The Vampire Shrink

CHAPTER 7

It took me a minute to realise I was just sitting there – almost catatonic, my mouth hanging open – staring at the door that had just slammed.

Moving only my eyes, I surveyed the cookie crumbs, coffee drips and crumpled napkins surrounding Alan’s empty mug. Then I shook my head and broke into semi-hysterical laughter, the kind of laughter that makes you grab your midsection because it’s almost painful in its intensity. I let the crazed frivolity roll through me for a few seconds then started talking to myself, out loud, which in some quarters might be construed as a bad sign.

‘I choose Fictional Creatures for $500, Alex!’

Propping my feet up on the chair that had recently been vacated by the firm hindquarters of the oddest FBI agent I was ever likely to meet, I raised my coffee cup in a solitary toast to the memory of his tight jeans exiting my kitchen and loudly sang the theme song from Jeopardy!

In my best Alex Trebek voice I said, ‘These bloodsucking, undead denizens of the night have taken over the rational minds of the populace of Denver.’

I pretended to press an invisible button on the table. ‘What are vampires?’

Alex again. ‘Yes! Our new winner is Dr Kismet Knight, formerly a respected psychologist, now a permanent resident of Denver Psychiatric Hospital.’

I sang the theme song again, applauded myself and heaved a huge sigh.

‘I definitely didn’t get enough sleep.’

Transfixed by the streaks of colour floating across the morning sky, I stared out the window and drank my coffee. It was exactly one week ago that Midnight walked into my office for the first time, and since then my life had turned into a cliché-ridden afternoon-matinée horror movie in which I was apparently playing a lead role.

I’d fantasised about having more excitement in my life, and I must have inadvertently rubbed some genie’s bottle because I’d definitely got my wish. Unfortunately, it fell under the category of ‘be careful what you ask for because you might get it’. If I were half as smart as I thought I was, I’d cut my losses and run. I could refer Midnight and Ronald to other therapists and just go back to my regularly scheduled programming. No harm, no foul. Only a madwoman would purposely visit a dance club allegedly run by vampires – vampire wannabes, of course – or listen to fantastical stories told by misguided FBI agents.

Then I tried to imagine never seeing Devereux again and my midsection clenched up. Definitely not a desirable option as far as my body was concerned.

Because there’s nothing like being wired and sleepy at the same time, I decided to have one more cup of coffee and jot down some notes for my book. Agent Stevens’s fertile imagination had given me lots of ideas for chapters and I’d have to remember to ask him for permission to use the material he’d shared with me. He wasn’t a therapist, so there were no confidentiality issues. Maybe I’d even give him credit in the finished manuscript.

The first thing I noticed when I got off the elevator in my office building a while later was a bulging manila envelope propped against my waiting room door. I picked it up, tucked it under my arm and unlocked the doors leading to my reception area and then to my office. I sat down at my desk and inspected the package. There was nothing unusual about it – no address on the front, no postage or writing of any kind. Inside the envelope was some kind of light-blue fabric with extensive stains on it. My gut cramped and goose bumps appeared on my arms. I had an immediate bad feeling and picked up a pencil to lift the cloth out of its container. I’d seen enough cop shows to know about not contaminating evidence, and my intuition told me that I was in possession of something awful.

Using the pencil to spread out the fabric on top of my desk, I could see it was one of those flimsy gowns they use in hospitals, the ones that never close in the back. The stains looked and smelled like blood.

Blood. Hospital gown. My mind went straight to Emerald. Would she have worn this kind of garment?

No. Get a grip. There must be hundreds of explanations for this item turning up in front of my door. It probably had nothing to do with Emerald at all. Just a case of someone leaving the package at the wrong place.

Even though I tried hard to delude myself, none of the rationalisations were working and I began to feel nauseated. The smell of the package reminded me of my dream, and I unconsciously reached up to touch the wound on my neck, which I’d covered with a Band-Aid. I had the unpleasant realisation that if I didn’t get to the bathroom in ten seconds, I’d throw up on the floor. I made a mad dash and reached the toilet just in time to lose my morning coffee.

Feeling hot and cold at the same time, my stomach completely empty, I went over to the sink and swished some water around in my mouth. It was a good thing I always carried a toothbrush, toothpaste and mouthwash in my purse. I stared into the mirror and reaffirmed Alan’s earlier assertion that I did indeed look like death today. Sometimes even the best makeup job wasn’t enough. Having such fair skin was a blessing most of the time because I always looked younger than I was, but today I had definitely crossed the line between ivory glow and anaemic pallor.

I shuffled back into my office and rummaged through my briefcase, searching for the business card Alan had given me, and called the number. He answered on the first ring.

‘Stevens.’

‘Alan, someone left me a bloody hospital gown.’

‘Kismet? Is that you? What about a hospital gown?’

‘Somebody left a package containing stained blue fabric at my office. Since Emerald disappeared from the intensive care unit, that’s too big a coincidence, don’t you think? Can you come over and look at it?’

‘Yeah. Don’t touch anything. I’ll alert the local police and we’ll be right over.’ He hung up without saying goodbye.

I fished the dental hygiene products out of my purse and scurried to the bathroom, where I brushed and swished until I felt almost normal, then headed back to my office.

I sat at my desk, scrutinised the bloodstained material, and wondered again what I’d got myself into. I’d spent the last week bouncing back and forth between fear, confusion and arousal and I was exhausted. I didn’t think I’d been of help to anyone, and I certainly hadn’t done myself any good.

Staring at my calendar, I realised I hadn’t checked my messages, so I punched in the retrieval code for my business voicemail and found several. The first was from Ronald, asking if we could reschedule his appointment because he’d been up all night searching for Emerald. It was a good thing he couldn’t make it because he’d be due at the same time the police would likely arrive and I hadn’t even taken that into account. In fact, I’d totally forgotten I had a client coming: another indication of my impending mental breakdown. I made a note to return his call later.

I paused the messages and scanned my appointment book to make sure I hadn’t neglected any other important business, tapping my pen on the desk. Fran, my seventy-six-year-old UFO abductee client, was scheduled in this morning for her long-standing appointment, but it wasn’t going to work today. One of Fran’s challenges was a deep distrust of authority figures. I could only imagine what would happen if the police were still here when she arrived. Fran, who weighed no more than ninety pounds soaking wet, had been known to start screaming and flailing at the sight of a uniform, which usually guaranteed problems with whoever was wearing the offending garment at the time. Yes, I was definitely going to reschedule Fran.

After Fran was Spock. His real name was Henry Madison, but he got very upset if anyone called him that. He lived in a perpetual Star Trek episode, even going as far as having his ears surgically altered to be ‘Vulcan’. He had his costumes tailor-made and shaved his eyebrows so he could draw on the ‘correct’ ones. Interestingly enough, Spock hadn’t come to therapy for any of the reasons one might assume. He’d come because he wanted to explore his poor choices with women. He just couldn’t seem to find the woman of his dreams. He suspected mother issues. I thought that was only the tip of the iceberg.

Continuing with the messages, up next was my daily reminder from Brother Luther about the current state of my immortal soul. He usually gave me a portion of the sermon-of-the-week, and kept his remarks very general and impersonal. Today’s message had a different tone. He sounded agitated, and he talked a lot about being ‘washed in the blood’, and made a comment about being a warrior for God. He ranted on until the allotted message time ran out and was cut off mid-tirade. That was the first time one of his messages caused me to feel uncomfortable, and, in light of the other events of the morning, I considered whether or not I needed to tell the police about Brother Luther, too.