Patients. According to the newspaper, Sharon had seen her patients here.

I wondered about the people she treated. The impact her death could be having on them.

Then I realized there was someone else in her life. Someone upon whom the impact would be tremendous.

My mind went into overdrive. I wanted to be out of there.

But I let Mickey show me around, allowed her patter to pass through me for a while before consulting my watch and saying, “Oops, I’ve got to get going.”

“Do you think you’ll be putting in an offer, Doctor?”

“I need time to think about it. Thanks for showing it to me.”

“If it’s a view site you’re after, I’ve got some other listings I could show you.”

I tapped the watch. “Love to, but can’t right now.”

“Why don’t we make an appointment for another day?”

“Not even time for that,” I said. “I’ll call you when I’m free.”

“Fine,” she said, coolly.

We left the house and she locked up. We walked silently to separate Cadillacs. Before she could open the door of her Fleetwood, a hint of movement caught our attention. The rustle of foliage- burrowing animals?

A man shot out of the greenery and began running away.

“Excuse me!” Mickey called out, struggling to stay calm, her weirdo fantasies come to life.

The runner looked back, stared at us, stumbled, fell, and picked himself up again.

Young. Disheveled hair. Wild-eyed. Mouth open as if in a silent scream. Terrified, or mad, or both.

Patients…

“That gate,” said Mickey. “It needs to be fixed. Better security- no problem.”

I was looking at the runner, called: “Hold on!”

“What is it? Do you know him?”

He picked up speed, disappeared around the curve in the driveway. I heard an engine start, began running myself, to the bottom of the drive. Got there just as an old green pickup pulled away from the curb. Gears grinding, swerving erratically, going too fast, weaving. Some letters were painted in white on the door, but I couldn’t make them out.

I ran back to my car, got in.

“Who is that?” said Mickey. “Do you know him?”

“Not yet.”

9

I managed to catch up to him, flashed my brights and honked. He ignored me, was all over the road, weaving, speeding. Then more gear-grinding as he tried to shift. The truck got stuck in neutral, slowed to a coast, the engine racing as he fed gas without disengaging the clutch. He hit the brakes suddenly, came to a full stop. I stayed back, could see him through the truck’s rear window, struggling, tugging.

The truck stalled. Started, stalled again. He began coasting, picking up some speed on the downhill, then braking, sliding, reducing it to a crawl.

At the fenced marshland he let go of the wheel and threw his hands up. The truck skidded, veered, headed straight for the chain-link fence.

He hit it, but not hard- didn’t even dent his fender. I pulled over behind him. The tires spun for a while; then the engine went dead.

Before I had a chance to get out of the car, he was out of the truck, lurching, arms hanging gorillalike, a bottle in one hand. I locked the car. He was right next to me, kicking the Seville’s tires, pressing both hands on my door. The bottle was empty. Gatorade. He raised it as if to smash my window, lost his grip and let it spin out of his hand. He followed its descent, gave up, looked at me. His eyes were watery, swollen, rimmed scarlet.

“Gonna… kill your… ass, man.” Slurred speech. Theatrical grimaces.

“The fuck… following me?”

He closed his eyes, staggered, fell forward, knocked his forehead on the roof of the car.

The brain-damaged stance of a lifelong boozehound. But his life hadn’t been that long- what was he, twenty-two or -three?

He kicked the car, grabbed the door handle, missed, and stumbled. Little more than a kid. Baby bulldog face. Short- five four or five- but strong-looking, with sloping shoulders and thick, sunburned arms. Red hair, shoulder-length, coarse, uncombed. Wispy mustache and beard the color of lint. Pimples on his brow and cheeks. He wore a sweat-stained T-shirt, cutoff shorts, tennis shoes without socks.

“Fuck, man,” he said, and scratched an armpit. His hands were blunt-edged, scarred and scabbed, caked with grime.

He rocked on his heels, finally lost balance completely and landed on his rear.

He stayed that way for a while. I slid across the seat and exited the Seville on the passenger side. He watched me, not moving, let his eyes drop shut again, as if lacking the strength to keep them open.

I walked to his truck. Thirty-year-old Ford, poorly maintained. Wobbly white letters spelled out D.J. RASMUSSEN, CARPENTRY AND FRAMING on the door. Under that, a post office box in Newhall. In the truck bed were two ladders, a toolbox, a couple of blankets weighed down by metal parts.

The interior was littered with empty bottles- more Gatorade, Southern Comfort, several brands of wine cooler.

I pocketed the key, removed the distributor cap, and returned to where he still sat.

“You D.J.?”

Glazed look. Up close he smelled of ferment and vomit.

“What were you doing up there?”

No answer.

“Were you paying last respects? To Dr. Ransom?”

The glaze melted fast. Right track.

“Me too,” I said.

“Fu-uck you.” Followed by a putrid belch that made me step back. He mumbled, tried to move an arm, couldn’t. Closed his eyes, seemed in pain.

I said, “I was a friend of hers.”

Belch and a gurgle. He looked ready to throw up. I took another couple of steps back, waited.

An unproductive dry retch. His eyes opened, stared at nothing.

“I was her friend,” I repeated. “How about you?”

He moaned. Dry-retched.

“D.J.?”

“Oh, man… you’re…” He trailed off.

“What?”

“Fucking… with… my head.”

“I’m not trying to,” I said. “Just trying to understand why she’s dead.”

More moaning.

He ran his tongue over his lips, tried to spit and ended up drooling.

“If she was more than just a friend, it could be harder on you,” I said. “Losing a therapist can be like losing a parent.”

“Fuck you.”

“Was she your doctor, D.J.?”

“Fuck you!” After several efforts he managed to get to his feet, came at me, fell upon me.

Limp as a bundle of rags, his arms bulky but booze-dead, carrying no punch. I stopped him easily with a hand to the chest. Took hold of his arm and sat him back down.

I showed him the cap and the keys.

“Hey, man… what the…”

“You’re in no shape to drive. I’m holding on to these until you show me you’ve got it together.”

“Fuck you.” Less conviction.

“Talk to me, D.J. Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“What… about?”

“About being Dr. Ransom’s patient?”

Exaggerated shake of head. “Uh-uh… not… crazy.”

“What’s your connection to her?”

“Bad back.”

“Lot of pain?”

“Hurt… fucking job.” Remembering, he bit his lip.

“Dr. Ransom was helping you with the pain?”

Nod. “And… after-” He made a feeble try for the keys. “Gimme my shit!”

“After what?”

“Gimme my shit, man!”

“After she helped you with the pain, then what?”

“Fuck you!” he screamed. The cords on his neck swelled; he punched out wildly, missed, tried to get up, couldn’t lift his butt from the ground.

I’d pushed a button. It set me thinking.

“Fuck nothing after! Fuck nothing!” He flapped his arms, swore, tried to get up and buckled.

“Who referred you to Dr. Ransom, D.J.?”

Silence.

I repeated the question.

“Fu-uck you-u.”

“There may be other patients who are feeling as bad as you do, D.J.”

He gave a sick smile, then a feeble head shake. “Uh-uh.”

“If we can find out who referred them, we can track them down. Help them.”