What Doesn't Kill You (A Suspense Collection) (7 page)

Helen thought for a few seconds and replied, “About a
year ago.”

“Did he try to prove it to you?”

“No. Honestly, I don’t really remember whether he did
or not.”

“Does Richard want you to believe that he’s right?”

“I don’t know. I’m not one of his egghead friends. I
doubt my endorsement of his theory would mean much to him.”

“I’m sure he values your opinion.”

“Maybe. To tell you the truth, I haven’t had a chance
to chat with my husband at length lately. Our schedules have been incompatible
the last few months, you see. He leaves the house while I’m still in bed, and
when he comes home, I’m already asleep.”

“Even on weekends?”

“Yes, even on weekends.”

“I see.” Stanley quickly scanned the notes he’d made
before coming to Richard’s house. “Has Richard gotten into a car accident of
any kind recently?”

“If he has, he’s never told me about it.”

“So you don’t remember him crashing his car into a wall
on a freeway in the past year?”

“No, he did not crash his car in the past year or even
ten years.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Although I’m a woman, I’m not completely clueless
about cars. I can tell a car that’s been in a crash from one that hasn’t.”

“Do you think Richard would ever hide from you the fact
that he’d been in a bad accident? To spare your feelings, for example.”

Helen shook her head. “My husband loves telling the
truth. Even if it’s cruel.”

“All right.” Stanley took a sip of water from his
glass. “What do you think could cause Richard to invent the dream theory? What
was the trigger? Did he seem depressed or disturbed in some way lately?”

“No, he didn’t seem depressed to me.”

“Would you consider institutionalizing Richard if there
ever was a need for it?”

“Am I the one who’s supposed to decide?”

“I believe so. Are Richard’s parents still alive?”

“No, they’re not. His father died four years ago, and
his mom passed away two years later.”

“Then I guess it’s going to be on you.”

“So it’s your opinion that Dick might need to be put in
a mental hospital?”

“I can’t rule it out.”

Helen smiled. “Good luck with that.”

“Why?”

“Did you forget what he said? You’re living in his
dream.”

There was no humor in Helen’s voice, and the smile was
no longer on her lips. Stanley was thinking of telling Helen that it had been a
good joke, but chose not to do it. Instead he said, “I’m sorry.” His tone
suggested that he’d misheard Helen.

“Listen, Doctor Blake. If I were you, I wouldn’t do
anything to piss off my husband.”

Now Helen sounded like one of those women who loved to
criticize and nag at their husbands but hated it when others tried to do that.

“Why? Is he dangerous?”

“You know why.”

A puzzled smile crawled onto Stanley’s face. “Helen, do
you believe that Richard could be right about all this dream stuff? You can be
completely honest with me.”

Helen gave him a long look and then replied, “I’m not
an expert in things of that nature.” She paused. “Let me ask you this. How far
back do you remember your life? Do you remember being born?”

“No, of course not. Nobody remembers that.”

“It’s a presumptuous statement, Stanley. Anyway, the
point I’m trying to make is that you don’t know for sure how you were brought
into this world.”

“Come on, Helen. You can’t be serious.”

“When was the last time you had flu?”

Stanley shrugged. “Why does it matter? I don’t get sick
a lot, what does that prove?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”

6.

Let’s try and have an open mind.

What if Richard was right? What if the whole world was
just a dream in this man’s head?

But what about his thoughts? Stanley knew he had
thoughts in his mind; the very fact that he was having this internal discussion
proved that he was engaged in mental activity.
I think, therefore I am
,
that was what Descartes had said, and he was one of the greatest philosophers
in history. Stanley thought, therefore he existed, right?

What if his thoughts were not his own but came from
Richard the Creator? How did that work, by the way? Was Richard feeding streams
of thoughts directly into his dream’s characters’ minds? Or had he set up a
list of rules that dictated what to think in any given situation, and let the
characters roam around on their own? That must be one hell of a list, but then
again Richard was a PhD.

Just imagine: everyone in this town, except Richard of
course, could be nothing more than a sophisticated version of those vacuum
robots that crisscrossed the floor, knowing exactly what to do when they bumped
into an obstacle. Well, ‘knowing’ was the wrong term. A robot was incapable of
knowing by definition. Robots were programmed. The program told them what to do
and when to do it.

But what about the fact that he was questioning the
authenticity of his thoughts? Had these doubts been planted into his mind by
Richard, too?

Why not? Richard had said he was bored.

Did all characters have an ability to think? Maybe most
of them were mindless extras filling up the background. And how many characters
were there?

Maybe he should discuss this matter with his other
patients.

Stanley broke out laughing when he realized that, if
Richard was right, all of his other patients were figments of imagination.
Perhaps he ought to stop coming to work. Or maybe he wasn’t allowed to stop
coming to his office, because he’d been programmed to be a psychiatrist. 

Later that day, as he helped Gina cook the dinner,
Stanley said to his wife, “I got a new patient a few weeks ago. He believes
that he’s dead and this world is just an afterlife dream. His dream.”

“Afterlife dream? That’s crazy,” Gina replied. “This
man is nuts.”

“He told me he knows everything there is to know in the
entire world.”

“He thinks he knows everything, huh? I’ve met a few
guys like that.”

“Well, it makes sense if he indeed created this world.
He must know it all because he’s the Maker.”

“What do you call that? Is there a term for his
condition?”

Stanley thought for a few seconds and replied, “I’d
call it megalomania.”

