The Catcher in the Eye (America's Next Top Assistant Mystery Book 1) (8 page)

“You’re not a
failure. On the contrary, I thought you’re kind of intelligent for the first
time. At least, you’re capable of making an unbiased self-assessment.”

“I’ll take that as
a compliment.” I shrugged. “I can understand your criticism for not getting
over the previous life with Warren. I know he’s a dirtbag. But my feelings
toward him are still sort of mixed and confused, as much as I feel so bitter, I
feel sorry for him. Maybe I’m crazy.”

“Of course, you’re
crazy. One moment you’re happy for being normal and the next thing, you’re
fessing up your abnormality.” He nodded. “But it’s a normal craziness. After
all, love is a form of lunacy.”

Without saying a
word, I chewed on my lower lip.  That was the best I could do to keep
myself from bursting into a full-blown sobbing.

Was I pathetic, or
what? I felt low. As in how-low-can-you-go-low.

Archangel patted
my head like a big brother (or a big sister, considering that he was wearing a
skirt). For a while, Camaro sped the way in a companionable silence.

“Mr. Archangel?” I
said, “What brought you into the field of detecting and crime solving?”

“It’s Henderson’s
fault. He first appeared in front of me with a case when I was in college. I
was fifteen.”

“A murder case?”

“Yeah. Whodunit
was obvious but he was sooo slooww. I could have just walked off, but I was a
good citizen and unfortunately had moral standards, that was my first criminal
investigation.”

“Wow. I didn’t
know they let a teenager involved in a murder case.”

“Indeed, they did
drag me into a murder case. Later, when I was a PhD student in New York, he reappeared
from out of nowhere, and guess what? He dared to make me help solve a murder
which actually rooted in an art theft case. The art theft case was a
well-organized crime which was intended to stay unnoticed for years, but I
spotted on a forgery, decoded whodunit, and cooperated with the feds. It was a
rather boring case, turned out the professor who stole the real Henri Matisse oil
painting by replacing it with a counterfeit was my mentor.”

I gasped. “That
must have been really difficult.”

I was not very
sure if I could cooperate with the authority at all, if I was in his shoes.
Committing an art theft and a murder are unjustifiable, but if it turned out
Mrs. Yarborough, my Physics III teacher back in high school, I might have been
tempted to turn a blind eye on her mistake in exchange for an A-plus.  

“Not really.” He
shook his head. “Later, this professor thanked me for turning him over to the
feds, saying, actually, he was torn between what little left of his conscience
and the mixed feelings of greed and frustration. Not to mention he felt truly
terrible about killing a person. So I felt little remorse for my action except
it blew off the faculty position I was supposed to land on after getting the
degree. Obviously, people in the ivory tower didn’t appreciate a young scholar
who ratted out his superior. And in the world of academics, when you screw up with
your first step, you’re screwed forever.”

“That’s why Agent
Henderson recruited you to the FBI.”

“Yeah. Nothing
fancy.” He shrugged. “The only funny part was Henderson found out that I hadn’t
yet reached legal drinking age
after
buying me a tequila sunrise. And
before he tried to snatch it back, I hit the bottom with one gulp. I was fine
with getting a misdemeanor but he didn’t want any trouble with the ethical
committee, so we sort of made a deal: I wouldn’t mention the incident so that
he gives me whatever help I need anytime. So I used the card soon, not a smart
move, I guess. I was young.”

“Wow, I knew you
two had a long history.” 

“A history? Come
on, Kelly, stop calling it like a relationship.” Archangel complained with a
grimace. “He was a part responsible for screwing up my academic career, he owed
me big.”

“Still, you and
Agent Henderson seem like very close friends.”

“Then you should see
an ophthalmologist. You’ve got to thank me for including vision and dental
coverage with your health insurance.”

“My vision is
fine, it’s just we have different point of views.” I smiled. “Anyway, thanks
for covering me with nice insurance plan.”

“Hey, wipe that
grin off your face,” he snapped.

“Okay, let’s talk
about another topic,” said I. “Why did you leave the FBI?”

“I don’t remember.”
He said.

“Yes, you do.” I pointed
out. “You never forget anything.”

