, “What about the members of her group? Would they know anything useful?”

“No. She never saw any of them socially.”

“How many are there?”

“Just two.”

“Small group.”

“It’s a rare disorder. Finding motivated patients and those with the financial means to embark on the extensive treatment we offer cuts the number even further.”

“How are the other two patients doing?”

“Well enough to leave home and come to group.”

“Well enough to be interviewed?”

“By whom?”

“The police. The private detective- he’ll be looking for her in addition to investigating McCloskey.”

“Absolutely not. These are fragile individuals. They’re not even aware she’s missing, yet.”

“They know she didn’t show up today.”

“No-shows aren’t unusual, given the diagnosis. Most of them have missed sessions at one time or another.”

“Has Mrs. Ramp missed any before today?”

“No, but that’s not the point. No one’s absence would be especially noteworthy.”

“Will they be curious if she doesn’t show up by next Monday?”

“If they are, I’ll deal with it. Now if you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to discuss the other patients. They haven’t lost their right to confidentiality.”

“Okay.”

She started to cross her legs again. Thought better of it and kept her feet flat on the floor.

“Well,” she said, “this hasn’t been very profitable, has it?”

She stood, smoothed her dress, looked past me toward the door.

I said, “Would there be any reason for her to walk out- voluntarily?”

She snapped her head around. “What do you mean?”

“The great escape,” I said. “Trading in her life-style for something new. Jumping the therapeutic gun and going for total independence.”

“Total independence?” she said. “That makes no sense at all. Not a lick.”

The door swung open before she was able to get me to it. A man charged in and race-walked across the entry hall. Leo Gabney. But even though I’d seen his photo just a few days ago, I had to look twice before his identity registered.

He noticed us mid-stride, stopped so suddenly I expected to see skid marks on the parquet.

It was his get-up that had thrown me off: red-and-white flannel western shirt, pipestem blue jeans, pointy-toed bullhide boots with riding heels. His belt was tooled cowhide, the buckle a big brass letter psi- the Greek alphabet’s contribution to psychology’s professional identity. A retractable key ring was attached to the belt.

Urban Cowboy, but he lacked the brawn to make it work. Despite his age, his build was almost boyish. Five nine, 130, sunken thorax, shoulders narrower than his wife’s. The bushy hair stark white over a face sun-baked the color of sour-mash whiskey. Active blue eyes. Bristly white brows. Liver-spotted cranial dome high enough to host half a dozen worry lines; prominent, high-bridged nose with pinched nostrils; less chin than he deserved. His neck was wattled. A bramble of white chest hair ended at his gullet. The entire assemblage elfin but not whimsical.

He gave his wife a peck on the cheek, gave me a laboratory look.

She said, “This is Dr. Delaware.”

“Ah, Dr. Delaware. I’m Dr. Gabney.”

Strong voice. Basso profundo- too deep a tone for such a narrow box. A New England accent that turned my name into Dullaweah.

He extended his hand. Thin and soft- he hadn’t been roping steers. Even the bones felt soft, as if they’d been soaked in vinegar. The skin around them was loose and dry and cool, like that of a lizard in the shade.

“Has she shown up yet?” he said.

She said, “I’m afraid not, Leo.”

He clucked his tongue. “Hellish thing. I came down just as soon as I could.”

She said, “Dr. Delaware informed me that McCloskey- the man who assaulted her- is back in town.”

The white eyebrows tented and the worry lines became inverted V’s. “Oh?”

“The police located him but he had an alibi, so they let him go. We were discussing the fact that his previous modus was to hire someone- there’s no reason to think he wouldn’t do it again. The man he hired the first time is dead, but that doesn’t rule out another scoundrel, does it?”

“No, of course not. Dreadful. Letting him go was absurd- absolutely premature. Why don’t you call the police and remind them of that fact, dear?”

“I doubt they’d pay much attention. Dr. Delaware also feels it’s unlikely anyone could have watched her without being noticed by the San Labrador police.”

He said, “Why’s that?”

“The bare streets, the fact that the local police’s area of competence is looking out for strangers.”

“Competence is a relative term, Ursula. Call them. Tactfully remind them that McCloskey’s behavioral style is contractor, not contractee. And that he may have contracted again. Sociopaths often repeat themselves- behaviorally rigid. Cut out by a cookie cutter, the lot of them.”

“Leo, I don’t-”

“Please, darling.” He took both of her hands in his. Massaged her smooth flesh with his thumbs. “We’re dealing with inferior minds, and Mrs. Ramp’s welfare is at stake.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, said, “Certainly, Leo.”

“Thank you, darling. And one more thing, if you’d be so kind- pull the Saab in a bit. I’m sticking out into the street.”

She turned her back on us and walked quickly to her office. Gabney watched her. Following her sway- almost lasciviously. When she closed the door, he turned to me for the first time since we’d shaken hands. “Dr. Delaware, of pavor nocturnus fame. Come into my office, won’t you?”

