Brandy and Bullets (24 page)

“Well, shall we begin?” O’Neill said.

“I suppose so,” I said.

“Tomar?”

Meti’s eyes were at half mast; he looked as if he were dozing off. He wasn’t. I judged that expression to be his professional, stern “look.”

“Mrs. Fletcher,” Meti began, his Hungarian accent thick, “it is first necessary to do what we call an Hypnotic Induction Profile on you.”

“The one developed by Dr. Spiegel in New York?” I said, remembering the conversation in Boston with Carson James, and Seth Hazlitt.

O’Neill laughed. “How would you know about that, Jessica?”

“I read about it somewhere.”

Meti seemed annoyed.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said.

“No matter,” Meti said. “Let me begin. Are you comfortable?”

“Very.”

“Good. I want you to listen very carefully to what I am about to say.”

“All right.”

“I want you to take a series of deep breaths, allowing the air to come out slowly, very slowly.” I did as instructed.

“Now, I want you to roll your eyes up to the ceiling.” He placed his fingertips on my hair.

I tried to do what he’d asked, but evidently failed, judging by his angry tone. “Not your head,” he said. “Do not raise your head. Just your eyes, while you keep your head level. Roll just your eyes up. As high as you can without moving your head, and hold them up there.”

“Very good, Jessica,” O’Neill said.

Meti continued: “Now, with your eyes still looking up, and your head straight and level, s-l-o-w-l-y close your eyelids. Yes. That’s right. S-l-o-w-l-y roll your eyelids over your eyes.”

“Excellent,” Dr. Fechter said.

“Thank you,” I said.

“A four, I would say,” Meti commented.

“Three to four,” Fechter said.

“Mid-range” was O’Neill’s verdict.

I opened my eyes. “If you don’t mind,” I said, “what do you mean by a three or four?” I was thinking of Bo Derek’s famous
Ten.

“Just a test to determine how good a subject you will be for hypnosis,” O’Neill explained. “The scale runs from one to five. A ‘five’ is highly unusual. An extremely hypnotizable person. You fall into the middle range, bordering on its higher level.”

“You can tell that just by having me look up?” I asked.

“Yes. There is a physical correlation between the ability to roll one’s eyes up high, closing the lids over them while they remain raised, and a subject’s hypnotizability.”

“Fascinating,” I said. I looked at Meti and Fechter, neither of whom seemed pleased at my questions. O’Neill sensed their annoyance, too. “Proceed, Tomar,” he said. “Jessica is a highly intelligent, and naturally curious person.” To me: “Although intelligence has little bearing on the ability to be hypnotized, brighter people tend to be better able to concentrate, to focus. And that, after all, is what hypnosis is—the ability to concentrate on something, blocking out all other things.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Will you have me block out my writer’s block?”

“Something like that,” Fechter said.

“Dr. Meti,” I said, “I’m ready for the next step.”

My body language must have said something else, because O’Neill leaned forward and took my hand. “You have nothing to be concerned about,” he said. “You’re with friends. We are here to help get your writing career back on track. That’s why you’ve come to Worrell.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Sorry if I seem a little tense. This is all very new to me. I’m not used to giving up control.”

“Aha, but you won’t be,” Fechter said. “A gross misconception on the part of the lay public. You don’t give up control. You
take
control when hypnotized.”

“I didn’t realize that,” I said. “That’s good to hear. And if I am able to take control of my writing, the block will disappear.”

“Exactly,” they said in unison.

Fechter nonchalantly lowered the lights and the blinds, making the room seem small and safe.

“Mrs. Fletcher, I want you to roll your eyes up again, hold them there, and lower your eyelids,” Meti said. He’d pulled his chair to my side, and had placed his fingers lightly on my right arm. I did as I was told. “That’s right,” he said. “Breathe easily, in and out. With each breath you will feel lighter and more buoyant.”

