Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4)

Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4) Page 66

The skyway system was an elaborate network of streets in the sky—enclosed pedestrian bridges connecting the downtown Minneapolis office towers with each other. It stretched fourteen blocks north to south and another ten blocks east to west, and its purpose was to move pedestrians from one building to another without making anyone actually step outside. It has reached the point where you now often see people commuting from their attached garages in the suburbs to one of downtown’s many enclosed parking ramps in nothing more than shirtsleeves and light jackets regardless of weather conditions. I didn’t care for the skyway myself and seldom used it, yet followed it just the same, walking east, then south, until I reached One Financial Plaza.

Dr. Jillian DeMarais—called Jilly by those of us who have slept with her—had a two-room suite on the twenty-third floor. There were four paintings hanging on the walls of the outer room—Degas, Matisse, Chagall, and van Gogh. The few times I had been there, I had always been attracted to the Degas. This time I stared at the van Gogh. It was a print of one of Vincent’s swirling color-and-light shows, and for a moment I felt I actually knew what he was going for.

How crazy is that?

“May I help you?”

The voice came from the inner room, Jillian’s office, and the place where she actually did her headshrinking. A moment later she was standing in the doorway.

“Rushmore McKenzie,” she said slowly.

“Hi, Jilly.”

I smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.

“I don’t know what to say, McKenzie. The last time I saw you, you were telling me what a nasty person I was.”

“I’m very sorry about that,” I said, and I meant it. Yet it was hardly my fault. Jill had hypnotized me to help me recall a license plate number. While I was under, she asked why I had broken up with her several months earlier. I told her the truth.

“I never meant to hurt you,” I said. “I tried to avoid hurting you.”

“You did anyway.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

“Tell me. If I’m such an unlikable human being, why are you here?”

“Jill, the dream came back.”

Her hard face softened. Not much—you had to look closely to see it, yet it was there.

“I told you it would,” she said.

“I know.”

“Come in.”

Jillian led the way deep into her office. She maneuvered around her impressive desk and sat down. She told me to do the same with a gesture of her hand toward a wingback chair in front of the desk.

“Is the dream exactly the same as before?” she asked.

“It started that way, but now . . . I see it in slow motion. Other elements have been added, too. Things that occurred after the shooting.”

“But all dealing with the shooting.”

“Yes.”

“When did the dream return?”

“The other night, when I was in jail.”

“Jail?”

“It was a bogus charge. I was in and out in just a few hours.”

“But that’s when the dream returned?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do to get thrown in jail?”

“It was nothing—a hassle with a young cop who was out of line.”

“He was out of line?”

“Yes.”

“Not you?”

“Well. . .”

“Well?”

“I could have handled it better.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Because I don’t.”

Jill pressed her fingers against her temples and sighed. “I should never have allowed you to quit therapy,” she said. “I should never have agreed to date you.” She closed her eyes and shook her head at the memory of it. When she opened them again, she reached for a notepad. “I’ll give you the names of a couple of therapists I know. They’re good men.”

She emphasized men.

“Can’t you help me?”

“Not this time.”

“Can’t you—Jill, I dream the dream when I’m awake now. I dreamt it just a little while ago in the elevator.”

“McKenzie, I can’t be your therapist anymore.”

“Why not? You know my history.”

“It’s unethical, and this time there’s no pretending that it isn’t.”

“Jilly. . .”

“Ahh, Mac. Don’t call me that. Those days are over.”

“Jilly, I need your help.”

“I can’t be the one to help you.”

“That’s silly.”

“Those are the rules.”

“Rules are made to be broken.”

“Are they, Mac?”

“Some are.”

“Some?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you shoot Benjamin Simbi?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you shoot him?”

“He had a gun.”

“What else?”

“What else? He was going to shoot me. Maybe the others as well.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You already know what happened.”

“Tell me again. Tell me what you see in your dreams.”

“I see him coming out of the convenience store. He’s carrying a gun. A Smith & Wesson .38. I tell him to drop the gun. He doesn’t drop it. Instead, he raises his hands to shoot me. I shoot him first.”

“Go on.”

“What else is there?”

“What happened after you shot him?”

“I made sure he was disarmed.”

“What else?”

“I called it in.”

“What else?”

“What do you mean?”

“What else happened?”

“You mean the two people who witnessed the shooting? One of them called me a racist.”

“Why?”

“Because he said I executed the suspect. He said Simbi was raising his hands to surrender when I shot him.”

“Was he?”

“Jill, I did everything right. I did everything the way I was taught to do it, the way I was trained. I did everything according to the book.”

“According to the rules.”

“Yes.”

“And you never break the rules.”

“Not those rules.”

“Why not?”

“Break those rules and people die.”