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Obsessed
by G.H. Ephron Rating: •• (Mildly
Recommended) |
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Deadly Fans
of the murder mystery series featuring protagonist Dr. Peter Zak will put up with annoying parts of the latest
offering from G.H. Ephron, Obsessed.
Other readers will not be as forgiving to the writing duo, Hallie Ephron and Dr. Don
Davidoff, who use the pseudonym, G.H. Ephron. The
pace alternately speeds up and slows down, without adding to the momentum of
the plot. Dialogue is often staccato, and there’s more medical detail than
many readers are willing to endure. On the other hand, anything from the pen
(or keyboard) of any of the talented Ephron women is
worth a glance, at least. Here’s
an excerpt from Chapter 2, (pp. 11-18): I got to work late the next morning. I
still hadn’t been able to reach Annie. I sprinted from my car, up the steps
to the tunnel, barely registering the gorgeous spring day—air that smelled
like cool, fresh water, trees just leafing out in that amazing lime-green
color that lasts only until the first heat wave. I hoped Emily had managed to get some
sleep. I wondered if she’d be up to working with patients. Thinking someone
is out to get you, true or not, can have insidious consequences. I knew that
from firsthand experience. A blast of warm, humid air greeted me
when I unlocked the door to the unit. The pinkish basement walls seemed to
shimmer like overheated flesh. It wasn’t that the a/c was on the fritz. The
heating system never knew when to quit. I took the stairs up to the first
floor and let myself out onto the unit. I ducked into the little room behind
the nurses’ station, poured myself a cup of coffee. The mail hadn’t yet
arrived. Gloria’s philodendron plant, nearly hacked to death a few months
ago, was now thriving. Affectionately known as Audrey, its vines snaked from
the pot, up and over the window and around a mirror. Between the heart—shaped leaves, my own (lark eves looked worried as
they stared back at me from beneath a tumult of black eyebrow hair flecked
white. I straightened my tie and cleaned my glasses. I walked down the corridor with its
nine—foot—high ceilings, past the common room where sun streamed in through
floor—to—ceiling windows behind the once—grand piano. It was a room that
deserved a red velvet Victorian settee, gents’ and ladies chairs. Instead it
had vinyl sofas and molded plastic chairs, a fiberboard bookcase, and a
large-screen TV. There was mesh screening over the windows — today’s psychiatric hospitals stand-in
for bars. “If it isn’t the hero of the hour, my
colleague and resident fashion consultant Dr. Kwan Liu announced when I
arrived at the conference room. He was looking his usual spiffy self in a
custom— made charcoal suit and red tie, his dark hair gleaming. “Heard you
rescued a damsel in distress last night.” “Never mind him,” said Gloria.
“Security sent out a bulletin for everyone to be on the alert for an
intruder. What happened?” I told Kwan and Gloria how I’d found
Emily in the parking lot. Flow her car had been vandalized and she’d been
terrified, convinced that someone was taunting her from the shadows. “A stalker.” Gloria breathed out the
word. “You think so?” Kwan asked. “It looks that way,” I said. “Someone
got into her car. Wrote ‘bitch’ on the dash and took some stuff—underwear and
an earring.” “Creepy,” Gloria said, fingering one of
the tiny gold hoops in her own ears. Gloria rarely wore jewelry. She might
even have been wearing a touch of lipstick. “Is she okay?” “She’s fine,” came
a voice from the doorway. It was Emily Ryan, leaning her head wearily on the
doorjamb. She had on a navy blue suit, the jacket buttoned. The clothes were
a somber contrast to the dark hair tied back in a ponytail. Between her Miata, the preppy outfits, and her all-American good
looks, you’d have thought Emily came from somewhere like She gave a half-smile, not wide enough
to turn on the dimples at either side of her mouth. Her complexion seemed
even more pale today, and she had smudges under her
eyes. She walked over and settled into a spot at the table. “You get
any sleep?” I asked. “Can I get you some coffee?” Kwan
offered. “You sure you’re okay?” Gloria asked. “Listen, you guys are great,” Emily
said, looking at each of us and turning up the smile, “and I appreciate your
concern. But I can take care of myself.” “No one’s saying you can’t,” Gloria