I felt as though I was back on the stage in Boston, with Carson James inducing my hypnotic trance. Go along with it, Jess, I silently told myself. But keep your mind sharp, no matter what they tell you to do. Pretend to be a good subject. But you can fight it. Maintain control.

“Now, you are feeling sleepy. It’s a pleasant sensation.” Meti’s voice was smooth and modulated, his Hungarian accent adding to its soothing effect.

He did what Carson James had done, asked me to imagine that my right arm was attached to helium-filled balloons, and would rise into the air. Which it did. Easy to go along with that suggestion. No harm in raising my arm, which had become delightfully light, a feather floating in the air.

As Meti continued with his soothing instructions, my body relaxed completely. It was an extremely pleasant state in which to be, no cares, no tension, only the drone of his voice repeating things over and over.

Somewhere, somehow, in this blissful state, I reminded myself to conduct a reality check. I saw that O’Neill and Fechter were sitting in their chairs and watching me. I certainly knew where I was, and what I was doing. I’m being hypnotized, I told myself. Or, at least, they
think
I’m being hypnotized.

Meti talked to me about how my difficulty with writing was now a thing of the past. He went into my status as a best-selling author, the faith my publisher and agent had in me, the eager anticipation by millions of readers for my next book. It was all very comforting, especially when he had me “leave” the chair, and sit in front of my word processor at home. My fingers moved fluidly over the keyboard as the words, the scenes poured out. There was no writer’s block in this altered state of consciousness. I was the productive writer I’d always been. I no longer had reason to fear the word processor, to feel a prisoner in a cell staring at a blank wall, a blank screen. “It will be helpful, Mrs. Fletcher, for you to be able to experience on your own, in your home, what has happened here today. All the positive feelings and thoughts you now enjoy must be reinforced on a regular basis. Will you do that? Practice what you have learned here today?”

“Practice?” I said. I was aware that the word was slurred as it left my lips. I also knew that I was smiling, at what I knew not.

“Yes, practice,” said Meti. “To help you, I am going to give you this computer disk. On it, all the positive reinforcement you need has been recorded. I want you to put this disk in your computer once each day, beginning tonight. I want you to turn on your computer, place the disk in the drive, and follow the instructions on it. Will you do that for me—for you?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Good. Now, you are going to slowly leave your pleasant state of weightlessness and be yourself again, right in this room with Dr. O’Neill, Dr. Fechter, and me. But before you do, there is something vitally important for you to understand, and to believe. You are not just one person, Mrs. Fletcher. You are two people.”

“I am?” My voice had a dreamy quality to it. I knew that, but couldn’t inject steel into it, as much as I would have liked to.

“Yes. You are two people. There is the talented, productive writer, Jessica Fletcher. And there is the destructive Jessica Fletcher that wishes to destroy your career.”

“Oh.”

“The difficulties you have been experiencing in your writing is the evil work of that other person who resides within you. It is that person who has caused you so much pain, and who threatens your career, your very life.”

“I—”

“You must rid yourself of that destructive person.”

“I—must—rid—myself—of—that—destructive—person.”

“That’s right, Mrs. Fletcher. You must get rid of that person
forever.
”

“I will.”

“Exactly. Now, I am going to guide you back to this room, to your friends. And as I do, I am going to give you a present.”

A small, soft leather bag was placed in my left hand. I lifted it. It felt heavy.

“I have given you the means to salvage your career and your life, Mrs. Fletcher. You can use it to ensure that this evil, jealous person living inside you is no longer able to threaten you.”

“Is it a gun?” I asked.

“Yes. Your very own gun. But you musn’t use it except to defend yourself against the bad Jessica Fletcher.”

“How will I know—?”

“I have developed a plan for you that will make it easy for you to know when she is present in your life. I am going to give you this disk for your computer. From it, you will see my words on the screen, the same words I have spoken to you here today. It is important that you play that disk once each day, as a reinforcement of the valuable lessons and skills I have taught you. By doing this, you will have me with you at all times, to help you overcome this other person.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“My thanks will come when you no longer fear the dark force in your life. I want you to begin counting backward, from one to ten. Do it slowly. As you do, you will begin to shift into a consciousness of the here and now.”

