Personal Demons, Page 2

  Megan tensed. At this point in a session she started tuning in, seeing what the patient saw, noticing what they mentioned or omitted and asking careful questions to find out why.

  She had to steel her nerves to do it for Kevin.

  She saw the room he walked across as he described it to her, and sighed with relief. No nausea, no fear.

  The cavernous room seemed to stretch into nothingness, with a ceiling so high only the fuzzy variations of color let her know something decorated it. The walls weren't walls at all, but cupboards, with hundreds of doors in them, each two or three feet tall. It was like being in an enormous library card catalog, but lights came from under the small closed doors.

  "Was it an empty room, Kevin? Or was there furniture? Doors to other rooms?"

  "There were doors. A lot of doors."

  "What's behind them?"

  In the dream memory Kevin paused and looked at the thin line of light on the floor. “I don't know. Weapons?"

  Megan noted that answer on her pad. “Did you think you needed a weapon, Kevin?"

  "I didn't think,” he said. “I just tried to get to the end of the room. There was something waiting for me there, something that wanted me to see it."

  "What was it?"

  "I didn't know. I just knew I needed to get there."

  Another note. “What happened when you did?"

  At the end of the room another door loomed, larger than the others, with ornate carvings in the dark wood. She felt sweat rolling down her face—Kevin's face. Was there a fire behind the door? Fire was a pretty common fear.

  Kevin's voice changed now, growing higher and faint. Whatever hid beyond that door must not be pleasant. She braced herself as he reached for it. His hand closed over the ornate brass knob. Flesh sizzled.

  Kevin screamed. Something slammed into Megan with enough force to knock her out of her chair. She cried out, her head hitting the floor with a painful thud. The door still loomed in front of her, even as she saw Kevin jerking and convulsing on the couch, his mouth open, his eyes wide. Desperately Megan tried to put her shields back up, to break her connection with Kevin's dream, but she could not. Something had grabbed hold of her mind and refused to let go.

  She tried to cry out for Lucy the receptionist, for anyone, but no sound escaped her constricted throat. She reached up, her fingers scrabbling for what felt like a cord squeezing her neck, but she scratched at empty air.

  Kevin fell off the couch, smashing into the glass-top table in the middle of the floor. His body still twisted and writhed, horrible gagging noises coming from his open mouth.

  Megan's vision started going black around the edges, black as the dream door that screeched on huge brass hinges...

  Just before she saw what lurked behind it, the door to her office burst open. Lucy's terrified face was the last thing Megan saw before darkness overtook her.

  * * * *

  "I'm fine.” Megan sat up on the bed and swung her legs over the side. “I just want to go home."

  "The doctor hasn't released you,” the nurse replied, in the weary tones of a woman used to being ignored and treated badly by the people she tried to help.

  "Can you call her for me, please? I'm fine.” It was a lie. She was not fine, but the hospital couldn't do anything for her.

  Twice in two days now she'd had an unusual reaction when tuning in to someone. Three times, if you included her inability to read anything from the lawyer on her doorstep. Was it possible for psychic abilities to suddenly become uncontrollable? Or was it a coincidence, some odd alignment of the planets? Maybe Kevin was epileptic or had an organic brain dysfunction?

  She had no way to find out, no one she could ask. In her youth Megan had looked for a mentor, someone else who could do what she did. Once she'd realized her parents couldn't help, she'd tried making appointments with Tarot readers and psychics. None of them were able to do anything for her, with the exception of the Tarot reader who'd advised her to let go of her anger. Megan liked her anger and ignored the advice.

  Through trial and error, not to mention desperation, she'd found a way to shield herself, but she'd never advanced beyond that.

  The nurse looked her up and down. “Are you the kind of person who ignores doctor's orders?"

  Megan smiled. “No. I'm not an idiot."

  "You don't look like an idiot,” the nurse said, returning the smile. “I'll get her.” She turned and headed for the busy nurse's station in the middle of the Emergency Care area, her jogging shoes making little squeaks on the polished tile floor. Megan bit her fingernails and waited.

