Self-Defense (26 page)

“What do you know about hypnosis?”

“Not much—I mean, I saw stage shows in
college but they were rather silly, people quacking like ducks. I have heard
that when you go under in therapy sometimes you can unlock memories.”

“That’s true,” I said, “but any time you
work with the unconscious, there’s a risk of unleashing unpredictable things.”

“I’m a veteran of that already, wouldn’t
you say?”

“All the more reason,” I said.

“Okay,” she said. “You’re the expert. But
I also know that what’s stressing me is carrying around all this stuff and not
understanding it.”

I looked at her, trying not to appear
coldly clinical.

Her posture was loose, receptive. She
seemed calmer than ever before. Purposeful.

I gave her my preinduction lecture,
explaining that hypnosis was deep relaxation combined with focused
concentration, nothing magical. How it didn’t weaken the patient’s control but
was merely the harnessing of a process that occurred naturally for most people.
That all hypnosis was self-hypnosis, and the more she did it the better she’d
get.

As I spoke, her body pitched progressively
forward and her lips parted.

When I finished, she said, “I understand.”

Her fingertips were inches from mine, her
face close enough for me to see my reflection in her pupils. I looked worried.

“I want to help someone else,” she said.

“All right, we’ll start out with some
simple muscle relaxation exercises. But we may not go any further today.”

“Whatever you say.”

I had her tense and loosen muscle groups,
moving from her head to her toes. She closed her eyes and her body swayed in
time with my voice. I was sure she’d go under quickly.

Instead, she fell asleep.

At first I didn’t realize it and kept
talking. Then I saw her head tilt back and her mouth open, letting out soft,
delicate snores.

No more body sway.

No movement at all but the heave of her
chest.

“Lucy, if you can hear me, lift your right
index finger.”

Nothing.

I picked up her hand. Limp.

I flexed her head. No tension.

“Lucy?”

Silence.

Her eyes moved rapidly behind their lids,
then stopped.

Sleep. The ultimate resistance.

I put her hand down and made sure she
didn’t slip off the chair. The air gun had stopped. The yard was too quiet.

She dozed for a while; then suddenly her
body began jerking and twitching.

Crunching her facial features.

Grunting.

Fragmented REM, the kind associated with
nightmares.

I stroked her hand, told her everything
was okay. She fell asleep.

A moment later, the same pattern.

After two more episodes, I said, “Wake up,
Lucy.” She didn’t till a minute later, and I wasn’t sure it was in response to
my voice.

Sitting up, she opened her eyes. Looking
at me but not seeing me.

She closed them and went slack.

Oblivious, once more.

I tried to shake her awake, gently.

Each time I got her to open her eyes, she
rolled them drowsily and the lids closed.

Finally, I managed to bring her out. She
blinked and stared and muttered something and rubbed her eyes.

“What’s that, Lucy?”

“What happened?”

“You fell asleep.”

“I did?” Yawn.

“You’ve been sleeping almost half an
hour.”

“I—we—we were doing hypnosis, weren’t we?
I wasn’t dreaming about that, was I?”

“No, we were doing hypnosis.”

“Was I hypnotized?”

“Yes. You were right about being good at
it.”

“Did I do—say anything?”

“No, you fell asleep.”

She stretched. “I feel refreshed. Was that
supposed to happen—falling asleep?”

“It needed to happen.”

“I didn’t say anything at all?”

“No, but we’re just starting out. You did
great.”

“But I’m a good subject?”

“You’re an excellent subject.”

She smiled. “Okay, I guess I’d better just
let it play itself out—but I do feel
good.
Hypnosis is great. You should
do it with Ken.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s going through some very tough times.
His ex-wife is really vindictive, out to take him to the cleaners, doesn’t let
him see his kids. He has visitation, and the court keeps ordering her to
comply. But when she doesn’t, they don’t enforce it.”

“When did they get divorced?”

“A year ago. He didn’t come out and
actually say so, but I get the feeling she had an affair. He’s real cheerful
all the time for my sake, but he’s feeling it—very restless at night. I heard
him go downstairs twice. This morning I got up at five-thirty and he was
dressed and doing paperwork.”

“Sounds like a hard worker.”

“Very. He got into real estate right out
of college. Started off as a clerk and worked himself up. But it’s taken a
toll. He’s got a bottle of Maalox in his briefcase.”

She was silent for a moment. “One big
happy family, huh?”

Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back
again.

“You know, it’s strange, but as we talk
right now I’m starting to get in touch with bits and pieces of memory—about
being sent to California that summer.”

“In touch how?”

“Like bits of—light. Poking through a
piece of fabric. I can’t really explain it... it doesn’t feel bad.”

“What do you remember?”

“Nothing specific, just the bits and
pieces—like something on the tip of your tongue? It’s almost as if the corners
of my mind are being pulled back and I’m peeking through but I can’t see
clearly....”

She frowned. Her forehead knitted.

“Nothing more,” she said, opening her
eyes. “But it doesn’t seem weird anymore—being up there and not remembering.
It’s as if I’m getting in touch with my own history.”

I thought of the nanny Ken had mentioned.
Enough for one day.

“When can we do this again?” she said.

“I can see you tomorrow. Two o’clock at my
house.”

“Great.”

“In the meantime, I assume you want me to
ignore Lowell’s invitation.”

I expected a quick reaction, but she put
her finger to her lip and thought. “I guess the only reason to talk to him
would be to find out what he’s up to. And maybe I should do that myself.”

