The Queen of Diamonds Page 8
He flashed me a smile and gave me the thumbs up before jumping onstage to help the actors.
* * * *
I can’t sit still anymore. I jump out of bed and start to pace, swinging the diary around, almost afraid to look at it again.
I’m insane, but my condition is not that severe. I have psychosis, not multiple personality disorder. I haven’t been sleeping at night, and I’ve been conscious of that, so there haven’t been any gaps in my memory where I may have turned into someone else. Plus, nothing like this has ever happened to me before, certainly not in New York. Oh, I really miss New York right now. I miss the city and my dance company and Jenny and Bongo.…
I look at the diary again. I’m not going to figure this out tonight, but before I place the book down on the nightstand two things come to mind. This can’t be my diary because 1) this isn’t my handwriting, and 2) more importantly, I don’t know Trish. I’ve only bumped into her twice, and she didn’t recognize me either time. This diary mentions working with Trish.… This can’t be mine.
Again I watch as night evolves into day. Again Danny ships me off to Dr. Bandos and again I’m left there, sitting on a coach in her office, wishing to be somewhere else.
“Lay down,” Dr. Bandos says gently to me. It pains me to do what she says.
“You know, I’m really much more in the mood to just talk—”
“Leslie, hypnosis is simply a way to retrieve some answers, answers to questions that maybe you yourself are trying to solve—”
“Les. My name is Les.… This hypnosis thing isn’t going to work because I don’t want you in my head—”
“Are you innocent?”
“What? Yeah, of course I am—”
“Then you should have nothing to hide.”
Damn. Good move. Now if I argue with her, not only am I resisting questioning, I look like I’m trying to hide something. The next thing she says, however, is just uncalled for.
“If you don’t cooperate, I can retrieve the same subconscious responses with the use of medication—something much stronger than the pills you’re taking now.”
Should be taking.
“There’s no need to threaten me,” I hiss, then close my eyes, preparing myself for the hypnosis I really, really don’t want to participate in.
“It’s not a threat, Leslie,” the psychologist says sincerely. “I don’t want to make you feel threatened or uncomfortable. I’m just making the situation clear to you. All I want to do is help you; I’m on your side.”
Oh, like I’ve never heard that before.
She begins, telling me to relax and concentrate on my breathing. I’m at odds with myself in my mind. I don’t want to do this, but maybe she’s right. Maybe this can help me…or make me seem even crazier and more out of touch with reality than I really am.
“…And when I reach ten you will be in a state of complete peace and hypnosis…1…2.…”
No. I won’t let her in.
“3…4.…”
Yes, I will. I have to do this.… I’m a horrible liar, there’s no way I can fake being in a state of hypnosis.
“5…6.…”
I am innocent. This won’t matter; in fact, it can only help.
“7…8.…”
I’m falling, dropping into some deep inner self, a state of vulnerability…a place of peace and relief, but still vulnerability.
“9…10.”
I’m in nothingness. She tells me to breathe deeply. I obey. She tells me to drop my shoulders, my head, relax my neck and back. I do.
“I’m going to ask you some questions and I want you to answer me truthfully.”
Whatever you want…I have nothing to hide.
“Have you been taking your medication?”
I smile.
“No.”
She sighs, disappointed with me. “All right, well keep concentrated on your breathing. I want you to think about the crime scene—the non-existing woman’s bedroom. Is anyone in the house?”
REWIND. Flashing images flip past like a flip book before me. Time moves past the diary, past the theatre, back farther and farther and FREEZE.”
“Jimmy and me.”
“Is that all?”
Play. The scene unfolds. I watch it like I’m a fly on the wall. I’m looking around the room, Jimmy leaves, I’m attacked by the cat under the bed…. The events unfold until Jimmy and I dash out of the room. Cut to a still image of Jimmy looking at me, the card and gun in my hands, the house ablaze before us.
“No one else…except the poor cat.”
