He put the fork down.

"As I mentioned, I'm particularly interested in mental health problems because they always pose the greatest puzzles. And I've seen some fascinating cases."

He aimed the pouchy eyes at me. "For example, years ago I encountered a case of- I suppose the closest label would be lycanthropy, but it really wasn't classical lycanthropy."

"A wolf-man?"

"A cat woman. Have you seen that?"

"During my training I saw schizophrenics with transitory animal hallucinations."

"This was more than transitory. Thirty-year-old woman, quite attractive, sweet nature. Shortly after her thirty-first birthday, she began withdrawing from her family and wandering around staring at cats. Then she started chasing mice- rather uselessly. Mewing, licking herself, eating raw meat. That's what finally brought her to me: rampant intestinal parasites caused by her diet."

"Was this a constant delusion?"

"More like a series of fits- acute spells, but they lasted longer and longer as time went on. By the time I saw her the periods between the fits weren't good, either. Appetite loss, poor concentration, bouts of weeping. Tell all that to a psychiatrist and he'd probably diagnose psychotic depression or a bipolar mood disorder. An anthropologist, on the other hand, would pounce on tribal rituals or a plant-induced religious hallucinosis. The problem is, there are no native hallucinogenic plants on Aruk nor any pre-Christian shamanic culture."

He ate more rice but didn't seem to taste it. "Interesting from a diagnostic standpoint, wouldn't you say?"

"Did the woman drink heavily?" I said.

"No. And her vitamin B intake was sufficient, so it wasn't an idiopathic Korsakoff's syndrome."

"What about the parasites? Had they infiltrated her brain?"

"Good question. I wondered about that, too, but her symptoms made conducting even a gross neurological exam impossible. She'd gotten quite aggressive- snarling and biting and scratching to the point where her husband tied her up in her room. She'd become quite a burden."

"Sounds brutal."

He looked pained. "In any event, the symptoms didn't conform to any parasitical disease I'd ever come across, and I was able to treat her intestinal problems quite easily. After she died, the husband refused an autopsy and I certified cause of death as heart attack."

"How did she die?"

He put down his fork. "She screamed out one night- a cri du chat-cat's cry. Louder than usual, so the husband went in to check. He found her lying on her bed, open-eyed, dead."

"No evidence of any kind of poisoning?"

"My lab was rather primitive in those days, but I was able to test her blood for the obvious things and found nothing."

"What was her relationship with her husband like?"

He stared at me. "Is there any particular reason you ask that?"

"I'm a psychologist."

He smiled.

"Also," I said, "you said she'd become a burden. And that he only went in because her cat's cry was louder. That implies he usually ignored her. It doesn't sound like marital devotion."

He looked up and down the table, then past it, into the living room, as if making sure we were alone.

"Shortly after she died," he said, "her husband took up with another woman and moved off the island. Years later, I found out he'd been quite a Don Juan." His eyes dropped to his plate. "I suppose I'd better get through this or Gladys will have my head."

Eating a few mouthfuls of vegetables, he said, "I fibbed. Had some chow mein brought into the clinic. Sudden emergency, influx of jellyfish on North Beach."

"Pam told me. How are the children?"

"Sore and covered with welts and totally unchastened… Any more thoughts on our catwoman?"

"Did she have a history of fainting or any other evidence of syncope?"

"A cardiac arrhythmia to explain the sudden death? None that I picked up. And no family history of heart disease. But the mode- sudden death. Her heart stopped so I called it heart disease."

"Allergies? Anaphylaxis?"

He shook his head.

"No heavy drinking," I said. "What about drug abuse?"

"Her habits were clean, Alex. A lovely lady, really. Until the change."

"How completely was she bound when she slept?"

"Hands and feet."

"Pretty severe."

"She was considered dangerous."

"And she was tied up the night she died."

"Yes."

"Perhaps something frightened or upset her," I said. "To the point of heart failure."

"Such as?"

"An especially severe hallucination. Or a nightmare."

He didn't respond and I thought he looked angry.

"Or," I said, "something real."

He closed his eyes.

"Maybe," I continued, "her Don Juan husband took up with another woman before she died."

Slow nods; the eyes remained shut.

"Tied up at night," I said. "But the husband and the girlfriend were in the next room? Did they make love in front of her?"

The eyes opened. "My, my. You are a remarkable young man."

"Just guessing."

Another long pause. "As I said, it wasn't till years later that I found out about him, and only then because I treated a cousin of his who lived on another island and came to me to be treated for shingles. I gave him acyclovir and it reduced his pain. I suppose he felt he owed me something. So he told me the catwoman's husband had just died and had mentioned me on his deathbed. He'd been married three more times."

"Any other mysterious deaths?"

"No, three divorces. All because he couldn't stop philandering. But as he lay eaten away by lung cancer, his chest completely ravaged, he confessed to tormenting his first wife. Right from the beginning. The day after the wedding, she saw him kill a cat that had gotten into their yard and eaten a chicken. He choked it to death, chopped its head off and tossed the carcass at her, laughing. She learned of his infidelities soon after. When she complained, he called her a bitch-cat and sent her to clean the chicken coop. It became a regular pattern whenever they'd fight. Years later her symptoms began. The more disturbed she became, the less he cared about hiding his affairs. During her final months, the other woman was actually living with them, ostensibly to clean house. The night she died, the husband and the girlfriend were making love noisily. The wife cried out in protest and they laughed at her. This went on for a while, then she entered her cat mode and began mewing. Then hissing. Then screaming." He touched one cheek and the flesh bobbled. "They came into her room and continued to… in front of her. She strained at her bonds, screaming. I'm sure her blood pressure was skyrocketing. Finally, she gave a last scream."

He pushed his plate away.

"Deathbed confession," he said. "Guilt is a great motivator."

"Infidelities," I said. "Catting around?"

He said nothing for several seconds. Then: "I like that." But he sounded anything but happy. "So what are we talking about, diagnostically? Manic-depression marked by some sort of primitive feline identification? Or a full-blown schizophrenia?"

"Or a severe stress reaction. Was there any psychiatric history in the family at all?"

"Her mother was… morose." He leaned in closer, bald pate shining like an ostrich egg. "Dying like that. Was it due to fear? Shame? Can a person truly die of frustration? Or did she suffer from some physical irregularity that I wasn't clever enough to discover? That's what I mean about puzzles. We'll document the case."

"Fascinating," I said, thinking of the catwoman's agony.

"I've got many more, son. Many, many more." A hand began to reach out. For a moment I thought he'd put it on mine, but it landed on the table and lay there, exhibiting a slight tremor.

"I'm so glad you're here to help me."

"Glad to be here."