Your Eyelids Are Growing Heavy (7 page)

Gus told the truth. “On the morning of April thirtieth a friend of mine woke up on the fairway of the fourteenth hole, and she has no idea how she got there. She wasn't drunk, and she doesn't take drugs. I'd just like to know if the patrolmen saw anything.”

“This happened April thirtieth? Why'd you wait so long to come in and ask?”

Gus grinned sheepishly. “I just now thought of it.”

The sergeant pulled what looked like a roster toward him and started leafing through. “Nothing was reported.”

“I'd just like to talk to whoever was on patrol.”

“Okay, try Kirkwood and Fusaro. They come on duty in about an hour. I tell you what—the best way to catch them is to wait by their patrol car. They're assigned number eleven tonight.”

Gus thanked the sergeant and left. He walked over to Murray Avenue and grabbed a bite to eat, wishing he didn't have so many books to lug around with him. At the end of the hour he was back at the station, leaning against the number eleven patrol car.

He straightened up when he saw two cops walking toward him. One was big and blond—Kirkwood, no doubt. Fusaro had dark curly hair and lively eyes; he lifted a hand in greeting when he saw Gus waiting for them. Gus introduced himself and told them what he wanted to know.

“Oh, Jeez, I dunno,” Fusaro said. “One night's pretty much like every other night. The twenty-ninth? What day of the week was that?”

“Saturday. The desk sergeant said you didn't report anything.”

“Well, then, if we didn't turn in a report …” He looked at the other cop, who shrugged.

“Did anything unusual happen that night? Anything at all?”

Fusaro was shaking his head when the big blond cop said, “Hey, wait a minute. The twenty-ninth. Wasn't that the night some asshole got our tires?”

“Was it? Yeah, I think you're right. The twenty-ninth, right.”

“What about your tires?” Gus asked.

“Oh, somebody slashed our tires while we were checking out the clubhouse,” Fusaro explained. “We had to call the station for help. We can't carry
four
spares.”

“Somebody slashed your tires and you didn't turn in a report on it?”

“Naw, just a requisition form,” Kirkwood said. “Happens too often.”

Gus felt a surge of excitement. “How long did you have to wait at the clubhouse for help?”

“That
I remember,” Fusaro grinned. “They kept us waiting over an hour.”

Gus grabbed Fusaro's hand and pumped it up and down. “Thank you, Officer Fusaro—you've been more help than you know!”

“I'm Kirkwood,” the policeman said. “He's Fusaro.”

Might have known
, Gus thought, and shook hands with the real Fusaro. He told them goodbye and hurried off in search of the nearest bus stop.

Gus had been convinced all along that someone else had been involved in Megan's missing thirty-eight hours—her car didn't find its way home by itself. Now what the two policemen had told him about their tires would seem to confirm it. Of course, those tires could have been slashed by anyone—kids, vandals, cop-haters.

But they could also have been slashed by someone who didn't want the police around while Megan Phillips was being deposited on the fourteenth-hole fairway.

Henrietta Snooks and Megan Phillips sat for a long time without speaking.

Finally Megan stirred herself. “Could my canceling a session to go to Boston have anything to do with it?”

Dr. Snooks shook her head. “No.”

“Maybe we broke a pattern or something?”

“What pattern? We could never get one going.”

They both fell silent again. Dr. Snooks's fifth attempt at finding Megan's lost weekend had just failed. During their fourth session Megan had violated a long-held principle and allowed Dr. Snooks to administer a drug. Under the influence of sodium amytal Megan had quickly reached narcosis. But in her drowsy, drug-induced state, she had produced exactly the same answers as in her drug-free hypnotic trances.

“It doesn't make any sense,” the psychiatrist growled. “According to every rule in the book you should be blabbing your head off by now. You respond to hypnotic suggestion
beautifully
—you could be Miss Ideal Subject of All Times. You tell me more than I ever wanted to know about everything—except that blasted weekend.
I don't know
, that's all I ever get from you on that!”

