Twisted: The Collected Stories

by Jeffery Deaver

“I’m thinking I oughta take her downtown,” the cop said in a Queens drawl. “She was pretty outta control before. But it’s your call. You think she’s ED?”

  Emotionally disturbed—the trigger diagnosis for involuntary commitment. If he said, yes, Patsy would be taken off and hospitalized.

  This was the critical moment. Harry debated.

  I can help you and you can help me. . . .

  He said to the cop, “Give me a minute.”

  He returned to Patsy, sat down next to her. “We have a problem. The police want to take you to a hospital. And if you claim that Peter’s trying to drive you crazy or hurt you, the fact is the judge just isn’t going to believe you.”

  “Me? I’m not doing anything! It’s the voices! It’s them . . . I mean, it’s Peter.”

  “But they’re not going to believe you. That’s just the way it is. Now, you can go back upstairs and carry on with your life or they can take you downtown to the city hospital. And you don’t want that. Believe me. Can you stay in control?”

  She lowered her head to her hands. Finally she said, “Yes, Doctor, I can.”

  “Good . . . Patsy, I want to ask you something else. I want to see your husband alone. Can I call him, have him come in?”

  “Why?” she asked, her face dark with suspicion.

  “Because I’m your doctor and I want to get to the bottom of what’s bothering you.”

  She glanced at the cop. Gave him a dark look. Then she said to Harry, “Sure.”

  “Good.”

  After Patsy’d disappeared into the elevator car the cop said, “I don’t know, Doctor. She seems like a nut case to me. Things like this . . . they can get real ugly. I’ve seen it a million times.”

  “She’s got some problems but she’s not dangerous.”

  “You’re willing to take that chance?”

  After a moment he said, “Yes, I’m willing to take that chance.”

  “How was she last night, after I left?” Harry asked Peter Randolph the next morning. The two men sat in Harry’s office.

  “She seemed all right. Calmer.” Peter sipped the coffee that Miriam had brought him. “What exactly is going on with her?”

  “I’m sorry,” Harry said. “I can’t discuss the specifics of your wife’s condition with you. Confidentiality.”

  Peter’s eyes flared angrily for a moment.

  “Then why did you ask me here?”

  “Because I need you to help me treat her. You do want her to get better, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. I love her very much.” He sat forward in the chair. “But I don’t understand what’s going on. She was fine until a couple of months ago—when she started seeing you, if you have to know the truth. Then things started to go bad.”

  “When people see therapists they sometimes confront issues they’ve never had to deal with. I think that was Patsy’s situation. She’s getting close to some important issues. And that can be very disorienting.”

  “She claims I’m pretending to be a ghost,” Peter said sarcastically. “That seems a little worse than just disoriented.”

  “She’s in a downward spiral. I can pull her out of it . . . but it’ll be hard. And I’ll need your help.”

  Peter shrugged. “What can I do?”

  Harry explained, “First of all, you can be honest with me.”

  “Of course.”

  “For some reason she’s come to associate you with her father. She has a lot of resentment toward him and she’s projecting that onto you. Do you know why she’s mad at you?”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “Go on, tell me. Anything you say here is confidential—just between you and me.”

  “She might have this stupid idea that I’ve cheated on her.”

  “Have you?”

  “Where the hell do you get off, asking a question like that?”

  Harry said reasonably, “I’m just trying to get to the truth.”

  Randolph calmed down. “No, I haven’t cheated on her. She’s paranoid.”

  “And you haven’t said or done anything that might trouble her deeply or affect her sense of reality?”

  “No,” Peter said.

  “How much is she worth?” Harry asked bluntly.

  Peter blinked. “You mean, her portfolio?”

  “Net worth.”

  “I don’t know exactly. About eleven million.”

  Harry nodded. “And the money’s all hers, isn’t it?”

  A frown crossed Peter Randolph’s face. “What’re you asking?”

  “I’m asking, if Patsy were to go insane or to kill herself would you get her money?”

