Stark Raving

By Margaret Koch

Dr. Barb Stark's friendly little resort city explodes with violence as murderers, con men, scheming military special ops, motorcycle gangs and professional assassins descend on Duncan. Returning character Haley Foster provides unusual support as Barb is faced with the murder of a business partner with so many complications she has to laugh to keep from crying. Her consulting work with Chandler Security Institute throws her into violent contact with theft rings and serial killers on military bases. And she's trying to get her talk-therapy practice going again. Barb has to scramble and use her wits, will, and everything else she can get her hands on to survive and save her family. This is a fast-paced romp with abundant humor, action and romance. STARK RAVING also provides a deep look into what happens to relationships between men and women when they're deeply in love but deciding to risk their lives. And yes, Malcolm's doing his spooky-dog thing in this one, too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margaret Koch
• Release date: Dec 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465724984

Margaret Koch

Margaret J. R. Koch, Ph.D. is a psychologist with many years of experience. She's returned to her first love, writing, and rather than write self-help books, she's turned to suspense and mystery.So don't expect her to address your bad habits. She hopes to become one of them.

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STARK RAVING

BOOK SIX

Margaret Koch

Stark Raving

Margaret Koch

Copyright 2011 MargaretKoch

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Author's Notes

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

I am deeply grateful to those who were willing to carefully read and provide criticism to help me to forge an entertaining story. To Kris and Alan, Timm and Mary, Callie and Larry, Jane and Charlie, thank you. I also appreciate greatly those offering wonderful encouragement and support. To Vicki, Cathie, Judy, Gayle, Neil, Stan, and many others, thank you. And especially to Allison, (whose students often don't know how lucky they are) -- thank you. Your help is invaluable.

To everyone who had a part of editing and shaping STARK RAVING -- thank you, thank you, thank you.

And to Clifton, who makes miracles possible, I will be eternally grateful.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

October 27, 3:38 a.m., eight months and five days ago, Camp Soul, Tennessee

Brother John flicked his gun toward the mercenaries, not even looking at them to aim, and he fired a long burst from his assault rifle so unexpectedly and casually that all four of the mercenaries in his sights died laughing. Laughing at me. They'd been only minutes away from collecting a huge contracted price for capturing and selling me and Haley Foster. They'd eyed each other and their waiting champagne with wide gleeful grins, and they had begun to amuse each other by teasing me about my imminent torture and slow death. Soon they'd have been guffawing, slapping their knees and holding their sides while they rolled on the floor, laughing until their rotten insides threatened to burst through their camouflage shirts.

But then I'd firmly suggested to Brother John, who had been standing far to the side and holding his assault rifle while incongruously wearing monk's robes, that he should fire his weapon. Without even stopping to think about it, he'd then obediently turned, swung the assault rifle around with a careless gesture and he had shot up the whole end of the room where the mercenaries were celebrating.

Haley Foster, slumped in her chair beside me, jerked convulsively at the sudden burst of noise, but she was not in the line of fire. She was conveniently placed by the door, like me. We were set aside like packages for pick-up. Which is what we were -- packages for pick-up.

Justes and Obea, along with one assisting mercenary soldier, and an older female guard with bad teeth and a worse attitude were cut down in the hailstorm of bullets. They fell right where they stood or sat. So many bullets. So much blood.

Then there was complete silence.

I had fallen to my knees, staring. I wanted to curl up and cry. The deaths of four people had taken only a split second. I tried to take a deep breath and failed. I couldn't get enough air into my lungs. Justes might have cracked one of my ribs. I slowly pushed myself back to my feet and turned to Haley.

We've got to get out of here, I rasped. Can you run? I barely got the words out.

Haley didn't answer me. I stared at her. She was just seventeen and she looked out of it, barely conscious. But then she unsteadily got to her feet and staggered over to the four bloody bodies. She mumbled something in a sing-song voice several times before I got it:

She said, Clean this up. Of service…be of service.

