Blind Pursuit

9

Erin let the echo of his words settle in the room’s stillness. Though she knew what she had heard, somehow it seemed unreal to her, a ridiculous joke.

“That’s why you brought me here?” she said finally.

“Yes.”

“For… therapy?”

“It was the only way.”

“If you were to turn yourself in, you’d receive comprehensive treatment-”

“ No.” She’d pressed one of his buttons. Watch it. “I’ve got no intention of ending up in the nuthouse or on death row. I’m sorry for what I’ve done, but I’m not willing to submit to… punishment.”

His voice quavered on the last word. Erin wondered what sort of punishment had been inflicted on him in the past, and by whom.

“Anyway,” he added, “it would be unfair.”

Careful now, no hint of judgment: “Would it?”

“Of course. I told you, I can’t help what I do. It’s outside my control. So why should I be held accountable?”

Pointless to argue. Better to change the subject, reinforce the connection he was looking for.

“And you feel I can help you,” she said.

“You’re a shrink. You’ve got the training. And unlike the so-called experts on TV, you won’t be engaged in armchair analysis. You’ll be working with me directly. Besides, you have specific qualifications for treating me.”

“Do I?”

“I’ve read your articles. Some of them, anyway. The one in the Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology was particularly interesting.”

How had he gotten hold of that? The Journal was a scholarly publication, not available at newsstands.

The university library carried it, though. Was he a professor? A part-time student?

“I’m not certain,” she said cautiously, “that my writings suggest any particular expertise in the area of… multiple homicides.”

“You’ll see things differently once you’ve read the details of my case. It’s all there, in that folder you were so curious about.”

She remembered the sheaf of newspaper clippings. His resume, apparently. The public record of his crimes.

“Anyway,” he added coolly, “you don’t want to convince me that I picked the wrong person for the job. That would be counterproductive from a survival standpoint.”

Nice way of putting it. “You’re right.”

“Okay, then. Here are the terms of my deal with you. I’ll come in every night, for as many hours as necessary-intensive psychotherapy.” Every night. Presumably he had a day job. “You’ll get to the root of my problem and help me resolve it. After that, I’ll let you go, unharmed. You haven’t seen my face, don’t know where you’re being held, so you won’t be able to lead the police to me. It is possible for you to live through this… if you can cure me.”

“I see.”

“But try any funny business-any more nonsense like that possum act-and you’ll pay for it. You’ll pay very dearly.”

“I won’t try anything.”

“Even assuming you cooperate fully, you’ll have to get results. If the treatment goes nowhere…”

The chair squealed like an untuned violin under the restless shifting of his weight.

“Let’s just say I’ve been feeling it again the past couple of months. Stronger and stronger. My… compulsion. I’ve found myself making preparations, buying certain equipment, without even realizing it. Just like all the other times.” He took a breath. “My point is, I don’t know how long I can hold off doing what I’ve done three times before.”

She didn’t need to ask who his fourth victim would be. “How much time do I have?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You can’t expect immediate results.”

“Don’t tell me what I can or cannot expect.”

“I’m just trying to be realistic. Therapy normally doesn’t work overnight.”

“Well, you’ll have to speed up the process, won’t you? Push the envelope. I’d say you’ve got a powerful incentive.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said quietly. “There is, however, one potential… complication.”

She hated to raise this issue, but she had no choice.

“Complication?” His tone was a blend of skepticism and impatience.

“You looked in my purse. You must have seen the little bottle of pills I carry.”

“Birth control. So what? You aren’t pregnant, are you?”

“They aren’t birth control. They’re carbamazeprine-brand name, Tegretol. Two hundred-milligram tablets.”

“None of that means anything to me.”

“Prescription medicine… for epilepsy.”

“Hell.” Disgust in his voice, and anger at the unplanned, the unanticipated. “You’re not going to start pitching fits on me, are you?”

“I haven’t had a seizure since I was in high school. I’ve been on medication ever since. Nearly all cases of grand mal epilepsy can be controlled pharmaceutically.”

“So you’ve got your pills. What’s the problem?”

“The bottle is almost empty. I’ve got enough for twenty-four hours, but that’s it.”

“You mean-oh, Christ-you need to refill your prescription?”

“I already did. The new bottle is in my medicine cabinet at home. I see you took some things from my bathroom-but you didn’t take that.”

“What happens if you run out of this-this…?”

“Tegretol.”

“Right. What then?”

“I’d have a serious problem. To go off the maintenance dosage overnight would almost certainly bring on a seizure. Possibly something worse than a grand mal episode.”

“I thought grand mal was as bad as epilepsy gets.”

“No, there’s what they call status epilepticus. It means a prolonged seizure that doesn’t end naturally. It can continue for hours, even days. If it’s a violent episode, it can kill you.”

“Shit.” He fell silent, and she let him think.

It was a risk, telling him this. He might conclude she was more trouble than she was worth. Might dispose of her and find another psychologist to do the job.

But she wasn’t lying. The danger of renewed seizures, even of a sustained status episode, was all too real.

“Well, what can I do about it?” he asked finally.

She was grateful for the question, which implied that he wanted to keep her alive. “Get me the other bottle.”

“In your apartment? Go back there?”

“It’s the only way.”

“I can’t take that kind of chance. You want me to get caught. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You’re trying to trick me-”

“Look at the pills in my purse if you don’t believe it. Check the label. Tegretol. I’m not playing games.”

Another long beat of silence.

“All right,” he whispered. “I’ll get your damn medicine. How long will the new prescription last, anyway?”

“A month.”

“That’ll be more than enough time. One way or the other.” The legs of his chair scraped on the concrete floor with a raw, throat-clearing sound. He was up. “You catch my meaning, Doc?”

“Fully.”

She listened as his footsteps receded.

“I’ll bring your meds this evening,” he said from what had to be the doorway. “That’s when our work together will start. And, Doc… you’d better be real good at what you do.”

Slam, and she was alone.