understanding of his nightmares and his mystical connection with the man
who had killed the blond punker. But the verdict did not in the least
surprise him. He had suspected that the answers he sought were not
going to be that easy to find.
“So your night are only that,” Nyebern said, “and nothing more-just
nightmares.”
Hatch had not told him about the vision of the gunshot blonde who had
later been found dead, for real, on the freeway. As he had made clear
to Lindsey, he was not going to set himself up to become a headline
again, at least not unless he saw enough of the killer to identify him
to the police, more than he’d glimpsed in the mirror last night, in
which case he would have no choice but to face the media spotlight “No
cranial pressure,” Nyebern said, “no chemicoelectrical imbalance, no
sign of a shift in the location of the pineal gland-which can sometimes
lead to severe nightmares and even waking hallucinations.. .” He went
over the tests one by one, methodical as usual.
As he listened, Hatch realized that he always remembered the physician
as being older than he actually was. Jonas Nyebern had a grayness about
him, and a gravity, that left the impression of advanced age.
Tall and lanky, he hunched his shoulders and stooped slightly to
deemphasize his height, resulting in a posture more like that of an
elderly man than of someone his true age, which was fifty. At times
there was about him, as well, an air of sadness, as if he had known
great tragedy.
When he finished going over the tests, Nyebern looked up and smiled
again. It was a warm smile, but that air of sadness clung to him in
spite of it. “The problem isn’t physical, Hatch.”
“Is it possible you could have missed something?”
“Possible, I suppose, but very unlikely. W”
“An extremely minor piece of brain damage, a few hundred cells, might
not show up on your tests yet have a serious effect.”
“As I said, very unlikely. I think we can safely assume that this is
strictly an emotional problem, a perfectly understandable consequence of
the trauma you’ve been through. Let’s try a little standard therapy.”
“Psychotherapy?”
“Do you have a problem with that?”
“No.”
Except, Hatch thought, it won’t work. This isn’t an emotional problem.
This is real.
“I know a good man, first-rate, you’ll like him.” Nyebern said, taking a
pen from the breast pocket of his white smock and writing the name of
the psychotherapist on the blank top sheet of a prescription pad.
“I’ll discuss your case with him and tell him you’ll be calling. Is
that all right?”
“Yeth. Sure. That’s fine.”
He wished he could tell Nyebern the whole story. But then he would
definitely sound as if he needed therapy. Reluctantly he faced the
realization that neither a medical doctor nor a psychotherapist could
help him. His ailment was too strange to respond to standard treatments
of any kind.
Maybe what he needed was a witch doctor. Or an exorcist. He did almost
feel as if the black-clad killer in sunglasses was a demon testing his
defenses to determine whether to attempt possessing him, They chatted a
couple of minutes about things nonmedical.
Then as Hatch was getting up to go, he pointed to the painting of the
Ascension. “Beautiful piece.”
“Thank you. It is exceptional, isn’t it?”
“Itaaan.”
“That’s right.”
“Early eighteenth century?”
“Kight again,” Nyebern said. “You know religious art?”
“Not all that well. But I think the whole collection is Italian from
the same period.”
“That it is. Another piece, maybe two, and I’ll call it complete.”
“Odd to see it here,” Hatch said, stepping closer to the painting beside
the eye chart.
“Yes, I know what you mean,” Nybern said, “but I don’t have enough wall
space for all this at home. There, I’m putting together a collection of
modern religious art.”
“Is there any?”
“Not much. Religious subject matter isn’t fashionable these days among
the really talented artists. The bulk of it is done by hacks. But here
and there… someone with genuine talent is seeking enlightenment along
the old paths, painting these subjects with a contemporary eye.