Talking? She hadn't expected that. "Tell me what they say."

"The cop amp; okay, the cop, he's saying Eddie seems nervous. Says Eddie wouldn't be planning to fuck with him, would he?"

"And what does Eddie say?"

"He says no way. He says, 'You and me, we're tight, bro.'" Brand had slipped into an approximation of the dead man's voice.

"And the policeman?"

"He says that's good. Because if Eddie ever does get a hard-on to try fucking with him, it won't end well. And Eddie, he's scared, he says he knows that. He's not fuckin' with nobody. He's playing it straight. He's got amp; he's got amp;"

"Yes?" Robin prompted. "What has Eddie got?"

"He's got the moneythis month's cash."

A chill rode Robin's shoulders, and suddenly Brand's reluctance to participate in the procedure took on a new coloration. "The money?" she said.

"What he owes. He pays on the first Saturday of every month. Right here in the parking garage."

"Pays for what?"

"It's a patch."

She didn't understand, but she preferred not to interrupt the narrative flow. "Go on. What happens next?"

"Eddie brings out the money. Thick wad, wrapped in wax paper, all taped up. Looks like a fat deli sandwich. Makes me hungry when I see it. I didn't have lunch that day"

"Not you. You're the observer, Alan. You're only watching. Tell me about the two men, Eddie and the cop."

"The cop takes the money, puts it in his coat. It doesn't print too bad against the material. Nobody will notice it there."

Robin let a moment pass. Suddenly she wished she had tape-recorded this session. What Brand was confessingif it was a confession amp;

"And then?" she prompted.

"The cop starts to walk away. But he stops, turns back, still wants to know why Eddie's nervous. Something's not right. He thinks Eddie's playing him."

"Yes?"

"So he takes out the package, opens it. There's not enough. There's fifty-dollar bills on the outside of the wad, but inside it's all singles. And Eddie, he's shitting his pants now, and he says he can explain. He's just a little short, he says. But that's gotta be bullshit. The Gs have been banging and dealing all over the hood. Their fucking revenues are going up every month. No way the Gs are short on cash."

She wasn't clear if he was recounting his thoughts or his conversation. "Is that what the cop says?" she asked, but Brand, caught up in the narrative, no longer heard.

"Eddie says it's not the Gs who are short. It's him. Him personally. He fucked up, he says. They gave him the full payment, like always. He lost it." Brand slipped into Eddie's voice again. " 'Motherfucking dogfights, man.'"

Then Brand's own voice, hard and clipped. " 'You gambled the money on some fucking dog?'

" 'It was stupid, okay? They told me I couldn't lose.'

" 'They were wrong, paquito. You lost big-time.'"

He fell silent.

"What happens, Alan?" she asked. "Alan?"

"Bang."

Brand spoke the word with sudden vehemence, loud in Robin's headset. She jumped a little.

"One round in the face. Asshole crumbles. He's twitching, jittering.

"You backed the wrong dog, Eddie," Brand said.

Robin wasn't sure if he was repeating what he'd said then or commenting on what he saw now. She licked her lips, fighting the dryness in her mouth.

"What are youI mean, what's the cop going to do now?" she asked. "How can he get away with it?"

A cynical smile formed on Brand's lips. "Oh, he'll get away with it. All he's gotta do is plant a throwdown on Eddie, an old three-eighty wheel gun he's got. Then call in an officer-involved shooting, finesse the shooting review. No sweat."

He was wrong about that part, at least. His face was bathed in a sheen of perspiration.

Robin got up from her chair and expelled a shaky breath. "All right, Alan. I want you to leave that memory now, leave it and rest. Don't think about it. Don't think about anything. Just rest."

She and Brand spoke little after he regained alertness. He seemed dazed, uneasy. She wasn't sure how much he remembered of what he'd told her. It was common for patients to be unsure of exactly what they had experienced while in the trance state. And she didn't think it would be wise to press him on the details and possibly jog his memory.

"As a rule," she said briskly, "we don't make much progress in an initial session, but if you're willing to work with me, we can go deeper and retrieve more details next time."

This was safely general and, she hoped, would convince him that he'd said nothing incriminating.

Brand just nodded. He pressed a hand to his forehead.

"A slight headache may persist for a while. Aspirin will take care of it."

This raised a wispy smile. "Take two aspirin and call you in the morning?"

"Call me anytime. I'm always available if you need to talk about amp; anything." She handed him her card, which gave her cell phone number and office address, but not her home address, of course. Her residence was unlisted, and she was suddenly glad about thatalthough a cop could find it anyway, couldn't he?

"Thanks, Doctor." He palmed the card without looking at it.

She led him through the empty waiting room into the hall. As he was leaving, he turned to her with a puzzled look.

"Did I say amp; Did I amp;?"

She waited, her breath held.

Then he shook his head. "Never mind."

"The session went very smoothly, Alan, but you can't expect significant results the first time. This was more of an introduction to the process."

"Introduction. Yeah."

"Can I expect you to show up for your next appointment?"

"I'll be here," Brand said, but he didn't sound sure.

He left the building, exiting into the parking lot at the rear. Robin returned to her office and locked the door.

She was trembling. Maybe not quite so badly as after the carjacking attempt. Still, this seemed to be her day of living dangerously.

If Brand had been on the take, had shot that man in cold blood, execution style, with no possible justification amp;

Then he was a stone-cold killer, and he would surely not be reluctant to kill anyone who stumbled onto his secret.

But he'd taken no action toward her. Perhaps because he was too dazed to act. Or because he didn't recall what he'd said. Or because he wasn't a killer at all.

It was possible. No therapeutic technique was infallible. The MBI procedure could dredge up repressed material, long-forgotten abuse, memories blocked by some self-protective action of the subconscious, but sometimes it could also manufacture false memories, stories that seemed real but were only elaborate fantasies.

She had not personally encountered this problem before. As far as she knew, all the memories recovered from her other patients were genuine. This one might be, as well.

If it was amp;

Then she knew why Brand had been so resistant, why he had skipped his appointment, why he'd become more nervous when the topic of entering a trance had come up. And perhaps why he'd been showing the apparent symptoms of post-traumatic stress in the first place.

Edginess, impaired concentration, panic episodes could all be produced by a stress disorder amp; or by guilt. If not guilt, then fear of getting caught.

She paced, trying to decide what to do. Go to Deputy Chief Wagner? Physician-patient confidentiality did not apply to cases in which a crime had been committed. In fact, she was legally obligated to report what she'd learned. But if it was a false memory, she would be incriminating an innocent man. And even if the memory was accurate, it would be her word against hisand the police were never eager to turn against one of their own.

The alternative was to wait it out, see if the same material resurfaced in subsequent sessions, maybe get his confession on tape. But suppose he was guilty. He might come after her.