I looked back at Brother John, the only remaining not-shot-dead administrative officer of Camp Soul. He was stoned out of his gourd, and he hadn't moved an inch. He stood there in his olive green robes, his shaved head shining in the fluorescent lights. He still held his smoking assault rifle and he was blinking a lot. The blinking was not good news. At this point, maybe he was still under hypnosis, maybe not. Maybe he could hear no sound but the sound of my voice, maybe not. Maybe he knew he'd just shot up the room and killed his fellow conspirators, maybe not.

Uh-oh. Brother John swung his assault rifle around to aim directly at my chest. Point blank.

You mustuh stay, he said, frowning. You aruh the womanuh I mustuh deliveruh.

Damn, damn, damn. I had just mentioned deliver when I was trying to get him into a trance state because the word was already in his brain to hook and retain the other instructions. I didn't think I'd fall into his hands again. And if I did, I thought the word-of-God thing that I put into that first trance weeks ago would cover everything. There wasn't time to argue with him about this now, and no time to try to induce a new trance. I was not that good at hypnosis. I'd never used it much.

From outside, I heard shouting voices and running feet, gravel crunching and car doors slamming. Maybe 100 yards away or closer. I had to get Haley to run with me. I couldn't carry her. I couldn't leave her. We'd have to run and take the chance that Brother John would continue to just stand there blinking and would not fire his gun at us.

I looked back over at Haley just in time to see her pick up a dead mercenary's assault rifle. Without expression, she swung swiftly around and blasted Brother John and his assault rifle into eternity. Like a tennis spectator in hell, I looked back in time to watch him die, stoned and determined to deliver me. He flew backwards, sandaled feet and bare white legs sticking up out of his military-green robes. He might not have felt much. Looked like he went pretty fast.

I looked back at Haley. She knelt and carefully placed the dead mercenary's hands firmly around his gun again. She lifted his head to get the gun's webbing just right. Then she got to her feet, staggering a little, brushed her hands together briskly and stepped back, wobbly in the too-big whore's boots they'd made her wear. She seriously eyed her handiwork, re-checking it. She stepped in again to bend down and move the mercenary's fingers slightly. Then it seemed to meet her standards.

I stood there stunned for way too long, then I gulped and ran across the room to grab Haley's hand. She looked at me calmly, pleasantly, with no hint of anxiety on her face. Her eyes were not focused. Neither were mine. I felt like a brain stem without its brain.

"Come on, Haley, run! We can do this. You have to run with me."

Haley? I'm not Haley Foster any more. I'm Sister Rose. I clean all the guns. I always do. Now I have to clean all these guns. They have blood and innards all over them. She suddenly giggled, pulled her slippery hand from mine and she ran both hands through her long blonde hair. Her hands left bloody streaks, just like the streaks when rebellious teenagers experiment with Vampire Red hair dye.

"We have to run. Now!" I grabbed her hand again and started pulling her toward the tunnel. She resisted with surprising strength.

Don't run for the road, Haley said, frowning. Haley Foster tried that once. They wait at the road.

Then let's run for the bluffs. I know how to get to the bluffs. I took a deep breath, winced when my ribs protested, looked her right in the eye and put all the force I could into my voice.

"Sister Rose, can Haley Foster run?"

She gave me a sly smile, like we were conspiring to trick the whole world.

Haley Foster can run, she said. I'll run just like Haley Foster runs.

She kicked off the loose spike-heeled boots and we ran barefoot down the tunnel, up the stairs and finally we were out -- out in the chilly pre-dawn air. We ran on through the tangled woods. We ran for the bluffs like the hounds of hell were chasing us.

Which they were.

CHAPTER ONE

Eight months and five days later, June 1, 9:00 a.m., Chandler Security Institute, Camp Soul, Tennessee

The young woman had stopped traffic.

Walter had been reading, his feet comfortably propped on the low window seat behind his impressive new desk, and he'd glanced out of the window when he heard brakes screech down on the oval drive in front of his office. One of the Institute's jeeps had skewed sideways in a panic stop just inches from smashing a wandering riding lawnmower whose rider was leaning out and looking backwards to watch the young woman park her bicycle in the administrative building's bike rack. Male trainees exercising and working in the grassy center of the oval had also frozen, staring at her, forgetting whatever they had been doing. The few women among the trainees were looking, too, but they had hands on hips, irritated. Except for the tall woman from Alaska -- she wasn't irritated, but she was fascinated. She was noting the men's reactions. She'd been here a couple of weeks, and had done well. And now she was observing, while the men were reacting. Men of all ages were suddenly still, just following the young woman's every move. They seemed unable to stop watching until she disappeared into the administrative building.

