instructed her that as she went deeper into the trance, her thoughts would become brighter and sharper. She was asleep but acutely aware. With every breath she went deeper into trance, but that did not mean she lost consciousness. Deeper and deeper, seeing more and more, doors opening before her, paths into her past, into her secrets; he told her that she had the confidence and strength and courage to explore them all, to heal herself completely. Deeper and deeper, deeper and deeper, farther and farther back....
"You can do this to yourself," he told her. "Now that you have come to these places, you can return here anytime simply by willing it. You can recover this mental state at will and make use of it to heal yourself. And every time you induce this state, you will find yourself able to go deeper, faster, than the time before."
Deeper and deeper. Deeper and deeper....
At last he reached zero. How much time had passed? He had lost himself in the study of Lenore, a pale sexual ghost in the backseat. And what now? His voice seemed preternaturally loud, at odds with the mood. She lay there blank, so blank that he could almost see a smile on her lips, could almost hear her invitation.
Stop it , he told himself.
What now?
She was as deep as he dared take her; deeper than he had ever intended to go. Surely something should be accomplished while she was at this level—some work begun. It occurred to him only then that he had begun to believe his own lies! He hadn't the faintest idea what he was doing; he had no reason, and certainly no right, to take anyone through this process. Not again. The hypnotic method worked because it was a method—purely mechanical. It had nothing to do with him.
"I remember ..." she whispered.
"Yes?" He searched her still face, her closed eyes.
"... you ..."
"Lenore?" He touched her hand, worried. It was time to wake her; he was an idiot to have agreed to this. Who knew what changes, deep within her, he might have set into motion? "Listen, Lenore. Take great care ..."
But she didn't seem to hear him. She was whispering something in a small, distant voice that filled him with fear for no reason he understood. His panic intensified when he heard footsteps outside the car, and an instant later the driver's door flew open. He looked up and saw Michael staring in at him. It was too dark to see much more than the white oval of his face, but a crazy smile seemed to float there.
"Didn't mean to creep up," he said. "Flashlight died on the way back. Tucker's on his way, though. Should be along any minute. Hey, Lenore? You asleep?" He jerked her shoulder roughly and she jerked up with a grunt.
"What? You're back already?"
"You were sleeping."
She turned toward Derek. "Was I?"
He couldn't tell if she meant it or not; if she was pretending for Michael's sake, or genuinely didn't remember. He hadn't instructed her either to remember or to forget.
"Yes," he said quietly.
"Oh. God." She squeezed out of the car, lighting another cigarette after a moment. Derek watched her closely, to see if she was going to reassure him somehow or otherwise betray her state of mind. Michael sat behind the wheel and began to babble again, picking up his inane conversation where he'd left off, although now Derek was able to pay even less attention thanks to a horrible free-floating sense of something left undone, something he might never be able to put to rights....
It was a relief when a truck came rattling up the road and pulled onto the shoulder facing them, blinding Derek with its lights. Lenore went toward it and returned a moment later with a tall, shaggy-looking hulk.
"Let's take a look," he said. "Scarlet's waiting on me."
"Mr. Crowe, this here is Tucker Doakes. He's going to take care of everything."
"Hey. You one of Mikey's Satan-lovin' friends?"
"Cut it out, Tuck," Lenore said. "Mr. Crowe's famous."
"Not exactly," Derek said.
"Either way, I'm gonna have to get to that backseat. Can you come out of