by Andrew Kane
It was Lemieux who stood beside Barbie, supervising his Vichy underlings in assisting the Gestapo’s capture of forty-four children and seven adults, all of whom were sent to Drancy. One child escaped during the raid, and one adult was captured but managed to survive. Of the rest, forty-two children and five adults were gassed at Auschwitz-Birkenau, while two other children and the superintendent of the home were executed by a firing squad in Estonia.
The last part of the dossier contained the case against Jacques Benoît, tracing Benoît’s roots back to Lemieux and presenting compelling, though circumstantial, evidence that the two men were one and the same. It also contained some early photographs of Benoît, accentuating the similarities to the picture of Lemieux.
Martin placed the pages on his desk and looked at the clock. He had gotten so engrossed in the dossier, he hadn’t noticed that his patient was already half an hour late. He knew that at any second, he would hear her enter the waiting room, and he also knew that the last thing he was capable of doing right now was conducting a therapy session. He was thankful that the session would be short.
He opened his address book for the phone numbers of his remaining patients for the morning. He picked up the phone and started dialing, realizing that, in his fifteen years of practice, the only other time he had cancelled patients was immediately after the deaths of Katherine and Ethan. He continued dialing, gazing again at the papers on his desk and thinking that, once he finished these calls, he would first have to deal with whoever had left this for him.
chapter 45
Dan Gifford looked up from his desk at his secretary standing in the doorway. Over an hour ago, he had given her firm instructions: no calls, no interruptions. Less than a week away from the trial of his career, he’d gotten sidetracked on this Nazi business to the point where he was far behind, and he desperately needed to get up to speed. Yet, here she was; no doubt about to tell him something that would distract him once again.
“Yes,” he said, drawing out the word as if to appear mildly annoyed.
She grinned at his seemliness. “There’s a man here who says he has to see you. Says if I told you who he was, you’d want to…”
“And who might he be?”
“Martin Rosen.”
Gifford was stunned. “Martin Rosen?”
“Should I show him in?”
“Yes… please.”
The few seconds between the secretary’s slipping away and reappearing with Martin Rosen passed like a flash in Gifford’s mind, leaving him no time to gather his thoughts.
Martin entered the office looking weary. Gifford also had to admit that he was discomfited, even though he was on his own turf. Martin took a seat in front of Gifford’s desk. Neither of them spoke until the secretary left.
“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, Dan,” Martin said.
“No, Doc, don’t be sorry. If I seem a little…” Gifford struggled to find the right word.
“Surprised?” Martin said.
“Yeah, surprised. It’s only because this is… I mean, you, my shrink, coming to my office. It’s unusual.”
“Yes, it is,” Martin reflected. “I know I’m breaking all the rules by being here, but it seems a lot of unusual things are happening these days.”
Gifford leaned back in his chair. “Rules are sometimes meant to be broken.”
“I was going to call you instead of coming by, but I thought it would be best to do this in person.”
“Do what?”
“Talk about the contents of the envelope.”
“Envelope? What envelope?”
Martin appeared bewildered. “You mean you didn’t leave a manila envelope for me under my door?”
“Why would you think I did?” Gifford stopped, considered what was happening, then added, “Unless the envelope contained something concerning what we talked about.”
Martin suddenly stood up. “Look, Dan, I’m sorry I barged in on you like this.”
Gifford gestured to the chair. “Doc, sit!”
“I can’t. I really must leave. In fact, I should never have done this in the first place. It was very unprofessional of me.”
“Look, Doc. Whatever is going on, I would guess that nobody could handle it in a strictly ‘professional’ way. I can assure you that whoever sits up there in that ivory tower and mandates professional conduct never had this scenario in mind. Now you know exactly what I’m talking about, and if I’m right, you need help.”
Martin considered Gifford’s point. “Dan, I like you and I respect you, and I don’t want it to seem like I’m putting you off. But you have to understand, in the relationship that you and I have, it is my job to help you, not the other way around.”
“Forget that relationship stuff, Doc, it’s all bull,” Gifford said, becoming more animated. “The only reason you’ve helped me is because of who you are, not what you are. The fact that you’re the shrink and I’m the patient is incidental as far as I see it. The fact that you’re a good guy who I trust and respect is what it’s all about. And now you’re telling me you can’t trust me? What am I supposed to do with that?”
“You’re right, Dan, about most of what you said, but you’re wrong about my not trusting you. As for your claim to trust me, that’s exactly what I’m asking you to do.”
“You’re asking me to let you handle this by yourself, even though it’s clear that you’re in over your head?”
“I’m obviously not alone.”
“Yeah,” Gifford said, sighing. “It would seem you’re not.”
Martin turned toward the door. “I know that this whole thing is bound to impact your therapy,” he said. “It would be sad to see that end, but if you’re having second thoughts about continuing with me, I’ll understand.”