“Ten, nine—”

“You will remember nothing of what has happened here today. But you will also recognize that when you see, or hear, the word ‘artiste,’ you will know the evil Jessica has emerged. And you will do away with her for once and for all. You will put the gun to
her
head and pull the trigger. You will kill her.”

“... eight, seven—yes, I will kill her—six, five, four, three, two, one.”

“Hello, Jessica,” Michael O’Neill said.

“Hello,” I said, stretching my arms and legs in front of me, and giving out with a big, prolonged yawn.

“How are you feeling?” Fechter asked.

“Sleepy. So sleepy.”

“And you’ll sleep well tonight,” said O’Neill. “What do you have there?”

“Oh, this? Dr. Meti gave it to me. A present.” I placed the bag containing the gun in my large purse, which rested at the side of my chair.

“Do you know what time it is?” Meti asked.

“No,” I said. I assumed I’d been under hypnosis for only a few minutes. But a large clock above O’Neill said I’d been there for almost two hours.

“How about some lunch?” O’Neill asked, standing.

“Sounds wonderful,” I said. “Goodbye, Dr. Meti. Dr. Fechter. Thank you for a lovely experience.”

I called Seth Hazlitt after lunch and asked if he was free to pick me up. He arrived twenty minutes later.

“Feeling all right, Jessica?” Seth asked as he escorted me into my house.

“Yes. I feel fine. Just sleepy. A bad sleep last night. Strange place and bed and all. I think I’ll take a nap.”

“Whatever you say. By the way, did you find out anything about Huffaker while you were there?”

“No. But I found out a lot about myself.”

“I see. Well, have yourself twenty winks. Give me a call later this afternoon, or evening?”

“Of course. And this time I promise to remember.” We both laughed. He kissed my cheek and left. I went straight to my bedroom and, without bothering to undress, was asleep in minutes.

 

The house was cold when I awoke. Darkness had set in, although there was still a faint glow on the horizon. The day’s rain had turned to ice on the trees and power lines, and made the sidewalks and roads hazardous.

I boosted the heat, went to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, and to go through Saturday’s mail that Jason had left on the counter. Nothing interesting, with the exception of a short note from my publisher, Vaughan Buckley, hoping that I was riding out the winter in good fashion, and suggesting that I visit New York in the spring for a conference on my next work.

I carried my tea into my office where I’d dropped my overnight bag, and Norm’s laptop computer upon returning from Worrell. I sat in my high-backed, leather swivel chair, took a sip of tea, turned on my word processor, and waited for it to boot up. Soon, I had a blank screen in front of me.

I realized that I was suffering from a certain confusion at that moment. Hard to explain. A fuzziness, wanting to do many things, yet unable to take action to begin any of them.

My purse was on the desk. I opened it, reached in, and pulled out the disk Dr. Meti had given me. I was to use it to reinforce the messages given me while under hypnosis. I sat motionless, immobile, the disk held up in front of my face. Insert it, Jess, I told myself. Take advantage of it.

I absently tried to slide the disk into the drive on my word processor. It wouldn’t go in. It didn’t fit.

Of course it didn’t. My word processor took a special-size disk, unique to it.

I opened the padded case containing Norm’s laptop, removed the computer, and turned it on. Tiny flashing lights indicated the batteries were drained. I found the AC power cord, and plugged it into the back of the computer, and into a wall socket. I typed in a few commands until that screen, too, glowed to life. Dr. Meti’s disk slipped easily into the slot. I accessed that drive, as Jo Jo had taught me to do, and up came, in living color, Dr. Meti’s face.

The sighf of him startled me. I didn’t expect a face. I didn’t know what to expect.

A few hits on the down cursor key brought up text, which began: