"This time? This time? Like it's all going to be over in three months and everything will be fixed by then and I can go off the meds? Are you serious? Michael, are we paying money for this insanity? Because I insist you stop payment on the check this instant! Am I the only one here who's losing her mind? What the hell, people!"
"We're just about out of time, Mr. and Mrs. Gresham. I'm thinking this might be a good point to—"
"What? You're going to just leave me like this? Ready to pull out my son's arms and legs and beat my husband with them? Is that what you call a clinical success? Are you even a doctor?"
I said, "Danny, I think she's telling us we've gone about as far as we can with this today. Let's all just take a deep breath and dial it down."
She turned on me this time, jumping across the room and staring me down where I sat.
"You're a bastard, Michael. You're the one who wouldn't agree to terminate the pregnancy. You're the one who dressed it all up in do-gooder words and sold me the whole package. And that goddam priest of yours, what's his name? Father Bjorn? That son of a bitch stacked the deck on me because he knew the kid was his grandson. The rapist was his own fucking son. So he used the magic of the cross to get me to go full term. Well, get this. I'm researching how to sue you both. That's right, never forget that I'm every bit as much a lawyer as you are, Michael. And I'm coming after you and your fucking priest."
Turning back to the doctor, now.
"And I'm adding your name in there too, Doctor. You and your cutesy little license on the wall from another Catholic institution that delights in telling people like me that we can't have abortions even when we've been raped. Mass insanity!"
The doctor made a massive effort to put the genie back in the bottle before dismissing us from her office, but it was no use. The genie was out and floating free and the words had all been said and the damage was done.
There would be no coming back from this without a miracle.
57
Danny
Twenty minutes later, Michael is driving us home. I am still shaken, sitting in the passenger seat, my legs drawn up, staring out my window. I feel tears on my cheeks. I brush them away again and again. Michael said we couldn't just drive home in this state and act like nothing had happened around the kids. So he decided we should stop at Rokky Rakkoonz and have a sandwich. Much to my surprise, I agreed to a sandwich and he pulled into Rokky's.
Walking up to the restaurant door, I try shaking it off, wanting to go hide my feelings. But my hateful look—hating him—is still controlling my features. We both know he has failed, failed me in a huge way and I imagine he is desperate now, knowing he has probably lost me forever. Certainly my son has lost me—if I believe what all has come out in the doctor’s office just now. It horrifies me. I’ve only heard of children being abandoned by their mothers; I’ve never understood how they could leave a child. But now the shark has been jumped and the quality of my son's life is in a nosedive.
We are shown to a booth along the far wall and take our places there, far away from the psychiatrists and counselors and even from our jobs and children. We are able to just sit for a few minutes after ordering, and just be. Then, Michael excuses himself to go to the bathroom.
I follow him with my eyes. Several men have formed a line outside the door. Michael’s shoulders slump and he falls in behind. It is going to be awhile. Michael hasn’t been gone three minutes when Gunnar wants to say something, so I let him have a turn.
Gunnar is blond, like me. I can see him sprawled beside me in the booth, probably a toothpick dangling from his lips. He leans over and whispers in my ear. I smile and nod and tell him to go right ahead. I tell him I think it’s a good, sound plan.
When Michael slides back in, Gunnar abruptly leaves.
"What the hell?" Michael says. “You were talking to yourself.”
I shrug. I start to say something, but back away from it.
Then he asks, "Did you know you were talking to yourself?”
I recoil. "No, would that be a requirement, Michael? Maybe I prefer my own company right now.”
"Okay. Let's forget it."
"No, I don't want to forget it. You forget about it if you need to, but I'm not."
"Danny, we're really out of control here. This is scaring me. I've never seen this in you before and it scares the shit out of me."