  “Go to hell!” Randolph shouted, standing up quickly. For a moment Harry thought the man was going to hit him. But he pulled his wallet from his hip pocket and took out a card. Tossed it onto Harry’s desk. “That’s our lawyer. Call him and ask him about the prenuptial agreement. If Patricia’s declared insane or if she were to die the money goes into a trust. I don’t get a penny.”

  Harry pushed the card back. “That won’t be necessary. . . . I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” he said. “My patient’s care comes before everything else. I had to know there’s no motive for harming her.”

  Randolph adjusted his cuffs and buttoned his jacket. “Accepted.”

  Harry nodded and looked Peter Randolph over carefully. A prerequisite for being a therapist is the ability to judge character quickly. He now sized up this man and came to a decision. “I want to try something radical with Patsy and I want you to help me.”

  “Radical? You mean commit her?”

  “No, that’d be the worst thing for her. When patients are going through times like this you can’t coddle them. You have to be tough. And force them to be tough.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Don’t be antagonistic but force her to stay involved in life. She’s going to want to withdraw—to be pampered. But don’t spoil her. If she says she’s too upset to go shopping or go out to dinner, don’t let her get away with it. Insist that she does what she’s supposed to do.”

  “You’re sure that’s best?”

  Sure? Harry asked himself. No, he wasn’t the least bit sure. But he’d made his decision. He had to push Patsy hard. He told Peter, “We don’t have any choice.”

  But after the man left the office Harry happened to recall an expression one of his medical school professors had used frequently. He’d said you have to attack disease head-on. “You have to kill or cure.”

  Harry hadn’t thought of that expression in years. He wished he hadn’t today.

  The next day Patsy walked into his office without an appointment.

  In Brooklyn, at the clinic, this was standard procedure and nobody thought anything of it. But in a Park Avenue shrink’s office impromptu sessions were taboo. Still, Harry could see from her face that she was very upset and he didn’t make an issue of her unexpected appearance.

  She collapsed on the couch and hugged herself closely as he rose and closed the door.

  “Patsy, what’s the matter?” he asked.

  He noticed that her clothes were more disheveled than he’d ever seen. They were stained and torn. Hair bedraggled. Fingernails dirty.

  “Everything was going so well,” she sobbed, “then I was sitting in the den early this morning and I heard my father’s ghost again. He said, ‘They’re almost here. You don’t have much time left. . . . ’ And I asked, ‘What do you mean?’ And he said, ‘Look in the living room.’ And I did and there was another one of my birds! It was shattered!” She opened her purse and showed Harry the broken pieces of ceramic. “Now, there’s only one left! I’m going to die when it breaks. I know I am. Peter’s going to break it tonight! And then he’ll kill me.”

  “He’s not going to kill you, Patsy,” Harry said calmly, patiently ignoring her hysteria.

  “I think I should go to the hospital for a while, Doctor.”

  Harry got up and sat on the couch next to her. He took he
r hand. “No.”

  “What?”

  “It would be a mistake,” Harry said.

  “Why?” she cried.

  “Because you can’t hide from these issues. You have to confront them.”

  “I’d feel safer in a hospital. Nobody’d try to kill me in the hospital.”

  “Nobody’s going to kill you, Patsy. You have to believe me.”

  “No! Peter—”

  “But Peter’s never tried to hurt you, has he?”

  A pause. “No.”

  “Okay, here’s what I want you to do. Listen to me. Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know that whether Peter was pretending to say those words to you or you were imagining them they weren’t real. Repeat that.”

  “I—”

  “Repeat it!”

  “They weren’t real.”

  “Now say, ‘There was no ghost. My father’s dead.’ ”

  “There was no ghost. My father’s dead.”

  “Good!” Harry laughed. “Again.”

  She repeated this mantra several times, calming each time. Finally a faint smile crossed her lips. Then she frowned. “But the bird . . .” She again opened her purse and took out the shattered ceramic, cradling the pieces in her trembling hand.

  “Whatever happened to the bird doesn’t matter. It’s only a piece of porcelain.”

