Strangers

lifelong study, developed my own techniques that often succeed where standard methods fail."
        "So when it comes to hypnotism, you're a maven."
        "An expert? Yes, that's true. Even a maven's maven. But why does any of this interest you, Doctor?"
        Ginger had been sitting with her purse in her lap and her hands at rest upon it. But as she told Pablo Jackson about her attacks, she clutched the purse tighter, tighter, until her knuckles were white.
        Jackson's relaxed demeanor changed to shocked interest and concern. "You poor child. You poor, poor little thing. De mal en pis - en pis! From bad to worse - to worse! How horrible. You wait there. Don't you move." He popped up from the chair and hurried from the room.
        When he returned, he was carrying two glasses of brandy. She tried to refuse hers. "No thank you, Mr. Jackson. I don't drink much, and certainly not at this hour of the morning."
        "Call me Pablo. How much sleep did you get last night? Not much? You were up most of the night, woke up hours ago, so for you this isn't morning, it's the middle of the afternoon. And there's no reason a person can't have a drink in the afternoon, is there?"
        He settled into his chair again, and for a moment they were silent as they sipped their brandies.
        Then she said, "Pablo, I want you to hypnotize me, regress me back to the morning of November twelfth, to Bernstein's Delicatessen. I want you to hold me at that point in time and question me relentlessly until I can explain why the sight of those black gloves terrified me."
        "Impossible!" He shook his head. "No, no."
        "I can pay whatever-"
        "Money is not the issue. I don't need money." He frowned. "I'm a magician, not a physician."
        "I'm already seeing a psychiatrist, and I've broached the subject with him, but he won't do it."
        "He must have his reasons."
        "He says it's too soon for hypnotic regression therapy. He admits the technique might help me discover the cause of my attacks, but he says that might be a mistake because I might not yet be ready to face up to the truth. He says premature confrontation with the source of my anxieties might contribute to… a breakdown."
        "You see? He knows best. I would be meddling."
        "He does not know best," Ginger insisted, angered by the vivid recollection of her recent conversation with the psychiatrist, in which he had been infuriatingly condescending. "Maybe he knows what's best for most patients, but he doesn't know what's best for me. I can't go on like this. By the time Gudhausen's willing to resort to hypnosis, maybe in a year, I'll no longer be sane enough to benefit. I've got to get a grip on this problem, take control, do something."
        "But surely you see that I can't be responsible-"
        "Wait," she interrupted, putting her brandy aside. "I anticipated your reluctance." She opened her purse, withdrew a folded sheet of typing paper, and held it out to him. "Here. Please take this."
        He took the paper. Though Pablo was half a century older than she, his hands were far steadier than hers. "What is it?"
        "A signed release making it clear that I came here in desperation, exonerating you in advance for anything that goes wrong."
        He did not bother to read it. "You don't understand, dear lady. I'm not concerned about being sued. Considering my age and the snail's pace of the courts, I wouldn't live to see a judgment placed against me. But the mind is a delicate mechanism, and if something went wrong, if I led you into a breakdown, I would surely roast in Hell."
        "If you don't help me, if I've got to spend long months in therapy, uncertain of the future, I'll have a breakdown any way." Desperate, Ginger raised her voice, venting her frustration and anger. "If you send me away, leave me to the well-meaning mercy of friends, abandon me to Gudhausen, I'm finished. I swear, that'll be the end of me. I can't go on like this! If you refuse to help me, you'll still be responsible for my breakdown because you could've prevented it."
        "I'm sorry," he said.
        "Please."
        "can't."
        "You cold, black bastard," Ginger said, startled by the epithet even as she spoke it. The hurt expression on his benign and gnomish face stung and shamed her. Now it was her turn to say, "I'm sorry. So sorry." She brought her hands to her face, bent forward in her chair, and