His Fantasy

by Sheila Kell

  “I want to reiterate, so you’re not disappointed, that we’ll do regressive therapy, but you might not regress back to the actual event today. It may take a few sessions.”

  Before she could move on, he said, “But I’m more than willing to find the memory, no matter the cost to my ego.”

  She smiled. “We’ll see how today goes. As adults though, we have hundreds of defense mechanisms that prevent us from going into the depths of our woundings, like fear. What if I remember something I don’t want to or don’t like it?”

  Yes, he had that fear, but he’d keep it aside. Willingness, he reminded himself. “I’m sure I have some of these defense mechanisms, but I want it more than I don’t.”

  “Also, the more desperate you are, the harder it will be to retrieve the memory. Look at it like this, you lose your car keys in your house and begin a frantic search but can’t find them. When you slow down and focus, relaxing your mind into it, releasing that fear of not finding them, then”—she snapped her fingers—“you’ll remember that you had them in the kitchen and you’ll find them there.”

  He almost snorted out loud at that. He’d lost his keys a time or two. Sunglasses too. But the being desperate part worried him because he was a little bit desperate to know. He had to lose that emotion somehow to make this successful. But how? Yet he didn’t ask it out loud. He’d ditch it and make this work.

  “Remember, you’ll know you’re in the room, but you’ll be working dual consciousness. In this state, you won’t do or say anything you normally wouldn’t do. Those stage-show hypnotist acts are a sham when they have someone act like a chicken. Unless the person is craving that attention and acts like it on their own.”

  He chuckled at that, having seen one such show while in Vegas, and the person had acted like a chicken.

  “Well, let’s get you into a deep state—a trance,” Paula said. “The moment you close your eyes, your brain waves begin to slow. The depth of your trance depends upon your willingness. Since you are so willing, let’s begin. Lie down on the couch and get comfortable.”

  It felt awkward to put his shoes on the couch, but he thought it might be more awkward if he took them off. So, he laid on his back, his hands resting on his belly. Lying out like this, he felt like a fool and was anxious for this to work the first time.

  He didn’t hold the fear of being shamed or judged because that had already happened to him. He’d lost everything, and everyone involved believed he had truly done the deed with the prostitute and then refused to pay her. So that worry was unnecessary, and the potential barrier Paula had spoken of was not going to impact today’s session.

  “Okay then, let’s start with eye fixation. Stare straight ahead at the ceiling and focus.” She paused for a minute or two, allowing him to fixate. “Then take some deep breaths and close your eyes.”

  He did and instantly felt his mind slow as she’d said.

  “Next we’ll do induction. I’m going to bring you down. Imagine yourself walking down some stairs or a hillside. Something that takes you down. I’m going to count down from ten, and I want you to imagine you are taking that step. Ten,” she said, in a calm, hypnotic voice. “See yourself taking that step. Nine. Feel your body begin to relax. Eight—”

  As a visual person, Brad could see himself walking down a green hillside, and his body felt heavier, as if he were actually walking. By the time she’d counted to one, Brad had sighed, a deep relaxing breath, and had settled completely, feeling like he was in another world that was so calm and therapeutic.

  “Go to your favorite place. A safe place.”

  Immediately his mind went to being in bed with Madison. Maybe he was supposed to think of the beach or mountains, but his favorite place involved being with her.

  “Really let all of your senses be there. Notice the temperature, the colors, the texture.”

  Visualizing the scene, he felt his arms wrap around her soft, toned body, his hands touching every sweet inch of her. His lips doing the same. Her intoxicating scent and delicious, sweet lips. Damn, this was a great place to be. “It’s perfect here,” he muttered.

  “Good. Keep that place in your mind.”

  Not like he’d have a problem with that, although he’d prefer the real thing.

  “Now we’re going to do anchoring. I want you to put your thumb and forefinger together.”

  He did as asked, knowing this was important.

  “Good. Now, anytime you use this exercise, your body will relax, and you’ll take on the experience of your safe place. The more you practice it, the better you’ll get at it.”

  He didn’t have a problem with going back to that happy place at any time.

  “We’re going to begin the regressive therapy now. You might recall that on the phone I told you we tied it to an emotional state.”

  When he’d awakened in Columbia, he’d been bewildered. So he told her that. But that memory was after he was conscious, so he went to how he’d felt before he forgot everything. He and a few of his fellow agents were at a bar, and he’d been frustrated trying to fend off one prostitute after another. “I was frustrated before it all began.”

  “Good,” she said in that still hypnotic voice. “Now, imagine we’re going to take a journey between consciousness and subconscious. We have to cross a bridge to get there. The planks in the bridge are thoughts, feelings, words, any experiences that we have. Let’s go to the most recent time you were frustrated.”

  He automatically jumped back to when Madison left his bed in Vegas. That might not have been the most recent time he was frustrated, but it was strong. “A woman—my woman,” he clarified, “left my bed without a word or backward glance.” A realization that he’d said it out loud and hadn’t worried what the therapist said calmed him even more.

