"Gimme a box!" Walter cheerily requested.

The shop keeper hefted the shotgun. "Yes sir, say a sc.u.m-bag breaks into your place, you drop hammer on him with this-loaded with pumpkin-b.a.l.l.s?"

"Yeah?" Walter asked.

"One round in the head and he won't have a head."

"I'll take it!" Walter cheerfully announced.

And here he was now, in his dorm room, at midnight, holding the self-same shotgun that the nice man in Tampa had sold him. Was he having some last-minute doubts? Walter wasn't sure. He was sure he didn't want to live any more, so at least he was sure of something. An inept geek? In love with a girl he had nothing in common with? A girl who would never love him? What would he have to look forward to if he chose to stay alive? It didn't matter how smart he was, or how much money he would one day make in the private sector. Without Candice, he would never be happy.

It was time to make up his mind ...

The annoying song on the radio beat on: "This is what you want, this is what you get..."

Walter picked up the framed picture of Candice and looked at it- "-this is what you want-"

Then he looked at the shotgun- "-this is what you get-"

That said it all.

Walter sat back down with the gun. He jacked a round. He turned off the safety by pushing the pin from left to right through the housing behind the trigger. He placed the end of the barrel against his forehead, leaned over, and put his thumb against the trigger.

"-this is what you want-"

I love you, Candice...

"-this is what you get-"

BAM!.

Chapter Seven.

(I).

Ca.s.sie brushed strands of lemon hair off her forehead. She felt agitated but mostly uncomfortable, squirmy in the hard chair opposite R.J.'s office desk. His Notre Dame hat was pulled lower over his eyes, which gave him a stern cast.

"You know what you look like?" he finally said, arms crossed behind the desk.

"Like a crazy whacked-out Goth chick sitting in a psych ward?"

"No, like a mousy little girl sitting in the princ.i.p.al's office because she was bad at school."

She wished it were that simple. Take a note home to her parents and get grounded for a week. What could she say?

R.J. sighed now, leaning over the blotter on his desk. "All right. Why beat around the bush? I'll just ask and you can answer. Why did you break all the lights in the shower room?"

"I can't tell you."

"I'm your doctor. Why can't you tell me?"

" 'Cos you wouldn't believe it. You'd think I was crazy and put me on meds."

"Ca.s.sie, I might put you on meds anyway, given that outburst. Now why did you do it?"

"I ... have a fear of fluorescent lights?"

"Funny. You scared Sadie half to death. She thought you were in there killing yourself."

"Don't worry, I won't kill myself," Ca.s.sie said, "at least not before the next Rob Zombie tour."

R.J. maintained the stern gaze.

"Jeez, it's a joke!" Ca.s.sie complained. "Can't anyone in this place take a joke?"

"It's no place for joking. We don't know what's wrong with you, Ca.s.sie, and that puts us in a very precarious situation. Your father's executors are paying us a lot of money to see to your well-being and to keep you away from the state prosecutor's office while they prepare for your trial."

"The trial doesn't mean squat. There's no evidence."

"No, there isn't, and so far your tests and your behavior have indicated a stable, social person who isn't capable of arson and murder. That's what I've been putting in your psychiatric profile. But you tell me. What am I supposed to think now? What am I supposed to put in the remarks column of your daily report today? After what you did in the shower room, how can I possibly continue to claim that there's nothing wrong with you?"

"Maybe there is nothing wrong with me."

R.J. opened his hands in a clear frustration. "Then help me out here. Why did you trash the shower room?"

For the briefest moment, she considered actually telling him; she considered saying, An Umbra-Specter was torturing my guardian angel, so I broke all the lights because I thought less light would decrease the Specter's power. The reason she was being tortured is because she was divulging forbidden information to me, and whenever she does that, she gets punished.

Instead, she lied: "I freaked out. I have weird dreams that freak me out and sometimes I get too high-strung. Plus I'm having my period. Plus, I'm a real b.i.t.c.h in the morning before I have my coffee."

R.J. betrayed a smile. "Really? You're not B.S.-ing me?"

"Nope."

"That was quite an outburst."

"Sure. You ever had one? Ever had a day when nothing's going right and you just want to bust stuff?"

"Yeah, everybody has days like that."

"It's normal, right?"

"Yes, I suppose it is, to an extent. You get mad, you get road rage in rush-hour, stuff like that, and sometimes, yeah, you just want to snap and bust stuff. You want to, but you don't actually do it."

