The question of how to deal with him, assuming she was right, was difficult. These were far from ideal circumstances. But Lauren was used to thinking out of the box when confronted with a difficult or even impossible case. She relaxed her body and closed her eyes, taking herself back to the warm yellow tones of her office… the comfortable leather chair in front of her desk, the slight scent of rose floating on the air. Hoping there was something from her initial session with him that could help her.
“I’ll make it easy on you,” Hung Jin said.
She opened her eyes slowly, keeping her mind back in her office. She was the doctor now, Hung Jin the patient.
“The sooner you tell me what I want to know, the faster I’ll be gone.” He sat down again.
“What did you do before you went to China?” Lauren was fishing, looking for something that would trigger a specific response: a switch in personalities, one that might bring out a more docile, or even harmless, alternate personality, or alter.
“I don’t think you understand how this arrangement works,” Hung Jin said, his fingers curling into a fist. Lauren tightened her body, bracing for another punch. “I ask the questions, you answer them. You refuse to cooperate, I hurt you.” He smiled, then took a step toward her. “Now, your husband. Tell me where he is.”
Lauren’s eyes began to tear.
“All you have to do is tell me where he is and I will stop this, right here. Then I’ll let you go.”
“I thought you said I couldn’t trust you.”
Hung Jin’s head jerked left twice in rapid succession. His face turned crimson, the veins in his forehead bulging. “Don’t use my words against me!”
Lauren flinched. “Michael was supposed to be home a few days ago,” she stammered. “On the twelfth. But he hasn’t called. I don’t know what happened to him. You heard me say that at the Neighborhood Watch meeting—”
Hung Jin brought his fist back again and unleashed a straight-on jab that landed on Lauren’s left cheek and tipped the chair back off its front legs. She cried out as the blow landed. Instantly, a numbing deafness muffled her surroundings. She felt groggy and distant and her vision was blurred.
“I know what you said at the meeting. But it’s all bullshit, part of Payne’s plan to get away from me. The distressed wife looking for her husband, turning to the small-town folk to help her find him. It was a nice show, Doctor. But I know the truth. You know more than you’re telling me.”
She shook her head to fight the dizziness, to prevent herself from losing consciousness. As her senses slowly returned, tears began rolling down her cheeks. “I don’t know what you want from me,” she said weakly. “I don’t know any more than what I said at the meeting. This is all just a mistake. Michael didn’t do anything to hurt you. I don’t understand why you’re trying to hurt him.”
“You’re right, it was a mistake. And because of that mistake, he caused me far more pain than I could ever cause you, Doctor. Now I’d love to debate the nature of pain and the methods of measuring whose pain is worse, but I need to find your husband. Now!”
“I don’t know who Harper Payne is,” Lauren blurted, lowering her head and turning it slightly to the side, bracing for another impact. “My husband is Michael Chambers.”
Hung Jin sat down and regarded her. “I know you’re not stupid, Doctor. You probably think you’re protecting him. But why you’d want to protect a murderer is beyond me.”
Lauren swung her head around and locked eyes with him. “What?”
“Yes, your husband is a murderer. He worked for me, carrying out contract hits.”
“Michael isn’t capable of killing.” Lauren defiantly looked away, convinced that what she was hearing was a lie.
“Of course you don’t believe me. But that’s okay, Doctor, because I don’t need to prove anything to you. One way or another you’re going to tell me what I want to know. Willingly or unwillingly.”
“Michael’s not a murderer.”
Hung Jin leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “This is admirable in a way, how you’re protecting him. But I saw that flicker of concern in your eyes when I told you he was a killer. So I’ll let you in on a little secret: seven years ago your loving husband was on my payroll, researching the target’s daily activities, scouting out the location, planning the hit.” He rose and pointed at her. “There it is again — it’s in your eyes. The windows to your soul. You shrinks aren’t the only ones who’ve studied the mind, you know. Right now you’re doing a quick calculation in your head. Oh my God, you’re thinking!”
He craned his neck toward the ceiling. “She’s finally getting it!” He looked down at Lauren. “Yes, Doctor, this happened before you met your husband. You’re thinking now that maybe what I told you is true. It is true.” He sat down again. “Ask yourself this: Of all the people you’ve treated, of all the mental illness you’ve dealt with, of all the ugliness you’ve seen, isn’t it possible that your husband is a killer?”
“No—”
“That he did things that you would’ve never believed possible?”
“No!”
“Isn’t it possible he’s kept things from you, that our companions, our lovers, keep secrets from us they’d never reveal about themselves?”
Lauren’s pulse was pounding in her ears. It was possible; she had seen it countless times. Patients telling her things they would never tell their loved ones. But was it possible with Michael?
“I guess it’s understandable you’d protect your husband. I’d do the same in your position. The only thing is, I’m not in your position.” The same haunting laugh burst from his mouth. “Your attitude will change shortly, when you’re starving, freezing. And bleeding profusely.”
If Lauren could only find a subject, an emotion, a song or scent that inspired a memory his alter could latch onto, she could make contact with it — if there was an alter. If her intuition was correct. She looked him in the eye, prepared to monitor his reaction to what she was about to say. “I bet you wouldn’t treat your mother like this.”
There was a slight purse of his lips, a movement her trained eye picked up. “I never had a mother.”
“She died?”
“I never had a mother.”
Normally, when a psychotherapist worked with a patient who had MPD, making contact with the person’s alter was fairly easy. But these conditions were anything but normal. For all she knew, a more dangerous and irrational alter could emerge — if her diagnosis was even correct in the first place.
But she had to try. And that meant she had to find a way of breaking through. The finance manager she had counseled last year who had moved west from New York suddenly appeared in her mind. The way he said mother, dropping the er and replacing it with an a, was similar to Hung Jin’s pronunciation. She decided to go fishing again. “We all have mothers. Yours was from New York. Do you remember your house in New York?”
Hung Jin sat in the chair staring at her, not answering. He seemed to be thinking about something. This is good. She would keep her eyes focused on her patient, hoping to discern the slightest sign that an alter was emerging.
“Your mother, did she ever take you on trips, or to parks or on rides, like at Coney Island?”
Hung Jin did not move, did not speak; he stared straight ahead, transfixed on a point beyond Lauren’s head.
“Your mother loved you a lot. Try and picture her,” Lauren said softly. “It’ll help to shut your eyes. Go ahead and relax, let your eyes close and focus on my voice. It’ll help you see your mom.”