  “But . . .” She looked down at the broken shards.

  Harry leaned forward. “Listen to me, Patsy. Listen carefully.” Passionately the doctor said, “I want you to go home, take that last bird and smash the hell out of it.”

  “You want me to . . .”

  “Take a hammer and crush it.”

  She started to protest but then she smiled. “Can I do that?”

  “You bet you can. Just give yourself permission to. Go home, have a nice glass of wine, find a hammer and smash it.” He reached under his desk and picked up the wastebasket. He held it out for her. “They’re just pieces of china, Patsy.”

  After a moment she tossed the pieces of the statue into the container.

  “Good, Patsy.” And—thinking, the hell with transference—the doctor gave his patient a huge hug.

  That evening Patsy Randolph returned home and found Peter sitting in front of the television.

  “You’re late,” he said. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Out shopping. I got a bottle of wine.”

  “We’re supposed to go to Jack and Louise’s tonight. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

  “I don’t feel like it,” she said. “I don’t feel well. I—”

  “No. We’re going. You’re not getting out of it.” He spoke in that same weird, abrupt tone he’d been using for the past week.

  “Well, can I at least take care of a few things first?”

  “Sure. But I don’t want to be late.”

  Patsy walked into the kitchen, opened a bottle of the expensive Merlot and poured a large glass just like Dr. Bernstein had told her. She sipped it. She felt good. Very good. “Where’s the hammer?” she called.

  “Hammer? What do you need the hammer for?”

  “I have to fix something.”

  “I think it’s in the drawer beside the refrigerator.”

  She found it. Carried it into the living room. She glanced at the last Boehm bird, an owl.

  Peter looked at the tool then back to the TV. “What do you have to fix?”

  “You,” she answered and brought the blunt end down on the top of his head with all her strength.

  It took another dozen blows to kill him and when she’d finished she stood back and gazed at the remarkable patterns the blood made on the carpet and couch. Then she went into the bedroom and picked up her diary from the bedside table—the one Dr. Bernstein had suggested she keep. Back in the living room Patsy sat down beside her husband’s corpse and she wrote a rambling passage in the booklet about how, at last, she’d gotten the ghosts to stop speaking to her. She was finally at peace. She didn’t add as much as she wanted to; it was very time-consuming to write using your finger for a pen and blood for ink.

  When Patsy’d finished she picked up the hammer and smashed the Boehm ceramic owl into dust. Then she began screaming as loudly as she could, “The ghosts are dead, the ghosts are dead, the ghosts are dead!”

  Long before she was hoarse the police and medics arrived. When they took her away she was wearing a straitjacket.

  A week later Harry Bernstein sat in the prison hospital waiting room. He knew he was a sight—he hadn’t shaved in several days and was wearing wrinkled clothes—which in fact he’d slept in last night. He stared at the filthy floor.

  “You all right?” This question came from a tall, thin man with a perfect beard. He wore a gorgeous suit and Armani-framed glasses. He was Patsy’s lead defense lawyer.

  “I never thought she’d do it,” Harry said to him. “I knew there was risk. I knew something was wrong. But I thought I had everything under control.”

  The lawyer looked at him sympathetically. “I heard you’ve been having some trouble too. Your patients . . .”

  Harry laughed bitterly. “Are quitting in droves. Well, wouldn’t you? Park Avenue shrinks are a dime a dozen. Why should they risk seeing me? I might get them killed or committed.”

  The jailor opened the door. “Dr. Bernstein, you can see the prisoner now.”

  He stood slowly, supporting himself on the door frame.

  The lawyer looked him over and said, “You and I can meet in the next couple days to decide how to handle the case. The insanity defense is tough in New York but with you on board I can make it work. We’ll keep her out of jail. . . . Say, Doctor, you going to be okay?”

  Harry gave a shallow nod.

  The lawyer said kindly, “I can arrange for a little cash for you. A couple thousand—for an expert witness fee.”

