An Innocent Addiction

By Robert C. Womack

Robert is a young American who survives an attack on the Paris subway that kills his girlfriend Celine, a French artist. He is left with a broken heart, a fractured skull, an addiction to pain-killers, and a belief that he can find the killer who continues to taunt him as he meanders through the seedier side of some of Europe’s grandest locales. The price to get closer to Celine and to the killer’s identity is another night and another handful of pills.

The tentacles of a growing addiction entice him from city to city, from one back alley to the next cheap hostel in pursuit of a conduit in the form tiny capsules that will take him back to his beloved Celine, the answers to her murder, and the next clue to the location of his prime, but apocryphal suspect.

After tangling with drug dealers and various fiends and characters, including the Italian police; he finds himself once again near death. His struggling mother arrives and nurses him back to health and lucidity in Verona, Italy and he realizes that the truth was in his possession all along and it existed before Celine's death, back in Paris. Through a painting she leaves behind, Celine slowly guides him to a sobering revelation. Certain the key to the killer’s identity is contained in its brushstrokes; he needs a few more days freedom to burglarize a gallery. What he finds challenges his beliefs about himself, the killer, and the events leading to the attack.

An Innocent Addiction as a psychological thriller with elements of a love story and a paranormal murder mystery thrown in the stew.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert C. Womack
• Release date: Jul 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465974556

Robert C. Womack

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An Innocent Addiction

By

Robert C. Womack

Published by Robert C. Womack at Smashwords

Cover Art by Tatiana Villa

Copyright 2011 Robert C. Womack

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook 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 recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hardwork of this author.

Chapter One

Austin, Texas

I was on time, but the door was closed and that really pissed me off. He always made me wait even when he was there, but this time I couldn’t even be sure he was coming. My insides were already churning and I tried to mutter them away cursing under my breath and pacing back and forth, unless I heard footsteps coming down the hall, then I stood still and shut my mouth until they passed. I didn’t want any of those glances and fake half smiles to mask their real worry of what flavor of psych I was. But finally, his scruffy shoes came around the corner and it was me who hid my true thoughts with a smirk and a nod. He said my name. He was right beside me. I turned and stepped aside to let the satchel toting doctor walk briskly pass me, insert his key and go into his office in what seemed like one long fluid movement. He didn’t stop, he just raised one hand in the air and said, Be right with you, Robert.

The hallway was wide, shiny and annoyingly nondescript and I felt like a fool standing against the threshold peering through the open door. I watched him drop his bag, pick up the phone and dial it quickly. He bantered into it in a rapid staccato of indecipherable words that spun in my head. He finally noticed that I was still standing there and he smiled broadly and waved his hand in rapid insistent arcs towards himself. Dr. Salvodelli swiveled his chair squeakily towards me, the phone still pressed tightly to his ear as I tried to settle into one of the chairs situated in front of his desk. As I sat, the worn seat sank precariously low and I let out an embarrassingly audible whoa in fear for a moment that my butt would strike the floor. I cursed. It does it every time, either chair, and each time it catches me off guard. Dr. Sal glanced over the top of his minuscule reading spectacles and winked at me in recognition of my absent mindedness. I tried to smile, but it was feeble and forced and only amplified my embarrassment. He was back to ignoring me anyway. I tried again to eavesdrop on his call, but I was too anxious and I couldn’t grasp anything. He spoke in a fast casual tone, but it seemed like he often sounded that way with everyone was what I was thinking as I squirmed in the piece of crap chair. The prospects for the plan I had rehearsed in my head a dozen times suddenly seemed bleak and my mood was deep and surly.

It was not the quintessential psychologist’s office by any means; no oak paneled walls, no squeaky but supple leather couch, and there was no bearded eccentric staring blankly at a cloud of gray pipe smoke floating about the room mingling with your life’s tragedies. No. None of that nonsense. It was utilitarian and totally without pretense; little more than two worn armchairs in front of an ancient metallic office desk that looked as if it had been salvaged from a decades old school principal’s office. To the side, a narrow pointless window overlooked a barren landscape of strip mall rooftops, gray and asphalty and punctuated with ugly boxes of aluminum and steel. Not even the dull gravelly reflected light that came through it could disperse the heavy gloom of the place. It just wasn’t a happy or serene place to me. I thought that was kind of necessary, but apparently Dr. Sal saw it differently. His mood always seemed oblivious to the surroundings. It never seemed to dampen. I wish I could be like that. I couldn’t and it just wasn’t me, I was always a product of my environment and I hated that and he only reminded me of that fact.

