Free Tight Lines by William G. Tapply Page B

on discretion in my practice.”
    He nodded and smiled. “Yes, good. Both of us must be careful to protect our clients’ privileged status with us. So if I appear less than forthcoming with you, Mr. Coyne, I want you to know that it’s not because I don’t care or am not as concerned as you are.” He cleared his throat and arched his eyebrows at me.
    “Sure,” I said. “I understand. You are concerned about Mary Ellen Ames, then?”
    He nodded. “Yes. She’s my patient. I’m concerned about all my patients.”
    “Do you have a particular reason to be concerned in Mary Ellen’s case?”
    “Why don’t you tell me what you want, Mr. Coyne.”
    So I did. I told him about Susan and my frustrated efforts to find Mary Ellen. He was a good listener. Those sharp eyes studied my face as I talked. He nodded frequently and murmured, “Certainly. Mm hm,” when I paused in my narration, or, “Yes. Of course.” When I mentioned going into her place and finding the prescription for Pertofrane with his name on it, he blinked but said nothing.
    When I stopped, he said, “So you’re asking me if I know where she is.”
    I shrugged. “Yes. That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”
    He slowly removed his glasses and gazed down at them as he held them in his lap. Then he looked up at me. “Perhaps you were wondering why I was so agreeable about meeting with you.”
    I nodded. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact. I didn’t expect you to be so—cooperative.”
    “I wouldn’t be normally. But Miz Ames has missed—let’s see—we meet four times a week, so counting today’s session, she has missed ten consecutive appointments. It is, quite frankly, a source of some concern to me, yes. She has not always been completely faithful about keeping her appointments, or informing me ahead of time if she’s unable to meet with me. Many patients are irresponsible about this, and when they fail to show I am unlikely to be particularly concerned, although it’s part of their therapy to keep the work going, even when it’s painful for them, and their failure to keep appointments—often a rather transparent form of passive aggressiveness directed at the analyst, you see—inevitably becomes the topic of their subsequent sessions. But Miz Ames, as I said, has missed two full weeks plus yesterday and today, and as far as I know there is no reason for it. She’s—”
    “Has it been painful for Mary Ellen recently?” I interjected.
    “Painful?”
    “Your word, Doctor.”
    He frowned for an instant, then smiled. “Oh, yes. I see. Well, I shouldn’t say it’s been unusually painful for Miz Ames lately. Difficult, of course. It always is. We’ve worked very hard together for a very long time now. She has been making slow but steady progress. There have, naturally, been some, as you say, painful times. But, no, not currently.” He cocked his head at me. “If you mean should I have anticipated her doing something, ah, desperate or destructive, no, I can’t honestly say there’s been anything particular.”
    “Desperate or destructive?”
    “Pardon?”
    “Your words again.”
    He shrugged. “She’s a psychiatric patient, Mr. Coyne.”
    “Yeah, I see.” I paused. “The drug, that Pertofrane—?”
    “It’s an antidepressant.”
    “So she’s depressed, then.”
    He shook his head. The question was out of bounds, if I couldn’t figure it out for myself.
    “Has she spoken to you about a man named Dave Finn? Or Sherif Rahmanan? Or—” I squinted, trying to remember. “Or Sid Raiford?”
    McAllister smiled. He reminded me of a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover, the rural general practitioner about to remove a splinter from a tearful boy’s finger. Kindly, gentle, wise, competent. “I can’t discuss any of that with you, Mr. Coyne,” he said. “Even if you are her mother’s attorney.”
    “I need to know if she’s said anything to you that would give us a hint as to where she’s gone, that’s