  "You know, we have a snack machine,” the doctor said, entering Megan's little curtained cubicle. “In case those nails don't fill you up."

  Megan blushed. “Nervous habit. Oral fixation."

  "Mmm-hmm. You're a counselor, right? PhD?” The doctor—Janet Hunter, according to her ID badge—cocked an eyebrow and grinned.

  "Physician, heal thyself?"

  "Something like that. I suppose it could be worse. You could smoke."

  "No smoking. Just clean, non-lethal nasty habits."

  "Great. Lisa tells me you're feeling fine, and I don't see any reason to keep you here, but try to take it easy for the next few days, okay? And call your regular doctor if you have any dizziness or pain that can't be treated with a couple of Tylenol."

  Megan nodded.

  "Dr. Chase?"

  A man in a plaid shirt and a pair of brown corduroy jeans that had seen better days stood in the entryway to Megan's room. Large glasses dominated his smiling face. “I'm sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I wanted to catch you before they discharge you."

  "I'm done with her, Art. Signing her discharge now, you're just in time."

  "Excellent.” The man stepped further into the room while Megan thanked Dr. Hunter. “I'm Arthur Bellingham.” He held out his hand. Megan shook it. It was warm and limp. “I'm head of the Fearbusters program here at the hospital."

  "Right,” Megan looked at him with new interest. “Kevin's therapist."

  "Yes, Kevin's therapist.” Something about the way he said it made Megan itch to tune into him, but she refrained. She wasn't about to take a chance of something else going wrong when she was so close to freedom from the hospital. “That's why I wanted to talk to you. What happened to Kevin?"

  "It looked like a seizure, but you'd have to ask Dr. Hunter if it was."

  "I will,” Bellingham replied. “I'm glad neither of you were seriously injured."

  "Me too.” What did he want? He was clearly building up to something, and Megan wished he would just come out with it so she could leave.

  "I suppose things could have gone very badly if your receptionist hadn't come and found you."

  How did he know that? Had he been peeking at her triage forms? Not worth arguing about. It wasn't like there was any information there he couldn't get elsewhere anyway. “I suppose,” she said. “I'd rather not think about it."

  "Oh, come now, Dr. Chase. We're psychologists. It's our job to face fear."

  "It's our job to help our patients face their fears."

  "You say potato. Actually, it's just that kind of thing I was hoping to discuss with you. Fears, I mean, not potatoes!” He chuckled at his own joke.

  Megan smiled with her mouth closed. “What about them?"

  "Well.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and leaned against the EKG monitor, only to stumble and nearly fall when the monitor on its wheeled cart rolled away. Megan tightened her lips to keep from laughing as he pulled it back into place. He looked back at her, with the guilty expression of a child who expected to be beaten for his clumsiness.

  "Stupid wheels,” Megan said. “Whose idea were they, anyway?"

  He gave a nervous little giggle. “Yes. Right. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about Fearbusters."

  "The program Kevin was in?"

  "The program Kevin is in. He hasn't officially left."

  "Most therapy clients don't officially leave, d
o they, Mr. Bellingham? I mean, there's no graduation ceremony for feeling better. They just stop making appointments."

  Bellingham shrugged, but the lines of his face tensed. “Fearbusters is ... different. Special. We do have a ceremony of sorts, and our clients sign up for a set period of time. If they feel better before that time is up, they help mentor those who aren't as strong yet. It's a wonderful program."

  It may be wonderful, but it also sounded unethical. “And they pay for the sessions where they're acting as mentors?"

  He nodded. “We reduce the fee, but our theory—and our clients agree—is that they're still learning new coping mechanisms while helping others to cope. Often they decide to stay, even after they've had their Leaving Ceremony."

  "I see."

  He narrowed his eyes. “If they really want to leave, they can. They just have to tell us. But in the two years we've been running the program, only one person has."

  "Impressive."

