Private Eyes

35

Five minutes of studying the Thomas Guide. A hundred and twenty minutes on Freeway 101 north, following through.

Twilight arrived midway through the drive. By the time I reached Santa Barbara the sky was black. I picked up the 154 near Goleta, found the San Marcos pass with little difficulty, and drove through the mountains all the way to Lake Cachuma.

Locating what I was looking for was more of a challenge. This was ranch country, no street signs or lamps or Chamber of Commerce puffery. I overshot the first time, didn’t realize it until I hit the town of Ballard. Reversing direction, I cruised slowly. Despite straining eyes and a heavy foot on the brake, I passed it going the other way, too. But my headlights trapped a wooden sign just long enough for the image to register as I rolled by.

INCENTIVE RANCH

PRIVATE PROPERTY

I cut the lights, backed up, and stuck my head out the car window. Cooler up here. A breeze that smelled of dust and dry grass. The sign was handmade, nailhead letters in pine, swinging gently over a square wooden gate. The gate was low and squat. Horizontal planks in a wooden frame. Maybe five feet high, connected to tongue-and-groove fencing that blocked the entry.

Leaving the engine running, I got out of the Seville and walked to the gate. It yielded a bit when I pushed, but remained shut. After a couple of false starts I found a toehold between two of the planks, hoisted myself up, and ran my hand over the inner side of the gate. Metal latch. Big padlock. The view beyond, barely starlit. Below, a narrow dirt road, passing between what looked to be tall trees. Mountains in the background, sharp and black as a witch’s cap.

Returning to the car, I edged out and drove a hundred yards or so until I found a spot where the shoulder was shaded by trees. Shrubs, really. Scrawny, wind-whipped things that appeared to grow out of the mountainside and hung suspended over the asphalt. Not concealment but maybe just enough camouflage to shield the car from casual discovery.

I parked, locked, walked back to the gate on foot, recovered my toehold, and was over in a wink.

The road was lumpy and pebble-strewn. I lost my footing several times in the darkness and landed on my palms. As I got closer to the tall trees, I picked up a piny scent. My face began to tingle and itch. Unseen bugs feasting on my flesh.

The trees were packed close together but few in number. Within moments I was in unprotected space. Flat space lit gray by a feeble quarter moon. I stopped, listened. Heard the blood sloshing in my ears. Gradually, details asserted themselves.

A stadium-size plot of dirt, planted, in no discernible pattern, with half a dozen trees. Low-voltage spots at some of the trunk bases.

My nose went to work again. Citrus perfume so strong my mouth tasted summer-vacation lemonade. Unimpressed, the bugs stayed with red meat.

I took a cautious step. Ten more, then twenty. Fuzzy white rectangles appeared through the leaves of one of the trees. I walked around the citrus boughs. The rectangles became windows. I knew there had to be a wall behind them and my mind drew one before my eyes actually saw it.

A house. Modest size. Single story, low-pitched roof. Three windows lit but nothing visible through them. Curtained.

The basic California ranch setup. Silent. Pastoral.

So peaceful it made me doubt my hunch. But too many things fit together…

I searched for more details.

Saw the vehicle I was looking for.

To the left of the house was stake-and-post fencing. A corral.

Behind that, outbuildings. I headed toward them, heard the whinny and snort of horses, filled my nose with the mealy aroma of old hay and manure.

The horse sounds grew louder. I located the origin: stables, directly behind the corral. Behind that- twenty yards back- a tall building that appeared windowless. Feed barn. Farther back, to the right, a smaller structure.

Light there, too. One rectangle. Single window.

I moved forward. The horses pawed and whickered. Got louder. Only a few from the sound of it, but what they lacked in numbers they made up in anxiety. I held my breath, continued. Hooves thudded against soft wood; I thought I felt the earth vibrate, but it might have been my legs shaking.

The horses turned up the volume even further, lathering passionately. I heard a creak and a click from the direction of the smallest building. Pressing myself against the corral, I watched a column of light spread across the dirt as the front door to the building swung open. A screen door whistled and someone stepped out.

The horses kept whinnying. One of them let out a throaty, gaseous rumble.

A deep voice shouted, “Shut up!”

Sudden silence.

The shouter stood there for a moment, then went back inside. The light column thinned to a thread but didn’t vanish. I stayed here, listening to the horses panting. Feeling many-legged things tour my hands and face.

Finally the door shut all the way. I slapped at my cheeks, waited several more minutes before moving forward.

