Jeffery Deaver - Twisted - The Collected Stories of Jeffery Deaver

“I have to fix something.”

“I think it’s in the drawer beside the refrigerator.”

She found it. Carried it into the living room. She glanced at the last Boehm bird, an owl.

Peter looked at the tool then back to the TV. “What do you have to fix?”

“You,” she answered and brought the blunt end down on the top of his head with all her strength.

It took another dozen blows to kill him and when she’d finished she stood back and gazed at the remarkable patterns the blood made on the carpet and couch. Then she went into the bedroom and picked up her diary from the bedside table — the one Dr. Bernstein had suggested she keep. Back in the living room Patsy sat down beside her husband’s corpse and she wrote a rambling passage in the booklet about how, at last, she’d gotten the ghosts to stop speaking to her. She was finally at peace. She didn’t add as much as she wanted to; it was very time-consuming to write using your finger for a pen and blood for ink.

When Patsy’d finished she picked up the hammer and smashed the Boehm ceramic owl into dust. Then she began screaming as loudly as she could, “The ghosts are dead, the ghosts are dead, the ghosts are dead!”

Long before she was hoarse the police and medics arrived. When they took her away she was wearing a straitjacket.

A week later Harry Bernstein sat in the prison hospital waiting room. He knew he was a sight — he hadn’t shaved in several days and was wearing wrinkled clothes — which in fact he’d slept in last night. He stared at the filthy floor.

“You all right?” This question came from a tall, thin man with a perfect beard. He wore a gorgeous suit and Armani-framed glasses. He was Patsy’s lead defense lawyer.

“I never thought she’d do it,” Harry said to him. “I knew there was risk. I knew something was wrong. But I thought I had everything under control.”

The lawyer looked at him sympathetically. “I heard you’ve been having some trouble too. Your patients...”

Harry laughed bitterly. “Are quitting in droves. Well, wouldn’t you? Park Avenue shrinks are a dime a dozen. Why should they risk seeing me? I might get them killed or committed.”

The jailor opened the door. “Dr. Bernstein, you can see the prisoner now.”

He stood slowly, supporting himself on the door frame.

The lawyer looked him over and said, “You and I can meet in the next couple days to decide how to handle the case. The insanity defense is tough in New York but with you on board I can make it work. We’ll keep her out of jail... Say, Doctor, you going to be okay?”

Harry gave a shallow nod.

The lawyer said kindly, “I can arrange for a little cash for you. A couple thousand — for an expert witness fee.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. But he instantly forgot about the money. His mind was already on his patient.

The room was as bleak as he’d expected.

Face white, eyes shrunken, Patsy lay in bed, looking out the window. She glanced at Harry, didn’t seem to recognize him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Who are you?” She frowned.

He didn’t answer her question either. “You’re not looking too bad, Patsy.”

“I think I know you. Yes, you’re... Wait, are you a ghost?”

“No, I’m not a ghost.” Harry set his attaché case on the table. Her eyes slipped to the case as he opened it.

“I can’t stay long, Patsy. I’m closing my practice. There’s a lot to take care of. But I wanted to bring you a few things.”

“Things?” she asked, sounding like a child. “For me? Like Christmas. Like my birthday.”

“Uh-hum.” Harry rummaged in the case. “Here’s the first thing.” He took out a photocopy. “It’s an article in the Journal of Psychoses. I found it the night after the session when you first told me about the ghosts. You should read it.”

“I can’t read,” she said. “I don’t know how.” She gave a crazy laugh. “I’m afraid of the food here. I think there are spies around. They’re going to put things in the food. Disgusting things. And poison. Or broken glass.” Another cackle.

Harry set the article on the bed next to her. He walked to the window. No trees here. No birds. Just gray, downtown Manhattan.

He said, glancing back at her, “It’s all about ghosts. The article.”

Her eyes narrowed and then fear consumed her face. “Ghosts,” she whispered. “Are there ghosts here?”

Harry laughed hard. “See, Patsy, ghosts were the first clue. After you mentioned them in that session — claiming that your husband was driving you crazy — I thought something didn’t sound quite right. So I went home and started to research your case.”

She gazed at him silently.

“That article’s about the importance of diagnosis in mental health cases. See, sometimes it works to somebody’s advantage to appear to be mentally unstable — so they can avoid responsibility. Say, soldiers who don’t want to fight. People faking insurance claims. People who’ve committed crimes.” He turned back. “Or who’re about to commit a crime.”

“I’m afraid of ghosts,” Patsy said, her voice rising. “I’m afraid of ghosts. I don’t want any ghosts here! I’m afraid of—”

Harry continued like a lecturing professor. “And ghosts are one of the classic hallucinations that sane people use to try to convince other people that they’re insane.”

Patsy closed her mouth.

“Fascinating article,” Harry continued, nodding toward it. “See, ghosts and spirits seem like the products of delusional minds. But in fact they’re complex metaphysical concepts that someone who’s really insane wouldn’t understand at all. No, true psychotics believe that the actual person is there speaking to them. They think that Napoleon or Hitler or Marilyn Monroe is really in the room with them. You wouldn’t have claimed to’ve heard your father’s ghost. You would actually have heard him. ”

Harry enjoyed the utterly shocked expression on his patient’s face. He said, “Then a few weeks ago you admitted that maybe the voices were in your head. A true psychotic would never admit that. They’d swear they were completely sane.” He paced slowly. “There were some other things too. You must’ve read somewhere that sloppy physical appearance is a sign of mental illness. Your clothes were torn and dirty, you’d forget to do straps... but your makeup was always perfect — even on the night the police called me over to your apartment. In genuine mental health cases makeup is the first thing to go. Patients just smear their faces with it. Has to do with issues of masking their identity — if you’re interested.

“Oh, and remember? You asked if a ghost could come to one of our sessions? That was very funny. But the psychiatric literature defines humor as ironic juxtaposition of concepts based on common experience. Of course that’s contrary to the mental processes of psychotics.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Patsy spat out.

“That crazy people don’t make jokes,” he summarized. “That cinched it for me that you were sane as could be.” Harry looked through the attaché case once more. “Next...” He looked up, smiling. “After I read that article and decided you were faking your diagnosis — and listening to what your subconscious was telling me about your marriage — I figured you were using me for some reason having to do with your husband. So I hired a private eye.”

“Jesus Christ, you did what?”

“Here’s his report.” He dropped the folder on the bed. “It says basically that your husband was having an affair and was forging checks on your main investment account. You knew about his mistress and the money and you’d talked to a lawyer about divorcing him. But Peter knew that you were having an affair too — with your friend Sally’s husband. Peter used that to blackmail you into not divorcing him.”