Agnes Hahn

by RICHARD SATTERLIE

  She collared him and yanked him back, pressing his head against her chest. “I thought you were supposed to fall asleep. I want you to get some rest.” She pointed at the two attached condom packets on the adjacent nightstand. “If you came in expecting three, you’ll get at least one more before you go. Maybe you’ll get my name right.”

  CHAPTER 41

  AGNES’S EYES STRAYED TO THE GLASS PANEL IN THE DOOR of the dayroom. One of a restricted number of doors in her new world—unit T-6 of the medium security section of the state hospital annex. She shifted her glance to Dr. April Leahy, who sat across the table, then back to the door. She rubbed her eyes. It was him.

  The door opened and Jason entered, his hands behind his back.

  Agnes stood, nearly tipping her chair. “Jason. Thank you for coming.” She rushed into his arms for a full body hug.

  He accepted the hug, but kept one arm behind him.

  Agnes released and Jason turned to Dr. Leahy and smiled.

  “Sit here.” Agnes pulled out a chair next to hers.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t stay today. I’m on my way to Vallejo. They’ve got a strange hostage story going.”

  Agnes’s eyes lowered. She reached out and touched his right arm. “What are you hiding?”

  He turned square to her. “I have a present for you. I know how much you miss the animal shelter, so I brought you a stray.” He held out a stuffed dog—a golden retriever, about a quarter life-size. “I wanted to bring the real thing, but there was no way they’d allow it.” He moved in her direction. “He needs a good home.”

  She gathered it in her arms and hugged it tight to her cheek. Tears filled her eyes. “It’s perfect.” She lunged into a one-armed hug, squeezing the puppy between them. “Thank you.”

  Dr. Leahy stood and walked toward them. “How thoughtful. We were talking about Agnes’s work at the animal shelter.”

  Agnes thought she detected an edge in Dr. Leahy’s voice.

  Jason lifted Agnes’s arm from his neck and pecked her cheek. “I have to get going. Duty calls.”

  “Is this work for the Press Democrat or the Chronicle?” Dr. Leahy said.

  “Both.”

  “Good for you.” She hooked her arm in his. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  Stop her.

  Agnes moved next to them. “No. I want to talk to Jason.”

  “He can’t stay, Agnes. I’m sure he’ll come back for a longer visit soon.” April squeezed his arm.

  “Yes. I’ll be back next week. I’ll want to see how the puppy is adjusting to his new home.”

  She’s fucking him.

  Agnes grabbed Jason’s arm, unhooking Dr. Leahy’s. “If he has to go, why are you going to talk to him?”

  “I’m going to walk him out. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  “I want to come.”

  “Agnes. You know you can’t.” Dr. Leahy pointed at the TV corner. “Please sit down. I’ll be right back.”

  Agnes remained standing. She looked at Jason. “You’ll come next week?”

  Jason gave her another hug. It was tight from Agnes’s grip. He whispered in her ear, “I’ll come back next weekend. We can have a whole day.”

  Rub into him. You’ve got to fight for him.

  Agnes pushed into him. “Will she be here?”

  “Not on a weekend.”

  Agnes let go. “Next weekend.”

  She watched the dayroom door close behind them, and hugged the puppy tight to her chest.

  He is one of the good ones.

  Two hallways away from the dayroom, April hooked her arm into Jason’s again. She turned him and pressed her lips to his. “Thanks for coming. I’ve missed you. When can we get together again?”

  Seeing April with Agnes created mixed feelings for him. April was desirable on a physical level, but when he was with her, other thoughts interfered. And that was the strange part. The thoughts weren’t of Eugenia, like in his other relationships. They were of Agnes.

  “Jason? Can’t you answer me?”

  “Soon. I’ll give you a call.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  She pulled on his arm again.

  Jason frowned. The look on her face was a little too serious.

  “What do we have?” she said.

  “We have what we have.”

  “And the future?”

  “Let’s relax and see where it goes.”

