Bound by Suggestion

by L.L. Bartlett

  Wes Timberly was the last to arrive. He glared at Richard before turning to Mona. “Sorry I’m late.”

  She motioned him into a chair. “Now that we’re all here, I’d like to remind everyone of Dr. Zimmer’s retirement party on Thursday at Alexander’s. It’s also a good opportunity to meet the new Chief of Cardiology and his entourage. Let’s get there on time, in our party frocks and suits, smile, and be prepared to suck up to potential donors.”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the room.

  Mona donned dark-framed half glasses then looked down at her notes. “First we’ll review the minutes from our last meeting.”

  Timberly raised his hand, catching her attention.

  “Yes, Wes?”

  Timberly flipped pages. “I noticed that the notes aren’t clear on the catering situation for the spring gala.”

  “Not clear?” voiced a woman sitting on Mona’s right. Richard recognized the board secretary’s face, but drew a blank on her name. “What part confused you?” she asked, an edge to her tone.

  “Nowhere does it say precisely who is providing the food,” Timberly said.

  The woman stared at Timberly for long seconds before answering. “The gala is being held at the Park Club. The Park Club is catering the affair. They wouldn’t like it if you booked their facilities then brought in food from another vendor.”

  “No need to get snide, Gloria,” Timberly said. “I simply maintain that the historical record should be precise.”

  “I apologize, Dr. Timberly. I didn’t realize it was necessary to state the obvious for board members unable to make such intuitive leaps. In the future, I’ll keep your difficulties in mind when I write up my notes.”

  The tension in the room rose to a palpable level.

  Mona cleared her throat and met Richard’s gaze. Her expression said, “I did warn you.”

  “Everyone, please feel free to update your notes accordingly. Now, let’s continue our review.”

  Richard sat back in his chair. It would be a very long meeting.

  Sucking up another person’s emotional garbage was getting old, but no easier to endure. If I didn’t move, and kept my gaze straight ahead, the nausea stayed at bay. But that depended on my staying put, which wasn’t going to happen.

  Krista returned from seeing Grace put on the Medivan. “That was a rough session. It’s the most painful part of her therapy. Once we get through this, it’ll be a lot easier on both of you.”

  “I sure hope so.”

  Krista touched my arm. “I’ve never seen anything like what you did for Grace. Thank you.”

  That seemed an odd comment coming from a therapist, but I wasn’t up to analyzing it. I reached for her hand. “Thank me by having lunch with me some time.”

  She hesitated.

  I tried again. “I’d like to get to know you better, Krista. We made a bargain, remember? Friendship.”

  She smiled. “Yes, we did. And I’d love to go to lunch with you.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “That would be great.” She squeezed my hand, then relinquished it. “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but you look terrible.”

  “I feel worse than terrible. To be honest, I don’t think I can drive home. I need to call Richard. I can sit in your waiting room until he gets here.” Feeling queasy and drained, I tried to get up, but couldn’t pull myself out of the leather recliner.

  “Stay put,” she said, pushing my shoulder back against the chair. “I have no patients scheduled for a couple of hours. I’m sorry, Jeff. I didn’t realize how devastating this would be for you.”

  I managed a weak smile. “Told you so. Trouble is, I probably won’t make it to work tonight, and I need the money.”

  “Then now’s the perfect time to learn that biofeedback technique I told you about.”

  “Been there, done that, doesn’t work.”

  Krista raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen it work wonders with chronic pain patients. Are you willing to try?”

  “If you can get rid of this headache, you’ll have my undying gratitude.”

  “How about a little something more?” she asked coyly.

  I squinted up at her. “Like what?”

  “We’ll talk about that when you’re feeling better. Lean back in the chair and relax.”

  I closed my eyes and heard the light tap of her footsteps across the hardwood floor. She closed the shades, blotting out the worst of the light, then returned to my side.

  “I’m going to put you under hypnosis, that way you’ll be more receptive. You’ll learn to put yourself in this state when you get headaches in the future. Ready?”

  “And willing.”

  “Okay, relax. From the tips of your toes to the top of your head. Breathe slowly. Deeply . . . .”

  I listened as she started what was already a familiar routine. Her soft voice lulled me. The pain in my head faded in intensity as I moved deeper and deeper into relaxation. Past experience told me the effects would probably be short lived—but anything was better than that skull-shattering pain.

  “You’re now completely relaxed,” Krista said. “You’ll listen to and do everything I tell you. Do you understand?” Why did her voice suddenly sound so cold?

  “Yes.”

  A chair scraped the wooden floor. Fingers fumbled with the buttons on my shirt, pulled the fabric aside. The cold metal disc of a stethoscope rested on my chest.

  “Breathe deeply,” Krista ordered.

  I already was, I wanted to protest, but I couldn’t seem to work up the energy and did as she said.

  Rough fabric encircled my bicep. She pumped up the blood pressure cuff, placed the stethoscope on the crook of my elbow. I wanted to ask why, but couldn’t get the words out.

  Air hissed as the cuff deflated, but then she pumped it up again, left it uncomfortably tight on my arm.

  A thread of concern wormed through me.

  The cold dampness of an alcohol wipe dabbed my skin.

  Wait a minute

  I flinched as a needle plunged into a vein.

  Stop!

  The pressure on my bicep was gone as she removed the cuff.

  My heart pounded. A rush of heat coursed through me.

  Cool fingers encircled my wrist.

  “Relax, go with it,” she said. “It’ll be easier.”

  A white mist, thickening to a heavy veil, shrouded my thoughts, which only the sound of her voice could penetrate.

  “Tell me about Maggie . . . .”

  Chapter 6

  “Wes was a complete jerk. It was all I could do not to get up and leave,” Richard said.

  He set his wineglass down on the desk blotter and leaned back in the comfortable leather chair in his study. He’d always loved this room. The dark paneling, mahogany desk, and well-worn leather furniture were the best part of his childhood. That, and the pleasant memories of pipe tobacco scenting the air while his grandfather worked at the desk where he now sat.

  Brenda looked up from her needlepoint, bathed in the warm glow of the Tiffany table lamp. “And you want to take on the job? What kind of a glutton for punishment are you?”

  Richard was about to tell her when the phone rang. He picked it up.

  “Dr. Alpert?” came the vaguely familiar voice. “It’s Tom Link, Jeff’s boss at the bar.”

  “Oh, yeah. What can I do for you, Tom?”

  “Jeff usually lets me know if he isn’t coming in to work. I’m just calling to see if he’s okay.”

  “Did you call him?”

  “I got no answer. I could sure use him,” Tom said. “Dave’s in Erie, so it’s just me here and it’s Ladies Night.”

  “I’ll hike over and remind him.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  Richard hung up the phone and frowned. “That’s three.”

  Brenda rethreaded her tapestry needle with another color yarn. “Three what?”

  Richard leaned forward, resting his weight on his forearms. “Oddbal
l things he’s done today.”

  She sighed. “Jeffy?”

  “First he parks in my spot in the garage; he doesn’t pick up his mail, and that was his boss on the phone. He never showed up for work.”

  “I’d hardly call ignoring his mail an oddball thing. Besides, he’s probably been hiding in the dark to get rid of a headache.”

  “He’s always been responsible enough to call in sick before this.”

  “Then go over and see if he’s all right,” she said.

  Richard pushed away from the desk. “I’ll be back in a few.”

  He paused in the kitchen to pick up the small stack of junk mail and bills, then headed across the driveway.

  The sun hovered just above the horizon, but the inside of Jeff’s apartment was dark and gloomy, the air stale. As Richard hit the light switch, the cat lifted its head, blinking at him from its nest on a chair. Richard ignored it and headed across the pristine apartment, dropping the mail on the dining table next to Jeff’s keys.

