said, "That's good shooting, Susan.
You've qualified, no problem. Want to fire a few rounds just to get the feel of your weapon?"
Susan said, "No, thank you."
Costa turned to me. "Six rounds each?" he said. "For a case of beer?"
"Double action," I said. "Ten seconds to get all the shots off."
"Sure," Costa said, and picked up his gun, reloaded, and put six rounds into the new target in eight seconds. He dumped the brass, reloaded, put the gun on his hip, and went down to collect his target and hang a new one. I took my place, got out the Python, and when Costa said "Go."
I fired six rounds in seven seconds.
We both had all our shots in the kill zone, but Costa had four bull's-eyes and I had two.
"Budweiser," Costa said.
"Budweiser?"
"That's right," Costa said. "I drive a Chevy too."
"The heartbeat of America," I said. "I'll drop it off tomorrow."
As we left, Costa said, "Nice shooting, Susan. We'll expedite that permit; should have it by the time the beer arrives."
Walking to the car, Susan said, "I thought you were a good shot."
"I am a good shot," I said, "but Costa shoots every day."
Susan nodded. "I could have qualified without help, but I didn't want to take away his nice gesture."
"You always get it," I said.
"Now, let's go and get a cup of coffee and some cheesecake and decide what we think about the Red Rose business."
We drove over to Chelsea to sit at a Formica table in the Washington Deli. I had some cherry cheesecake and, in utter abandon, a cup of fresh-brewed coffee. Susan had decaff and plain cheesecake. I took a bite of mine and swallowed it, followed by a small sip of coffee, black.
"Ah, wilderness," I said.
"Isn't that supposed to involve a loaf of bread and a jug of wine?"
"And thou, sweets, don't forget thou."
She had a small bite of cheesecake, edging a narrow sliver off one corner of the wedge with her fork.
"The Red Rose killer should not be in therapy," Susan said. "The killings should be the relief he needs from pressure."
"I know," I said.
"You said that. But that was before some guy went to a lot of trouble to put a red rose in your front hall."
"It doesn't mean one of my patients is the killer," Susan said.
"It means something," I said. "And it means something worrisome."
"Yes," Susan said. "I agree with that."
"The guy that left it either is or is not one of your patients," I said.
"Let's assume he is. Assuming he isn't asks for several more farfetched hypotheses than the assumption that he is."
"I don't like to think it."
Susan said.
"So what?" I said.
She smiled. "Yes, of course. Is there anything either of us knows better than the uselessness of deciding what you want to think." She took another nearly transparent sliver from her cheesecake and a sip of coffee.
"It is work where one encounters atypical people," she said. "Some of them can be frightening. If one is to do the work, one puts the fear aside."
"I know," I said.
"Yes." She smiled and put her hand on top of mine. "You would surely know about that."
My cheesecake was gone, and the cherries only a memory in my mouth. I finished my coffee.
"The bond of trust between therapist and patient is the fundament of the therapy. I cannot conspire, even with you, to identify and track any of them."
"If it is Red Rose," I said, "it's not just you that's at risk."
"I'm not sure I'm at risk at all," Susan said. "It is unlikely that he would change the object of his need suddenly to a white psychotherapist."
"It doesn't have to be sudden. Its manifestation would seem sudden, but he may have been changing slowly in therapy for the last year," I said.
Susan shrugged.
"And," I said, "you have explained to me how people like Red Rose are working with a private set of symbols. You may fit that symbolic scheme in some way, just as the black women did."
"Possibly," Susan said, "but it is still highly unlikely that a serial murderer would be in psychotherapy. People come to therapy when the pressure of their
You've qualified, no problem. Want to fire a few rounds just to get the feel of your weapon?"
Susan said, "No, thank you."
Costa turned to me. "Six rounds each?" he said. "For a case of beer?"
"Double action," I said. "Ten seconds to get all the shots off."
"Sure," Costa said, and picked up his gun, reloaded, and put six rounds into the new target in eight seconds. He dumped the brass, reloaded, put the gun on his hip, and went down to collect his target and hang a new one. I took my place, got out the Python, and when Costa said "Go."
I fired six rounds in seven seconds.
We both had all our shots in the kill zone, but Costa had four bull's-eyes and I had two.
"Budweiser," Costa said.
"Budweiser?"
"That's right," Costa said. "I drive a Chevy too."
"The heartbeat of America," I said. "I'll drop it off tomorrow."
As we left, Costa said, "Nice shooting, Susan. We'll expedite that permit; should have it by the time the beer arrives."
Walking to the car, Susan said, "I thought you were a good shot."
"I am a good shot," I said, "but Costa shoots every day."
Susan nodded. "I could have qualified without help, but I didn't want to take away his nice gesture."
"You always get it," I said.
"Now, let's go and get a cup of coffee and some cheesecake and decide what we think about the Red Rose business."
We drove over to Chelsea to sit at a Formica table in the Washington Deli. I had some cherry cheesecake and, in utter abandon, a cup of fresh-brewed coffee. Susan had decaff and plain cheesecake. I took a bite of mine and swallowed it, followed by a small sip of coffee, black.
"Ah, wilderness," I said.
"Isn't that supposed to involve a loaf of bread and a jug of wine?"
"And thou, sweets, don't forget thou."
She had a small bite of cheesecake, edging a narrow sliver off one corner of the wedge with her fork.
"The Red Rose killer should not be in therapy," Susan said. "The killings should be the relief he needs from pressure."
"I know," I said.
"You said that. But that was before some guy went to a lot of trouble to put a red rose in your front hall."
"It doesn't mean one of my patients is the killer," Susan said.
"It means something," I said. "And it means something worrisome."
"Yes," Susan said. "I agree with that."
"The guy that left it either is or is not one of your patients," I said.
"Let's assume he is. Assuming he isn't asks for several more farfetched hypotheses than the assumption that he is."
"I don't like to think it."
Susan said.
"So what?" I said.
She smiled. "Yes, of course. Is there anything either of us knows better than the uselessness of deciding what you want to think." She took another nearly transparent sliver from her cheesecake and a sip of coffee.
"It is work where one encounters atypical people," she said. "Some of them can be frightening. If one is to do the work, one puts the fear aside."
"I know," I said.
"Yes." She smiled and put her hand on top of mine. "You would surely know about that."
My cheesecake was gone, and the cherries only a memory in my mouth. I finished my coffee.
"The bond of trust between therapist and patient is the fundament of the therapy. I cannot conspire, even with you, to identify and track any of them."
"If it is Red Rose," I said, "it's not just you that's at risk."
"I'm not sure I'm at risk at all," Susan said. "It is unlikely that he would change the object of his need suddenly to a white psychotherapist."
"It doesn't have to be sudden. Its manifestation would seem sudden, but he may have been changing slowly in therapy for the last year," I said.
Susan shrugged.
"And," I said, "you have explained to me how people like Red Rose are working with a private set of symbols. You may fit that symbolic scheme in some way, just as the black women did."
"Possibly," Susan said, "but it is still highly unlikely that a serial murderer would be in psychotherapy. People come to therapy when the pressure of their
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