Hideaway

Hatch. The tests all came in negative. You've got a clean bill of health.”
    Those words were not as welcome as they ought to have been. Hatch had been hoping for some finding that would point the way to an understanding of his nightmares and his mystical connection with the man who had killed the blond punker. But the verdict did not in the least surprise him. He had suspected that the answers he sought were not going to be that easy to find.
    “So your nightmares are only that,” Nyebern said, “and nothing more—just nightmares.”
    Hatch had not told him about the vision of the gunshot blonde who had later been found dead, for real, on the freeway. As he had made clear to Lindsey, he was not going to set himself up to become a headline again, at least not unless he saw enough of the killer to identify him to the police, more than he'd glimpsed in the mirror last night, in which case he would have no choice but to face the media spotlight.
    “No cranial pressure,” Nyebern said, “no chemicoelectrical imbalance, no sign of a shift in the location of the pineal gland—which can sometimes lead to severe nightmares and even waking hallucinations …” He went over the tests one by one, methodical as usual.
    As he listened, Hatch realized that he always remembered the physician as being older than he actually was. Jonas Nyebern had a grayness about him, and a gravity, that left the impression of advanced age. Tall and lanky, he hunched his shoulders and stooped slightly to de-emphasize his height, resulting in a posture more like that of an elderly man than of someone his true age, which was fifty. At times there was about him, as well, an air of sadness, as if he had known great tragedy.
    When he finished going over the tests, Nyebern looked up and smiled again. It was a warm smile, but that air of sadness clung to him in spite of it. “The problem isn't physical, Hatch.”
    “Is it possible you could have missed something?”
    “Possible, I suppose, but very unlikely. We—”
    “An extremely minor piece of brain damage, a few hundred cells, might not show up on your tests yet have a serious effect.”
    “As I said, very unlikely. I think we can safely assume that this is strictly an emotional problem, a perfectly understandable consequence of the trauma you've been through. Let's try a little standard therapy.”
    “Psychotherapy?”
    “Do you have a problem with that?”
    “No.”
    Except, Hatch thought, it won't work. This isn't an emotional problem. This is real.
    “I know a good man, first-rate, you'll like him,” Nyebern said, taking a pen from the breast pocket of his white smock and writing the name of the psychotherapist on the blank top sheet of a prescription pad. “I'll discuss your case with him and tell him you'll be calling. Is that all right?”
    “Yeah. Sure. That's fine.”
    He wished he could tell Nyebern the whole story. But then he would definitely sound as if he needed therapy. Reluctantly he faced the realization that neither a medical doctor nor a psychotherapist could help him. His ailment was too strange to respond to standard treatments of any kind. Maybe what he needed was a witch doctor. Or an exorcist. He did almost feel as if the black-clad killer in sunglasses was a demon testing his defenses to determine whether to attempt possessing him.
    They chatted a couple of minutes about things non-medical.
    Then as Hatch was getting up to go, he pointed to the painting of the Ascension. “Beautiful piece.”
    “Thank you. It is exceptional, isn't it?”
    “Italian.”
    “That's right.”
    “Early eighteenth century?”
    “Right again,” Nyebern said. “You know religious art?”
    “Not all that well. But I think the whole collection is Italian from the same period.”
    “That it is. Another piece, maybe two, and I'll call it complete.”
    “Odd to see it here,” Hatch said, stepping closer to the painting beside the eye chart.
    “Yes, I know what you mean,” Nybern said, “but I don't have enough wall space for all this at home. There, I'm putting together a collection of modern religious art.”
    “Is there any?”
    “Not much. Religious subject matter isn't fashionable these days among the really talented artists. The bulk of it is done by hacks. But here and there … someone with genuine talent is seeking enlightenment along the old paths, painting these subjects with a contemporary eye. I'll move the modern collection here when I finish this one and