Personal Demons

Chapter 3

Café Neus was part of the "new millennium" rebuilding project the city counselors had gone into paroxysms of glee over a few years back. Megan hated it. All the old buildings that used to give downtown character were gone, replaced by gleaming storefronts and chi-chi restaurants that looked like a strong wind would blow them over.

But she had to admit, it certainly had made the area more popular. Megan hunted for fifteen minutes before finding a place to park her little Focus, seven blocks from her destination. By the time she entered the cool, leafy interior of the restaurant she was grumpy, her feet hurt, and she wished she could go back in time and slap herself for agreeing to do the stupid radio show at all.

Don Tremblay wasn't so bad, was he? So what if he loathed Megan as much as she disliked him, especially after she'd lost her temper a year before at a conference they'd both attended and told him she'd recommend Hannibal Lecter as a therapist before she'd recommend him? So what if he'd told at least one client to grow up and stop whining so much, then charged the client double for the session saying it was because he hated her? Could she herself honestly say she'd never been tempted to do the same? It was hypocritical of her to judge poor Don, who'd been a therapist for years, poor Don whose wife had left him three years ago, poor Don, who was ... heading right for her.

"Megan." He smiled his artificial smile and grabbed her hand in both of his. She focused all her energy into her shields as he trapped her between the fake bamboo hostess stand and his pudgy body and forced his wet lips to her cheek. "It's nice to see you. I heard your show. What a sweet little effort."

"Sweet little effort?"

"Of course." He clasped his hands together in front of his chest and grinned at her. The effect was not what she thought he intended. He looked like a mad scientist about to cut up some dead bodies and make amusing shapes with their cold innards. "When Richard Randall told me you'd agreed to do it, I thought you were both a little crazy, but after listening..." He picked up her hand again and kissed it. "Magnifique. A word of warning, though. There are some in our illustrious profession who may not take kindly to your sudden fame."

Like you, she thought, but did not say. Tremblay's eyes were cold and watchful, and he was not afraid to make a scene. She didn't want to make things worse, especially when there was a reporter somewhere in the room ready to write about her. Fame-Hungry Counselor Stabbed Backs for Radio Show was not a headline she cared to read. At least, not on a story about herself.

"Thanks for the warning. I'll keep that in mind."

"I'm always happy to help a young lady unschooled in making the right impressions." Good old Don, always ready to patronize. "In fact, seeing as how you're dining alone again, perhaps you'd care to join me and my friends?"

"I'm sorry, I can't. I'm meeting someone."

"Blind date? It's hard for a girl like you to meet people these days, isn't it?"

Some people made her want to gouge out their eyes with a grapefruit spoon. Don was one of them. With effort, she refrained. "Yes, my enormous sexual appetite tends to scare men away. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find my dinner date."

She left him standing next to the gaping hostess.

"Here's how it works." Brian Stone, reporter for Hot Spot, rummaged around in his large backpack and set a mini-recorder on the table between them. His eyes sparkled. Megan envied his enjoyment of his job. "I ask questions, you answer. It's simple, but the tricky part is not sounding self-conscious. I want this to be a good article. I'm not planning a hatchet job, don't worry. If we do it right, it turns into a conversation and we both forget the recorder. We're going to be together all week, so it's best if we get the uncomfortable part out of the way fast, okay, Dr. Chase?"

He had an easy, quick way of talking as he gave this little speech. His light brown hair was short and tidy, his smile wide and welcoming. Everything about him was designed to be reassuring and encourage confidences. Megan refused to be won over.

"I'll certainly give it a try."

"But you don't want to."

"What?"

"You don't want to be interviewed, I can tell. It's okay. I mean ... it's not okay, because it makes my job harder ... but I understand you feeling that way. A lot of people do."

"But you push them anyway."

"Don't you?" His blue eyes looked directly into hers, pinning her to her chair. She looked away.

"I don't think of it that way. They pay me to ask questions, to find out what's at the heart of their problems. Sometimes to do that you have to force people to confront things they'd rather not face."