  "Thank you. Let me cut to the chase, Dr. Chase.” He smiled. Megan smiled back, just as if she hadn't heard that joke a million times. “I'd love to have you on board. I heard you on the radio last night, dealing with the woman who heard voices. You were great. Most of our clients have issues like hers, hence our name. I think you'd be a great asset to our team."

  Was there a person in the city who hadn't been listening? In her worst nightmares she'd never imagined Richard's stupid publicity campaign being this effective.

  "I'm flattered,” she began. “But with my own practice and the show, I'm working six days a week. I just don't see how I can fit it in."

  "Maybe you could come down one evening and sit in on a session? We meet here at seven every weeknight, Conference Room B in the Outpatient Center. We'd love to have you."

  "I'll try."

  Bellingham brightened. “Great. Here's my card.” The card was much flimsier than the one her mysterious visitor had presented her last night. “Please call me anytime if you have the chance to come in."

  "I will.” Megan hopped off the bed and landed with a thud on her feet. The bed was a little higher than she'd thought. She grabbed her purse. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Bellingham."

  "Call me Art.” He gave her another limp handshake. It was like holding hands with an uncooked chicken cutlet. Megan suppressed a shudder. “Megan,” she said.

  "Megan, then. I hope you'll call."

  She waited until he was gone to wipe her hand on her skirt.

  Chapter Three

  Caf? Neus was part of the “new millennium” rebuilding project the city counselors had gone into paroxysms of glee over a few years back. Megan hated it. All the old buildings that used to give downtown character were gone, replaced by gleaming storefronts and chi-chi restaurants that looked like a strong wind would blow them over.

  But she had to admit, it certainly had made the area more popular. Megan hunted for fifteen minutes before finding a place to park her little Focus, seven blocks from her destination. By the time she entered the cool, leafy interior of the restaurant she was grumpy, her feet hurt, and she wished she could go back in time and slap herself for agreeing to do the stupid radio show at all.

  Don Tremblay wasn't so bad, was he? So what if he loathed Megan as much as she disliked him, especially after she'd lost her temper a year before at a conference they'd both attended and told him she'd recommend Hannibal Lecter as a therapist before she'd recommend him? So what if he'd told at least one client to grow up and stop whining so much, then charged the client double for the session saying it was because he hated her? Could she herself honestly say she'd never been tempted to do the same? It was hypocritical of her to judge poor Don, who'd been a therapist for years, poor Don whose wife had left him three years ago, poor Don, who was ... heading right for her.

  "Megan.” He smiled his artificial smile and grabbed her hand in both of his. She focused all her energy into her shields as he trapped her between the fake bamboo hostess stand and his pudgy body and forced his wet lips to her cheek. “It's nice to see you. I heard your show. What a sweet little effort."

  "Sweet little effort?"

  "Of course.” He clasped his hands together in front of his chest and grinned at her. The effect was not what she thought he intended. He looked like a mad scientist about to cut up some dead bodies and make amusing shapes with their cold innards. “When Richard Randall told me you'd agreed to do it, I thought you were both a little crazy, but after listening...” He picked up her hand again and kissed it. “Magnifique. A word of warning, though. There are some in our illustrious profession who may not take kindly to your sudden fame."

  Like you, she thought, but did not say. Tremblay's eyes were cold and watchful, and he was not afraid to make a scene. She didn't want to make things worse, especially when there was a reporter somewhere in the room ready to write about her. Fame-Hungry Counselor Stabbed Backs for Radio Show was not a headline she cared to read. At least, not on a story about herself.

  "Thanks for the warning. I'll keep that in mind."

  "I'm always happy to help a young lady unschooled in making the right impressions.” Good old Don, always ready to patronize. “In fact, seeing as how you're dining alone again, perhaps you'd care to join me and my friends?"

  "I'm sorry, I can't. I'm meeting someone."

  "Blind date? It's hard for a girl like you to meet people these days, isn't it?"

  Some people made her want to gouge out their eyes with a grapefruit spoon. Don was one of them. With effort, she refrained. “Yes, my enormous sexual appetite tends to scare men away. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find my dinner date."

