When she got back to the apartment, she locked the dead bolt and hunted around for a place to hide the key. Dr. Gates had told her that in cases of multiple personalities the quiescent personality was unaware of the other personality's activities during its active phase. Kara didn't know of any other key in Kelly's apartment, so she figured that if Janine should take control during the night, she would not be able to leave the apartment if Kara hid this one well enough.
She finally decided on the right rear corner of the top rack in the oven. Who in their right mind would look there for a key?
Don't ask.
After that she showered. As she lathered up, Rob's words from the afternoon came back to her:
You can't always do everything on your own, Kara.
How many times in her life had she heard that? From her mother and father, from Kelly, from friends. Nobody seemed to understand her. She didn't want to do everything on her own. She wasn't looking to cut herself off. She just wanted to be able to stand free and clear. She'd take help when she couldn't provide it herself—like seeing Dr. Gates for therapy—but what she could do on her own, she would do on her own.
Maybe she'd picked it up from her Amish neighbors, who were "beholding to no one," as they put it. But Kara sensed it went deeper than that. The need for autonomy, to control her own life, seemed to be engraved on her soul. Which made the possibility of another personality taking over at any time—even if it was just for a few seconds—especially loathsome.
She got ready for bed. She wished she could do a little writing but she was exhausted. She didn't think she'd need a sleeping pill, but she was going to follow doctor's orders strictly. At least for now. She took one of Kelly's leftover Halcions, settled in Kelly's bed with one of Kelly's back issues of Rolling Stone, and tried not to think about Kelly. Or Janine. Or how alone and afraid she was. And how comforting it would be to have someone to talk to right now. And how stupid she'd been for refusing Rob's offer to stay the night.
Somewhere between comforting and stupid, Kara fell asleep.
Poor little fool. She came back.
He's absolutely elated. How he gloats and struts! So taken with how clever he is. The Napoleon of Plotters, the Machiavelli of Manipulators.
Makes me ill!
How I'd love to teach the swine a lesson. Thinks I'm helpless, harmless, not the slightest possible threat to his great intellect. I hate that most of all… even if he's right. He knows I'm totally without resources.
No. Perhaps not totally. Have my own intellect. Don't see why I can't manage to be as deceitful and crafty as he. Not beyond my capability to get a message of warning to this new one.
Wouldn't that be wonderful! What a coup! With no resources other than what I can steal and hide, to warn her away from him. Wouldn't that take the wind out of his sails! Oh, he'll punish me, I know, punish me severely, but it would be worth it. Just to show him, to let him know he hasn't beaten me into complete submission. I'm still here. I can still act.
He'll not take me for granted any more after I do this.
If I can indeed do it. Have to try.
First thing I'll need is her address.
February 17
8:06 A.M.
Kara awoke feeling groggy and not particularly well rested. She shook herself to full alertness and slipped from the bed. She saw that she was still in the same flannel nightshirt she had put on last night. The bedroom looked the same. No words carved in the walls. She ran her hands over her body. No new bruises or cuts of scrapes. She ran to the bathroom. No writing on the mirror. She checked the living room and the kitchen. No knives on the counter, and the key was still in the oven, exactly where she'd left it.
She slumped against the counter, weak with relief.
"Okay," she said to no one in particular. She thumped her fist on the countertop. "Okay!"
▼
10:00 A.M.
"Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Doc," Rob said as he dropped into the chair opposite the desk. Doc Winters peered at him over his reading glasses.
He tapped his desk top with a ballpoint; Navane was inscribed on the barrel.
"You said it was urgent."
"It is, kind of. It's about Dr. Lawrence Gates—"
"What is it with you and Gates? You got something personal against him, Harris?"
Rob was startled by Doc Winters' vehemence.
"Not at all. I've only met him twice. I don't particularly like the man, but it's not personal."
"A lot of people don't like Larry Gates, but that's not a cause for police harassment."
"I'm not harassing anybody! Did he tell you that?"
"No. I haven't had cause to speak to him for a couple of years now, but let me tell you something about Larry Gates. I know he presents this cold surface to the world—"
" 'Cold' is an understatement."
"I won't argue that. I don't know why he does it. I'd think it would be counterproductive to a successful psychiatric practice. But then, financial considerations aren't much of a motivating force in the life of a man of his wealth. And besides, from what I understand, it hasn't adversely effected his patient flow."
Rob said, "I doubt the patient I know would be going to him if it weren't for his special qualifications in the area of her problem."
"That multiple personality you mentioned? Well, as I said, she couldn't be in better hands. But you know, I did see Larry's cold facade crack once: when his brother Gabor contracted pneumonia."
With the mention of Gabor, Rob's interest surged.
"When was that?"
"During Larry's residency—third year, I believe. Gabor caught the flu but didn't kick it. Being an invalid, he quickly developed pneumonia. Larry had one of the pulmonary guys admit him to Downstate so he could keep an eye on his brother while going about his regular duties as a psychiatry resident." Doc Winters leaned forward and pointed his ballpoint at Rob. "He never left the hospital once during Gabor's illness, Harris. He lived there. That's the real Larry Gates."
Rob was surprised. Maybe he had Gates pegged wrong.
"Gabor survived, I gather."
"Yes."
"But died later."
"Years later, somewhere in his forties. His longevity was a testament to the care he received from Larry."
"Why do you say that?"
"Gabor Gati was a nightmare. Grotesquely deformed by multiple congenital defects… nearly blind, aphonic—"
"Pardon?"
"Mute. Couldn't speak. I doubt very much that his intelligence was above the idiot level. His body was bulbous and scoliotic, with atrophic limbs. He was totally dependent. Couldn't feed or clothe or change himself. Quite repulsive, actually. But Larry was intensely devoted to him. He had hidden Gabor from the Nazis and had helped him escape the Commies—he wasn't going to let some lousy bacterium claim his brother." Winters shook his head. "Quite a guy."
"Sure sounds it," Rob said but decided to withhold the Nobel Prize just a little longer.
"Now what was it you wanted to see me about?"
"Gates signed Gabor's death certificate. That struck me as irregular."
Winters' brow furrowed. "In most cases it would be. Highly irregular for a first degree relative to sign. But not illegal. Larry is a licensed M.D. and qualified to sign. And he acted as Gabor's attending physician most of the time, so he would have been most familiar with the particulars of Gabor's medical history. It's a unique case. I don't see anything to get excited about." Rob sighed and rose from the chair. "Neither do I. Just checking. Thanks, Doc."