“Well, I'm sorry!” Megan snapped. “I'm not doing it on purpose.” Then she realized what she'd said and barked a laugh. “But I
am
doing it on purpose. That's what's causing all the trouble.”

“Don't be so sure,” Dr. Snooks said quickly. “I don't think you are doing it on purpose. In fact, I'm as sure as anyone can be when dealing in areas as nebulous as the hypnotized mind. I'm positive it's not hysterical amnesia—your reactions are all wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“If something happened to you over that weekend that was so horrible you had to blot it out in order to live with it, that would be hysterical amnesia. But that condition would spark a serious conflict every time I instruct you to remember. I say remember, your self-protective instincts say don't remember—you see? But you experience no conflict at all. You tell me you don't know just as calmly as you tell me about a shipment of analgesic you arranged on March fifteenth. It shouldn't work like that. I'm willing to bet next year's tax refund you aren't suffering from hysterical amnesia.”

“How much did you get back this year?” Megan asked idly.

Dr. Snooks shifted her considerable weight. “Only seventeen dollars, but that's not the point. The point is you should be responding when I tell you to remember, and you're not. There's only one thing I can think of to try now. Perhaps the hypnosis should be initiated in more familiar surroundings. This office may have bad associations for you.”

Megan looked around her. “Why? It's just an office.”

“It's where you came for help when a frightening and disturbing thing happened to you. You may be making an unconscious connection between your blackout and this environment. I know, I know—it's pretty flimsy. But frankly, Megan, I can't think of anything else to try. Would you object to trying one more time—in your home?”

“No, of course not.”

“And it wouldn't hurt if you had a friend or two present. Somebody you've told about your blackout.”

“Ah.” Megan sat up in her chair. “Well.”

The psychiatrist shot her a look. “You have told somebody, haven't you?”

“Just Gus, but he's not a close friend. Gus Bilinski, a fellow who lives in my apartment building. He's barely more than a kid. When I had my blackout both my closest friends were out of town—one of them still is. And I couldn't tell Rich, since I don't trust him any more.”

“So why'd you tell this Gus?”

“Well, he was there when I got home that Sunday morning, and he saw what bad shape I was in. And later I was trying to find out from him whether I'd come home at all during the weekend and he caught on right away that something was wrong. Oh, I don't know—it just sort of came spilling out.” Megan thought a minute. “You know, Gus turned out to be a pretty good person to tell. He never once suggested I was crazy or even looked at me funny. He even went to my office building and tried to find someone who saw me leave Friday evening.”

“Any luck?”

“Unfortunately, no. Gus thinks I had to be with someone during the weekend—because my car was returned but not parked in its usual place. Also, Gus tracked down the policemen who patrolled the golf course area and found out their tires had been slashed that night. He says that could mean someone was trying to keep the police out of the way while I was being left on the fairway.”

“Gus will do,” Dr. Snooks said dryly. “Invite him.” She reached for her appointment book. “Let's see, this is Wednesday. I finish early tomorrow—what about tomorrow night?”

“Fine—oh. No, Gus teaches on Thursday nights.”

“Then let's make it Friday. It'll have to be a little later.”

“Why don't you come straight to my place from here? I'll fix us something to eat, that'll save a little time.”

“Thanks—I'd like that. It'll be between eight-thirty and nine. Is that too late?”

“On a Friday night?” Megan laughed, and stood up to go. “See you Friday.”

It was only after Megan had left that Dr. Snooks remembered the menu her patient had once recited. Broiled fish, salad, green vegetable—a good, sensible, low-cholesterol, low-calorie meal.

Dr. Snooks hated food like that.

CHAPTER 5

Late Friday afternoon Megan was just leaving her office when the telephone called her back. Could Ms Phillips be in Mr. Ziegler's office at ten on Monday morning? Indeed Ms Phillips could.

Megan was humming as she rode down in the elevator; she wondered what the president had in mind now. She'd been the fair-haired girl ever since she'd landed the elusive Boston contract. The mass shipment of Lipan across the country had gone smoothly, as Megan had said it would; she was now deep in arrangements for the first release of the new drug on the international market. Bogert was making himself scarce; maybe she wouldn't have to worry about getting rid of him after all.

