CRIMINAL CHRISTMAS: A Set of 8 Holiday Suspense Stories, page 75
I felt like screaming and/or kicking something. No, I felt like yelling at him. I wanted to spew my displeasure while it still boiled over, God forbid, I might be composed by Friday, my next potential opportunity to see him. I wondered what he would have to say for himself, and now I had no choice but to wait until after Thanksgiving to hear it. I hated this.
November 20th, 2012
At 9:17 a.m., my cell phone rang, pulling me out of a comfortable slumber. I answered on the third ring, trying to disguise my grogginess. “Hello.”
“Is this Rebecca?” a young and perky female voice inquired.
“It is.”
“Good morning. This is Theresa from Dr. Shelby’s office, I hope I haven’t called you too early.”
“No problem. What do you need?”
“I was wondering if we could reschedule your six o’clock today.” Dr. Shelby? I searched my memory banks to place the name and realized she was referring to the psychiatrist I’d seen once nearly a month ago at Andrea’s behest.
“I didn’t realize I’d set another appointment with her,” I said.
“Really? We always set the next one as you leave. I gave you a card with the date on it.”
“Oh…you probably did. I just misplaced it.”
“Lucky I called then,” she said, cheerfully. Lucky for whom? I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t had any intention of seeing Dr. Shelby a second time, but now that I pondered the situation, I realized I had some questions that a psychiatrist might be well equipped to answer. “We had a cancellation at three o’clock today. I was wondering if it would work for you to come in a little earlier.”
“Sure. Three sounds fine.”
“Great! I’m sure the doctor will appreciate not having to stay so late. Thanks. We’ll see you at three.”
“Okay. Thanks Theresa.”
I arrived fifteen minutes early, as usual. The psychiatrist’s office was a two story structure, originally a house built around the 1920s, that she shared with two other mental health professionals. The conversion to office space was done tastefully, preserving much of the old-world charm. Even the small parking lot was designed in a way that seemed to fit with the landscaping.
Dr. Elizabeth Shelby was a short stout woman with chin-length orange hair and very fair skin. She flashed me a warm smile that set me on edge and motioned me to sit on the overstuffed armchair opposite hers. She opened a file folder, glancing at the paper attached to the inside. “Well Rebecca. It’s good to see you. How have you been since I saw you in October?”
“Fine,” I said, somewhat curtly.
She paused, watching me for a few moments, and then said, “How’s the Prozac working out?”
“I’m not taking it,” I said. Hearing the subtle air of defiance in my voice, I decided it would behoove me to drop the attitude and be pleasant to the woman for the duration of the appointment. I tried to make my tone a little friendlier. “I don’t actually need it,” I explained.
“You’re not depressed anymore?”
“No. The depression’s gone.”
“That’s wonderful,” she commented, eyeing me dubiously. “What changed?”
“Well, I started working on a new book. That usually pulls me out of whatever funk I happen to be in.”
“So, you’re immersed in your work.”
“Yes, but that’s not a bad thing.” And I was willing to argue the issue at length with her if she wanted to have a go.
She shrugged and set the file folder in her lap. “So, you’re feeling better without the use of medication. I’m all for that. Is there something else you’d like to deal with in this session?”
Her question caught me off guard. Although I’d had most of the day to consider it, I hadn’t yet formulated what I wanted to say. I winged it. “Well, this might be a little odd, but I’d like to talk about the project I’m working on.”
“That’s fine. Tell me about it.”
I hesitated, trying to determine where to begin. “I’ve been having some difficulties with the subject of my book.”
She nodded, and said, “The Hunter, Thomas Eisenbrey.” This surprised me because I hadn’t told her who I was writing about. I hadn’t even known I was going to start this new venture until the day after I’d met this woman for the first time. I recalled our first session, it had been tricky. She was so nosy, so prying. And, God, how she’d yakked on and on about my depression.
Dr. Shelby continued, “There’s something I should disclose—I received a call from your friend, Andrea Doyle. I didn’t have a discussion with her. The things you and I talk about here are strictly confidential. However, she did pass along some information she felt was very important.”
So the little bitches were teaming up against me. That couldn’t be good. “Really? And what did Andrea have to say?”
“She told me that, in her opinion, you’re infatuated with Mr. Eisenbrey. She also said you recently told her your parents were murdered, a fact she hadn’t known when she asked you to write about him. She was very concerned about you.”
“Swell.”
“Would you like to talk about those things?”
I was momentarily speechless, but then I managed to get out, “Well…”
“When were your parents murdered?” she said softly.
“In 1988. I was a junior in high school. One day, when I came home from school, I found them dead. The sight of their bodies…” A shiver and a sharp intake of breath gave away far more than my words on the subject. That was enough for her to have from me. I had no intention of allowing her inside anywhere real. “But, you know what; I don’t want to rehash all that. It was a long time ago. I need to move on.”
“Who killed them?” she persisted.
“The police weren’t able to figure it out. They said it looked like a home invasion robbery gone wrong.”
“Do you agree?”
“Yeah, I think so. Some things were missing from the house.”
“What happened after that? Who did you live with?”
