The Secret Keeper

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As a psychiatrist I knew that people were seldom who they seemed to be. How could I have known, when my patient arrived for his therapy session, he’d put in motion a scenario where no one was who they appeared to be, and my life would spin horrendously out of control?

Bobby buzzed to alert me that Mr. Du Blois had arrived for his appointment. I closed the file I’d been reviewing, shoved it into my desk drawer, and left my office to greet him.

Francois sat on one of my burgundy cushioned waiting room chairs, hunched over a scientific magazine he must have brought with him that he considered more interesting than the popular magazines that blanketed my table. He sported a gray hounds-tooth patterned beret tilted jauntily to the side of his head. His trademark. He owned at least a dozen of them, all in muted, conservative colors and patterns. He’d been coming to see me for over two years and, despite the climate or time of year, he always wore a tailored sport jacket with a silk cravat slung around his neck. Born in America he dressed like the French, where he would have preferred to have been born, and portrayed himself as such. He flashed me a toothy smile, pushed himself up from his chair with his umbrella that doubled as a walking stick, and shuffled to my office like a man much older. Francois was only seventy, but seemed to be aging rapidly. Since he hadn’t talked about his health in recent sessions, I made a mental note to bring it up in therapy. After presenting me with an avuncular shoulder tap, he lowered himself onto the center cushion of my burgundy sofa, the place where he always sat, claiming the center of attention and marking his place as the central figure in my cast of patients.

Brilliant, but paranoid as all get out, Francois began echoing the recurrent theme; that the new management was unfairly pushing him out of the corporation he had created and developed into one of the top security companies in the nation. The way Francois described it, his company Guardian Angel had been taken over by corporate raiders. They paid him in grossly inflated stock, took control of the company, and relegated him to a position on the board of directors where his voice was virtually silenced. He believed they were taking the company in the wrong direction and he felt powerless to do anything about it.

Suddenly, there was a lull in the conversation. Francois picked up the umbrella that had laid at his feet, placed it on his lap, and began wringing his hands around it. He slowly raised his head, caught my eyes with his deep-set, dusky eyes that shone bright inside a face that had become sallow and thin. “I need you to do something for me,” he said.

I nodded. “If I can.”

“I’ve completed it…the formula I’ve been working on. I won’t let those bastards get their hands on it.” Tapping his hand with the umbrella, he took a deep breath, then added, “I’m getting ahead of myself. I know you’re aware that virtually all the knowledge and information we have is computerized nowadays. Everything from A to Z, assets to zeroes. It’s only a matter of time until everything is digitized and electronically recorded. While that’s generally beneficial, it magnifies the need for safer security.” He uncrossed his legs, sat up straighter and spoke with authority as if he were addressing his board. “It used to be that you could protect your valuables by hiding them somewhere at home or depositing them in a bank account or safe deposit box. On the computer they’ve become fodder for the criminal mind. It’s estimated that the global cost from computer hacking stretches toward two trillion dollars. Maybe more since security breaches are often an embarrassment and go unreported. Eighty to eighty-five percent of the value of corporations are intangibles, such as patented technology, proprietary data, and market plans. Knowledge is power.”

Deeply inhaling to slow himself down, and dramatically paused to signal the importance of what was to follow, he continued, “My formula protects only a small but important portion. It password protects computers via your DNA. As you may know everyone’s DNA is unique. Even if someone knew your password, they couldn’t access your computer without your DNA. Your credit cards, social security and investments become much more secure.”

Fascinated by his discussion, I asked, “How does it work?”

He grinned mischievously. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

That sent a chill through me, even though I knew he was jesting. There was something in how he said it that made me uncomfortable. I smiled.

Then, in a non-condescending manner, he said, “Even if you were to look at the formula you wouldn’t understand it. Only a handful of people worldwide could interpret it.”

“I was just curious. I wouldn’t…”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t ask you to keep it for me if I didn’t trust you. I’ve been coming to see you for two years. I think I know you pretty well.”

I withdrew back into my chair. “You want me to keep it for you? Why?”

“You know I’m as paranoid as a soldier in Iraq.” Then as quick as the flick of a light switch, his sheepish smile sprung into anger. “I won’t let the bastards from Guardian Angel get a hold of it. They’d claim it, steal it from me.” He swallowed, catching the breath in his throat. “I sense I’m in danger. I’m getting worked up as I talk about it. I know you want specifics. I can’t give them to you.” His hand began to shake. He clasped the other hand around it to steady it. “Whenever I feel this strongly about something, the worst usually happens.”

“I appreciate your trust in me, however, there must be someone else close to you that you’d feel comfortable leaving something so sensitive to rather than your doctor?”

“There’s no one. When you get to be my age family and friends predecease you. Viola passed several years ago and my son, Frankie was killed in one of our country’s stupid wars.”

I recalled previous sessions where Francois discussed the loss of his wife and son. It happened long before he was a patient of mine, but the residue, like surgical scar tissue, always remained.

“There must be other family? Relatives?” I insisted.

