InSight Read online

  “Are you okay, Doctor Gallant? You look like you’ve seen a gho—I meant—”

  “It’s okay, James. I know what you meant. I thought I heard someone behind me. Do you see anyone coming out of the building?”

  “No, just you is all. Want me to go look?”

  “No, no. I’m sure it was my overactive imagination. I’ll be fine.” He helped her into the back seat after Daisy bounded in. That had to be it. The sound of my own footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. She chalked up the spicy odor to more imagination. Sure she solved the mystery, she relaxed, and her heart rate returned to normal.

  Before James drove across town to her three-bedroom ranch, Abby requested a detour. “Would you mind stopping at Deluxe Liquor? I’d like to pick up a bottle of wine.”

  “No problem. We got enough time to get there before they close.”

  The wine would settle her down even more. Abby didn’t spook often—she’d trained herself not to—though sometimes a noise outside the house or the sound of approaching footsteps set her on edge. The blind were easy marks for anyone with less than honorable objectives. It’s the way it is and always will be. Nothing she could do about it. Still, despite all she’d learned, the last few minutes demonstrated how vulnerable she was. How goddamn fucking vulnerable.

  Her plan to indulge in a glass of Pinot Noir, have dinner, listen to an audio book, and go to bed changed when she opened the door and the aroma of food wafted in the air.

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” her mother announced.

  “Smells great.” Abby brought the wine into the kitchen, opened the bottle, and poured a glass. If her occasional drink bothered her mother, Lucy didn’t let on. She’d spent years in an alcoholic haze, hit rock bottom, and stayed there until the day Abby was shot. Lucy always made it clear that if Abby wanted a drink, she should have one. Life couldn’t stop because Lucy Gallant was on the wagon. Instead, she created basic but tasty dinners. Fish, chicken, or beef with lots of highly-seasoned vegetables.

  “Have you been busy at work?” Abby asked, settling into a chair at the kitchen table.

  “Just enough framing to keep me from feeling pressured. Even sold a nice drawing today from my secret stash of erotica.”

  Abby grinned. Leave it to Lucy to inventory erotic artwork.

  “Oh, before I forget, you have a message. A man said he was calling for a friend and that you should check your email.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  “I wrote it down. Now where did I put that piece of paper?”

  Abby sipped her wine, hiding a smile at Lucy’s forgetfulness. Abby left her counters clear of clutter, so unless Lucy dropped the note in her cooking mess, it must be on her person.

  “Here it is, in my apron pocket. Wouldn’t you know? Now, where are my glasses?” She giggled. “On top of my head. Okay, let’s see.”

  Abby heard the crinkle of paper.

  “Luke McCallister. That’s his name. Why didn’t he leave a phone number?”

  “He’s deaf.”

  “You mean hearing impaired, don’t you?”

  “No, I mean deaf, like I’m blind and not visually impaired. I hate euphemisms. It’s one more way to avoid reality.”

  Lucy’s fingers brushed Abby’s cheek. “Sorry, honey. Just being politically correct.”

  There it was again. That catchphrase made her cringe. Abby captured her mother’s hand. “I know. I didn’t mean to snap.”

  “So the deaf guy. You were saying?”

  “He had his first session today. Probably wants to tell me he’s not coming back. I’m tired. I don’t know if I’m up to answering an email right now.”

  “His friend said it was important. Have dinner, then decide.”

  Lucy served grilled chicken with tomatoes, onions, and zucchini, spiked with enough garlic to require an industrial strength gargle of Listerine. It boosted Abby’s energy enough to tackle the computer.

  In her office, she activated JAWS, the screen reader program. It announced three emails, Luke McCallister’s being the latest. She’d access the first two in the morning at work, her time for answering correspondence. She put on her headset so her mother couldn’t hear. It didn’t matter that McCallister was a patient. To Lucy, every man in Abby’s life meant a potential love interest.