"Well, get used to it. You've just never had to deal with what you've made me into before. Your making me keep the pregnancy has brought us to this. I don't owe anyone anything for that. It was never my idea. It's all on you, Michael. I told you early on that I wanted to terminate but you refused. You called up the black robes and candles and holy water and dusted all around and mumbled gibberish and convinced me I was doing God's will by keeping the baby. You did that. Now I’m talking to myself and you’re in a tizzy? Jesus, man, get a grip!”
"I'm sorry for what I did. Let's just agree that it was my guilt that convinced me we should keep Mikey. That, and the fact he was our priest's grandson. Somehow that made it all right. I don't know how, but it sanctioned it, at least in my stupid little world."
Our food arrives. Tuna salad sandwich for me, fish and chips for him.
Old habits die hard.
A God who would be pleased by us eating fish on Fridays?
Just how crazy are we?
Then he asks. "Who was he, Danny?"
My tears begin flowing again.
"Gunnar Mendelssohn."
“Which one is Gunnar?”
“Which what?”
“Who the hell is he? Don’t play dumb!”
"A scary man. A very scary man."
“What does he want?”
“He wants to kill Jana.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Really? I told him to kill away.”
He gives me the most severe look I’ve ever seen. Then he crumbles right there in front of me. Tears are streaming down his cheeks. He’s a smart, smart man. He knows we’re at a final crossroad.
“What,” he says slowly, wiping at his tears with a napkin, “what can I do to help?”
58
Danny
It is almost five o’clock in Dr. Zastrow’s office when Michael and I finish up with our stories. He has stopped us once for coffee all around and once for a restroom break. Now he sits back in his tall chair, looking us over and nodding.
“Anyone tired?”
Michael and I raise our hands.
Dr. Zastrow begins wrapping it up.
“At various times, Danny, it sounds like alters have been modeled after real people. Dr. Thomas—are there two of them?”
I know I’m looking perplexed. “If there is a Dr. Thomas inside of me, he isn’t talking to me. Or maybe he is and I just don’t know. It’s very frightening to think.”
“I’m sure it is. You might have other personalities like Dr. Thomas and just aren’t consciously aware.”
“That’s scary,” I say.
“If you can ever talk to them as Danny to whoever, that will be huge. Personality unification can happen.”
“I would love nothing more,” I answer.
“And parts of your story, Danny, you weren’t there, but you told me going in earlier today that some things have been told to you?”
“Yes, maybe Jana said something or maybe Niles. Or maybe I’ve called someone. I’m not saying it’s all accurate. I’m sorry for that.”
The doctor nods. He will move on.
“So, where Danny left off, Michael sounded as if he was ready to do anything to help her. Has that gone anywhere?”
“It is just about to end,” I answer.
“This weekend,” says Michael.
“Does this have to do with Jana? What happened to that psychopath?”
Michael looks down at the floor. He appears to study his feet. Dr. Zastrow fastens his eyes on me. I’m carrying the ball, his look says, so let’s hear from me.
“Jana is still around and sti
ll abusing people. However, he’s moved to San Diego, where the Vietnamese girls come up from Mexico.”
“And you know all this how?”
Michael looks up. “My investigator.”
“Our investigator,” I add. “Marcel Rainford.”
“So Marcel has him pinpointed for you? Has anyone thought about calling the police on this person?”
“The police won’t help. He’s too smart. He insulates himself from his entire enterprise. Little people get arrested, sex slaves get arrested, but nothing happens to Jana. And it won’t.”
Dr. Zastrow nods. “Unless?”
I don’t respond to him. There is no unless, not for him to know about.
Neither Michael nor I reveal anything more.
“All right. Then we’re done here.”
We shake hands with the doctor and leave.
It is getting late and I have a plane to catch.
59
Danny
I am losing gaps of time in my life—two and three hours—where I have no recall of what I’ve done and where I’ve done it. Dr. Zastrow tells me he suspects fugue states. That is where one of my personalities takes over and becomes who I am for a period of time. This helps explain the loss of hours, the mystery charge card receipts, the unexplained phone calls to numbers I don’t recognize, the nights out at restaurants I can’t recall. Tests and scans and measurements were made by Dr. Zastrow’s organization. Organic explanations had to be ruled out, and, one-by-one, they were. The problem is not my brain. The problem is my mind.