  She squeezed his arm. “I know I wasn’t the reason you came today.”

  “I knew you’d be here.” Jealous, or possessive? Either way, not good.

  “The stuffed animal was a nice touch.”

  “And nothing for you, right?”

  Her face reddened. “How’s the book coming?”

  “It’s not.”

  “Why not? I thought you were almost done.”

  He shook his head and looked at the buffed tile floor. “I can’t do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t do it to Agnes. Her story has been told in the newspapers. I need to drop it for now. For her.”

  “It’d be a best seller.”

  “I don’t care. I can’t do it to her. She’s been through too much.” It might keep the wounds open, delay her return to innocence.

  April swung around in front of him. “Hey. You got something going with Agnes Hahn? I hear she’s a real cutup.” She kissed him again.

  “Real funny.” He felt his face heat up. “She deserves the best. Thanks again for getting her into Imola.”

  They pushed through double doors and walked outside into the crisp fall air. It smelled productive, and not just because the famous wine country started a few miles up the road. It was pruning time, the first step in regrowth. Renewal.

  April steered him to a bench under a large oak tree. The grounds were deserted; only piles of yellow and red leaves surrounded them.

  “I can’t believe you gave up on the book. You’re walking away from some serious money.”

  “Maybe. But it finally hit me. Everyone wanted to jump into the Agnes Hahn case, but for all the wrong reasons. I should know.”

  “It’s an interesting case. From all corners.”

  Jason glared. “You sound like the damn district attorney. He never once mentioned Agnes. It was always the case, or her, or she. The only reason he paid any attention to her was to be the big shot. To further his career. I guess justice was served, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t hear? The little prick was mugged outside his office. In the parking lot. He was hurt pretty bad. I’d hate to put together a suspect list for that one. Probably in the hundreds. Bransome took the case. My guess is he’s put it in the cold case file already.” He mimed the toss of a file into an imaginary wastebasket. “Bransome. That reminds me. Do you have a stamp?”

  “Sorry. Are you pen pals?”

  “I have to send him two dollars.”

  “Two dollars? What for? Some kind of joke?”

  “I went for the double-or-nothing.”

  “A guy thing?”

  Jason leaned away. “Tell me again why you’re driving all the way over here once a week. Pro bono.”

  “An unequivocal case of dissociative identity disorder doesn’t fall in the lap of the psychiatric world every day. One that’s definitely not therapy induced.”

  Jason shook his head. “What about Agnes?”

  “What do you mean? This is about Agnes.”

  “It’s an interesting case. From all corners.”

  “I don’t think I like the insinuation. It’s possible that a professional can do what’s best for the patient and become energized by the intellectual merits of the case. I’m here for Agnes. To make her better.”

  Jason slumped against the bench back. “Good answer.” He rested his hand on her knee. “How’s it going with her? Is she happy?”

  “She seems to be. She seems to be at peace.”

  “Have the honch
os looked at your treatment regime proposal?”

  “I hear they’re going over it right now.”

  “Has Lilin surfaced?”

  “Not that I know of. The danger is if Agnes is struggling with Lilin and not telling me.”

  “I don’t understand how Agnes held her in for all those years. Until Gert died and Ella went into the home.”

  “That’s what my proposal is about. I think Lilin is a relatively weak personality, easily controlled by a strong one. Gert was a forceful person to Agnes, and she raised Agnes to be good. Because she was strict, she held Lilin in check for Agnes. Once she died, Lilin was released.”

  “But you got my e-mail. Agnes went to UC Davis. Why didn’t Lilin surface there?”

  “My guess is that Gert was still in control. I doubt if she let out too much leash, even when Agnes lived in Davis. I bet she called every night, came home every weekend.”

  “So what do you propose? You want to make Agnes strong so she can hold Lilin back?”

  “In a way.”

  “You have some magic wand or something?”

  “Something like that. It’s called training. I’m pretty good at what I do.”