“I moved in with my aunt and uncle.”
“Your mom’s or dad’s side of the family?”
“Uh, my aunt is my mom’s sister.” I felt my irritation rising again. I tried to push it down, but this woman reminded me of the psychiatrist I’d been asked to see back then, not in the way she looked, the way she spoke. None of the therapy I’d gone through seemed to help me deal with my feelings about their murder. I was still incensed by the injustice of it, sad about the loss of the two people who had loved me more than anyone. I adored them. I missed them. Those feelings remained. No amount of therapy could take away the pain I felt, or help me to understand why it had happened. Therapy couldn’t fix me.
Oddly enough, the only thing that had ever aided me to cope with the ticking time-bomb of feelings I had on that aching subject was creating a psychopath villain in one of my thrillers. So that was exactly how I’d dealt with it over the years. “Look, Dr. Shelby, I don’t want to go on about that right now.”
“That’s fine. What would you like to address?”
“Well…I want to talk about Eisenbrey. I’ve noticed some strange things since I met him that I don’t understand.”
She leaned forward. “What things?”
“I—I’ve had some dreams about him.” I shifted in my chair, crossing my legs.
“What happens in the dreams? Does he try to kill you?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Actually, we usually sleep together in the dreams.”
She nodded, and said, “Do you enjoy the idea of sleeping with him or does it upset you?”
“Both.”
“The events we dream while we’re asleep are involuntary.”
“Yeah…well, the thing is…I’m awake for some of these dreams.”
“So, daydreams, fantasies? Those are voluntary.”
“I suppose so, but I don’t feel like I can help it. It seems to happen even when I try to make it stop.”
“Hmm. When you interview him, does he talk with you about his murders?”
“Yes.”
“In detail?”
“Vivid.”
“How do you feel when he talks about it?”
“Upset. Frightened. Creeped out.”
“What else?”
“Isn’t that enough?” I snapped. I didn’t know what the hell she was searching for, but the way she leaned forward in her chair told me she clearly wanted something more. “What?”
“Do you feel anything for his victims?”
“Yes. I feel sad. I don’t want anyone to be hurt.”
Her eyes narrowed and she gave me another hmm. Then she said, “So, you feel upset, frightened, creeped out and sad. Is that all you feel when he tells you about the killings?”
“What are you driving at? What else would I feel?”
“Aroused.”
“Piss off!” I said, volume raised. If anyone was in the waiting room, they’d heard me. My hands grasped the arms of my chair.
“You said you’ve been having dreams and fantasies about sleeping with this man,” she countered.
“Not when he talks about the murders, for crying out loud. That’s sick. I just have those thoughts when we’re talking about other things, or…if I’m thinking about his appearance.”
“You find him attractive?”
“Yes. He’s extremely good-looking.” This felt like a confession.
“How do you rationalize it? Do you forget who he really is? You pretend that he’s someone else?”
“No. He’s always Tom Eisenbrey.”
“The murderer,” she stated flatly. “Do you feel this is wrong at all?”
“Yes. I think it’s terrible, but I’m not able to get him out of my head.”
“Rebecca, you’re not sexually attracted to him in spite of the fact that he’s a serial killer; you’re sexually attracted to him because he’s a serial killer. This disorder is called hybristophilia—or Bonny and Clyde Syndrome. I think you may be suffering from some level of passive hybristophilia.”
“Disorder? Hybristophilia?” I repeated. So it had a name. How precious. But that didn’t give me the ability to tuck it away in a box and snap the lid shut. I wasn’t closer to gaining some control over myself.
“Yes.”
“I’ve never heard of it before. It sounds horrible.”
“It is. This is not normal, or healthy for that matter. Although from a biological perspective it makes sense. A female’s choice of a strong and aggressive male to mate with could ensure protection and a better chance of survival for their offspring. We may not be cavemen anymore, but our primitive instincts still surface from time to time.”
“There’s more going on than that. Sometimes I have the sensation he’s reading my thoughts. He’s right so often about what I’m thinking. Can people do that?”
“I don’t believe so. He’s probably a very good con-artist. He manipulates you into believing that he’s more powerful than he really is. Look, I don’t want you to ignore this. Psychotherapy or group therapy can be very effective at treating your problem. I know a good group that deals with this issue. I’d like you to try it out. I think it will do you some good.”
“Group therapy? What the fuck?”
“It’s a twelve-step program, similar to AA, but for sex addicts.”
“I haven’t been laid in over a year. How does that make me a sex addict?”
“Rebecca, try not to take offence. I don’t think you’re addicted to sex, per se, but you seem to be addicted to Thomas Eisenbrey. It’s not healthy to have feelings for someone who’s destructive. What exactly do you see in him? Do you think you can fix him?”
“Crap,” I said under my breath, rubbing my forehead. I disliked being under anyone’s scrutiny, especially a shrink’s. I wanted to be somewhere else.
“Let me guess—he probably takes a personal interest in you, he makes you feel special? Sure, he’s hurt other people, several in fact, but he wouldn’t hurt you because he cares about you. Has he told you that he loves you?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it, as she studied my reaction to this. By this point, I felt like I was just taking abuse from this woman, so why provide her with one more projectile to hurl in my face? She leaned back in her chair, and answered for me, “He has.”
