Your Eyelids Are Growing Heavy (13 page)

“You're thinking it again, aren't you?” Gus said. “You were right about one thing, Megan. The only
sure
way to eliminate the danger is to eliminate the hypnotist. But actually doing it—well, that's something else.”

“Maybe Snooks was right after all,” she said darkly.

“Could
you kill him? Could you really?”

“You came back here tonight offering to help. Could
you?”

He didn't answer.

“As long as that man's alive,” Megan went on, “I'll be vulnerable to the word or phrase or line of poetry or whatever it is he's planted in my mind. I'll never be safe—not until he's out of the way.”

Gus stirred uncomfortably. “When you put it that way, you pretty much cut down our list of options.”

“What options? Should I let my life be ruined because of some unprincipled hypnotist who got hold of me one weekend?” Her voice dropped to a mutter. “It's him or me.”

“Megan,” Gus said, “I don't really believe you. I believe you
think
you could kill—you think so right now. But—”

She laughed harshly. “If I had him here right now, I could kill him! Look what he's already done to me—I'm sitting here in the dark talking about murder. Me, Megan Phillips! Good old got-it-all-together Megan. Thinking about murder.”

“A lot of people think about murder,” Gus said from the wisdom of his twenty-one years. “Only a few ever do anything about it.”

“It's an uncivilized solution,” she said expressionlessly. “But then, it's an uncivilized problem. What that man did to me is nothing less than barbarous. I cannot sit quietly and tolerate it. Gus, I have to do
something.”

He understood that. “Well, look. We can't do anything at all unless we know the identity of the hypnotist. Why don't I try to find him first? If I'm successful, then we can decide what we want to do.”

Megan agreed. “Yes, first things first. You know, Gus, just knowing who he is might suggest something to us.”

They both sighed in relief. It was a no-decision decision, something they both wanted. First things first.

The next day was Tuesday. The summer term had started and Gus had no classes on Tuesdays. He awoke early and got to work, not on preparing a lecture (as he should have done), but on the “Hypnotists” listings in the yellow pages.

Medical doctors and dentists who used hypnotism in their practices were not listed there, but it was a starting point. Some of the listings were simple and dignified, but others were showbiz gee-whiz stuff. Instant cures for everything. “Be the person you want to be through hypnotism,” proclaimed one ad. “Learn to use the power of your inner mind,” said another. Stop smoking, lose weight, solve all your sex problems. There was one hypnotist who advertised he'd been on the “Tonight” show.

That was the kind Gus was looking for. Megan's nemesis might turn out to be a respectable, medically trained hypnotist, but Gus thought it more likely their man was one of the razzmatazz type. He went through the listings carefully, making his own list of names and addresses.

Seventeen names. Then Gus put stars by the names of the five who'd placed the most blatant ads in the phone book. He'd start with those.

His plan was simple. He'd go in saying a friend of his had suffered a temporary memory loss, and he was wondering whether hypnosis might not bring back those lost hours. Then he'd whip out Megan's picture and watch the hypnotist's face for a reaction. A simple plan.

Perhaps too simple? Gus wasn't comfortable with it, but he couldn't think of anything else. There was also the danger that he might tip the right hypnotist off that they were on to what had happened. But it was a risk they'd have to take. He looked at the first starred name on his list. Dominic Hay.

Hay was located in one of the older office buildings in downtown Pittsburgh. Gus obeyed the door's command to enter and found himself in a small, empty anteroom. A sign said P
RESS
B
UTTON
, so he did.

He heard no ring, but a door to an inner room opened and a rather portly man appeared, sporting the kind of mustache Gus had seen only in 1940s movies. The man sized Gus up quickly and decided his problems were sexual.

“Hypnotism is a perfectly painless way of ridding ourselves of all those destructive inhibitions,” he told Gus earnestly after first announcing he was none other than Dominic Hay himself. “You'll sleep better, you'll enjoy life more. You won't be hampered by guilt feelings.”