Behind the stable walls the horses were whimpering in frustration. I ran past them, kicking up gravel and cursing my leather shoes.

I stopped at the barn door. Sounds- not equine- were coming from the small building. The single window cast a filmy glow on the dust. Sticking close to the barn siding, I inched my way toward the light.

Step by step. The sounds took on tone and form and species.

Human.

A human duet.

One voice talking, another humming. No. Moaning.

I was at the front wall of the small building now, pressing against rough wood but still unable to shape the sounds into words.

Angry tone in the first voice.

Giving orders.

The second voice resisting.

A curious, high-frequency noise, like that of a TV being switched on.

More moans. Louder.

Someone resisting and suffering because of it.

I ran to the window, crouched below the sill until my knees hurt, slowly raised myself and tried to peer through the shades.

Opaque. All I could discern was the barest abstraction of movement- the light-shift of form through space.

The sounds of torment continued from within.

I got to the door, pulled the screen door open, and winced as it creaked.

The sounds continued.

I groped in the darkness for the handle to the inner door.

Rusted knob, loose on its bearings. Metallic jingle. I quieted it by grasping with both hands. Turned slowly. Pushed.

An inch of spy-space. I looked through it, heart speeding. What I saw spurred it faster.

My hand pulled the door open… in.

The room was long and narrow and paneled with fake wormwood the color of cigarette ash. Black linoleum floor. Light from two cheap looking swag lamps on opposite ends. Dry, smoke-flavored heat from a wall unit.

A pair of chipped white barber chairs were bolted to the center of the floor, set three feet apart, in semi-recline.

The first chair was empty. The second contained a woman wearing a hospital gown, tethered at ankles, wrists, waist, and chest by broad leather straps. Patches of hair had been shaved from her head, creating a crude checkerboard. Electrodes were fastened to white scalp-patches and to arms and inner thighs. Wires running from each site merged to a central orange cable that snaked across the floor and ended at a gray metal box, high as a refrigerator, twice as wide. The box was faced with dials and glassed meters. Some of the needles on the meters quivered.

The edge of something stuck out from behind the box. Chrome-shiny, wheeled legs.

A second cable connected the box to a device that sat on a gray metal table. Paper drum and mechanical arm. The arm held several mechanical pens. Jagged graph lines peaked and troughed across the drum, which was rotating slowly. Next to the machine were several amber pharmaceutical vials and a white plastic inhalator.

Directly facing the woman was a large-screen television console. A close-up of a female breast, its nipple apple-sized, was frozen on the screen. The image shifted: close-up of a face. A pubic thatch. Back to the nipple.

A man stood next to the set, holding a black remote-control device in one hand, a larger gray one in the other. He was chewing gum. His eyes were hot with triumph that turned to alarm when he saw me.

The woman in the chair was Ursula Cunningham-Gabney. Her eyes were raw and swollen and wide with terror, and her mouth was stuffed with a blue bandana.

The man was sixtyish, with bushy white hair and a small, round face. He wore a black sweatshirt over blue jeans and work boots. His boots were crusted with dried dirt. His eyes widened and blinked.

His wife tried to scream around her gag; what emerged was a thin retch.

He never looked at her.

I moved toward him.

He shook his head and pressed a button on the gray remote. The high-frequency sound I’d heard outside filled the room, shrill as a bird being butchered as the needle on one of the meters jumped. Ursula’s body bucked and pitched against her restraints. She kept quaking as her husband’s finger remained on the button. He didn’t seem to be noticing her at all, was staring at me and inching backward.

The horror made me dizzy. Clearing my head, I took a step.

Gabney’s basso voice said: “Stop, damn you,” as he pressed another button. The high noise became a shriek and another needle arced to the right. The room smelled of burnt toast. Ursula growled around her gag and shook as if being throttled. Fingers and toes convulsed at the end of pinioned limbs. Her torso rose totally off the seat- only the strap seemed to prevent her from flying away. The veins in her neck swelled, her jaws were forced open, and the gag flew out of her mouth, followed by a soundless scream. Her body was as rigid as cordwood, skin silvery white except for the lips, which looked bluish.

I fought down nausea and panic. Gabney had danced farther away from me, half-concealed behind the big gray box, finger still on the gray remote.

I moved toward the barber chair.

Gabney stopped pushing long enough to say, “Go ahead. Flesh is an excellent conductor. I’ll turn up the voltage and cook both of you.”