“The gun you had with you.… Is that Jimmy’s?”
“No.”
“Is it yours?”
“No.”
“Whose is it?”
“It was thrown away…Jimmy found it in a garbage bin outside the theatre in town.”
“Was it loaded when Jimmy found it?”
“No.”
“Jimmy told you all of this?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe Jimmy?”
Interesting question. Jimmy stands before me now, smiling innocently, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Should I believe Jimmy was a better question, one I’d love to know the answer to. I don’t know how to answer, so unconsciously I change the subject.
“I can read minds.”
Well, congrats, now I sound really crazy. Of all the things I could have said, why was this thought the one my mind spit out?
“Really? Tell me about that.”
“I can read colors and numbers and cards. The non-existing woman is the Queen of Diamonds, Jimmy is sixteen and red, Molly’s number is 208, my lawyer is orange, Derek is forty-two, the cops are blue—”
“Why do you do that? Label people by colors and numbers?”
A deep breath in, a deep breath out. The words spill out before I think them.
“Names cause complications. Names can be similar and deceiving. They can be made up. They can be common. Faces are easier to match with thoughts because nobody thinks the same. Thoughts can’t lie or hide. Just like you can’t hide that you actually want me to be innocent, that you feel I’m harmless, and that you’re thinking you should really be concentrating on what I’m saying, but the thought that your MasterCard has just been cancelled on you keeps popping up in your head.”
Silence. What did I just do? I read her mind…really read her mind. How did I do that?
“I…I thought you said you could only read numbers, colors, and stuff?” my psychologist says slowly. She sounds shocked.
“That’s correct,” I answer.
Credit card. Why is that important? My mind is racing faster then my mouth again.
“Credit card,” it says, but I’m already lost in my memories, racing backwards in time, past the talk with my parents, past the meeting with the judge, past my arrest. Credit card was important, why was it important? WHITE. A phone rings. I’m talking to Molly on my cell. I ask her about the vacation ticket to Hawaii.
“Shit. You know what, my credit card was stolen a few days ago, I forgot to cancel it! Shit, thanks for reminding me—” PAUSE. Fast forward. I’m in the theatre, the curtains open; I’m in the past again.
“I’m in her room.”
“Whose room? What are you looking for?”
“The non-existing woman’s room.”
I’m standing in the center of the room, looking around again. Scott was pointing things out to me…the black clothes, the bed, the smoking cigarette, the credit card—
The credit card she didn’t grab before fleeing from the explosive house. She didn’t grab it because it wasn’t important to her, because it wasn’t hers.…
“It was my sister’s.”
“What was your sister’s? What are you talking about, Leslie?”
“Credit card. She stole my sister’s credit card.”
“Leslie—”
“Some two queens flipped.”
“Leslie, I don’t understand what you’re saying…” My ps
ychologist’s voice is but a whisper to me. My mind is spinning, cluttered with memories and riddles and thought. What does that mean? It means the non-existing woman exists. Does she have something to do with Dr. Patricia? Does she know where my sister is? What does the riddle mean? The film in my head is scratched and is skipping. I can’t keep concentrated on what I see, on my breath, on anything.
Dr. Bandos is holding my shoulders, trying to keep me still—I must be struggling. I don’t know, I’m lost in myself. She’s telling me to stay calm, concentrate on my inhale and exhale. I do. The film is slipping out of existence, making it easier to think. I have to remember this.… I have to remember what I’ve discovered here in this odd state of subconscious.
“When I reach one and snap my fingers, you’ll wake up feeling refreshed. 10, 9, 8, 7—”
“Slow down!” I shout. My response to the countdown temporarily stuns my psychologist into silence, but she picks up the countdown again, starting from where she left off, counting slower now.
“6…5…4…3…2.…”
Damn. I’ve already forgotten what I was supposed to remember.
“…1!” SNAP.
