Your Eyelids Are Growing Heavy (21 page)

“So that's how we met our moment of crisis,” Megan concluded bitterly. “We knelt down to it. Like supplicants. We were still on our knees when he drove away.”

“At least you managed to aim the gun at him,” Gus muttered. “I couldn't even do that.”

Snooks looked at the two droopy figures across from her and felt a sudden yearning to be surrounded by flashing lights and noisy people and loud electronic music. “God, I need a beer,” she murmured.

Gus stood up. “So do I. I've got some downstairs.” He went out.

“Do you want to hear the really horrible part of it, Snooks?” Megan said sadly. “I think I could have gone through with it if Gus hadn't been there. The idea of someone watching … you were right, I have the capacity to kill. I could have killed, but I couldn't stand the thought of someone
knowing
I'd killed.”

“Then why did you take Gus with you?”

Megan smiled, didn't answer. She looked at the older woman ruefully. “And then there was you. I'd even worked up some cockamamie story to convince you I was innocent as a baby. I'm not innocent. I'm not innocent at all.”

Snooks leaned forward. “Megan, listen to me. Before you get too far along on your guilt trip, let me point out that you and Gus both did suffer a form of hysterical paralysis. He couldn't talk, you couldn't walk. Doesn't the fact that your legs froze on you at the crucial moment tell you something?”

“It tells me I'm chicken. I talk a tough game but when it comes to the doing, I'm just as cowardly as anyone else—that's what it tells me.”

“Does it? Were you afraid?”

Megan looked at the psychiatrist with a flicker of interest but didn't answer.

“I think Gus probably was,” Snooks said. “But were you?
Were
you afraid?”

Megan thought carefully. Then: “No,” in a tone of wonder. “I wasn't. I was nervous and anxious and snapping at Gus. But I wasn't really
afraid
of what I was doing.”

“So it wasn't fear that paralyzed you. That means it had to be something else. You temporarily incapacitated yourself, Megan. You put your legs out of commission to keep yourself from killing. A desperate remedy that worked. You didn't want to kill.”

Megan grinned wryly. “What does that do to your claim that we're all capable of killing?”

“Nothing. What I said was, we're all capable of killing
if the threat is serious enough
. In spite of what was done to you, you still don't accept killing as the best solution. Yet. I still say you're capable of killing. But I also say you haven't reached the point of adopting last-resort measures such as murder.”

“A point I could still reach.”

“Conceivably. It's a matter of self-respect, believe it or not. You haven't reached a point where your self-esteem becomes less important than—”

But Megan anticipated her. “I wasn't willing to turn myself into a killer because of that scum.”

“That's about it. Killing him would be lowering yourself. You've got a strong ego-structure, Megan. Tonight it saved your neck, to put it bluntly.”

Megan nodded, thinking. She got up and wandered out onto the balcony. One of Snooks's greatest gifts was that she knew when to shut up. She kept quiet as Megan stood outside watching the July night deepen. Megan would work it out. And Snooks would help her. She'd give her every bit as much advice as she was asked for.

Gus returned carrying a six-pack with one can missing.
Three for me and two for him
, Snooks thought.
That's about right
. Gus found a couple of glasses in the kitchen and handed Snooks a beer.
Ahhh
. Refrigerator cold, not fillings-hurting cold. But good anyway.

Megan came back in and got herself a diet drink. When they'd all done something about their thirst, Snooks said, “How did you get hold of a gun?”

“I had one,” Megan told her. “A twenty-two revolver. I bought it about ten years ago in an Atlanta pawn shop.”

“You just walked in and bought it? What about a license?”

“Didn't need one. In Georgia, all you have to do is sign a register at the place of purchase. At least that's the way it was ten years ago—I don't know what the law is now.”

“Have you ever used it?”

“Right after I bought it. A friend took me out and taught me how to shoot.”

“And since then?”

Megan shrugged. “Since then it's been in a box on a shelf in the closet.”

Snooks raised both eyebrows. “It's been on the shelf for
ten years?”

