When She Was Bad

4

In the days that followed Mervin’s death, Lilith’s conscience never troubled her-she had no more conscience than a cat, and a good deal less curiosity. In a way, it was as if she came alive only when threatened; in the absence of danger she was content to spend her time soaking in the hot tub or basking like a lizard on the sun-warmed patio behind the pink house.

Then one morning Mama Rose announced at breakfast that she had to go into town to take care of some errands, and all but insisted that Lilith come along. Wearing an oversize leather bomber jacket, the girl rode pillion on Mama Rose’s baby-blue Sportster with her cheek pressed against the other woman’s broad back, the wind in her hair, and the scent of greasy leather in her nostrils.

But instead of traveling into Redding or Mt. Shasta, which was usually what was meant by going into town, Mama Rose drove Lilith to a generic-looking motel coffee shop in Weed-padded vinyl banquettes, Formica tables, travel posters depicting a matador, the Matterhorn, and the Eiffel tower. There were only three other customers: a middle-aged couple at the counter, and a guy with a gray ponytail who slipped out as soon as Lilith and Mama Rose arrived.

Lilith asked for a latte, though how she knew she preferred lattes when she didn’t know her last name or where she came from was another of the questions she had steadfastly declined to ask herself. Mama Rose ordered an espresso, installed Lilith in a booth over by the plate-glass window, then excused herself to visit the ladies’ room.

Mama Rose still hadn’t returned by the time the coffees arrived. Lilith, wearing a T-shirt and low-cut jeans under the borrowed bomber jacket, was thinking about popping into the ladies’ room to check on her friend when the middle-aged couple approached her booth.

“Mind if we join you?” the man asked her. Big, bald, and homely as a manatee, he wore a garish Hawaiian Sunset hula shirt, rumpled plaid Bermuda shorts, black ankle socks, and shapeless, gunboat-size beige Hush Puppies.

“I’m Dr. Cogan, this is Mr. Pender,” said the woman, a slender, forty-something strawberry blond wearing a russet blazer over a crisp white blouse and matching skirt.

“Sorry, I’m with a-” A friend, Lilith was about to say, when she heard the unmistakable rumble of a Harley engine; she turned toward the window just in time to see the blue Sportster fishtailing out of the motel parking lot. “What the fuck’s going on here?”

The man sat down next to her, blocking her in. Judging by his looks, he might have been a retired professional wrestler-a heavy, not a hero-or a circus strongman gone to fat. The woman sat facing her and reached across the table to pat Lilith’s hand, saying, “Don’t be alarmed, dear-we’re here to help you.”

Lilith jerked her hand away violently. “I’m not alarmed,” she said, surreptitiously palming a sharp-tined fork-it was either that or the butter knife. “Just tell me what the fuck’s going on.”

“You don’t recognize either of us, then?” asked the woman. Her reddish-blond hair was cut in a rather severe helmet shape; she had mild blue eyes and a long, somewhat rabbity nose.

“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t.” Under the table, Lilith’s hand tightened around the fork handle; she visualized herself jabbing the tines into the man’s eye, then climbing over the table and running like hell for the door. “What’re you, on TV or something?”

“With this face?” The man grinned as he picked up Mama Rose’s untouched espresso; the little cup all but disappeared in his hand. “Waste not, want not,” he said, then glanced casually under the table, toward the fork clutched in Lilith’s fist. “Mind if I borrow that for a sec?”

Their eyes locked-one of those she knew that he knew that she knew moments-then he gently prized the fork from her clenched hand and used it to stir a packet of sugar into the brown sludge in his cup, as if that, and not disarming Lilith, had been his purpose in taking it all along. “Never could get the hang of those dinky little doll spoons,” he added apologetically-but he never did return the fork.

Dr. Cogan, meanwhile, had taken an envelope full of photographs from a brown leather Coach bag the size of a Pony Express saddlebag. She slid one of the pictures across the tabletop. In the snapshot, Lilith was standing at the top of wide, terraced steps, shading her eyes against the sun. The two-story, Mission-style villa in the background was a mansion by almost any standard.

“That’s your house behind you,” said Dr. Cogan, enunciating every syllable with a fussy precision and taking extra care with the sibilants, as though at some point in her life she’d conquered a speech impediment. “And this one was taken behind your family’s vacation home near Puerto Vallarta last winter.” Another snapshot of Lilith and Dr. Cogan in bathing suits; in the background, a sprawling adobe.

“And here’s your grandmother and grandfather.” Old couple standing next to a gleaming black SUV, the man erect and lantern-jawed, the woman plump and apple-cheeked, her shoulders hunched a little, as if she were afraid the SUV was going to explode any second now.

“Why don’t I remember any of this?” asked Lilith. “Did I get hit on the head or something?”

“I wish it were that simple,” said Dr. Cogan. “Are you familiar with a psychiatric condition known as dissociative identity disorder?”

“I…I think so. It’s like multiple personalities, right?”

“That’s the old term for it, yes-we call it DID now.” The doctor turned to the man. “Pen, could you give us a few minutes?”

“You bet.” He slid out of the booth, taking Mama Rose’s espresso and Lilith’s fork with him, picked up a newspaper from a neighboring booth, and shambled over to a table for one, halfway between the women and the front door.

“Who’s he?” Lilith asked Dr. Cogan.

“An old friend. He helped coordinate the search.”

“What search?”

“The search for you.” Dr. Cogan fished around in her bag again, emerged from the depths with a pearl-gray tape recorder the size of a pack of playing cards. “Here, I have something I’d like you to listen to.” She pressed Play.

“My name is Lily DeVries,” said a childlike female voice. “And whoever you are who’s hearing this, so is yours. What Dr. Irene has to tell you may sound a little weird at first, but you really need to hear her out, okay? For both our sakes.”

Looking up to meet Dr. Cogan’s eyes, Lilith experienced a sense of deja vu so intense it was almost dizzying. It dawned on her that all the questions she’d failed to ask over the last ten days were about to be answered. She wished she still had Mama Rose’s Beretta; for that matter, she wished she still had the damn fork. “Go ahead,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”