Bound by Suggestion Read Free

at one another for a few moments in awkward silence.
    Mrs. Jarowski cleared her throat. “Are you a doctor, too?” she asked me.
    “You might say I’m an expert on headaches. Tell me about yours, Mrs. Jarowski. Migraines, aren’t they?”
    The old lady’s sharp eyes softened. “I’ve had a lot of tests, even a couple of CAT scans, but they’ve all been inconclusive. I’ve been told they’re due to stress. One doctor said they’re psychosomatic.”
    “I doubt that,” I said, winning a grateful nod. “They get pretty bad sometimes, don’t they?”
    She nodded again, looking hopeful.
    “I can sure identify with that. I got mugged last year. A teenager with a baseball bat cracked my skull. Since then I get some really bad ones. I’m working up to a doozie right now.”
    “What does that have to do with me?” she asked, an odd catch to her voice.
    “Nothing. Tell me about Eric Devlin.”
    Her back went rigid. “I’ve already told the police, I don’t know anything about his disappearance.”
    “His mother said he was ‘all boy,’ but I get the feeling he was a little hellion. A noisy kid. Kind of a brat, really.”
    Dr. Marsh glared at me as if I’d blasphemed God almighty. The whole city had developed a reverence for the missing child.
    Mrs. Jarowski didn’t share that feeling.
    “He used to ride up and down the sidewalk on one of those big plastic tricycles for hours at a time. Up and down and up and down. They make one hell of a racket, don’t they?”
    Her lips tightened. The tension in that kitchen nearly crackled.
    My nausea cranked up a notch and I loosened my tie. On the verge of passing out, I rested my elbows on the table to steady myself.
    “When I have one of these sick headaches, I have to lie down in a dark room with absolute quiet. Otherwise I think I’d go insane. Has that ever happen to you?”
    Mrs. Jarowski’s gaze pinned me.
    The vision streaked before my mind’s eye: Eric, eyes round with anticipation, his small hand clutching the tumbler of chocolate milk, something his mother would never let him have. Paula calling to him from somewhere outside. The half empty glass falling to the spotless floor, shattering. Chocolate milk splashing the walls and cabinet doors.
    “It’s peaceful and quiet these days,” I said. “Like a morgue.” My gaze drifted to the full-sized refrigerator—back to her. I swallowed down bile. “Do you want to show me?”
    Her cheeks flushed. She wouldn’t look at me.
    Dr. Marsh and Richard looked at me in confusion. Mrs. Jarowski seemed to weigh the question, her solemn gaze focused on the floor.
    “The freezer, right?”
    Mrs. Jarowski’s anger slipped, replaced by a tremendous sense of guilt—but not, I noticed, remorse.
    “Dr. Alpert, maybe you should have a look,” I suggested.
    Mrs. Jarowski held her ground.
    Richard brushed past me and crossed the room in three steps. His eyes bored into hers and the older woman backed down, moving aside. The freezer door swung open. A heavy, black plastic garbage bag filled the space. Richard worked on the twist tie and then he pulled back the plastic. His breath caught in his throat and he slammed the door, suddenly pale.
    “Holy Christ.”
    The quartz wall clock ticked loudly, but time seemed to stand still.
    At last Richard moved to the phone and punched 911. “I’m calling to report a body at 456 Weatherby, apartment C.”
    Richard swallowed as he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone. Dr. Marsh blinked in confused revulsion.
    Stony-faced, Mrs. Jarowski turned, her slippered feet scuffing across the vinyl floor as she headed for the living room. She sat down on her faded couch, picked up the remote control and turned on the television.
    Finally Richard hung up the phone.
    “Dr. Marsh, can you watch Mrs. J until the police get here?” I asked.
    She nodded, still looking shell-shocked.
    I squinted up at Richard. “Maybe you could help me to the bathroom. I don’t want to barf on