“Relatives. I’m sorry to say, that except for the children, they’re only after my money. But I can’t really blame them. I spoiled them. Asked little of them.”

“No prodigies?”

“None, sad to say. There might have been…” His face blanked, his eye fixed on the floor. He was recalling a memory of the past.

When he lifted his head, I said, “Safe deposit box.”

“My memory is not what it used to be. I’d forget where I put the key. Maybe even forget the bank.”

I didn’t think he had any memory problems, but I wasn’t about to call him on it.

“No, it has to be an outsider.” He bent closer. “I’ve spent hours…days, actually, exploring who I could leave it with…You’re bound by doctor-patient confidentiality. You’re the keeper of secrets.”

With my mouth agape, before I could protest further…

“Besides,” he said, his quivering lips betraying his forced smile, “I have a brain tumor. It’s like…you remember the game, Pac-Man?”

I nodded. “I used to play it.”

“The tumor’s like that. Slowly and deliberately as it grows it’s like a Pac-Man eating away. Eventually…” He shrugged.

“Can’t they operate?” The brain tumor explained his physical deterioration.

“I’ve been trying to convince Dr. Suzuki,” he said, with a sigh of reservation. “He claims it’s too risky, but we’re approaching that point where it’s fifty-fifty.” He grimaced. “If I die with or without surgery, I may as well go under the knife…or laser. There’s a chance with surgery, even if it’s a small one.”

My eyes had clouded over. I blinked to clear them as if my eyelids were windshield wipers. “Tomi Suzuki is the best. How come you never mentioned this?”

“I’ve only known this recently and I’ve been in denial. I’m sure you can understand…”

“Of course.” I recalled his headache complaints but they didn’t seem to be so acute to cause me to refer him for a neurological exam. Did he not share with me or had I overlooked the obvious? “I…uh…hate to bring this up…but if I decide to take it, what happens if you’re no longer around?”

Energized by my consideration, he sat up taller, curved his lips into a smile. “There’s a woman, Farah Javan. She’s Iranian, fled her country because of the oppression. She’s a modern woman. Refuses to wear a burka, or bow to men. I met her in Paris. I trust her implicitly, but I don’t want to burden her unless it’s absolutely necessary. Contact her if anything should happen to me.”

He recited the contact information that I had written down.

“Do you mind if I look at that?” He checked over what I had written. Pleased, he smiled and handed it back. “Thank you.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a two-to-three-inch black rectangular object.

“Is that a flash drive?”

“Yes.”

A wild guess. I knew only the basics about computers and how they worked.

He started to stand. “One more thing. Don’t share it with that young…” He stumbled restraining himself, then finally relented, “…man. Grace I know. Bobby, not so much.”

“I understand.” I picked up my calendar. “Same time next week?”

“Yes.”

I walked Francois out of the office. I assured him I’d take good care of his formula and reminded him that I’d written down Farah Javan’s information when he began to question me. I think he left confident that he could trust me to follow through if need be. Otherwise, I’d keep the formula until he asked me to return it.

Bobby stood in front of his desk, his rear resting on top, with his legs splayed out in front of him, one crossed over the other. He held a mobile device in one hand, rapidly turning pages with a finger of the other hand. Bobby, twenty-two, was my brother-in-law who had graciously responded to my SOS to fill in for Grace, my regular secretary-receptionist who was rushed to the hospital for observation after collapsing while making dinner at home. I continued to refer to him as such even though I was divorced from Hanna, Bobby’s sister. Bobby attended culinary school at the local community college and filled in for Grace when he didn’t have class. He had come to my rescue before when Grace had celebrated her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary with her husband in Europe. He stopped and looked up at me when I entered the business office.

“Frenchy doesn’t like me, does he?”

“Why?”

“Just the way he looks at me, like I’m some kind of…” He shook his head. “I don’t know, a piece of shit.”

“Don’t take it personally. He’s just paranoid. It took him a long time to get used to Grace. He doesn’t like change.” Absently, I shuffled the flash drive from hand to hand wondering where I should put it. “Maybe if you sat on a chair behind the desk, instead of on it, you wouldn’t draw strange looks.”

Bobby chuffed, flashed me one of his disarming grins. He owned the sweetest smile. Surely, Francois would have been captivated by that facial expression that grabbed everyone’s attention, both male and female.

“Guess what I’m into,” he asked.

“Trouble?”

“I’m serious. Something new. Something you’d never guess.”

“Then why should I?” I was playing with him now. I enjoyed bantering with Bobby.

He sighed loudly, shook his head. “You’re getting more like my sister every day.”

It’s said that people who live together begin to look and act like the other. But Hanna and I have been divorced now for almost four years. I laughed. “Okay. You’re dating someone new.”

“Sort of…but that’s not it.”

I put my finger to my chin. “Hmm. You’re invited to the White House to cook for the President.”

Grinning. “Close, but no cigar.”

“Nascar wants you to race your Mustang”

“No.”

“I give.”

“One more guess.” His impish grin widened. “I’ll give you a hint. NRA.”