  The semi-robotic voice read McCallister’s message:

  Dear Dr. Gallant,

  I must admit, I had low expectations of our meeting today, but I was pleasantly surprised. You opened a few doors for me, and though they were doors I might have preferred remain closed, I left your office with a renewed sense of self. I look forward to our next session on Thursday.

  By the way, I didn’t answer your question. No, I do not find your blindness diminishes you as a woman. Quite the contrary. Would you consider having dinner with me?

  Luke McCallister

  Taken aback by McCallister’s unexpected invitation, Abby typed her reply.

  Dear Detective McCallister,

  If you realized any benefit from our first meeting, I am gratified. Counseling is what I do, and I take it seriously. Your invitation to dinner is flattering, and I thank you for it. That said, any contact on a more personal level would be highly inappropriate and would jeopardize our professional relationship. See you Thursday, 2 p.m.

  Abigael Gallant

  Abby heard her mother hovering near the door, making no secret of watching. Abby wouldn’t be drawn into a dialogue about her love life, or lack of it. Lucy always had a man in her life. During her drinking days, she coupled with partners who shared the same weakness for alcohol. Back then, Abby played the role of mother to Lucy’s needy inner child. She’d never been able to call her “Mother” since.

  Meyer Goldman, Lucy’s current and longest-lasting significant other, was crazy about her, catered to her every whim, and was always available if Abby needed something. Meyer never had a problem with alcohol but encouraged Lucy’s abstinence, even during her drying-out period, when she tested everyone’s patience.

  Lucy asked the inevitable question. “Who’s Luke McCallister, Abigael?”

  “I told you, a patient.”

  “Does he want to take you out?”

  Abby sighed. Not again. “You know I can’t do that.”

  Lucy pulled up a chair next to the computer and put her hand on Abby’s arm. “Go out with him, Abigael. You need a life outside work. You’ll dry up and rot.”

  “I have a life, and I like it the way it is. Stay out of it, Lucy. I’m a big girl.”

  “You’re a scared big girl.”

  “Scared of what? Men?”

  “Yes. What happened with Stewart was a freak thing. It won’t happen again.”

  Abby threw her head back and laughed. “Is that what you think? That I’m afraid I’ll meet another Stewart—a man who’ll murder my daughter and blind me?” She pushed back from the computer. “That’s already happened.” Rising, she turned and walked the six steps to the hall leading to her bedroom. “I’m going to bed,” she said over her shoulder. “Do me a favor. Let Daisy outside for a while. Let yourself out when you’re finished.”

  “Go out with this guy,” Lucy said.

  Abby brushed the back of her hand along the wall leading to her room. “I know you mean well, but please, I know what I’m doing. Thanks for dinner. Good night.”

  * * * * *

  There were nights when going to bed didn’t mean going to sleep. This was one of them. Not for Daisy, though. The dog’s snoring didn’t keep Abby awake but made her aware that she wasn’t sleeping. She tossed and turned most of the night. The face of her seven-year old daughter flashed in her memory. Stewart’s blue eyes stared at her in the darkness, and she felt the dampness on her pillow. Would this ever pass? Would she ever forget the haunted look on her daughter’s innocent face on the last day of her life?

  Chapter Three

  Unfamiliar Territory

  It’s Friday, thank God, or is it the other way around?

&nb
sp; When Abby checked her email, another message awaited from Luke McCallister. Two words: Please reconsider.

  No way. Not with a patient. She put McCallister out of her mind and turned her attention to the day’s business.

  Cleo had scheduled Abby’s two most difficult patients, dampening the end-of-the-week highs. Abby was tired, cranky, and not looking forward to either of them.

  She turned on her tape recorder and speed-listened to her last session with Jonah Wall. A bizarre vision of him locked in her mind from Cleo’s description, and she stopped herself from mentally, and unprofessionally, referring to him as Jonah Whale. She rarely asked what a patient looked like, unless his appearance contributed to his psychological problems. Eighteen, acne-faced, and pushing three hundred pounds, Jonah Wall got off on being disturbed. Abby thought he liked her because she couldn’t see him. She shared notes with Jonah’s psychiatrist, Dr. Don Weston, and in a moment of professional candor, Don said the boy needed to get laid. She didn’t disagree. They were trying to convince him to go to a summer camp—socialize with others in the same predicament. Maybe with a lake and a moon and a large diet pizza…maybe.