“Well, not the same shelf. I've moved a couple of times.”

“But the gun stayed in the box all that time?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't take it out at all?”

“No. Why?”

Snooks stared at the two innocents across from her and began to laugh, silently, her big body shaking. “Just as well you had an attack of conscience at the last minute,” she said between laughs. “If you'd tried to shoot that thing tonight, most likely it would have exploded in your hand.”

They both jerked their heads up.

“Didn't you infants know guns have to be cleaned and oiled regularly,” Snooks went on, “whether they've been fired or not? A revolver that's been lying on a closet shelf for ten years is one of the world's most unreliable weapons.”

Gus and Megan exchanged a quick look, then grinned sheepishly.

“You two are the most inept killers I've ever run across,” Snooks said cheerfully. “And before you ask, yes, I've met a few. Where's the gun now?”

“In my bag.”

“Give it to me.”

Megan cocked an eyebrow at her. “Afraid I'll still try it?”

“I'm afraid you'll shoot yourself in the foot. Hand it over.”

Megan got her bag and gave Snooks the gun. “You realize we've gone through all this and solved nothing? We're right back where we started. That posthypnotic command is still in my head, and the man who can activate it is alive and kicking. Since Gus and I couldn't bring ourselves to get rid of him, he's as much a danger now as he ever was.”

Snooks said, “With one important difference—you know his identity now. Who is this bozo anyway?”

“His name is Harrison J. Algren,” Gus told her. “Know him?”

Snooks scowled. “I've heard the name, but I don't know him. Where's he located?”

“In the Kinderling Professional Building. He's practically a neighbor of yours. How will knowing who he is help? We can't do anything about it.”

“Sure we can,” Snooks said, her big grin lighting up her whole face. “There very definitely is something we can do about it.”

They both looked at her in surprise, not quite daring to hope. “For heaven's sake, Snooks, what is it?” Megan demanded.

“Something you both overlooked.” Snooks was enjoying the effect she was creating. “Here it is. Hypnotists can be hypnotized too.” She waited, giving it a chance to sink in.

Gus said, “You mean you can hypnotize
him
…”

“I mean turnabout is fair play. He did it to Megan, we do it to him. Highly unethical conduct for a psychiatrist of my distinguished years, but at least we should get a few answers.”

They both stared at her a moment—and then
jumped
at her! Snooks found herself in imminent danger of being hugged to death, as Megan and Gus whooped and hollered like a couple of kids.

“Enough already,” she laughed, pushing them off. “Let's get down to business. Megan, call him. Apologize profusely for not showing up tonight and make another appointment. For as soon as possible—tomorrow, if you can get it.”

“Just give me a minute to calm down,” Megan beamed. She took a phone directory out of the desk drawer and flipped through the pages. “I'll just get his answering service, but—ho, look at this. His home number's listed. If he got a garage to take care of his car, he might be home by now. You want to listen on the extension?”

“You betcha,” Gus said, and hurried to the bedroom. Snooks followed.

Megan took a minute to get her nervousness under control, and then dialed. A pleasant male voice answered.

“Dr. Algren?”

“Yes.”

“This is Megan Phillips speaking. I'm sorry to bother you at home, but I wanted to apologize. I just now found out our appointment was for tonight.”

“Yes, I waited until seven-twenty.”

“Oh dear, I
am
sorry. I expect to pay for the missed appointment, of course. It was a simple misunderstanding—I thought my friend said Friday night. Could I persuade you to give me another appointment? I promise to show up this time.”

“Full fathom five thy father lies.”

“Yes.”

“Of his bones are coral made.”

“No.”

“Another appointment—certainly. Shall we make it tomorrow then? Same time?”

“Seven o'clock, that's fine. I'll see you tomorrow night. And thank you.”

“You're welcome. Goodbye.”

There was a click on the line; Megan hung up and said, “Wrong number.”

Both Snooks and Gus were grinning from ear to ear when they came back in. “That settles one question, at least,” Snooks said. “You tell her.” She went to the refrigerator for another beer.

“Tell me what?”

“There's no longer any doubt that Algren's our man,” Gus said jubilantly. “Right smack dab in the middle of that conversation, he couldn't resist the temptation to test you. He gave you the reinforcing signal, and you responded right on cue. It's Algren, all right. Hey, what's the matter?”

Instead of being elated at this proof they had the right man, Megan looked depressed. “That man can turn me on and off like a water faucet. And I never even know about it.”

“But not for much longer,” said Snooks, coming in with her beer. “Buck up, Megan—the end is in sight. We'll get you out of this yet. By the way, Gus, I bow to your expertise in physiognomy-reading. You were right all along. Now we've got a few plans to make, like how do we go about kidnapping Harrison J. Algren.”

“Yeah, little details like that,” Gus grinned.

“Let's see—he knows you and Megan, so I guess it's up to me to be the front man.” She sat thinking, drinking her beer.

Henrietta Snooks, Adventuress
. She was a little embarrassed at how much the thought of that tickled her.

Friday night.

Dr. Harrison J. Algren's face darkened when he looked at his watch: seven-thirty. The damned woman had stood him up again.

He was angry. And worried. Definitely worried. She was up to something.

For one panicky moment he thought of calling Mr. Sperling and telling him about the surprising turn
l'affaire Phillips
had taken. But that was the child in him, running to an authority figure when things weren't going right. No, better keep it to himself if he could. Mr. Sperling didn't strike him as a man who was tolerant of others' mistakes.

Think. What could she be hoping to accomplish? First sending that little twerp around to sound him out. Showing him her picture had been a trap, he could see that now—and he'd walked right into it. Then her failing to show up for an appointment two nights in a row. She was on to him, she had to be. Harrison J. Algren was sweating.

The twerp had been in the Monday night psychodrama session. What was he doing there? Yes, of course—he'd joined the group only as a way of making an appointment. He'd run up against the answering service and then had learned of the psychodrama project and used that to get at him. It was stretching coincidence too far to believe someone Megan Phillips just
happened
to know would show up in one of his sessions and then would just
happen
to consult him on that very sensitive matter of his friend's blackout. Too much coincidence. Was the Phillips woman starting a war of nerves, was that it? What exactly did she plan on doing? How many other people knew about it in addition to the twerp? What if Mr. Sperling found out? Was she—

Steady. Mustn't let anxiety get the upper hand. Control, always control. Things could be exactly as they seemed. She could truthfully have gotten mixed up about the appointment last night. She could have been legitimately delayed tonight—she might be on her way right now. Or, a very real possibility, she might be inventing excuses to avoid coming in. One of those people who are reluctant to consult a hypnotherapist and work out elaborate delaying tactics to put off the moment as long as possible.

In all that had happened this past week in connection with Megan Phillips, there was only one piece of coincidence involved. And that was the presence of a friend of hers in the Monday night session. But what kind of “coincidence” was that? People knew other people; there were bound to be cross-connections. The twerp could have come into the session not even thinking of hypnosis in connection with the Phillips woman. Then after he'd seen how it worked, it would have occurred to him hypnosis might be the answer to his friend's problem. Then it would have been only natural for him to consult the man running the session. Yes, it could have happened just like that.

Algren didn't believe a word of it.

Suddenly he had to get out of there. He turned off the lights and locked up his office. He hurried to the elevator, only half noticing the large woman who was waiting there.

Police, blackmail, revenge—she could be planning anything. He knew he was overreacting and took deep breaths to steady himself. He was in no condition to think rationally; he made an effort to put Megan Phillips out of his mind until he could get to a bar and get a couple of drinks in him.

To help himself concentrate on something else, he studied the woman waiting with him at the elevator. She looked familiar. Why—it was Henrietta Snooks. “Dr. Snooks?” he said—and watched her jump a foot. A disconcerting reaction in one of her age and size. “Sorry I startled you. I'm Dr. Algren, Harrison Algren. We met at a seminar at the Allegheny Hypnosis Institute.”