Page 7 of Devil's Retribution

That knowledge never really went away once you had it.

“So how come we don’t get snow in Los Angeles?”

I smiled as Nick’s chatter snapped me out of my dark thoughts. “Because it never gets cold enough to slow. It’s colder at the tops of mountains and in places farther north. But not here. We’re pretty much in a desert, honey.”

Gardening fanatics called it a Mediterranean climate, but I didn’t know anywhere in the Mediterranean that had dealt with droughts this routinely. Unless it kept raining, water restrictions would turn every front lawn in the city brown by mid-August.

“Is that why the canals bring the water?”

“That’s right, we get some of our water from up north.” And a lot of it went to agriculture, not the city. But somehow, we still had golf courses and fountains everywhere.

“How come they didn’t make the city where there was water?”

“Too many people lived up there already. And lots of people like the sun and the dry weather here. People have big farms nearby too.”

“Oh.” He went quiet as I fought traffic, but piped up again after about a minute. “Do you like it better at the house, than at Uncle Charles’s place?”

“Well, yeah, I do. You know I love Uncle Charles, but I always wanted my own house. Do you like it better?”

“Sometimes I like it better. But I like living up in the clouds too.”

Up in the clouds. Above everyone else, like the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk. It was where my uncle was most comfortable. In fact, the older he got, the less he liked leaving his fortress.

“Yeah, it’s fun sometimes. But I’d rather be down here with people.”

“Me too. I hope Billy’s back today. He had a cold.”

I listened to him chatter happily about his friends in kindergarten and their plans for this summer. “Billy’s parents have a big boat and they’re going up to San Francisco. Can we get a boat?”

“I don’t know, honey. I’d have to find someone to pilot it. It’s not like driving a car.”

“Oh. Can I drive it?”

“You have to be grown to get your license, honey, but if you still want to, then sure.”

Nick’s school had tall iron gates like an old-fashioned estate, drop-off happened right out front, with a gaggle of parents saying their daily goodbyes as he and I walked up hand in hand. “Okay, honey, you know the rules. You want to tell them to me?”

“Um… don’t talk to strangers, don’t leave with strangers, and eat all my lunch. Do I have to eat the carrot slices?” He pulled a face.

“At least half of them, okay?”

He nodded grumpily. “Okay.”

I leaned down to kiss his cheek and shoo him through the gates to where his classmates and teacher were waiting in their little cluster. I was glad that she came out to walk them in. I always felt a little shaky leaving him, even behind a locked gate and with a security guy.

As a psychiatrist, I knew where my nightmares about him disappearing from school or home came from. I was no stranger to suddenly losing loved ones. But then again, neither was he. Like peas in a pod, but in the worst way, I thought as I watched the teacher usher the kids inside.

“He’ll be okay,” I told myself as I made myself turn and walk away. I had to get to the clinic. Today was my day for seeing adult patients. They wore me out a lot more than the little ones. You could pretty much always get kids to listen to you if you knew the right tricks. But at least three of the patients on today’s roster were convinced they knew better than I about everything, including, in one case, doing my job.

Dealing with closed-minded, stubborn patients with big egos was the toughest part of my day-to-day job. They went to therapy to get help, but then they pulled their heads into their shells and refused to budge, the moment I talked about changing their habits or ways of thinking.

How could you even get through to someone about what was bothering them if they insisted that they were perfect, and nothing was wrong? How could you get them to make needed changes if they couldn’t understand the need? How could you show someone that their pride was holding them back? I had great training, but with people like that, I had to be creative and persistent, and burn so much energy that I would come home exhausted.

But that was the battle, same as when I had to explain death to a five-year-old or listen to a tween talk about her parents’ divorce. They all deserved good care. And I aimed to provide it.

When I slid into my parking space at the medical center in Santa Monica where I saw adult clients, I was surprised to see a tall figure standing outside the glass door that led to my waiting room. The building wasn’t open yet, but he stood placidly, leaning against the handrail that led from the sidewalk up to the door.

The stranger didn’t look like he was from Santa Monica. His suit was elegant and dark, with the faint sheen of a silk blend. As I got out of the car and got a better look, I realized the fabric was a very dark purple. The man wearing it was imposing in more than height, he had the jawline of a Roman hero, prominent features, intense, sunken blue eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. His hair was black and backswept, his shoulders broad, and his stance confident. He looked like he owned the whole street.

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