Free Twisted: The Collected Stories by Jeffery Deaver Page A

ghosts to come along to a session . . . but then you’d have to charge me double, wouldn’t you?”
    He laughed. “See you next week.”

    At three A.M. the next morning Harry was wakened by a phone call.
    “Dr. Bernstein?”
    “Yes?”
    “I’m Officer Kavanaugh with the police department.”
    Sitting up, trying to shake off his drowsiness, hethought immediately of Herb, a patient at the clinic in Brooklyn. The poor man, a mild schizophrenic who was completely harmless, was forever getting beat up because of his gruff, threatening manner.
    But that wasn’t the reason for the call.
    “You’re Mrs. Patricia Randolph’s psychiatrist. Is that correct?”
    His heart thudded hard. “Yes, I am. Is she all right?”
    “We’ve had a call. . . . We found her on the street outside her apartment. No one’s hurt but she’s a bit hysterical.”
    “I’ll be right there.”

    When he arrived at the Randolphs’ apartment building, ten blocks away, Harry found Patsy and her husband in the front lobby. A uniformed policeman stood next to them.
    Harry knew that the Randolphs were wealthy but the building was much nicer than he’d expected. It was one of the luxurious high-rises that Donald Trump had built in the eighties. There were penthouse triplexes selling for $20 million, Harry had read in the Times.
    “Doctor,” Patsy cried when she saw Harry. She ran to him. Harry was careful about physical contact with his patients. He knew all about transference and countertransference—the perfectly normal attraction between patients and their therapists—but contact had to be handled carefully. Harry took Patsy by the shoulders so that she couldn’t hug him and led her back to the lobby couch.
    “Mr. Randolph?” Harry asked, turning to her husband.
    “That’s right.”
    “I’m Harry Bernstein.”
    The men shook hands. Peter Randolph was very much what Harry was expecting. He was a trim, athletic man of about forty. Handsome. His eyes were angry and bewildered and looked victimized. He reminded Harry of a patient he’d treated briefly—a man whose sole complaint was that he was having trouble maintaining a life with a wife and two mistresses. Peter wore a burgundy silk bathrobe and supple leather slippers.
    “Would you mind if I spoke to Patsy alone?” Harry asked him.
    “No. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” He said this to both Harry and the police officer.
    Harry too glanced at the cop, who also stepped away and let the doctor talk to his patient.
    “What happened?” Harry asked Patsy.
    “The bird,” she said, choking back tears.
    “One of the ceramic birds?”
    “Yes,” she whispered. “He broke it.”
    Harry studied her carefully. She was in bad shape tonight. Hair stringy, robe filthy, fingernails unclean. As in her session the other day, only her makeup was normal.
    “Tell me about what happened.”
    “I was asleep and then I heard this voice say, ‘Run! You have to get out. They’re almost here. They’re going to hurt you.’ And I jumped out of bed and ran into the living room and there—there was a Boehm bird. The robin. It was shattered and scattered allover the floor. I started screaming—because I knew they were after me.” Her voice rose. “The ghosts . . . They . . . I mean, Peter was after me. I just threw on my robe and escaped.”
    “And what did Peter do?”
    “He ran after me.”
    “But he didn’t hurt you?”
    She hesitated. “No.” She looked around the cold, marble lobby with paranoid eyes. “Well, what he did was he called the police. . . . But don’t you see? Peter didn’t have any choice. He had to call the police. Isn’t that what somebody would normally do if their wife ran out of the apartment, screaming? Not calling them would have been suspicious. . . .” Her voice faded.
    Harry looked for signs of overmedication or drinking. He could see none. She looked around the lobby once more.
    “Are you feeling better now?”
    She nodded.