“That’s a lot to bite off, right now,” I
said. “If you want to scope him out, I could listen to what he has to say and
report back to you.”

“Believe me, I’m not rushing off to have a
t
ête-À-
t
ête with him. But if I send you to
represent me, that’ll just show him I’m weak.”

“He already knows you’re seeing me. And
why should we care what he thinks?”

“True,” she said. “But I don’t want
anything to do with him, directly or indirectly. I’d rather put my head in the
oven—just kidding.”

We went back into the house.

“You know,” she said, “maybe I’m being too
rigid. I guess it would be okay for you to meet with him if you think it could
do any good.”

“I can’t promise you it would.”

“Are you interested in meeting the Great
Man?”

“I’m interested in meeting someone so
destructive.”

“A psychological specimen, huh?”

That wasn’t what I’d meant, but she went
on.

“Putting him under the microscope—okay, go
ahead. Meanwhile, I’ll concentrate on relaxing. Getting comfortable with my
unconscious.”

I was surprised to find Robin and Spike
home.

“The electricians didn’t show up,” she
said. “The truck broke down.”

“Probably in the parking lot at Dodger
Stadium.”

“No doubt. I left the drywallers there,
figured I’d get some work done here, and then maybe you and I could go out and
have some fun.”

“Fun? What’s that?”

“I think it’s something the Chinese invented.
They invented everything, right?”

She put her arms around my waist and her
face against my chest.

“Actually,” she said, “I’m glad the
turkeys flaked out. I’ve been thinking about how little we’ve seen of each
other lately.”

“When it’s all done,” I said, “let’s go
away somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Some remote island without phones or TV.”

Something bumped my ankle. I looked down
and saw Spike staring up at us. He cocked his head and snorted.

“But with air-conditioning for the pooch,”
I said.

Robin laughed and bent to pet him.

He began breathing hard, then rolled over
on his back, paws up, offering his beer gut. As Robin scratched him, he
grumbled with pleasure.

Once in a while, things are simple.

At nine-thirty that evening they got
complicated.

We were watching a bad old movie, laughing
at the dialogue, when the phone rang and Milo said, “There’s someone I thought
you might like to meet. Right in the neighborhood, actually.”

“My neighborhood?”

“Must be. I see the ocean.” He gave me a
name, then an address in Paradise Cove.

“Oh.”

“Trailer park, right near the Sand
Dollar.”

“Are you there now?”

“Actually, I’m at the Sand Dollar bar—is
this a bad time?”

Robin sat up and mouthed, “Patient?”

“Milo,” I told her. “He’s got someone he’d
like me to meet.”

“Now?”

I nodded.

“Go,” she said. “But
definitely
no
phones on the island.”

The road down to the cove was unlit and
hemmed in by hillside and sky. The guardhouse was empty and the gate was up.
Beyond the Sand Dollar lot, the ocean was a tight stretch of black vinyl. The
lot was nearly empty, and the restaurant’s neon sign was suspended in the
darkness.

I turned right and drove up a short steep
road to the trailer park. The mobile homes were stuck into the sloping terrain
like metal studs in leather. To the left was a small flat parking area atop a
low bluff. Rick’s white Porsche 928 was parked there and I pulled in next to
it, under the grasping branches of a huge pittosporum tree.

The units were numbered in a system that
defied logic, and it took a while to find the address Milo’d given me.

I climbed nearly to the top of the park,
walking on asphalt paths lined with rock and seashell borders. Most of the
trailers were dark. Blue TV light seeped from behind a few curtained windows.

The address I was looking for matched a
white Happy Tourister with aluminum siding and a bolt-on carport. A barbecue
sat in the port. Geranium ivy grew around the wheel wells.

Milo answered my knock. A short,
solid-looking woman in her mid-sixties stood behind him. Her hair was tinted
the color of ranch mink and permed, and she had a small square face and
searching dark eyes. She wore a pea-green sleeveless blouse and stretch jeans.
She wasn’t fat but her arms were heavy. Eyeglasses hung from a chain around her
neck.

Milo stood aside. The trailer’s front room
was a gold-stained pine kitchen with a brown linoleum floor and white Formica
counters. It was sweet with the smell of baked beans.

The woman met my smile with one of her
own, but it seemed obligatory.

Milo said, “Mrs. Barnard, this is Dr.
Delaware, our psychological consultant. Doctor, Mrs. Maureen Barnard.”

“Mo,” said the woman holding out a hand.
We shook.

Milo said, “Mo was married to Felix
Barnard.”

The woman acknowledged the relationship
with a sad look and led us into the living area. More pine, gold carpets, a
quilted white sofa specked with gold, and a matching recliner. Big TV and a
very small stereo. The place was immaculate.

Mo Barnard took the recliner and Milo and
I shared the couch. The ceilings were very low, and Milo’s bulk made the room
look even smaller than it was. On the coffee table was a year’s worth of
Reader’s Digest
along with a thick bound stack of supermarket coupons and a
sandpiper carved out of driftwood. Next to Mo was an octagonal pressed-wood
table bearing a remote control and a cut-glass bowl of miniature candy bars:
Hershey’s, Mr. Goodbar, Krackel. She picked up the remote and put it in her
lap, then handed the bowl to Milo.

Unwrapping a Mr. Goodbar, he said, “As I
told you, it was Dr. Delaware who got us involved in the case that led us to
look into your husband’s death.” To me: “Mr. Barnard was murdered a year after
Karen Best disappeared.”