Chapter Two
No matter how many times Dennis visited the office of Doctor Samuel Harding, he always managed to get lost on the way there. Allegedly, its placement in the fifteen-story building had remained unchanged during the duration of Harding’s career, but Dennis had always held the vague suspicion that it relocated when he wasn’t paying attention. Still, his confusion upon looking at the building’s directory was always replaced by a sense of amused shock when he entered the office’s waiting room. Harding had a strange habit of hanging large pictures, painted by his wife, on the far wall. Although they were purportedly of the abstract variety, the assemblages of shapes and colors always seemed to Dennis to have vaguely sexual undertones. The current piece, for example, might very well have portrayed two obese men playing leapfrog in the nude.
There was no receptionist present, which was odd for Harding, who touted an unrivaled hatred of telephones and paperwork. Also, the door leading to his personal office was closed, which only happened when Harding had a patient. Dennis checked his watch, and confirmed that this was when Harding usually took his lunch break. Although he had been warned to never knock when the door was closed, Dennis considered breaking the mandate on the possibility that Harding had merely forgotten about their weekly meeting and had dozed off on his couch. The absence of the receptionist, who Dennis knew to be both young and attractive, also brought forth suspicions of a more sinister nature. Then again, there was always the possibility that one of Harding’s sessions was simply running late, in which case a knock at the door would be an unwelcome interruption.
Not that it wouldn’t in the other case, Dennis thought. He sat down in one of the few chairs that lined the walls of the waiting room, and pretended to browse through a newspaper that had been folded on the receptionist’s desk. He thought that he could hear voices coming from behind the closed door, but it could just as easily have been the sounds of conversation from one of the offices down the hall. With a sigh, Dennis flipped through the paper until he came to the one section he ever actually read, and was disappointed, as he usually was, by the poor quality of the comics that he found there.
The sudden sound of footsteps and the click of a lock being turned called Dennis’ attention back to the office door, which opened to reveal both Harding and a man whom Dennis had never seen before. Harding was lean and fair, with a gaunt frame and a receding hairline. He was rather spry for a man in his mid-seventies, and the knowing glimmer in his pale blue eyes did quite a bit to offset his moderately frail appearance. The other man was a stark contrast, with dark skin and eyes, and a closely-trimmed mustache that was shot through with coarse gray hairs. He appeared to be in his late fifties or even older, but the way he moved showed a rippling of muscle beneath his collared shirt.
“I’ll be in touch,” the man said to Harding. He looked briefly at Dennis, who had the strange feeling that he had just been scrutinized in much greater detail than the passing glance had implied.
Once the man had left, Harding stepped forward. “Dennis, I’m glad to see you. Sorry about the delay.” He gestured back at his office, and Dennis stood to accept the invitation.
“That guy didn’t look like one of your clients.”
Harding closed the door behind them and locked the deadbolt. He didn’t answer until he had almost reached his chair, situated behind a large brown desk. Even under the man’s light weight, it creaked and groaned loudly. Dennis moved to sit opposite him, his own chair mute.
“They’re patients, Dennis, not clients.” Harding put on a pair of large glasses with thick lenses, which only intensified his grandfatherly appearance. He blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted, and then peered at Dennis with interest.
“Okay, well, he didn’t look like a patient, then,” Dennis said. Harding waved a hand as though brushing at an invisible fly, and let out a snort that was both irritated and dismissing.
“He’s nobody of importance. A retired detective with a vendetta. Don’t worry,” Harding said, cutting off Dennis’ next question, “it has nothing to do with you. You’re not doing anything illegal.”
“Actually,” replied Dennis, “I was going to ask if you were in trouble.” He smirked at the slight confusion on the other man’s face. It was true enough that Dennis had been plagued by a measure of uncertainty about his portrayal of Darvyn September. Harding had suggested it upon hearing of Dennis’ past attempts at confidence schemes, and had needed to convince Dennis of the legality of the concept. He had explained that because Dennis would be receiving no money from the people he visited, he would be well within the boundaries of the law. Whether or not that detail was true was something that Dennis had never been entirely certain about, but he went along with it nonetheless.
“No, no trouble, just a former patient of mine with an overactive imagination,” Harding explained. “She made all kinds of outrageous claims about her daughter seeing ghosts, so now the girl’s uncle – that’s the cop you saw – thinks I’m behaving inappropriately.”
“Are you?”
