“Exactly,” I said. “Sorry if I seem a little tense. This is all very new to me. I’m not used to giving up control.”
“Aha, but you won’t be,” Fechter said. “A gross misconception on the part of the lay public. You don’t give up control. You take control when hypnotized.”
“I didn’t realize that,” I said. “That’s good to hear. And if I am able to take control of my writing, the block will disappear.”
“Exactly,” they said in unison.
Fechter nonchalantly lowered the lights and the blinds, making the room seem small and safe.
“Mrs. Fletcher, I want you to roll your eyes up again, hold them there, and lower your eyelids,” Meti said. He’d pulled his chair to my side, and had placed his fingers lightly on my right arm. I did as I was told. “That’s right,” he said. “Breathe easily, in and out. With each breath you will feel lighter and more buoyant.”
I felt as though I was back on the stage in Boston, with Carson James inducing my hypnotic trance. Go along with it, Jess, I silently told myself. But keep your mind sharp, no matter what they tell you to do. Pretend to be a good subject. But you can fight it. Maintain control.
“Now, you are feeling sleepy. It’s a pleasant sensation.” Meti’s voice was smooth and modulated, his Hungarian accent adding to its soothing effect.
He did what Carson James had done, asked me to imagine that my right arm was attached to helium-filled balloons, and would rise into the air. Which it did. Easy to go along with that suggestion. No harm in raising my arm, which had become delightfully light, a feather floating in the air.
As Meti continued with his soothing instructions, my body relaxed completely. It was an extremely pleasant state in which to be, no cares, no tension, only the drone of his voice repeating things over and over.
Somewhere, somehow, in this blissful state, I reminded myself to conduct a reality check. I saw that O’Neill and Fechter were sitting in their chairs and watching me. I certainly knew where I was, and what I was doing. I’m being hypnotized, I told myself. Or, at least, they think I’m being hypnotized.
Meti talked to me about how my difficulty with writing was now a thing of the past. He went into my status as a best-selling author, the faith my publisher and agent had in me, the eager anticipation by millions of readers for my next book. It was all very comforting, especially when he had me “leave” the chair, and sit in front of my word processor at home. My fingers moved fluidly over the keyboard as the words, the scenes poured out. There was no writer’s block in this altered state of consciousness. I was the productive writer I’d always been. I no longer had reason to fear the word processor, to feel a prisoner in a cell staring at a blank wall, a blank screen. “It will be helpful, Mrs. Fletcher, for you to be able to experience on your own, in your home, what has happened here today. All the positive feelings and thoughts you now enjoy must be reinforced on a regular basis. Will you do that? Practice what you have learned here today?”
“Practice?” I said. I was aware that the word was slurred as it left my lips. I also knew that I was smiling, at what I knew not.
“Yes, practice,” said Meti. “To help you, I am going to give you this computer disk. On it, all the positive reinforcement you need has been recorded. I want you to put this disk in your computer once each day, beginning tonight. I want you to turn on your computer, place the disk in the drive, and follow the instructions on it. Will you do that for me—for you?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Good. Now, you are going to slowly leave your pleasant state of weightlessness and be yourself again, right in this room with Dr. O’Neill, Dr. Fechter, and me. But before you do, there is something vitally important for you to understand, and to believe. You are not just one person, Mrs. Fletcher. You are two people.”
“I am?” My voice had a dreamy quality to it. I knew that, but couldn’t inject steel into it, as much as I would have liked to.
“Yes. You are two people. There is the talented, productive writer, Jessica Fletcher. And there is the destructive Jessica Fletcher that wishes to destroy your career.”
“Oh.”
“The difficulties you have been experiencing in your writing is the evil work of that other person who resides within you. It is that person who has caused you so much pain, and who threatens your career, your very life.”
“I—”
“You must rid yourself of that destructive person.”
“I—must—rid—myself—of—that—destructive—person.”
“That’s right, Mrs. Fletcher. You must get rid of that person forever.”
