Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  “I’ve always wanted to be a cop. My dad was. I guess I have this deep sense of morality. I like to see justice served. I guess it’s in my blood.” Why does everyone look at me like I have two heads when I say that? “Any of the above, take your pick.”

  Isaacs pressed his pointer finger against his lips. It looked like he was kissing a boo-boo. “So, you have this inbred sense of right and wrong. Is the work gratifying? Do you enjoy what you do?”

  “Very much so.”

  “And it doesn’t get to you, all these murders? Innocent people shot and stabbed, abused children, beaten wives—”

  “It’s not all fun and games. As you pointed out, there are some terrible, horrible things going on in the world. Some are content cultivating flowers. It just doesn’t happen to be the case with me.”

  “But it’s worth it? I mean, the sense of reward from a job well done that makes it all worthwhile?”

  “Absolutely. Like seeing the resolve in the eyes of a parent after you’ve obtained justice for their child. There’s nothing quite like it.”

  “So it’s worth it, is what you’re saying. It’s worth all the terrible things you have to endure. The end justifies the means.”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Do you think your father would be proud of you?”

  “I’d like to believe so.”

  “Excellent.” Isaacs paused to take a sip of water. “And you’re not doing this for him?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I thought I was clear. You’ve chosen police work because it gives you a tremendous sense of self-gratification and not because you’re doing what would please your father. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

  Huh? “That’s correct,” I answered immediately, almost reflexively. But for the first time in my life, I had my doubts. I had never thought of that angle before and right or wrong, it opened a can of worms. I shook my finger at Isaacs. “You, you’re good!” Why, you crafty old shit. I felt like DeNiro in Analyze This. Isaacs rubbed his stubble—he looked like Freud at the height of his analytical powers.

  “Just making you think.” He appeared to be quite pleased with himself. “Don’t worry, I’m not heading you toward the Electra complex. I don’t think there’s any need to swim in those murky waters.”

  “Electra complex?” I turned my head askew. I’d never heard of it. I did date a guy once who was a complete fanatic about his classic Buick Electra. He used to change the oil every fifteen hundred miles, but Isaacs wasn’t talking about a car, now was he?

  “The Electra complex,” Isaacs stated in a most matter-of-fact way. He leaned forward. “A daughter’s unconscious libidinal desire for her father. Like the Oedipus complex is for men, so to speak.”

  “That’s disgusting!”

  “Freud didn’t think so.”

  “Yeah, right! Everyone thought J. Edgar Hoover was a goddamn pillar until they saw pictures of him in a dress.”

  “I’m not sure I understand the analogy.”

  “Let’s just say that Freud was a tad strange. I read a little about him. People with less baggage have been committed to insane asylums.”

  “I think we should drop it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Let’s go back to the last constructive point. I opened the door for you, Stephanie. Do a little soul searching. Is there any chance that you became a cop to please your father?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You won’t even concede the possibility?”

  “Can you please tell me what this has to do with the nightmares I’ve been having?”

  “In due time. I know that you’re impatient, but this isn’t as simple as taking a pill.” Damn! “We’ve got to follow the thread and see where it leads us. I’ve got to follow the clues.” Isaacs’ eyes brightened at his own cleverness. All of a sudden, he was a cop too. “Will you accommodate me on this?”

  “To a point,” I answered impatiently. “But no more of this Electra bullshit.”

  “Forget that I ever mentioned it.”

  Sure, that’s easy for you to do. You’re not the one who just went to bed with your father. “Done. Now, will you indulge me?” I asked.

  “Of course, Stephanie. What’s on your mind?” Isaacs folded his hands below his stubbly Sigmund Freud chin.

  “Well, Len, it’s a little hard to explain, but since the last time we talked, I’ve had somewhat of a revelation. I now have this sense that I’m not the person in my dream. I’m just seeing what they’re seeing.”

  Isaacs recoiled. “That’s a bit unusual. What makes you think that?”

  “I can’t tell you. It’s just a feeling.”

  “So how do you come to see what someone else experienced?”

  “That’s going to take some explaining.”

  “And who do you think is being rolled into the emergency room?”

  “My mother.”

  “You think it’s your mother. That’s interesting.”

  “That’s right, it’s just my gut feeling. That’s all I can tell you, but I am a detective and my instincts are usually pretty good.”

  “Let me see if I have this right. You think your mother is on a stretcher being rolled into the hospital’s emergency room and you’re seeing everything she’s seeing. Is that about the size of it?”

  “There’s more.”

  “Yes?”

  This was really tough to admit but I knew I had to be forthcoming if I wanted to get better. “I told you at our first session that I thought the woman on the stretcher was pregnant. Remember?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I think I’m the baby my mother is pregnant with.” How’s that for dropping a bomb?

  Isaacs took off his glasses. Sweat had broken out across his temples and upper lip. Without his glasses his pupils looked extremely small, like two BBs. He wiped his glasses clean with a tissue before replacing them. “Well, I must say this puts an entirely new spin on things. Frankly, I’m a bit stymied.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, Stephanie, I am not.”