  “Jeff?”

  Richard headed for the bedroom and heard a thump as the cat jumped down to follow. He peered into the darkened room and saw the prone form. Jeff was usually a stomach sleeper, but there he was stretched out on his back, legs dangling as though he’d sat on the foot of the bed and had fallen back. He still wore his denim jacket and Nikes. “Jeff?” he tried again.

  Richard turned on the bedside lamp, which would usually elicit a groan, but Jeff didn’t stir. “Jeff?” he said, concern curling through him. He reached for his brother’s wrist, felt a plodding pulse.

  The cat jumped on the bed, planted his front paws on Jeff’s chest and sniffed his face. Jeff’s hand came up to bat the cat away. “Herschel,” he said, slurring the word.

  “Jeff, wake up,” Richard tried again.

  Jeff opened his eyes, squinting up at his brother. “What time is it?”

  “Eight twenty. What’s going on?”

  Jeff hitched himself up on his elbows; the purring cat rubbed against his shoulder. “Herschel,” he chided.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “No.”

  “Did you eat today?” Richard asked.

  Jeff rubbed his eyes. “Um . . . I dunno.”

  “What did you do today?”

  He blinked, as though thinking about it. “Went to Krista’s office.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What time did you get back?”

  Jeff pulled himself into a sitting position, a frown settling over his features. “I dunno.”

  “What’s the last thing you do remember?” Richard asked.

  “I was there . . . now I’m here.”

  “You don’t remember anything else?”

  “I had a headache. She hypnotized me. Said I’d feel better.”

  “Do you?”

  “Headache’s gone. I’m cured.” Jeff looked up at Richard, frowned. “What’re you doing here, anyway?”

  “Finding out why you didn’t show up for work.”

  “Christ,” Jeff muttered, coming fully awake, and pushed himself off the bed, sending the cat flying. “Why didn’t you tell me it was so late?”

  “Where’re you going?” Richard followed him into the living room.

  “I’m fucking four hours late for work.” Jeff plunged his fingers into his jacket pocket, fishing for his keys.

  “They’re on the table—your car is in my spot in the garage.”

  “What the hell was I thinking?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Jeff scooped up his keys from the table and headed for the door.

  “Aren’t you going to call first?”

  “I’ll think up an excuse on the way.”

  For someone who’d been totally out of it only minutes before, Jeff bounded down the stairs. Inside the garage, he got in his car and pressed the door opener before starting the engine.

  Richard tapped on the glass. Jeff rolled down the window. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Richard ducked from under the garage door as Jeff hit the button to close it. He watched as the car turned right and the taillights disappeared before heading back to his own house.

  “Well?” Brenda asked, as Richard reentered the study.

  He snagged his half-empty wineglass before joining his wife on the couch.

  “When I first walked into Jeff’s bedroom, he was lying half on and off the bed. He was dead to the world. I could’ve sworn he’d been drugged. But once he woke up, he was fine.”

  She studied his face. “Then why the worried expression?”

  “He went to see Krista Marsh today.”

  “And?”

  Richard shrugged. “I wish I knew what was going on.”

  “Call Dr. Marsh and find out.”

  “I can’t do that.” He sipped his wine. “That would be interfering. And Jeff’s a big boy.”

  “He’s not her patient. Is he?”

  Richard frowned. “He wasn’t supposed to be. But she cured his headache.”

  “Cured?” Brenda asked, setting down her work.

  “Yeah. But how? He says she hypnotized him.” Richard pursed his lips, staring into his wineglass. “But I couldn’t wake him.”

  “Something did.”

  Richard thought about it. “The cat.”

  “He loves that cat. He’s connected to it,” she amended. “He doesn’t connect with you—on a psychic level.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  Richard thought back to when he’d first met Krista, some six or eight months before. The clinic where he volunteered had sponsored an open house. One of the other doctors on staff had introduced him to the cool blonde. He’d been impressed by her competent, self-assured demeanor, her ready laugh, and her resemblance to Esca.

