things for Christmas.”
Trying to keep from smiling, he said, “But I already have something picked out at Woolworth’s.”
“Oh,” she said, playing along with him, “then you won’t mind that I’m only getting you a gift certificate for some McDonald’s hamburgers.”
He pretended to be disappointed. “Well, I might stop at Gucci and Edwards Lowell for a few things that’ll go with the Woolworth’s piece.”
She grinned. “You do that. Then maybe I’ll let you sleep in here tonight instead of on the couch.”
He laughed and kissed her.
“Mmmm,” she said. “Again.”
She knew that she was loved, and that knowledge compensated somewhat for the horror of the past few days.
8
The focal point of Dr. Cauvel’s office was a collection of hundreds of glass dogs that were displayed on glass and chrome shelves to one side of his desk. No member of the menagerie was larger than Mary’s hand, and most were a great deal smaller than that. There were blue dogs, brown dogs, red dogs, clear dogs, milky white dogs, black dogs, orange and yellow and purple and green dogs, transparent and opaque, striped and polka-dotted, hand-blown and solid glass dogs. Some of them were lying down, some sitting, standing, pointing, running. There were basset hounds, greyhounds, Airedales, German shepherds, Pekingese, terriers, Saint Bernards, and a dozen other breeds. A bitch with a litter of fragile glass puppies stood near a comic scene of dogs playing tiny glass instruments, flutes and drums and bugles for beagles. Several curious figures shone darkly in the silent zoo: snarling hellhounds, demons with dog faces and forked tongues.
Glass was also the focal point of the doctor himself. He wore thick spectacles that made his eyes appear abnormally large. He was short, athletic looking, and compulsively neat about himself. The spectacles were never smudged; he polished them continually.
Mary and the doctor sat across from each other at a folding table in the middle of the room.
The psychiatrist shuffled a deck of playing cards. He dealt ten of them facedown in a single row.
She picked up a six-inch loop of wire that he had provided and held it over the cards. She moved it back and forth. Twice it dipped toward the table as if invisible fingers were tugging it out of her hands. After less than a minute of dowsing, she put down the loop and indicated two of the ten cards. “These are the highest values in the batch.”
“What are they?” Cauvel asked.
“One might be an ace.”
“Of which suit?”
“I don’t know.”
He turned them over. An ace of clubs. A queen of hearts.
She relaxed.
He revealed the other cards. The highest value was a jack.
“Incredible,” he said. “This is one of the most difficult tests we’ve tried. But out of ten attempts, you’ve been ninety percent accurate. Ever think of going to Las Vegas?”
“To break the bank at the twenty-one tables?”
“Why not?” he asked.
“The only way I’d have a chance is if they spread out the cards and let me use a wire loop on them before they dealt.”
Like all his movements and expressions, his smile was economical. “Not likely.”
For the past two years her Tuesday and Friday appointments had begun at four-thirty and ended at six o’clock. On these days she was Cauvel’s final patient. During the first three quarters of an hour she participated in some experiments in extrasensory perception for a series of articles he intended to publish in a professional journal. He devoted the second forty-five minutes to treating her in his capacity as a psychiatrist. In return for her cooperation he waived his fee.
She could afford to pay for treatment. She permitted the current arrangement because the experiments interested her.
“Brandy?” he asked.
“Please.”
He poured Rémy Martin for both of them.
They moved from the card table to a pair of armchairs that faced each other across a small round cocktail table.
Cauvel used no
Trying to keep from smiling, he said, “But I already have something picked out at Woolworth’s.”
“Oh,” she said, playing along with him, “then you won’t mind that I’m only getting you a gift certificate for some McDonald’s hamburgers.”
He pretended to be disappointed. “Well, I might stop at Gucci and Edwards Lowell for a few things that’ll go with the Woolworth’s piece.”
She grinned. “You do that. Then maybe I’ll let you sleep in here tonight instead of on the couch.”
He laughed and kissed her.
“Mmmm,” she said. “Again.”
She knew that she was loved, and that knowledge compensated somewhat for the horror of the past few days.
8
The focal point of Dr. Cauvel’s office was a collection of hundreds of glass dogs that were displayed on glass and chrome shelves to one side of his desk. No member of the menagerie was larger than Mary’s hand, and most were a great deal smaller than that. There were blue dogs, brown dogs, red dogs, clear dogs, milky white dogs, black dogs, orange and yellow and purple and green dogs, transparent and opaque, striped and polka-dotted, hand-blown and solid glass dogs. Some of them were lying down, some sitting, standing, pointing, running. There were basset hounds, greyhounds, Airedales, German shepherds, Pekingese, terriers, Saint Bernards, and a dozen other breeds. A bitch with a litter of fragile glass puppies stood near a comic scene of dogs playing tiny glass instruments, flutes and drums and bugles for beagles. Several curious figures shone darkly in the silent zoo: snarling hellhounds, demons with dog faces and forked tongues.
Glass was also the focal point of the doctor himself. He wore thick spectacles that made his eyes appear abnormally large. He was short, athletic looking, and compulsively neat about himself. The spectacles were never smudged; he polished them continually.
Mary and the doctor sat across from each other at a folding table in the middle of the room.
The psychiatrist shuffled a deck of playing cards. He dealt ten of them facedown in a single row.
She picked up a six-inch loop of wire that he had provided and held it over the cards. She moved it back and forth. Twice it dipped toward the table as if invisible fingers were tugging it out of her hands. After less than a minute of dowsing, she put down the loop and indicated two of the ten cards. “These are the highest values in the batch.”
“What are they?” Cauvel asked.
“One might be an ace.”
“Of which suit?”
“I don’t know.”
He turned them over. An ace of clubs. A queen of hearts.
She relaxed.
He revealed the other cards. The highest value was a jack.
“Incredible,” he said. “This is one of the most difficult tests we’ve tried. But out of ten attempts, you’ve been ninety percent accurate. Ever think of going to Las Vegas?”
“To break the bank at the twenty-one tables?”
“Why not?” he asked.
“The only way I’d have a chance is if they spread out the cards and let me use a wire loop on them before they dealt.”
Like all his movements and expressions, his smile was economical. “Not likely.”
For the past two years her Tuesday and Friday appointments had begun at four-thirty and ended at six o’clock. On these days she was Cauvel’s final patient. During the first three quarters of an hour she participated in some experiments in extrasensory perception for a series of articles he intended to publish in a professional journal. He devoted the second forty-five minutes to treating her in his capacity as a psychiatrist. In return for her cooperation he waived his fee.
She could afford to pay for treatment. She permitted the current arrangement because the experiments interested her.
“Brandy?” he asked.
“Please.”
He poured Rémy Martin for both of them.
They moved from the card table to a pair of armchairs that faced each other across a small round cocktail table.
Cauvel used no
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