Harding’s mouth tightened until he seemed to realize that Dennis was joking. Then he smiled, and shook a scolding finger across the desk. “You would do well to watch your tongue, Dennis, or I just might!” He added another jerk of his fist for good measure, and then leaned to open a drawer in his desk. “Now, you have spoken to six people, two of whom have made appointments, and one who actually showed up. Sadly, I can only pay you for results, which currently nets you fifty dollars.” He placed an envelope on the desk, which Dennis reached forward to collect. Inside, he found two twenties and a ten. Hardly enough to necessitate an envelope, Dennis thought. Harding sat back and clasped his hands. “And how did your little excursion go last night?”
Dennis shook his head. “She’s not coming, sorry. Not unless you start offering a dating service for the departed.”
Harding arched a bushy eyebrow. “Really? I was under the impression that she was a sure thing. Such was what you led me to believe, anyway.” Dennis shrugged.
“She sounded desperate over the phone, but in person she didn’t seem like she’d be interested. She just wanted someone to play pretend with her.” He scratched his neck idly, mentally preparing for the explanation which Harding was certain to offer. As expected, the man began talking almost immediately.
“Those who look for reinforcement for their delusions are very often the ones who are least convinced by them. They’re not interested in shifting their beliefs, only in perpetuating the fantasy. It lends excitement to an existence which may be lacking in it.”
“Oh, she was definitely looking for excitement,” Dennis replied, remembering the lustful way in which the woman’s eyes had followed him. “Just not the kind that I wanted anything to do with.” Harding smiled with a mixture of sympathy and amusement, and nodded once.
“Well,” he said, looking around at nothing in particular, “I suppose that’s it for this week, then. Do you have any appointments scheduled?”
“They’re consultations, not appointments,” Dennis replied with a sarcastic smirk. If Harding noticed the mockery, he didn’t show it. “No, I don’t have anything, but I’ll let you know if something comes up. It’s not like I’m running short on business cards.”
“I assume you’re discreet with them,” Harding said. “It would hardly fare well for either of us if you mentioned the nature of our arrangement.”
“Don’t worry, Sam, I can hold my tongue when I need to. I’m strictly professional.”
Some internal thought flashed past Harding’s eyes, and his head tilted as though the force of its passing had pulled him off-balance. “Actually, Dennis,” Harding said, tapping his chin with a knuckle, “perhaps a different approach would work.”
“What do you mean?”
Harding smiled again, and Dennis bristled. The man was acting more like a father than a friend at this point, which left Dennis feeling uncomfortably young. “Your current method doesn’t seem to be be having much of an e
ffect lately. I’m merely suggesting a change of tactics.”
“Uh huh,” Dennis replied, a touch irritably. “What is it that you ‘suggest’ I do differently?”
Harding continued, either oblivious to Dennis’ shift in mood, or choosing to ignore it. “The next time you make an appointment, get to know the person. Spend some time with them. Don’t treat it as an appointment, but rather as a social call from a concerned friend. Though I realize you are not a psychiatrist,” he spread his hands, “you might try behaving like one.”
“That will help, will it?”
“Perhaps,” Harding said, nodding. “If you stay in close contact with me throughout the process, I’ll be able to help you determine the best time to recommend my involvement.”
“Sorry, I must have dozed off there, but it sounded like you were doubting my abilities.”
This time, Harding’s smile was much more genuine, and made the corners of his eyes wrinkle. “Alright, Dennis, I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget that you’re not here for advice. Just give it a try, though?”
Dennis rolled his eyes. “Fine. The next appointment I set up, I’ll do it your way, but only once. After that, I’m going back to my old ‘tactics,’ as you call them.”
“Excellent.” Harding gave a satisfied nod. “You know, Dennis, I got so caught up with business that I forgot to ask how you’re doing. How is the book coming along?”
“Slowly.”
Harding smiled sympathetically. “Well, keep at it.”
“Sure,” replied Dennis noncommittally. “How about you, Sam? Thinking of retirement yet?”
The question brought a warm laugh from Harding’s lips. “It’s on the table, yes. The time isn’t quite right for it, though.” He brushed at something on his glasses. “How’s Alena, by the way? Anything you need to talk about?”
Dennis held back an annoyed retort, only barely realizing in time that his friend was joking. He forced himself to calm down, and gave Harding a stern look. “Watch it, Sam. Like you said, I’m not one of your clients. Sorry, I meant patients.” Harding laughed at that, and checked the small clock on his desk.
“Well, we still have some time until my next one arrives. Would you care to join me for lunch? My treat, of course.”
Dennis shook his head apologetically. “Thanks, but not today. I promised Alena that I’d stop by her studio with some food. She’s been working pretty hard lately.” He stood to leave as Harding leaned forward with an exaggerated motion.
“And how does that make her feel?” he asked. Dennis undid the lock on the door.
“Hungry, I’d imagine.” He could hear Harding chuckle as he left the office.