Gifford stood up and faced Martin eye to eye. “The only thing I’m having second thoughts about, Doc, is your ability to handle this thing without me.”
“Like I said, Dan, you’ll just have to trust me on that one.”
“I guess I have no choice,” Gifford said, seemingly resigned. He held his hand out for Martin, and the two men shook. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gifford added, referring to his next session.
Martin responded with a slight but heartfelt smile, then turned and left.
Driving along the Long Island Expressway, Martin was infuriated with himself. He had acted impetuously, jumping to conclusions about Dan Gifford and going to Gifford’s office. And he had placed his professional relationship with Gifford in jeopardy. Sure, Gifford’s ability to rationalize professionalism out of the picture was compelling, but for Martin it wasn’t that easy. Too much of who he was was wrapped up in what he was.
He thought about tomorrow, confident that Gifford would indeed show and that they would somehow get back on track with what they were supposed to be doing together. Then he thought about Benoît. He already knew how he was going to deal with that; he had come to his decision the moment he had finished the dossier. Gifford was certainly right about one thing: “Whoever sits up there in that ivory tower and mandates professional conduct never had this scenario in mind.”
As for now, there was still the matter of who had slipped the manila envelope under his door. It could have been the FBI or the Israelis, but why would they want to involve him? What could they have had in mind?
His first hypothesis was that perhaps his office was bugged, and they were hoping he would confront Benoît, who in turn would confess. But that was unlikely; such evidence would never be admissible in a court of law. A patient’s privilege of confidentiality, as Martin had pointed out in his own book, was actually rooted in the Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination. Things divulged to therapists, lawyers and clergy were thus deemed “protected” precisely because they had the potential to be self-incriminating.
So what could their intent have
been?
Between this, and last night with Cheryl, Martin’s head was in disarray, a state that he loathed more than anything in the world. He felt lost, almost paralyzed, until suddenly, something struck him.
He replayed his last conversation with Cheryl:
“Marty… I’m one of those people.”
“What people?”
“People who pretend to be what they aren’t.”
“I wasn’t talking about you.”
“But you were.”
At once, the events of the past few weeks flashed through his mind:
Meeting her the same time he had met Benoît.
His sense from his first time in her apartment that something was amiss.
Never being able to reach her at her workplace.
Last night’s scene.
This morning’s delivery.
A harrowing picture was taking form as a nauseated feeling began raging through his gut. He sensed himself about to lose control, and pulled the car over to the shoulder of the highway. He sat there for minutes, trying to collect himself, wondering if this was all mere coincidence, if the stress was making him paranoid.
In the end, only one thing was clear: there weren’t too many people he could trust. And, for the first time in his life, it wasn’t clear to him if he, himself, was among them.
He placed the car in drive and eased his way back into the right lane. It was time to learn the truth.
chapter 46
Ashok Reddy was roused by the sound of his beeper. The meeting came to a halt as he pulled it from his belt and read the message: Urgent, call Marty Rosen, 363-3640, ASAP.
In truth, he was relieved. He hated these departmental meetings. It was always the same agenda: tightening the budget, filling beds, losing positions. A futile battle to show some stability in a system where it was inevitable for hospitals to lose money. It simply had to be that way, so long as health care was controlled by Wall Street’s profit-driven insurance industry, and there was nothing Reddy, nor a thousand departmental meetings, could do about it.
He looked at the others in the room. The hospital’s chief administrator and his colleagues from other departments all wore their jealousy as he gathered his things together. “I’m sorry, folks. Seems I have a clinical emergency to attend to.”
The meeting continued as if he were already gone. He stood up, his files in hand, and slipped out the door.
Martin Rosen answered his cellular on the first ring. “Ashok?”
“You pulled me out of a meeting.”
“Then you owe me.”
Reddy chuckled. “Is everything all right?”
“Not really. I need to see you.”
Reddy looked at his watch. He knew that if Martin was calling him like this, it was important. “When can you be here?”
“I’m on the Expressway, just past the Douglaston exit. I’d say ten minutes.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“Thanks.”
Too wound up to sit still, Martin paced as he spoke, noticing Reddy’s skepticism grow with every word.
“You mean to tell me you believe there’s a connection between Cheryl and this patient you have been talking about?” Reddy asked.
“I know it sounds crazy.”
“Paranoid is more the word that comes to mind.”
Martin nodded. He couldn’t completely deny the point. “But there are just too many coincidences.”
“I will grant you that. You do seem to have an interesting life.”
Martin stood still, leaned over the desk, and looked at his friend. “I want you to hypnotize me, like you offered. I’m certain I saw something in her apartment that night. I saw it when I first got there and must have buried it in my unconscious. Then, whatever it was must have come out in my dream. And as I was leaving, it hit me again, still buried but closer to the surface.”
Reddy looked askance at him.
“You know that such things can happen!” Martin said.