“I will.”
“Exactly. Now, I am going to guide you back to this room, to your friends. And as I do, I am going to give you a present.”
A small, soft leather bag was placed in my left hand. I lifted it. It felt heavy.
“I have given you the means to salvage your career and your life, Mrs. Fletcher. You can use it to ensure that this evil, jealous person living inside you is no longer able to threaten you.”
“Is it a gun?” I asked.
“Yes. Your very own gun. But you musn’t use it except to defend yourself against the bad Jessica Fletcher.”
“How will I know—?”
“I have developed a plan for you that will make it easy for you to know when she is present in your life. I am going to give you this disk for your computer. From it, you will see my words on the screen, the same words I have spoken to you here today. It is important that you play that disk once each day, as a reinforcement of the valuable lessons and skills I have taught you. By doing this, you will have me with you at all times, to help you overcome this other person.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“My thanks will come when you no longer fear the dark force in your life. I want you to begin counting backward, from one to ten. Do it slowly. As you do, you will begin to shift into a consciousness of the here and now.”
“Ten, nine—”
“You will remember nothing of what has happened here today. But you will also recognize that when you see, or hear, the word ‘artiste,’ you will know the evil Jessica has emerged. And you will do away with her for once and for all. You will put the gun to her head and pull the trigger. You will kill her.”
“... eight, seven—yes, I will kill her—six, five, four, three, two, one.”
“Hello, Jessica,” Michael O’Neill said.
“Hello,” I said, stretching my arms and legs in front of me, and giving out with a big, prolonged yawn.
“How are you feeling?” Fechter asked.
“Sleepy. So sleepy.”
“And you’ll sleep well tonight,” said O’Neill. “What do you have there?”
“Oh, this? Dr. Meti gave it to me. A present.” I placed the bag containing the gun in my large purse, which rested at the side of my chair.
“Do you know what time it is?” Meti asked.
“No,” I said. I assumed I’d been under hypnosis for only a few minutes. But a large clock above O’Neill said I’d been there for almost two hours.
“How about some lunch?” O’Neill asked, standing.
“Sounds wonderful,” I said. “Goodbye, Dr. Meti. Dr. Fechter. Thank you for a lovely experience.”
I called Seth Hazlitt after lunch and asked if he was free to pick me up. He arrived twenty minutes later.
“Feeling all right, Jessica?” Seth asked as he escorted me into my house.
“Yes. I feel fine. Just sleepy. A bad sleep last night. Strange place and bed and all. I think I’ll take a nap.”
“Whatever you say. By the way, did you find out anything about Huffaker while you were there?”
“No. But I found out a lot about myself.”
“I see. Well, have yourself twenty winks. Give me a call later this afternoon, or evening?”
“Of course. And this time I promise to remember.” We both laughed. He kissed my cheek and left. I went straight to my bedroom and, without bothering t
o undress, was asleep in minutes.
The house was cold when I awoke. Darkness had set in, although there was still a faint glow on the horizon. The day’s rain had turned to ice on the trees and power lines, and made the sidewalks and roads hazardous.
I boosted the heat, went to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, and to go through Saturday’s mail that Jason had left on the counter. Nothing interesting, with the exception of a short note from my publisher, Vaughan Buckley, hoping that I was riding out the winter in good fashion, and suggesting that I visit New York in the spring for a conference on my next work.
I carried my tea into my office where I’d dropped my overnight bag, and Norm’s laptop computer upon returning from Worrell. I sat in my high-backed, leather swivel chair, took a sip of tea, turned on my word processor, and waited for it to boot up. Soon, I had a blank screen in front of me.
I realized that I was suffering from a certain confusion at that moment. Hard to explain. A fuzziness, wanting to do many things, yet unable to take action to begin any of them.
My purse was on the desk. I opened it, reached in, and pulled out the disk Dr. Meti had given me. I was to use it to reinforce the messages given me while under hypnosis. I sat motionless, immobile, the disk held up in front of my face. Insert it, Jess, I told myself. Take advantage of it.
