The Key to Midnight

inclination of his head and a rounding of his shoulders, not with any disrespect but with a sense that he understood the need for the old traditions while being personally somewhat above them, Dr. Omi Inamura welcomed Joanna and Alex into his inner office. He was in his early fifties, an inch shorter than Joanna, with slightly crinkled, papery skin and brown eyes as warm as his quick smile. In black slacks, suspenders, white shirt, baggy gray cardigan, and half-lens reading glasses, he seemed more like a literature professor than a psychiatrist.
        The inner office, where Inamura treated his patients, was reassuringly cozy. One wall featured floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books, and another was covered by a tapestry depicting a wooded mountainside, a foaming waterfall, and a river where accordion-sail boats were running with the wind toward a small village just below the cataracts. Instead of a traditional analyst's couch, four dark-green armchairs were arranged around a low coffee table. The pine-slat blinds closed out the ashen daylight, and the electric lighting was indirect, soft, relaxing. A sweet, elusive fragrance threaded the air: perhaps lemon incense.
        In one corner, a large birdcage hung from a brass stand. On a perch in the cage was a coal-black myna with eyes that were simultaneously bright and dark, like little drops of oil glistening in moonlight. From Mariko, they had learned that its name was Freud.
        They sat in the armchairs, and Alex told Omi Inamura about Lisa Chelgrin's inexplicable metamorphosis into Joanna Rand. Mariko had prepared her uncle to expect a strange case, so the doctor was neither greatly surprised nor disbelieving. He was even cautiously optimistic about the chances of conducting a successful program of hypnotic regression therapy.
        'However,' Omi Inamura said, 'ordinarily, I wouldn't employ hypnosis until I'd done extensive groundwork with you, Miss Rand. I find that it's always wise to begin with certain standard tests, a series of casual conversations, another series of investigative dialogues. I progress slowly, and I thoroughly explore the patient's problems until trust has been established. Then I use hypnosis only if it is indicated. This takes time. Weeks. Months.'
        'I appreciate your concern for the patient,' Joanna said, 'but we don't have months. Or even weeks.'
        Alex said, 'What these people did to Wayne Kennedy was meant to be a warning. They'll give us a day or two to learn from it. When they see we aren't scared off, they'll try something… more violent.'
        The doctor frowned, still unconvinced that standard procedure should be set aside under even these circumstances.
         'Isha-san,' Joanna said, 'all your other patients suffer from neuroses that they developed subtly and unconsciously over a period of many years. Am I correct?'
        'Not entirely. Essentially - yes.'
        'But, you see, everything that I suffer from was implanted in me twelve years ago, in that room in my nightmare, by the man with the mechanical hand. With your other patients, of course, you must do a lot of groundwork to discover the sources of their illnesses. But in my case, we know the source. We just don't know why or who. So couldn't you just this once set aside your customary procedures?'
        Alex was impressed by the vigor with which Joanna made her argument. He knew that she dreaded what she might discover when she was regressed, but she was not afraid to make that journey.
        Omi Inamura was careful and conscientious. For a quarter of an hour they discussed the situation, studied it from various points of view, before he finally agreed to begin the regression therapy.
        'But you must realize,' he said, 'that we very likely won't finish today. Indeed, it would be amazing if we did.'
        'How long?' Joanna asked.
        The doctor shook his head. 'I can't say. Therapy creates its own pace, which is different for each patient. But I understand how urgent this is, and I'll see you for at least an hour or two every day until we've learned what you need to know.'
        'That's kind of you, Isha-san, but I don't want you to interfere with your regularly scheduled appointments just because I'm a friend of Mariko's.'
        Dr. Inamura waved one slender hand dismissively and insisted that she was not causing him any trouble. 'In Japan a psychiatrist is in somewhat the same position as that