“Arf,” I added, lolling my tongue like Mr Mix-up.

Chapter 32

When we got back to the department, Tom Mason ordered me to go home.

“Get some rest,” he said. “You’ve had enough.”

“Him, too,” I said, pointing at Harry.

“I was talking to both of you.”

Harry said, “Can I speak to you for a minute, Tom? I want to run through some details on a court case I gotta testify at in a couple days.”

“Then you’re heading straight home, right?”

“Scout’s honor.” Harry held his fingers in the scout salute, headed into Tom’s office.

The door closed.

I went to my truck and sat there for ten minutes, rubbing my face and neck. The day was a blur, as if I’d watched a video on fast-forward, randomly freezing scenes for a few seconds before zooming ahead again. I scrabbled my fingers under my seat and came up with a bottle of ginseng tea and a few ounces of bourbon left over from my post-prison stop at the roadhouse. I swigged a bit of ginseng – the concoction tasted like boiled denim, truth be told – and replaced the tea with bourbon.

I drained off half the mix, and waited for the warmth in my belly to loosen the kinks in my back and neck. I headed out into the street, the light surreally bright and painful. Slipping on my shades, I saw a little red BMW blow by in the opposite direction, like it was heading for the department. I watched it disappear in the rear-view.

Clair drove a sporty red Beamer.

It couldn’t possibly be Clair, my mind said. What would Clair be doing at the MPD in the middle of the day?

I turned for home, intending to stop at the store for a tofu burger and lentil salad, but suddenly wanted food I could feel inside me, ending up with a bucket of fried chicken, gravy and biscuits. Once home, I turned on the television, set the tub on my kitchen counter and pulled out a drum, dipped it in the gravy, brought it to my mouth.

I snapped at it, missed. Tried again. The drum dodged my mouth. Gravy splattered the floor.

My hands were shaking again.

And then my knees were shaking. Followed by my shoulders. And then everything else was shaking and I found myself tight in a ball on the floor.

It passed after twenty minutes and I took a shower and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to lose myself in the white until I heard crunching of sand and shells under tires and an engine shut off. Seconds later I heard a knock on my door. A realtor, I figured; they were always gliding through the neighborhood, trying to get their names out among residents who hoped to sell. I closed my eyes and willed them away.

The knocking persisted. I went to the door, yanked it open. “I have no intention of –”

Harry.

“What are you doing here?” I said. “Tom told us to –”

Behind him, I saw Clair, her eyes nervous. She rushed by and sat on the couch so fast I figured she needed to get anchored. I saw her shoot a glance at a pile of clothes in the corner of the living room, topped by my briefcase and a tipped-over bucket of half-eaten chicken. Harry sat beside her. He leaned back and stitched fingers behind his head, a poor attempt at casual.

“We want you to talk about what’s bothering you. It’s overdue.”

“There’s nothing bothering me. Unless it’s you showing up here when I’m trying to…trying to…eat chicken. You want bothering me? That’s bothering me.”

“Things are getting worse, brother,” Harry said.

I wrinkled my brow in puzzlement. “How can things get worse if things aren’t bad?”

He nodded at the tube, a game show where people dressed as items they wanted to win. They were made up like cars, boats, and huge televisions, jumping up and down and screaming for attention.

“You used to fish, swim, kayak, run, and so forth, a dozen hours a week. Now you run home and watch television. How much do you watch?”

“I’ll have to check with Nielsen.”

“You’re doing things out of character,” Harry continued. “Taking chances that are not just risky, they’re illegal. If you’d gotten caught forging the warden’s signature, you could have wound up in the cell beside Kirkson. I don’t know what the hell you did at Teasdale’s place, but –”

“She asked if her kid still had that goofy lopsided face,” I snapped. “Her own kid.”

“I have no doubt it was sad, bro. But in the past you would have blown the ugliness off, walked away.”

“I’m tired of the past.”

Harry studied on that for a moment. He looked at Clair, turned back to me. “Today was the worst yet, Carson. Walking into those gunslingers like it was the OK Corral. I don’t know why you’re not dead.”

“They were lousy shots.”

Clair cleared her throat. “Carson, you’re acting erratically at times. It’s getting worse.”

I walked to the door shaking my head in disappointment, put my hand on the knob. “I think you both should go home and try self-analysis. Find out why you’re projecting your problems on to me.”

I yanked open the door. Tom Mason was leaning against the railing, fanning himself with his white Stetson.

“Howdy, Carson, mind if I step inside? Hot out here.”

Without waiting for the courtesy of an answer, he walked in. I glared at Harry, mouthed snitch. Tom leaned against the wall beside Clair and Harry, hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“I’m pretty sure Harry wanted me to wait outside so I wouldn’t hear anything to, uh, compromise my position. What this all comes down to is I’m taking you off duty and putting you on desk work unless you see the departmental shrink.”

“What? YOU CAN’T!”

Tom said, “I scheduled your first session for tomorrow at nine in the morning.”

“No way in hell…” I countered, “am I seeing a shrink.”

Tom looked down at his hat, brushed something from the felt. “Sure you are,” he said gently. “Because you ain’t got but one choice in the matter, Carson, and that’s mine.”

I turned away and walked out to my deck, where the air was free from the stink of betrayal. I heard the front door pull shut, the cars in the drive retreat. Watching the gulls flash above the waves, I decided it had been a pissant intervention and, though my interrogators were mistaken about whatever was concerning them, I deserved better. That pathetic display was supposed to save me?

But I figured if I went to the shrink’s office, sat my ass in a chair for a few fifty-minute sessions to satisfy the obsessions of my former friends, I’d pass whatever test they were imposing, and be free once again.

But what a senseless waste of time.

Chapter 33

The MPD shrink wasn’t the property of the Department, but rather a private-practice type who worked on retainer. The guy – a Dr Alec Kavanaugh – had his offices in Spring Hill, not far from the college, in an office attached to a private residence. The house had been built in the fifties, I figured, under the influence of Frank Lloyd Wright. An anomalous style for Mobile, the home was of dark brick, with a long single-story section at one end, a two-story section at the other. Given the land-scaping and overhanging trees, the house less sat the lot than embraced it.

The office area was an add-on in the same architectural style, just on the far end of the garage. A small sign on the door said, A. Kavanaugh, PhD, Psychology. I took a deep breath and popped a few mints. Despite the provocations of the preceding evening, I had slept solidly and taken my vites and such. I had decided to drink a little coffee now and then, since tea – despite its many organic benefits – showed little ability to open my eyes in the morning.

I was preparing to ring Kavanaugh’s bell when the door opened. I saw a woman in her fifties with…

No, check that. In her early forties or so, the first impression coming from white hair pulled back and bundled away. Slim, average height, a bit more nose than standard, slender lips. Her eyes were deep brown and behind large round glasses with tortoiseshell frames. She wore a dark jacket over a white silk blouse; her slacks matched the jacket.