Tonight in La Jolla I am doing everything I can to focus on one of my criminal cases for a client. But every few minutes my eyes come to rest on my Visa card statement. It was waiting in my inbox when I got online this morning. The Visa bill is much more troubling than anything else on my desk: it lists charges for airfare to Vietnam. Charges for three nights in the Hanoi Hilton. Charges for a restaurant in Old Town and a Vogue designer in La Jolla. The problem is, I have no memory of making any of these charges. It’s enough to make most people dash to the phone and alert the issuing bank of fraud.
But I’m not most people. Thanks to Dr. Zastrow, I know where to begin turning over rocks.
Then there’s Michael. At the last minute, he caved and begged me to cancel this trip. And I have to admit, I miss my children but I also live in terror about them because Jana is still above ground. Time for a cool change, says the song on the radio. I can only agree.
As of yesterday Marcel had him pinpointed. He has been listening in on his phone calls. Jana has been heard making dinner reservations for tonight.
I take my seat and then reach and wipe a bug from my computer screen. Then the phone buzzes.
I punch ACCEPT.
A familiar voice says, “Please let me speak to Gunnar Mendelssohn."
Danny's look changed at the words, “Gunnar Mendelssohn." Her eyes narrowed and her jawline grew firm. She pulled herself fully erect in her executive chair and spoke with the voice of a man ready to do battle.
"This is Gunnar Mendelssohn."
"Tonight at Hammond's Grill your man is dining with a woman at table eleven. They have just walked in. He is wearing a black suit. They will be wearing wedding rings and pretending to be husband and wife, but they are not. This man is Jana."
"Description. I've only heard the name from Danny. Never a description."
“Receding gray and brown hair that comes to a point in front and very fair skin. Green eyes with heavy bags. In the airport line he was seen wearing tortoise shell eyeglasses and a cat's eye ring on his right pinkie. But it's your man."
“Airport line? He's been to Vietnam again?"
"Roger. He’s bringing them in through San Diego now.”
"Table eleven, dark gray hair, receding, green eyes, tortoise shell, cat's eye, Jana. Is that all?"
"Yes."
"Success is?"
"Elimination. In and out. Don't let the woman make you."
"Certainly."
"Return straight home upon completion. I will call you and ask for Danny. Danny will answer. Are we clear?"
"Of course. Consider it done."
“Then Danny will return to Michael in Chicago?”
“I’ll make sure she comes home.”
“Goodbye. Good luck, Gunnar.”
At the other end of the line, Marcel placed the pay phone back in its cradle and walked across the airport. He was boarding to return to Chicago in less than ten minutes.
At his end, Gunnar Mendelssohn tapped the END CALL on Danny’s smartphone.
He then placed his hands on the laptop and initialized an automated Westlaw search. The legal research would call up macros and would proceed for 180 minutes. More than enough time. If it ever came down to it, the legal research session would be saved on the servers at the other end of the line. Inquiring minds could access those sessions and confirm that Danny had been busy the entire evening doing her legal research. The perfect alibi if things went imperfectly.
Gunnar Mendelssohn went into the bedroom and shed the clothes Danny was wearing.
He slipped into black jeans, a black turtleneck, and removed Danny's watch. He placed it carefully in Danny's sock drawer, inside a roll of white socks. He withdrew five twenty dollar bills from Danny's purse and tucked the money inside his left front jeans pocket. The wallet was left in the drawer.
He removed the KBAR knife from the suitcase and slipped it inside his turtleneck sleeve.