I wake up. It feels like I’ve only blinked, that only a second has passed, but somehow in that second Dr. Bandos has magically transported from her seat to my side, her hands tightly clutching my shoulders. I stare at her, puzzled. She looks embarrassed and pulls her hands away.
“What happened?” I ask, really wanting to know.
“You.… Uh,” Dr. Bandos returns to her seat and straightens out her black skirt and glasses.
“You were ranting about your sister’s credit card.”
“I was?” That’s odd. What do I care about Molly’s credit?
“You also mentioned an odd riddle.… What was it…? Sum of two queens something.”
“Some two queens flipped.”
“What’s the importance of that riddle?”
“I don’t know.” I sit up. “It was in a dream of mine; I’m trying to figure out what it means. Are we done here?”
“Well, uh…I suppose. Unless you have any questions for me.”
Sure, I have questions, but you wouldn’t be able to give me the answers I’m looking for. I shake my head.
* * * *
Judge Judy. Full House. Montel. Rosie. Mad TV. Blue’s Clues. Jerry Springer. News. News. News. Weather. Spanish soap opera. Hundreds of channels and nothing to watch. I turned off the TV. Molly still hadn’t come home. I still couldn’t reach her cell phone, and Danny still won’t believe that Molly’s gone. For the first two hours alone in the apartment I had, as suggested by my siblings, exercised. I would’ve done it for longer if it wasn’t for the apartment’s small size and lack of a decent sound system. For the next hour and a half I flipped through the channels on the TV while calling Jenny over and over again, well aware she wouldn’t pick up because she was at work and of course didn’t have her cell phone on. I called anyway. I left five ridiculous messages on our apartment answering machine, trying to disguise my voice, and watched “Who wants to marry a midget?” on Jerry Springer before falling into complete boredom. I turned off the TV and stared at my reflection in the empty screen, lying upside down on the coach.
What the hell do I do now….? I can eat.
I slid onto the floor, crawled into the kitchen, and sat on the floor in front of the refrigerator.
“Open sesame!” I opened the fridge and was disappointed. Nothing. Literally nothing to eat…probably because while I should’ve been shopping for food, I was instead being taken hostage in a stick up run by Jimmy.
I slammed the fridge door closed harder than I expected, causing something to snap off the top and fall down in front of me. I picked it up. In my hand was a little electronic gadget, no bigger than a bottle cap. It looked like a headphone earpiece. Hmm.… Weird.
I got up and walked back into the living room, still inspecting the odd little thing. It almost looked like a piece of spy gear.… Wait.…
I slowly lifted my head and my eyes swept the room, starting low and moving up each wall until my sight settled on the ceiling fan. Something was blinking. I dropped the gadget and jumped onto the coffee table to get a better look at the fan.
Something else, just a little bigger than the earpiece thing, was attached to the center of the fan. I ripped the object off and looked at it, finding this one was more like a computer chip with a little blinking red light. What the hell was going on? Was this real?
My search began. I swept the entire apartment top to bottom, checking every crevice and cabinet. Whatever I found I lay out on the kitchen counter until I’d searched the place twice. When I returned to the kitchen counter after I’d concluded my search, I inspected each electronic gadget, researching as many as possible on the internet on Molly’s laptop.
In the end, there turned out to be four audio bugs, two video surveillances, and three unidentifiable electronics, and while I couldn’t be certain, I suspected the telephone line to be tapped. I sat down on one of the stools and tugged at my hair. What the hell was this stuff doing in Molly’s apartment? And, whoever bugged this place, what were they looking for? What did they want?
I sighed, staring at the collection of high tech mini gadgets. What was going on, and what did it have to do with my sister?
* * * *
“Listen to this, listen: ‘Trish wants out. I can tell. She doesn’t seem to understand the deed is done, and I’m not going to let her change of heart pull me down. I don’t know what to do with her, but I have to take action—she’s messing up my escape plan and I’m not going to let her get in the way of me and a life of fortune and freedom.’ It sounds like Trish was in on the robbery!”