I stood still. Ursula had sunk like a sack of rocks. Wheezing, whistling sounds came from her open mouth. She moved her head from side to side, throwing off sweat-drizzle, chest heaving, panting gutturally through grotesquely swollen lips. Her legs were the last to relax, parting slightly. The electrode between them was attached to some kind of sanitary napkin.

I snapped my head away, looked for Gabney.

From behind the gray box, his voice said, “Sit down- farther back. Even farther- that’s good. And keep your hands in full view. Exactly.”

He emerged, paler than before, one arm resting on the top corner of the chrome-shiny thing. Took a sidelong glance at the giant breast.

Wondering if he had help, I said, “Quite a setup. A lot for one man to handle.”

“Don’t patronize me, you insolent shit. Everything’s manageable, as long as the proper variables are controlled. No, don’t scoot forward or I’ll have to deliver more aversives.”

“You made your point,” I said.

His fingers danced above the buttons on the gray remote but didn’t touch them.

“Control,” I said. “Is that the primary goal?”

“You call yourself a scientist. Isn’t it yours?”

Before I could answer he shook his head in disgust. “Define, predict, and control. Otherwise, why bother?”

“How does that reconcile with your ideas about free will?”

He smiled. “My little disquisitions? How conscientious of you to read them. But if you were half as smart as you think you are, you’d see there’s plenty of free will in all of this. This is about free will- its restoration.” Glancing at the apparatus. “A person shackled by major personality defect can never be free.”

Ursula groaned.

The sound made his brow crease.

I said, “Where is Gina?”

He ignored me. Said nothing for what seemed like a long time. Looked at the floor.

Pulled on the chrome thing and brought half of it into view.

Bed on wheels. Pull-up caged sides. Adult-sized crib, the kind they use in nursing homes.

Gina Ramp behind the bars. Lying inert. Eyes closed. Sleeping or unconscious or… I saw her chest move. Saw her checkerboard scalp… cables attached to her, too.

“Listen carefully, idiot,” Gabney finally said. “I’m going to go over there and retrieve that bandana. But my hand will remain on the highest-voltage button. If you move, I’ll incinerate your precious Gina. Fifteen seconds at this level elicits death. Irreversible brain damage requires much less.”

Lightly tapping a button, making the prone body twitch.

I said, “I’m not moving.”

Keeping his eye on me, he crouched next to his wife’s chair, picked up the gag, stood, wadded it, and inserted it in her mouth. She coughed and made choking sounds but didn’t resist. The seam of her gown read PROPERTY MASS. GENERAL.

“Relax, darling,” he said. Using the black remote, he switched off the TV. Taking a stance in front of the screen, he gave her a look that I couldn’t categorize- domination and contempt, lust and just a bit of affection, which sickened me the most. I looked over at Gina, who still hadn’t stirred.

“Don’t worry about her,” said Gabney. “She’ll be out for a while- chloral hydrate, ye olde Mickey Finn. She responds well to it. Given her history and weak constitution, I’ve treated her with kid gloves.”

“What a guy.”

“Don’t interrupt me again,” he said louder, pressing a button that made the room scream and caused Gina’s body to flop like a cloth doll. No conscious perception of pain was evident on her face, but her lips drew back in a toothy rictus that stretched and puckered the skin on her bad side.

When the noise died, Gabney said, “A bit more of that, and all that lovely plastic surgery will have been for naught.”

“Stop,” I said.

“Quit whining. This is the last time you’ll get a warning. Understood?”

I nodded.

The burnt-toast smell filled my head.

Gabney stared at me, contemplative.

“This is a problem,” he said, and tapped the gray remote.

“What is?”

“Why the hell did you meddle? How did you find out?”

“One thing kind of led to the other.”

“ “Kind of led,’ ” he said. “ “Kind of led.’ Wonderful grammar- who wrote your thesis for you?” Shaking his head. “Kind of led- just a loose chain of events, was it? Knocking around aimlessly, damn near random?”

I looked at the machines.

His face darkened. “Don’t judge me- don’t you damn well dare. This is treatment. You’ve violated confidentiality.”

I said nothing.

“Do you have even the slightest notion of what I’m talking about?”

“Sexual reconditioning,” I said. “You’re trying to rechannel your wife’s sexual orientation.”

“Profound,” he said. “Just brilliant. You’re able to describe what you see. Freshman psych, second part of the first semester.”

