Chapter 9

WHEN THEY REACHED the veranda, they saw that Bridge and Nola Pilgrim had arrived. She wore a simple dark skirt and a lightweight sweater, the combination not blaring forth her endowments but advertising them with taste and decorum. The region of her eye, although much improved, still was slightly swollen. Most of the discoloration she had carefully masked with make-up.

Bridge was making introductions. "... and this is Dr. Fontenot... Oh, I forgot. You two have met." Bridge stopped.

"Of course," Fontenot said, gallantly ignoring the eye. 'My dear, you look even lovelier than you did the other night. Allow me to present Dr. Hackthorne and Dr. Barrett, both of MacDonald Memorial, New Orleans. Missy, of course, you know."

"Sure she does," said Missy, pulling up a big rocker for herself. "First time we met, she turned me off because I was too curious."

Nola smilingly said, "I'm sorry about that."

"Nonsense. You were entirely right. I was new to you and I presumed. Of course, you had no way of knowing that within this ignoble exterior resides a noble soul." Missy laughed immoderately. "So you're the nurse, are you?"

"Yes, ma'am. Not much of one yet, though. I just got out of school."

"Well, there's plenty of nursing to be done. Funny... Say, Hack, how did you get up off your dead arse long enough to be introduced? You're actually standing!"

Dr. Hackthorne had the decency to blush. "Dammit, this girl is therapeutic. I didn't feel a thing. So I bounced to my feet like a well man."

"Well, sit down again," said Missy. "Bridge, sit over there by ole Hack. Nola, you sit in this rocker here by me. Coffee? Brandy?"

Bridge said, "I don't get good brandy often enough to refuse."

"Or good coffee," remarked Nola. "I've been doing the cooking lately."

"Young lady, to be cooked for by you must be the height of bliss," said Dr. Hackthorne gallantly, and almost fell trying to sit down as smoothly as he had arisen. With a groan, he collapsed into the chair. "What's the matter with you?" he snarled at Rod savagely. "Didn't I train you never to pass up an opportunity to make a telling speech?"

"You didn't give the boy time," snapped Missy. "You were so hod-blasted intent on being cute."

A peal of merry laughter rose from Nola. Not because anything said had been so funny. The fact was that things were happening to Nola Pilgrim. No sooner had her eye fallen on Rod Barrett than strange premonitions had gone to work in her. Her spirits, which had never been lower, instantly had soared so high that without knowing why, she felt giddy.

It was as though Rod Barrett had just walked through Barry Norton, demolished him with such utter finality that Barry seemed never to have existed. What had been sickening her was the sure knowledge that should Barry appear on the scene again she would be as powerless to resist him as she had the first two times. Self-hate, stemming from this knowledge, had been approaching pathological proportions. It was a saving thing, this meeting Dr. Rodney Barrett. Her chest felt tight and her eyes a little misty.

She realized that she was staring at Rod. She lowered her eyes. What a fool she was. All aflutter, and she had spent not even five minutes with the man. Besides, he seemed to take no interest in her. He had spoken not one word to her. He had been avoiding looking at her, if anything. Was he, she asked herself, one of those shy types?

Suddenly Rod's head lifted and his eyes locked on hers. His gaze held intently for a long time, but she could not guess its meaning. When he looked away, she noticed that his hands were clenched on his lap, the knuckles white. Why, he was acting almost as if he were afraid of her, she thought.

But by some quirk of the household workings, it was not Lulu who came to the veranda to replenish the brandy and pour more coffee. This time it was Tangi.

And Rod certainly did not act afraid of Tangi. He smiled at her boldly and did not spare his glances, which were even bolder. Dr. Fontenot and Dr. Hackthorne also were watching Tangi with rapt attention. So was Bridge.

And Nola did not blame them. Never in her life had she seen such a marvelously honeyed creature. Nola had been told by more than one man that she was exceptionally attractive, devastatingly desirable, fetchingly lovely. Yet she felt drab in comparison with the golden girl.

After the latter had vanished, her duty done, the talk rose again, swirling around Rod and Nola without either of them taking much part in it.

Finally Missy swung around and blasted at Rod, "Well, you gonna ask her or hot?"

He was startled, not to say scorched. "Ask who? About what?"

"You're a doctor. And I'm expecting you to set up an office in Kenton. You'll need an office nurse, won't you? And Nola's a nurse, isn't she? You want me to draw you a picture?"

Rod fidgeted, flashed a glance at Nola.

"I-uh-I think we would have to talk it over carefully. There are considerations like pay, hours-oh, lots of things."

"Can you drive a thirty-year-old Packard?"

"I guess so. Straight stick, or have you swapped transmissions?"

"Straightest you ever saw. Right out of the floor. Y'all go for a ride into Kenton-she'll show you the sights and you can talk."

Rod felt pushed, pushed too hard. But he could not politely refuse.

As he walked down the bricked path with Nola, Hackthorne was shaking his head. "Missy, you're digging a pit for that boy."

"How so?"

"Rod is snakebit. Beautiful women throw him into a tailspin. How'n hell will he work in an office with that gal every day?"

"You're maundering," she rasped. "If he tumbles for her, that will cure him. And what's wrong with taking a tumble for Nola?"

"The question is," Bridge put in edgily, "will she take a tumble for him? And what will happen after that?"