In the bathroom mirror, Gunnar ran his fingers through Danny's blonde hair. Back to the bedroom, where he lifted a locked box out of the suitcase. He spun the combination and lifted the lid. With both hands he removed the black wig. Back to the bathroom mirror. Ever so carefully he settled the wig over natural hair. From the same box he made another withdrawal: this time an eyeglass case. He removed the metal frame eyeglasses and placed them on his face. His twenty-forty vision became twenty-twenty. He knew Danny's own vision uncorrected was twenty-twenty but he didn't know why his own would be imperfect. There were certain differentiations such as this that no doctor could explain. Dr. Zastrow came the closest: "Your alters are not only separate personalities, they are separate people in some respects too. They will have different heart rates, different blood pressures, different blood chemistry—but all inside the same host body."
He stepped back from the mirror and studied Gunnar Mendelssohn.
Satisfied, he went to Danny's closet and removed the black windbreaker. Inside each pocket was a cowhide glove. He pulled on the windbreaker and turned the collar up. He was assuming stealth mode.
Stepping outside the front door and turning up Staley Street in the La Jolla neighborhood, Gunnar headed north. Hammond's would be reached in about thirty minutes of walking, which meant he would arrive at 8:30.
Then he would find table eleven.
He pulled the collar of his windbreaker higher when he would come under street lights and while crossing streets. He imagined he was a turtle, stretching out and retreating, never allowing his profile to be fully seen, never allowing his face to be observed behind the eyeglasses and below the dense black hair.
The San Diego Post had featured an ad touting the cuisine and music at Hammond's. Youthful readers had responded and fallen in love with the place. It featured fat sandwiches, thick salads, European and American wines, and the best beer from local micro-breweries. The bands that played were loud and heavy on the low end, making them great for dancing and all but destroying all conversation on the bandstand side. On the restaurant side were twenty-three tables, each situated and screened to provide the most privacy possible and relief from the heavy music on the other side of the club. Intimate conversations were possible along with a five-star menu; the restaurant sold out seven nights.
Gunnar entered Hammond's and went left to the noise zone. He ambled up to the bar and paid for a draft beer. He gulped it down and ordered another. Turning his back to the bar, he assumed the look of a young man checking out the talent on t
he dance floor. He nodded in time to the music and allowed his waist to move suggestively as would a man on the prowl. "Adorable," said a woman two stools down the bar to her friend. With a toss of her blonde curls she indicated Gunnar. Her friend turned on the stool and stole a look. She swiveled back around with a huge smile on her face. "Who is that?"
Gunnar was aware of their eyes and he returned the first girl's look. Their eyes connected but he quickly looked away. He wasn't interested, his look said.
Pilsner glass between thumb and index finger, he moved away from the bar. Moving toward the inside wall, he took up a position where he could look along an oblique angle into the dining room. Counting tables front to back, his eyes came to rest on what could only be table eleven. He studied its guests without looking directly at them. Several times he laughed and smiled and appeared to be talking to someone just outside the line of sight of eleven's diners. But there was no one there. Gunnar was a skilled thespian. At times one needed that art desperately. Even now—laughing and appearing to speak to a friend offstage, he drew upon his talents.
But he left his initial position quickly. Thirty feet farther along the wall was another doorway opening onto the dining room. He sought that out and found that he now had an unobstructed view of the back of his target's head. His pulse quickened: this was becoming easier by the minute.
The target was large and moved fluidly when he slid out of the booth and made his way to the restroom. Gunnar knew the man would be difficult if he were allowed any momentum by way of counterattack. It was Gunnar's job to see any such opportunity never arose.
He crept through the doorway and followed his prey into the restroom.
Two other men were there. The target had evidently opted for the far stall, for the door was closed. Gunnar saw the setup as he bent to wash his hands while surveying the room in the mirror. One man finished with the air dryer and left. The other moaned and passed gas at the urinal. Eventually he finished up and left without washing
Voices In The Walls: A Psychological Thriller (Michael Gresham Series) Page 22