He stared at me, tapping one boot.

I said, “What am I missing?”

“Missing?” Dry laughter. “Just all of it. The meat, the raison d’Être, the goddam clinical rationale.”

“The rationale is that you’re helping her become normal.”

“And you don’t think that’s worthwhile?”

Before I could answer he shook his head and cursed, then tightened the arm holding the shock remote. My eyes snapped reflexively to the gray plastic. I realized I’d broken out into a sweat. Waiting for the high-frequency shriek and the pain that was sure to follow.

Gabney lowered his hand, smiling. “Empathetic conditioning. And so rapidly. My, you have a mushy heart- a pity for your patients.” The smile dissolved in a pool of contempt. “Well, what you think doesn’t matter one goddam iota.”

Keeping his eye on me, he inched over toward Ursula. Lifting her gown with the black remote, he exposed her thighs and said, “Flawless.”

“Except for the bruises.”

“Nothing that won’t heal. Sometimes creativity is called for.”

“Creativity?” I said. “Interesting way to think of torture.”

He stepped directly in front of me, just out of arms’ reach. Fingers tapping the buttons lightly. Setting off high-frequency chirps and staccato movements of both women’s bodies.

“Are you being intentionally stupid?” he said.

I shrugged.

“Torture implies intent to cause harm. I’m delivering aversive stimuli in order to enhance the rate of learning. Aversives are potent little buggers- only a mushy-hearted moron would question their usefulness. This is no more torture than a vaccination is, or emergency surgery.”

From around Ursula’s gag came the sound a mouse makes when cornered.

I said, “Just speeding up the old learning curve, Prof?”

Gabney studied me, gave the gray remote a couple of quick jabs, and caused both of the women to convulse.

I forced myself to look casual.

He said, “Something amusing?”

“All your talk about treatment, yet you keep using the shocks to vent your anger. Doesn’t that break the stimulus-response chain? And why, if you’re retraining Ursula, are you shocking Gina? She’s just the stimulus, isn’t she?”

He said, “Oh, shut up.”

“Sexual reconditioning,” I said. “It was tried years ago- back in the early seventies- and discredited.”

“Primitive crap- methodologically crude. Though it might have developed into something worthwhile if the gay lib agitators hadn’t shoved their point of view down everyone’s throat- so much for free will.”

I shrugged again.

He said, “I don’t imagine your mind is capable of opening sufficiently to snare facts, but here are a few, anyway: I love my wife. She elicits love from me, and for that I’ll always be grateful. She’s a remarkable human being- first in her family to finish high school. I recognized how special she was the first time I met her. The flame within- she was damn near incandescent. So her… problem didn’t deter me. On the contrary, it was a challenge. And she agreed with both my assessment and my treatment plan. What we accomplished- together- was totally consensual.”

I said, “Fixing her.”

“Don’t make it sound like something veterinary, you idiot. We worked together to solve her problem. If that’s not therapy, I don’t know what is. And what emerged from our work together could benefit millions of women. The plan itself was simple- positive reinforcement delivered contingent upon heterosexually induced arousal and punishment administered as a consequence of exposure to homoerotic material. But the application posed a huge challenge- adapting the paradigm to female physiology. With a male subject, measurement of arousal is a snap. Using a penile plesmographic cuff, you record degree of tumescence. Females are structurally more… secretive. Our initial idea was to develop a sort of minicuff for the clitoris, but it proved impractical. I won’t go into details. It was she who came up with the intravaginal moisture probe that she now wears so handsomely. Given proper base-line analyses of secretions, we’ve been able to correlate bioelectrical changes with perceived sexual arousal. The potential ramifications are fantastic. Compared to what we’ve done, Masters and Johnson are painting on cave walls.”

“Fantastic,” I said. “Too bad it didn’t work.”

“Oh, it worked all right. For years.”

“Not for Eileen Wagner.”

He stroked Ursula again and turned back to me. “Now, that was a mistake- my wife’s mistake. Poor patient selection. Wagner was pathetic- a cow, a mushy-hearted, bovine do-gooder. Psychology and psychiatry are so full of them.”

“If you thought so little of her, why’d you accept her as your fellow at Harvard?”

He shook his head and laughed. “She wasn’t my anything. I would have sent her to nursing school. She rotated for a month on my wife’s service. Rounds and didactic sessions and clinical supervision. My wife learned of her sexual pathology and tried to help her. The way I’d helped my wife. I was against it from the beginning, felt the cow wasn’t suitable for our technique- not enough motivation, no willpower. Her obesity alone should have been enough to disqualify her on that account- she was squalid. But my wife was too kind. And I gave in.”

