From the leather sofa, I blinked as sunlight streamed in. Located in Gainstown’s fading business district, Doc’s modest office was crammed with professional journals, certificates, and plain old clutter—quite a difference from his prison office, a sterile room with concrete walls and bars on the windows.
I was seated next to Shannon with my arm draped along the back of the sofa. I gave her a careful once-over. The black wool leggings and matching knee-length sweater made her white skin look moon pale. All the crying she’d done had stripped her of makeup. Her eyes were red and swollen, and unshed tears glistened on her lashes. I curled an arm around her rigid shoulders and hugged her close. Her body relaxed against the comfort of mine.
An hour had passed since we’d recorded that tape. This was Shannon’s first time hearing it, and her emotions were raw, as were mine. Doc had warned us. He’d said if he could hypnotize her, the process would be akin to an emotional roller coaster ride. Little had I known I’d be riding along with her. Before the session, Doc had pulled me aside. Told me to keep my emotions on a leash when she came out of it. For her sake, I had to play it cool.
I brushed my lips against her ear. “You all right?”
She nodded and tried to put on a brave face, but I knew better. She’d been acting weird since she’d picked me up this morning.
At first I’d thought she was still upset over what happened in the carriage house. Not that I blamed her. I hadn’t thought of much else, and Bev’s surprise call didn’t help. Even so, I suspected that was only part of what was bothering her, but she wasn’t talking.
I looked up as Doc pushed a steaming mug of tea into her hand. He toddled back to his seat and lowered his bulk into a well-used armchair.
“What’s your take on everything?” I asked him.
Doc gazed over steepled fingers. “Do you remember why you screamed, Shannon?”
She was staring into her tea. “Yes. The spade cut my knee when I went to Mother. I’d forgotten about that.”
“Well, no question your memories were deliberately manipulated,” Doc said. “There’s a term—False Memory Syndrome. The mental health community doesn’t officially acknowledge it, but even cynics acquiesce when presented with well-documented case studies. And it’s an indubitable verity that memories can be distorted. I imagine this Sheriff Gray injected you with sodium amytal or sodium pentothal to facilitate an inalterable state of hypnosis-induced amnesia.”
“English, Doc.”
“Shannon is suffering from FMS—false memories. There are critics, but the fact is that memories can be altered. And this is what the sheriff did. He used drugs to help push her into a trance-like state. This allowed him to add and extract whatever he wanted—to control her. I hate to say it, but I don’t think that was the only session.” Doc looked at Shannon. “It’s just the only one you remember.”
I swore under my breath.
“He was with Special Forces in Vietnam,” Shannon murmured into her tea. “He dealt with captured Viet Cong. Something to do with interrogations.”
Doc nodded. “Yes, the interrogation background would explain much.”
“Back in high school, Eddie used to brag that the sheriff once belonged to a Black PSYOPS unit,” I said. “I just thought he was talking shit, but now….”
Doc removed a cigar from his jacket, clipped an end, then set a match to it. Smoke curled around his face. “Well, they’ve used those intel techniques for years. The skilled ones can unlock, or in this case, cloak information without their subjects even knowing it. The RAND Corporation has done extensive research on hypnosis and mind control.” He handed me a thick folder. “I’ve made copies of some of their most compelling reports.”
I started thumbing through them.
“This is crazy.” Shannon’s expression shaded even more. “I still don’t see how he did it.”
“It’s all about trust,” Doc answered. “He and your uncle were authority figures to you. Granted, only one quarter of the world’s population can be hypnotized—that is, be placed into a trance-like state and manipulated—but you were very young, impressionable, and emotionally traumatized. Your walls were already breached.”
I set the files aside. “I never much believed in it ‘til now.”
“It’s not as difficult as it seems, son. We use hypnosis on ourselves all the time.”
Shannon’s brows raised half-mast. “How?”
“Millions awaken at the same hour every morning—without an alarm. Why? Because they program their minds the night before. Some call it an inner clock, but it’s just basic self-hypnosis. How else does a sleeping mother hit the ground running when her baby cries?”
Shannon seemed to consider that. “But isn’t this different? My God, they could have gotten me to do anything.”
Doc lifted a finger and smiled warmly. “Ah, but that’s the biggest misconception of all.” He crossed his stubby legs. “There was a case in Paris. In 1889 or ‘90, I think. The woman was sentenced to twenty years for a murder she committed under the influence of hypnosis.”
She gazed at him over the mug’s rim. “Doesn’t that prove my point?”
“No,” he said, his smile widening. “Hypnosis isn’t the free-for-all Hollywood makes it out to be. A hypnotist cannot compel you to do what’s contrary to your character. Everyone has a personal set of acceptable behaviors. For Gabrielle Bompard—the woman in Paris—it was murder.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you saying lying is part of my nature?”
“No.” I rattled her shoulder. “Doc’s not saying that at all. You’d already decided to protect your mama before they even got to you. Remember the gazebo? When I gave you the necklace? You wouldn’t even admit it then.”
“You weren’t ready for the truth,” Doc added in agreement. “You needed to believe she was the perfect mother. That’s why the sheriff’s suggestion took. You’d been so traumatized that deep down, you wanted to forget the bad things. You see, the mind won’t accept something it hasn’t already green-lighted. The sheriff and your uncle knew that, and used it to their advantage.”
“At least we know you didn’t witness the murder,” I said.
“But why did they make me forget? Why do they continue to lie about it? What are they hiding?” Shannon set her mug aside. “Dr. Rosen, can I come back? I want to do this again—as many times as it takes. I need to remember everything.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” he said around a cloud of cigar smoke. “I’ll have my assistant schedule a session for sometime next week. And, Shannon? I’d like you to consider regular therapy as well—if not with me, then with another mental health professional.”
TRACE
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She’d seemed fine when we left Doc’s. Even claimed she was fine to drive. In fact, she’d insisted on it. Said she couldn’t sit still, and getting behind the wheel would help her sort things out.
Five minutes into the trip home, I decided she was fine too. So I settled in for a nap, but was jarred awake when my shoulder slammed into the passenger-side door. The radio was blaring an annoying Christmas song about jingle bells, sleigh rides, and lovely weather.
I leveled a groggy look at Shannon while I grappled for the seatbelt strangling me.
“Go back to sleep,” she muttered. “Everything’s fine.”
The tremble in her voice said otherwise. She swerved onto the interstate’s northbound lane—to hell with turn signals and yielding. Horns blared. Epithets flew.