I absently tried to slide the disk into the drive on my word processor. It wouldn’t go in. It didn’t fit.
Of course it didn’t. My word processor took a special-size disk, unique to it.
I opened the padded case containing Norm’s laptop, removed the computer, and turned it on. Tiny flashing lights indicated the batteries were drained. I found the AC power cord, and plugged it into the back of the computer, and into a wall socket. I typed in a few commands until that screen, too, glowed to life. Dr. Meti’s disk slipped easily into the slot. I accessed that drive, as Jo Jo had taught me to do, and up came, in living color, Dr. Meti’s face.
The sighf of him startled me. I didn’t expect a face. I didn’t know what to expect.
A few hits on the down cursor key brought up text, which began:
“Hello, Mrs. Fletcher. Dr. Meti here. By the time you read this, your session with me at Worrell will be over, and I trust it went as well as all of us here at the institute expected it to.
“This disk is intended to bolster what you learned during the session with us. It is a reinforcement of all the positive things you will have learned. My suggestion is that you review what’s on this disk at least once each day, especially when you feel yourself slipping back into the writer’s block that prompted you to seek help from us at Worrell.”
I continued to read as I worked the cursor key to keep the text rolling.
“You’ve taken the first, and crucial step, in solving the problem faced by you, and so many other artistes whose creative output is thwarted from time to time—”
I stared at the screen for what seemed an eternity before again reaching into my purse and removing the small leather bag given me by Meti. It didn’t feel as heavy as when I’d accepted it at Worrell.
It had a drawstring, which I undid. I slipped the small revolver from the pouch and weighed it in my palm. I was not a stranger to weapons. I’d seen enough of them in my career to understand how they work, and the destruction they are capable of delivering. I’ve never owned a weapon, and would never consider purchasing one.
But instead of being repelled by the weapon, I found the feel of it in my hand to be strangely pleasant. I returned my attention to the computer screen: “... And so many other ARTISTES ...”
I put the gun to my head, to my right temple. My fingers tightened on it, my index finger slowly squeezing the trigger.
It happened first with a “POW.” Then, a sizzling sound, and the acrid smell of something burning, something electrical. The screen was dark. All lights in the room were extinguished. The electricity had gone out.
I got up to check the circuit breakers in the kitchen, realized I had the gun in my hand, and fell heavily back into my chair. I felt clammy, light-headed. Disoriented.
A figure moved outside my window. I hurried to it, to see who it was, and to find fresh, cold air to breath. The storm window was down; I couldn’t budge it. I banged loudly on the window.
The man outside, whose back was toward me, jumped at the sound I made, and turned. “Mrs. Fletcher!” he shouted. It was Myron, a repairman for Maine Power & Light, who was kept busy in the winter months.
He shouted’in order to be heard through the glass. “Mrs. Fletcher, I didn’t know you were home. Jason told me you’d gone out of town. Sorry if I disturbed you.”
I said nothing. I was numb. I held both hands up to the window.
Myron’s face turned ashen. “Whoa, Mrs. Fletcher. What you got there?” His laugh was nervous. “I know I scared you, but you don’t need that with me.”
I looked at what he saw. I still held the gun in my right hand. I dropped it to the floor. The sharp report as it went off sent me into spasm. Then, the Chinese vase across the room shattered into a thousand pieces, spraying everything with colorful glass confetti.
“Mrs. Fletcher! You okay?”
I nodded. “Yes,” I said weakly, my words never leaving the room. I realized he couldn’t hear me, so I motioned for him to come around to the front.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” he said as we stood in my foyer, “I am really sorry to have frightened you. One of our new men was out on Friday to read your meter. He reported that your safety wire was severed. I figured he did it, but didn’t want to fess up. By accident, I mean. Anyway, I needed to come by tonight and check it out. To do that, I had to cut off your electricity for a couple of minutes. If I knew you were home, I’d have knocked to let you know what I was going to do. Jason told me this morning that you were out of town. I’m really sorry. I saw how scared you were and—”
“It’s all right, Myron,” I said. “Actually, you did a very good thing. You—you saved my life.”