said. “We’re a team here. If one of us is hurting, we’re all in trouble.” “You can’t do this kind of work if
you’re afraid,” Kwan added. Emily’s smile vanished. “I’ve been
managing so far.” “This wasn’t the first time?” Gloria
asked. Emily looked down at the table. She
shook her head. Gloria moved into the chair and put her
arm around Emily. “How long?” “A few weeks. Maybe a couple of
months.” A couple of months? I wondered why she
hadn’t mentioned that to me or to the security guard last night. “Phone calls late at night. I think
someone’s been following me to my car in the garage at the MRI lab. I’ve been
asking one of the guys over there to walk me out.” That was disturbing. Emily had a
half—time clinical fellowship with us and a half-time research fellowship at
a magnetic resonance imaging lab near Emily got up, went to the window, and
stared out. “It’s so infuriating. I hate that it’s made me change my life. I
used to run at Fresh Pond, but halfway around it’s pretty isolated. I
realized if he was there,
I’d he a goner. He’d drag me off and —“ Emily
shivered. “That’s why I started running here at the Pearce. I figure there’s more people, there’s Security. Hell, they tow your
car in about thirty seconds if you park where you’re not supposed to.” She
bit her thumbnail. “I felt safe.” Emily didn’t look as if she felt safe
now. For the moment she looked small and vulnerable, a little girl in
dress-up clothes. Kwan was massaging his chin as he
listened. Gloria reached out and squeezed Emily’s hand. “Any idea who
it might be?” Gloria asked. “Your ex?” “Kyle wouldn’t, no way.” “Someone von broke up with?” I asked. “A couple of months ago.” “Isn’t that when you said this all
started?” Gloria said. “Yeah, but Kyle? I just don’t think
he’s the type.” What type of person got his jollies
from following a woman? Vandalizing her car? Taking her belongings? I knew
what the literature said. Most often a stalker was an ex-partner who
couldn’t accept the end of a relationship. Or a suitor whose overtures had been
spurned. Celebrities got stalked by adoring fans. And like the rest of us
working in mental health, Emily’s occupation put her at a higher-than-average
risk of crossing paths with an individual capable of forming an obsessive
attachment. I’d never been stalked by a patient,
hut I had been stalked by a man I helped defend. Ralston Bridges had been on
trial for murdering a woman he’d met in a bar. He’d blown up at me when I
suggested an insanity plea, banged his fist on the table and bellowed, “I’m
not insane. No one calls me that and gets away with it.” Then he’d turned off
the emotion like a faucet. And besides, he’d said with the supreme confidence
of a man who’d gotten away with murder before and expected to do so again, he
didn’t need anyone to convince the jury that he was crazy. He’d been right about that. After
deliberating for six hours, a jury of his peers found Bridges not guilty.
They bought his blue-eyed baby face and his lies. When he got out, he’d
stalked my wife, Kate, and me, learned our routines
so that he knew when she’d be home and I wouldn’t. He broke into the house
and took his revenge, killing Kate. Now I could rattle off those details in
a matter-of-fact way, hold them at a distance like a news story that had
happened to someone else. But the feeling of devastation, of catastrophic
loss could still ambush me when I least expected it. I was glad I’d been there last night
for Emily. I took any kind of stalking threat very seriously—who knew if her
stalker would be satisfied with merely scaring her to death? Our social worker and the music
therapist arrived, followed shortly after by the physical therapist and the
occupational therapist. Everyone took places at the table and I started
morning rounds. The rhythm of this daily routine where we review the patients
on the unit made last night’s trauma seem distant. After the meeting I caught up with
Emily in the hall. She was standing close to Gloria, their arms linked. “You’re looking very chic today,” Emily
told her. “Nice outfit.” In addition to the gold earrings, Gloria had on a
white silk blouse instead of her usual crisp, button-down oxford shirt with a
pair of dark belted trousers. “Got a date?” Emily asked, her voice teasing. Gloria gave a self-conscious laugh and
looked around, as if to see who was listening. “Just meeting Rachel for
lunch,” she said. Rachel was Gloria’s life partner. “It’s our fifth
anniversary.” Good thing it wasn’t a job interview.