"Is that your theory, then? That your job is forcing your patients to look into all the nasty corners of their minds?"

"They are not necessarily ‘nasty corners’ and I don't ‘force’ anyone, Mr. Stone. Nor do I think confronting the truth in order to deal with problems is theory. It's the truth. If you go to the doctor with pains in your stomach, but refuse to allow an examination, you've wasted a trip to the doctor. Same with a counselor."

She hadn't expected the interview to be fun, but she hadn't expected to react with gut-clenching rage, either. Her Coke sat on the table next to her as yet untouched salad. She wished she'd ordered something stronger.

"It's not the same, though, is it? What you don't tell a real doctor can kill you. What you—"

"Hold it right there, Mr. Stone. I may not be a medical doctor, but I earned a doctorate in Counseling Psychology. I'm a highly qualified, licensed counselor, I'm not doing this as a lark."

"I know."

"Furthermore, I—what? What do you mean, you know?"

Stone smiled. "Of course I know your qualifications. You have an excellent reputation, and it's certainly not everyone who can earn a Master's and a Doctorate in eight years. But I've gotten you to loosen up a bit. You're ready to talk now, right? More than you were earlier? And to call me Brian?"

"The only thing I'm ready to do now is dump my salad on your head."

"Please don't. It takes forever to get the dressing out."

In spite of herself, she laughed. "Okay, Brian. I admit I'm not as nervous as I was. That doesn't mean I approve of your methods."

"I can only do my best," he said, taking a bite of his own salad. "You should eat."

"Desperate to take a photo of me with spinach in my teeth?"

"No, but I will if you aren't nice to me."

Megan smiled in acknowledgment and took a sip of her Coke, scanning the restaurant over the top of her glass. Her gaze stopped on two tables at the back. At one sat Don Tremblay with Jeff Howard—one of the partners in her co-practice who'd been vocally opposed to her joining—and a woman she didn't recognize. So Tremblay was friendly with Howard. She'd never known that, but it certainly made sense.

The other table was more worrisome. As the giggling waitress stepped away from it, Greyson Dante held up his wineglass in her direction. She ignored him.

"So," Brian said, after thanking the waitress for his entree, "I'd like to be in your office by ten every morning. That way our photographer can get some good shots, and I can interview some of your patients."

"You can't interview my patients. They have a right to confidentiality."

Brian shrugged. "Some of them will probably want to keep that privacy intact but still speak anonymously. But I'm sure a few of them would love to have their picture in our magazine, so everyone knows they get to see Dr. Demon Slayer on a regular basis."

Megan almost choked on her steak. "The who?"

"The demon slayer. That's what the station specified we were to call you. Part of the theme of the show."

"Oh, god." Megan buried her face in her hands. The dull throbbing ache in her head promised to get worse as this hell continued.

"I was thinking we could get a picture of you holding a pitchfork or something. Maybe a big wooden cross? Sound good?"

She stared at him. He lifted his hands and leaned back in his seat, as if he was afraid she might start spitting on him. "Hey, only joking."

"Very funny."

"Oh, I do love jokes." Greyson Dante stood by her side.

"Hello, Mr. Dante. I'm afraid this is a private conversation, so you will, of course, be going now."

His grin widened. Was there no way to insult the man? "Why, Dr. Chase, if I didn't know better I'd think you didn't want to see me."

"What makes you think you know better?"

"I always do."

Brian looked from one of them to the other. "Don't you want to introduce me to your friend, Megan?"

Dante still stood there smiling, his wineglass in one hand, looking like Cary Grant on a luxurious cruise. She hadn't been wrong in her first moonlight impression; he really was handsome, with dark hair and eyes and smooth, lightly tanned skin. She'd always liked dark-haired men, probably to contrast with her own blond paleness. Megan often thought she looked like a ghost. A dark man seemed to anchor her to earth, somehow, or perhaps it was just her obsessive childhood crush on Burt Reynolds.

