Saving Elijah

not?"
    "Why do you read the paper if you think it's such a rag?"
    He notched a finger up in the air. "One for you. Oh, just to keep up on the local and state news. And because of your column, of course." Smile. "You live here in Norwalk?"
    We were standing on the sidewalk now. "Westport. How about you?"
    "Fairfield," he said. "You like writing the column? Must be fun."
    Well, I used to like it, used to like a lot of things. "Actually, the column is a sideline. I'm really a psychologist. We aren't exactly known for our humility, either."
    "Psychologist and columnist. I'm impressed. You have a practice around here?"
    "Westport. You?"
    "Fairfield. Neurosurgery."
    I couldn't help myself. "You know Abner Moore?"
    "Not personally, but I heard him speak at a conference last year."
    "Really. What was the topic?" And did Moore's eyes dart-dart when he spoke to a crowd, or did that only happen one-on-one?
    "He's doing some interesting research on prenatal neurological development."
    "He should stick to research. His bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired."
    "Did he treat you for something?"
    "Look, Peter, I—"
    "I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry."
    "I'm sorry, too. I'm the one who brought it up." And shouldn't have.
    Peter St. Clair hesitated for a moment, rubbing the palm of his left hand over his mouth and chin. He had fine hands, strong but elegant, graceful, with scrupulously clean nails. A surgeon's hands.
    "Would you like to have a cup of coffee with me, Dinah?" He glanced at his watch. "I haven't got anything to do all afternoon. It's my day off."
    "I'm married, Peter. I have three children."
    He threw his head back and laughed. "I have two kids myself. It's just a cup of coffee. I'd like to hear why you think Moore should stick to research."
    "I really don't think so, Peter. But thanks, anyway."

    *    *    *

    Sam got home very late that night. He spent a little time with the children, I did some paperwork at my desk and racked my brain for an idea. When we went up to bed, the first words out of his mouth were, "Did you call yet?"
    He meant a psychiatrist, not Dr. Selson.

    *    *    *

    Heidi Victoria Vasquez. She was my first new patient in months. I was losing patients, not gaining, down to fifteen at that point.
    The only other patient of the day came just before her, Danielle O'Connor, who had finally told her mother the truth about her husband, that all those bruises she had all over her all the time weren't the result of myopia or clumsiness. Her mother accused her of lying. When Danielle convinced her she wasn't, her mother started to make a list of her failings: She'd gained some weight; she did smart-mouth her husband; she was too lenient with the children. "I'm sure he'll stop if you would just work on those things. He's such a good father."
    I asked her if she thought that was true.
    She started to cry. "He's hit me in front of my daughter. Would a good father do that?"
    It was a long way from leaving him, but it was a start. Maybe I could, at least, hold on to her.
    The new patient was twenty-six years old and had legs that went on forever, blond hair, and boobs the size of twin peaks. Perky, pretty, wearing an outfit that was just a hair too sexy for work, the skirt a little too high and the blouse a little low-cut.
    I introduced myself and let her settle in, then asked why she'd come.
    "It's my boyfriend. Larry." Her voice was throaty, sexy.
    "What about him?"
    She crossed her legs. The skirt really was short. I actually caught a glimpse of underwear. "Well, he knows I'm in love with him, and he's in love with me. But he won't leave his wife. I know he wants to, but he feels... I don't know, loyal."
    "Loyal?" I said. "You say it as if it were a dirty word." I was being more confrontational than usual, but it wasn't a bad question.
    She laughed, showing a mouthful of straight white teeth. "Well, the woman's not any kind of a wife to him, I can tell you that. She's a nag, she pays no attention to him, he really ought to leave her. He'd be much better off. I mean, don't you think women like that should just give it up, instead of clinging and clinging?"
    "I thought you said she pays no attention to him."
    She lowered her eyes. "As a woman, I mean."
    "I see. Why don't we talk about you for a while?"
    She crossed her legs the other way. "Men respond to me. I don't know why, they just always have. All ages—Larry's a lot older than I am."
    "How old is he?"
    She shrugged. "Forty-four."
    "Sam is