  Her second patient from hell, Vietnam vet Ted Shand, lost both legs in the war. An ex-heroin addict who came wrapped in forty years of bitterness, he wore two prosthetic limbs and walked with crutches, but she smelled him long before she heard his four-legged gait. The man needed a bath. She suggested he take one, but whether out of spite or stubbornness, he never did. Fortunately, he came only once a month, but on that day a little Vicks Vapor Rub under the nose helped her get through the hour.

  By the time she finished with both men and two other patients, the residual effects of her sleepless night caught up with her.

  “Go home, Abby,” Cleo said. “It’s Friday, you don’t have another patient, and you’re exhausted.”

  Abby massaged her neck. “I think I will.” Lucy would be with Meyer most of the weekend, and she wouldn’t have any distractions. She intended to spend tonight like she’d planned to spend last night. Alone, with a glass of wine and an audio book. She called the taxi service for an early pickup.

  When she got home and put the key in the lock, the door glided open. I know I locked it this morning. Calling Lucy’s name met with silence. Daisy refused to budge, and for the second time in two days, she expelled a low growl. Puzzled why her dog was acting out of character, Abby let go of the harness and within two steps knew. She tripped over something in the way and went flying onto the floor. Getting up, feet feeling things in her path, she realized the house had been ransacked. She tripped again.

  “Shit!” Pushing things aside, she crawled on hands and knees toward the ringing phone, out of place in the mess.

  “Things in the way en route to the phone?” a synthesized, androgynous voice asked when her shaky hand found the receiver.

  “Who is this?”

  “Your house was such a mess, I straightened it for you. How do you like it? Oops, I forgot. You can’t see.” The voice burst into a fit of electronic laughter before the phone clicked into silence.

  Abby had left the door wide open. Was the intruder nearby? Would he come back? She wanted to get up and lock the door, but fear kept her in place. She couldn’t move. Everything in the room had been rearranged. Nothing was more disorienting to a blind person than being in unfamiliar territory. She structured her life into neat, orderly areas. Every step counted, all items in place. She might as well have been in the middle of Times Square without Daisy. As she fumbled for the phone to call the police, it rang again.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

  “Is…Is this Dr. Abigael Gallant?”

  “Who is this?” she asked tentatively.

  “My name is Pete Valkonis. I’m a friend of Luke McCallister. Are you all right? You sound upset.”

  “Someone broke into my house and everything’s turned upside down. I’m sitting on the floor afraid to move.” She heard the man relating what she said to someone else.

  “What’s your address? We’ll be right over.”

  “Should I call the police?”

  “We are the police.”

  She gave him the address.

  With Daisy by her side, Abby sat anchored in place. She listened. Was someone inside watching? Feeling helpless and vulnerable, she reached for her purse to search for a defensive weapon. Where was it? She must have dropped it when she fell. Then she heard noises at the door and froze. Two men identified themselves as police. “I’m over here,” she said, as if they couldn’t see her parked in the middle of the room.

  “Jesus, what happened?”

  She recognized Luke McCallister’s voice as the two men moved things out of the way to get to her. “I don’t know. I came home and went flying.” A hand on her chin directed her face upward. She flinched until she realized Luke couldn’t see her mouth.

  “What happened?” he asked again.

  She repeated what she said and told them about the phone call. The other man straightened the furniture while Luke helped her to a chair.

  “Dr. Gallant, I’m Pete Valkonis, the one you spoke to on the phone.”

  “What does the place look like?”

  “A mess,” Pete said. “A crime scene unit is on the way. Did you touch anything?”

  “No, I put the key in the door and it swung open.”

  “Maybe there’s a print off the broken door lock.”