  “Hold onto that a minute.” She paused, and he frowned. “Now, let yourself go back to that significant time in your life where you felt that same level of frustration.”

  Going back to Columbia, before he blacked out, was the easy part. He remembered that daily. But the memory still wasn’t there. Then he saw a flash. “I’ve a flash of being at the bar after we’d fended off the prostitutes.”

  “Flashes are good. What are you feeling right there when you have that flash?”

  “Relief.”

  “Okay, now we’re going to step right into the image of that flash. Walk right into that bar. Tell me what you see. What do you hear?”

  Anxiety tried to rip through his body and take him away from where he wanted to be, but he pushed most of it off. She’d told him he’d feel some anxiety, so he figured it was futile to lose it all.

  “Some agents and I were at the bar. It smelled of cigarette smoke and sweaty bodies, like they might not clean the place often. But the dive was close to our hotel rooms and reasonably cheap for beer.”

  “Who was there with you?”

  “My supervisor and two other agents. We’re at the bar toasting to our ability to clear the way for the president in record time.”

  “What happens next? Are you still there? Does anything change?”

  Although relaxed, he felt his brows draw down in concentration. She’d said it might not come today, but he wouldn’t give up on the chance. What had happened?

  “I needed to take a piss, so I walked toward the crappy bathrooms in the place.” He paused, imagining himself walking past the bar and the other agents toward where tables and booths had been set up for maximum capacity. “It was slow and pretty quiet in there. There wasn’t any background music and no televisions over the bar to make more noise. It was mostly agents in there… and prostitutes.”

  “Tell me about your walk to the bathroom.”

  “My feet suctioned off the floor, telling me they didn’t clean them often enough. I was just about to enter the hallway when I noticed one of my shoes was untied, so I knelt down beside a booth that led into the hallways and—”

  She didn’t prod him any further. She’d promised she’d only
guide him not push him to recall something that might not be fact. So he waited and tried again to picture himself kneeling down on one knee to tie his black tennis shoes.

  “I heard….” He trailed off, lost in the memory. He didn’t speak out loud what he’d overheard two people discussing. It was a memory that would turn into a big scandal, and who would believe him—a now disgraced Secret Service agent? But someone’s life could be in the balance. He had to come forward.

  “I remember overhearing something I don’t wish to repeat.”

  “That’s fine. I told you in the beginning you choose. Is that all you wish to recall?”

  “No. I want to know about the prostitute.”

  “Okay. Slip into what you did after you overheard this conversation.”

  “I felt shaky and unnerved, but I made it to the bathroom. By the time I returned, I was stronger though still overwhelmed with what I should do. My supervisor handed me a beer when I returned, and I took it. A good cold beer helped to calm my mind.

  “I drank about half and started to feel weird. Like I’d have felt if I’d been drugged. It must’ve occurred to me something was wrong because I asked who bought the round, and when he told me, I looked toward the now empty booth. I’d known they’d drugged me, and I was scared of the reason why. I hurried from the bar before something could happen to me where I’d be incapable of taking care of myself.”

  He took in a deep, steadying breath. “I made it to the hotel—it was walking distance from the bar—and ensured my door was locked and my weapon handy. I couldn’t say that something would happen, but I wanted to be prepared.

  “I got dizzy and lay down on the bed.” He remembered toeing off his shoes and undressing for bed. “Then I woke in the morning with someone else in the room.”

  “When you were asleep, were you aware of anything around you? Feeling? Sounds? Tones of voices? Or were you in a deep sleep?”

  “I was out cold. I don’t even remember the door opening for someone to enter or anyone crawling into my bed. Wait,” he said, his mind bringing everything together. “I left the bar alone, which means that I didn’t take home a prostitute. I was set up to be disgraced. If I’d been killed, the president’s visit would have been canceled, which would’ve opened up a bigger problem.”

  “What about when you woke?”

  “I remember that, and now I remember it all.”

  “Okay, let’s bring you back. Go back to your safe place and tell me something about you that you know is true.”

  This was where they entered the healing section where they would correct his doubts about his memory or his behaviors. For him though, all doubt was gone. “I know what I heard was true. And even while drugged, I’m an honorable man.” He’d never doubt himself again.

  “Brad, I’m going to count from one to five. At five, you’ll come back to the room feeling refreshed, relaxed, and empowered. One—feeling the energy coming back into your body. Two—lots and lots of energy. Three—wiggle your fingers and stretch your toes. Four—feel yourself coming all the way back in. Five—eyes open and wide awake.”

  He suddenly felt the pull of the world on him, yet he was relaxed and calm, ready to tackle anything that got in his path. But he wanted to see Madison even more.

  “How do you feel?” Paula asked.

  “Like the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders,” he answered. Yet he knew he had to act quickly. In light of recent events, he knew his memory was important to the person it affected.

  “Well, you were right about your willingness. It got you there, which is unlike most clients. Very few regress and recall in the first session. I should’ve asked you this before, but do you ever meditate?”

  He did and didn’t feel embarrassed to say. “I started a couple of years ago when my anger got the best of me.”

