"You were isolated right from the beginning. New environment, new routine."

"Exactly!" she said, squeezing my arm. "I was scared shitless. My parents never told me where we were going, just shoved me in the car and tossed in a suitcase. The whole ride up there, they wouldn't speak to me. When we got there, they drove through the gates, dumped me in the office, left me there and drove away. Later I found out that's what he instructed them to do. Have a happy summer, Meredith…"

Her eyes got wet. "I'd just repeated seventh grade. Finally faked enough to barely pass and was looking forward to a vacation. I thought summer would be the beach and Lake Arrowhead- we had a cabin, always went there as a family. They dumped me and went without me… no apologies, no explanation. I thought I'd died and gone to hell- sitting in that office, all those brown uniforms, no one talking to me. Then he came out, smiling like a clown, saying, what a pretty girl you are, telling me to come with him, he'd be taking care of me. I thought: what a jerk, no problem putting it over on him. The first time I stepped out of line, he let it pass. The second time, he pulled me into a room and bad-loved me. I walked out of there in a semi-coma… blitzed, wasted- it's hard to explain, but it was almost like dying. Like bad dope- I felt I was on a rocky island in the middle of a storm. This crazy, black, roaring sea, with sharks all around… no escape, him working on my bad parts- chewing me up!"

"What a nightmare," I said.

"The first week I hardly slept or ate. Lost ten pounds. The worst part was that you believed him. He had a way of taking over your head- like he was sitting in your skull, scraping away at your brain. You really felt you were shit and belonged in hell."

"None of the kids ever talked to each other?"

"Maybe some did, I didn't. Maybe I could've, I don't know- I sure didn't feel I could. Everyone walking around smiling, saying how great Dr. B. was. Such a beautiful guy. You found yourself saying it, too, mouthing along without thinking, like one of those dumb camp songs. There was this- this feverish atmosphere to the place. Grinning idiots. Like a cult. You felt if you spoke out against him, someone would pour poison Kool-Aid down your throat."

"Was physical punishment ever part of bad love?"

"Once in a while- usually a slap, a pinch, nothing that hurt too much. It was mostly the humiliation- the surprise. When he wanted to hurt you, he'd poke you in the elbow or the shoulder. Flick his finger on the bone. He knew all the spots… nothing that would leave a scar, not that anyone would have believed us, anyway. Who were we? Truants, fuckups, rejects. Even now, would I be credible? Four abortions, Valium, Librium, Thorazine, Elavil, lithium? All the other things I've done? Wouldn't some lawyer dig that up and put me on trial? Wouldn't I be a piece of shit all over again?"

"Probably."

Her smile was rich with disgust. "I'm jazzed that he's dead- doubly jazzed he did it to himself- his turn for humiliation."

She looked up at the ceiling.

"What is it?" I said.

"Killing himself- do you think he could have felt some guilt?"

"With what you've told me, it's hard to imagine."

"Yeah. You're probably right… yeah, he slapped me plenty of times, but the pain was welcome. 'Cause when he was getting physical, he wasn't talking. His voice. His words. He could reach into your center and squeeze the life out of you… did you know he used to write columns in magazines- humane child rearing? People sent in problems and he'd offer fucking solutions?"

I sighed.

"Yes," she said. "My sad, sad story- such pathos." Looking around the restaurant, she cupped one ear. "Any daytime-serial people listening? Got a bitchin' script for you."

"You never told anyone?"

"Not until you, dear." Smile. "Aren't you flattered? All those shrinks and you're the very first- why, you've deflowered me- busted my psychological cherry!"

"Interesting way to put it."

"But fitting, right? Therapy's just like fucking- you open yourself up to a stranger and hope for the best."

I said, "You said you saw other kids going into the rooms. Were they taken by other people, or just de Bosch?"

"Mostly by him, sometimes by that creepy daughter of his. I always got personal attention from the big cheese- Daddy's social position and all that."

"Katarina was involved in treatment? When exactly were you there?"

"Seventy-six."

"She was only twenty-three. Still a student."

Shrug. "Everyone treated her as if she was a shrink. What she was was a real bitch. Walking around with this smug look on her face- Daddy was the king and she was the princess. Now there's one dutiful daughter who really did want to fuck Papa."

"Did you have any direct dealings with her?"

"Other than a sneer in the hall? No."

"What about other staffers? Did you see any of them doing private sessions?"

"No."

"None of those names I mentioned rang a bell?"

She gave a pained look. "It all blurs- I've been through changes, my whole life until a few years ago is a blur."

"Can I go over those names again?"

"Sure, why not." She picked up her cup and drank.

"Grant Stoumen."

Headshake.

"Mitchell Lerner."

"Maybe… that one's a little familiar, but I have no face to go with it."

I gave her some time to think.

She said, "Nope."

"Harvey Rosenblatt."

"Uh-uh."

"Wilbert Harrison."

"No."

"He's a little man who wears purple all the time."

"Does he ride a pink elephant?" Grin.

"Myra Evans."

Eyeblink. Frown.

I repeated the name.

"You used another name before," she said. "Myra something hyphenated."

"Evans-Paprock- Paprock was her married name."

"Evans." Another smile, not at all happy. "Myra Evans- Myra the Bitch. She was a teacher, right? A little blond with a tight butt and an attitude- am I right?"

I nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "Myra the Bitch. She was assigned to tread where others had failed. Like teaching moi how to read. She kept drilling me, harassing me, forcing me to do stupid exercises that didn't do a fucking bit of good because the words stayed all scrambled. When I got something wrong, she'd clap her hands together and say no in this loud voice. Like training a dog. Telling me I was stupid, a moron, not paying attention- she used to clamp her hands on my face and force me to look into her eyes."

She placed her hands on my cheeks and pressed them together, hard. Her palms were wet and her mouth was parted. She brought me forward and I thought she might kiss me. Instead, she said, "Pay attention! Listen, you moron!" in a grating voice.

I suppressed the impulse to twist free. That instant of confinement drove my empathy up another notch.

"Pay attention! Stop wandering, stupid! This is important! You need to learn this! If you don't pay attention, you can't learn!"

She squeezed harder. Let go. Smiled again. "Breath mints- that was her smell. Isn't it funny how you remember the smells? Mints, but her breath was still shitty. She thought she was hot. Kinda young, little miniskirts, big boobs… maybe she was letting Dr. B. slip it to her."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because of the way she acted around him. Looks. Following him around. She reported directly to him. One thing you could count on, after a difficult session with Miss Bitch, you'd soon be seeing Dr. Botch for candles and needle twisting. So she got murdered, huh?"

"Very nastily."

"Too bad." She pouted, then smiled. "See, I can be a hypocrite, too. It's called acting, I work with people who do it for a living- we all do, actually, don't we?"