Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake (лучшие книги без регистрации txt) 📗

Jacob looked into the hall behind him. “Oh, you’re talking to me.”

“A sense of the absurd. I like that. Please come in and have a seat.”

The room had two chairs and a small couch, arranged in a triangle. This was the first and most obvious test. Rheinsfeldt would slide his peg into a certain shape of hole depending upon where he sat. If he chose the chair beside hers, it would reflect urgency and desperation, a desire for an ally. On the other hand, if he sat on the couch, then Renee might be expected to sit beside him in a show of matrimonial support. He decided on the third alternative, the middle of the couch, which left no room for Renee on either side of him. When he sat, Rheinsfeldt’s dark eyes glimmered with satisfaction, as if she had suspected such a move from the start.

“Most couples arrive for counseling sessions together,” Rheinsfeldt said, removing the unlit cigarette from her mouth and placing it in her small purse.

“Renee believes in being punctual. I believe in being early.”

“Ah. All relationships are built on conflict. Why should marriage be any different?”

“Have you ever been married?”

“What, are you crazy?”

“Then why should we listen to anything you have to say?”

“Because, Jacob, I can’t tell you anything. All I can do is help you hear yourself.”

Jacob looked at the walls. Rheinsfeldt’s gaze was like a hundred needles trying to pin him to a cork board. He looked out the window, but it was small and revealed only a square of boring blue. The room’s walls and ceiling came at him as if he was in a trash compactor, and he closed his eyes.

Renee’s entrance was heralded by her hair conditioner, a minty brand that used to arouse instant erotic feelings in Jacob. Now it was the stench of failure, as sickening as wood smoke. He forced himself to look at her, knowing those green eyes would remind him of Mattie.

He realized with horror that he couldn’t quite recall the rest of Mattie’s face.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Renee looked around the room at the incomprehensible art, anywhere but at Jacob’s face. She couldn’t decide if Dr. Rheinsfeldt’s tastes in interior decoration were personal or clinical. The woman herself was squat and toadish, eyes dark with looming advice. She gave the impression of someone whose interpersonal relationships had been dramatic and brief.

“Where to begin?” Rheinsfeldt said.

“You’re supposed to ask, ‘What brings you both here today?’” Jacob said. He stank of liquor and a sour rot. “Didn’t they teach you that in shrink school?”

“Don’t mind him,” Renee said. She could barely stand to look at him. If those police reports were true, she didn’t know the man she’d shared the last ten years of her life with.

“There you go again,” he said.

“He’s been drinking,” she said to Rheinsfeldt.

“Have you been drinking, Jacob?”

“Maybe.” He crossed his arms and slumped down in the couch.

“Okay. This isn’t a treatment program,” Rheinsfeldt said. “You can do that later if you need to and want to. Right now, let’s get a dialogue going about this other thing.”

“The thing,” Renee said. Reduced to a single vague noun, The Tragedy seemed to have lost its power. She tried to see the two of them through Rheinsfeldt’s eyes: a wild-eyed, frantic woman and a drunken, unshaven man in filthy clothes. Renee’s right hand went to her wedding band and she twisted it until her knuckle was red.

“I read the papers,” Rheinsfeldt said. “Everybody’s heard of the Wells family and the fire. I think that’s where we need to start. That’s where the pain is. The death of a child—I can only imagine.”

“No,” Renee said. “The pain started before that.”

“Tell me.”

“Don’t you dare,” Jacob said.

Renee forced herself to look at him. His jaw trembled, cheeks still pink where the new skin had formed. He looked like an alien, a Hollywood stunt double with a lump of putty piled on his shoulders, broken marbles stuck in for eyes. He ran the back of his hand over his lips and jerked forward, as if wanting to beat her to the punch line of some pointless joke.

“She’s always been like this,” he blurted.

“Always?” Rheinsfeldt said. “When was that?”

“When we first got together,” Renee said. “He pretended to open up, but there was always something hidden away. He didn’t even tell me his family was rich until we had dated for half a year.”

“She was always after the money,” Jacob said.

“See what I mean?” Renee said to Rheinsfeldt. “How can he even talk about money when our children are dead?”

“Jacob? That sounds like a pretty damning observation.”

“I take half the blame for Christine.”

“Christine,” Rheinsfeldt said. “That was last year?”

Renee opened her purse and brought out tissues, ignoring the box of Kleenex on the edge of the table. The box was too perfectly positioned, its calculated alignment not matching the chaos of the room. She took off her glasses and wiped her eyes. “Christine was a SIDS baby.”

“I’m terribly sorry. How was the marriage going before then?”

“It wasn’t heaven but we were working on it, for the sake of the children.”

“I hate to say it, but that’s not the only reason for making a marriage work. You’re not just a mother, you’re also a human being, with wants and needs of your own.”

“I’m not a mother anymore.” Renee felt the familiar pressure in her chest, swallowed hard, and squeezed the damp tissue.

“And she wants way more than she needs,” Jacob said.

“I understand your anger,” Rheinsfeldt said. “You have a right to be angry for such a loss.”

“Jacob hasn’t been himself lately,” Renee cut in, hating herself for defending him. “He was under a lot of pressure in his business. Jacob never talked much about it, but his partner told me the company was burned by a couple of contractors and—”

“You don’t know anything about land development,” Jacob said. “All you know is a big house and nice appliances, LL Bean and Nieman Marcus catalogs.”

“Let’s get back to Christine,” Rheinsfeldt said. “I know you’d rather not talk about it, but—”

“It was a Tuesday,” Renee said, and her hands grew cold even though the room was as stifling as a coffin in hell. Jacob had never let her talk about Christine, and though Renee and Kim had cried together a dozen times afterwards, she still ached to spill it all again, as if the act of psychological spewing would purge the poison from her system. “I’d just got off the phone with my mother. Christine was down for her afternoon nap, she was as steady as a clock, naps at ten and three. I had soup on. I was trying to save money then, figuring with two children we had a lot of college to pay for one day. The soup was boiling over—”

“She called me at work that morning to gripe,” Jacob said. “Said she was tired of cutting her fingers to get rid of leftover vegetable scraps and why couldn’t she just put some groceries on the credit card—”

“Let her finish, Jacob.”

Renee felt a sick but grateful smile slide across her face. Rheinsfeldt was as tough as any prison warden, and she seemed to be on Renee’s side. “I burned my fingers,” Renee said. “That’s what the medics said when they arrived. I don’t remember much after that, but I took the pot off and then went to check on Christine because it was nearly four and about time for Mattie to get home from school.”

“That’s when she found her,” Jacob said.

“What did you see?” Rheinsfeldt asked Renee.

“You have to keep it a secret, don’t you? I mean, patient-doctor privilege or whatever?”

“Yes. Everything you say in this room stays in this room. Except the parts you take with you.”

Renee looked at Jacob, expecting to see hatred in those stranger’s eyes, but he only nodded in resignation. She would tell it the way he wanted. She’d once promised in front of God to honor and obey him.