Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, April 1

He could feel Dr. Gwen Patterson staring at him while he stabbed at her furniture with his white cane, fumbling for a place to sit down. Nice stuff. The office even smelled expensive, fine leather and polished wood. But why would he expect anything less? She was a classy woman; sophisticated, cultured, wise and talented. Finally, a challenge to up the ante, so to speak.

He swiped his hand across her desktop, but there wasn’t much to disturb—a phone, a Roledex, several legal pads and a daily calendar, flipped open to Wednesday, April 1. Only now did it occur to him that it was April Fools’ Day. How ironically appropriate. He resisted the urge to smile, instead turning again and bumping into a credenza, barely missing an antique vase. The window above the credenza looked out over the Potomac River. In its reflection, he watched her grimace at his bold and reckless fumblings.

“The sofa is just to your left,” she finally instructed, but stayed seated behind her desk. Though her voice sounded tight, restraining her impatience, she wouldn’t embarrass him by coming to his rescue. Excellent. She had passed his first test.

He put his hand out and patted down the soft leather, feeling for the arm, and carefully sitting himself down.

“Would you like something to drink before we get started?”

“No,” he snapped, being unnecessarily rude. Invalids could get away with shit like that. It was one of the few advantages he could look forward to. Then, to let her know he wasn’t such a bad guy, he politely added, “I’d rather we just get started.”

He set the cane by his side where he could find it easily. He bunched up his leather jacket and laid it in his lap. The room was dark, the blinds half-closed, and he wondered why she had bothered. He adjusted his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. The lenses were extra dark so that no one could see his eyes. So that no one could catch him watching. It was a lovely twist to voyeurism. Everyone thought they were being the voyeurs, safe in staring at him, watching him, pitying him. No one seemed to question whether or not a blind guy could actually see. After all, why in the world would someone fake something like that?

Except that, ironically, the lie might be coming true. The drugs weren’t working, and he couldn’t deny that his eyesight was getting worse. He had lucked out so many times before, was his number finally up? No, he didn’t believe in such a stupid thing as fate. So what if he needed a little extra help these days, a prop or two, or some assistance from an old friend to bring a little excitement into his life. Wasn’t that what friends were for?

He cocked his head to one side, waiting, pretending to need to hear her before he could turn in her direction. In the meantime, he watched her. Through the dark lenses in the dark room, he found himself squinting. She was still staring at him, sitting back in her chair, looking comfortable and in control.

She stood and reached for her suit jacket on the back of her chair, but stopped, glanced over at him and left the jacket there. Then she came around to the front of the desk, leaning against the pristine top and standing directly in front of him. She looked soft and fragile, curves in all the right places, tight skin and few wrinkles for a woman in her late forties. She wore her strawberry-blond hair loose, letting it brush her jawline in delicate wisps. He wondered if it was her natural color, and he caught himself smiling. Maybe he would need to find out for himself.

He leaned back into the sofa, waiting, sniffing in her fragrance. God, she smelled good, though he couldn’t name the fragrance. Usually he could narrow it down, but this scent was new. Her red silk blouse was thin enough to reveal small, round breasts and the slight pucker of nipples. He was glad she thought she didn’t need the jacket. He tucked his hands into his lap, making sure his folded jacket covered the swelling bulge, pleased that his new diet of porn movies seemed to be helping his temporary lapses.

“As with all my patients, Mr. Harding,” she said finally, “I’d like to know what your goals are. What you hope to accomplish in our sessions?”

He held back a smile. She was already accomplishing one of his goals. He tilted his head toward her and continued to stare at her breasts. Even if she could see his eyes, people accepted, they expected his eyes to be looking anywhere but in their own eyes.

“I’m not sure I understand the question.” He had learned it was good to make women explain. It allowed them to feel in control, and he wanted her to believe she was in control.

“You told me on the phone,” she began carefully as though measuring her words, “that you had some sexual issues you wanted to work on.” She neither emphasized nor hesitated over the phrase “sexual issues.” That was good, very good. “In order for me to help you, I need to know, more specifically, what you expect from me. What you’d like to see come out of these sessions.”

It was time to see how easily she could be shocked.

“It really is quite simple. I want to be able to enjoy fucking a woman again.”

