Robert Alter - 100 Malicious Little Mysteries

“Yes, I probably could have, but I’m happy where I am. I think it’s the best place for me. If I didn’t, I’d go somewhere else or do something else. That’s the way you feel about your job, isn’t it, Tom? That active police work is the best occupation for you?”

“You certainly have Tom figured out,” Joe Moffet said. “And you put it into words better than he does, too. He’s turned down two promotions in the last year. He could have a comfortable desk job in D.C., but he prefers to transport fugitives. Everyone thinks he’s crazy, but he says he’s happy where he is.”

They exchanged small talk for a few more minutes, then left the restaurant together. They paused to say good-bye on the sidewalk outside, and Tom Campbell’s face clouded with confusion and embarrassment. “I’m terribly sorry. Doctor, but I — uh — I’ve forgotten your name again.”

Jason Whitney smiled. “That’s all right. You’d be surprised how many people have trouble remembering me. The next time you’re at the House of Detention stop by my office to say hello. I always have a pot of coffee on the hot plate.” He turned to the other agent. “That goes for you, too, Mr. Moffet. Stop in any time. It’s been nice meeting you.”

Jason Whitney waited until ten that morning before having Henry Hammond called to the infirmary. He chose that time because the morning sick call had been taken care of by then, and his assistants were enjoying a coffee break.

“Good morning, Mr. Hammond. I’m Dr. Whitney, the Chief Medical Officer here. I’m in charge of the health and physical well-being of you and the other prisoners. It’s my job to examine each new arrival and determine whether or not he’ll require treatment of any kind.”

Hammond nodded his understanding. He had dark circles under his eyes and stood nervously in the doorway of the infirmary. He clenched and unclenched his right fist in an uneven rhythm, and his eyes swept back and forth, taking in all the cabinets and equipment. It was obvious his sudden arrest and transportation to the United States had been a severe shock.

“Step this way, please,” Whitney said, leading the way to a side room.

Here there were bare white walls and the only furniture was an examination table for the patient. There was nothing that might prove distracting.

“Lie down, please. I’m going to take your blood pressure. I’m sure you’ve had it done before.”

The doctor wrapped the instrument around Hammond’s arm, and squeezed the bulb to pump air into it.

“Be as quiet as you can. I want the lowest reading possible. Relax as much as you can and try not to think of anything in particular.”

Whitney busied himself with the instrument.

“Your reading is a bit high, Mr. Hammond. I think you’re a little too tense. I you don’t mind, I’ll show you how to relax. Just close your eyes. That’s right, close your eyes and relax the eyelids. I think you can get the feeling of complete relaxation if you’ll follow my suggestions. Relax your eyelids completely. Now turn your attention to your arms. Let them become completely limp. Think of them as a pair of limp rags and when I lift them let them fall back to the table just as a couple of limp rags would. That’s very good. Now we’ll do the same with your legs. See, you’re much more relaxed and at ease now.

“I’ll just take your blood pressure again and see how well you’ve done. Oh, that’s very good. That’s very, very good. You’re far more relaxed than before. Let’s try it again, Mr. Hammond, and this time keep your eyes closed all the while. That will aid the relaxation process.

“Okay, now, relax your eyes. Now your arms. Let them become as limp as rags. Now your legs. Relax them. Just relax your whole body. Let your whole body go limp. Let your whole body become heavy. Get completely comfortable. Now, if you are truly relaxed, you will find that your eyelids won’t open. Relax your eyelids and body completely. When you feel you’re completely relaxed you may try to open your eyes. If you are completely relaxed, they won’t open. If you cannot open your eyes, you will be completely relaxed. That’s fine. Now try to open your eyes. See — you cannot open them. You are completely, deeply relaxed and you cannot open your eyes. Your arms and legs are heavy and limp and you cannot lift or move them.”

As quickly and easily as that, without once using the words sleep or hypnosis. Dr. Jason Whitney placed Henry Hammond into a deep trance.

In the next half hour he deepened the trance still further, then extracted from Hammond the code numbers and balances of ten secret bank accounts. Immediately before allowing the man to wake up, he directed Hammond to forget forever that the secret accounts had ever existed. “And you will never be able to remember my name,” he told him.

That reminded Whitney of Agent Tom Campbell. When he had hypnotized Campbell a year before and instructed the man to keep him informed about criminals with hidden money, he had neglected to order him always to come to the restaurant alone. He would have to rectify that oversight at the first opportunity.

As Hammond left the infirmary to return to his cell. Dr. Whitney watched him walk away and felt a wave of satisfaction. Thiswas the best place for him. He didn’t have to work the long hours a hospital might have demanded, and he was collecting far, far more money in a single year than his professional hypnotist parents had earned in their lifetimes.

What a surprise it was to see Sweets yesterday — and not altogether a pleasant one.

By the time I got my chair turned around in the kitchen after I heard him knock and rolled through the arch into the living room, he had walked in.

It was just like Sweets to do that, just walk in. He stood there in the center of the room looking around, his pudgy face divided by a wide toothless grin that made his head look like a Bender melon split by a cleaver. Not a bad idea, that.

I had come back from a ride down to the Heron Valley overlook just before his car pulled up in front. “You’ve put on weight, Sweets,” I said. I looked at the bulge above and below his narrow belt. He eased into a rocker facing the couch. Aside from my bed and a dresser, that’s about all the furniture left in my house. When you live in a wheelchair, that’s the first move you make — you get rid of all the road hazards.

“It’s been near four years, old buddy,” Sweets said. He shifted his weight in the rocker. It creaked in protest. I noticed that the pressure within had tested every fiber in his soiled chino pants. The stitching down the front had surrendered in the struggle and the zipper was exposed, a silver snake that caught the light from the west window. It was like Sweets to go around that way. My distaste for him spilled over into my voice.

“Don’t ‘old buddy’ me, Sweets. What do you want? What are you after now, after all this time? I have nothing left.”

“That ain’t no way to talk to an old friend. Ain’t I the one who told the boys they should build the ramps for you? Ain’t I the one who said you need a low counter in the kitchen for cooking and eating? Ain’t I the one who hung those bars on chains in the bathroom so you could get in and out of the tub — take care of yourself?”

I couldn’t help but mimic him. “Yeah, and ain’t you the one that got careless setting off that dynamite charge in the quarry that put me in this chair for life?”

Sweets wriggled his button nose as if he smelled something bad. It twitched side to side, a pink crabapple adrift on a sea of bread dough.

“That was a accident. That was five years ago. You shouldn’t oughta hold a grudge like that. Lord knows I wouldn’t hurt a flea.”