Read Online Zod Wallop by William Browning Spencer - Free Book Online Page A

for an answer, she went to the sink and began running water. “I did tell Harry that you were here. I’m sure they will all be along shortly.”
    “I hope,” Gabriel said, “you cautioned him against telling Allan.”
    “I’m afraid I didn’t have an opportunity. But I think Harry might come to that conclusion on his own. He’s a very intuitive man, very sweet.”
    “I’m so glad to hear that,” Gabriel said. “I wish I had more intuition myself. I have no idea what my own son thinks, you know. He’s a complete mystery. Perhaps he communicates with that crazy boy who has him in thrall, but he certainly doesn’t tell his own mother a thing. Not a thing.” Shockingly, a sob escaped Gabriel’s lips and she thrust her face into her hands as tears darted from her eyes.
    Helen came around to the couch, sat down, and put an arm on Gabriel’s shoulder.
    “I’m sure it will be all right. You’ve had a hard day.”
    “I can’t tell you,” Gabriel said.
    And that was the truth of it. It had been a harrowing day. The long drive down had been the final straw; she was no night driver and found the rush of those big, belligerent trucks a life-threatening, adrenaline-spilling ordeal. And of course, the morning had been no lark. While she could not call it the worst experience of her life—in fact, to be perfectly honest she had found it somewhat exhilarating—it had been stressful and, yes, frightening.
    That morning she had killed her psychiatrist.
 
     
    Dr. Theodore Lavin was an unpleasant, even a revolting man, and so, by Gabriel Allan-Tate’s reasoning, he was the perfect man to confide in. You do not want to tell the grotesque and outlandish details of your personal life to someone you like. You do not want to repel a friend with disgusting—or, worse, boring—histories of aberrant behavior.
    What Theo Lavin thought of Gabriel’s obsessions was of no consequence to Gabriel. He was a pompous old fool, his great bulk squeezed into pathetic three-piece suits, his red face throbbing like a boil.
 
     
    He had called her that morning.
    “Gabriel,” he said. “I’ve got to come over.”
    His call had awakened her, and as was often the case in the morning, she was confused. The big room was filled with sunlight which splashed over the satin sheets and cut a wide, golden highway in the plush white carpet. Her eyes moved over the room wildly, and when she found the mirror and the image of the pretty, slim woman in the vast, canopied bed, she felt reassured.
    She was a widow, a lovely, dark-haired widow as demure as a Victorian heroine. She was, most importantly, alone. Marlin Tate was dead, self-murdered when, finally, it all spun away from him. She had almost followed.
    The mirror showed her solitude, anchored her to the present, where she was visited by a throb of yearning for the only man she had ever loved, followed by a flash of rage. He had no right to kill himself.
    Theo Lavin was telling her that her son had left the hospital again, an escape engineered by the infamous Raymond Story.
    “Your incompetence might almost be called inspired,” Gabriel told the man.
    Theo explained why it was not his fault. Psychiatrists, Gabriel thought, were much like God, accepting none of the blame and all of the praise.
    She interrupted him. “Find my son,” she said, preparing to hang up.
    He told her again that he had to come over.
    And what, she wanted to know, would be accomplished by a visit?
    He could show her the book.
    What book?
    The book her son had dropped in making good his escape.
    And what book was that?
    It had to be seen. It could not, really could not, be described.
    She had agreed to see him.
 
     
    And so he had come over, brought the horrid book with him, made her look at it.
    “That’s you,” he had said, thumping the page till it seemed to writhe. “And this, this is supposed to be a wicked likeness of me.”
    It was a good likeness, Gabriel thought. The artist had captured Harwood’s