Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

felt like everyone else had just left. Running. Her name was Crow Jane, her gaze was disturbingly direct, and she had a voice just dripping with rough, smoky sensuality. If nothing else, Douglas was pretty sure she'd get Corcoran's attention.
    "If you're going to talk to the survivor, you're going to need heavy-duty protection," Crow Jane said, very directly, even before they'd finished shaking hands. "We're not going to take any chances with this guy. I've been studying the reports. I don't think it's safe for normal minds to spend too much time in his company. Madness on this scale can be contagious. Especially when it's something new."
    "Really? How interesting," said Douglas, just to be saying something. "I'll have to depend on you, then, to keep his thoughts out of my head. I need to get some answers out of him. What do you think our chances are?"
    "Oh, we'll get answers," Crow Jane said easily. "Whether they'll mean anything, though ... Just because he believes what he's saying when he says it doesn't make it true. Or useful. The reports say he likes to talk, in fact they often have trouble stopping him. The trick is to get him to respond to what you're saying.
    And I hate to disappoint you, but there's going to be distinct limits to what I can see of his thoughts. I doubt very much that he'll be able to keep me out, but... what's in his head may make sense only to him.
    And I can't risk digging too deep, or too long. Madness is dangerous. Insanity can be very . . . seductive.
    It can suck you in. I could end up trapped inside his head, unable to get out. So if you ask me to do something, and I say no; don't push. And if I say we have to go; we go, at speed. Is that clear?"
    "I asked for a top-level telepath," said Douglas.
    "And that's what you got. Most espers wouldn't go anywhere near Donal Corcoran, and quite rightly.
    They'd probably end up with their brains dribbling out of their ears. I can protect you from him, and I should be able to peek past his defenses. Settle for that."
    "I need information from him. Things only he knows."
    Crow Jane shrugged. "He won't be able to knowingly lie to me, but I can't make him tell me what he doesn't know."
    "How about things he may have chosen to forget, because they're too painful or too frightening?" said Douglas.
    "Depends how deep he's buried them. Some traumas can be so painful, so terrible, that the victim would rather die than remember. I can push him in the right direction, but. . . I'm an esper, not a miracle worker.
    Despite what some of the tabloid media shows would have you believe."
    Douglas sighed. "It's going to be a long, hard morning, isn't it?"
    "Got that right," said Crow Jane.
    Douglas's authority and charm got them through the various levels of security at the asylum fairly quickly, until he and Crow Jane ended up in the quietly comfortable office of Corcoran's current analyst, Dr. Oisin Benjamin. It was a bright and cheerful office, with sunshine streaming through the open window. It had the usual desk and couch and book-lined walls, and everything was plush and cozy and agreeable. In fact, the only uncomfortable thing in the office was Dr. Benjamin. His handshake was weak, his smile was unsteady, and he had a slight but definite twitch in one eye. Not uncommon signs in someone who'd been exposed to Donal Corcoran on a regular basis. The doctor responded a little to Douglas's practiced charm, but Crow Jane clearly upset him. Especially when she sat cross-legged in midair rather than perch on the straight-backed visitor's chair. After that, the doctor did his best to ignore her and direct all his remarks to Douglas. They sat facing each other across Dr. Benjamin's desk, while the good doctor fiddled constantly with a lethal-looking letter opener.
    "Donal Corcoran," he said abruptly. "Yes. A very unusual man. Quite remarkable. And, so far, entirely unresponsive to every traditional form of treatment. He's not interested in therapy. Hell, after time with Donal, most of our therapists require therapy. Medication doesn't work. We've dosed him with every drug we've got and a few we imported specially, on dosages that would mellow out a Grendel, and he just laughs at us. He has a very unsettling laugh. Like he knows things we don't. Things no sane man would want to know. We've had him here for, what, ten days now? And we're still no nearer understanding what's wrong with him. Whatever he saw, or felt, out there on the Rim, your Majesty; he can't or