  “You’ve never worked with someone who believed that they saw what was happening to someone else?” Never for a moment did I think he had. I was, after all, a detective—I had my rod out and I was fishing.

  “No, I’m sorry. I never have. Honestly, I don’t run across a lot of this in my practice.”

  “Holy cow.” I pinned him with my eyes. “You’re telling me that I’m describing something so unusual that you’ve never come across it in all your years of training?”

  “Well, let’s talk this through. Perhaps we’ll find something that will help me focus. In hypnoanalysis, it’s fairly common to go into the womb and even beyond. The subconscious likes to play these games and will try to please the hypnotist. Total baloney, all pretend. I don’t believe it for one moment and neither should you. Besides which, you’re not under hypnosis. Are you sure that your mother has never been in an emergency room?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  “No.”

  “That’s something we’ll have to look into. Do you fear for your mother’s life?”

  I thought for a moment. The obvious answer was yes. “My mother has severe diabetes and refuses to take care of it in a responsible fashion. I’m always catching her with a stash of chocolate bars.”

  “I see. All right, perhaps we’re getting somewhere.”

  Isaacs continued to interrogate me about my mother’s condition and my concern for her life. I understood the direction he was taking, but he still wasn’t getting the point. He had never worked with anyone who believed they had seen through someone else’s eyes, or uterus, for that matter. Perhaps this was why I had come to him in the first place. Maybe I really feared that I was out of my mind. I had been apprehensive about telling him, but as the man had said on day one, I had to be completely open with him.

  “I’m afraid we won’t be able to get into an
y E.M.D.R. today. At the moment, I’m not prepared to guide you through it. Can you give me a day or so to think it through?”

  “Let’s face it, Len, this is not your area.” Why beat around the bush? “Perhaps you can refer me to someone who specializes in this sort of work.”

  “Well, Stephanie.” He sounded a bit pissed. I guess I had been a little too direct. I should have couched my request in terms that would have softened the blow a little. “I’m afraid that I can’t just list four or five good specialists off the top of my head.” I could tell that he was making every effort to remain professional. “About the only name I have for you is Dr. Nigel Twain and frankly . . . well, I’m afraid you’d have to put him in the same odd closet with Freud and J. Edgar Hoover.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, he’s considered a bit of an oddity. I don’t mind telling you that my peers do not hold his kind of psychology in high regard. To be honest, I think they’re a little crazy, and this Twain fellow admits to having used LSD and other hallucinogens. Going to him is akin to a cancer patient running to Mexico for enema therapy.

  “He used LSD personally?”

  “So I’ve been told. If my information is correct, he’s also used it in the treatment of patients.”

  “Wow. That sounds absolutely bizarre.”

  “I can’t say he’s the first and only practicing psychiatrist to attempt rehabilitative LSD therapy, but—”

  “I take it you’re not a fan.”

  “I don’t even consider it a legitimate approach.”

  I pondered Isaacs’s remark. As I mulled it over, I began to speak. I felt like I was a puppet and someone was working my strings. “Where can I find him?”

  “You’re not serious?”

  “Deadly serious. Where can I find him?”

  “In the Village somewhere. He runs a facility called the Center for Transpersonal Psychology. Stephanie, this is really scary stuff. I hope you’ll think long and hard about this before getting involved with the likes of Nigel Twain, or any other paranormalist, for that matter.”

  “Paranormalist, isn’t that the term they use to refer to gypsies and fortune-tellers?”

  Isaacs grinned. “Exactly.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Would you like me to seduce you? “Ms. Chalice, are you there?”

  I had to admit I was not prepared to hear the sound of Nigel Twain’s voice, a sexy, throaty baritone that stirred me down to my toes. Nor was I prepared for the English accent. It made me drift a bit, a little tele-fantasy. I refuse to call it phone sex. I certainly wasn’t paying for it, not yet, anyway. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was great. I was a little disappointed with myself for not having thought of it in advance. His name was Nigel, not Nick or Ned. Nigel was as British sounding as they came.

  “Ms. Chalice, Ms. Chalice?” He pronounced my name like no one else ever had, Chal-e-say. I had never been made love to over the phone.

  “Yes, Dr. Twain, sorry. Please continue.”

  “As I was saying, your case intrigues me. Even in my end of the practice, I rarely stumble across transpersonal episodes of this nature. How long have you been having these dreams?”

  Keep talking. Please, just keep talking. Another five minutes and I’d have to nail Lido in the interrogation room.

  “Ms. Chalice, is this a bad time?” Hell no, it’s a great time, a wonderful time. “Would you prefer that we continue our conversation at a later date?”

  No! “No, I’m okay. How many times have you come across this type of thing, Dr. Twain?”

  “Well actually, I’ve had experience treating several, shall we say, from-the-womb cases. None, however, were exactly the same as this. I find it highly intriguing. Would you like to explore it together?”

  God yes. I had already built a composite of Twain in my mind. Careful, Stephanie, let’s not forget why we called the good doctor. “My therapist says it’s all bullshit. He says it has something to do with the Electra complex.”

  “Really? I don’t see how.”

