Prayers for Rain (Kenzie & Gennaro 5)

Her eyes snapped up and then dropped just as quickly.

“Who is he?” I said. “We know he maimed Lovell. We know he’s six-two, weighs about one-ninety, dresses well, and whistles when he walks. We’ve placed him with both Karen Nichols and Lovell at the Holly Martens Inn. We go back and ask questions, I’m sure we’ll get a description of you there as well. What we need is his name.”

She shook her head.

“You’re not in a position to negotiate, Diane.”

Another shake of the head, another draining of her goblet. “I won’t under any circumstances discuss this man.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, I do, Patrick. Oh, yes, I do. It may not be an easy choice, but it’s a choice. And I will not cross this man. Ever. And should the police question me, I will deny he even exists.” She emptied the wine bottle into her goblet with a shaky hand. “You have no idea what this man is capable of.”

“Sure, we do,” I said. “We found Lovell.”

“That was spur-of-the-moment,” she said with a bitter grin. “You should see what he’s capable of when he has time to plan.”

“Karen Nichols?” Angie said. “Is that what he’s capable of?”

Diane Bourne gave her bitter grin a derisive turn downward as she looked at Angie. “Karen was weak. Next time, he’s choosing someone strong. Add to the challenge.” She gave Angie a flat, contemptuous smile, and Angie damn near knocked it off when she slapped her.

The wine goblet shattered against the serving dish and a red mark the shape of a salmon steak obscured Diane Bourne’s left cheekbone and ear.

“Damn,” I said, “no leftovers for this house.”

“Don’t get the wrong impression of us, bitch,” Angie said. “Just because you’re a woman doesn’t mean things can’t get physical.”

“Very physical,” Bubba said.

Diane Bourne looked at the shards of her glass sticking out of the plate of carved white meat. She watched as her wine pooled in the divots of her hammered copper.

She jerked a thumb at Bubba. “He’d torture me, maybe even rape me. But you don’t have the stomach for it, Patrick.”

“Amazing how your stomach feels when you walk outside,” I said. “Come back after it’s all done.”

She sighed and settled back into her chair. “Well, you’re just going to have to do it. Because I won’t betray this man.”

“Out of fear or love?” I asked.

“Both. He engenders both, Patrick. As all worthy beings do.”

“You’re done as a psychiatrist,” I said. “You know that, don’t you?”

She shook her head. “I think not. You release that tape to anyone, I’ll file breaking and entering charges against the three of you.”

Angie laughed.

Diane Bourne looked at her. “You are breaking and entering.”

“You should have fun explaining this,” Angie said and swept her hand over the table.

“Officer, they were cooking!” I said.

“Basting!” Angie said.

“And, madam, how did you respond?”

“I helped carve,” Angie said. “And, of course, I showed them to my china.”

“Did you go with the light meat or the dark?”

Diane Bourne lowered her head and shook it.

“Last chance,” I said.

She kept her head down, shook it again.

I pushed my chair back from the table, held up the videotape. “We’ll make copies and it’s going out, Doctor, to every psychiatrist and psychologist listed in the yellow pages.”

“And the media,” Angie said.

“Oh, God, yeah,” I said. “They’ll go nuts.”

She looked up and tears filled her eyes and her voice cracked when she spoke. “You’d take my career?”

“You took her life,” I said. “Have you watched this tape? Did you look in her eyes, Diane? There’s nothing there but self-hatred. You put that there. You and Miles and this blond guy.”

“It was an experiment,” she said, and her voice was clogged. “It was just an idea. I never thought she’d kill herself.”

“He did, though,” I said. “The blond guy. Didn’t he?”

She nodded.

“Give me his name.”

A hard shake of the head that sent her tears to the table.

I held up the tape. “It’s his name or your reputation and career.”

She continued to shake her head, softer now but continuous.

We gathered our things from the kitchen, took what was left of our beer from the fridge. Bubba found a Ziploc storage bag and dumped the remainder of the stuffing and potatoes in there, then took another one and filled it with turkey.

“What are you doing?” I said. “There’s glass in there.”

He gave me a look like I was autistic. “I’ll pick it out.”

We walked back into the dining room. Diane Bourne stared at her reflection in the copper, elbows on the table, the heels of both hands pressed to her forehead.

As we reached the foyer, she said, “You don’t want him in your life.”

I turned back and looked in her hollow eyes. She suddenly looked twice her age, and I could see her in a nursing home forty years from now, alone, spending her days lost in the bitter smoke of her memories.

“Let me decide that,” I said.

“He’ll destroy you. Or someone you love. For fun.”

“His name, Doctor.”

She lit a cigarette, exhaled loudly. She shook her head, lips tight and pale.

I started to leave, but Angie stopped me. She raised a finger, her gaze locked on Diane Bourne, her body very still.

“You’re ice,” Angie said. “Isn’t that right, Doctor?”

Diane Bourne’s pale eyes followed the trail of her smoke.

“I mean, you have this cool, patrician thing down pat.” Angie placed her hands on the back of a chair, leaned into the table slightly. “You never lose your poise, and you never get emotional.”

Diane Bourne took another hit off her cigarette. It was like watching a statue smoke. She gave no indication that we were still in the room.

Angie said, “But you did once, didn’t you?”

Diane Bourne blinked.

Angie looked over at me. “In her office, remember? The first time we spoke to her.”

Diane Bourne flicked some ash and missed the ashtray.