Free Little Girls Lost by Jonah Paine Page B

covering his tracks very carefully, and if I know how he's doing it, I can use that to catch him."
    Sundquist looked up at him placidly. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Detective?"
    Sam paused, then asked the question that had been bugging him all day, since he first formed the plan to visit this man's office. "You specialize in sexual sadists, right?"
    "I do."
    "Does it do any good?"
    The doctor cocked his head. "What do you mean?"
    "They're sadists. They're animals who prey on women. Is there a cure for something like that?"
    "Speaking of a 'cure' is a little simplistic..."
    "Well, call it whatever you like," Sam snarled. "The fact is that an insanity plea is sometimes the only way these guys avoid the death penalty. If you've got a rabid dog and you have a cure for rabies, I say go for it: cure the dog. But if there is no cure, you put it down—you don't put it in an institution and talk to it about its feelings."
    Sundquist smiled tolerantly. "I believe we are all in pain, Detective. And the purpose of psychoanalysis is to provide the patient with a story that makes their pain meaningful and shows them the way out. I admit that this is not a cure in the same sense as penicillin can cure an infection, but it's better than nothing, is it not?"
    Sam considered that. "So you give your patients a story. Does it matter if the story is true?"
    Sundquist shrugged. "Is there any story that's true in the end, aside from the ones in which the hero dies?"
    Sam shook his head. He honestly couldn't tell if the doctor was brilliant or more full of shit than anyone he had ever met.
    "What I do is not so unfamiliar to you, Detective," the doctor continued. "For instance, there's a very powerful story attached to the medallion you carry in your pocket."
    Sam's stomach gave a lurch, and he gave the doctor a long, hard look before his hand snaked into his pocket and took out the slim disk of metal. He'd received it at an AA meeting, to mark one year's sobriety. "How did you know?" he asked, somewhat unsteadily.
    The doctor scanned him up and down, assessing the elements that constructed his person. "It was an educated guess. You have a Twelve Step look about you, Detective, just as I imagine a Knight Templar would have looked: regular, disciplined, and drawing strength from your observance of a set of very strict rules."
    "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."
    "It was intended as neither. Tell me, Detective: who was your higher power?"
    "I was," Sam answered curtly.
    "How self-reliant of you. I knew already that it wouldn't be God, but I thought that maybe it would be your wife."
    Sam shook his head slowly. "No, she wasn't my higher power. And I wasn't strong enough to be hers."
    Sundquist took a slow, deep breath, as if arriving at what he had been seeking. He considered Sam in silence for a few beats, and then offered another question. "How was it, Detective, that you and your wife both descended into alcoholism at the same time? Or was that where you started? Did you meet her at an AA meeting?"
    Sam shook his head. "We ... suffered a trauma. We lost our little girl, and neither one of us knew what to do with that. The loss, the anger, the sadness, the ... responsibility. So I drank, and she drank with me."
    Norman cocked his head again. "When you stop a killer, Detective, do you feel that you're saving your daughter?"
    Sam stiffened. He took two pained breaths, then consciously relaxed. "No ... and yes ... and fuck you for asking," he said, then left without another word.

C HAPTER T WENTY

    Tyrone liked watching Pamela. Already in his head they were on a first-name basis, and he watched her work behind the counter of the soup kitchen as if he were spending time with an old friend.
    It was hard for Tyrone to spend time in a homeless shelter, even five minutes. He had spent a few nights in places like this. It was the lowest point of his life, before he had found his way, and he still responded with an almost