After the terror of her encounter in the apartment building basement, Molly had been in no condition to resist David’s insistence that she see Dr. Mindle.
She sat now in his spacious office on Lexington near Thirty-eighth Street. It was a restful room with green carpet and drapes, dark woods and black leather furniture, no noise and no sharp corners. All colors seemed to be in the same spectrum. Nothing in the decor jarred.
According to the lobby directory, there were several psychoanalysts in the building. Maybe it was a co-op and they owned it. Even the elevator had provided a relaxing interlude, plush carpet, soft music, no mirrors to reflect anyone’s interior horror. An “up” experience and a prelude to therapy.
Molly was seated in a comfortable chair at an angle to Dr. Herbert Mindle’s desk. He was much as she’d imagined from David’s brief description, middle-aged, balding. But unlike her imaginary Dr. Mindle, he had a deep tan and an athletic build beneath his well-cut suit. The tan reminded her of those acquired at tanning salons then augmented by shopping and drinking expeditions during Caribbean cruises.
He leaned back in his padded desk chair and smiled reassuringly at her. It was the sort of smile shaped by practice at a mirror.
Molly smiled back at him, but only slightly. There was a faint scent of lemon mingled with something less acrid—Dr. Mindle’s shaving lotion or cologne—in the room, and she noticed now that from time to time the traffic out on Lexington was barely audible.
He said nothing, so she said, “It was my husband’s idea for me to come here.” Great! she thought. She’d sounded like some sort of codependent, Babsie Doll wimp.
“I know,” Dr. Mindle said in his easy, conversational tone. “He’s the one who called and made the appointment. He said you finally agreed to talk to me as a favor to him.” He made a steeple with his fingers. Molly was surprised that a real psychiatrist would actually do that. “Despite what’s been happening,” Dr. Mindle said, “and your ordeal in the apartment basement yesterday, you told him again that you didn’t need a shrink.”
Molly stared at him. “Are you trying to make me feel guilty for insulting your profession?”
Dr. Mindle smiled tolerantly. “No. It happens all the time. I’m used to it. Besides, maybe you really don’t need a shrink.”
Molly drummed her fingertips silently on the padded chair arm. “David said you and he worked out at the same gym.”
“That’s right, we do.”
“Friends? Weightlifting buddies?”
“You could say that.” Dr. Mindle’s smile changed to one of amused understanding. “I’m charging you for this visit, Mrs. Jones.”
Molly let herself relax and settle back in the chair. “Good. I feel better now.”
“That’s the idea, Molly, making you feel better. I can’t solve your problem in a short time. That is, if I can solve it at all.” Another soothing smile. “If you have a problem.”
“David thinks I do.”
“Well, he
might
be right.”
“He told you everything?”
“Yes.”
“Then he told you more than he told me.”
Without changing expression, Dr. Mindle stood up and walked out from behind his desk. He went to the window and faced the view of office buildings and searing blue sky. His voice was so soft she had to strain to understand his words. A stratagem, no doubt.
“This city, Molly, is a monster. It doesn’t eat people alive all at once, but it eats them. Some of them from the inside.”
Molly quietly watched him, a classic, inverted-triangle male figure silhouetted against the light. Pigeons cooed softly on a nearby ledge. Traffic hummed.
“You agreed to come here to see me,” Dr. Mindle continued, “so it must be that you admit to yourself at least the possibility that none of this is true. That no one is stealing your clothes. That no one tried to kill you.” His padded Armani shoulders rose in a subtle shrug. “Just the possibility, mind you.”
Molly felt anger rise in her. She held up her hands, scraped and blistered from frantically bending and twisting the iron grill over the storage room window. “Exhibit A, as they say in court.”
He turned around to face her. His expression was mild, composed. He barely glanced at her hands; the mind was his province. “We’re not in court, Molly. But if we were, the prosecution would say that you acted out and deliberately splintered that storage room door then injured yourself escaping from someone who thought you were a prowler. That apartment building isn’t in a crime-free neighborhood. Nowhere in New York is crime-free.”
“But suppose Deirdre
was
really there. And trying to kill me.”
Dr. Mindle faced the window again, slipping his hands into the pockets of his suit’s pleated slacks. “What would be her motive?”
“What if she’s trying to steal my life?” Molly said. “To take my place with my husband and son? To become me?”
