Blunt Darts

hard tone again. “I distrust psychiatrists and other so-called mental health professionals. I believe that love, not analysis, is what Stephen needed. In any case, however, the name of the sanatorium was Willow Wood. It was in the Berkshires near Tanglewood. I don’t recall the town, but I doubt it would do you any good to find it. I’m sure the judge would have sealed things up tightly to avoid any adverse publicity.”
    I thought it over. She was probably right about the sanatorium itself. Then I recalled something a doctor once told me when I was visiting Beth in the hospital.
    “Mrs. Kinnington, it seems that I’ve heard a psychiatric hospital usually does follow-up treatment on a released patient. Since the sanatorium must be a hundred miles from here, do you recall any local psychiatrist seeing Stephen after he was sent home?” She regarded her teacup for a moment. “Yes, yes, I do. He was in Brookline. Stern? No, no, Stein. That was the name. Dr. David Stein.”
    I nodded. “Could you call him and authorize him to speak with me about Stephen?”
    “Mr. Cuddy, I want one point to be absolutely clear,” she said, again hardening her voice. “I will not have those days reopened. The judge and I would agree on that, though he for selfish reasons of publicity and I for concern about Stephen. Is that understood?”
    “Mrs. Kinnington, if your concern for Stephen is so strong, I would think you’d want me to reopen anything I had to in order to bring him home safely.” She locked eyes for another moment, then relented once more. “This is all so... difficult to deal with. We had all thought him to be... Very well. I see your point. I will call this Dr. Stein.”
    “By ‘this Dr. Stein,’ do I take it you never met him?”
    “That’s correct. I’ve a vague recollection of speaking to him once on the telephone.”
    “In that case,” I said, “could you give me a brief letter of introduction, preferably on some of your stationery?”
    “Certainly.” She swiveled and scooped up her walking braces in her right hand.
    I extended my right hand. “Do you need some help?” I asked.
    She shook her head as she maneuvered the braces to the sides of her chair. “Never ask someone in a wheelchair, which I was, or on braces if they ‘need some help.’ Psychologically, they can’t answer yes to that question.”
    “Well, then, can I give you a hand?”
    She rewarded me with her faint smile. “Better. But no, thank you,” she said as she levered herself up to a standing position. “I prefer to have tea at a tea table and to write letters at a desk. This way, please.”
    Her legs moved stiffly in lockstep with the thrust of her shoulders and braces. She stopped at a Governor Winthrop desk, which looked to my untutored eye to be made of curly maple and therefore probably even more antique than the rest of the place. She lowered the drawbridge writing surface, revealing a desk fountain pen. She eased into the chair, leaning her braces against the wall, out of the way but within reach.
    “Now,” she said, tugging open a shallow drawer and removing another sheet of the rose-colored stationery, “what shall I write?”
    I slowly dictated a form of authorization and release, which I had seen often enough at Empire to know by heart. It authorized Dr. Stein to reveal Stephen’s confidences and to allow me to review medical and hospital records, releasing him from liability if he did so. She signed it and handed it to me. “Is there anything else?” she said.
    “If you would call Dr. Stein and let him know I’m coming?”
    “Certainly.”
    I put the letter and the envelope in my breast pocket. “One last thing. Given your knowledge of what Stephen knows about the wilderness, do you have any ideas about where he might go?”
    She looked up and smiled wanly. “We maintained a veritable atlas of topographical maps of the Eastern seaboard in his room, to plan or just fantasize about future trips. They are all still there, which probably means he found a way to copy one before he left. He could be anywhere.”
    I nodded. “I can reach you by telephone here?“
    “During the day,” she said. “If you need me at night, please call Miss Jacobs and have her call me. I will then call you when everyone else is asleep.”
    I nodded again. “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Page now.”
    That’s not necessary, Mr. Cuddy. Stephen disappeared on her day off. I’ve already questioned her thoroughly, and she