Author's note: This takes place during and after the story 'The Martingale'. Thanks, Owl and Cheri, for ongoing beta-support.
Sessions—Chapter 10
As soon as the midnight phone call from Mark McCormick ended, Phil Westerfield wished he'd asked a lot more questions. He generally hated reasoning in the absence of the facts, though it was often unavoidable in his line of trade, but what little he had heard this time was enough to set off claxons of alarming speculation.
The problem, he quickly decided, was that the man he had been talking to had a tendency to understate risks—probably as a consequences of over-exposure—and a request for counsel during one of his escapades was virtually unprecedented. Westerfield had a brief moment of empathy for Milton Hardcastle, and was glad that he, himself, generally got told about these things after the fact, when it was obvious that there had been survivors.
He got up, ran his fingers through his hair, put on his slippers and robe, and went to the garage, where the newspapers of the previous few weeks were stacked. He riffled through them, pulled off the ones from the last few days, and carried them back into the kitchen.
He made coffee, reviewed the facts such as they were—not much to go on—drank coffee, stared out the window into the darkness, did the math, calculated Paul's current age at nineteen, and waited for another phone call.
None came. Eventually, still frowning over the possibilities that would make Mark drag a potentially unstable kid down to a definitely unstable Caribbean country, the psychiatrist trudged back to bed.
00000
The second call came four days later. It still had the distant, delayed quality of an international call, but the caller sounded less anxious.
"How is everything?" was Westerfield's first question, and it was spoken with an inflection that made it obviously more than a social inquiry. There'd been an absence of any further newspaper information.
"Better, lots." Less anxious, yes, but, from the pitch and tone of his voice, perhaps Mark was still being slightly secretive. "I'm sorry I didn't call you back sooner. We were, um, busy."
"I'll bet," Westerfield replied dryly, and then, "Paul?"
"Much better. I think you were right." There might have been a note of guilt to his relief, hard to say over the phone.
"And San Roque?"
"We're not there anymore." This time the relief was evident and unadulterated. "We're in San Rio, staying with a friend. But, yeah, San Roque is doing better, too, I think. You might read about it in the paper tomorrow."
"Your name won't be in the article, I presume."
There was a moment of silence, as though the other man was trying to decide the odds of that. McCormick finally said, in what sounded like a sudden hopeful realization, "Not likely, but I wasn't using my real name, anyway." Then another pause, and in a more sober tone, "But sorry about waking you up in the middle of the night and—"
"You'll call me when you get back, right?"
Yet another moment of silence, as if that hadn't been what McCormick had been intending to say at all. Then there was a "Well . . ." that trailed off unfinished.
Westerfield waited just briefly, before finally resorting to a gentle prod. "We can get together . . . lunch maybe."
That got him a quick but nervous laugh, and then Mark said, only slightly less reluctant, "Maybe."
00000
Two more days passed. Tuesday's paper mentioned, in very few column inches, that the Caribbean nation of San Roque had undergone yet another regime change—the second in as many weeks—a perfunctory article about an apparently perfunctory revolution. Wednesday afternoon brought another call, but this one wasn't from Mark.
"Paul Hanley," the receptionist said on the interoffice line.
Westerfield frowned, wondered what he was supposed to know, and decided the best solution was, as usual, to let the patient take the lead. He kept his greeting unsurprised, but also unconcerned.
Paul sounded apologetic. "Didn't know if you'd remember me."
"Well—"
"Okay," Paul admitted quickly, "maybe I'm on the short list, weirdness-wise." Westerfield didn't get a chance to comment on that before the younger man plowed ahead. "Listen, does Mark still see you?"
"We're friends; we talk," Westerfield answered in perfect honesty.
"Good. Look," Paul said, then he hesitated a moment, as if proceeding with caution, but what followed still came out in a rush, "I think I gave him a scare the other day." He paused again, as if half-hoping that he wouldn't have to tell the story.
Westerfield didn't comment. He preferred hearing the Hanley version.
There was a sigh of resignation and then, less rushed, more uncertain, "See, I had this little episode . . ."
"What was it like?"
More hesitance, and then, "I was doing something, very intently, and I lost track of time."
Westerfield accepted that somewhat vague description and asked, "How were you afterwards?"
"Fine," Paul said, abruptly insistent. "Well, maybe a little shook-up," he admitted. "But I think he was worse. I think I scared him."
"Mark doesn't scare too easy."
"Not about some things," Paul replied, "but sometimes he feels responsible . . . You know, I'm not a kid anymore."
