The Girls He Adored: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

his manacled hands were badly scarred. When he caught her looking at his hands, he started to clench them into fists, then changed his mind and opened them for her, palms up. She managed not to wince. His fingertips were bony, nearly skeletal—she could make out the shallow hourglass shape of the distal phalanges beneath the shiny scar tissue, and there were livid white patches of unlined skin stretched tightly across his palms.
    “What happened?” she asked him.
    “I had the bright idea I could put out a fire with my bare hands.”
    “Those are grafts?”
    “From the buttocks.” He laughed bitterly. “I suppose I should be grateful I don't have a hairy ass.”
    “How old were you?”
    “Old enough to know better.”
    “It must have been terribly painful.”
    “The pain was welcome.”
    “Oh?”
    “Guilt, you know. Burns hotter than fire.” Then, seeing Irene's eager expression: “And that's all I have to say on that subject.” He took the pencil in his left hand. “Ready when you are, Doctor.”
    “All right. . . . Begin.”
    Irene checked her watch and made a note of the time—1:04 P.M. She also noted another eye roll and flutter—apparently one of the other alters was going to take the test. Or at least that was what he wanted her to think.
    She'd brought along several journals to read, under the assumption that the MMPI would take at least two hours, but she'd scarcely finished the latest edition of the American Journal of Psychiatry when the prisoner announced that he was done.
    Again Irene checked the time—2:02—and shook her head disbelievingly. “You do understand that if you answered randomly, it'll show up on the results.”
    “The F scale, I believe.” He grinned proudly. “Give me another one.”
    “Beg pardon?”
    “Let me take another MMPI—did you bring another?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Let me do it again.”
    “But why?”
    He leaned forward; the deputy, seated behind and to the side of the prisoner, half rose from his chair.
    “You'll find out,” whispered the prisoner. Then, in case she hadn't made the connection, he whispered the words again. “You'll . . . find . . . out.”
    As in: That's for me to know and you to find out. Irene reached into her suitcase and brought out another answer sheet.
    The prisoner finished the second MMPI in just over an hour. He had again switched alters both before and after the test, but kepthis head down diligently during it, so Irene couldn't read him.
    “How long will it take you to get the results back?” he asked, as the deputy once again fastened the prisoner's wrists to the chain around his waist, then left the room carrying his folding chair.
    “Back?”
    “Yes, back. You do send them out, don't you? To get them scored? Or do you do them yourself?”
    Irene sidestepped the question. “Why do you ask?”
    “Just wondering how long until our next session.”
    “At this point, I can't even tell you whether there'll be a next session. I may not need to see you again to perform my evaluation—it depends in large part on the test results.”
    “I'm not worried about that,” he replied confidently. “Once you get the results back, you'll want to interview me again—I guarantee it.”
    “Oh? And why is that?”
    “Because you've never seen anything like me.”
    “In that case,” said Irene, “I'll be sure to pay particular attention.”
    “I'll be sure to pay par-tic-u-lar atten-shee-un.” Again, the devastatingly accurate imitation, this time with a petulant twist. Then, in his own voice: “Don't patronize me, Dr. Cogan. I haven't done anything to deserve that tone from you.”
    “You're right, and I apologize,” said Irene promptly. “I'll be evaluating the tests tonight—if I need a follow-up interview, it'll probably be within a day or two.”
    “I'll be looking forward to it,” said the prisoner.
    For the first time that day, Irene turned her back to him as she lifted the receiver of the black telephone on the