If this were a cartoon, thought Walter, their eyeballs would run out on stalks, they'd grow wolf ears with steam coming out of them and their tongues would unroll until they hit the dirt with a thud. And they'd paw the ground, pant and howl.

He inserted a worn leather bookmark into the geology text, turned to watch his strategically placed mirrors, and waited. He soon was rewarded with her reappearance. She had come up the central stairway and was slowly approaching his second-floor office. He watched her come methodically down the hall, reading names on doors. She paused briefly to reach up and run her fingers over the letters on Barb Stark's closed door. Then she walked on without touching the knob or knocking. She stopped at Walter's half-open door, read his name on the frosted glass, nodded her exquisite head, which caused her long ash blonde hair to ripple, and walked into his office as if she owned the building. She stood in front of his desk and, very solemn and intent, looked him right in the eyes. Looking into her electric blue eyes close-up was like diving headfirst into adolescent yearnings. Girl of our pubescent dreams. Yowza.

Walter suppressed a smile as he tried to come up with a professional description -- female about five-foot seven, 125 pounds, maybe a pound or two more. She looked like she had good muscle development. Lots of words to describe her -- lithe, tanned, athletic, great smooth skin, startling blue eyes fringed with lush dark lashes. Maybe he should leave out the fringed and the lush, to be professional. He should also leave out the full pink lips, striking cheekbones, firm pointed chin and long graceful neck. Then certainly he shouldn't mention noticeable firm breasts just the right size and shape for her height, absolutely perfect long legs with that smooth notch on her shin where well-developed tendon and muscle connect to the shin bone which then leads down to trim ankles. Great ankles. Lymphatic system must be in fine shape…give it up, Chandler. This woman can't be described with professional-sounding words. The whole package had too much impact. Something about her was beyond words.

She wore a just-above-the-knee white skirt and a loose V-neck navy pullover, sleeves pushed up. White flat-heeled shoes. No makeup. Small watch. No other jewelry.

Mr. Chandler? I don't know if you remember me. I'm Haley Foster. I'm the person who was kidnapped by the Camp Soul mercenaries last summer. I talked with you after I was rescued. But then you were Chief of Police, or you were with the FBI, or both, or neither, or something.

Hello, Haley. I remember you very well. It's good to see you again. You were very thin and had been through an ordeal the last time I saw you. You look different now. I imagine it's not that easy for you to be on this property again.

She almost smiled, sat down without being asked in the chair facing his desk, crossed her legs at the ankles, settled her hands in her lap, and waited a long moment before answering.

I like coming back to Camp Soul, she said finally, looking at Walter earnestly. I still call it that, even though I know you've changed the name. I would even like to look at that lower-level room where the massacre happened. I'd like to look at all of the buildings where I worked and where I was locked in and beaten. I'd like to walk through the woods where I ran for my life and I'd like to see where I jumped from the bluffs into the river with Dr. Stark to finally escape. I'm alive, and free, and they're all dead. Every one of them who smiled and enjoyed it as they beat me and yelled at me and drugged me is dead. Every one. I saw them die. Violently. All at once.

You remember seeing them die?

Yes, I remember everything now. I remember every minute of months of it. The brainwashing, the beatings, the drugs, the fact that I was to be sold into slavery -- sexual slavery. I remember how scared I was when I had no name. They took my name away from me, and it was like I didn't exist any more. And I remember how relieved I was when they gave me the name of 'Sister Rose'. I know that they succeeded in breaking me. That bothers me. I am ashamed that they broke me.

You remember how they died? Walter's voice was casual, politely interested.

Yes.

Haley seemed to be pleased about that. A small almost-smile twitched the corners of her full lips. Walter wanted to see her really smile, but she stopped just short. She didn't seem able to smile.