I followed him to the rear of the house, into a wide, paneled room that would have been the library. Drapes of cranberry-colored velvet under gold-edged valances covered most of one wall. The rest was bookcases carved with near-rococo abandon and murky paintings of horses and dogs. The ceiling was as low as the one in his wife’s study, but adorned with moldings and centered with a plaster floral medallion from which hung a brass chandelier set with electric candles.

A seven-foot carved desk sat in front of one of the bookcases. A silver and crystal pen-and-inkwell set, bone-bladed letter opener, antique fold-up blotter, and green-shaded banker’s lamp shared the red leather top with an In/Out box and piles of medical and psychological journals, some still in their brown paper wrappers. The case directly behind him was filled with books with his name on the spine and letter-files tagged PEER REVIEW ARTICLES and dated from 1951 through the last year.

He settled himself in a high-backed leather desk chair and invited me to sit.

Second time, in just a few minutes, on the other side of the desk. I was starting to feel like a patient.

Using the bone-knife to slit the wrapper on a copy of The Journal of Applied Behavioral Analysis, he opened to the table of contents, scanned, and put the magazine down. Picking up another journal, he flipped pages, frowning.

“My wife’s an amazing woman,” he said, reaching for a third journal. “One of the finest minds of her generation. M.D. and Ph.D. by the age of twenty-five. You’ll never find a more skillful clinician, or one more dedicated.”

Wondering if he was trying to make up for the way he’d just treated her, I said, “Impressive.”

“Extraordinary.” He put the third journal aside. Smiled. “After that, what else could I do but marry her?”

Before I’d figured out how to react to that, he said, “We like to joke that she’s a paradox.” Chuckling. Stopping abruptly, he unsnapped one shirt pocket and pulled out a packet of chewing gum.

“Spearmint?” he said.

“No, thanks.”

He unwrapped a stick and got to work on it, weak chin rising and falling with oil-pump regularity. “Poor Mrs. Ramp. At this stage of her treatment she’s not equipped to be out there. My wife called me the moment she realized something was wrong- we keep a ranch up in Santa Ynez. Unfortunately, I had little to offer by way of wisdom- who could expect such a thing? What on earth could have happened?”

“Good question.”

He shook his head. “Very distressing. I did want to be down here in case something developed. Abandoned my duties and zipped down.”

His clothes looked pressed and clean. I wondered what his duties were. Remembering his soft hands, I said, “Do you ride?”

“A bit,” he said, chewing. “Though I don’t have a passion for it. I’d never have bought the beasts in the first place, but they came with the property. It was the space I wanted. The place I settled on included twenty acres. I’ve been thinking about planting Chardonnay grapes.” His mouth was still for a moment. I could see the gum wadded up inside one cheek, like a plug of tobacco. “Do you think a behaviorist is capable of producing a first-rate wine?”

“They say great wine is the result of intangibles.”

He smiled. “No such thing,” he said. “Only incomplete data.”

“Maybe so. Good luck.”

He sat back and rested his hands on his belly. The shirt billowed around them.

“The air,” he said between chews, “is what really draws me up there. Unfortunately my wife can’t enjoy it. Allergies. Horses, grasses, tree-pollens, all sorts of things that never bothered her back in Boston. So she concentrates on clinical work and leaves me free to experiment.”

It wasn’t the conversation I’d have imagined having with the great Leo Gabney. Back in the days when I used to imagine things like that. I wasn’t sure why he’d invited me in.

Perhaps sensing that, he said, “Alex Delaware. I’ve followed all your work, not just the sleep studies. “Multimodal Treatment of Self Damaging Obsessions in Children.’ “The Psychosocial Aspects of Chronic Disease and Prolonged Hospitalization in Children.’ “Disease-Related Communication and Family Coping Style.’ Et cetera. A solid output, clean writing.”

“Thank you.”

“You haven’t published in several years.”

“I’m working on something currently. For the most part I’ve been doing other things.”

“Private practice?”

“Forensic work.”

“What kind of forensic work?”

“Trauma and injury-related cases. Some child custody.”

“Ugly stuff, custody,” he said. “What’s your opinion about joint custody?”

“It can work in some situations.”

He smiled. “Nice hedge. I suppose that’s adaptive when dealing with the legal system. Actually, parents should be strongly reinforced for making it work. If they fail repeatedly, the parent with the best child-rearing skills should be selected as primary custodian, regardless of gender. Don’t you agree?”

“I think the best interests of the child are what counts.”

“Everyone thinks that, Doctor. The challenge is how to operationalize good intentions. If I had my way, no decisions about custody would be made until trained observers actually lived with the family for several weeks, keeping careful records using structured, valid, and reliable behavioral scales and reporting their results to a panel of psychological specialists. What do you think of that notion?”

“Sounds good, theoretically. In practical terms-”

“No, no,” he said, chewing furiously. “I speak from practical experience. My first wife set out to murder me legally- this was years ago, when the courts wouldn’t even hear what a father had to say. She was a drinker and a smoker and irresponsible to the core. But to the idiot judge that heard the case, the crucial factor was that she had ovaries. He gave her everything- my house, my son, sixty percent of the paltry estate I’d accumulated as an untenured lecturer. A year later, she was smoking in bed, dead-drunk. The house burned down and I lost my son forever.”