  “I’ll say.” He Grouchoed his eyebrows. Something about her glowed with highlights from the autumn sun. Right now he could use a dose of her therapy.

  She hit him on the arm. “Not that. I mean professionally.”

  “You’re a professional? What street corner do you work?”

  “You’re an asshole. For a moment there, I thought you were interested in my work.”

  “I am. How do you intend to get Agnes to control Lilin?”

  She turned to face him. “First, I have to get her to acknowledge Lilin’s existence.”

  “The real Lilin, or the one in her mind?”

  “Both.”

  “What will you wear when you do it?”

  She raised her fist. “God damn it. I’m being serious. Do you want to hear this or not?”

  Jason stood and kicked at the yellow and brown leaves. “Okay, but you’re kind of distracting me.”

  She smiled. “All you have to do is call.”

  “I know. Tell me about how you’re going to get Agnes to acknowledge Lilin.”

  “That’s the tricky part. I’ll have to make her aware of what Lilin is like. What she’s done. All of that. Agnes needs full disclosure. I think Lilin’s acts highlight her weakness. I need to convince Agnes that Lilin acted out of cowardice and selfishness. Agnes has so much good in her she’ll react strongly against those negative traits.”

  He put a foot on the bench and leaned on his bent knee. “I don’t know anything about psychiatry, but it sounds kind of risky to me. What if Lilin proves to be stronger than you think? If she puts up a fight?”

  “I don’t think she will.”

  “But what if you’re wrong?”

  “Then we risk getting Lilin, not Agnes, and she stays here for the rest of her life.”

  He pulled from the bench and shuffled through the fallen leaves again. After a half lap around the bench, he turned to face the building in the distance. The low angle of the sun threw crooked-armed shadows of the bare trees across the walls. They looked like cracks, threatening to crumble the structure. “Do you have alternatives? You know, a contingency plan?”

  “You don’t have confidence in me?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’d hate to lose Agnes.”

  “You do have feelings for her.”

  He turned to face her. “She’s important to me.”

  April turned her head slightly and squinted into his eyes. “Is there anything I should know?”

  “About what?”

  “About you and Agnes.”

  “You’ll find it under P.”

  “What?”

  “Paranoia. It’s under P. Surely you’ve heard about it.”

  “Screw you. Maybe you’d like her better as Lilin. I hear she’s a sexual force.”

  Despite the warmth of the direct autumn sun, the hair on Jason’s arms stood, accompanied by a chill. Would he ever see Agnes without the threat of Lilin? He covered his crotch with one hand.

  April shook her head. “You really have a one-track mind today.”

  Jason didn’t laugh. A quote came to mind, but not the source. He spoke it aloud. “Never befriend the oppressed unless you’re prepared to take on the oppressor.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  He regripped his crotch and gave it a shake. “Right here. It was more for me than for you.”

  CHAPTER 42

  AGNES LOOKED AT THE CLOCK—JUST A FEW MINUTES left. In the last four weeks, the sessions had dashed her initial antagonism. She only felt on edge when Jason was there. Otherwise, she felt relaxed, calm whenever she and Dr. Leahy talked. Chatted. That’s what Dr. Leahy called it. It created a new freedom. Agnes could say anything during their chats.

  Dr. Leahy cleared her throat. “Have you heard the voice since our last meeting?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all since you’ve been in here?”

  Agnes dropped her eyes and smiled. “Not a word.”

  Dr. Leahy tugged at the hem of her skirt. “Think back. When you did hear the voice. Was it ever in the first person? You know, I …?”

  Agnes gazed at the ceiling. “In the letters.”

  “No. I mean the voice. Did you ever hear her use I?”

  Agnes’s eyes scanned the ceiling tiles. “No.”

  “How about we?”

  “Not that I recall. Is that good?”

  “Everything seems to be falling into place. Let’s use the last few minutes to review. You understand that your sister died when she was around three, right?”

  “Lilin.”