"Hey, until you have PMS like I do, I don't think you can make a judgement like that."

Another smile. "Your point is taken. Sadie said she heard you talking to someone? Who? Are you hearing voices?"

"Just yours."

"So Sadie was lying?"

"I talk to myself sometimes! Big deal!" she almost shouted. "You want to pump me up with Thorazine and straitjacket me 'cos I got a case of PMS and I talk to myself?"

R.J. laxed back in his chair, pushed the visor of his hat up a little. "Finally! We're communicating. So let me ask you something else. A minute ago you said you're still having bad dreams. Are they dreams about your sister's suicide?"

"No, those stopped a while ago. Just nightmares."

"About what?"

"About h.e.l.l."

"You mean the place you talk about during your polygraphs and narco-a.n.a.lysis? This big city, in h.e.l.l. The Mephistopolis."

"Yeah. They're just dreams, screwed up dreams. Me being an Etheress and all that."

"So now you're telling me that you're not really an Etheress, that was just a dream?"

"Yeah. Take some of that-what is it? Sodium-"

"The hypnotic? Sodium amitol?"

"Yeah, take some of that stuff yourself, doc. See if it doesn't put a little bit of a whack on you. See if you don't spout some wild s.h.i.t with an armful of that. I have weird dreams to begin with and that stuff makes them weirder, and, yeah, maybe I confused the dreams with reality for a little while. I'm still trying to get over my father's death and the fact that I'm stuck in this looney bin-no offense. You ever have weird dreams? You ever been confused, ever in your life?"

A sharper smile this time. "You always try to defend yourself by challenging me."

"Why shouldn't I? Sometimes I have screwy dreams. Everybody does. So how come everybody isn't in this joint?"

"Because everybody isn't being charged with arson and premeditated murder. Because everybody isn't suicidal, and everybody didn't break all the lights in the shower room."

"I'll pay for the friggin' lights."

"No, but your father's lawyers will," R.J. corrected. "Let me ask you something else."

Ca.s.sie was getting bored, bending her flip-flops under her heels. "Shoot."

"Who burned your house down with your father in it?"

"I don't know. I only know it wasn't me. I loved my father." She shot him a frown. "You already know I didn't do it. You don't believe for a minute that I did it."

"No, Ca.s.sie, I don't. But who did? Who do you think did it?"

"Probably some stoner from town, some redneck all jigged up on PCP or something."

"I like that answer. But I just keep getting this feeling that you're only saying it."

"What do you mean?"

"That you're saying what you think I want to hear."

"I never do that," Ca.s.sie countered. "You're my shrink, you should know that. And what does Dr. Morse think? Does he think I had a psycho outburst? Does he think I'm a head-case?"

"No, but he's very confused about your case. So am I."

"Hey, I'm just a b.i.t.c.hy Goth girl from D.C. There's not much to be confused about." She did feel a bit foolish now. "I'm sorry I busted your dumb shower lights. Does it help to say it won't happen again?"

"Probably."

Ca.s.sie looked at her watch. "I got my occupational therapy cla.s.s in five minutes. Can I go now?"

"Yes."

She stood up from the chair, suddenly remembering. "Oh, can I ask a favor?"

R.J. looked sarcastically quizzical. "Maybe."

"Can I move to the room at the end of the hall, on the left?"

"Why?"

" 'Cos there's a view of the garden."

"Why should I give you privileges after what you did in the shower?"

"Because you're a cool guy."

"You think you can manipulate me with flattery?"

"You're also probably the best shrink I've ever had."

"That won't work-"

"And handsome."

R.J. smiled. "I'm disappointed, Ca.s.sie. I thought you were a lot more sophisticated than that. And the answer is no."

"I'm glad you said that." Ca.s.sie smiled a great big smile. She pointed to his Notre Dame hat. "They play University of Maryland tonight, don't they? Maryland's supposed to kick their b.u.t.ts bad?"

R.J. looked immediately enthused. "How do you know that? You're a college football fan?"

Ca.s.sie scoffed. "Jeez, no-football's for morons. Come on, a bunch of steroid-bloated idiots running back and forth with a leather bag full of air, makin' five million a year."

Now R.J. frowned. "Then how do you know that Notre Dame's slated to lose big to Maryland?"