Before she could disavow friendship with Dante and say no, Mr. Tall Dark Handsome and Annoying was shaking hands with the reporter.

"Dante. Greyson Dante."

Brian smiled. "Mr. Dante, then. Sit down. I'd love to talk to some of Megan's friends. Get some more personal information, you know?"

"I'd be glad to share what I know." Greyson grabbed an empty chair from a nearby table—without asking the table's occupants, Megan noticed—and pulled it to theirs.

"Which isn't much," she said under her breath.

Brian glanced at her. "What?"

Dante grinned. Megan wanted to stab him in the hand with her fork. Of course he was grinning. She couldn't say anything to him. She couldn't yell, or claim he was a crazy stranger, or be nasty to him. Brian was a reporter, a man with the power to make or break her reputation. Radio Counselor Can't Remember Names of Casual One-Night Stands ... Power-Mad Radio Host Turns Her Back On Friends Now That She's a Success ... Fame Drives Radio Counselor Insane...

"And how do you two know each other?" Brian was either trying to figure out what was wrong between them or, innocently unaware, was just trying to make conversation. Megan hoped it was the latter. She opened her mouth to speak, but Greyson got there first.

"I'm a counselor, too. From out of state. We met at a conference last year."

Megan would have bet her car that the closest Greyson ever came to counseling was recommending it for his clients in the hopes they would get larger damages in court.

If he was a lawyer. Which she had to admit she wasn't certain about. It was just a feeling she had, but without being able to read him she couldn't be sure.

"Our methods are very different," Megan started, but Dante cut her off.

"But we both love helping people. I think ‘help’ is Dr. Chase's favorite word."

"And what's yours? ‘Malpractice'?"

"Oh, no." He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. "Sin is my favorite word, Dr. Chase. Sin."

His eyes caught hers, held. She leaned forward before she realized she was doing it, and sat back so quickly she knocked her knife onto the floor.

Dante tsked and picked it up, nodding to his pet waitress, who leapt to their table as if they were the only customers in the restaurant. Megan calmed herself and started studying the room, trying to avoid even looking at him.

Perhaps it was fallout from earlier, but the steak that had looked appetizing now made her throat close, and she made no move to use her new knife. She thought if someone made a loud noise she would jump right out of her skin, and it wasn't just the tension of the last day or so catching up with her.

The men continued chatting, unaware of her lapse into silence. "Oh, Megan is highly respected," Dante said. "She's a real counselor's counselor."

A counselor's counselor? Where was he getting that shit?

Trying to soothe her churning stomach, Megan reached for her Coke and took a long swallow.

Something hovered in the air over the right shoulder of the woman at the next table.

The shadowy form lacked definition but as Megan watched she caught a flash of what looked like dark green before the color disappeared. The shadow stayed, rippling at the edges but hovering in place.

The woman didn't notice, but Megan stared transfixed. Blurry edges of darkness reached out and passed over the woman's face, then slipped back into the semi-solid mass.

The image made her gorge rise, but she kept staring, unable to move or blink. If she looked away, would it disappear? Or would it move, leaping to one of the other diners, as if trying to gain entry to someone's body? It felt so wrong, so ... evil. Her skin prickled and itched.

While the woman laughed and ate her food, the blurry form twisted and darted around, staying in the same space but writhing as if trying to burst through some kind of membrane.

Megan's stomach gave up the battle. She leapt from her chair, knocking it over in the process, and ran for the ladies’ room. She barely made it in time.

"I'll walk you to your car, if you won't let me call a cab." Dante faked concern pretty well.

"I'd rather walk." She was tempted to tell him she didn't need his company, but it was after dark in the city and she wasn't stupid. Why walk alone when she could have a man she trusted—okay, a man she was fairly certain wouldn't attack her—to walk with her?

"What exactly do you want, Mr. Dante?"

"Call me Grey." His footsteps fell in time with hers as they passed groups of revelers still out, most of whom looked like professional partiers. Megan, with her pallid face and businesslike suit, felt out of place, a grandma trying to hang out with teenagers. Which was ridiculous. At thirty-one she was still in the age range the stores and clubs catered to, but she didn't think she could ever go to them. It simply wasn't her scene, aside from how difficult it was to keep her shields tightly closed after spending hours in a hot room and having a few drinks.

"Megan?"

"What?"

"What happened back there in the restaurant?"

"What do you mean?"

"Before you ran off, you were staring at a woman behind me. I got the feeling something about her disturbed you."

Megan forced herself not to gag. She didn't even want to think about what she'd seen, that squirming mass, the sense of malevolence radiating from it. She certainly wouldn't discuss it with Greyson.

"I wasn't feeling well, that's all. I've been feeling off all day."

"Before you went to the hospital?"

"Yes, I—" She stopped short and swung to face him. "How the hell do you know that? Are you following me? Who the hell are you, anyway?"

Greyson raised his hands and stepped back. "Hey, hold on. It's not necessarily—"

"Don't tell me what it necessarily is or isn't. You tell me how you know all this about me. Who are you, Mr. Dante, and what do you want from me?"

If she'd hoped to disarm him, it didn't work. His face went carefully blank and he put his hands back in his pockets. "I just want you to listen to my—client's offer. That's all."

"Why are you following me? And you're either a moron, or you've been going out of your way to let me know you're following me. Why? What are you up to?"

"I want to help you."

"Help me what?"

"Sudden fame can be very difficult. You could attract some ... unwanted elements."

"Stop lying to me!"

"I'm not lying. Stalkers—"

"Stalkers? Like, for example, you?"

"I'm not a stalker."

"Oh? Let's see. What does a stalker do? Follows someone around, tries to insinuate his or her way into the target's life, maybe drops some vague hints and threats along the way? Sound familiar? Are you going to start telling the press you're my secret husband next?"

His face darkened. "Megan, if you would just listen—"

"Fuck you." She turned and started walking away. "Leave me alone, Mr. Dante," she called over her shoulder. "You might be a lawyer, but that doesn't mean I can't still have you arrested."

"I never said I was a lawyer," he called after her.

Don't take the bait, don't take the bait, don't take the bait...

She turned around when she reached the end of the block. He was gone.

A big red blinking "2" on her answering machine welcomed her home. Someone wanted to sell her aluminum siding, she guessed, and perhaps the other call would be a hang-up for variety. She'd been getting a few of those lately.

Hearing Brian Stone's voice checking her well-being made her smile. Brian wasn't as bad as she'd thought. At least he didn't wear a fedora with a press card tucked in the band or talk out the side of his mouth or try to bribe people for information about her. At least she assumed he wouldn't.

The second message erased the smile. Kevin Walford's voice quavered out of the machine. "Um, Dr. Chase, I hope it's okay for me to call you at home, I mean, I'm sorry if it bothers you, but I wanted to thank you for earlier? For taking me to the hospital and all? I was hoping you could meet me there tomorrow, well, I was hoping maybe you'd meet me at Fearbusters, and Mr. Art said he'd talked to you about coming there anyway, and we thought maybe you would come down tomorrow because I wanted to thank you in person." He finally took a breath. "So, um, call me if you can, or call Mr. Art, okay? And thank you." He finished by reciting his phone number three times.

"Mr. Art" must be Art Bellingham. Why did that man want her to meet his group so badly? For a second she imagined he wanted her to lend her newfound fame to the program, but she managed to stop herself before the thought fully formed. It was only a little Sunday-night radio show in a mediocre radio market. So why was it suddenly so important for her to get to Fearbusters?

She'd left Bellingham's card on a little bronze tray on a table near the front door with her mail. The cheap paper stock felt slick and flimsy in her fingers, which reminded her of Dante's elegant, obviously expensive card. She fished that one out too.

Two men, each with some hidden agenda, each of whom seemed to want her to do something for them.

Either she was suddenly the most popular girl in town, or something was going on. Tomorrow she'd start finding out exactly what.