“Then I’d say
she
should be here and not you. But you’re the one whose husband is concerned with your actions lately. And they’ve disturbed him enough to talk you into coming here.”
“Well, don’t we usually put away the people who disturb us, rather than the people who are disturbed?”
“Sometimes,” Dr. Mindle said. “Though not nearly as often as we used to, I assure you. And it seems to be you and no one else who sees yourself as a candidate for confinement. I see before me a badly frightened young woman, but not one who’s necessarily mentally ill. Fear can exist in perfectly normal people and still have no basis in reality. Sometimes when we remove the fear, reality again becomes clear.”
Molly sighed and stood up. Slick word games she didn’t need. “You’re trying to bullshit me, Doctor.”
He turned toward her and smiled. “That’s my job, bull-shitting you. It’s also my job to be honest with you. It’s a balancing act. And you have to be honest with me at least some of the time. We might get somewhere that way.”
Molly knew the hopelessness of what he was saying and felt the familiar desperation and fear take control of her. “We might,” she told him. “But like you said, Dr. Mindle, it would take time.”
Her right knee and hip still ached from her ordeal in the apartment building basement. She tried not to let her pain show.
Limping slightly, she strode from the office.
The receptionist in the anteroom glanced up at her and smiled. “A man just poked his head in here and looked around to see if anyone was waiting to see the doctor. Might he be with you?”
“No,” Molly said. “No one is with me.”
It was dark when Lisa Emmons left the movie and made her way along East Fifty-seventh Street toward the subway stop. Beside her in the street, light traffic hissed along in the dampness of a recent drizzle. The remnants of the audience that had left the theater with her and walked in the same direction were thinning out, going down side streets or getting into cabs. Lisa’s mind was still on the movie—a satisfying drama about three independent women who got even with the abusive men in their lives then formed an investment company and became millionaires—when she was aware of someone walking behind her, whistling the theme song from the movie.
Lisa slowed her pace and glanced back, then stopped and turned all the way around. The sidewalk wasn’t crowded. There was no one within fifty feet of her. A panhandler who’d appeared from somewhere was standing half a block away with a cup and a cardboard sign. A short man with puffy dark hair was bustling away in the opposite direction. It was possible that he was the whistler. Even the beggar might have followed and whistled the tune. He didn’t necessarily have to have seen the movie; he might have picked up the melody from some other member of the audience who’d walked past him.
Or the whistler might have ducked into a nearby all-night deli or entered the shop Lisa had just passed that had an assortment of jade figurines displayed in its lighted window.
There was no way for her to know for sure. That was one of the problems with a city like New York that lived late into the night; there were too many possibilities.
Her heart beating faster, Lisa continued on her way. She thought, for only a few fleeting seconds, that she heard the whistling again. A sound of the night that might have been the trailing notes of a faraway emergency siren, or an echo from blocks away. Sound carried that way sometimes in the nighttime canyons of tall buildings, the way images sometimes appeared out of their proper place in the desert.
She began walking faster. There had been a monotonal quality to the whistling that was oddly threatening and made her afraid to look behind her again. Yet without looking, she was sure she was being followed.
A cab turned the corner and drove toward her. She ran a few steps, her arm raised.
But despite the fact that the cab’s rooflight showed it to be available, Lisa saw a passenger slumped in back, and the cab accelerated and spattered droplets of rainwater on her as it sped past.
A horn blared at her, and she realized she was standing off the curb, almost a yard into the street. She hurriedly moved back up onto the sidewalk just as a string of cars roared past.
The blare of the horn and her sudden action had jolted her mind. She was angry with herself now. This was absurd. She wasn’t exactly alone—this was midtown Manhattan and there were other people on the streets. She had done nothing and had no reason to be afraid of anyone.
Holding her breath, she stood and stared back in the direction she’d come from along the wide, shadowed sidewalk. There were two women walking away from her, holding hands. Lovers? Mother and daughter? Merely fast friends?
A tall man in baggy pants and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up emerged from the shop that sold jade. He glanced her way, then drew something from his pocket and appeared to be studying it. Two business types in suits and ties walked past the man toward Lisa. She stood and waited while they passed. “…should never have traded so much to get him,” the man on the left was saying, gesticulating with his right arm.