“In movies, mostly.”
“Ashok!”
“You really think that whatever you saw will solve this mystery for you?”
“I can’t know that until we find out what it was.”
Reddy pondered a moment. “Okay, I will do it. I might even learn your deepest, darkest secrets.”
“You already know them,” Martin uttered.
Martin sat comfortably in the chair, awaiting his instructions. A skilled hypnotist in his own right, he knew that erasing his own preconceptions from his mind was the key to his success as a subject. At least, as much as he was able.
“Now, I want you to take deep but gentle breaths, inhaling all the way down into your diaphragm,” Reddy said in a slow, measured tone.
Martin complied.
“And as you do, I want you to focus on relaxing your body and your mind. Let each breath be as a wave of energy flowing through you, and every time you exhale, you will feel yourself releasing that energy and sinking ever so slightly into the chair.”
Reddy waited a beat to assess Martin’s reaction.
“Now, Marty,” he continued, “I want you to look up at the ceiling, and I want you to pick a spot on the ceiling and stare at it.”
Martin raised his eyes and searched for a spot.
Reddy waited until he saw Martin’s eyes fixed. “Good,” he said. “Now, keep focusing on your breathing and on the spot you have chosen, and just try to relax. You don’t have to think about anything. You don’t even have to concentrate on what I say. Nothing should interfere with your breathing and staring. And remember, each time you exhale, you will feel yourself sinking deeper and deeper.”
Reddy waited again, allowing Martin time to get into it.
“All right, Marty, there is one more thing I want you to do. Continue focusing on your breathing. Continue staring at the spot. And as you exhale, as you feel yourself sinking even deeper and deeper into the chair, I want you to count backwards from 100, so that each time you exhale, you go down one more number, taking yourself deeper and deeper, bringing yourself closer to zero.
“Now, remember, there are only three things you must do. Breathe deep but gentle breaths, stare at the spot, and count backwards each time you exhale. And as you do this, you will feel yourself sinking even deeper and deeper into the chair, into a state in which you will be perfectly responsive to my suggestions…”
Reddy reiterated his instructions a few more times until he saw that Martin was out. He then induced a state of analgesia in Martin’s right hand by having Martin imagine the hand sitting in a bucket of ice for a few minutes. He opened his desk drawer, removed a safety pin, unlatched it as he walked over to Martin, and gently poked the hand. When he saw no response, he poked a bit harder, and still Martin remained impervious. Just to make sure, he then pinched Martin’s hand tightly. Observing not even a flinch on Martin’s face, Reddy was convinced his subject was ready.
“Marty, I want you to take yourself back to that first night you were in Cheryl’s home. I want you to use your mind as if it were a camera. Picture everything just as it was. From the moment you enter, the color of the walls, the type of floor, the details of the furnishings and pictures. Focus the lens of your camera so that everything is crystal clear. Can you see it?”
“Yes,” Martin answered.
“Good. Tell me where you are.”
“In the foyer.”
Reddy noted that Martin’s words flowed slowly and deliberately, just as they should. “Describe it to me.”
“It’s a small hallway. Wood floor, a bit beat-up. The walls are linen, or dark white. No pictures, just a welcome mat and a closet.” Martin stopped for a second. “A full-length mirror on the outside of the closet door.”
“Good, Marty, you are doing well. Now, where did you go next?”
; “Living room.”
“Describe it.”
“The floor is still wood, covered by an area rug. It’s checkered, black and… it looks black and brown.”
“Go on.”
“Ordinary furniture, a couch and a love seat. They’re beige, like the walls. And a coffee table, a darker wood, like redwood. Doesn’t look like real wood. Same for the end tables.” Martin stopped for a moment as if he were looking around in his mind. “There’s art. Posters. Famous artists. I’ve seen them before.”
“Is there anything unusual about them?”
“No.” He hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay, is there anything else?”
“Yes, there’s a… bookcase,” Martin answered, his voice growing tremulous.
“What about the bookcase?”
Martin hesitated. “Strange.”
“Strange in what way?”
“Also fake wood. Resembles walnut. Build-it-yourself sort of stuff.”
“Is that what bothers you?”
“No,” Martin responded tentatively.
“Then what?”
“Books.”
“What about the books, Marty?” Reddy noted the strain in his own voice, admonishing himself to remain calm.
“There are some hardcovers. Mostly paperbacks. Just there.”
“What do you mean by just there?”
“No sense.”
“No sense?”
“They make no sense.”
“The books make no sense?”
“No particular themes or interest. Just there.”
“As if someone just found a bunch of books and put them together?”
“Yes,” Martin said. He stopped again for a moment. “Something else.”
“There’s something else that bothers you?”
“The books.”
“What else about the books bothers you?”
Martin’s hands began to tremor. “The paperbacks… not read.”
“The paperbacks weren’t read?”
“None.”