“Was she your first subject- after Ursula?”

“Our first patient. Unfortunately. And, as I’d predicted, she did very poorly. Which says absolutely nothing about the technique.”

He gave a sharp look over at his wife. I thought I saw a finger tense.

“I’d call suicide a very poor response,” I said.

“Suicide?” His smile was slow, almost lazy. He shook his head. “Bear this in mind: The cow was incapable of doing anything for herself.”

Strangled sounds from Ursula.

Gabney said, “I’m sorry, dear- I never told you, did I?”

“Harvard believed it was suicide,” I said. “Somehow, the med school found out what kind of research you were doing and asked you to leave.”

“Somehow,” he said, the smile gone. “The cow was a scribbler- tear-stained “love’ notes never sent, stuffed in a desk drawer. Disgusting stuff.”

Walking over to his wife again, he stroked her cheek. Kissed a shaved spot on her head. Her eyes were clenched tight; she made no effort to turn away.

“Love notes to you, darling,” he said. “Mushy, incoherent, hardly evidence. But I had enemies in the department and they pounced. I could have fought it. But Harvard had nothing more to offer me- it’s really not what it’s cracked up to be. It was clearly time for a move.”

“California,” I said. “San Labrador. Your wife’s suggestion, wasn’t it? Go west for clinical opportunities.”

Opportunities arising out of Ursula’s supervision of Eileen Wagner. Closed-door sessions that turned into therapy, as supervision often does.

Eileen talking about her past. Her needs. The sexual conflicts that had caused her to switch from pediatrics to psychiatry.

Recounting her experiences, years before, with a beguiling, wealthy agoraphobic. A ravaged princess ensconced in a peach-colored castle, crippled by fear that had eventually spread to her daughter- a little girl so remarkable she’d called for help, herself…

An eleven-year-old conversation came back to me.

Eileen in sensible shoes and a mannish blouse, shifting her Gladstone bag from hand to hand.

She’s really beautiful. Despite the scars… Sweet. In a vulnerable way.

Sounds like you learned a lot from a brief visit.

The color rising in Eileen’s cheeks. One tries.

Her embarrassment a puzzle. So clear, now.

More than a brief visit had taken place.

A lot more than medical consultation.

Melissa had sensed something out of the ordinary, without fully understanding: She’s my mother’s friend… She likes my mother…

Jacob Dutchy had known, too- made a point of portraying Gina’s avoidance of me as a generic fear of doctors.

I’d questioned it: She met with Dr. Wagner.

Yes. That was a surprise. She doesn’t cope well with surprises.

Are you saying she had some sort of adverse reaction just to meeting with Dr. Wagner?

Let’s just say it was difficult for her.

Would it be easier for her to deal with a female therapist?

No! Absolutely not! It’s not that at all.

Gina and Eileen…

The stirring- the inclinations- that each had fought for so long. Cravings Gina had dealt with by marrying a physically grotesque man who played the role of father. The second time around choosing a bisexual man- an old friend with a secret of his own, whom she could turn to for companionship and mutual tolerance and the outward appearance of married bliss.

Separate bedrooms.

Eileen… coping with the self-loathing she’d felt after Sussex Knoll by abandoning her practice, leaving town, and traveling the world as a care-giver, unpressured to defend herself. Devoting herself to saving lives as she waged war with her pain.

Losing too many battles and choosing another strategy- one so many other bright, troubled people have taken: the study of The Mind.

Child psychiatry. Because let’s get back to the root of it all.

Harvard. Because let’s learn from the best.

Harvard and a blue-collar lover. An electrician with no patience for soul-baring.

Then, rotation on Ursula’s service. The mischief gods must have been chortling heartily.

Rap sessions.

Confessions.

Pain and passion and confusion- someone who’d listen to all the things Sally Etheridge never wanted to hear about.

Ursula heard. And was changed herself.

Burying it by playing doctor.

A behavioral nightmare becomes real. The mischief gods beside themselves with glee.

Treatment failure. Of the worst kind.

Bye-bye, Boston.

Time for a move.

California, in search of the princess…

In search of the idea of the princess. Wealthy phobics Ursula knew she could help.

Playing doctor.

Fee for service. Big fees.