“I did?”
“Yes. At least I think you did. Why don’t you go ahead and fix that broken wire. When you’re done, I’ll have a hot cup of tea, and some cookies, waiting for you. In the meantime, I have a very important phone call to make.”
“To your publisher?” he asked. He’d always been fascinated that I was a writer.
“No. To the sheriff. I think we have some new-comers in Cabot Cove who have a great deal to answer for.”
Chapter Seventeen
My call to Sheriff Morton Metzger brought him, two of his deputies, and Seth Hazlitt to my house. When they arrived, Myron, the Maine Power & Light repairman who’d kept me from doing something silly like shooting myself, was enjoying tea and cookies in the kitchen. I’d tried to sweep up what I could of the Chinese vase, but many tiny pieces remained in the carpeting and furniture.
Mort gave Myron a look that said, Time for you to leave, son.
“Great cookies, Mrs. Fletcher,” Myron said as he put on his coat. “Good as down at Sassi’s. Much obliged.”
Mort’s deputies examined my office, while I sat with my two friends in the kitchen.
“Let’s go over this again, Jessica,” Seth said.
“I’ll handle the questions, Doc,” Mort said.
Seth mumbled something and sat back as I recounted everything that had happened up until the time the gun went off.
“And you say O’Neill and his cronies set you up to shoot yourself through hypnosis?”
“Yes.”
“Mind if I interject a question?” Seth asked.
“If you have to,” said Mort.
“What I don’t understand, Jessica, is that if they were successful in getting you to actually put the gun to your head, how come havin’ the electric go off wiped away that posthypnotic suggestion?”
“If I knew the answer to that, Seth, I’d be glad to share it with you. I’d probably write an article on my findings for the New England Journal of Medicine. Maybe it was the shock of th
e screen going blank. Maybe it was the room suddenly becoming dark. All I know is that I held that weapon to my head, and was about to pull the trigger.”
“And it was because that word ‘artiste’ appeared on the screen,” Mort said.
“Exactly. I’d be happy to show it to you, except that the power failure blew something in Norman’s computer. You’ll see it later. But I remember distinctly that Dr. Meti told me that if that word was spoken, or appeared in print, I would want to kill the evil person inside, the ‘Jessica Fletcher’ who was keeping me from writing.”
“Damn shame,” Seth said.
“What is?” Mort asked.
“‘That none of this can be proven. According to Jess, everything she read on the screen was positive reinforcement. Common thing medical hypnotists use. All you’ve got is her word that the suggestion was planted about the word ‘artiste.’ ”
“We’ll see,” Mort said, without conviction.
The phone rang. “I don’t believe this,” I said loudly into the receiver. “Norman is there? Your husband, Norman?”
“Yes,” Jill Huffaker said. “Isn’t that wonderful?”.
“It’s better than that,” I said. “Where has he been?”
She hesitated before answering, “Washington, D.C. Just like you said, Jess.”
“Can I speak with him?”
He came on the line. “Hello, Jess. Had everybody worried for a while, huh?”
“A monumental understatement. What—?”
“All questions answered in person,” he said. “Jill and I are catching the red-eye tonight to Boston. Be in Cabot Cove in the morning.”
“Why? I mean—”
“No comment—until tomorrow. See you then, Jess.”
Mort and Seth stared at me as I hung up. “That was your friend, Huffaker?” Seth said.
“Yes. He’s alive. He’s alive!”
“No explanation?” said Mort.
“Tomorrow. He and Jill are flying in tonight.”
I got up to check on how Mort’s deputies were doing when a dreadful thought hit me. “Oh, my God,” I said.
Brandy and Bullets Page 19
