Hideaway

something that could help the cops?”
    “Then I'll call it in anonymously.”
    “They'll take the information more seriously if you give it to them in person.”
    He felt violated by the intrusion of this psychotic stranger into his life. That violation made him angry, and he feared his anger more than he feared the stranger, or the supernatural aspect of the situation, or the prospect of brain damage. He dreaded being driven by some extremity to discover that his father's hot temper was within him, too, waiting to be tapped.
    “It's a homicide case,” he said. “They take every tip seriously in a murder investigation, even if it's anonymous. I'm not going to let them make headlines out of me again.”
     
    ----
     
    From the restaurant they went across town to Harrison's Antiques, where Lindsey had an art studio on part of the top floor in addition to the one at home. When she painted, a regular change of environment contributed to fresher work.
    In the car, with the sun-spangled ocean visible between some of the buildings to their right, Lindsey pressed the point that she had nagged him about over breakfast, because she knew that Hatch's only serious character flaw was a tendency to be too easy-going. Jimmy's death was the only bad thing in his life that he had never been able to rationalize, minimalize, and put out of mind. And even with that, he had tried to suppress it rather than face up to his grief, which is why his grief had a chance to grow. Given time, and not much of it, he'd begin to downplay the importance of what had just happened to him.
    She said, “You've still got to see Nyebern.”
    “I suppose so.”
    “Definitely.”
    “If there's brain damage, if that's where this psychic stuff comes from, you said yourself it was benevolent brain damage.”
    “But maybe it's degenerative, maybe it'll get worse.”
    “I really don't think so,” he said. “I feel fine otherwise.”
    “You're no doctor.”
    “All right,” he said. He braked for the traffic light at the crossing to the public beach in the heart of town. “I'll call him. But we have to see Gujilio later this afternoon.”
    “You can still squeeze in Nyebern if he has time for you.”
    Hatch's father had been a tyrant, quick-tempered, sharp-tongued, with a penchant for subduing his wife and disciplining his son by the application of regular doses of verbal abuse in the form of nasty mockery, cutting sarcasm, or just plain threats. Anything at all could set Hatch's father off, or nothing at all, because secretly he cherished irritation and actively sought new sources of it. He was a man who believed he was not destined to be happy—and he insured that his destiny was fulfilled by making himself and everyone around him miserable.
    Perhaps afraid that the potential for a murderously bad temper was within him, too, or only because he'd had enough tumult in his life, Hatch had consciously striven to make himself as mellow as his father was high-strung, as sweetly tolerant as his father was narrow-minded, as greathearted as his father was unforgiving, as determined to roll with all of life's punches as his father was determined to punch back at even imaginary blows. As a result, he was the nicest man Lindsey had ever known, the nicest by light-years or by whatever measure niceness was calculated: bunches, bucketsful, gobs. Sometimes, however, Hatch turned away from an unpleasantness that had to be dealt with, rather than risk getting in touch with any negative emotion that was remotely reminiscent of his old man's paranoia and anger.
    The light changed from red to green, but three young women in bikinis were in the crosswalk, laden with beach gear and heading for the ocean. Hatch didn't just wait for them. He watched them with a smile of appreciation for the way they filled out their suits.
    “I take it back,” Lindsey said.
    “What?”
    “I was just thinking what a nice guy you are, too nice, but obviously you're a piece of lecherous scum.”
    “Nice scum, though.”
    “ I'll call Nyebern as soon as we get to the shop,” Lindsey said.
    He drove up the hill through the main part of town, past the old Laguna Hotel. “Okay. But I'm sure as hell not going to tell him I'm suddenly psychic. He's a good man, but he won't be able to sit on that kind of news. The next thing I know, my face'll be all over the cover of the National Enquirer. Besides, I'm not psychic, not exactly. I don't know what the hell I am—aside from lecherous