Earlier in the day she'd skipped lunch to make a quick trip to a small Shadyside food store that closed about the time she usually left work. Megan hated supermarkets. The problem had been what to buy: Dr. Snooks didn't look like a woman who obeyed
any
body's dietary laws. Chicken, of course; that was never hard to disguise as something rich and self-indulgent. The rest of it wasn't so easy.

It was close to nine when the psychiatrist showed up, looking tired and hungry and skeptical.

“Gus will be up shortly now that he knows you're here,” Megan told her. “He had some papers he wanted to finish grading.”

“How does he know I'm here?”

“Thin walls. He hears everybody come in.”

Megan was taking care of last-minute preparations when the
rat-a-tat-tat
on the door came. “I'll get it,” said Dr. Snooks. “You just keep right on with what you're doing.” She opened the door to admit a skinny, bug-eyed youngster who stared at her with frank curiosity.

“You're Snooks,” he said.

“Doctor
Snooks,” Megan called from the kitchen.

The psychiatrist waved a big hand dismissively. “Everybody ends up calling me that sooner or later. Hallo, Gus. Glad to meet you.”

“I'm nervous about this,” Gus told her frankly. “I've never seen anyone hypnotized before.”

“Nothing much to it, really—Megan will just look as if she's resting. You're here to give moral support, remember.”

“What do I do?”

“Just be here. It's your comforting physical presence that's wanted. I'll take care of the rest of it.”

“Food's ready,” Megan announced. “Everybody sit down—Snooks, you take that chair by the wall.” And realized she too had omitted the “Doctor.”

The psychiatrist didn't seem to notice. The kitchen smells were good, but still she took her place at the table with misgivings. She heaved an audible sigh of relief when Megan placed a big bowl of fettuccine Alfredo before her.

Everybody dug in. Megan took a bite of chicken and noted with amusement that she had two enthusiastic eaters on her hands.

“Hm,” Snooks said, swallowing a mouthful of fettuccine. “Nothing beats real cream for white sauce.”

“Glad you like it,” Megan smiled. She'd used two-percent milk with a large dollop of safflower oil added.

“And this eggplant casserole—what gives it that marvelous nutty flavor? Is it the bread crumbs?”

“That's right.” Wheat germ.

When they'd finished eating, Snooks was not too wrapped up in her own gustatory delights to notice that the pile of pasta on Megan's plate was only a little smaller at the end of the meal than it had been at the beginning. Megan was starting to pour the coffee when the phone rang.

“I'll do that,” Snooks said. “You get the phone.”

Gus leaned in the kitchen doorway, watching Snooks pour the coffee. He'd never seen her before tonight, but she looked totally out of place in a domestic setting.

“Hello,” Megan said to the phone.

“How do you take it, Gus?”

“Black.”

“Yes,” said Megan.

“Spartan,” Snooks grumbled, dumping cream and sugar into her own cup.

“No,” Megan said.

Gus turned his head toward her.

“Here you are,” Snooks said, handing him a cup.

Megan hung up the phone. “Wrong number,” she told them, though nobody had asked.

Gus felt suddenly uneasy.
Yes, no, wrong number
. It had happened again—about the fourth or fifth time since he'd started coming to Megan's apartment. Innocent-sounding enough. But too frequent. Far too frequent.

“Look, before we get started, I have to make a phone call,” Snooks said. “I promised a patient I'd call him at ten and it's almost that now.”

“Would you like to use the extension in the bedroom?” Megan said. “More private.”

“Yes, thanks. This way?” She left the living room.

Gus cleared his throat. “Who was that on the phone, Megan?”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“Just
now?”

“You answered the phone about a minute ago. I was just wondering who it was.”

Megan was looking at him strangely. “What are you talking about, Gus? I didn't answer the phone. It didn't ring.”

Oh wow. Oh
wow
. Gus felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. He floundered after something to say. “Thin walls again, I guess. I must have heard the phone next door—I thought it was here.”