“Well, for example: if the patient believes he’s in a war, and that the war is a just one, he could probably be made to kill someone that the hypnotist tells him is the enemy. Or if he’s persuaded that someone is intent on killing him, and that he’s acting in self-defense—”

“I get the point,” Adrienne said, “but it’s all theoretical.”

“Hardly,” Shaw replied. Turning to McBride, he asked: “What was that case? The one in Denmark?”

“Palle Hardrup,” McBride answered. “Bank robbery—in the Fifties—a guard was killed.” Adrienne noticed that McBride was alert now, the discussion having overcome his indifference.

“Right!” Shaw said, with a congratulatory smile. “You’ve got an excellent memory.”

It took a second, but they all smiled. Then Adrienne looked from one man to the other. “His name was Hardup? And he robbed a bank? Is this some kind of shrink in-joke?”

McBride smiled. “Haar-druup,” he corrected. “He was arrested after a bank robbery. Shot a guard, and killed him. Which puzzled the police because he didn’t really need the money, and he wasn’t a violent guy. He was pretty ordinary, in fact. A good citizen. So the question was, why did he do it?” McBride looked at Shaw, who nodded for him to continue. “It was totally out of character. But then they found out that he’d been hypnotized by his therapist—and that the therapist had ordered him to rob the bank and shoot the guard.”

“And the judge bought this?” Adrienne asked, her voice larded with the skepticism of a good attorney.

“Yes, he did. Because the therapist confessed. Said he’d engineered the crime as a test of his powers.”

“Huh,” Adrienne remarked, uncertain if she believed the story.

“It’s a famous case,” Shaw told her. “It came up in the Manson trial.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because the therapist wasn’t on the scene when the crime was committed—and yet, the gunman was obviously under his influence and control.”

“So how did he do it?” Adrienne asked. “The therapist.”

“Do you remember, Lew?” Shaw asked.

McBride nodded. “He created a persona, a supernatural persona, that he called ‘X.’ ‘X’ was like God. And it was ‘X’ who told Hardrup what to do.”

“And he did it?” Adrienne asked. “He shot the man?”

“Of course,” Shaw replied. “He was a very religious man.”

Adrienne thought about it. “And that’s what you mean by ‘context,’“ she said.

“Right. As far as Hardrup was concerned, he was an instrument of divine will.”

“And you think that would work for suicide?”

“Why not?” Shaw answered. “People commit suicide all the time. Under the right circumstances—in the proper context—it can seem an honorable, and even reasonable, thing to do.” He glanced at his watch, and turned to McBride. “Are you up for it?”

McBride looked uncertain.

“We really don’t have a lot of time.”

McBride looked at Adrienne, and sighed. “Yeah, why not?”

Shaw smiled, and turned to Adrienne. “If you don’t mind waiting for us in the cafeteria… I have an exorcism to do.”

She was sitting at a square table in the cafeteria, working her way through the Business section of the Times, when Shaw strode in past the steam table, almost an hour after she’d left him. A little ripple of attention followed his progress across the room, with several nurses and doctors greeting him. He stopped to speak to a short, red-haired man in scrubs but otherwise just waved, smiled, mimed looking at his watch, and continued moving in her direction. She could tell from the response that Shaw was well liked.

“Where’s Lew?” she asked.

He sat down across from her. “He’ll be squared away in a few minutes. I signed the release, but… there’s paperwork.” He paused, and then went on. “Speaking of which: this is for you.” He pushed a file across the table.

“What is it?” she asked.

“His medical file.” Another pause, and then he explained: “If I don’t have it, no one can take it from me.”

Adrienne frowned. “I’m not so sure about releasing him,” she said. “I mean, how do you know he’s okay? What if—”

“Look,” the psychiatrist told her, “here’s the deal. I think he’s going to be all right now. I really do.” He tried a little smile that didn’t make it. “There’s no reason to keep him here. And as interesting as it has been… well—my involvement has to come to an end.” He stared at his fingernails for a moment. “You haven’t seen it, but I’m catching hell about ‘proper channels’… “ He shrugged. “I’m sure you understand: I’m not an independent operator. Not at all.” He tried a smile. It wasn’t successful.

What Shaw was saying was not unreasonable, but there was something wrong with the way he was saying it. He wanted her to say that she understood, but she wasn’t in the mood.

“So you’re bailing,” she decided.

The psychiatrist winced. “No. Come on. I have other responsibilities, you must know that.” He looked up at the ceiling, let the air seep from between his lips.

Adrienne managed a smile. “I know I’m not being fair,” she told him. “You’ve been incredible. But… I’m just not sure… what to do now.” She pushed her hair back from her forehead.

“I have a name for you,” Shaw said, patting his pockets. Finding what he was looking for, he removed a yellow Post-it from his shirt, and handed it to her.

Adrienne saw that it was imprinted with the word HealthSource and, below that, Shaw had scribbled a name:

“Sidney Shapiro… “ She looked up. “Who’s he?”

Shaw thought about it. “He’s a man who knows about these things.”

“What? You mean—memory?”

A funny little look came over Shaw’s face. “No. I mean about your sister—and Lewis.”

She still didn’t understand. “He knows what happened to them?”

Shaw shook his head, and got to his feet. “He knows about implants,” he told her. “The ways they’re used and misused. He knows more about that than anyone in the world.” The psychiatrist hesitated for a moment, as something occurred to him. “Or maybe not.”

Adrienne studied the name on the Post-it. “But who is he?”

Shaw thought about it. “He’s… a retired civil servant.” Then he chuckled. Ruefully.

“And you think he’ll talk to us?”

Shaw shook his head. “I don’t know. If you show him that file, he might.”

“Okay, but… do you have a number for him?”

The psychiatrist shook his head for the second time. “He lives in West Virginia, near Harpers Ferry. I suspect he’s in the book.”

“All right,” Adrienne said. “Sid Shapiro. We’ll give it a shot.” She got to her feet, and put out her hand to shake.

He took her hand in his own, then covered it with his other hand. “If he asks where you got his name…”

“What should I tell him?”

Tight little smile from the nice shrink. “Well, don’t mention me. Just tell him you heard about him in a documentary on A&E.”

“Which one?” she asked.

“I think it was about ‘mind control.’”

McBride was waiting for them in the lobby, and it was obvious that the two men had already said their good-byes, because Shaw gave him a little salute, then hurried off down the corridor.

Maybe it was her imagination, but Lew McBride looked different somehow. He looked taller, his posture at once more athletic and relaxed. He smiled at her as she walked toward him and the smile seemed different too—less guarded. Happier. And there was something in his eyes. Maybe he is all right now, she thought.

“Can I buy you lunch?” he asked. “We can talk about our future.”

They walked out into the cold and sunny day.

She had to ask: “Do you have any money? I’m getting low.”

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I do. The hospital gave me some walking-around money. Officially, I’m part of a research project. Had to sign a bunch of releases. I think Ray Shaw suggested I was going to sue.” The sidewalks were crowded, full of purposeful pedestrians. He took her arm as they approached the curb and held it as they crossed the intersection. “Especially,” he continued, “since I’m known to hang around with my own legal advocate.”