Could you tell me what happened that night -- from your vantage point? Walter asked smoothly. He held his breath.

Hasn't Dr. Stark told you, Mr. Chandler?

Yes. She told me the story from her vantage point.

I read the papers, Haley said. Dr. Stark said the mercenaries were angry with each other. Some of them had taken drugs, they were armed with assault rifles, and they had a disagreement and killed each other just minutes before Dr. Stark and I were to be taken by the Mendez crime family. The Mendez family intended to torture Dr. Stark -- kill her slowly. They intended to sell me. Dr. Stark was not afraid of them. She could still think. She kept me from blundering into the line of fire and she got me out of there when I could not think for myself. She tricked me into running away with her when I could not make that decision on my own. She showed me the way through the woods to the bluffs. She told me we would survive the jump. I owe her my life.

But your vantage point would be different, said Walter pleasantly.

No, I don't think I'll ever disagree with Dr. Stark or see things differently from the way she sees them. About anything.

Walter paused. He wanted very badly to hear Haley's description of that night. Barb Stark had not told the whole truth, he knew that. But Haley was wary now. This composed young woman had very neatly managed to outmaneuver him without really trying and without offering any kind of opening that would give him an easy conversational entry.

And he wouldn't put pressure on Haley today because he did not want to give Barb Stark any reason to be angry with him. His relationship with Barb was going to be full of control issues as it was, and he loved that strong-willed woman, even when she irritated him. It was more than a feeling -- it was an organic thing. She had to be in his life, or he would flounder around like half of him was missing. If he lost Barb, he'd have to become another person because Walter Chandler could not take the loss.

It was the only thing that really terrified him. It was the reason he'd avoided deep relationships for so long after the death of his first love. Maybe he should ask Barb to do her spooky therapy on him so that he could face losing her.

And he wouldn't pressure Haley because he was no longer a cop, undercover or real, and he was no longer sworn to obey FBI orders. He had his own business now. His own training institute. He didn't have to do interrogations any more, unless he was specifically hired to do so. He was changing. He didn't have to pursue people whose crimes seemed justified any more. He might even consider a justified murder himself now if the situation called for it. It was a changing world, and a lot of the systems that were supposed to take care of the bad guys were corrupted and ineffective.

But Haley now was telling him that she remembered what had happened that night at Camp Soul. She had not remembered anything at first. Now there was another surviving witness to the Camp Soul massacre. That was enough for today. He could get the information later, in bits and pieces. Maybe he could get it without having to lie or outmaneuver Barb. At least not too much.

Well, they certainly worked hard at deserving to be killed, he said, and I'm very happy you survived to go back to your last year of high school. But that lower level room where the massacre happened is so drastically changed that you wouldn't recognize it now. I've remodeled almost every square inch of this place, except the dining hall -- eating is pretty much just eating. But there are still acres and acres of wild woods, and the bluffs will be here forever, and the Tennessee River and its beautiful lake haven't changed. I might be stuck with the Camp Soul name for this property, even if it's a training institute for the good guys now. People refuse to stop calling it Camp Soul. Walter smiled at Haley. So what brings you into Camp Soul today?

I want you to train me.

Train you to do what?

To protect myself. Martial arts. Combat skills. Weapons training of all kinds, especially the unusual weapons, like the garrote, and using your own body parts as weapons. I've done what I could with commercial gyms and gun camps. I want professional training like elite fighting soldiers get. I want to be able to disable an attacker using only technique and one elbow. I can't pay much, but I am very good at cleaning, especially weapons cleaning. No gun that I maintain and clean ever misfires. I know about weapons mechanisms, and I won't allow metal fatigue in parts I oversee, especially springs. I can even make minor repairs if you have the equipment. I can intern for you and I will work hard. I can cook, too. And I'm really good with computers. Computers are weapons of a sort if you want them to be.

Walter kept his face from showing any reaction, even though the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. He didn't want to judge anything she said right now. He needed to know what he was dealing with. This gorgeous young woman might be a wingnut.

I'd heard that you had accepted a track scholarship to Alabama, he said. We live in a small town, and people talk about things like that. Your mother's proud that you'll be the first in the family to go to college. So is your grandmother.

