Twisted: The Collected Short Stories of Jeffery Deaver

Harry nodded and looked Peter Randolph over carefully. A prerequisite for being a therapist is the ability to judge character quickly. He now sized up this man and came to a decision. 'I want to try something radical with Patsy and I want you to help me.'

'Radical? You mean commit her?'

'No, that'd be the worst thing for her. When patients are going through times like this you can't coddle them. You have to be tough. And force them to be tough.'

'Meaning?'

'Don't be antagonistic but force her to stay involved in life. She's going to want to withdraw — to be pampered. But don't spoil her. If she says she's too upset to go shopping or go out to dinner, don't let her get away with it. Insist that she does what she's supposed to do.'

'You're sure that's best?'

Sure? Harry asked himself. No, he wasn't the least bit sure.

But he'd made his decision. He had to push Patsy hard. He told Peter, 'We don't have any choice.'

But after the man left the office Harry happened to recall an expression one of his medical school professors had used frequently. He'd said you have to attack disease head-on. 'You have to kill or cure.'

Harry hadn't thought of that expression in years. He wished he hadn't today.

* * *

The next day Patsy walked into his office without an appointment.

In Brooklyn, at the clinic, this was standard procedure and nobody thought anything of it. But in a Park Avenue shrinks office impromptu sessions were taboo. Still, Harry could see from her face that she was very upset and he didn't make an issue of her unexpected appearance.

She collapsed on the couch and hugged herself closely as he rose and closed the door.

'Patsy, what's the matter?' he asked.

He noticed that her clothes were more disheveled than he'd ever seen. They were stained and torn. Hair bedraggled. Fingernails dirty.

'Everything was going so well,' she sobbed, 'then I was sitting in the den early this morning and I heard my father's ghost again. He said, 'They're almost here. You don't have much time left…' And I asked, 'What do you mean?' And he said, 'Look in the living room.' And I did and there was another one of my birds! It was shattered!' She opened her purse and showed Harry the broken pieces of ceramic. 'Now, there's only one left! I'm going to die when it breaks. I know I am. Peters going to break it tonight! And then he'll kill me.'

'He's not going to kill you, Patsy,' Harry said calmly, patiently ignoring her hysteria.

'I think I should go to the hospital for a while, Doctor.'

Harry got up and sat on the couch next to her. He took her hand. 'No.'

'What?'

'It would be a mistake,' Harry said.

'Why?' she cried.

'Because you can't hide from these issues. You have to confront them.'

'I'd feel safer in a hospital. Nobody'd try to kill me in the hospital.'

'Nobody's going to kill you, Patsy. You have to believe me.'

'No! Peter —'

'But Peter's never tried to hurt you, has he?'

A pause. 'No.'

'Okay, here's what I want you to do. Listen to me. Are you listening?'

'Yes.'

'You know that whether Peter was pretending to say those words to you or you were imagining them they weren't real. Repeat that.'

'Repeat it!'

'They weren't real.'

'Now say, 'There was no ghost. My father's dead.''

'There was no ghost. My father's dead.'

'Good!' Harry laughed. 'Again.'

She repeated this mantra several times, calming each time. Finally a faint smile crossed her lips. Then she frowned. 'But the bird…' She again opened her purse and took out the shattered ceramic, cradling the pieces in her trembling hand.

'Whatever happened to the bird doesn't matter. It's only a piece of porcelain.'

'But…' She looked down at the broken shards.

Harry leaned forward. 'Listen to me, Patsy. Listen carefully.' Passionately the doctor said, 'I want you to go home, take that last bird and smash the hell out of it.'

'You want me to…'

'Take a hammer and crush it.'

She started to protest but then she smiled. 'Can I do that?'

'You bet you can. Just give yourself permission to. Go home, have a nice glass of wine, find a hammer and smash it.' He reached under his desk and picked up the wastebasket. He held it out for her. 'They're just pieces of china, Patsy.'

After a moment she tossed the pieces of the statue into the container.

'Good, Patsy.' And — thinking, the hell with transference — the doctor gave his patient a huge hug.

* * *

That evening Patsy Randolph returned home and found Peter sitting in front of the television.

'You're late,' he said. 'Where've you been?'

'Out shopping. I got a bottle of wine.'

'We're supposed to go to Jack and Louise's tonight. Don't tell me you forgot.'

'I don't feel like it,' she said. 'I don't feel well. I —'

'No. We're going. You're not getting out of it.' He spoke in that same weird, abrupt tone he'd been using for the past week.

'Well, can I at least take care of a few things first?'

'Sure. But I don't want to be late.'

Patsy walked into the kitchen, opened a bottle of the expensive Merlot and poured a large glass just like Dr. Bernstein had told her. She sipped it. She felt good. Very good. 'Where's the hammer?' she called.

'Hammer? What do you need the hammer for?'

'I have to fix something.'

'I think it's in the drawer beside the refrigerator.'

She found it. Carried it into the living room. She glanced at the last Boehm bird, an owl.

Peter looked at the tool then back to the TV. 'What do you have to fix?'

'You,' she answered and brought the blunt end down on the top of his head with all her strength.

It took another dozen blows to kill him and when she'd finished she stood back and gazed at the remarkable patterns the blood made on the carpet and couch. Then she went into the bedroom and picked up her diary from the bedside table — the one Dr. Bernstein had suggested she keep. Back in the living room Patsy sat down beside her husband's corpse and she wrote a rambling passage in the booklet about how, at last, she'd gotten the ghosts to stop speaking to her. She was finally at peace. She didn't add as much as she wanted to; it was very time- consuming to write using your finger for a pen and blood for ink.

When Patsy'd finished she picked up the hammer and smashed the Boehm ceramic owl into dust. Then she began screaming as loudly as she could, 'The ghosts are dead, the ghosts are dead, the ghosts are dead!'

Long before she was hoarse the police and medics arrived. When they took her away she was wearing a straitjacket.

A week later Harry Bernstein sat in the prison hospital waiting room. He knew he was a sight — he hadn't shaved in several days and was wearing wrinkled clothes — which in fact he'd slept in last night. He stared at the filthy floor.

'You all right?' This question came from a tall, thin man with a perfect beard. He wore a gorgeous suit and