"The usual thing," answered Hackthorne, "is to get married, although some of the younger generation might give you an argument about that. But aren't we moving along a little fast? You can lead a horse to water, Missy, and a man to a girl, but-"

"Oh, hell," interrupted Fontenot, bobbing his beard. "Falling in love with one's office nurse this day and age is almost established procedure."

Missy was glaring at Hackthorne. "I take it that you're worried he'll have enough complications arising out of counter-transference and the normal rubbing up against the local beauties not to go stashing more complications in his office. That it?"

"Long-winded but well put, and what do you know of counter-transference?"

"Plenty," she assured him. "I've a son in the racket, remember? And I think you're worrying to no purpose."

"How so, Missy?"

"If Rod falls in love with his office nurse and marries her, he won't be a sitting duck for every neurotic twitch-bitch that comes in overflowing with the hots."

Hackthorne tried to sit up straight and winced. "Can't even straighten my back any more," he complained. "As for you, Missy, you ought to equip this mansion of yours with a couple of pool tables. You get such satisfaction out of calling the shots." He snorted. "Here's a girl you've met only once or twice, and a young man you've seen once, and already you're busting out of your britches to push them together. What makes you so sure they'd be good for each other?"

"How do I know? I just got a feelin', that's all."

"Well, my feeling is that another Bradsher's would make me sleep better."

"What do you think of that prescription, Alcide?" asked Missy.

"Good for the patient," said Dr. Fontenot. "And what's good for the patient is good for the physician. So while you're about it, pour me a shot, too."

"After all that fine brandy I've been wasting on you? You two never will acquire refined tastes," grumbled Missy, tilting the bottle of bourbon whiskey and pouring. "Now that the young folks aren't here, Alcide, tell me something. Who do you think attacked the Flemming girl?"

"I know who you want me to name," Dr. Fontenot said. "But I won't. A man is to be considered innocent unless proved guilty. And not only is there no proof-there isn't even evidence."

"But if Rod would open an office here, and we could get that weirdie to go for a consultation, maybe Rod could come up with the evidence."

"Lady, it is virtually impossible for a psychiatrist to take protective steps with someone suspected of sex crimes. Which is too bad. My observation is that sex crimes are often merely the beginning. The end is murder."

"Sex crime, murder," agreed Hackthorne, whom Missy had apprised of all that was known about the attack on Melody. "I'm not certain just why they should go hand in hand. Of course, a certain frenzy accompanies a sex attack, and if opposed the rapist may administer a beating so as to achieve his object-the beating sometimes proving fatal. Or he may kill the woman to shut her mouth. But more often than not in my opinion, the killing is a matter of sadistic impulses breaking loose."

"The sheriff told me," said Fontenot, "he believes Melody would have been killed for sure if Bridge hadn't showed up. The girl reports that the rapist was standing over her with a pitchfork... And I see by the papers that they're thinking of eliminating the death penalty for rape even in the states that still have it. They're saying the penalty is too stiff for the crime."

Missy growled deep in her throat. "Remember the Delery case, Alcide?"

"I do. I was never so shocked and revolted in my life."

"Tell me," said Hackthorne, trying to find a comfortable position, failing, and drowning his resultant groan in a liberal swallow of Bradsher's. "Missy mentioned it to me once, but tell me more."

"She was barely eleven," replied Fontenot. "A lovely little thing-fearlessly walking home through a wooded lot in Kenton. Taking a shortcut, you understand. She was intercepted, raped repeatedly, strangled, then butchered... butchered!" He kicked the chair next to him. "And of course they never discovered the culprit."

"It may be the same fiend who attacked Melody. If so, he'll surely strike again. And the likelihood is that he'll murder again."

"What's the use of pussyfooting?" snarled Missy. "I have the very guy elected on all counts. Barry Norton."

"I know," said Fontenot. "A lot of people elect Barry Norton. Because he's peculiar. But peculiarities aren't evidence. Anyway, he's had chances at Melody all her life and never roughed her up."

"No-but his condition, I don't doubt, has been getting worse," snapped Missy. "Any little thing can trigger a type like that, make him rape or kill. The only wonder is that such a nut shouldn't leave behind a clue, some shred of evidence-"

"Hah," barked Hackthorne. "Paranoiacs in particular can be dad-blasted smart. Man, with those specimens you can be prepared for the most fantastic examples of involved thinking. That's what makes them so dangerous. Their talent for dissimulation is unbelievable. They are the ones who sometimes go on a religious kick and think they're the right hand of God. Often they make powerful appeal to certain emotional types. Alcide, what's this Barry Norton like?"

Dr. Fontenot sipped his drink and, after a while, said carefully, "A talented painter. Brilliant and well-behaved in school, too-but so were his father and his mother, both now far gone in alcoholism. The family, to use an ancient term, is tainted. In fact, tarred."

"You can say that again," put in Missy vehemently. "Nuttiest damn collection of inbred lunatics you ever saw. All I got to say is that if he's the rapist, God forbid Melody gets pregnant." She paused to take a deep breath. "You can add, Alcide, that he has a way with women-" The doctor's spade-beard bobbed as he nodded. "Definitely. In high school, he had girls falling all over him. Older women have a tendency to be attracted to him, too, until they learn how odd he is-and sometimes even after that. I'll tell you something, though. I've seen some of his paintings. In my opinion, they're nothing short of great."

Hackthorne stroked his chin. "I'd better pass on this odd-lot of information and opinion to Rod. It might come in handy to him."