  She left him standing next to the gaping hostess.

  * * * *

  "Here's how it works.” Brian Stone, reporter for Hot Spot, rummaged around in his large backpack and set a mini-recorder on the table between them. His eyes sparkled. Megan envied his enjoyment of his job. “I ask questions, you answer. It's simple, but the tricky part is not sounding self-conscious. I want this to be a good article. I'm not planning a hatchet job, don't worry. If we do it right, it turns into a conversation and we both forget the recorder. We're going to be together all week, so it's best if we get the uncomfortable part out of the way fast, okay, Dr. Chase?"

  He had an easy, quick way of talking as he gave this little speech. His light brown hair was short and tidy, his smile wide and welcoming. Everything about him was designed to be reassuring and encourage confidences. Megan refused to be won over.

  "I'll certainly give it a try."

  "But you don't want to."

  "What?"

  "You don't want to be interviewed, I can tell. It's okay. I mean ... it's not okay, because it makes my job harder ... but I understand you feeling that way. A lot of people do."

  "But you push them anyway."

  "Don't you?” His blue eyes looked directly into hers, pinning her to her chair. She looked away.

  "I don't think of it that way. They pay me to ask questions, to find out what's at the heart of their problems. Sometimes to do that you have to force people to confront things they'd rather not face."

  "Is that your theory, then? That your job is forcing your patients to look into all the nasty corners of their minds?"

  "They are not necessarily ‘nasty corners’ and I don't ‘force’ anyone, Mr. Stone. Nor do I think confronting the truth in order to deal with problems is theory. It's the truth. If you go to the doctor with pains in your stomach, but refuse to allow an examination, you've wasted a trip to the doctor. Same with a counselor."

  She hadn't expected the interview to be fun, but she hadn't expected to react with gut-clenching rage, either. Her Coke sat on the table next to her as yet untouched salad. She wished she'd ordered something stronger.

  "It's not the same, though, is it? What you don't tell a real doctor can kill you. What you—"

  "Hold it right there, Mr. Stone. I may not be a medical doctor, but I earned a doctorate in Counseling Psychology. I'm a highly qualified,
licensed counselor, I'm not doing this as a lark."

  "I know."

  "Furthermore, I—what? What do you mean, you know?"

  Stone smiled. “Of course I know your qualifications. You have an excellent reputation, and it's certainly not everyone who can earn a Master's and a Doctorate in eight years. But I've gotten you to loosen up a bit. You're ready to talk now, right? More than you were earlier? And to call me Brian?"

  "The only thing I'm ready to do now is dump my salad on your head."

  "Please don't. It takes forever to get the dressing out."

  In spite of herself, she laughed. “Okay, Brian. I admit I'm not as nervous as I was. That doesn't mean I approve of your methods."

  "I can only do my best,” he said, taking a bite of his own salad. “You should eat."

  "Desperate to take a photo of me with spinach in my teeth?"

  "No, but I will if you aren't nice to me."

  Megan smiled in acknowledgment and took a sip of her Coke, scanning the restaurant over the top of her glass. Her gaze stopped on two tables at the back. At one sat Don Tremblay with Jeff Howard—one of the partners in her co-practice who'd been vocally opposed to her joining—and a woman she didn't recognize. So Tremblay was friendly with Howard. She'd never known that, but it certainly made sense.

  The other table was more worrisome. As the giggling waitress stepped away from it, Greyson Dante held up his wineglass in her direction. She ignored him.

  "So,” Brian said, after thanking the waitress for his entree, “I'd like to be in your office by ten every morning. That way our photographer can get some good shots, and I can interview some of your patients."

  "You can't interview my patients. They have a right to confidentiality."

  Brian shrugged. “Some of them will probably want to keep that privacy intact but still speak anonymously. But I'm sure a few of them would love to have their picture in our magazine, so everyone knows they get to see Dr. Demon Slayer on a regular basis."

  Megan almost choked on her steak. “The who?"

  "The demon slayer. That's what the station specified we were to call you. Part of the theme of the show."