All is well.

Then, the child calls. Again…

“Opportunities,” Gabney was saying. “Yes, that’s basically the way she put it. A business decision. I preferred Florida- less expensive; the air’s a hell of a lot better. But she pushed for California, and not knowing what she was really after, I relented. It’s when I relent that things go wrong.”

He looked over at Gina, his face befouled with rage- the flailing, mind-searing fury of a man blocked from possessing what he craved.

Because of another woman.

The ultimate insult to the feeble thing known as Maleness.

Suddenly, I was certain Joel McCloskey had been insulted, too.

Thrown over by another woman.

Dirty joke.

Bad joke. Burrowing through his dope-softened brain like a spirochete.

Rejection festering. The hatred of homosexuals…

Dealing with it by demolishing Gina’s beauty- blotting out criminal womanhood.

Too cowardly to do it himself. Cowardly about exposing his motives as well, for fear of what that would say about him.

Had Gina ever understood why she’d suffered?

Gabney emitted a low, angry sound. Staring at Gina. Then at his wife.

“I’ve never been deceptive with her, but she chose to change the rules-both of them did.”

“When did you first suspect?”

“Shortly after that one’s treatment began. It was nothing specific- just nuances. Subtle variations that a man who knew less- or cared less- might never have noticed. Spending more time with her than all the other patients. Extra sessions that weren’t necessary from a clinical point of view. Changing the subject and showing odd resistance when I challenged her. And abandoning the ranch- she used to come up here regularly. Despite the allergies. Took antihistamines and tolerated the pollens in order to spend peaceful weekends with me. All of that stopped as soon as she came into our lives.” He smiled. “This is the first time she’s been up here since then. All those stupid excuses for staying in the city that she thought I didn’t see through… I knew damn well what was going on. Wanted hard data to preclude any more lies. So I made a few modifications to our office intercom and began listening in. Heard them”- the round face trembled-“making their plans.”

“Plans for what?”

“To leave.” He pressed his free hand over his face, as if ironing out grief. “Together.”

Giant steps…

Melissa, sensing the truth. Feeling edged out by Ursula’s possessiveness…

Gabney said, “This is how low it sank: My wife accepted a piece of art from her- an extremely valuable etching. Now if that’s not an inexcusable breach of ethics, I don’t know what the hell is. Don’t you agree?”

I nodded.

“Money changed hands as well,” he said. “To her, money means nothing because she’s a spoiled bitch, never been deprived of anything. But it was bound to corrupt my wife- she came from a poor family. Despite everything she’s accomplished, pretty things still impress her. She’s like a child that way. The bitch understood that.”

Pointing at Gina: “She gave her money on a regular basis- enormous sums. A secret bank account! They called it their little nest egg. Giggling like stupid schoolgirls. Giggling and plotting to abandon their responsibilities and go gallivanting off to live like whores on some tropical island. On top of the perversity, what a disgusting waste! My wife has a brilliant future. The bitch seduced her and attempted to lay everything to waste- I had to intervene. The bitch would have destroyed her.”

He pressed a button on the remote. Gina flopped. Ursula watched and made whimpering noises.

Gabney said, “Shut up, darling, or I’ll grill her synapses right now, and to hell with the goddam treatment plan.”

Tears ran down Ursula’s cheeks. She was silent and still.

“If this upsets you, darling, blame yourself.”

His finger finally lifted. “If I were a selfish man, I would have simply killed her,” he said to me. “But I wanted to give her worthless, spoiled life some meaning. So I decided to… apprentice her. As a stimulus, as you’ve so profoundly pointed out.”

“In vivo conditioning,” I said. “Home movies.”

“Science in the real world.”

“So you abducted her.”

“No, no,” he said. “She came willingly.”

“Patient to doctor.”

