Sympathy Between Humans Part 31

"You've got amazing flexibility," I said. "Have you thought about ballet instead?"

Irritated, he s.h.i.+fted back, to launch a kick even higher and strike my hand again. This time, I caught his heel and yanked. He lost his balance and fell.

"What's your problem?" Colm glared up at me.

"Do you ever think about what your father did to Aidan, when he was living here?" I asked, without preamble. "The way he used to hurt him?"

Colm scrambled to his feet. "Maybe Aidan deserved it!" he said. "It didn't happen to any of us, just to him! Don't you think that's kind of weird? Don't you think he did something to deserve it?"

"Like what?" I said. "Tell me what he did."

A muscle worked near Colm's jaw; above that, his face was mottled with exertion and anger. "I don't want to talk about this," he said. He stalked to the door and out of the garage.

Another triumph by Sarah Pribek, the great communicator. Well, I'd started this. I couldn't leave it unfinished.

I found Colm sitting under the magnolia tree. He'd already taken his boxing gloves off and was starting on the flesh-colored wraps around his knuckles when I reached his side.

"If there was a Hennessy family crest," I said, sitting down next to him, "the motto on it would be, 'I don't want to talk about this.' "

Against his will, a small, wry smile began to play at the corners of Colm's mouth. I realized how handsome he was when he smiled, and how rarely I'd witnessed it.

"Back there, in the garage," I said, "you were off-balance physically, and I knocked you over pretty easy. You were also off-balance emotionally, and I got you to walk out on me with two questions."

Colm let the last of his right-hand wrap fall to the earth.

"You were off-balance because you were angry," I said. "Few things make us angrier than our own guilt."

The half smile fled Colm's face, and there was a guarded light in his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"When your brother and sister were hiding Aidan out in the garage, you were the one who turned him in to your father," I said. "You got him exiled back to Georgia. Before that, you let him take the blame for a window you broke. And when Liam and Marlinchen were expressing reservations about my arresting Aidan, you went and got my handcuffs."

"I get it," Colm said bitterly. "I'm the a.s.shole here."

"No," I said. "But sometimes the hardest thing to forgive other people for is the wrongs we've we've done done them. them. To protect yourself, you have to tell yourself that there must be something wrong with Aidan." To protect yourself, you have to tell yourself that there must be something wrong with Aidan."

Colm pulled up a handful of gra.s.s, which made a low thrrip thrrip sound as it came up, exposing black, loose soil. sound as it came up, exposing black, loose soil.

"Something else, too," I said. "I think you're angry at Aidan for letting you down."

Colm pulled up another small handful of gra.s.s. "Saint Aidan?" he said sourly. "The hero who came home to bring in another income and help Marlinchen take care of everyone? What could he he have done?" have done?"

"He scared you," I said.

Colm gave me a quizzical look.

"Years ago, you idolized him; he was everything you wanted to be. Then you saw him powerless before your father's rages. That was frightening. You couldn't blame your father; Hugh was the only parent you had. So you switched sides. You agreed with your father on everything and aligned yourself with him, and you told yourself that there must be something wrong with Aidan, that your father treated him that way. Because if what was happening to Aidan wasn't his fault, then it could happen to anyone. Maybe to you."

I saw the muscles of Colm's throat work. I wasn't expecting tears, but that uncomfortable stiffness in the throat, that was promising.

"Then you made yourself into a caricature of toughness," I said. "You wanted to be stronger than you'd ever thought Aidan was. But that wasn't the point. Aidan couldn't have solved the problem by being taller or stronger or faster or tougher. You know that."

I tore up my own handful of gra.s.s, uncomfortable in the role of armchair psychologist. Between the two of us, Colm Hennessy and I would defoliate the whole patch of ground under his mother's beloved tree.

"I like fighting," Colm said. "Wrestling and boxing and weightlifting, I like those things for themselves, as sports."

"I believe you," I said. "But they have their limits. If you want to feel better about Aidan being here, I think you need to go talk to him, instead of retreating into your gym with your heavy bag."

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, okay."

I felt relieved. I'd done what I'd come out here to do. Now I wanted out, before I said the wrong thing and undid it all. "Come on," I said. "Let's go up."

Dr. Leventhal, the department psychologist, was an approximately ninety-nine pound woman with lovely iron-gray curls and a very faint British accent long eroded by life in America. I'd never had the chance- or rather, the requirement- to work with her. So I was mildly surprised that she knew my name when I stuck my head in her door. the department psychologist, was an approximately ninety-nine pound woman with lovely iron-gray curls and a very faint British accent long eroded by life in America. I'd never had the chance- or rather, the requirement- to work with her. So I was mildly surprised that she knew my name when I stuck my head in her door.