“I'm not here for myself, Mr. Hay,” Gus said. “I've come on behalf of a friend.”

“Oh, yes?”
How many times have I heard that one
, his expression said.

“She seems to have lost a full day of her life,” Gus fudged a little. “No memory of it at all. I was wondering if hypnosis could help her remember?”

“Yes, indeed, we've had quite a lot of success in that area. You might be surprised to learn how common brief memory loss is. Only one day, you say? Yes, I feel sure I can help. I can't say how many sessions it will take, of course—but that day is buried in her mind somewhere. All we have to do is bring it out.”

Gus quickly held up Megan's picture.

Mr. Hay peered at it closely. “That your friend? Lovely. Would you like to make an appointment?”

“I have to talk to her first,” Gus said, pocketing the picture. “She didn't know I was coming here.”

“I suggest you go ahead and schedule an appointment. I may not be able to fit you in later—”

“I just wanted to find out if hypnosis could help, Mr. Hay, that's all.” Gus started backing toward the door.

“The longer you delay the less chance there is for complete recovery—”

“Yes, yes, thank you, I'll call you,” Gus said, and made his escape.

Whew
. Dominic Hay was either the world's best actor or he honestly didn't know who Megan Phillips was. Gus looked at the second starred name on his list.

At two o'clock Gus was sitting in a drugstore eating a ham sandwich. He'd checked out all five of his “stars,” and not one of them had given any indication of recognizing Megan. Four of the five had virtually promised a cure. The fifth had kept saying, “No guarantees, no guarantees!” But he'd shown an eager willingness to try and had started quoting prices at Gus.

That left twelve unstarred names. Gus picked out the ones with downtown addresses; he had only about three more hours before Pittsburgh started closing down for the day. He'd go after the others tomorrow. And if he had no luck with them, there were still the non-huckster hypnotists in the phone book.

Gus wiped the mustard off his mouth and left to get on with it.

Megan stepped out of the shower and slipped on a robe; but when she went into the bedroom, she was too lethargic to bother getting dressed. She lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

Mr. Ziegler was still being encouraging—but the board was still keeping her waiting. Then today Mr. Ziegler's secretary had tipped her that one of the branch managers was coming in for an interview. He was a man with a marketing background.

And Gus—poor Gus, out there pounding the sidewalk all day, trying to find her villainous hypnotist for her. She wondered if Gus understood his own motives. Whatever reasons he might have, that funny-looking kid downstairs was turning out to be one of the best friends she'd ever had.

The door buzzer sounded. Megan considered ignoring it, but dragged herself off the bed and went to the intercom. “Yes?”

“Snooks,” said the familiar voice. “Lemme in.”

Megan buzzed her in. After that ugliness last night, she was surprised Snooks was back. She was a little nervous as she opened the door.

“Before you say a word,” Snooks plunged in, “let me talk. I'd like you and Gus to be my guests at the Pirates game tonight. They've got a chance to sweep a four-game series with the Giants. How about it?”

Megan accepted immediately. She'd come to look on Snooks as a friend and didn't really want to be on the outs with her. “Let me slip on some clothes and we'll go down and get Gus.”

Gus, however, hemmed and hawed and tried to think of a way of getting out of it. Both women were stunned to learn he'd never seen a baseball game.

“What were you doing all during your Little League years?” Snooks demanded.

“Hiding, mostly,” Gus admitted. “Sports make my teeth hurt.”

“Gus, you live in a blue-collar, sports-worshiping town,” the psychiatrist told him. “You owe it to yourself to find out what the foofaraw is all about. No arguments. We're taking you out to the ball game.”

For some reason Megan had assumed Snooks would be a reckless driver—it seemed to go with the overeating and the smoking too much. But the older woman proved to be quite skillful behind a wheel; she got them to Three Rivers Stadium quickly and didn't even seem to be bothered by the constant muttered protest from the back seat.

There was the kind of contagious excitement at the stadium that makes people walk around grinning—unless they happen to be Gus Bilinski. “Oh, stop complaining,” Megan laughed. “Be thankful it's summer. If it were winter, you'd be here watching the Steelers.”

