After a restless sleep, I opened my eyes still a free man, for the time being not dismembered or disemboweled. I decided to leave the spying business to the tough guys with broken noses and big guns. Thankfully, the stranger was nowhere around. It was my own face looking back at me once I made it into the bathroom. I showered and drove to work, taking the back stairs to avoid talking with Gus, our chatty, septuagenarian security guard.
How could I connect Green to Kris’ murder after the cops had already cleared him? I’m sure the lab would be dismantled and moved to a new location after my visit. How could I leverage Steven Gray if I couldn’t find him?
I needed luck and time but had neither. I didn’t know where to begin. I sat at my office desk. My indecision near catatonic proportions.
I had to jettison some clients.
Get out of here now, leave the office, and go home. You’re not ready for this. You can’t help anybody right now.
Maybe so, but I have responsibilities, people counting on me. And focusing on my clients should give me some needed space from my own problems. I should at least complete the work I agreed to first.
They’ve survived for years without you and can make it a month or two with another therapist. You’ve got money in the bank, live off your cut from the other therapists. Marilyn is a great therapist, and she wants to be her own boss someday, anyway. Let her run the business for a while. Let her experience the extra hours of mundane paperwork.
I got up to leave several times, even made it out the door once, but sat back down to rummage through the thick stack of mail.
Work will be therapeutic, I decided. I began preparing itemized statements for third party insurance payers, but images of Kris’ cadaver kept appearing on the invoices. One bill morphed into the flat birthmark on her shoulder. It looked at me, shouting “bloody murder.”
I can see clients and stay in control. Yeah, and maybe pigs will start flying outside my ninth floor window, because I just saw a talking mole.
I dialed Marilyn’s number, waited for the beep, and said, “Hi Mare, it’s Mitch. Thanks for your kind words about Kris. I’m going to take you up on your offer. I haven’t decided how to dole out my clients to the others in the group, but I’ll find the right matches by tomorrow. I’m heading home. Call my cell.”
I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the door. My personal back line rang.
“That was quick,” I said into the receiver, expecting Marilyn.
“HER DEATH WAS ANYTHING BUT QUICK,” a mechanically altered voice replied, sexless, ageless, unrecognizable, robotic, not human.
My mind stopped. I felt turned inside out, sensed a chloroform-soaked cotton ball landing near me, ready to snuff me to oblivion. Stunned, I forced myself to speak. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“YOU’RE A BAD LIAR. SHE’S ALL YOU THINK ABOUT, UNTIL NOW.”
The voice sounded like that of a twisted, wrathful God risen from a harsh, random electronic world to drag me back into the frog’s slick glass coffin. I swallowed hard, focused on keeping my voice even. “You think you know something about me?”
“DON’T INSULT MY INTELLIGENCE. PERHAPS I SHOULD HAVE SENT A TROPHY. I HAVE INTIMATE KNOWLEDGE OF HER LAST HOUR ON EARTH, HER FINAL THOUGHTS, AND WHETHER SHE BEGGED ME TO SPARE HER LIFE. DID YOU STARE AT THE MOLE ON HER LEFT SHOULDER WHEN YOU FUCKED HER, TOO?”
The Stranger reappeared. “You’re a dead man,” I said in a low voice, full of emotion.
Harsh alien noises stung my ear. I held the receiver at arm’s length until it subsided. The mechanical voice mocked me, laughed at my anger and pain. “YOU’RE THREATENING ME? THIS IS GOING TO BE FUN.”
He’s using your raw emotions to relive the excitement of the kill. He’s getting secondary gains as long as I’m out of control. Don’t give him what he wants.
“You misunderstand. You must be dead inside to do what you did.”
At last the angry robotic voice stopped laughing and said, “FOOD FOR THOUGHT. LATER. IF SO, IT’S ANOTHER THING WE HAVE IN COMMON NOW. PAY ATTENTION.
“I OWN YOU. YOU ARE ALONE NOW.
“TELL THE POLICE AND I VANISH FOREVER.
“TRY TO TRACE ME AND YOU’LL NEVER HEAR HER LAST WORDS.
“IF YOU DO NOT COMPLY WITH EVERY DEMAND, I WILL CONTINUE KILLING. I WILL SEPARATE YOUR CLIENTS FROM YOU ONE BY ONE.”
Surprise him. Don’t let him think he’s in control.
“I don’t believe you,” I said and hung up the phone, hands trembling. I found myself rocking back and forth, wondering if I’d pushed him too far.
Seconds later, the back line rang again.
“NEVER DO THAT AGAIN.” I imagined I just stepped in a hornet’s nest, but every mechanical word sounded angry.
“You disguise your voice. You’re afraid of me,” I said.
More distorted laughter.
Then it hit me. “You’re a client.”
“YOU’RE THE THERAPIST. I JUST SIT IN THE CHAIR. PERHAPS THAT SUCCULENT, LEGGY STEWARDESS WILL BE NEXT. SHE WORSHIPS THE GROUND YOU WALK ON, FOR SOME REASON. WE CAN’T ALLOW THAT.”
We? “I’m done talking to you.”
“NO. YOUR HEART WILL SKIP A BEAT WHENEVER THE PHONE RINGS. YOU WILL HANG ON MY EVERY WORD. YOU WILL COME TO LONG FOR ME.”
“You seem to need a lot of attention. How do I know you killed her?”
“BECAUSE I CAN TIE YOU UP AND HAVE YOU IN POLICE CUSTODY ON A WHIM WITH A SINGLE PHONE CALL. THINK ABOUT THAT.”
The line went dead.
I just sit in the chair.
Was this really the murderer? Is he a client of mine? Is Green is involved in Kris’ murder or is the call a red herring to throw me off track?
Why the sick cat-and-mouse game? The killer is an organized, intelligent sociopath. My head told me to call the cops because he said not to, but wiretaps and traces would likely lead to a series of stolen cell phones or public phones. And irreversible consequences for my clients. He couldn’t resist the need to call. That urge will strike him again. In some twisted way, this may be the break I’m looking for. Maybe part of his subconscious wants to be caught. Maybe his rage or sociopathy will trip him up and he’ll underestimate me. My heart told me I couldn’t risk never knowing who killed Kris. My head told me I could catch him without violating my innocent clients’ right to confidentiality that would surely happen if I involved the police. I must think with my head, not my heart, and stay calm.
I’ll do what he says—no police. I can’t risk losing him and I can’t risk my clients’ safety. How does he know so much about my other clients? It’s almost like—Has he been scouting them in my waiting room? My thoughts turned to Rick Arno.
If the murderer is a client of mine, I already know the irrational fears that haunt him and the dreams that drive him. Ten feet away his complete psychological profile sits in my file cabinet. All I need to do is find the right one.
Said the fly to the spider.
If that’s not a rationalization, nothing is.