Even his attire didn’t do that. Though few people would wear heavy frumpy clothes in an Austin summer, he did. His dark corduroys were thick and ropey and they looked like recycled couch fabric. His plaid shirt was mercifully thinner, but it was long sleeved though at least he rolled them to his elbows. It was like he wished he were still in New England where the cool salt air blew in off the cape and everything always seemed to appear in my mind in a tranquil black and white, like the wind blown photos of Jack Kennedy piloting a skiff along the frothy coast; his pearly white teeth bared brightly leading the way. And Sal’s bulging, tattered loafers were old enough to be a vestige from his college days spent behind walls that have stuff growing on them. He may have looked like an odd caricature cast precisely for the role, there was no sign of that contrived academic detachment you’d expect from a psychologist, but rather he exuded the air of a bygone playboy who was only finally begin to concede his advancing years.

When I first starting seeing him, I found it oddly reassuring that he lacked the characteristic aloofness of that profession. He had those northeastern looks and Italian name that seemed to merge with an acquired folksy southern charm. It was a peculiar mix to me in a good way, though I could find little solace in it now. And he knew from the beginning that I was a less than enthusiastic subject. That in itself probably wasn’t all that unusual to him since he specialized in court ordered treatment; though I didn’t fall into that category. He was a friend of my father’s, which did fuel an initial sense of caution on my part. My father had known Sal forever it seemed, how I wasn’t exactly sure and still don’t know, but I knew he trusted him a great deal; enough so to send me to him, but despite that apparent trust, Sal was still the kind of guy dad kept an eye on at the Christmas party.

Father referred to him simply as ‘Sal’, and I too was implored to use the familiar moniker. Friendly and shrewd, Sal was confident and he seemed to have repertoire of tools he could draw upon to disarm a reticent patient. I hated and envied him at that same time for that. I saw it from our very first session and I always walked out of his office regretting having spoke so much. But this particular visit needed to be different. This time, it was I who needed to disarm the good doctor.

Convincing Sal I was well enough to be released temporarily from our weekly sessions wouldn’t be easy. All I had to do was stick to my plan - open up just a little more, show him that I was feeling fine, all that crap about my progress being sufficiently on track, and that I was, in the words of mother, ready to travel. I reminded myself over and over to just say whatever was necessary to get him to write and sign the stupid note. Not a letter for some court like perhaps he was more accustomed, but rather just a simple note intended for none other than mother.

I needed money, simple as that, I had none, she had lots. And I needed it to travel - to Paris specifically. But in her mind, that place was hell for her son, so she put a strangle hold on the purse strings as the means to prevent me from leaving.

But I badgered her relentlessly. It was like my teens all over again, but I had no choice. And after several weeks of daily, and sometimes hourly, pleadings and a few invectives, she finally capitulated and agreed in spirit to support my leaving, and more importantly, she agreed to provide for my travels financially, but with one condition. The smarmy doc spitting into the phone receiver before me would have to sign a letter agreeing that my missing several sessions wouldn’t cause a set back as she called it in my treatment. Why Sal couldn’t just call her is still beyond my recollection, especially since I never assumed there was any amount of doctor-patient confidentiality to this arrangement anyway. But mother was like that; she had a penchant for pedantic formality.

I detested the juvenile-like dependency I had on my parents, but since my return from France, I was hamstrung by my own ills. In and out of hospitals and therapy sessions, I was unable to work; the headaches meant I couldn’t study, so I was forced to reassume the role as child despite my twenty-four years and one college degree.

My goal seemed simple enough, but waiting for Sal to finish that damned phone call I could feel the stress bead across my forehead. I lamented inwardly, ‘what if he doesn’t agree?’ and chided myself for entertaining the thought that, if necessary, I wasn’t above snatching a credit card and making for the airport.

He finally hung up. You know these idiots can't drive in the rain so with all the accidents I’ve been running behind all day! Sal pulled at his rampant hair smattered in patches of gray and black as he rambled excitedly and glibly. So sorry to keep you waiting, Bob, but I had to get a few things out of the way.

I hated being called Bob. It sounded so old and only worsened my sense of dependency; after all, a Bob shouldn’t need to rely on his mother for travel money. I think he knew that. Funny how old guys seemed to like to do that, but I didn’t dare admonish him, his apology seemed sincere enough, I thought. I sorely needed the time to gather my senses anyway.

Our sessions usually followed a familiar script. He inveigled, I nodded, and there were always lots of half smiles and brief answers, but by the end he got what he wanted out of me. Today would be different. I drew in a deep breath and promised myself to be less taciturn and a little more forthcoming from the get-go if that’s what it took because it was now I who needed to get something from him.