  Abby’s stomach took a dive. “The lock’s broken?”

  “I can get someone to fix it if you give me the word.”

  “Thank you. Yes, please.” She massaged her temple in an effort to finesse a threatening headache from taking hold. “Why would anyone do this?”

  Again, the hand directed her face. “Have you had any hostile patients?” Luke’s words were clipped in concern, but he kept his voice calm. “Anyone who didn’t agree with your evaluation or method?”

  She riffled through her mental Rolodex. “No one I’d consider capable of doing this. And I should know, shouldn’t I? I mean I couldn’t miss something like that.”

  “No, I doubt you could,” Luke said.

  She told them about the spooky incident in her building, admitting the possibility that her imagination had played tricks.

  “Anyone you want to call?”

  Abby thought about her choices. “My mother would cancel her life if she knew about this. I have a cleaning lady who knows where everything belongs. I’ll call her.”

  Pete brought her the phone and she called Bertie, who promised to come first thing in the morning. When the crime scene unit arrived, Abby heard Luke suggest in an authoritative manner they examine this or that detail.

  “Luke’s making all the right suggestions,” Pete Valkonis said, “but while he’s being evaluated, he’s not supposed to be in the field, and he’s certainly shouldn’t direct the CSU. Have you eaten, Dr. Gallant?”

  “I’m not hungry.” In fact, her stomach kicked back at the thought.

  “Well, get hungry. I want him out of here before someone gets pissed off.”

  “Why did you bring him if he shouldn’t be here?”

  Valkonis leaned close to her ear. “You don’t know him very well, do you? He insisted, and he’s not an easy man to dissuade.” Valkonis must have done something to get Luke’s attention. “Why don’t you take Dr. Gallant for a bite to eat? The crew will be here for a while.”

  “Good idea. Come on, Doctor, I’ll buy you a drink before dinner.”

  Abby understood Detective Valkonis’s tactic and figured Luke McCallister did too. The ruse was meant to save everyone’s face.

  She followed the sound of McCallister’s voice. “Well, Detective, I think messing up my house to get me to go out to dinner with you is a little extreme, don’t you?”

  “Actually, I thought it was a brilliant idea,” he said.

  She heard lightness in his words, as if he were smiling. The banter relieved some of the tension, and she laughed. She liked h
is husky voice and wondered what his smile looked like. Smiles and eyes—the visual preview into a person’s character. Now she used other senses, but nothing made up for a great smile.

  Valkonis said he’d watch Daisy while the arriving forensics crew did their job. Abby thanked him and took Luke’s arm, breathing in once again the subtle scent of sandalwood. He thoughtfully announced the terrain: a step, a curb, a door. She knew the way out of her house as if she were sighted but let him lead anyway. He suggested Billy D’s for hamburgers and she agreed, rating theirs the best in town. When they were seated, they both ordered a beer and slipped into easy conversation, avoiding the upsetting incident at her house. He asked questions about her practice and seemed genuinely interested in her answers, which she kept short.

  Abby felt around the table, her hands low, until she located the napkin, silverware, and water glass. It had taken a long time to feel comfortable eating in front of anyone but Lucy. So simple, she thought. She’d done it three times a day for thirty years. But when you can’t see what’s in front of you or where it is without touching it, making people around you uncomfortable, your tendency is to eat in private. With instruction in the proper way to navigate a plate of food and practice three times a day, she learned. Occasionally, she asked for help.

  She faced Luke. As she had during their first meeting, she enunciated her words carefully. “Will you do something for me?”

  “Um, sure.”

  She felt for the side of her plate. “Would you mind pouring some ketchup here? Glass bottles are a bitch.” She knew Billy D’s had glass bottles from her last visit. “First they clog, then one good hit and my fries are swimming in ketchup.”

  Luke obliged, then related the placement of her food according to the clock. How did he know to do that? she wondered, but didn’t ask. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

  He ordered two more beers. “You impress me, Dr. Abigael Gallant, and I’m not easily impressed.”