Read Online Mind Games by William Deverell - Free Book Online

row. The language of tongue and body, as well, was marked by the rigidity of the obsessive-compulsive personality. I wrote on my envelope:
Neurotic camouflage? Fetish? Hiding shameful ritual?
I wasn’t expecting the effect this had on Huff.
    “My Lady, may I be permitted to see what Dr. Dare is writing?”
    “No, Mr. Huff.” Lafferty’s patience was finally waning.
    “The
Supreme Court Rules
state that I have a right of discovery of all written material.”
    By this time I was feeling sorry for Huff, but paramount was my concern for my mother. If there was merit in the negligence argument, was she at risk? As a layperson, I wasn’t sure. So while the judge was explaining the law of discovery to Huff, I conferred with Brovak, suggesting a line of attack.
    Thus armed, he began softly. “Mr. Huff, have you ever met Victoria Dare?”
    “No.”
    “Are you aware of any reason – like maybe she never studied every loser’s name in the election results – that she might know your name?”
    “I’m not privy to what she knows.”
    “Well, Mr. Huff, Victoria Dare never heard of you. And you know what, I
never
heard of you. Nobody in this courtroom ever heard of you. In fact, I don’t think anyone outside Jackson Cove has heard of you.”
    Huff’s voice broke. “Who do you think you are, impugning my name? I am a respectable person. I demand a little consideration!”
    He might have been admonishing some miscreant in class. He was close to unravelling, and Lafferty must have seen this too, for she ordered the mid-morning break. Huff almost stumbled from the witness box.
    The gallery slowly cleared, and Victoria signalled me to join her outside, pantomiming puffing a cigarette. I was about to join her but had a premonition Huff was standing nearby – perhaps it was his body heat, the smell of anxiety. I turned to find him staring at the note I had jotted:
Neurotic camouflage? Fetish? Hiding shameful ritual?
    His expression can be best described as a soup of helplessness and fury. He was unable to look at me or speak. He retreated to his table, picked up his briefcase, and walked unsteadily from the courtroom.
    Outside, I watched him move slowly down Carnarvon Street, his head bowed. Victoria demanded to know my thoughts about him, so I told her about the note, his reaction, and my hypothesis: Huff held some shameful secret that had little to do with being defamed in her book.
    When he turned the corner, we presumed he was walking around the block, clearing his head, but that was the last we saw of Clinton W. Huff. He didn’t reappear after the recess, and a search party couldn’t find him. When court finally resumed, Judge Lafferty, despite urgings, declined to dismiss the action, and adjourned the trial
sine die
“or at least until the plaintiff can give some explanation for his sudden absence.”
    The few reporters went off to write their stories. Brovak, mounting his Harley-Davidson, said, “Well, they’ve heard of him now.”
    Likely, Allis, my guess that you had lost a patient through suicide stems from the fear that tormented me after Huff disappeared: I worried I’d driven him to take his life. But he’s surfaced in the Jackson Cove Hospital, where he’s being treated for stress problems. In the meantime, the publishers have withdrawn their offer of thirty thousand dollars. (I tried in vain to persuade Sanford Whitaker, Q.C., to pay it, to salvage some of the man’s pride.)
    But I doubt that this chapter is closed. Clinton Huff took umbrage at the firearm registration law, so it is likely he’s among our armed citizenry. Have I made another mortal enemy? And there’s the consanguinity factor. Who is my Jackson Cove look-alike?
    I passed through the place once, with Sally, on a camping trip in the Interior. A tourist town, a minor ski hill, a warm springs (so tepid that the local Chamber of Commerce can’t make false claims), and the funky old Jackson Cove Warm Springs Hotel. I read somewhere they’ve