"Detective Pribek," she said. "You can come all the way in; I'm not busy." She was impeccable in a pale-rose suit and a small gold Star of David around her neck, and even though I was in clothes and boots suitable for the job, I suddenly felt as rumpled as a bloodhound.

"I only wanted to ask you a quick question," I said. "I don't really need anything."

"Please go ahead," she said. "I'll help if I can."

"Let me run a hypothetical situation by you," I said. "If someone was told repeatedly, from the age of three or four, that he'd been badly bitten by a dog at that age- even if it never happened- could he develop a vivid memory of the incident? One that's almost visual?"

Since she was a psychologist, I was expecting a wordy and inconclusive answer. I was wrong.

"Yes," Dr. Leventhal said. "It helps that the child in question is so young. Age three to four is generally accorded to be the threshold of recall. But even adults have been known to fabricate memories when psychologists encourage them to."

"Why would a psychologist encourage that?" I asked.

"For a study," she said. "Sometimes a subject's brother or sister is called upon to prompt the subject to remember a 'childhood event' that never happened. Under those circ.u.mstances, the individuals being studied tend to agree the event took place, and some even add details that they 'remember.' " She paused. "A subject's likelihood of doing this depends somewhat on how imaginative or credulous they are. Significant also is who's trying to convince them: an older sibling's word is more likely to have the ring of authority than a younger sibling's. Who's doing the persuading in your case?"

"A parent," I said.

"That would definitely qualify," she said. "Memory can be the servant of emotional needs. If a child had a strong desire to believe what he or she had been told, then certainly, he or she could construct a memory and develop a related fear." Dr. Leventhal uncrossed and recrossed her legs. "I should have asked you, did the child in question have any sort of help from a hypnotherapist in sorting out his memories?"

I shook my head. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Well, improperly practiced hypnotherapy has been implicated in the construction of false memories. Most often, we see that from therapists who specialize in s.e.xual abuse. When the patient wants to 'please' the pract.i.tioner, often she'll agree to leading questions under hypnosis: for example, 'Is there someone else in the room with you?' "

"Not this time," I said. "This boy didn't have any therapy at all."

Dr. Leventhal nodded. "I don't mean to denigrate hypnosis altogether, but there's still so much we don't understand about it. Or about memory, for that matter. It's a truly amazing field. Do you know what a screen memory is?"

I shook my head.

"Psychologists don't always quite agree on the definition, or on how common it is," she said. "But at its core, a screen memory is a defense mechanism. Some patients who have been through traumas can't remember them at first. They remember simpler, more acceptable events."

"Like what?" I said, interested despite myself.

"For example, a patient might say, 'I looked out the window and saw a pair of crows in my neighbor's yard,' when in fact she saw a man beating a woman. The mind replaces an unacceptable image with an acceptable one. A screen."

I must have looked amazed, because she smiled. "The mind is very powerful in its own defense," she said.

"That's fascinating," I said.

"I can tell you're interested," she agreed, "because when we started talking, you were hanging back in my doorway, and now you're halfway to my desk."

I realized it was true.

"You seem quite skittish in here, Detective Pribek," she said. "I a.s.sure you, I don't strap people into one of my chairs and force them to discuss their childhoods."

"Well, that's good," I said. "You'd be bored with recollections of my personal life. I had a pretty dull childhood."

"It's a common misconception that psychologists are only interested in the abnormal," she said. "Healthy minds are often as fascinating as troubled ones." Then she tilted her head slightly. "I wonder, though, if you're being entirely honest with me when you call your growing-up years boring."

"Well," I said lightly, "I don't remember seeing any crows, if that's what you mean."

A co-worker's unexpectedly bad summer cold forced me into the slot of on-call detective two nights in a row, and I didn't visit the Hennessy place either of those evenings. On the third day I glanced at the calendar, wondering why the date seemed to stick in my memory. After a moment it came to me: today was Marlinchen and Aidan's eighteenth birthday. unexpectedly bad summer cold forced me into the slot of on-call detective two nights in a row, and I didn't visit the Hennessy place either of those evenings. On the third day I glanced at the calendar, wondering why the date seemed to stick in my memory. After a moment it came to me: today was Marlinchen and Aidan's eighteenth birthday.

The summer solstice was less than a week away, and the day was still bright as midafternoon when I drove out after work, parked, and went up to the French doors. Normally, Marlinchen was making dinner at this hour, but the kitchen was empty. Some pots and utensils were out on the counters, but no one was to be seen. I went around to the front door and knocked.

When Marlinchen opened the door, she looked years older than her age, wearing a silky cinnamon-colored s.h.i.+rt and a straight black skirt. Before I could comment on that, though, or she could speak, I noticed something else.