“Wait, okay, so let me get this straight; you think this diary belongs to the person who robbed and murdered your childhood psychologist, and you think Trish was also involved?” Danny asks me, bending over his Quick Check deli sandwich.
“Yes, basically…Can’t I just borrow $5?”
“You steal my car, you starve.”
“So you think Trish also has something to do with your sister’s disappearance?” Jimmy asks. He’s suddenly sitting next to me. Who knows how he managed to find us, but by now, Jimmy’s inexplicable appearances were no longer out of the ordinary.
“Yes, she must. I mean, the last time I talked to Molly, she was with Trish and Trish entrusting her with something important. I think that this crime.…” I point to the diary on the table, “This must be it.”
“Are you sure the diary isn’t Molly’s?” Jimmy asks lightly. Danny drops his sandwich and glares at Jimmy.
“Molly, unlike someone at this table, isn’t a criminal. Les, I’m not talking about you.”
Jimmy ignores the insult and turns to me.
“Who’s this Trish girl, anyway?”
“Molly’s roommate. She seems like the stereotypical dumb blonde, but she might know more than she’s letting on—”
“Wait, what did you say?” Danny interrupts, looking at me confused.
“She might know more—”
“Not that. You said she’s a dumb blonde?”
“Well, that’s the point; she might not actually be dumb—”
“I met Trish; she’s not a blonde!”
Silence. Jimmy looks out of it. Danny looks confused. I’m stunned.
“What?”
“She’s not a blondee, she’s a brunette!”
“No.… No, I saw Trish twice in Molly’s apartment, she’s a natural blonde with these blazing blue eyes, tall—”
“Les, Trish has brown eyes and is shorter than Jimmy!”
“Hey, I’m not that short—”
“I didn’t imagine her, Danny, don’t even suggest it!”
“Well, whoever you saw, it wasn’t Trish!”
“Bullshit.” I jump out of my seat and leave the table.
“Les! Shit…Jimmy, grab the diary and the food,” Danny yells behind him, getting up to run after me.
Trish is a blonde, I’ll prove it. Even if it isn’t the same Trish—even if she’s a completely different person, I’ll prove that she’s real. I didn’t imagine her. She’s not another figment, some hallucination.… I’m not as crazy as everyone is making me out to be, and I’ll prove it. I only hope she’s at the apartment now.
I cover the distance between the Quick Check and Molly’s apartment quicker than I expected. Finally I’ve reached Molly’s apartment building. I’m running up the stairs, now I’m racing down the hall. I feel like a madman, jamming the spare key into the lock, clawing at the knob, trying to get the door open. Finally it swings in. I run into the apartment and feel a sense of utter disappointment to find it empty. I fall onto the coach in the living room area and just sit there, trying to catch my breath and arrange my thoughts. The blonde had to be real.… Of course I can’t be certain, but it just.… She can’t.… It wouldn’t be fair if.…
“I’ve been imagining her. The entire time, she hasn’t been real,” I say out loud to myself. The statement makes me miserable. I hear pounding at the door and figure it must be Danny and Jimmy.
“I need the medication,” I say to myself automatically, without really believing it, then get up and unlock the door. I pull it open slowly, sighing at the floor, then look up and am blinded again by a head of brilliant blonde hair. Before me stands Trish.… Or whoever I thought Trish was.
“Oh, uh.… Hey, Les! Have you seen—”
“You’re not Trish,” I interrupt her, not sure what to expect. At first she looks at me and laughs, then the smile drops from her face completely. She sighs.
“You’re right.” The girl who is not Trish pulls something out of her pocket and shows it to me. It’s a police badge.
“I’m detective Colly, and I have a few questions for you. I need you to come with me, please.”
I beam at her and say happily, “Thank god you’re real.”
She doesn’t get it, and from the look on her face, I can tell she’s not amused.