  “That’s another factor that helped you. Never give meditation up.”

  He wouldn’t lose this feeling of peace. His anger, that had once been at the world, had just transferred to a few people. He wouldn’t allow them to ruin the peace he’d just embraced.

  “I won’t.” Now to go kick some ass and reinstate his good name.

  DURING THE DRIVE home, Brad didn’t discuss with Madison what had been revealed during his session. He needed to think it through. The revelation that he’d heard someone plotting murder stuck with him and set his anger to rising. Yet they hadn’t committed murder. But he was more than aware now was the perfect time for them to do so.

  At first, he had to wonder whether it was a true memory or something his psyche had dreamed up. Who’d believe him? But like the therapist had said, why would he make that up?

  In Columbia, he’d heard Senator Brett Walden and his campaign manager, Thomas Hancock, discussing how the senator’s wife—a new senator herself—had become more popular than her husband in her short time in office and how they could use that to their advantage in the future. Since Senator Brett Walden had lost the bid to the presidency, they had come up with a plan for the next run. Have Senator Sharon Walden run and, when she got the ticket—and she probably would being popular and female—Senator Brett Walden would stay by her side—prime in the public eye. Then they’d have her killed, and with the outpouring of sympathy, Senator Brett Walden would assume her bid as the aggrieved husband taking up his wife’s charge for the people she’d so full-heartedly represented.

  A ludicrous plan. And risky. But people who weren’t regularly criminals couldn’t be expected to make foolproof plans. And maybe it had only been the drink talking. They had been in a bar in Columbia. The Senator having come to try to one-up the incumbent president who would arrive shortly. Yeah, it had to be the alcohol talking. No one would think up such a stupid plan. Would they?

  The questions were what was he to do with the information? And did they have something to do with trying to erase his memory and discredit him? It only made sense they had only two ways of handling him—besides ignoring it—kill him or discredit him so no one would believe whatever he said, thinking he was trying to worm himself out of whatever trouble they imparted upon him.

  He guessed he should be thankful they didn’t kill him, but damn if he’d tell them that.

  His first instinct was to drive to Jesse’s and tell him everything. Even with Madison with him, and Ken and Sam following, it didn’t stop him from making the drive to his brother’s home. Jesse had a level head—when Kate’s safety wasn’t involved—and could help him figure out what to do with the information he now possessed.

  “Where are we going?” Madison asked him from the passenger seat.

  Realizing he hadn’t shared his plan with her, he grimaced. “We’re going to Jesse’s. I need to go through what I learned with him.”

  “Are you going to share anything with me?” she asked.

  He had no reason to keep it from her, so he went ahead and told her. “I overheard Senator Brett Walden and his campaign manager plotting to kill the senator’s wife when she ran for president.”

  Struck speechless, Madison formed a big O. “Are you sure?”

  Getting on the interstate, he nodded. “Very sure. It was right after the senator lost his party’s presidential bid. Her popularity was so high people were asking for her to run. That’s what made them come up with a cockamamy plan.”

  “Why would they kill her? That doesn’t make sense if she had a chance of winning. Think of it, the first woman president.”

  “Ah, see there’s the rub. Senator Brett Walden didn’t want to be first gentleman. He wanted to be president however he could get there. They figured once she was so popular that she’d sewn up the bid, they’d take her out and have him, as the grieving widower, slip into her slot and finally win the presidency.”

  “That doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “It doesn’t to me either because there are too many what-ifs in the scenario. But not all politicians are as sharp as my dad.”

  “So why aren’t we going to the police with
this?”

  He hadn’t thought police, only HIS, but she was right that they’d need to tell them and the Secret Service and the FBI. But he had no idea if they’d even believe him. Would his word be enough to convict the two for planning the murder? They had to find evidence. Yet, he couldn’t sit back and wait for them to make another move—the town car accident and shooting had already been an attempt on the senator’s life. It would be months before the senator’s wife could sew up the nomination. Brad couldn’t stand it that long, always wondering if today would be the day.

  Remembering she’d asked him a question, he glanced at her and smiled. “We will, but first I want to go through it with Jesse.”

  “Why? If the police are who you need, why Jesse?”

  Why indeed? Brad knew he was too emotionally charged with this and needed a level head to guide him through the bureaucracy of the government, so he didn’t lose his temper. “Because I trust Jesse to be objective. I don’t think I can be. Plus, there’s only my word. No evidence to support my claim.”

  “Of course you can trust yourself. Who’d expect otherwise?”

  She was one hell of a woman. How did he get so lucky? “Well, I’m not very objective when you’re involved either.”

  She snorted, probably thinking of that day at the club when he’d gone all “alpha male,” as she’d called it. Damn straight he had.

  “They really want to kill her?” she asked.

  “That’s what they’d said. Whether they’d actually do it… I don’t know, but that attempt on her life says someone is serious about it.”

  “I can’t believe it.” She folded her arms over her chest, as if to ward off a chill. “It all sounds like a murder mystery.”

  He reached across the console and clasped her hand in his. “It does. A very bad one.”