Indeed, one of the
things that attribute to Archangel’s brilliant detecting skills is his
uber-
human
memory that comes with the eye that never misses any subtle unbalance,
disorder, or mismatch of anything. Maybe that came from the area of his expertise
in art, but obviously, that was considerately helping him with detecting.

“I don’t know.
Perhaps I got bored.” Archangel mumbled.

“Bored? No, you
weren’t bored. If you were really bored, you won’t be a P.I. who consults the
feds.”

“Kelly, I suppose
you’ll make a good interrogator. The thing is I got bored with all those
politics and dramas. There was an ugly case which changed many things, like
everything.”

“Like, your
engagement with that Congresswoman being called off?” I blurted out before
giving it a much thought. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I apologize, that was a personal
question. I shouldn’t have mentioned that.”

“That’s all right.”
He shook it off. “Perhaps being my personal assistant involves a certain
entitlement to ask me personal questions. And you’re right. Seems like I’m not
her favorite person after all those years. She’s grudgy, or what?”

“It indeed looked
like she still has a grudge on you.” I said. Though I didn’t mention I also sensed
something fiery with Bitchtricia, for example, still smoldering passion or…
love. “But life goes on, right?”

“Yeah, life goes
on.”

“So, who dumped
whom?”

“I’m not
authorized to discuss the matter with third parties on the account she insisted
that we sign confidentiality clauses, which I surrendered to sign. You know
what I mean?”

“I see,” I nodded.
So, she’s the dumpee.
“She surely seemed like to be a person who likes
to sign confidentiality clauses.” And a really grudgy person.

“Enough of the
past. Let’s focus on the current issue,” he snapped fingers.

“Okay.”

For a moment or
two, neither of us spoke. Then I found myself itching to ask if Bitchtricia had
played an important role for my employer to start wearing women’s clothes.

“Mr. Archangel—”

“By the way, Kelly—”

We started talking
simultaneously.

“Go on, ladies
first.” He interjected. “But don’t forget no-mentioning-the-past part.”

“Well…” I fidgeted
with words. “Oh my, I guess what I was trying to say had just slipped out of my
mind. So…after you.”

“Alright, there’s
a Chinese restaurant around the corner.” He cleared the throat. “If you promise
you’ll stick to no-digging on my past deal, the dinner’s on me.”

“Can I order a crab
rangoon? And maybe a shrimp chow mein?”

“Be my guest. Throw
in pork dumplings, if you like.”

“Deal.” I said and
we high-fived.

Digging about the
mystery of his past was intriguing and tempting, but I was famished and I could
use a free dinner.

At the same time, it
felt completely out of ordinary that I was thinking about food, literally
minutes after witnessing death. Anyway, my thinking tends to get shaky when I’m
hungry.

“How well are you sleeping lately?”

“Not well.” I
said.

“Can you tell me
more about your sleep problem?”

The shrink said,
with something resembling a concern in his voice. 

But somehow, I
sensed he showed that just because it was a part of his job. Anyway, the couch
I sat on was not bad. It was comfy.

After a brief
period of silence, I said. “I often wake up in the middle of night, after a brief
sleep, every night. Then I have problems going back to sleep.”

After asking me
how long I had been with this problem, what time of night it usually happened,
he said.

“Are you aware
of anything that might be causing you to wake up in mid-sleep?”

“Well, doctor…”
I grumbled. “I see a dream.”

“A dream?” He
parroted the word with so much interest that it almost felt ridiculous.

“More like a
nightmare,” I corrected myself.

“Can you tell
me more about it?”

“Oh, it’s just
a silly dream, you know.”

I tried to
laugh it off but the doctor wasn’t fooled.

“No matter how
silly it may seem, dreams often portray your feelings and thoughts in your
subconscious.”

Rubbing his
jaw, he said.

“Mr. Reynolds,
you can be rest assured. Whatever we talk in this room never gets out of here.”

“It’s a dream
about a woman.” I shrugged. “In the dream, or the nightmare is more like it,
she is pregnant.”

Following the
shrink’s inquisitive look, I added. “I can tell that she is pregnant because of
her inflated belly, just like a balloon.”

