Free The Dark Door by Kate Wilhelm Page A

things,” Constance said, holding his hand on the table.
    “And touchies and yellers,” Byron said gravely.
    “And yowlers and pacers and leaders,” Constance added, laughing. She and Byron had played a word game describing various therapies during the last hour of the trip. She gave Charlie’s hand a squeeze and let go to pick up her menu. “Enough of this levity. I’m starved.”
    Eventually, they had their food and Charlie was content to listen to Byron talk about his post crisis therapy.
    “Are you treating J.C. Crandle?” Charlie asked.
    “You know him?”
    “Just met him.”
    “The answer is no. Actually he wasn’t here, you see, until the crisis was over. His father might have been a candidate for our therapy, but not the son. He came home mad as hell, wanting to hit someone. Still does, I bet. But he’s not the victim we’re out to find and help.”
    “How about Burry Barlow?”
    Byron shook his head. “I don’t even know him. What was his connection?”
    “Damned if I know. Just wondered.” He ate in silence for a moment, then asked, “What about the sisters who went wonko? And poor Mrs. Eglin?”
    “You’ve been getting around, haven’t you?” Byron asked. His gaze was a bit less friendly than it had been minutes ago. “Look, our whole purpose is to help those who were affected by the outburst, not those who committed the crimes. They’re in a hospital, the state hospital I assume, although I don’t know. They probably had electroshock therapy, drug therapy, God knows what all. Not my province, any of that. As for Mrs. Eglin, her condition has nothing to do with any of this affair. She must have been a prime candidate for a schizophrenic break for years. It just happened, the way it does sometimes for no reason that we can ever find. But it is unrelated to the matter we are concerned with.”
    That was when Charlie began to listen with his public face on, Constance realized. He looked bland—maybe even a little dull—made the right sort of comments at the right times, and was using the greater part of his mind on his own thoughts. And Byron did not suspect a thing, she also realized, with more than a little dismay.
    Over coffee Byron asked her to meet with his group the next day, sit in on their discussion of the past month’s achievements. She started to turn him down with regrets, when Charlie said, “Why don’t you do it, honey? I’m going to be tied up most of the day. Maybe you’ll even get an article out of it.”
    Byron looked flustered for a second. Disingenuously, Charlie asked, “Would you mind if she wrote something about your work here?”
    “Not at all,” Byron said then. “Of course, you understand that I have written about our work in some detail myself.”
    “No doubt, but her work does get published in the damnedest places. Harper’s , The New Yorker , places like that.” Constance kicked him under the table and he smiled sweetly at her. “Would you like a brandy?”
    “Just what was all that about?” she demanded later in their room. “He’s not a charlatan, for heaven’s sake! The work they’re doing is important and worthwhile!”
    “I expect it is,” he said, taking her into his arms. “I missed you. Your hair smells good. Anyway,” he said, when she pushed him away, still glaring at him, “I wanted to let you ask questions, and if he thinks there’s a chance of publicity, he’ll welcome questions. Publicity is money, right? Grant money, state money, whatever. Otherwise, he might have wanted to steer by himself, the way he did at dinner. I just got out of the way and let him take over, and that’s what he did. Right?”
    She took a deep breath, then nodded. “Right. He does that.”
    “So he thinks I’m the dumb cop and you’re the brains of the family. And he’s right, of course. Get him to show you the records, if you can. Find out who’s on his patient list, and what their connection was with the school, and if there was any