I'm not sure I'm going to college.

Oh?

School is not very pleasant for me.

Why is that?

I'm broken.

Broken?

They destroyed something in me at Camp Soul, those people who killed each other. I can't pretend to be like other girls. I can't pretend to be interested in what excites them. But it's not just me. The world is broken, too. People who don't see that are just fooling themselves. I can't take that scholarship until I know how to deal with the world. They say I have a chance at making the Olympics. In track. I'd have several choices of what area I'd compete in. I'm good at jumps, and pole vault too, and gymnastics. I've talked with several coaches about going for gymnastics instead of track, but I'm a little tall for gymnastics. But all of that is beside the point.

Walter waited. She wasn't talking like a wingnut. She was talking like a very intelligent person with perhaps only one or two screws slightly loose. And she didn't look at all uncomfortable, angry or agitated. She hadn't moved much since she sat down -- at ease, ankles crossed and hands in lap. Watching him intently.

Looking like I do, Haley continued with no hint of coyness, just stating the facts, I'll be high-profile and attract attention if I even think about trying out for the Olympics. People are mean. I have to know what to do when people attack me for being in the public eye and being attractive. They'd eventually dig up the Camp Soul story with its sexual slavery angle. There was no sexual activity forced on me -- only beatings, drugs, constant slave labor, and brainwashing. I escaped rape because I was to be sold as a virgin. But people believe what they want to believe. Kids at my high school did a lot of fantasizing at my expense. You should have seen what they put on the internet about me.

Walter was pretty sure Haley didn't want him to ask about the fantasies. But she was so calm. She'd scarcely moved, and she had not raised her voice. Walter wanted her to escape from that solemn composure. She'd almost smiled a couple of times, but had suppressed it quickly. A teenager should be allowed to laugh and cry, to scream, to show some anger at what she had endured.

What did the mercenaries at Camp Soul break in you?

I don't want to talk a lot about that, and I don't want you to argue with me about it. I think it's different for men, and it would be hard for you to understand, no matter how smart you are. It just has to do with how you think about the world. I can no longer be a woman who expects people to be non-damaging, much less kind or honest. My trust has been destroyed, and if I can't trust people, people can't trust me. I have to make trust a non-issue where safety is concerned. Then I'll be trustworthy. She sighed, and turned a mental page.

"Will you let me at least intern for the summer? I'll make the college decision later, and it is my decision. I am eighteen now. But that's why I accepted the scholarship. If I don't go, the track coach has every right to be mad at me, but I wanted to keep the option open. I will be worth the time you'll have to spend thinking about what kind of curriculum I need. I know my request is unusual. But I will work sixteen hours a day. That's what I did for the mercenaries. I will work around the clock for you if you want me to."

What do you think you need? Besides martial arts and weapons training?

Whatever you think a walking target needs -- a real-life, alive target who has feelings and bleeds when she's hit. What is she going to need to make it in an uncaring and violent world where people want to hurt you? You know men target me because of the way I look. Women target me, too. High school has been hell. Some of them hate me because I've been victimized. It's just like chickens and pecking orders. I had been beaten by the mercenaries -- that ugly piece of information got onto Betsy Baltimore's crime show. So it was okay to beat me. I'd been categorized as a beatee. Haley didn't smile. Neither did Walter.

I imagined myself killing one of the mean girls because I was afraid of her. I can't stand being afraid now. Haley paused, realizing that she needed to explain.

I did not intend to really do anything like murder, she reassured Walter, and I had no trouble stopping short of murder, but it ran through my mind, and that scared me. Fear is awful. It makes you do things you don't want to do. I don't imagine college will be very different, especially if I attract unusual attention by excelling in sports. If you don't agree to train me, I'll just hit the road until I find somewhere that I can hide without hurting anybody. But if you agree to teach me, maybe I won't be so broken. Maybe I can learn survival skills that will let me relax enough to pretend to be normal. I want to be able to protect myself in any circumstance, and then I can be pleasant in an ugly world.

Are you telling me that now you are a danger to yourself or other people?