“Exactly.” He gave a wide, satisfied smile. “I phoned her in the morning, informing her of a scheduling change. Instead of group therapy, she’d be having a one-on-one session with me. Her beloved Dr. Ursula was ill, and I was filling in. I told her we’d make special progress today- surprise her beloved Dr. Ursula with outstanding progress. I instructed her to drive her car out of the gates of her estate and pick me up two blocks away at a precise time. I specified the Rolls-Royce- told her something about consistency of stimuli. Because, of course, it has tinted windows. She arrived right on the dot. I had her slide over to the passenger side, and I got behind the wheel. She asked me where we were going. I didn’t answer. That elicited visible symptoms of anxiety- she wasn’t even close to being ready for that kind of ambiguity. She repeated her question. Once again, I said nothing and continued to drive. She began to get twitchy and to breathe rapidly- prodromal signs. When I sped onto the freeway she burst into a full-blown anxiety attack. I handed her an inhaler that I’d doctored to contain chloral hydrate and instructed her to take a nice deep breath. She did, and passed out immediately. Which was elegant. I was driving at fifty-five miles per hour, didn’t want her thrashing around and creating a hazard. Unconscious, she made a lovely traveling companion. I drove to the dam, where my Land Rover was waiting. Transferred her into the Rover and pushed that ostentatious hunk of junk into the water.”

“Pretty strenuous work for one man.”

“What you mean to say is strenuous for a man of my age. But I’m in excellent shape. Clean living. Creative fulfillment.”

“The car didn’t sink,” I said. “It caught on a flange.”

He said nothing, didn’t move.

“Poor planning for someone as precise as you. And with the Land Rover up there, how’d you get back to San Labrador?”

“Ah,” he said, “the man is capable of rudimentary reasoning. Yes, you’re correct, I did have help. A Mexican fellow, used to work for me up here at the ranch. When we had more horses. When my wife used to ride.”

To Ursula: “Remember Cleofais, darling?”

Ursula shut her eyes tight. Water leaked out from under the lids.

Gabney said, “This Cleofais- what a name, eh?- was a big, husky fellow. Not much in the way of brains, no common sense- he was essentially a two-footed beast of burden. I was getting close to firing him- only a few horses left, no sense wasting money- but the transfer of Mrs. Ramp offered him one last chance to be useful. He dropped me off in Pasadena, then took the Rover up to the dam and waited. He was the one who pushed the Rolls-Royce in. But he miscalculated, hit that flange or whatever.”

“Easy mistake to make.”

“Not if he’d been careful.”

“Why do I feel,” I said, “that he won’t be making any more mistakes in the future?”

“Why, indeed.” Exaggerated look of innocence.

Ursula moaned.

Gabney said, “Oh, stop. Spare me the dramatics. You never liked him- you were always calling him a stupid wetback, always after me to get rid of him. So now you have your way.”

Ursula shook her head weakly and sagged in her chair.

I said, “Where’d you take Mrs. Ramp after the Rolls was disposed of?”

“On a scenic drive. Through Angeles Crest Forest along the backroads. The precise route was Highway 39 to Mount Waterman, Highway 2 to Mountain High, 138 to Palmdale, 14 to Saugus, 126 to Santa Paula, then straight down to the 101 and onward to the ranch. Circuitous but pretty.”

“Nothing like that in Florida,” I said.

“Nothing at all.”

“Why the dam?” I said.

“It’s a rural spot, comparatively close to the clinic, yet remote- no one goes up there. I know, because I’d been there several times. To sell off horses my wife no longer wanted to ride.”

“That’s all?”

“What else should there be?”

“Well,” I said, “I’d be willing to wager you studied your wife’s clinical notes and knew Mrs. Ramp didn’t like water.”

He smiled.

I said, “I understand about the tinted windows providing cover. But wasn’t it risky using a car that conspicuous? Someone might have noticed.”

“And if they had, what would they have seen? A car that would have been traced to her- just as it was. The assumption would have been made that a mentally ill woman drove up there and either had an accident or committed suicide. Which is exactly what happened.”

“True,” I said, trying to look thoughtful.

“Everything was considered, Delaware. If Cleofais had reported being spotted, we would have moved on to another spot. I’d earmarked several. Even the unlikely chance of being stopped by a policeman didn’t worry me. I would have explained that I was a psychotherapist with a patient who’d had an anxiety attack and passed out, and shown my credentials to back it up. The facts would have backed me up. And when she regained consciousness, she would have backed me up, because that’s all she would have remembered. Isn’t that elegant?”

“Yes,” I said, causing him to look at me sharply. “Even traveling the back roads, you had plenty of time to set her up here, wait for your wife to call and report she hadn’t shown up for group therapy, then fake concern, drive back to Pasadena and make your appearance at the clinic.”

“Where,” he said, “I had the not altogether salutary experience of meeting you.”

“And trying to find out how much I knew about Mrs. Ramp.”

“Why else would I bother to talk to you? And for a moment you did have me concerned- something you said, about her having plans to make a new life. Then I realized you were just jawing, knew nothing of any importance.”