The Hennessys had never, in the time I'd known them, used the formal dining room. Generally, the kids ate at the kitchen table, where I'd first looked for them tonight. But now the family was grouped around the long table in the dining room. A pair of candles glowed between serving dishes, and faces turned to look at me.

The long and lanky form of Aidan, though, was not among them. Instead, at the head of the table, light gleamed off the metal of a cane that leaned against the chair. I lifted my gaze and met the pale-blue eyes of Hugh Hennessy.

"Sarah," Marlinchen said, her voice light and surprised.

"Hey," I said awkwardly. "I didn't realize you'd be eating this early."

"An earlier dinnertime is better for Dad," Marlinchen said. "He's tired from the move home, this afternoon."

From his place about eighteen feet away, Hugh was still watching his daughter and me. He probably couldn't hear us, but even so, I felt uncomfortable, and moved away from the open door. Marlinchen, being polite, followed me outside.

"I didn't expect to see your father home quite this soon," I said.

"We did the conservators.h.i.+p paperwork this afternoon," Marlinchen said, "and I signed him out. That's why we're celebrating tonight. The birthdays and Dad being home."

"I'm in awe," I said. "When do you run for the state legislature?"

Marlinchen laughed, pleased. "All of this is thanks to you," she said. "Do you want to come in and join us? We've got plenty of food to share."

"No," I said. "No, that's all right."

"Are you sure?" Marlinchen said.

They were obviously halfway through their dinner already, but that was only partly the root of my refusal. Something about the scene- the family together, the way Hugh watched me silently from his place at the head of the table... Things had changed. The circle had closed, and I was an outsider.

"I'm sure," I said. "Thanks for the offer."

"Well, thanks for coming by," Marlinchen said. "Really, I can never thank you enough for what you've done."

It was impossible to miss the note of valediction in her voice. It's been great knowing you, It's been great knowing you, it said. it said.

Gravel crunched under my boots as I walked not to my car but toward the detached garage, the current living quarters of Aidan Hennessy. under my boots as I walked not to my car but toward the detached garage, the current living quarters of Aidan Hennessy.

I wished I fully understood my discomfort with Hugh. I'd spent plenty of time around individuals who had done a lot worse than mistreat their children. Why, then, did Hugh's baleful blue gaze have such an effect on me? It was as if he knew what I knew about him. I had to be imagining it, I thought, the idea that his cold stare said, My family is none of your business. Leave us alone. The past is the past. My family is none of your business. Leave us alone. The past is the past.

The door to the garage was open. I knocked on the frame and looked inside. What I saw surprised me. Aidan was working on the old BMW. Its hood was raised, and a drop light glowed over the engine. He looked up at the sound of my knock.

"Happy birthday," I said.

"Hey," he said. "Come on in."

I did. "What are you doing, there?" I asked him.

"This is the ultimate project car," Aidan said, looking not unhappy at the challenge. "It hasn't been run in fourteen years."

"Fourteen?" I repeated.

"That's what Linch says. She's got access to all Hugh's records." He ran a hand along the roof. "I may be in over my head. I'm going to have to drain the fuel line. I can't even list it all yet, everything it's going to need." He shrugged. "But what a great car it'll make for Marlinchen, when it's finally done. She hates that Suburban."

I peered through a window at the interior, just as I'd done the night of Aidan's return, when I'd checked out the property.

"It's fairly clean inside," he said. "Except the spiderwebs."

He was right. I saw nothing unusual, the leather seats not torn or damaged.

"Where'd you learn mechanics?" I asked.

"I was always interested in cars," Aidan said. "Most of it, though, I learned in Georgia. Pete had farm equipment, and an old truck I used to work on."

"Useful skill," I said. "But it might be better for you to buy a secondhand car that runs, rather than count on fully rehabbing this one."

"Maybe," he said. Straightening, Aidan went to a nearby shelf. Among the tools lay his pack of cigarettes and lighter. He took one out, flicked the lighter, and ignited the slender white cylinder.

I took the opportunity to look around. The setup inside the garage had changed. At the far end, Colm's heavy bag still hung from the rafters, but the weight bench had been moved out to make room for a cot, which was covered with a motley a.s.sortment of blankets. Nearby, a cardboard chest of drawers had been set up, with a single photograph in a frame atop it. Overhead, a bare bulb illuminated the whole place.

"Does it bother you," I asked Aidan, "being exiled out here?"

Aidan hesitated before speaking. "Hugh gets kind of weird when he sees me. Like he did at the hospital," he said. "Otherwise, no; I like having my own s.p.a.ce. Don't forget, it was me who didn't want to spend a lot of time around him." Aidan tapped ash into a Mason-jar lid he was using for an ashtray. "Besides, it's not like I can't be in the house. I just have to stay downstairs. Hugh doesn't do the stairs very well with his cane, so he's going to be upstairs a lot. At least for a while."

"I see," I said.