and apologized. But I wouldn't let her back in. I gave her some money and took her to a motel. I told her she could have the apartment in the morning, that she was better off without me. I would be gone by then. And I was."
"Did you treat them all like that?"
"I told you. I don't remember them all."
"What about this one? Doreen?" The pictures of Doreen were more primitive, no more than blown-up snapshots, the kind a child might take with a point and click camera. They did not belong with the rest, strictly amateur.
"No."
"She was in the mental hospital with you."
"I was never in a mental hospital, except as a visitor. You know that."
"Cole, you spent five years of your life in mental hospitals. Even you know that."
Cole turned his face to the window. "That was Nicholas."
"Stop it, Cole."
The sunlight through the blinds cast a shadow of stripes across Cole's face, a shaft of it struck his eyes making them glint steely bright. "Stop what?"
"Assigning your bad memories to Nicholas. Do you remember Doreen?"
His voice lowered a register. "No."
"She killed herself."
"I don't remember."
"You were there when it happened. You screamed through the night when it happened."
"I don't remember." He turned his attention back to Fitapaldi, the crease between his eyebrows deep and hard, but his voice was dull and emotionless, resigned, defeated. "Why are you doing this? What did I say on that tape? I killed him, didn't I? You are just trying to get proof of my insanity, aren't you? You want to drive me over the edge, don't you? It's all right. It's what I want."
Only the slight tremble of his hand as he raised it to rub his temple betrayed him. "If -- If I can't have her... If I can't have Trissa, I'd just as soon be mad, stark, raving mad. Psychiatry created this monster you see before you. It is your duty to destroy it. Or -- or send me to Duncan. He'll do the job for you. He's so damned good at it."
"Doreen. Do you remember Doreen?"
"Yes! Yes, it is our memory, Nicholas's and mine."
"They're all your memories, the memories of both in the one."
Cole closed his eyes. "She loved me. She wouldn't call it that, but it was love just the same. And I should have -- I should have known. I should have saved her. She was like an angel in the snow, a shattered angel."
"You were fifteen, Cole. How could you have known?"
"I should have."
"You've had enough for today."
Startled by the abrupt end of the interview, Cole shook his head and leaned forward. "Did I kill him?"
"I don't know."
"Play the tape."
"I don't think it is a good idea."
"Play the tape. How much worse could it be?"
"Worse."
Cole held his hand out flat in front of him, and when, after a moment's concentration, it stopped shaking, he nodded. "I'm ready for it. See? May I smoke?" Without waiting for an answer and before it could start shaking again, he plunged his hand in his pocket to search for his pack of cigarettes.
"I've never seen you smoke before."
"He smokes. Nicholas. It's his bad habit, but it sometimes gets the best of me. It's not allowed in here, is it?"
"No."
Cole twisted the pack and tossed it in the waste can. "Play it."
Fitapaldi started the tape. As it played, Cole paced the floor. When it ended, he raked his hands through his hair then shoved them in his pockets. "Thank you for your effort, Doctor. I asked for cure or destroy. I can't quibble with the outcome. It's very clear what I must do now."
"Cole, stay here tonight. The effect of the drug could last up to seventy hours. Take the time to let your head clear before you make any unalterable decisions."
"The decisions were made long ago." Cole took the tape from the machine and shoved it in his pocket.
"Cole."
"Yes."
"Do you remember Cynthia?"
"Yes." Cole slumped in the chair, his fist clenched in the center of his chest. "When we were at the cemetery, it was Trissa's face I saw in the grave, not Cynthia's. I thought it was a hallucination. Not a memory. Do we call the police and have them come for me?"
"We should work this through first. It is only a partial memory at this point. The drugs, your emotional state, even my questions, I'm afraid I botched them badly -- all these things could have influenced your thought patterns."
"You can't blame the questions when you don't like the answers,