No. I am telling you that I am Haley Foster, who knows she is a problem. I am Haley Foster, and through no fault of my own, I am a serious problem that you can help to solve so that I do not ever become a danger to myself or other people.

Walter looked at her -- so pretty, so talented in athletics, such a heavy mindset for someone just out of high school. When she said her name, she sounded defiant. That was probably an after-effect of the brainwashing. Barb should talk with her.

Haley waited, hands in lap, ankles crossed, for Walter to decide.

Walter took his time, thinking. Haley's father had gone missing, tricked and trapped by the mercenaries into slavery because they needed his practical skills, and Haley had gone after him. She had tracked him to Camp Soul, and, since the mercenaries there were also in the sex trafficking business, they'd taken one look at Haley and snatched her as a high-ticket prize. Mason Foster, her father, had been murdered when he protested and they dumped his body in the lake that Camp Soul fronted. Haley had been taken prisoner and held for months. Walter had been actively on the Camp Soul case while Haley had been missing -- she'd been imprisoned only minutes away, being brainwashed and beaten daily. It had been Barb Stark who helped identify Mason Foster's decomposed body when it was pulled from the lake, and still Walter had not been able to cut through FBI, civil rights and religious freedom restraints to get permission to search Camp Soul, and to find and rescue this girl. He hadn't even known she was there. It was Barb who found her and got her out. He owed Haley Foster something.

When do you have to know? Walter asked.

Today would be good. Today is the first day of June. It would give me three months at least to learn what I need to learn.

I'm not sure we can arrange it that quickly. You are going to have to talk with Dr. Stark before I agree.

You know, I started therapy with her right after my rescue. They told me to see a psychologist, and she was the only psychologist I would agree to see. But then she got shot and had to take time off and after just a few sessions with her I was switched to somebody else, and then I just quit coming because the next one didn't get it.

They've got good therapists at that practice. Who did you see after Dr. Stark got shot?

A man. Barton Tackett. They said it would be good for me to see a male therapist because of my murdered missing father, and the only other man had already started sessions with my little sister Tesse because her first woman therapist had a car wreck. It was insulting. Like they could run in a sub for Dr. Stark, and it would be just fine, because I needed a father figure. As if they could replace my father. Anybody with a penis would do. I kept wanting to ask him what his penis thought we should talk about.

Walter suddenly was too aware of his own penis. This young woman just said what she thought. She didn't try to do any impression management and she didn't worry about social comfort at all. But she didn't seem to be a social misfit. She wasn't trying to be rude in any way. She just didn't give a damn. She'd speak her piece and wait for the results, whatever they were. Maybe it was that she didn't expect to get what she wanted. And with her, the results of that social hopelessness could be dangerous around men. They'd misunderstand her assertive-seeming approach for something else. He mentally rolled his eyes at himself and got back on track.

What didn't Tackett understand?

He didn't want me to be broken. We never got past that. He's a good guy, but unless the person you're going to for therapy can see the extent of the problem, there's just no point. He thought he could cheer me up. He'd say things about my going to the prom my last semester, and how there would be lots of guys asking me out, like that was important, and all the while I was sitting there, broken in a broken world. Haley thought for a minute.

The very first session I had with Dr. Stark, she said that I might or might not like my last semester at school, but high school wasn't that important in the whole scheme of things. It was like I could at least breathe easier after she said that. For the first time since I was rescued, I stopped holding my breath every time I thought about school. She got it that I would never be the same, and the world would never be the same, but she made me realize it didn't have to be all bad. It could just be different, and if I worked at it, it could be okay. People would see value in me, whatever I was, and I could enlarge my understanding of the world. It didn't have to be all bad or all good. I could see it for what it is. But Dr. Tackett kept trying to make me be normal. He wanted me to pretend to be happy and feel safe about myself and the world. I couldn't do that. Not then, not now, and maybe never. But maybe, with your help, someday I can be normal enough to pass.

Haley paused and thought another moment.

Dr. Stark made me listen to her because she laid a guilt trip on me, Haley continued as if it had just occurred to her. She trapped me into taking in what she said. Dr. Tackett was afraid to do that, or he was not good enough to make a guilt trip work without damaging me.

