Rundown Read Online Free PDF Page B

ripple through my nervous system, triggered by the word lying . It was like the first time you scuba dive in salt water, straight down, lead weights on your hips, and your mask flash-leaks. You forget the simplest lesson, how to move.
    Mom continued, “She says she wants what’s best for you.”
    But you always remember again, after a bad moment. I lifted my eyebrows, a cool, unspoken, “Oh really?”
    â€œThe shrink she wants to send you to is Duncan Pierce.” Mom used to have an office with a waiting room, a practice, depressives and pill junkies.
    I gave a little twitch of my foot: Who’s he?
    â€œHe’s a forensic psychologist,” she said. “He’s skilled at gathering evidence,” she added, “that can be used in a court of law.”
    It’s amazing how long you can sit without moving, a pulse in your wrist, and in a few other body parts, neck, eyelid.
    â€œI’m worried about your state of mind,” she said. “You should see a real therapist, not some legal vacuum cleaner.”
    â€œI’m okay,” I said, sounding pert, like someone saying they didn’t want another serving of dessert.
    â€œPolice don’t think the way we do. If you can help them with their case they’ll suck the nerves right out of your body.”
    â€œThey can’t do that,” I said with a dry little laugh.
    â€œYes they can, believe me. What happened tonight?”
    â€œThe police were very nice—”
    â€œI mean with the man who attacked you.”
    â€œHe barely laid a hand on me.”
    I let this fill the room, Mom waiting to hear more. I could see the unspoken thought in her eyes: Thank heavens this hadn’t happened to Cass.
    I said, “If there’s anything I can do to help catch this man—”
    â€œBefore I let a cop psychologist mess with your mind I’ll send you to Dr. Yellin.” Yellin was the author of about twenty books on recovering from trauma. My mother worshiped him.
    â€œI don’t think that will be necessary,” I said.
    She said, “I’ll determine that.”

Chapter 7
    I made the eleven o’clock news. It was a surprise, and I told myself they must have run out of disasters and scandals to report. My attack was right after footage of a four-alarm fire in the financial district.
    I hadn’t been paying much attention to the TV. My mother kept tapping on my bedroom door, opening it and peering in, cold cream and fatigue giving her a lurid pallor. She asked if I wanted some hibiscus-blossom tea. She wanted to know if I wanted some milk punch, or a nice soak with some of that new bubble bath. Each time I pushed mute and said I was fine.
    I had met the anchorman at a party in San Francisco, Dave Kiefer, a balding, friendly guy, everybody’s uncle. His face usually brightened a little when he read some pleasant news, a poodle stranded in the top of a eucalyptus and rescued by a paramedic. It sombered slightly when he read about a plane crash or ethnic slaughter. His face at the moment was etched with seriousness, making him look old and tired. “Meanwhile, we have a report just coming in on what authorities are saying is another in a series of attacks in the East Bay.”
    A live report filled the screen, a woman with short black hair and a jacket like Detective Margate’s, but better tailored. She stood right in front of the brush beside the path, my path, my blackberry vines, the leaves steel in the TV lights. “Berkeley’s Strawberry Canyon was the site of an attempted rape tonight, and authorities suspect that this is another in a series of attacks by the so-called Jogging Rapist.”
    I sat there on my bed and didn’t move, my arms wrapped around my knees.
    My bedroom was a vast plateau, posters rolled up, leaning in a distant corner. One of my old favorites was tacked to the wall, Mustangs, Spirits of the West , wild horses nuzzling each other, but