Gloria could pretty much have had her pick of jobs at the Pearce, or any
psychiatric hospital, for that matter. So much of the order and sanity on the
unit depended on her. “No donut today?” Emily asked, reaching
out and patting Kwan’s stomach as he squeezed past. “You’re looking very
trim.” Kwan stopped, beaming. “Well, I’m glad
someone around here notices,” he said, eyeing me. I had to admit, he was looking a bit
less paunchy. It was only a month ago I’d been teasing him that he’d had to
let his belt out a notch. And the vest that now buttoned comfortably—I
remembered how it had strained across his middle. “Of course we notice,” I said. “We’re
just polite.” “I’ve lost twelve pounds,” he said,
glowing with pride. “No wonder you’ve been in such a
pleasant mood.” “I’ve been a prince,” he said, and
ambled off. Now it was just me and Emily in the
hall. She pulled a pack of gum from her pocket and offered me a piece. “No thanks,” I said. I hated Juicy
Fruit. “Helps me not smoke,” she
said. “And boy, would I love a cigarette right now.” She slid the gum into
her mouth. “You okay working with your
patients?” I asked. “I think so. I’ve got Mr. Black later
this morning. Otherwise, nothing I can’t handle.” Mr. Black was a clinic
outpatient whom Emily had been treating since before she began her rotation
with us. I took out my datebook
and checked my appointments. “Maybe I can observe. I expect you’re
still feeling the aftereffects from last night. Wouldn’t hurt to have a
backup.” Emily realized that I wasn’t asking
permission. As her clinical supervisor, it was my job to be sure she had the
oversight she needed. “Actually, that would be great. Maybe
you can tell me if he’s getting anywhere or if we’re both spinning our
wheels,” I
closed myself into the little room behind the nurse’s station, poured myself
another cup of coffee, and tried Annie at home. No answer. Then I tried her
office number. “ “Annie Squires.” Annie’s voice was
clipped, as if she’d grabbed the phone on her way out the door. “You’re busy?” “Actually I was just heading out. I’m
really sorry about last night.” “At least you called. Don’t worry about
it. I never got to the restaurant myself.” I told Annie what had happened. “Did you see anyone?” “No, but it was dark. I waited with her
for Triple-A.” “Stalking isn’t something to mess
around with.” “That’s what I told her. I didn’t
realize it had gotten so late until I saw your message.” “So that’s a weird coincidence. Each of
us standing the other one up.” “Where were you?” I asked. “Family emergency. I’ll tell you about
it. Right now I’ve got to run.” “Sounds like you’re pretty busy.” “Wouldn’t you know.
After all those months of struggling to make the rent, business is booming.” “And tonight?” “Busy. How about tomorrow night? I’ll
be hungry by then.” “I’m hungry now and we don’t even have
to have dinner,” I said. “Hold that thought. How about dinner at
my place? Eight o’clock?” “You’re going to cook?” “Did I say that? I was thinking Chinese
take-out. Or pizza.” I didn’t care what we had to eat. “I’ll
bring the beer,” I said. I’d been strictly a wine drinker before Annie
educated me to the finer points of beer. I made a mental note to pick up some
flowers, too. I hung up. I’d never given Annie
flowers. I smiled, remembering the daisies she brought me after I mangled my
ankle tackling a man who turned out to be a murderer. It was much too long
after the daisies that we finally made love. That had been months ago, but I
could still feel my groin tightening and a grin tugging at the edges of my
mouth at the memory. After Kate was killed all my passions
seemed to dry up. Food
had no taste. I gave up I was still getting used to what I was
feeling now. Lust. I savored it. If
you find this dialogue and exposition enjoyable, then by all means pick up Obsessed.
Otherwise, wait for the team to improve their skills. Steve
Hopkins, March 23, 2004 |
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ã 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the April 2004
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Obsessed.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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