Gus's eyebrows shot up. “That's worse?”

“That's colder.”

They had good seats right behind the first base line; Snooks had paid one of the janitors at the clinic an outrageous price for his tickets. “A little vicarious physical activity will do us all good,” Snooks said to Megan. “Get our minds off things for a few hours. You mustn't dwell on that hypnotist, Megan. It'll distort your thinking.”

“What? Oh, him. I haven't thought of him all day.”

So she didn't want to talk about it. All right.

The two women spent the first three or four innings trying to cue Gus in on what was happening, but he kept complaining that
nothing
was happening.

“Something happened right then,” Megan said impatiently, and explained for the third time what a pitch-out was.

Gus's ignorance of the game was abysmal. When in the fifth inning a batter hit a high infield fly ball, Gus said “He's safe!”—just as the ball dropped into the shortstop's glove.

“He's out, Gus,” Snooks said. “Didn't you see the shortstop catch the ball?”

“Yes, but the batter had already reached first base by then.”

Snooks stared at him. “That doesn't have anything to do with it.”

“Oh. I thought if the batter got to first base before anybody caught the ball, he was safe.”

“No, if the ball is caught, he's out. If it's not caught, he's safe. Period. What made you think he'd be safe if he got to first before the ball came down?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Gus said vaguely. “It just seems that anybody who can hit a ball that high ought to get something out of it.”

Snooks's eyes glazed; she didn't have an answer for that one.

The psychiatrist was sitting in the middle; Megan leaned toward her and murmured, “Tell me, Doctor, do we take him along with us because he's no threat?”

Snooks grunted. “I was thinking of adopting him until I saw him at a ball game.”

They both gave up shortly after that. The two women just sat and enjoyed the game; Gus just sat and grumbled. When in the seventh inning he said “Nothing is happening!” for the hundredth time, Snooks had to restrain herself from kicking him in the shins.

Then she remembered something she'd read years ago and decided to give it one more try. “Gus, have you ever read anything by Elder Olson?”

“Sure, the drama critic. What about him?”

“He wrote a strange thing once—but true, I think. He was writing about the Greek tragic playwrights, and he said Aeschylus and baseball have a lot in common. Not much in the way of slam-bam action, but a drama built on a pattern of constantly developing situations. Like what's going on out there right now. See how the shortstop has moved over to play second? Look where the second baseman is—almost out in right field. Now look at the outfielders. They've shifted over to the right too. That means the batter coming up has a tendency to pull to the right. So they're going to give him all of the left side of the field he wants—nobody over there but the third baseman. The question is, have they figured it right? Or will this guy fool them and zing one through the hole into left? Let's see.”

They all concentrated on watching the batter, Snooks silently praying he wouldn't strike out. A ball. A strike. Another ball. Then the batter turned the fourth pitch into a hard grounder straight at the second baseman, who threw him out easily at first.

“They figured it right,” Gus said. “Now where are they all going?”

“Back to their original positions.” Snooks consulted her score-card. “The next batter is a rookie just called up from the minors and they don't know anything about him. So they're playing him straight away.”

The rookie hit the first pitch into the exact same spot as the preceding batter—only this time the second baseman wasn't there to stop it. The batter was on with a single.

Gus asked, “If they'd stayed right where they were for the last man, they would have got him?”

“They would have got him,” Snooks agreed.

“So what are they doing now? They're all crowding in close!”

“They're expecting a bunt,” Snooks said, and happily proceeded to explain.

From that point on Gus was all attention. Once he started looking for strategy instead of just watching individual players spit on the ground and pull at their crotches, he was intrigued by what was happening.

The game eventually ended, after one extra inning. Megan got separated from the other two in the stampede toward the parking lots. Gus grabbed at Snooks's arm, his eyes wide with alarm as hordes of strangers bore down on him like a fleet of tanks. “What's happening? What's going on?”