James Patterson - You’ve Been Warned

“It means I’m almost positive it was him.”

“Almost positive, as in, it could’ve been someone who looked a lot like him.”

“I considered that. But he spoke to me. And then why did he run?”

“Any number of reasons,” he answers. “Maybe the man you saw didn’t want to be photographed. I don’t know; maybe he’s wanted by the police. Maybe he’s impaired.”

I shake my head. “No, he even had on the same coat Dad used to wear. I’m sure it was him. I told you – he talked to me. He knew my name.”

“So what you’re saying is that your father, who’s been dead for twelve years, simply shows up one day on a Manhattan sidewalk and starts up a conversation?”

“Yes, I know, it sounds nuts. God, do I know. That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh, I see, that’s why you’re here,” he says, that slight edge in his voice getting sharper, louder. “You want me to help you.”

What’s going on here? This isn’t what I need now.

“Yes, of course I want you to help me. I’m feeling pretty desperate, actually.” My voice starts to crack on that last part, and I command myself to hold it together, if only for the sake of my dignity.

Dr. Corey removes his pipe and glares at me. “Listen to me, Kristin. For the last time, you need to get this through your head. Your father committed suicide and nothing you do or say is going to bring him back.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” he asks, folding his arms. “Perhaps if you had continued with your therapy, this wouldn’t be happening.”

“But it’s not just my father. What about the recurring dream?”

“We all have recurring dreams.”

“This one came true. ”

“That’s what you tell me. Of course, that doesn’t make it so, does it? Listen to yourself. Are you listening to yourself, Kristin?”

I stare at Dr. Corey in, well, disbelief. This isn’t the same guy who cheerily used to offer up those self-help mantras. He’s Dr. Downer now. Or maybe it’s only me he’s down on. Is he pissed that I stopped seeing him?

“Don’t you understand what I’m saying, Dr. Corey? All these strange and bizarre things are happening to me. They’re really happening. I’m starting to think that I’m going insane.”

“Maybe you are. Who am I to say?” he replies matter-of-factly. “All I know is that I’m not about to invest my valuable time again in someone who treats therapy like a fad.”

I knew it!

“I told you, I thought I was better,” I explain.

He sniffs. “Yeah, you’re obviously a lot better.”

I’m in shock. He’s so mocking, so disdainful. How can he act this way toward me? I was his patient.

“I don’t have to sit here for this,” I say.

“You’re right. You don’t. Feel free to leave at any time. Just like you did before.”

My eyes start to well up. I can’t help it. The shakes are back, and I’m trying to control them. I don’t want his pity.

“Oh, spare me the waterworks, will you?” he groans. “And don’t try that insipid wink of yours either.”

“What’s happened to you, Dr. Corey?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“It’s clearly something, because you’re being an incredible jerk.”

“Better than an ungrateful bitch, I imagine.”

That does it!

I spring from the couch and race out of there, but not without a parting shot from the door.

“Fuck you!” I scream.

“Go to hell!” he screams back.

And then, just as I’m shutting the door to his office, “I still want to know what happened to you at the Fálcon Hotel. Kristin? Kristin?”

IT KEEPS GETTING WORSE.

The dream is even more vivid this morning. Actually, it’s excruciating.

I wake up and smell that same burning smell. It’s awful; I can’t stand it.

The hives are back too. They’re worse than ever, all over my hands, my arms, my face. I strip off my T-shirt, and there are red blotches on my chest and stomach, my legs, everywhere. I want to scratch my skin off.

And the music – that damn music – it’s back inside my head.

The only saving grace? It’s Sunday – I’m supposed to spend the day with Michael.

The phone rings at a few minutes after eight. The caller ID tells me it’s him. I bet he uses the line about the phone sex wake-up call.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” says Michael.

It’s only one little word, one meager syllable, and yet I realize right away from how he says it. Something’s wrong. Something else.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“It’s fucking Penley,” he says. “When I told her about not going to her parents’, she went ballistic. She’s still in orbit. Sean is calling her Penley Neutron. You know, like -”

“Yeah, I know, the cartoon.” And his favorite socks, remember?

I feel like a fool standing in little else besides my socks, scratching red patches all over my body.

“You explained it was a work emergency, right, Michael?”

“Yes. But she didn’t want to hear it, especially since that was the reason I didn’t make the trip to Connecticut last time.”

“She really cares that much if you go?”

“Christ, I don’t know. She kept saying how much I’d be disappointing her parents.”

“That’s it, isn’t it? This is about her father. ”

“You don’t have to say it like that.”

“Why do you kowtow to him so much?”

“It’s not so simple, Kristin.”

No, it isn’t. There’s a certain undercurrent to Michael and Penley’s marriage, all but unspoken. Michael makes a lot of money. In the millions. But it’s chicken feed compared with the fortune that Penley’s father, Conrad Bishop, sits on. The man was CEO of Trans-American Steel for twenty-five years. He’s worth north of $200 million. More to the point, thanks to his country club buddies, he’s thrown a lot of business Michael’s way. I mean, a lot of business.

“If anyone, Penley’s father would understand your having to work,” I say.

“Maybe the last time I canceled,” Michael replies. “Twice in a row, though, and it looks like I’m shunning him. It’s disrespectful.”

“So what are you telling me?”

He takes a deep breath and exhales. “That I’m going to Connecticut today.”

The words sting like a million bees.

“But I really need to see you,” I plead.

“I know, I know. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

The anger, the disappointment, the hurt – are too much for me, and I slam down the phone. It’s the first time I’ve ever hung up on Michael, and I feel absolutely terrible.

Like I could die.

And then I notice something – the hives, the burning odor, and the music are gone.

What’s up with that?

THE ELEVATOR RIDE DOWN to the lobby feels as though it takes an eternity. I’m doing everything I can to keep my emotions in check.

I plead with myself, Think calm thoughts! Think good thoughts if that’s possible.

Dispensing with visions of babbling brooks and sleeping babies, I go straight to what always works. One after the other, I conjure up my favorite photographs.

The nudes of Edward Weston.

Avedon’s portrait of Truman Capote flashing his belly button.

And, of course, Annie Leibovitz’s incredible shot of Yoko Ono and a naked John Lennon cuddling.

It’s always about people with me, flesh and bone. I can appreciate Galen Rowell and Ansel Adams, but mountains and other landscapes never pack the same punch for me as a living, breathing person.

The mental slide show works, and I begin to settle down. That is, until I step off the elevator and spot my neighbor Mrs. Rosencrantz. Standing by her mailbox in an orange-and-blue circa 1973 muumuu, she looks up from a catalogue and shoots this incredibly evil sneer my way. What is her problem?