Mel Feeney appeared at his office door as Bob climbed out of Sharmila’s BMW.
“Evening,” he said. He had his pipe in his free hand. “How did your case go today, counsellor?”
“Yeah… about that. I think I need to move, Mr. Feeney. I know what you said the other day, but I can’t help feeling they’ll be back here sooner rather than later.”
“And go where?”
“I don’t know yet. Probably a holiday rental off Airbnb, something like that. Whatever I can find.”
Feeney shrugged. “Well, I can’t force you to stay. It’s your life. Just know that this city is still small enough that, if they want to find you, they’re going to find you. You have to be out doing things, I expect?”
“Sure. They’ve found me already.”
“All they need to do is watch Lerdo, then follow you after you next get in to see your client. Moving… well, seems a mite wasteful of your time. Besides, you shouldn’t be worrying about me. I’m eight doors down from you and barely know you. They have no reason to bother me, on top of me having been here for years.”
He had a point, Bob thought. “Okay, I’ll buy that argument. It’s not like you’re involved in Marcus’s problems. But…”
“But? I make my own decisions, friend Bob. I’m not involved and I’m eight doors away. If you wish to leave, I ain’t stopping you. But I’m not going to agree with you, no sir. I’ll listen civilly, but that don’t mean I have to endorse your every opinion.”
Bob felt torn. He had a point, and he was going to be hurt if, after all that, his only customer took off on him. “Okay then,” he said. “I’ll stay.”
“Lord sake’s, ain’t I fortunate,” Feeney said dryly.
Bob crouched at his room door and checked the single hair he’d pasted across the gap between it and the frame. It was still in place.
23LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
The tea was warm enough to finish. Dr. Michael Strong gulped it back. There was nothing worse, he’d long decided, than lukewarm or cold tea with milk, that sour mix of tannic acid and dairy.
He put the cup down on the saucer, which rested on a delicately carved oak side table next to his wingback chair. “Are you sure we can’t get you anything?” he asked his patient.
The man on the chaise longue sofa was the last patient of the day. It was nearly six-thirty, and despite priding himself on his professionalism, Strong wanted to go home.
Mr. Smith was sitting up, as many patients chose to do. He’d crossed one leg over the other and had a self-satisfied expression. “No, that’s quite all right, thank you,” he said.
He was a ghastly looking individual, Strong thought. That in and of itself was not uncommon; it would have been the height of unprofessionalism, for example, to tell his Friday regular, Mrs. Anderton, that she looked as if a truck had backed over her repeatedly. But it wouldn’t have been untrue.
He chastised himself. Annie would be ashamed of you, dude. His wife and two-year-old daughter, Alice, were the reward at the end of long days, the people he cared for most, far beyond any patient.
Still… even by some of his past clients, Smith was rough. He was missing an earlobe, he had a scar that looked suspiciously like someone once tried to cut his throat, and burn tissue gathered over his left eyelid.
Strong smiled professionally. “Your accent… I’m having trouble placing it.”
“South Africa.”
“Ah.” Smith hadn’t offered much. Usually new clients barely had time to sit down before they began unloading personal details. But he was stoic by comparison, barely saying a word as Strong readied for their session.
“Now… my assistant who did your pre-session interview indicates you’d like to discuss Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”
“That’s why I booked with you, doctor. It’s supposed to be your specialty, and… well…”
For a moment, his new client looked too sheepish to continue. “And… Go ahead, John. This is a safe space.”
“Well, I understand you specialize in people with difficult backgrounds. You’ve counselled some mobsters, former mercenaries.”
It was true, but Strong didn’t want to brag. “Well… it’s mostly that we have a PTSD specialty and we’re in Las Vegas, where many people from those backgrounds tend to wind up.” See? Annie would be proud. You can show some humility after all, he told himself. “Is there a reason that’s appealing? Your own background, perhaps?”
“Not… quite.” Van Kamp leaned forward on the sofa and rubbed his hands as if considering a weighty reality. “You see, I believe you may have helped a man I’m looking for. And while I could probably benefit greatly in your eyes from some kind of intervention, I have no real desire to be anyone but who I already am. So… I don’t really need your medical help, as fine as I’m sure it is.”
Strong felt a surge of irritation. What is this guy playing at? “Mr. Smith…”
“Made that up,” his new client said. “It’s Van Kamp. You might have guessed that from my paying cash…”
“I see.” Strong began to rise from his chair. “Sir, if you’re not here for care, I’m going to have to ask you to leave…”
“Oh… you don’t want me to do that, mate, believe me.”
“Sir, if I have to call security…”
“I’ll have to hurt them. And it still won’t get you the antidote.”
“What?” Strong asked blankly.
“The antidote. To the deadly neurotoxin I slipped into your tea while you were gabbing with your assistant and making me wait.”
Strong felt his stomach flip. “What?” he managed meekly.
“I put a neurotoxin—I’m sure a smart fellow like you knows exactly what that is—into your tea. If I don’t give you the antidote, your lungs will cease to function in about…” He checked his watch. “…nine minutes, given that you wasted nearly ten minutes making me wait. But that’s on you, kak kop. And if you’re wondering… yes, I do kill people for a living.”