He reached for the manila folder that bore my name written by hand across the tab. The file contained a single sheet of typewritten paper and a bright yellow legal pad. The words on the sheet were indiscernible from where I sat. The pages of the pad were draped to the back, probably one per session and there were many. I always wondered what he wrote in those notes, but I could never make out the desultory scratchings. Flipping over a new page in the pad, Sal leaned back, sighed and his chair groaned.

Well, let's get started, Bob.

I…,

Why don't we talk about you and what's been going on since you were last here? Alright, what do you say?

Sure. Why not. What would you like to know? I said, but then things paused for just a second and I decided to seize that little gap and go for broke. Things have actually gone really well. I hope to go to France to visit Celine's parents. They really want to see me, but as you know, Mom's pretty firm about us finishing up our sessions first before I go anywhere.

I paused. Or at least your agreement that we can take a break. It wasn’t part of my plan, I had intended to ease into things, but I needed to get it out before my insides erupted.

He looked at me over the pad, peered actually. Uh huh. I see. Well, it sounds like you don’t need her approval, you need her money.

Dammit.

"So you would like a release of sorts, I take it then?"

Well.... I began.

Interjecting, the doctor raised his voice. I tell her you’re O.K.; she relents, and then gives you the money for the trip. Do I have it right?

Dammit.

Well, yeah, sure, why not? I mean, it's been nearly a year now, I feel fine, of course not perfectly fine, but... I argued. If I could just get back to Paris for a while, I think that will bring a lot of - what do they always call it?

Closure? Sal replied with his eyebrows arched higher than should be possible.

Right. That's it. I think that's what I really need.

Well, I'll be the judge of that, you understand?

Damn. Too aggressive, I mumbled in my head. He seemed intent on derailing my plan. Time for another tack.

Of course, but wouldn't you agree that it would be an important step? I offered obsequiously.

Perhaps. His elbows piercing the top of his desk, he said it with no eye contact and he began to flip through the notes again as if he were summarizing my progress in his mind.

I watched tenuously with my breath momentarily suspended as he tapped a pen methodically on the desk while he reviewed his notes, but he had taken the bite and I relished that small victory. The turgid pause was worrying me and after an interminable period, Sal finally lifted his head and leaned back so far that I thought that cheap chair might give way, but he looked unworried, and he interlaced his fingers behind his head and smugly looked me in the eye.

Alright. In order for us to arrive at that endpoint, we’ll need to talk about the night of the attack. He winked at me like we were two businessmen and moved forward bringing his hands back to the desk and picked up the pen again. He pointed it directly me as he stated firmly, as much as I know you hate to, we'll need to talk about that, Bob.

I felt the familiar throbbing pains begin to emerge within my head. The medications were only like cheap latches on heavy doors; they barely kept them at bay. Ever since suffering the blows that ended Celine’s life and nearly my own, I’d grown accustomed to predicting their comings and goings. And talking about it was something I had refused to do. And the prospect was like removing the pins from the latches, but I saw little choice, so I inured myself as best I could for the battle ahead.

I drew in a deep breath. Well, in a way I suppose we should, I said flatly.

Good. Tell me again, how long did you date this girl?

This girl? A few months.

I squirmed. That hard fought precious parcel of ground was slipping away. He wasn’t making it easy. I sunk into the chair like a sulking high school kid in the principal’s office. Sal knew I never wanted to talk about her death. So I tried to appear vulnerable. Just let it go, I thought. Let it go. Let me go.

Yeah, it can be tough on a guy, losing someone you care about, no matter how long it was.

I seethed. How dare he? But I just inhaled deeply and hoped that the warmth spreading across my cheeks didn’t give away my thoughts.

But here’s the problem I have with it, Bob. He peered at me over his glasses. You have to understand your mother’s reservations, right? As a therapist, I have to be concerned when someone - someone who has suffered through a traumatic event such as yourself, tells me they want to revisit that environment.

Of course. I raked my palms down my thighs.

So you can see why that troubles not just your mother but me as well?

I think so.

Then the question is why. Tell me why you want to go back there.

I told you. I want to see her parents.

I heard you. But why? Why now?

They want to see me.

They contacted you?

Yes.

He just looked at me. The moment froze with doubt. I felt it and so did he.

"As I recall, they live somewhere in the South, not Paris, somewhere south, is that right?’

Yeah. But I think I may want to go to Paris for awhile also, you know, see some friends. I said it as matter of factly as I could.

"Uh huh. Now that is where we may have a big problem." Sal’s eyes bugged out the way only old fleshy faced Italian eyeballs can.

Why?

Come on, Bob. You know why.

I know. I know. I pushed my palms down my thighs again. But I’ll avoid certain places.

Such as?