Westerfield could almost hear the frown of self-examination from a guy who could probably bring some pretty high-intensity analysis down on almost any problem but himself.
"Maybe I never was. I dunno. Anyway, I'm fine. I tried to tell him that but I'm not sure if he believed me. And even if I hadn't been fine, it wouldn't have been his fault. People don't make other people go crazy."
"But stress—"
"It wasn't the stress." Paul halted again, as if he didn't want to be forced into describing the exact circumstances. "Look, it was more like, I dunno, a flashback. When I finally do go crazy, it won't be because somebody asked me to memorize something. Sheesh, it wasn't rocket science. Hell, rocket science isn't even rocket science."
"Emotional stress," Westerfield said persistently.
"Okay, well, maybe some of that. But I've got to learn to deal with that, right?"
"Maybe not in a casino running some kind of high-stakes scam," Westerfield suggested gently.
"So, he did talk to you, huh?"
"Well . . . he was concerned."
"Scared."
"Some. And, yes, he felt responsible for putting you in that position."
"I volunteered. He helped me get Mlotkowski out of a jam once. I owed him. I almost got him killed that time."
"You felt responsible for that, eh?"
A moment of profound silence from the other end and then, "I guess I shoulda seen that one coming."
"It's not rocket science."
"Nope, scarier than rocket science." Paul sighed again. "Listen, when you see him, tell him I'm okay, huh? Maybe he'll believe you."
"As long as I'm not lying," Westerfield said. "You are all right?"
"So far," Paul said with a very slight emphasis that might have been more habit than real worry. "It was good for me, I think. Sort of a test."
"'That which does not kill us, makes us strong'?"
"Yeah, well, at least it's one less thing to worry about, ya know? Something I can scratch off the list."
"How long a list is it?"
"Two pieces of legal-sized paper, taped together," Paul shot back, and then, "just kidding. I've never written them down. Should I? Might be more. All boils down to the same thing, though."
"Usually does—loss of self," Westerfield mused. "Thank God not everyone is that good at reduction or I'd be out of a job."
Paul laughed lightly. "You could always take up card-counting. Very straightforward. Dull, though."
"Not rocket science, eh?"
"Not hardly," Paul said with a humorously bored sigh and then suddenly more intent again, "Talk to him, okay?"
00000
After he'd hung up, Westerfield briefly contemplated initiating some contact of his own. It wasn't the usual pattern, and might spark some comment, but under the circumstances he thought it might be a good idea. He hadn't gotten any further along in the direction of reluctant action, when his receptionist announced another call.
"Milton Hardcastle. He says it can wait, if you're busy."
"No, transfer it in." This time he didn't have to feign lack of information. It was genuine frustrated curiosity that prompted him to ask it, straight off, even before a more standard greeting.
"What the hell happened down there last week?"
Hardcastle seemed a bit taken aback. "Oh," he replied, after a half-second's pause. "You talked to Mark already?" Then, in a little more puzzlement, "He didn't explain it to you?"
"Not yet. When he called from San Roque he didn't want to say too much—"
"That makes sense."
"And when he called from San Rio—"
"Yeah, I thought maybe that was you I heard him on the phone with."
"Yeah, well, he wanted to apologize for calling me the first time. He said everything was fine."
"'Fine', huh?" There was a slight grunt of disbelief following that. "Well, better than they were, I suppose. Look," he said, dropping his voice a little in conspiracy, "I'll stay home from the office tomorrow and then he won't have to worry me when he calls you up and offers to take you to lunch. That sound like a plan?"
Westerfield thought about it for a moment and replied dubiously, "If he calls." And then, "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, sure," the judge replied, with a shade too much heartiness to be fully believable.
"Okay, and when do you want to get together?"
"Him first."
"That bad, huh?"
00000
Westerfield firmly believed that things coming in threes were a manifestation of the human need to impose order on a random universe, but he was still expecting one more phone call that afternoon. He even hung around the office for a few minutes after the end of his four-fifteen appointment, though he knew Mark had his home number.
And he felt a certain satisfaction when it rang, just few minutes after five.
"Hi, Doc?"
"Ah—"
"Lt. Harper, Frank."
"Ah, yes. Lieutenant. What can I—?"
"Sorry to bother you." He seemed more than sorry. He seemed hesitant.
"Is this about the Cartori case?" Westerfield asked politely, all the while wondering if there wasn't really something to that 'threes' adage after all.