Saying it matter-of-factly, the bass voice flat as a foghorn.

Resting his elbows on the desk, he placed the fingertips of both hands together, creating a diamond-shaped space that he peered through.

I said, “I’m sorry.”

“It was a terrible time for me.” Chewing slowly. “For a while it seemed as if nothing would ever have reinforcement value again. But I ended up with Ursula, so I suppose there’s a silver lining.”

Heat in the blue eyes. Unmistakable passion.

I thought of the way she’d obeyed him. The way he’d looked at her rear. Wondered if what turned him on was her ability to be both wife and child.

He lowered his hands. “Soon after the tragedy I married again. Before Ursula. Another error in judgment, but at least there were no children. When I met Ursula, she was an undergraduate applying for graduate school and I was a full professor at the university and the medical school as well as the first non-M.D. associate dean the medical school had ever appointed. I saw her potential, set out to help her realize it. Most satisfying accomplishment of my life. Are you married?”

“No.”

“A wonderful convention if the proper confluence can be achieved. My first two were failures because I allowed myself to be swayed by intangibles. Ignored my training. Don’t segregate your scholarship from your life, my young friend. Your knowledge of human behavior gives you great advantage over common, bumbling homo incompetens.”

He smiled again. “Enough lecturing. What’s your take on this whole thing- poor Mrs. Ramp?”

“I don’t have a take, Dr. Gabney. I came here to learn.”

“This McCloskey thing- very distressing to think such a man is roaming free. How did you find out?”

I told him.

“Ah, the daughter. Managing her own anxiety by attempting to control her mother’s behavior. Would that she’d shared her information. What else do you know about this McCloskey?”

“Just the basic facts of the assault. No one seems to know why he did it.”

“Yes,” he said. “An atypically close-mouthed psychopath- usually those types love to brag about their misdeeds. I suppose it would have been nice to know from the beginning. In terms of defining variables. But in the end, I don’t feel the treatment plan suffered. The key is to cut through all the talk and get them to change their behavior. Mrs. Ramp has been doing very well. I hope it hasn’t all been for naught.”

I said, “Maybe her disappearance is related to her progress- enjoying her freedom and deciding to grab a bigger chunk.”

“An interesting theory, but we discourage breaks in schedule.”

“Patients have been known to do their own thing.”

“To their detriment.”

“You don’t think sometimes they know what’s best for them?”

“Not generally. If I did, I couldn’t charge them three hundred dollars an hour in good faith, could I?”

Three hundred. At that rate- the kind of intensive treatment they did- three patients could carry the whole clinic.

I said, “Is that for both you and your wife?”

He grinned, and I knew I’d asked the right question. “Myself alone. My wife receives two hundred. Are you appalled by those figures, Dr. Delaware?”

“They’re higher than what I’m used to, but it’s a free country.”

“That it is. I spent most of my professional life in academia and in public hospitals, ministering to the poor. Setting up treatment programs for people who never paid a penny. At this stage in my life I thought it only fair that the rich be offered the benefit of my accumulated knowledge.”

Lifting the silver pen, he twirled it and put it down. “So,” he said, “you feel Mrs. Ramp may have run away.”

“I think it’s a possibility. When I spoke to her yesterday, she hinted that she was planning to make some changes in her life.”

“Really?” The blue eyes stopped moving. “What kind of changes?”

“She implied that she didn’t like the house she was living in- too big, all the opulence. That she wanted something simpler.”

“Something simpler,” he said. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s about it.”

“Well, disappearing like this can hardly be thought of as a simplification.”

“Do you have any clinical impressions that would explain what’s happened?”

“Mrs. Ramp is a nice lady,” he said. “Very sweet. Instinctively, one wants to help her. And clinically, her case is fairly simple, a textbook case of classically conditioned anxiety strengthened and maintained by operant factors: the anxiety-reducing effects of repeated avoidance and escape strengthened by the positively reinforcing qualities of reduced social responsibility and increased altruism of others.”

“Conditioned dependency?”

“Exactly. In many ways she’s like a child- all agoraphobics are. Dependent, ritualistic, routinized to the extent that they cling to primitive habits. As the phobia endures, it gains strength, and their behavioral repertoire drops off sharply. Eventually they become frozen by inertia- a sort of psychological cryogenics. Agoraphobics are psychological reactionaries, Dr. Delaware. They don’t move unless prodded sharply. Every step is taken with great trepidation. That’s why I can’t see her gaily running off in search of some ill-defined Xanadu.”

“Despite her progress?”

“Her progress is gratifying but she has a ways to go. My wife and I have each mapped out extensive plans.”

That sounded more like competition than collaboration. I didn’t comment.

Unwrapping another stick of gum, he slid it between his lips. “The treatment is well thought out- we offer full value in return for our appalling fees. In all probability, Mrs. Ramp will return to the roost and avail herself of it.”

“So you’re not worried about her.”

He chewed hard, made squirting noises. “I’m concerned, Dr. Delaware, but worrying is counterproductive. Anxiety-producing. I train my phobics to stay away from it and I train myself to practice what I preach.”