Walter wanted to hear more about how Barb operated in therapy. He knew she could put people into logic traps -- mindsets where they had to listen to her or relinquish something that was central to their existence. She created mental double-binds that made people change their behavior. He'd watched her on tape doing it with Roberto Mendez, a master criminal. She ought to be teaching that technique here at Chandler Institute.

She was also a catalyst -- throw Barb into any mix and it exploded, despite her best intentions to have a normal life. There were just too many secrets in the world. People with an unerring instinct for truth always caused trouble. And Barb's kind of trouble usually ended up resolving ugly puzzles that involved life and death solutions. She didn't mess around with the small stuff like most catalysts did. She needed to work in a setting where trouble passed across her desk as a matter of routine, and then when violence broke out, it happened elsewhere to be handled by other well-trained troops. But she had limited her Chandler Institute consultant hours, and he'd had to settle for her screening his trainees, because she was also dead-on at spotting lies and future trouble, and because right now, that's all he could talk her into doing. Of course, she didn't know much about CI's primary purpose. Yet.

Dr. Stark laid a guilt trip on you?

I think we're off-topic, smiled Haley.

Walter gave it up.

You can talk about that with her. You have to talk with her to receive training. Dr. Stark passes on everybody who finishes training here. We can't train people to use deadly force and turn them loose unless they've got their heads on straight. You told me that you are broken. So I want to be careful. You don't have to talk to me, but you do have to talk to Dr. Stark about being broken. Unless she has written permission, she won't talk about anybody she's done therapy with, so you need to sign a consent form permitting her to talk with me about you. If anything's off-limits for me to know, you can write in 'except for' and a very general description of the confidential stuff so she'll know what you want her to avoid.

Haley sat very still and looked at Walter. The seconds ticked off. Walter counted. Twelve whole seconds.

Okay. I can do that. I trust Dr. Stark. She won’t talk about anything I'd object to.

Walter pulled a consent form from his desk drawer and Haley leaned forward to sign it in neat block letters -- not exactly a signature, but it would do.

She'll be in her office here this afternoon. Can you come back at 2:00?

Yes. I'll be here at 2:00. I know where her office is. I passed it on my way in.

Walter stood to shake hands with Haley. He watched her stride smoothly back down the hall as he mentally rearranged his schedule to talk with Barb at 1:00, or earlier if he could find her available at her practice's downtown office. He swung his chair around to fax Haley's consent form to Barb's office.

He watched from his window as Haley unlocked her bike and rode away as if she were alone in the universe. She didn't seem to be aware of the men staring at her.

But she stopped traffic again.

June 1, 10:00 a.m., Psychology Associates, Duncan, Tennessee

Barton Tackett's smile was uncertain as he stuck his head in my door and held out a stale donut, just like a kid offering an apple to his teacher. Barton and I were the same height, 5'8", but he was twelve years older than me, and he outweighed me by 80 or 90 pounds. A little gray was beginning to show in his dark hair and goatee, and he looked tired.

He was too fond of donuts lately. Six years ago when I first met him, I was almost thirty years old and he was a vigorous and fit forty-two. The age difference didn't seem like much then. But now his firm jaw line had sagged into soft jowls and a fat roll around his middle pushed at his extra-large shirt when he sat down. Those six years had not been good to him. He looked a little disheveled, too. He used to be extremely careful about grooming.

He'd seemed preoccupied all week. Barton was one of those Freudy-looking psychologists who wore a neat Van Dyke goatee. Maybe he didn't realize that he stroked his beard whenever he felt inadequate. Yesterday, he'd done the stroking thing when I'd asked him if he had something bothering him, and if he didn't have that donut in his hand right now, he'd be stroking that goatee fast enough to set it on fire. Something was up with Barton.

But I was happy to see him, and I never told my colleagues about my observations of them. We all feel inadequate at times, and if I'd had a goatee, there had been times when I would have fondled it. I refused to interpret beard fondling past that point. If Barton was offering gifts, he was about to ask a favor. Maybe he'd tell me what was bothering him.

I thought he was conflict-avoidant and a little naïve, unfortunate for a psychologist. He dreamed of a civilized world and was often shocked by