“You signed the petition for background checks.”

“No, I got a gun.”

“What? I thought you were against gun violence!”

“I am. What’s that got to do with owning a gun?”

“Well…I mean…” I had gotten worked up. I was breathing hard, felt a rumble in my stomach.

“I’m becoming a chef. Thought it’d be cool to hunt my own duck or quail. Maybe you should stop stereotyping. All gun owners are not evil and all guns are not bad.”

He was right. I had overreacted. “But all guns are dangerous.” I calmed down.

“Well, I guess I can’t ask you to go hunting with me. I didn’t know you felt so strongly.”

“Yeah, too many innocents…”

Bursting with excitement, he placed his phone on the desk. “Can I, at least, show it to you?”

“You brought it here?”

He pointed. “In the desk drawer.”

“How does a shotgun, or whatever you use to shoot quail, fit in your desk?”

“It’s a hand gun.” He bent over and began to open the bottom desk drawer. “It’s a–”

“Stop! I’m not interested. Take that home and don’t ever bring it to work again.”

“Okay.” He kicked the drawer closed. “Did you want me to do something with that flash drive?”

“No,” I said, realizing I still held it. “I’m taking this to Carrie.”

My office is the converted, upstairs flat of a two-story Victorian on the fringe of the Seattle downtown area that I rent from Mike McBride, Carrie’s father. Bobby’s comment about my stereotyping played on my mind as I scooted down the creaky stairs. Did it carry over to other areas as well? As a psychiatrist I needed to be non-judgmental. Perhaps some self-reflection was in order. I noticed the railing needed tightening and made a mental note to tell my landlord. Pity if one of my patients fell and got hurt. Last thing we needed was a lawsuit. I swung the door open at the bottom of the stairs, ambled across the covered porch, and entered the law offices of McBride and McBride. “Carrie in?” I asked.

Martha, the spry, little, old lady with the dimples in her cheeks, who was with the firm from the beginning, removed her dictation earphones and smiled warmly at me. “She should be in her office. You can go in.”

Wearing a pink, silk tailored blouse, a portion of her straight black hair draped over her right breast, Carrie sat behind her desk reading the paper. Petite, with a nicely proportioned body that almost reached five feet, she was stunning with flawless olive skin, perceptive mahogany eyes, and full pouty lips. She was a brilliant defense attorney and challenged any courtroom adversary who thought they could outdo her because of her size. She was a force to deal with and a tiger in the courtroom. Carrie was my best friend. We’d had a brief affair, over fifteen years ago after a Christmas party, when I worked for her father as a pseudo private eye when I was twenty-one and she a few years younger, before I went to medical school. We decided to become good friends instead of continuing as lovers, and although the sparks still occasionally fly, we’ve kept the relationship platonic. Our friendship has thrived and outlasted our own respective marriages.

She greeted me. “Hey! What’s up?”

I waved the flash drive at her. “I came to see if I could use your safe.” File cabinets were the most secure places to keep things in my office, but we frequently forgot to lock them. The file cabinets were also used by Bobby and Francois had me promise to keep the formula from him. Carrie’s safe seemed to be the best option.

“What is it?”

“A formula for a security system. A paranoid patient asked me to keep it for him. I don’t have a safe place…”

She rose from her desk, revealing her black pencil skirt and heels, and reached for the flash drive. She jammed the drive into her desktop computer and began to look at it.

“Carrie what are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“It’s confidential.”

“I work with the underbelly, Grant. I’m not putting anything in my safe without checking it out.”

“It’s not a bomb?”

“How do you know? The Geeks get more clever every year.”

I rolled my eyes. “But…” I watched her tilt her head, study it. I couldn’t resist peeking and looked over her shoulder. ”What is it?”

“Beats me. Looks like a complicated mathematical formula. Probably encrypted. Could be the formula for making a nuclear bomb.”

“Yeah. Right.” I shook my head. “When did you become such a drama queen?”

She gave me a dirty look.

“I told you it’s a security formula. Now can you lock it in the safe?”

She took out the flash drive, opened the combination to the wall safe behind the Mt. Rainier painting, placed it inside, and spun the combination lock. “Don’t think I’m going to store your furs now.”

I laughed.

She shuffled over to me, took my hand. “I wasn’t going to ask you, but now that you’re here…” She pressed her lips together as sadness creased her face. “Colby broke up with me.”

“I’m so sorry.” I drew her close to me, cuddled her, and felt her tremble. “What happened?”

“Maybe he didn’t want to buy me a present?” She half-laughed, made an effort to make a joke.

Present? Then it dawned on me. I had completely forgotten. “It’s your birthday! What a s**t! To pick this time.” I squeezed her tighter. “You need a friend.”

She pulled back, with an adept swish of her finger wiped the tear off her cheek. “I made dinner reservations at the Broadmoor Country Club. I could cancel but I don’t want to stay home and cry in my wine.”

“I’d love to be your guest, on one condition.”

She raised her eyebrows. Waited.

“Wear that gold dress I like.”

“Done.”