“I’m not a freak.”
“I’m not suggesting you are, but I can’t help wondering if there are things from your past that have caused you to be more susceptible to his charms than most women. How was your relationship with your father? Was he ever abusive?”
“Stop right there,” I said holding up my hand. “That’s enough.”
“It’s your choice whether or not to do something about your situation. But regardless of what you choose to do about therapy, I feel strongly that you should stop seeing this man immediately.”
“I can’t do that. I’m writing a book about him. I need to interview him.”
“I don’t buy that, Rebecca. Many people have written books about people they’ve never met.”
“Not when they’re able to interview their subject. In my opinion, that would be irresponsible. I have the opportunity to get the story directly from him.”
“And what a story it is,” she said, waving her hand with a flourish. “Murder, mayhem…torture.” She paused, watching me, while my dislike for her simmered, and then she asked the loaded question. “What’s more important to you, Rebecca, writing this book or your mental health?”
I had tried to have an open mind when I came to the session, to see if I could learn something of value from her, to see if she could suggest anything that would help me with my dilemma. I didn’t want to be in love with him. I knew it was wrong. I didn’t want to become his groupie or whatever the hell I was becoming. But I also didn’t want to stop seeing him. I recognized it was too late for me. I was already lost.
“The book,” I answered. And with that I got up and stormed out of her office.
Chapter 25
November 22nd, 2012
As usual I wound up with Aunt Susan and Uncle Harry on Thanksgiving. I couldn’t have asked for a better place to spend the day and night preceding my next visit with Tom. I felt a little worried about whether or not Friday’s visit would be cancelled too and it gave me the jitters, but visiting my aunt and uncle always had a calming effect on me.
Aunt Susan answered the door and took my green bean casserole into the kitchen. I followed her so I could grab a can of soda from the fridge. Then I wandered toward their family room, but Uncle Harry caught me in the hallway. He swung his arms around me and gave me a hearty squeeze. “Howdy Beck!”
I kissed his cheek and he released me. “How’s it going?” I asked.
Uncle Harry pointed at a television so large it dominated the room and blocked any view out of the window behind it. “I’ve got a new baby!” he exclaimed, and I heard Aunt Sue mutter something about a jackass from the kitchen.
“She’s a beauty,” I told him. “But you can’t see out your window anymore.”
“I don’t care. I already know what the backyard looks like. I’d rather watch Jennifer Aniston. She’s got a new movie out on DVD. You wanna watch that? I’m sure you girls would love it.”
“I’m sick of her. I want Daniel Craig!” my aunt shouted from the kitchen.
“Oh. I second that. Have you got one of the James Bond movies?” I knew that a good movie would probably take my mind off of things.
“Yeah, but Jennifer’s not in that one,” he said, pouting.
“Sorry old man. You’re outnumbered here. We want Daniel,” I said as I patted his shoulder. “Buck up. I’m sure you’ll bounce back from this.”
“Don’t let him hide the TV controls!” Sue called from the kitchen.
“Okay,” I told her, and I snatched the remote from the coffee table for safe keeping.
Uncle Harry eyed me with indignation and sighed, accepting his defeat like a gentleman. He sat down on his recliner that seemed to mold to his form, encasing him. His body sunk into it so far it made me wonder if he ever had the sensation that the chair would swallow him whole. I supposed if Aunt Susan ever called me to complain she couldn’t find him, I could suggest a good place for her to look. I sat down on the couch next to him.
“How’s your book going, honey?” Uncle Harry understood that if I was happy with my current writing project, I was probably happy about my life in general. I tended to get completely intertwined with my work.
“It’s coming along. I had a minor setback—Eisenbrey caused our Monday meeting to be cancelled.”
“What did he do?”
“He assaulted one of the guards.”
“Holy shit,” Harry said, pronouncing the latter word with two syllables. His face creased with a level of concern I wasn’t able to muster up, given that the guard in question had been DiMaggio. Perhaps Uncle Harry wouldn’t care either if he knew what a bully that guy was. “Is the guard okay?”
“Yeah, he wasn’t injured.”
“Well, I guess it’s not a big stretch for someone like him to behave that way. The guard’s lucky.”
Too right. That guard was lucky I hadn’t kicked him in the nutsack when he reached his hand up my skirt. I felt bad about not seeing Tom, but maybe he’d gotten some paybacks for me. The thought gave me a happy feeling.
Aunt Susan emerged from the kitchen with some potato chips and sat next to me on the couch. I updated both of them on my interviews with Eisenbrey, leaving out the bits about my attraction to him and our pseudo-sexual encounter. Then I told them about my visit with Tom’s mother.
“That poor woman,” Aunt Susan lamented. “I don’t think I’d be able to take it if I had a child that turned out like him.”
“We don’t have to worry about that. Ours is perfect,” my uncle said, winking at me. They had no children of their own; ever since my parents had been gone they’d considered me theirs. His expression became serious, “Do you think she had anything to do with him becoming a murderer? Was she an odd lady?”