“I hope he doesn’t hurt anyone.”

After dinner, Stanley called his buddy Adrian Quintana,
who was a lawyer with eight years of experience, and asked for help with the
legal riddle Richard had presented him with. Adrian happily obliged.

7.

“You see, Doc, come to think of it, it’s not as crazy
as it seems,” Richard said. “As far as I know, Hinduists believe that the world
is only a dream dreamed by god Vishnu, who, by the way, sleeps on a
thousand-headed snake named Ananta. It’s a billion people, my friend. A billion
people believe that.”

Stanley scribbled a note in his pad and said, “Are you
sleeping on a snake, too?”

“I hope not. I hate snakes.”

“But you’re not a Hinduist, are you?”

“No, I’m not.” Richard looked meditatively at the tips
of his shoes. “I traveled to India the other day. I hadn’t had a chance to go
there while I was alive, so I had no real-life impressions of that place. It
turned out to be exactly what I’d expected it to be. People hanging from buses,
weird smells in the air, endless slums, rats in the streets. All my imagination
had to work off of was stereotypes, and that’s what I got—one big stereotype.”
The corners of Richard’s mouth lifted in a small smile. “I bet that if I go to
Russia, I’ll see bears on every corner and it will be snowing in the middle of
the summer.”

“You’ve never been to Russia?”

Richard shook his head. “I wasn’t much of an
international traveler. But I did make a point of visiting Australia. I just
had to see it for myself.”

“Did you tell your father about it?”

“Yes, I did. And I showed him pictures, too.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Good for you, son.’”

“Did you manage to convince him that Australia is
real?”

“I might have. I don’t want to overestimate my powers
of persuasion.”

“You were his son. He had to trust you.”

Richard made an uncertain motion with his head. Then he
asked, “Did you speak to my wife?”

“Yes. She didn’t tell you?”

“If she had, I wouldn’t have asked, would I?”

“Who knows. Your mind is a mystery to me.”

“What did she say?”

“She appears to be on your side. And before I forget,
congratulations on such a long marriage.”

“In a dream, anything is possible.”

“By the way, I have the answer to your question about a
jaywalker.”

“Oh really? Let’s hear it.”

“According to my lawyer friend, the driver might be
exempt from criminal liability under certain circumstances. It all depends on
the situation. However, he’d almost certainly be civilly liable for the loss of
life, so the jaywalker’s family could sue him even if he was cleared by the
police.”

“In other words, you don’t have a straight answer.”

“Richard, some questions don’t have a straight answer.
This is one of them.”

“All right, Doc. Honestly, I had a hunch you’d come up
with something vague and ambiguous.” He picked up his bag from the floor and
opened it. “That’s why I brought this.” Staring Stanley in the eye, Richard
produced a handgun.

Stanley felt a chill run down his spine. What had Gina
said?
I hope he doesn’t hurt anyone.
She must have second sight.

“What is it?” Stanley’s voice had suddenly become
hoarse.

“It’s a gun. I saw guns when I was alive; I know what
they look like. Unfortunately, I wasn’t an expert on pistols, so what you see
is a generic reproduction. I think I’ve done a good job. Does it look credible
to you, Doctor?”

“It looks quite credible.” Stanley licked his lips.
“Does it shoot bullets?’

“I hope so. Actually, I’m sure it does.”

“Why did you bring it here?”

“I’d like to demonstrate something to you. Take this
gun and shoot me.”

“What?”

“Shoot me.” Richard tapped himself on the forehead.
“Right here. Blow my brains out.”

“Why do you want me to do that?” Stanley swallowed a
lump in his throat.

“I’d like you to see that I can’t be killed. You don’t
die in a dream; you always come back to life.” He slowly caressed the barrel of
his gun. “It’s a great way to prove to you I’m not crazy.”

Stanley took a deep breath. “You’re telling me that I
could shoot you in the head and you’d survive?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Why can’t you simply make me believe you? I’m just a
figure in your dream, right?”

“As I said, some things are out of my direct control.
You know how complicated the human mind is.” Richard paused to think. “It’s
like pain or fear: these are the product of your mind, but you can’t turn them
off at will, can you?”

Well, to his credit, the son of a bitch always had a
plausible excuse.

“You could shoot your assistant if you don’t want to
shoot me,” Richard said. “What’s her name? Vicky?”

“Please put the gun away. No one is shooting anyone
here,” Stanley said assertively, his eyes shifting between the gun and
Richard’s serene face.

“Okay, Doc. I’m not going to push you.” Richard shoved
the gun back into his bag. “Can you do me a favor? Try to open your mind, and
look for the proof yourself. Maybe you have to find proof on your own in order
to see the truth, Doc. Perhaps that’s how it works. Is that something you can
do?”

Stanley issued a sigh of relief and said, “On one
condition. Don’t bring any weapons to my office, okay?”

“You got it, Doc.” Richard gave Stanley a wink. “Let me
give you a tip. Look for things that are there that should not be,
and things that should be there but are not.”

8.

The name of the store was Juicy Couture. There was
nothing special about it, and the only reason Stanley had targeted it was that
Juicy Couture had been the first store he’d seen when he’d gotten out of his
car.

As he gazed at the fancily dressed mannequins behind
the glass, it occurred to him that he must be under Richard’s spell. Why else
could one explain what he was about to do?

Find the proof.

Look for things that are there that
should not be, and things that should be there but are not.