Lisa didn’t move. She continued staring boldly at the man still standing in front of the shop with the jade.
He glanced at her again, slipped whatever he’d been holding and looking at back into his pocket, then walked away in the other direction.
Lisa walked on, feeling better.
But she decided she didn’t want to go down into a subway station. The subways were better these days, safer and more brightly lighted, but still they gave her the creeps. Though she regretted spending the extra money, she’d take a cab.
Even as she made the decision, the traffic light at the next intersection changed and several cabs turned and drove down the street toward her.
She moved back into the street and waved an arm to hail all of them. It was the first one that veered in her direction and came to a rocking stop before her. She climbed in and gave the cabby her address, then settled back into the soft seat and closed her eyes. She knew that if she wanted to, she could keep them closed until she felt the cab stop in front of her apartment, where she’d be safe.
She’d been home for fifteen minutes and was sitting on the sofa, sipping a cup of orange-flavored tea, when the phone rang.
When she picked it up and said hello, a woman’s voice said, “You were followed from the movie.”
Lisa felt the night’s earlier fear come alive and leap into her throat. “Who are you?” she asked in a choked voice.
“I’m somebody who saw you followed from the time you left the theater until you got into a cab. It’s okay, though. No one followed you home.”
Lisa was angry now, but still afraid. She looked down and saw goose bumps on the backs of her pale hands. “Why are you telling me this?”
The woman gave a short laugh, as if the answer to Lisa’s question should be obvious. “To warn you, of course.”
“Then tell me more. Say who was following me. If you know.”
“That really wouldn’t change anything.”
“Then
why
are they following me?”
“You’re perceived as a threat to this person.”
Lisa’s mind worked furiously but came up empty. “No. I’m not a threat to anyone!”
“I said it was a perceived threat.”
“How do you know all this?”
“An acquaintance of mine has talked to me about you. This person is dangerous.”
“Is it a man or a woman?”
“I can’t tell you. I don’t want anyone to find out we’ve talked.”
“How could anyone find out?”
“You might tell them.”
“Don’t be absurd. If you help me, why should I do anything that would hurt you?”
“It would be an accident.”
“What’s your name?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“You might call again,” Lisa said. “If you do, how will I know it’s the same woman?”
There was silence for such a long time that Lisa thought the woman might have hung up without her hearing the distinctive double click of the connection breaking. Then the voice said, “My name’s Darlene, Lisa.”
“What about a last name?”
“No. I’ve warned you because I saw it as my duty. I’ve fulfilled my obligation. That’s enough.”
“I promise I won’t—
But now Lisa did hear a sharp double click that might have been a hang-up, then only a thrumming silence.
“Hello,” Lisa said tentatively into the void.
The phone company took her voice and didn’t give it back.
They’d argued much of last night about her visit with Dr. Mindle. Perhaps that was why David had phoned this morning and suggested in an apologetic tone that they meet for lunch.
Molly had left Michael with Julia and was caught up on her work, waiting for another assignment from Traci, so she left the apartment at eleven-thirty and walked toward the subway.
She first noticed the man watching her while she was walking along Eighty-sixth Street toward the station at Central Park West. He was well over six feet tall and very thin, with a narrow face, sad eyes, and straight red hair that hung lank almost to his shoulders. He was wearing jeans and a baggy black T-shirt lettered
GREAT GOTHAM
below an outline of the city skyline in yellow. Molly had sensed that someone was staring at her, glanced to the side and saw the man, and he quickly and somewhat guiltily averted his eyes.
She figured she knew what he’d been thinking; he was sizing her up, gauging her sexuality. That wasn’t unusual in New York. It was as much a part of subway travel as tokens and turnstiles.
She noticed, though it didn’t greatly concern her, that he’d descended the subway station stairs behind her. Now he was standing well away from her on the platform. She might not have seen him if it weren’t for his height. He was looking away from her, in the direction from which the train would make its approach.
Within five minutes Molly felt the cool breeze that meant a train was bearing down on the station, pushing the air before it. A single white light became visible down the tunnel, and with a thunderous roar the train flashed in a blur along the tracks and appeared to be an express speeding past this station. But it slowed and squealed and clattered to a stop.