“When did your wife find out what you’d done?”

“When she woke up to find herself in that chair.”

Remembering Ursula’s hurried exit from the clinic, I said, “What’d you tell her to get her up here?”

“I phoned her, pretending to be ill, and begged her to come up and take care of me. Good wife that she is, she responded promptly.”

I said, “How will you explain her absence to her patients?”

“Bad flu. I’ll take over their care, don’t expect any complaints.”

“Two patients gone from the group, now the therapist- given the kind of anxiety you’re dealing with, it may not be so simple to reassure them.”

“Two? Ah.” Knowing smile. “Bonny Miss Kathleen, our intrepid girl reporter? How did you come across that?”

Not knowing if Kathy Moriarty was alive or dead, I said nothing.

“Well,” he said, smiling wider, “if you think your evasiveness is going to help her, forget it. Bonny Miss Kathleen won’t be reporting anything anymore- nasty little bull-dagger. The arrogance, thinking something as complex as agoraphobia could be faked in my presence. Trying to bluster her way out when I caught her, with threats and accusations. She sat right in that chair.” Pointing to Ursula’s. “Helped me refine the technique.”

“Where is she now?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“In the cold, cold ground, next to Cleofais. Probably the first time she’s been that intimate with a man.”

I looked over at Ursula. Her eyes were wide and frozen.

“So everything’s tied up,” I said. “Elegant.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“Mocking you isn’t my intention. On the contrary, I had the greatest respect for your work. Read all your publications- shock avoidance and escape paradigms, controlled frustration, schedules of fear-induced learning. This is just…” I shrugged.

He stared at me for a long time.

“You wouldn’t,” he finally said, “be trying to bullshit me?”

“No,” I said. “But if I am, big deal. What can I do to you?”

“True,” he said, flexing his fingers. “Fifteen seconds to deep-fry, you couldn’t bear being a party to that. And I’ve got other toys you haven’t even seen yet.”

“I’m sure you have. Just as I’m sure you’ve convinced yourself it’s okay to use them. On scientific grounds. Destroy the person to save her.”

“No one’s being destroyed.”

“What about Gina?”

“She wasn’t much to begin with- look at the way she lived. Insular, selfish, corrupt- of no use to anyone. By using her, I’ve justified her.”

“I didn’t know she needed justifying.”

“Then know it, idiot. Life’s transactional, not some fluffy, theological fantasy. The world’s getting sucked dry. Resources are finite. Only the useful will survive.”

“Who determines what’s useful?”

“Those who control the stimuli.”

“One thing you might consider,” I said, “is that despite all this high-minded theorizing, you may not be aware of your true motivations.”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “Are you applying to be my analyst?”

I shook my head. “No way. Don’t have the stomach for it.”

His lips snapped down.

I said, “Women. The way they’ve let you down. The custody battle with your first wife, the way her drinking caused the fire that killed your son. The first time we met you mentioned a second wife- before Ursula. I didn’t get a sense of what she was like, but something tells me she wasn’t worthy either.”

“A nonentity,” he said. “Nothing there.”

“Is she still alive?”

He smiled. “Unfortunate accident. She wasn’t quite the swimmer she fancied herself to be.”

“Water,” I said. “You’ve used it twice. Freudian theory would say it has something to do with the womb.”

“Freudian theory is horse shit.”

“It could be right on the mark this time, Professor. Maybe this whole thing has nothing to do with science or love or any of that other horse shit you’ve been spreading, and everything to do with the fact that you hate women- really despise them and need to control them. It implies something nasty in your own childhood- neglect or abuse or whatever. I guess what I’m saying is that I’d sure like to know what your mother was like.”

His mouth opened, and he jammed his hand down on the button.

Machine screams. A higher frequency than before…

His voice above the whine- shouting but barely audible: “Fifteen seconds.”

I threw myself at him. He backed away, kicking and punching, throwing the black remote at me and hitting me in the nose. Fingers white on the gray module. The stench of burning flesh and hair clogged the room.

I tore at his hands, hit him in the belly, and he gasped and doubled. But his grip was like steel.

I had to break his wrist before he let go.

I put the remote in my pocket, kept my eye on him. He was stretched out on the floor, holding his wrist, crying.

The women didn’t stop jerking for a long, long time.

I unplugged the machines, ripped off the electrical cords, and used them to bind his arms and legs. When I was certain he was immobilized, I went to the women.