John Lutz - Pulse

“You’re saying they had a kind heart, or they would have just driven on and left Duffy injured and dying on the road. Instead, they put the poor animal out of its misery.”

“I’m saying whoever ran over Duffy and hurt him might have then gone ahead and murdered him.”

Rory faked a strangled kind of laugh. “You really think anyone would go to that kinda trouble over a dog?” He knew immediately the words were a mistake. He understood how Sherri’s mind worked. She’d ask herself why indeed someone would take that kind of trouble. The possible answers would include that they might know Sherri and fear she’d blame them for killing her dog. The next step in her logical process might lead her straight to Rory. “Whatever happened,” he said, “Duffy’s dead and you have to put the whole thing behind you.”

“I can’t. It isn’t Duffy’s death I keep thinking about; it’s like death in general. About how in this amount or that amount of years one or both of us, and most of the people we know, will be gone forever.” She looked up at him. “Do you ever really think about forever, Rory?”

“All the time.”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not, Sherri, believe me!”

She moved away from him, rooted through her purse, and fished out a small brown vial with a pop-off white plastic cap. Rory saw a prescription form stuck to the bottle.

“These help me. You know they can help you.”

“Yeah. We’ve gone through this before, with the pills. I almost wrecked the car. This time it’s no thanks.”

Sherri held the vial up and read the label: “ ‘Lorazepam. ’ The only way I can get to sleep now is by taking one of these, or by sneaking some of my dad’s scotch. But the whiskey doesn’t work as well. When I drink it I can fall asleep, but I can’t stay that way.”

“I know how that works,” Rory said.

Sherri smiled. “My mom’d never dream I took these and have been using them.”

“Didn’t she ask you about them?”

“Just if I knew where they were. I said no, and reminded her how she misplaced things. She had a lousy night’s sleep and then had the doctor call in a new prescription.”

“They’re easy to fool, aren’t they,” Rory said. “Doctors and mothers.”

“Too.”

She opened the vial and shook a small white pill into her hand and held it out to Rory. “Take one. You’ll like the way this works. It like makes you stop worrying instead of making you sleepy. Then if you want, you can go to sleep on your own.”

“I don’t want to go to sleep.”

“I just told you they don’t make you tired, just relaxed.”

“I’m relaxed enough.”

“You don’t seem like it.” She popped the pill into her mouth and swallowed it, as if she was used to taking pills without water.

“I know how I can get more relaxed,” Rory said.

“Forget that.”

He sighed. He knew she was thinking about what had really happened to the dog. She’d never let it alone. That was the way her mind worked. He knew that because his mind worked the same way.

They’d professed their love to each other. Why couldn’t she look ahead instead of backward? Was this how life worked? Dragging around the past like chains that made you raw and tired and eventually brought you down.

Rory was a realist. He understood that when Sherri figured out what had really happened to her dog, that Rory had lied to her, and that he’d even used the dog’s death to help him to seduce her, what they had together would be gone.

It was enough to make a person squirm. Lying to friends was one thing, but lying to someone you loved was different. Those were the lies that became chains.

Do you really think about forever? Sherri had asked him.

All the time.

New York, the present

“I ’m used to him now, because I know he’s not real.”

“Used to him in what way?” Grace Moore asked her patient.

“It’s almost like he came with the apartment,” Linda said. “When I enter I catch a glimpse of him crossing in the hall from the bathroom to the bedroom. If I’m in the kitchen and can’t see him, I know he’s still back there. I suspect he hides under the bed.”

“Have you ever looked?”

Linda stared at her. “Are you kidding?”

“You told me you know he’s not real.”

“But he could become real, and then where would I be?”

“If he wasn’t real when he went under the bed,” Grace said, “he wouldn’t be real when he stared back at you if you bent down and looked to see if he was there.”

Linda looked incredulous. “He could reach out and get me. Have me by the throat in half a second so I couldn’t make a sound, then he’d do whatever he wanted to me. If you were me, would you take that kind of chance?”

Grace thought about it. “No,” she admitted. She crossed her legs and sat back in her chair. “Does he ever talk to you?”

“No. Not him. Just the voices in the stone.”

“If he could talk, what do you suppose he’d say?”

“You mean if he would talk.”

“I suppose I do mean that,” Grace said.

“He’d say, ‘I’m here to torture and kill you.’ ”

“Why would you think he’d say that?”

“You know why. I’m a paranoid schizophrenic. And besides that, I’m his type.”

“Oh?”

“I keep up with the news, all the stuff about the serial killer, Daniel. I look like the women he’s killed. Same size and build. You know, with big boobs. Same brown eyes and brown hair.” She decided not to tell Dr. Moore yet about meeting with someone who might believe her, might help her.

Grace smiled. “Linda, if I didn’t dye my hair blond, I’d look like that. Well, maybe not so much in the boobs department, but I have brown hair and brown eyes. Like millions of women in New York. Why do you think that killer would settle on you?”

“He’s in my apartment.”

Grace tilted her head and nodded. The logic of the irrational was difficult to refute. “Have you tried talking to him?”

“Yes. He doesn’t answer, only smiles or shrugs and goes someplace where I can’t see him.”

“You mean disappears?”

“Of course not. He simply walks into another room.”

Grace regarded Linda for a long moment. “Do you think he’ll be there when you leave here and go home?”

“He almost always is, after a session.”

Grace smiled. “You have him trained.”

“Or he has me trained. Same difference. He’s my-”

“Your what?”

“My fate.”

Grace shook her head. “Oh, Linda, that isn’t so. You have control of your own life.”

“Then what am I doing here?”

“Getting the help you need. Our sessions, your medications. Have you been taking your meds as prescribed?”

“Of course. He stands somewhere behind me and watches in the mirror as I take each pill.”

“Hmm. I have an idea, Linda. You say he’s almost always in your apartment when you come home from these sessions. How about if I go home with you and meet this man?”

“You mean after one of our sessions?”

Linda was going to be elusive now and protect her hallucination. Not uncommon. “I mean after this session.”

“I doubt if he’ll talk to you.”

“Does he know about me?” Grace wanted a chance to examine Linda’s medicine cabinet and see which pills and how many were in her prescription vials. Linda was displaying symptoms that her medications should be alleviating.

“Oh, he knows,” Linda said. “He’s followed me here. I watched him once hanging back behind me in the elevator and watching to see which door I entered.”

“You mean my door, to my office?”

“Right. He stood down the hall a way and watched.”