Somehow what came out next didn't surprise him in the least. "No, not Cartori. That's all still getting sorted out. Takes a lot longer than most people realize." The lieutenant seemed momentarily relieved to have a different topic of conversation. That ran out of steam and he paused again, then pushed forward.
"Have you talked to Mark McCormick lately?"
Westerfield said, "Why?"
It seemed like a reasonable question; he phrased it in a deliberately low-key, non-challenging way. Harper seemed to be thinking about how he'd answer.
"He's not in any trouble, is he?" The psychiatrist asked. It had suddenly occurred to him that no one had really said he wasn't, maybe because the condition was so chronically intermittent that it simply didn't strike any of his friends as worthy of comment.
To his relief this got a quick grunt of a laugh from the lieutenant, followed by, "No, 'course not," though where the last part had come from, Westerfield had no idea.
"But if you'd asked me last week . . ." It trailed off into an intriguing cloud of mystery.
"You were in San Roque, too?" the doc asked with sudden insight.
"So, you did talk to him. That's good." Harper sounded relieved. "I just wanted to make sure he's talking to somebody. I thought this one might be tough . . . for Milt, for them to discuss. You know what I mean?"
"No," Westerfield said very sincerely, "I have no idea."
"Oh. Ah . . ." The lieutenant paused. "Well, maybe you should ask him about it. Maybe Milt, too. He looked like hell when Mark finally got him out."
"Out of where?"
"Roca Triste, a dungeon. The real thing. One guy died down there, before we could get to them. Milt could barely walk."
"What day was that?"
The lieutenant didn't answer right away. Maybe he'd lost track. He finally said. "Monday, yeah . . . seems longer."
"Two days?" Westerfield frowned. "He said he might stay home from work tomorrow."
"Mark?"
"No, Milt."
"Oh, good." Harper seemed distracted, relieved, and slightly worried all at the same time.
"Are you okay?" Westerfield asked, still trying to get his bearings.
"Me?" Now surprise predominated. "Yeah. Casino scams, gun-running, small-scale revolutions, all in a day's work . . . I'm glad I wasn't in charge."
"Mark was?"
"Calling all the shots. It was . . . strange, like he was a different person. Single-minded. I saw him sitting at Milt's desk the day before we left for San Roque. It was like he belonged there."
"Sounds like he rose to the occasion."
"He's lucky the occasion didn't call for anything more serious—I think he would've risen to that, too."
Westerfield thought that one over for a moment, then heard Harper clear his throat a little nervously. It seemed out of character, from what he had seen of the man.
"Just talk to him, will ya?" the lieutenant said, quietly insistent.
And this time Westerfield heard himself answer, with no conscious forethought, "Yes, I will."
He said good-bye. He hung up. He sat there for a moment, looking at the clock and no longer feeling very patient. He reached for the Rolodex and flipped through the cards to the beginning of the 'M's. There were two numbers, the original one neatly crossed out, and a second, newer one, that dated since the wedding a few months back.
He ran the odds, all things considered, including the new information that Milt was only two days back on his feet, and then dialed the original number. It rang only twice before it was picked up. A pleasant female voice answered with a simple 'hello?'
She recognized his name, and he knew her from one meeting—the receiving line and a few minutes of pleasant conversation at the wedding reception. She didn't delay him long.
"Mark's right here. Hold on."
He heard her call out to him, interestingly not offering any information about who was on the line, not even when she was asked. He came to the phone anyway, though his 'Hello?" sounded knowing and a little anxious.
"Thought you might be back," Westerfield said.
"Ah, yeah," the response was less than cheerful, maybe slightly guilty. "Just today," he offered in defense.
"Thought you might have tried to reach me."
"I was going to."
"You free tomorrow?" he nudged slightly, ignoring the younger man's defensive tone.
There was silence from the other end, and then, "First day back and all, might be kinda tied up."
Westerfield thought fast, then came up with a calm, nearly-drawled, "Yeah, that's always how it is. When you need to talk to your lawyer . . ."
More silence, and then guilt apparently overriding disbelief, "Oh . . . I didn't realize—Well," he interrupted himself, "I suppose there's always lunch."
"Perfect. I'll pick you up. Noon?"
"Noon," Mark repeated, and then, in an effort at civility, burdened down by an obvious load of reluctance, he even added a mildly sullen, "Great."
The good-byes were brief and after he'd hung up Westerfield sat back, feeling only the slightest twinge of guilt over the minor subterfuge. A little moral flexibility, he'd discovered, was essential when working with certain patients.