“Is she someone
you know?”

“Oh, I don’t
know.” I shook my head. “Not at the moment, I can’t see her face. She is just
something like a dark shadow.”

“I see.” He
nodded and encouraged me to continue the story.

“All of a
sudden, she is dead. And she is glaring at me grudgingly, except her eyes are
no longer with her. She stares at me, with dark, bloodied, empty holes that are
supposed to accommodate her eyeballs.”

I was sweating
and huffing as I regurgitated my nightmares.

“Are you okay?
Would you like some water?” Shrink looked into my face concernedly. I declined
his offer with a shake of a hand.

“I’m fine,
thanks.”

After taking a
deep breath, I continued. “The worst part is, I’m holding the bloodied eyeballs
in my hands. Not just hers, but the fetus’s. At this moment, the unborn baby
has somehow emerged out of her. Her, I mean, the mother’s abdomen is ripped
open, the baby’s strapped to his mother with just the umbilical cord, but I
know he has his own will. And he doesn’t like me. No,
doesn’t like me
is
an understatement. It’s obvious he hates me. ‘You idiot! You killed us, you
killed us, you killed us!’
He accuses me, finger pointing, with his empty
eyeholes full of rage… Then the woman joins the chant with the baby, and the
eyeballs I’m holding starts chanting at me, saying
Murderer, murderer, bloody
murderer
. I tell you, it’s horrible.”

I touched my
cheek and felt the moisture. At first I thought it was sweat then I realized I
was sobbing.

Offering tissue
paper, the shrink asked. “Do you think this particular dream is anyhow related
to your real life experiences?”

“I don’t know.”
I shook my head.

Doctor cast me
an inquisitive look. So I added, “Just in case, I have searched my home and studio
for stray eyeballs that do not belong to me. I’m happy to announce I found
none.” I didn’t mention that some peculiar words keep on surfacing in my
consciousness and bothers me badly.

I didn’t know the
reason why, but I didn’t want to tell him. A complication is the last thing I
wanted to add to my already bad situation. At least, I was aware of the
jeopardy of sharing your obsession that involves the word “eyeballs” nowadays. I
had no idea the meanings of “Eyes of Dragon,” “Dragon Lady,” or why I was so
obsessed with this phrase.

Anyway, the shrink
nodded like he knew it all. “I see,” was his words.

“Do you, by any
chance suspect that I am the serial killer called Eyeball Snatcher?”

“What makes you
ask me that question?” He answered my question with a question. As if, to avoid
actually making a reply to my question. Then he continued, “Sometimes, for sensitive
people, information from outside world, such as TV, newspaper, and the internet
is too much. And when your brain is overwhelmed with external stimuli, the border
line between reality and virtual reality often gets blurred.”

“Hmm, that’s
interesting.”

“Do you use alcohol
before sleeping?” He said.

“No. I don’t
drink.” I stopped drinking after the crash.

“How about
recreational drugs?”

“No.” I denied profusely.
Maybe, a little bit too profusely. I tend to get sensitive when they ask me
about drug use, not to mention that a little concoction I’m using nowadays is
not the kind of drugs he was talking about. So I use a little bit of this and
that to help me get numb, but that doesn’t make me a junky, right?

The psychiatrist
furrowed his brows skeptically. “How about using them in the past?”

“Well, I did
used to use…a bit.”

“How much do
you define as ‘a bit’?”

“I prefer not
to answer to that question.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, doctor.” I
tried to chuckle breezily, in a lame attempt to lighten up the mood but the
shrink didn’t.

“No offence,
but from my point of view, it seems like you are not 100 percent confident
regarding drug matters. And I strongly recommend that you quit the bad habit
immediately. Drugs destroy not only you but the people around you, including
but not limited to your loved ones.”

“I understand.”
I nodded. I didn’t tell him that my ‘loved one’ had already left me.

“I can arrange
a proper treatment in the rehab.” He said. “What do you think about that?”

“I don’t think
so,” I shook my head. “I don’t want to go to rehab. It’s a waste of time. I’ve
already quit using drugs.”

