“That would be unwise,” Fauvel said.
“Psychiatric care was not a condition of my hospital discharge, only a benefit I could avail myself of.”
“And you still can avail yourself of it, Ben. I’m here, waiting to see you”
“It’s no longer a benefit,” Chase said. He was beginning to enjoy this. For the first time, he had Fauvel on the defensive for more than a brief moment; the new balance of power was gratifying.
“Ben, you are angry about what I said to the police. That is the whole thing, isn’t it?”
“Partly,” Chase said. “But there are other reasons.”
“What?”
Chase said, “Let’s play the word-association game.”
“Word association? Ben, don’t be-”
“Publish.”
“Ben, I’m ready to see you anytime that-”
“Publish,” Chase interrupted.
“This doesn’t help-”
“Publish,” Chase insisted.
Fauvel was silent. Then he sighed, decided to play along, and said, “I guess … books.”
“Magazines.”
“I don’t know where you want me to go, Ben.”
“Magazines.” “Well … newspapers.”
“Magazines.”
“New word, please,” Fauvel said.
“Contents.”
“Oh. Articles?”
“Five.”
“Five articles?”
“Psychiatry.”
Puzzled, Fauvel said, “You’re not managing this correctly. Word association has to be-”
“Patient C.”
Fauvel was stunned into silence.
“Patient C,” Chase repeated.
“How did you get hold of-”
“One word.”
“Ben, we can’t discuss this in one-word exchanges. I’m sure you’re upset; but-”
“Play the game with me, Doctor, and maybe – just maybe – I won’t make a public response to your five articles and won’t subject you to professional ridicule.”
The silence on the other end of the line was as deep as any Chase had ever heard.
“Patient C,” Chase said.
“Valued.”
“Bullshit.”
“Valued,” Fauvel insisted.
“Exploited.”
“Mistake,” Fauvel admitted.
“Correction?”
“Necessary.”
“Next?”
“Session.”
“Next?”
“Session.”
“Please don’t repeat your answers,” Chase admonished. “New word. Psychiatrist.”
“Healer.”
“Psychiatrist.”
“Me.”
“Sonofabitch.”
“That’s childish, Ben.”
“Egomaniac.”
Fauvel only sighed.
“Asshole,” Ben said, and he hung up.
He hadn’t felt so good in years.
Later, as he was exercising the stiffness out of his battered muscles, he realized that making the break with his psychiatrist was a stronger rejection of his recent despair than anything else that he had done. He’d been telling himself that when Judge was located and dealt with, he could then resume his sheltered existence on the third floor of Mrs. Fielding’s house. But that was no longer possible. By discontinuing all psychiatric treatment, he was admitting that he had changed forever and that his burden of guilt was growing distinctly less heavy.
Chase’s pleasure in Fauvel’s humiliation was tempered by the daunting prospect of having to live again. If he forsook the solace of solitude – what would replace it?
A new, quiet, but profound anxiety overcame him. Embracing the possibility of hope was far riskier and more frightening than walking boldly through enemy gunfire.
* * *
Once Chase had shaved and bathed, he realized that he had no leads to follow in his investigation. He had been everywhere that Judge had been, and yet he had gained nothing for his trouble except a description of the man, which would do him no good unless he could connect a name with it.
While eating a late breakfast at a pancake house on Galasio Boulevard, he decided to return to the Gateway Mall Tavern and talk to the real Eric Blentz to see if the man could put a name to Judge’s description. It seemed likely that Judge had not just chosen Blentz’s name out of the phone book when he’d used it in the Student Records Office at State. Perhaps he knew Blentz. And even if Blentz could provide no new lead, Chase could go back to Glenda Kleaver at the newspaper morgue and question her about anyone who had come into her office on Tuesday – which he hadn’t done previously, for fear of making a fool of himself or pricking the interest of the reporters in the room.
From a phone booth outside the restaurant, he called the newspaper morgue, but it wasn’t open for business on Saturday. In the directory he found a listing for Glenda Kleaver.
She answered on the fourth ring. He had forgotten how like music her voice was.
He said, “Miss Kleaver, you probably don’t remember me. I was in your office yesterday. My name’s Chase. I had to leave while you were out of the room getting information for one of your reporters.”