That subway. That line. That stop. Anywhere near there, I’m not going to go by there again, I pleaded. I can’t. I won’t.

Well it’s not just any particular place, Robert, it’s the city, it’s the memories that will resurface there, he said as he waved his arms through the ether as if that would make the point more clear.

I’ll be alright. I know I will.

How can you be so sure, Robert?

I can’t hide from those memories. I’ve gone over it a thousand times in my head, so it’s in there already anyway, I pointed to my temple. It’s in there. It’s not going anywhere.

Sal looked at me pensively and blankly like he was thinking of something, something he didn’t want to share and I returned his stare and I thought my eyes would well, but they didn’t. He sighed heavily. So, when do you plan to leave? You probably need the break from your mother anyway.

Right! I blurted. He nodded knowingly.

Two conditions, He extended his hand and began to pluck at his fingers. ONE: You make sure you’re good on your meds before you leave.

Sure. No problem. I nodded my head emphatically.

And TWO: you call me when you get there and at least every couple of days while you’re there. You understand? He stared at me with a paternal firmness in his eyes.

I think that’s a good idea, yes, I lied.

Chapter Two

Paris

The Metro air was dank and heavy and lingered like buoyant steam. A late afternoon shower drenched the September evening and the commuters carried it underground like moist baggage and it hung in the stale subway passages like an unhygienic houseguest. It made the ascent of the last steps of the Periere stop a refreshing relief as the dingy terrace lights of the surrounding cafes came into view.

I always had difficulty with what people saw in most of the sidewalk cafes. They were invariably crowded and murkily dirty from the refuse of countless passers by and often their dogs as well. More often than not, they repulsed me, and especially so after a downpour. The side streets away from the main thrust of pedestrians nearest the Metro stops offered a quieter respite from the incessant flow of people.

But who was I to judge? Growing up in Texas inculcates a need for that insulating volume between people; unlike the Parisians, who are impervious to constant close contact with strangers. Nevertheless, the air had begun to suddenly clear and the patchy sheets of water along the sidewalks were reflecting the streaking orange patterns from the late evening clouds chasing the setting sun. A viscous glow hung over the area and the dim yellows from the cafes merged with the diffuse orange coming from the sidewalks and their combined warmth seemed to transfer to the huddled patrons quietly sipping bieres and cafes and bantering in hushed tones, the drama of the enveloping light seemingly weighing upon their collective mood.

It had been nearly a year and half since I had originally arrived in Paris on what was supposed to be a short break following my college graduation. But at once it went from being eons in the past to days to mere days ago. I was awestruck. Things, all things, had instantly run backwards and stalled on a pivot point of time and feeling as the sights, sounds, and smells of the city inundated my senses. The city was resurrecting itself in my mind not by a gradual and gentle unfolding as one would do to a precious tapestry, but rather it burst open like a cascading stack of time lapsed photographs of a flowering rose bud. It was instantaneous. But it should have come as no surprise. This city changes little and leaves indelible impressions upon everyone and to return here is to surrender everywhere you have ever been.

I had read about how the city’s plan had been meticulously charted out by the famed Baron Haussmann during the early 19th century, and how his plans were designed to stand the test of centuries. And they did. So of course, in the short time I had been away, very little should change, but I was prone still to foolishly contrast it to the ephemeral nature of the American urban landscape, but such a mental comparison existed for but a minute and it vanished as quickly as it came. Again, it is that Paris compels one to relinquish all other places.

Collared in iron at their base, the trees that pierced the cement sidewalks and stand sentry along the various rues radiating from the Arche de Triomphe were as they were probably twenty years ago. Trees grow appreciably little within the confines of a congested and polluted city, I surmised as I began to make my way down the street surrounded by the slapping sound of wet footsteps all around me.

The walkways that abutted the fortress like buildings and shops still give way to strolling ladies young and old who set out in droves every evening to walk their usually diminutive but invariably scruffy-looking dogs. I remembered well those wretched little beasts and the sadness in their eyes. That hadn’t changed either. The dogs of Paris have a tired gait and low hung heads that seem to harbor an innate longing for an open and natural space, though few if any of them had ever experienced it.

Taking in the damp autumn freshness, I decided that I should join the café crowd. Since I craved a small degree of solitude, I chose a spot around the corner from the alluring filth near the station. Crowds were a distraction, a source of frustration to my goal to merely relax and allow my thoughts to coalesce. Plus, this was no ordinary café, nor did I fall upon it by pure happenstance. It was far more than just an ideal spot to watch the cars and pedestrians mingle around the Pereire-Marchal Juin traffic circle like a backwards swirling drain that refused to empty. No, this was actually a familiar haunt. I debated coming here for more