Molly was standing within a few feet of the train, and she boarded the sleek steel car as soon as the doors hissed open. She sat down on one of the plastic seats on the opposite side of the car, near the end, across from an old woman with a large shopping bag resting on the floor between her legs, and a man who appeared to be sleeping despite the open magazine spread out on his lap. The glossy cover of the magazine featured a blond woman wearing a skimpy red outfit and wielding a whip. Above the woman with the shopping bag was an ad with a phone number to call if you needed repair of a torn earlobe.
There was a nasal, indecipherable public announcement concerning the route and the next stop, then the train jerked and accelerated away from the station, and Molly settled back to ride.
As they were running through darkness, the door at the opposite end of the car opened, the one that allowed access from the following car. There was a momentary burst of sound—steel wheels thundering along the tracks—then the redheaded man stepped inside and slid the door shut.
Molly stared at him, but he merely glanced at her as he gripped a pole to keep his balance and sat down.
She remembered him standing far away from her on the platform. Which meant he must have made his way through at least two or three cars to get to this one. And apparently he was going no farther.
When she got off at the Seventh Avenue stop and transferred to an E train that would take her to the Lexington station, she lost sight of the man.
But when she surfaced to the street near the Citicorp Building, there he was, standing on the opposite sidewalk.
She ignored him, tried not to think of him, as she walked down Fifty-third toward Second Avenue, where she was going to meet David.
Near Third Avenue she paused to pretend to look in a shop window, and there was the man’s reflection, along with a cluster of people waiting to cross the intersection. He was staring at her, but when he realized she was watching his reflection, he looked away and moved out of sight.
She was scared now. And angry. But at least she knew the man appeared in reflection, unlike vampires and imaginary figures of the mentally unbalanced. And he was certainly following her.
What would Dr. Mindle say if she told him about this? Paranoic delusion, he’d probably say.
Deirdre would undoubtedly say the same.
David might agree.
Though she was on the lookout, she didn’t see the redheaded man again as she made her way to the diner where she was to meet David.
As she walked across Second Avenue, she saw David through a diner window, seated in a booth. She waved to him, but he didn’t see her among the still tightly knotted crowd of people who’d just crossed the intersection.
Molly felt better as soon as she entered the Apple Blossom Diner. It was a sunlit, hamburger kind of place, with Formica-topped tables and a stainless steel counter with red vinyl stools. A few dozen customers sat in booths or at tables, another half dozen at the counter. As she walked toward David, she heard the sizzle of something cold being placed on the hot grill.
She slid into the booth to sit opposite him.
“You’re late,” he said, looking up from a brightly colored pamphlet he’d been reading—something about a medical plan. He didn’t seem irritated by her tardiness; it was merely an observation.
“Sorry, had to wait awhile for a subway.” In truth she’d simply lost track of time and left the apartment ten minutes later than she’d planned. Another symptom of her slipping mental faculties?
A waiter came over and set two glasses of water and menus on the table. Molly and David had been to the diner often and knew what they wanted, so David handed back the menus, and the waiter took their order without having to leave while they made up their minds. They both ordered hamburgers and Beck’s dark beer.
When the waiter had jotted kitchen code on his order pad and left, David stuck the medical plan pamphlet into his suit coat pocket. “How late can Julia keep Michael?”
“Two o’clock. We’ve got plenty of time. Is there a reason why you invited me to lunch today, David?”
“Does there have to be?”
“Yes. And I think I can guess what it is. We both feel bad about arguing last night over my visit with Dr. Mindle. And you still don’t like the way it turned out.”
“The visit or the argument?”
“Both, maybe.” She hoped he wasn’t still angry, determined to play diversionary word games. Like Dr. Mindle’s games.
He took a sip of water then set the glass back down carefully in its ring of condensation, as if that were required by Miss Manners. He shrugged and smiled. “You’re right, I guess, but at least you went to see him. I can’t ask you to do more than that.”
“And you still don’t agree that Deirdre tried to kill me.”
“No,” he said thoughtfully, and no doubt honestly, “I can’t agree with you on that. And you said yourself you didn’t see whoever was in the basement. Whatever happened, Mol, I’m thankful you weren’t seriously hurt.”
Molly smiled resignedly. Changing the way he thought was like trying to claw through a stone wall. “You think she was just trying to scare me?”
“I don’t think she was there, Mol.” He reached across the table and held her hand. “Do you realize you’re accusing someone of attempted murder?”
