Deja Who (Insighter #1)(7)
“You’re just trying to bum me out.”
“No, I’m not.” Leah was honestly surprised. Chart #6116 sounded grieved, almost forlorn, which probably worked great when she wanted someone to pick up the bar tab. Or drop the charges. “This isn’t a trick, or a game. These are your lives. I’m not sure you can grasp that, because in all your lives almost everything has been a game, and the more deadly serious the better, right? But you’re not a good person now. And you weren’t then. So I don’t see how you can be in the future. What are you learning from your lives? What is the one lesson you consistently take away? To do what you like, regardless of the cost—especially when you’re never the one who has to pay.”
“You fucking bitch.”
“Sure.” She nodded. Did #6116 expect her to gasp, to cry? To insist on an apology? It wasn’t even the first time that week she’d been called a fucking bitch. “I’m not a good person anymore. Wait. Maybe not ever, maybe I’m like you that way. Just a moment.” She hit the speak/sec button that connected her to the office admin. “Deb, I used to be nice, right?”
“Oh, God no,” came the prompt reply. “You’ve never been nice. Not once.”
“Thanks, Deb.”
“Remember when I told you my grandma died, and you said me leaving early wouldn’t bring her back, and payroll wouldn’t calculate itself?”
“Thanks, Deb.”
“And when Dr. Turnman quit referring patients to you because he thought you might be one of the Horsewomen of the Apocalypse?”
“All right, Deb.”
“And remember when the guy who used to be Genghis Khan and Henry Clay Frick and J. Edgar Hoover made that chart detailing just how much of an awful human being you are? And we all got copies of the chart? And we all went to his presentation explaining the chart?”
“That’s fine, Deb.”
“And when my predecessor said you were a worse boss than the foreman of a South African diamond mine?”
“O-kay, Deb!” She smacked the disconnect button and turned back to #6116. “See? You’re right, you are entirely right: I am a bitch. But your plan to make me angry by calling me things that are true isn’t going to work. You came to me for ‘help’ and that’s what I have for you. I’m not saying these things to be mean. If I were being mean, there would be no doubt in your mind, I promise. What I am doing is pointing out that your insomnia and night terrors are from your fear of getting tracked and trapped for the murders.”
“Not that it’s even true, not that any of what you’re saying is at all true, but how would you even—”
I can see them in you. All of them.
Ideas, first, the way you make guesses about a person you’ve just met. Then ghosts, their past actions impacting the patient like pebbles dropped in a pond, only the rings never fade, never stop. And then you can see those other people, those corpses, behind their eyes.
When you came to me you showed me everything. Everything. It just took a few sessions for me to understand what I was seeing. “You’re not the only one who has trouble sleeping. And not that you care—why would you?—but my rent is late, my estranged mother keeps trying to slither back into my life, and the man who’s killed me half a dozen times is getting close again.”
The pique was shifting to pissed. “So . . . what, everybody’s got problems?”
“Some more than most. You, now. You have prison in your immediate future. That’s a sizeable problem.”
She was ready for the swing, and #6116 obliged. Leah caught the taller woman’s wrist and applied various principles, and what with one thing and another #6116 flipped over the end table and smacked into the far wall. The plainclothes detectives, who’d been waiting outside trying to look like clients, came right in.
“Would you please arrest #6116 for assault?” she asked politely. Leah was always polite to people who were in the service of the law and routinely carried weapons. Being murdered was no fun at all, and even if it was inevitable in her case, she (usually) had no interest in zooming it along. “Among other things?”
“Alice Delaney, you’re under arrest.”
“Me! That bitch should be arrested; she assaulted me! And I want her arrested for libel, too!”
“It’s not libel if it’s true,” Leah replied helpfully. “Also, I think you mean slander. Here’s something to think about: perhaps spend less time on felony assault and murder, and more time with a dictionary?”
“. . . you have the right to remain silent . . .”
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before.”
“We’re talking to Ms. Delaney,” one of the cops said pointedly.
“Oh. How embarrassing.”
“Like you know the meaning of the word! You’re just a—a psychic Peeping Tom! Fucking creepy is what you are!”
“Would this be easier on you if I pretended to be hurt?”
#6116’s answer was a furious growl and a lunge, fortunately stymied by the other detective, who was now cuffing her as quickly and carefully as she could. Insighters, Leah knew, gave people the creeps, which was a profoundly logical reaction. She didn’t blame them for wanting to vacate.
“Right, sorry. Listen, Anna—”