Michael Prescott: Blind Pursuit

How had he gotten hold of that? The Journal was a scholarly publication, not available at newsstands.

The university library carried it, though. Was he a professor? A part-time student?

“I’m not certain,” she said cautiously, “that my writings suggest any particular expertise in the area of… multiple homicides.”

“You’ll see things differently once you’ve read the details of my case. It’s all there, in that folder you were so curious about.”

She remembered the sheaf of newspaper clippings. His resume, apparently. The public record of his crimes.

“Anyway,” he added coolly, “you don’t want to convince me that I picked the wrong person for the job. That would be counterproductive from a survival standpoint.”

Nice way of putting it. “You’re right.”

“Okay, then. Here are the terms of my deal with you. I’ll come in every night, for as many hours as necessary-intensive psychotherapy.” Every night. Presumably he had a day job. “You’ll get to the root of my problem and help me resolve it. After that, I’ll let you go, unharmed. You haven’t seen my face, don’t know where you’re being held, so you won’t be able to lead the police to me. It is possible for you to live through this… if you can cure me.”

“I see.”

“But try any funny business-any more nonsense like that possum act-and you’ll pay for it. You’ll pay very dearly.”

“I won’t try anything.”

“Even assuming you cooperate fully, you’ll have to get results. If the treatment goes nowhere…”

The chair squealed like an untuned violin under the restless shifting of his weight.

“Let’s just say I’ve been feeling it again the past couple of months. Stronger and stronger. My… compulsion. I’ve found myself making preparations, buying certain equipment, without even realizing it. Just like all the other times.” He took a breath. “My point is, I don’t know how long I can hold off doing what I’ve done three times before.”

She didn’t need to ask who his fourth victim would be. “How much time do I have?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You can’t expect immediate results.”

“Don’t tell me what I can or cannot expect.”

“I’m just trying to be realistic. Therapy normally doesn’t work overnight.”

“Well, you’ll have to speed up the process, won’t you? Push the envelope. I’d say you’ve got a powerful incentive.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said quietly. “There is, however, one potential… complication.”

She hated to raise this issue, but she had no choice.

“Complication?” His tone was a blend of skepticism and impatience.

“You looked in my purse. You must have seen the little bottle of pills I carry.”

“Birth control. So what? You aren’t pregnant, are you?”

“They aren’t birth control. They’re carbamazeprine-brand name, Tegretol. Two hundred-milligram tablets.”

“None of that means anything to me.”

“Prescription medicine… for epilepsy.”

“Hell.” Disgust in his voice, and anger at the unplanned, the unanticipated. “You’re not going to start pitching fits on me, are you?”

“I haven’t had a seizure since I was in high school. I’ve been on medication ever since. Nearly all cases of grand mal epilepsy can be controlled pharmaceutically.”

“So you’ve got your pills. What’s the problem?”

“The bottle is almost empty. I’ve got enough for twenty-four hours, but that’s it.”

“You mean-oh, Christ-you need to refill your prescription?”

“I already did. The new bottle is in my medicine cabinet at home. I see you took some things from my bathroom-but you didn’t take that.”

“What happens if you run out of this-this…?”

“Tegretol.”

“Right. What then?”

“I’d have a serious problem. To go off the maintenance dosage overnight would almost certainly bring on a seizure. Possibly something worse than a grand mal episode.”

“I thought grand mal was as bad as epilepsy gets.”

“No, there’s what they call status epilepticus. It means a prolonged seizure that doesn’t end naturally. It can continue for hours, even days. If it’s a violent episode, it can kill you.”

“Shit.” He fell silent, and she let him think.

It was a risk, telling him this. He might conclude she was more trouble than she was worth. Might dispose of her and find another psychologist to do the job.

But she wasn’t lying. The danger of renewed seizures, even of a sustained status episode, was all too real.

“Well, what can I do about it?” he asked finally.

She was grateful for the question, which implied that he wanted to keep her alive. “Get me the other bottle.”

“In your apartment? Go back there?”

“It’s the only way.”

“I can’t take that kind of chance. You want me to get caught. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You’re trying to trick me-”

“Look at the pills in my purse if you don’t believe it. Check the label. Tegretol. I’m not playing games.”

Another long beat of silence.

“All right,” he whispered. “I’ll get your damn medicine. How long will the new prescription last, anyway?”

“A month.”

“That’ll be more than enough time. One way or the other.” The legs of his chair scraped on the concrete floor with a raw, throat-clearing sound. He was up. “You catch my meaning, Doc?”

“Fully.”

She listened as his footsteps receded.

“I’ll bring your meds this evening,” he said from what had to be the doorway. “That’s when our work together will start. And, Doc… you’d better be real good at what you do.”

Slam, and she was alone.

A long-held breath shuddered out of her. She sagged in the chair, fumbling weakly at the blindfold until it came loose.

On the other side of the door, a key rattled in a keyhole. A moment later, footsteps thudded up the stairs. Creak of floorboards overhead; the distant closing of a door.

The house was empty. She waited, straining to hear, until faintly the growl of an engine reached her from far away. It grew slightly louder, perhaps as the vehicle pulled out of the garage, then quieter again; seconds later, it was gone.

Her abductor didn’t live here, it seemed. His home was somewhere else, and this place was simply a holding pen for her.

She stood, then sat again, surprised at the loose, watery trembling of her knees. Silently she counted to twenty, drawing slow, measured breaths. When she felt strong enough, she crossed the room to the door.

No doorknob on her side. The smooth sheet of wood mocked her.

On tiptoe she looked through the peephole. The fish-eye lens revealed only darkness.

Crouching, she examined the clearance between the door and the jamb. It was wide enough to expose part of the bolt drawn into place by the turning of the key.

A dead bolt? Or a latch bolt, the kind with a beveled edge?

A latch bolt could be defeated with a credit card. There were some in her wallet. The cash had been removed, but not the plastic.

She tamped her MasterCard out of its acetate pouch, then knelt by the door. Her heart kept up a hard, steady beat as she inserted the rectangle of plastic into the crack between the door and the frame.

The MasterCard’s leading edge slipped past the gain of the faceplate and bumped up against the bolt. She pushed, trying to make the card flex. The trick was to snake it along the angle of the latch bolt, between the faceplate in the door and the striker plate in the jamb. Pop the latch, and the door would open.

“Come on,” she breathed, jiggling the card. “Come on, please, just do this for me, and I’ll never complain about the finance charges again.”