“I realize more than that. She did try to kill me, David. And I think she might have succeeded in killing Bernice so she could get closer to us through Michael. If she’s the woman I saw in the park, she’s in great physical shape, an athlete. She’d have the lung capacity to hold Bernice underwater until she drowned. Bernice would have been struggling, panicking, using up oxygen fast.”
He stared at her in astonishment. “My God, Mol! That’s wild speculation. You shouldn’t be saying it.”
“I’ve smelled my scent on Deirdre, seen her on the street in a dress that’s missing from my closet. Seen how she looks at you. She wants you again. She wants Michael. She wants my life and I’m in the way.”
David shook his head, gazed out the window for a moment as if gathering his thoughts, then looked at her. He still had on his glasses from when he was reading the pamphlet, and he seemed to be focusing on her with an effort spurred by intense curiosity. “Do you really think she’s sneaking into our apartment and pilfering your cosmetics and clothes?”
“Yes, I think so.” She sipped from her water tumbler, then put it down and stared into it. The water was trembling gently, its ice-cluttered surface tilting this way and that against the sides of the glass. But she could see all the way to the bottom and pick up the cream color of the table. She wished her future were as clear. “If she wants to steal my life, why wouldn’t she steal my green dress?”
David apparently considered her question rhetorical, because he didn’t attempt an answer. “The only way she could be getting in is from the fire escape,” he said, “through the window we keep propped open for Muffin. If it will make you feel more secure, I’ll nail it so it can’t be raised any farther than six inches.”
Molly continued staring into her glass. “David, when I came here to meet you, I was followed.”
He sat back and said nothing. She knew what he must be thinking:
Here’s something new.
How would he cope with it?
“How can you be sure?” he finally asked, his voice wary.
He was on Central Park West, then on the subway, then behind me as I was walking here. I sneaked looks and saw him several times, saw his reflection in a shop window.”
“Him?”
“Yes. A man. Tall, with red hair. Sometimes he’d be behind me, sometimes on the other side of the street.”
She could hear him breathing hard, trying to assess this latest development.
“You joking, Mol?”
“I wish I were,” she said to her ice water. “I know how this sounds. Don’t you think I know how this sounds? Well, I know exactly. You’d like to send me back to Dr. Mindle.”
“Do you know who this man is?” He was clearly frightened and puzzled by her state of mind. “I mean, have you ever seen him before?”
“No and no, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t real.” She looked up at him abruptly, which seemed to startle him. “I know what you think—that I’m going crazy.”
He squirmed in his seat. “No, no, Mol! I think you’re a case of nerves, and I don’t blame you. Hell, everything that’s been happening lately, I’m not the calmest guy in town myself.”
Molly had his support, she knew. He was on her side. Yet he couldn’t seem to believe any real ill of Deirdre, couldn’t believe his wife entirely. The tug of war he must be feeling, that he was helping to instill in her, was confusing. There were moments when she sometimes took
his
side, when she thought this whole period of discontent and fear might really be her fault. She absently inserted a finger in the cold water and trailed it in a circle, creating ripples that sometimes overran the glass’s rim.
“Lately I wonder about myself,” she said. “I can’t help it. I know that’s what she wants, but I can’t help it.”
David stared at her in such obvious sympathy and pain that her heart ached. “Maybe you
should
go back to Dr. Mindle, Mol.”
Her anger stirred. “Don’t be absurd. I don’t need an analyst.”
“Half the people in this city are in some kind of therapy,” David said with a glance out the window.
“The other half roam the streets talking to imaginary companions.”
He squeezed her hand and gave her a strained smile. “I’d like for us to stay in the first half, Mol.”
The waiter brought their burgers and beer and laid everything out on the table. There were heaped french fries, almost burying those tiny containers of slaw that looked like the miniature paper cups dentists gave you when they instructed you to rinse. The food’s pungent aroma stirred Molly’s appetite then almost simultaneously made her nauseated.
“I love you, Mol.” David said, when the waiter was out of earshot. “I really do love you.”
He didn’t add that he was concerned for her sanity. That was kind of him, she thought. He was a genuinely kind man and in so many ways a good husband. But something was wrong between them, something was secret and festering.
She smiled sadly at him.
“Possibly you do, David. Yet you ordered onions on your hamburger.”