He stared me in
the eyes. “Then Mr. Reynolds, please promise that you quit drugs, completely. Can
you promise?”

“I promise. I
mean it.”

He nodded like
he was satisfied with my answer. “By the way, about the people in your dream,
are there anyone you know?”

“Yes, I suppose
so.” I said, from gritted teeth. “The dead woman is Carla.”

“Your late fiancée?”

“Yes, my best friend,
my fiancée, one and only woman I loved… and killed.”

“Mr. Reynolds,
you didn’t kill her,” Shrink said firmly. “It was an unfortunate accident.”

“But I was
driving the goddamned vehicle!” I snapped. “She was pregnant with our baby. We
were so happy. I was such an idiot to drive after drinking. I thought it was
OK, just a couple of beers, but it wasn’t…”

“I can imagine
your suffering,” said the psychiatrist, with a grim expression. “However, what
happened in the past is just a past. Sometimes, we cannot restore the past.”

“I know.” I
nodded. “But I just cannot get over it. Every moment, I can’t help thinking
what if I had gone more slowly, what if we took a taxi instead of driving
myself, what if I had firmly objected to going out to dinner and ordered pizza
or Chinese instead.”

“Remorse is a
tricky emotion,” Shrink said. “Anyone else you recognize in that particular
dream?”

“Well, I
believe the woman appearing as a shadow is my mother.”

“She has passed
away when you were a student, is that correct?”

“Yes, she died
of heart attack when I was studying in Vienna, Austria.”

“How was your
relationship to your late mother?”

He asked me the
same question I had answered in one of previous sessions.

Trying to hide
annoyance, “I have mixed feelings to her,” I admitted. “She was the harshest
piano teacher, it’s true I often loathed her. But…”

“But?”

“It’s also true,
without her, I would never have emerged as a musician in the first place, which,
I have completely screwed by causing the accident.”

As I said it
bitterly, the haunting image of shattered glass, crooked and bloody wrists with
bones sticking out flashed back to my eyes. And the pain that comes with the
memory followed by numbness. And the despair.

Gritting my
teeth, I moved my hands. The hands that will never fully recover.

“I can imagine she’s
really pissed off about me, if she sees me from the up above.”

“I doubt it,
Mr. Reynolds.” Shrink said. “As you have mentioned, it’s true that you had an
accident that resulted in deaths of your fiancée and the expected baby. You
sustained a severe injury to your hands, ending your career as an
internationally renowned pianist. Still, you have achieved a great success in popular
music industry. Now as a singer and a song writer named Yves, you are one of
the most successful emerging musicians. It’s amazing, like the pianist Frederick
Reynolds has reborn into Yves.”

I cocked my
head. It felt awkward that he described me as some kind of a star. People talk
about me like a fucking phoenix or something but in my heart, I was just a poor
stupid bastard who ended up killing his loved ones, because of his own
stupidity. I knew that fact never changes. So being Yves, I got a lot of money.
Money can buy many things. Then again, even if I collect all the money in the
world, that cannot buy Carla and our baby back.

“Anyway, let me
interpret your persistent dream. It is a mixed reflection of your inner love,
loathe, remorse, and the lack of self-esteem, that’s causing conflicts within
your subconscious. And I see your inner conflict as the source of the bad dream
in which you end up killing your mother, your late fiancée and the baby. At the
moment, I strongly recommend that you cut yourself some slack.”  

“That’s impossible,
Dr. Springer.” I cracked a dry laugh.

“Mind you,
anything is possible.” Doctor smiled assuredly. “First, you need to believe in
yourself. Also, I strongly recommend that you cut off media like TV and
internet that come with violence, murders and other creepy things from your
life. Shall we get started?”

For the
millionth time I nodded, reclined the couch, and then I lay flat on my back.

“Close your
eyes, take a deep breath, relax your muscles.” The shrink started with his
signature deep voice that induced sleepiness. “Imagine a peaceful, warm, and
calm place. You are completely relaxed…”

Following his
instruction, I felt my body gradually relaxing.

—It’s better
than the chairs at Mandarin Oriental…

Thinking about
the couch, my consciousness sank into the deeper place.

The session has
just begun.