  “I think he’s a Freudian.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it? How the totality of modern psychotherapy is based on the work of a man who lived and died more than sixty years ago, a man whose work was patently rejected by his peers. What did your Freudian suggest, a little hypnosis, flashing lights and sleight of hand? For the love of God—I’m surprised the words hocus pocus didn’t slip out of his mouth.”

  “So you think there may be something to this that the Freudian won’t acknowledge?”

  “I’m not saying yes, I’m not saying no. Therapists are quick to mention Freud’s name. They use it as some kind of silver bullet, a validation for the entire practice of psychology. Laymen take stock in the name Freud; ‘Oh yes, he must know something, he used the F word.’ Jung and Adler, two of the most important players in modern psychological theory, resigned from the International Psychoanalytic Association in protest of Freud’s theory on infantile sexuality.”

  “So you’re saying I should keep an open mind.” Have you ever heard anyone refer to Freud as the F word? I thought that was really cool stuff.

  “Exactly. I’ll tell you up front, the majority of psychological practitioners frown upon many of the treatments we use here at the Center. They view my work as some kind of enlightened voodoo.”

  Everything sounded so good in his words. He was so soothing, seemed so in command. I wanted to lie back in the powerful arms I imagined he had and surrender myself to his treatment. Too bad there was no way that his appearance could ever live up to the fantasy Dr. Twain that I had artfully painted in my mind. Then again, you never know.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nigel Twain was every woman’s fantasy. He certainly was mine, except . . . “Bacteriophobia, Ms. Chalice.” Twain settled into his hi-back swivel. The top of his desk was barren except for a computer terminal and a telephone.

  “That would explain the surgical mask and cotton gloves.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But aren’t the gloves porous?”

  “They’re of my own creation, Detective.” Twain smiled at his accomplishment. “The cotton is laminated on the inside by a trademark Japanese process called Entrant. It’s similar to Gore-Tex, which allows the skin to perspire, yet it’s one hundred percent waterproof from the outside. I used to wear those horrible latex things under calfskin, but the smell . . . the smell was just horrid.”

  “And the mask?”

  “Treated with a germicidal agent.”

  So you’re a nut. “You couldn’t find a doctor that could help you with these little, shall we call them, problems?”

  “I’m worlds better than I used to be.” Oh sure. Absolutely. Twain erected a tent under his chin and spoke in an even tone. “I lived in a sterile bubble for two years. So as you see, these minor bits of paraphernalia are really nothing.” Twain broke camp and leaned forward. “It’s something left over from a paranoid manifestation, the result of a bad trip.”

  “Pakistan?”

  Twain chuckled in his stirring English baritone. “Let’s not play games. You’re a cop, so I’m sure you checked me out, nice and thorough. I know I did a bit of snooping before you arrived. There have been so many lawsuits levied at me over the years. Let’s just say an ounce of prevention—”

  Oh God, please help me. “So we’re not talking bad trips as in travel to the third world?”

  “LSD, Ms. Chal-e-say. Say it, L-S-D. I took it. I used it. It’s not a secret. It lies at the very foundation of my research. I was able to help patients in ways that conventional therapists can’t even imagine. Can you get by it, Detective? Can you overlook my research long enough to let me help you with your problems? I know you’re intuitive. That’s why you dropped your conventional therapist after just two visits.”

  “So you and your patients weren’t just sitting around and getting buzzed?” I asked pointedly.

  “Who told you I did that, the Freudian?” I nodded. Twain became agitated but settled d
own almost immediately. Marvelous self-control, don’t you think? “It’s completely infuriating.”

  I was almost at a loss for words. Can you believe it? “You’re nothing like I expected.”

  “And that was?”

  “Timothy Leary, a 1970s California burnout type. I didn’t expect a—”

  “Bald, strapping black man?” Twain cracked his neck.

  I would have said Mandingo warrior. “More or less.”

  “You’ll find that I’m full of surprises.”

  “Well, don’t keep me waiting.”

  “Very well.” Twain rose. God, he was tall and muscular. He propped himself up against the windowsill, his black-gloved hands resting in his lap. “Stephanie Chalice, born in Manhattan, New York. Your father was a New York City detective. He died from complications of manifest diabetes. Your mother suffers from the same affliction.” He glared at me. “Shall I go on?”

  I no longer cared that he was a hunk, or a loon, or that he was perhaps the sexiest-looking man I had ever seen in my life. It seemed that I was not in his office for psychological help. I was there because he wanted me there, because he had something on his mind. I nodded again.

  “You made detective at the age of twenty-seven, a promotion usually accorded more senior candidates. You received attention from the media for your arrest of a Libyan freedom fighter on New Year’s Eve. By the way, you photograph beautifully.” Twain winked and then continued to prattle on. “You’re assigned to the investigation of two related double homicides and you’re romantically tied to your partner, a handsome chap by the name of Gus Lido.” Twain finished rattling off everything everyone knew about me and then gazed at me evenly. “Does that just about sum it up?”

  “You bastard!” I rose from my chair and walked around his desk to confront him. We were an inch apart, a distance that could either be considered romantic or confrontational. “What’s your game, Twain?”