  “Thanks,” Harry said. But he instantly forgot about the money. His mind was already on his patient.

  The room was as bleak as he’d expected.

  Face white, eyes shrunken, Patsy lay in bed, looking out the window. She glanced at Harry, didn’t seem to recognize him.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Who are you?” She frowned.

  He didn’t answer her question either. “You’re not looking too bad, Patsy.”

  “I think I know you. Yes, you’re . . . Wait, are you a ghost?”

  “No, I’m not a ghost.” Harry set his attaché case on the table. Her eyes slipped to the case as he opened it.

  “I can’t stay long, Patsy. I’m closing my practice. There’s a lot to take care of. But I wanted to bring you a few things.”

  “Things?” she asked, sounding like a child. “For me? Like Christmas. Like my birthday.”

  “Uh-hum.” Harry rummaged in the case. “Here’s the first thing.” He took out a photocopy. “It’s an article in the Journal of Psychoses. I found it the night after the session when you first told me about the ghosts. You should read it.”

  “I can’t read,” she said. “I don’t know how.” She gave a crazy laugh. “I’m afraid of the food here. I think there are spies around. They’re going to put things in the food. Disgusting things. And poison. Or broken glass.” Another cackle.

  Harry set the article on the bed next to her. He walked to the window. No trees here. No birds. Just gray, downtown Manhattan.

  He said, glancing back at her, “It’s all about ghosts. The article.”

  Her eyes narrowed and then fear consumed her face. “Ghosts,” she whispered. “Are there ghosts here?”

  Harry laughed hard. “See, Patsy, ghosts were the first clue. After you mentioned them in that session—claiming that your husband was driving you crazy—I thought something didn’t sound quite right. So I went home and started to research your case.”

  She gazed at him silently.

  “That article’s about the importance of diagnosis in mental health cases. See, sometimes it works to somebo
dy’s advantage to appear to be mentally unstable—so they can avoid responsibility. Say, soldiers who don’t want to fight. People faking insurance claims. People who’ve committed crimes.” He turned back. “Or who’re about to commit a crime.”

  “I’m afraid of ghosts,” Patsy said, her voice rising. “I’m afraid of ghosts. I don’t want any ghosts here! I’m afraid of—”

  Harry continued like a lecturing professor. “And ghosts are one of the classic hallucinations that sane people use to try to convince other people that they’re insane.”

  Patsy closed her mouth.

  “Fascinating article,” Harry continued, nodding toward it. “See, ghosts and spirits seem like the products of delusional minds. But in fact they’re complex metaphysical concepts that someone who’s really insane wouldn’t understand at all. No, true psychotics believe that the actual person is there speaking to them. They think that Napoleon or Hitler or Marilyn Monroe is really in the room with them. You wouldn’t have claimed to’ve heard your father’s ghost. You would actually have heard him.”

  Harry enjoyed the utterly shocked expression on his patient’s face. He said, “Then a few weeks ago you admitted that maybe the voices were in your head. A true psychotic would never admit that. They’d swear they were completely sane.” He paced slowly. “There were some other things too. You must’ve read somewhere that sloppy physical appearance is a sign of mental illness. Your clothes were torn and dirty, you’d forget to do straps . . . but your makeup was always perfect—even on the night the police called me over to your apartment. In genuine mental health cases makeup is the first thing to go. Patients just smear their faces with it. Has to do with issues of masking their identity—if you’re interested.

  “Oh, and remember? You asked if a ghost could come to one of our sessions? That was very funny. But the psychiatric literature defines humor as ironic juxtaposition of concepts based on common experience. Of course that’s contrary to the mental processes of psychotics.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Patsy spat out.

  “That crazy people don’t make jokes,” he summarized. “That cinched it for me that you were sane as could be.” Harry looked through the attaché case once more. “Next . . .” He looked up, smiling. “After I read that article and decided you were faking your diagnosis—and listening to what your subconscious was telling me about your marriage—I figured you were using me for some reason having to do with your husband. So I hired a private eye.”