  Was that the reason he’d trusted her—because she reminded him so vividly of his ex-lover? He’d lived with Esca Borgstrom for three years, a lifetime before he met Brenda. He would have married her, but the institution was too archaic and restrictive for the cool Swede. She missed her homeland, and she hadn’t fallen for him like he’d fallen for her.

  Brenda’s down-to-earth personality and her loving heart had rescued him from a year-long depression. He seldom thought of Esca . . . except when he looked at Krista Marsh.

  Brenda eyed him quizzically. “What’s really bothering you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “That in a week she ‘cured’ his headaches, and in over a year you couldn’t?”

  Richard swirled the last of the wine in his glass. “I’m skeptical of the term ‘cure.’ Although, Krista has worked with chronic pain patients before. And she’s been running on grant money . . . .”

  “Perhaps she’s come up with a new therapy.”

  “Perhaps,” Richard murmured, and gulped the wine. “I think I’ll have a talk with her.”

  “I thought you said that would be interfering?”

  “It doesn’t have to be about Jeff.”

  “Uh-huh,” Brenda muttered.

  Richard frowned. “What are you thinking?”

  Brenda went back to work on her needlepoint. “Watch yourself. She’s a trickster.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  Richard watched her needle slide in and out of the canvas. Long before he learned to believe in Jeff’s intuitive flashes, he’d trusted Brenda’s hunches. And he had faith in this one, too.

  It was after ten and the bar was hopping when Krista finally returned my third call. Tom handed me the cordless phone and I cradled it on my shoulder as I mixed a daiquiri.

  “Jeff—it’s Krista. You called?”

  “Yeah. What the hell happened today?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I turned away from the customers, lowering my voice. “You hypnotized me at noon—and I woke up at eight tonight in my
own bed. What happened in those missing hours?”

  Silence.

  Finally, “You left my office just before one,” Krista said. “I walked you to your car. You said something about taking a nap when you got home. Don’t you remember?”

  My anger twisted back to concern. I placed a napkin and the drink before my customer, picking up the five dollar bill. “No.”

  “You sound upset. Do you want me to come over? We can talk about it.”

  “I’m at work.”

  “Then how about lunch tomorrow? You did invite me.”

  I vaguely remembered that. “Okay.” She picked a place and said she’d meet me there.

  “I’d better let you go now, Jeff. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I hung up the phone and finished making change, setting it down in front of my customer. Then I turned to see my old high school buddy sitting at the far end of the bar.

  “Hey, how’re things in the newspaper biz?” I asked, my voice sounding calmer than I felt.

  “You left me a message,” Sam Nielsen said by way of greeting.

  We’d first met in ninth grade at Amherst Central High: Sam was Mr. Cool, I was a nerd. We’d worked together on the yearbook staff. I was a photographer, he worked his way up to editor. I wasn’t sure we were ever friends, but knowing someone on staff at The Buffalo News had served me well. And the story tips I’d given Sam during the past year or so hadn’t hurt him, either.

  “Buy you a drink?” I asked.

  Sam smiled, smoothing a hand over his balding pate. “Now I know it’s love and not just my good looks.”

  “Grow up.” I put Krista out of my mind and poured him a beer. “I’ve got a favor to ask.” I set a new bowl of pretzels in front of him as added insurance. “I need some info on a guy.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Not business—and definitely not pleasure.”

  “Oh, then this is just the warm up?” Sam proffered his glass. “What’s in it for me?”

  “Lunch?”

  “Hardly an inducement. If there’s a story behind this, I want it.”

  “No story. I mean, nothing I’m investigating. It’s personal.” How could I say it without sounding like a jealous lover—or some kind of maniacal stalker? “A friend of mine is involved with this guy, and I don’t want to see her get hurt.”