  “Right. She’s dead now, so she can’t bother you anymore. Do you understand that?”

  “Her name is Lilin. Why won’t you say her name?”

  “Because she doesn’t exist anymore. I’m sorry. I know that’s harsh, but it’s the kind of hard truth you have to embrace.” She pressed her fingers to her chest and flicked both hands away, like she was shooing something away. “She’s gone. She can’t bother you anymore. You’re strong enough to stand alone now. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s all? Just yes?”

  “I know Lilin’s dead. That she only existed in my head. But she was weak. Recognizing that makes me strong. Stronger than she could ever be.”

  “Good girl. What’s the next step?”

  “I have to stop talking like she’s real. Do I have to stop using her name?”

  “Can you do it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll try.”

  “Good girl. What encourages me most is that she hasn’t said a word since we’ve been chatting.” She surveyed the dayroom. “Do you ever get mad in here?”

  “I get frustrated.”

  “And you don’t get that uneasy feeling you mentioned you felt before the voice came to you?”

  “No.”

  Dr. Leahy bobbed her head three times. “That’s because of you. You know that, don’t you?” She smiled.

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Leahy stood. “You are a very strong woman, Agnes Hahn. And you’re getting better already. I can see it.”

  Agnes stood and leaned into Dr. Leahy’s outstretched arms. She accepted the hug.

  Agnes leaned back.

  “Will I ever see Jason again? I mean, outside of here?”

  “I can’t … make any promises, Agnes.”

  “Will you make me better so I can?”

  “You know I’m trying to make you better.”

  Agnes leaned back into the hug and her hand brushed Dr. Leahy’s neck. She felt the jaw pump the invisible wad of gum.

  Right there. We pull the razor right there. I can show you how to do it. We can do it together. She’s not one of the good ones.

  A Special Presentation of Richard Satterlie’s

  SOMETHING BAD

&n
bsp; CHAPTER 1

  Boyston, Tri-Counties, 1982

  GABE LEANED FORWARD in the confessional and eased the door open a crack. Light from the church flowed into the dark chamber in a narrow slash. He squinted the altar into view. In two years of early morning visits to the All Saints Catholic Church, Father Costello had never been late.

  That wasn’t the only thing wrong with today. The air carried an abnormal chill for this far into the spring. Gabe had overheard his father talk about it—this growing season had more than its fair share of unexpected thunderstorms and strong, dust-laden winds. And then there were the fogs. They rarely extended more than a mile from the swamp up north, and hardly ever as far as Boyston. But this year, they were enveloping the town two or three times a week. Today’s was a doozy.

  Gabe squirmed in the confessional, which he jokingly called the inhouse. It was the same size as the outhouse his grandfather had built at their farm. And even though the farmhouse had indoor plumbing, his father had maintained the structure for sentimental reasons—to teach a lesson on appreciation for what one has, his father had often said.

  Gabe pushed the door open a little farther, enough to open a crack on the hinge side. Enough to get a view of the massive double front doors of the church. Nothing there either. He let the door slide shut. The hard wooden seat, and the near blackness, would help him think of another sin or two.

  He wasn’t Catholic but he liked the idea of confessing his sins. The recurring comfort of the lifted burden and the cleansing feeling of official acknowledgement and forgiveness gave him a sense of reverent calm. As he had done so many times, he had left home early to ride his bike to town to confess his week’s worth of moral hiccups to Father Costello before heading up the street to join his family at the Lutheran church service.

  Their interactions didn’t have the formality of the official sacrament. Father Costello was just a good friend. In the confines of the dark confessional, with a screen between him and the good father, twelve year-old Gabe could talk about anything, especially things he was uncomfortable discussing with his real father.

  A door slammed and an unrecognized, high-pitched voice brought Gabe out of his search. It came from the back room, behind the altar. He pushed on the door and squinted at the business end of the church. For an unsettlingly long time, no one appeared, but he could hear the voice, muffled, at a distance.