She blinked and her light complexion flushed slightly, but she didn’t move. It was a bit of a letdown. Maybe he should go ahead and add that he wanted to enjoy fucking a woman without wanting to fuck her to death. His new habit really wasn’t much different than many of those in the animal and insect world. Perhaps he should compare his sexual habits to those of the female praying mantis who bites off her mate’s head just as he is beginning to copulate.

Would she understand that the orgasm, the erotic surge was incredibly powerful when it included pain? Should he confess that seeing his women smeared in blood and screaming for mercy made him come in an orgasmic explosion like none he could achieve otherwise? Could she understand that this hideous thing inside threatened to take away the foundation of his being, his last primal instinct?

But no, he wouldn’t share any of this with her—that would probably be a bit much. That was something Albert Stucky would do or say, and he needed to resist the urge to stoop to his old friend’s level.

“Can you do that, Doc?” he asked, sticking his chin out and up as though he was listening for her movement, for her reaction.

“I can certainly try.”

He looked over her shoulder, his body slightly turned to the side, despite her standing in front of him.

“You’re blushing,” he said, and allowed a curt smile.

The color in her cheeks deepened. Her hand went to her neck in the useless attempt to stop the blush.

“What makes you say that?”

Would she deny it? Would she disappoint him this soon and lie?

“I’m guessing,” he said, letting his voice be soft and soothing, encouraging her to confide in him, hoping to gain access to her own vulnerabilities. If he was to accomplish his ultimate goal, he would need Dr. Gwen Patterson not to feel threatened. The good doctor had a reputation for delving into some of the most famous and devious of criminal minds. He wondered what she would think if she knew she was to be the guinea pig this time.

“Let me just say, I’ve been a psychologist quite a while.” She tried to explain her reaction away casually, but he noticed the color remained in her cheeks. “I’ve heard many shocking things, much more so than your problem. You needn’t worry about embarrassing me, Mr. Harding.”

Okay, so she chose to play it safe and cool, refusing him access to her inner self. The idea of this excited him nevertheless. He did so enjoy a challenge.

“Perhaps,” she continued, “we should start by you telling me why you no longer enjoy sex.”

“Isn’t that obvious?” He used the tone he had perfected. The one that sounded angry, offended, yet sad enough to invoke the right amount of pity. It usually worked.

“Of course it’s not obvious.”

He let one of his hands stray under the pile of leather. She was making this so easy. Playing right into his hands, so to speak. He cupped a palm over his erection.

“If you’re thinking your—” she hesitated “—your handicap—”

“It’s okay. You can call it what it is. I’m blind. I don’t mind anyone saying the word.”

“Okay, but your blindness certainly should not mean a loss of libido.”

He liked the way she said “libido.” Though her lips were thin and her mouth small, he liked the shape. He enjoyed watching the upper lip curl a bit at the corner. He detected a slight accent, but he couldn’t place it—maybe upper New York? It made him anxious to hear her say “penis” and “fellatio,” and he wondered how her lips would curl around those words.

“Is that what you’re saying, Mr. Harding?” she interrupted his thoughts.

“That somehow your loss of sight has rendered you incapable of performing?”

“Men are highly visual creatures, especially when it comes to being sexually aroused.”

“Very true,” she said as she reached behind her and grabbed a file folder, his folder, his case history. “When did you begin losing your eyesight?”

“About four years ago. Do we have to talk about that?”

She looked up at him over the open file. She had shifted to the other end of the desk, but he kept his gaze on the spot where she had been.

“If it will help us deal with your current problem, then yes, I do think we should talk about it.”

He liked her decisive manner, her direct tone. She wouldn’t be pussyfooting around him. What a wonderful word—pussyfooting. He rubbed his hidden hand against his bulge.

“Do you have an objection to that, Mr. Harding? You certainly don’t appear to be a man who runs away from a challenge.”

He hesitated only because he didn’t want to interrupt the sensation. It was okay. She’d think he simply needed a moment to think about it.

“I have no objection,” he said, having some difficulty containing a smile. No, anyone who knew Walker Harding would never accuse him of running away from anything. But if he was to accept his new challenge, he’d need to depend on the master criminal mind that Dr. Patterson yet had the pleasure of examining. Yes, despite playing this new role, he would still need to depend on the genius of his old friend, Albert Stucky.