Desperate Measures by Kate Wilhelm Page A

for Popeye. He just turned green. When his powers are working, he’s Xander.”
    Shelley’s eyes were shining with excitement over having Xander’s creator as a client. Now Barbara could understand the barely concealed excitement in Will Thaxton’s voice when he called.
    She reached across the table and pulled the thick medical file closer. “I’ll save this for later,” she said. Almost idly she opened the folder, then drew in a sharp breath. She was looking at a glossy eight-by-ten photograph of Alexander Feldman.
    Beside her, Shelley gasped, then said in a choked voice, “My God! It’s not fair!”
    Barbara had changed her clothes, finally, and had made notes about her talk with Dr. Minick. She was sitting at her desk reading Alex’s medical history when she heard the outer door open. She stiffened in alarm, certain that she had locked it when Shelley left.
    â€œIt’s just me—Maria.” She came into the office carrying a box, flat like a pizza box. “We had tamales tonight, and you know Mama, how she overdoes everything. So she said, Why don’t you go see if the lights are on, carry her some of the extra tamales and stuff. And the lights were on, so here I am.”
    She said all this with an innocent expression. Maria lived with her mother and her own two daughters; her mother was the matriarch who bossed and babied everyone, and Maria did the same here in the office.
    â€œOh, Maria,” Barbara said, rising, “tell me the truth, do I look like I’m starving?”
    Maria studied her through narrowed eyes, then grinned and nodded. “I can hear your stomach making like an express train from over here.” She put her box down on the coffee table and opened ita crack. “They’re still hot.”
    The aroma of tamales and salsa, refried beans, and garlic filled the office. Barbara could hear her stomach making incredible jungle sounds, and suddenly she felt famished.
    â€œTell Mama thanks for me,” she said. “And thanks for bringing it. I guess I am starving.”
    After Maria laughed and walked out jauntily, Barbara washed her hands and sat at the coffee table to eat. Tamales, a sweet-and-sour carrot salad, refried beans, crisp fried plantain slices—not a meal for a cholesterol watcher or a dieter; there appeared to be enough for two lumberjacks. Barbara ate it all.
    And she thought about Alexander Feldman. She had not read his surgery reports, and for now she was skimming through the psychological evaluations. Violent as a child, as a teenager, as a young man. Suicidal as a youth. Frustrated sexually. Self-conscious and reclusive. No doubt bitter and full of hatred for his fate, his parents, himself, the world. Still, he could draw wickedly funny cartoons and a comic strip that probably every adolescent adored. Not just adolescents, she thought then, recalling the excitement in Shelley’s eyes.
    She didn’t linger in the office that night. After locking the material in the safe, she had a disturbing thought: Had Alex sicced Xander on his nemesis, Gus Marchand? Had Xander made things right?
    The next morning she was surprised to see Shelley in her going-to-court mode, her hair neatly gathered in a swirl at the nape of her neck, skirt and jacket, even hose and low-heeled shoes. Shelley tried hard to look mature when she had to appear in court. Barbara was wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers.
    â€œSo you do have a trial,” she said. “What time? If I can swing it, I’ll sit in.” She often did that, and afterward discussed Shelley’s technique with her, as a good mentor should, she thought. She pulled no punches at those critique sessions.
    â€œNo trial. I want to go with you,” Shelley said, almost defiantly.
    Taken aback, Barbara shrugged. “Okay.”
    Shelley drove. Her car was a fiery red Porsche with Winnie the Pooh dangling from the rearview mirror.