"Angry, aren't we? Maybe because I'm right. Because at bottom you don't respect yourself Could that be it? Hmmmm?"
She gasped, outraged. Still he kept at her:
"I met Diana. A cold woman who cares only for herself, who enjoys taking advantage of people, enjoys hurting them, too. But you-you're an artist!
That's the part I don't get. Have you any idea what a privilege it is to have talent?" He walked over to her paintings, looked at them. "Last night, when I saw your Leering Man portrait, I was actually moved. Ever since I've been asking myself. How could the person who painted that do the things she does? Why isn't the art enough for her? Why does she have to hurt people? Destroy?"
Wanting to sound more sympathetic, he altered his tone:
"Remember Kirstin Reese? She liked you, said you were a special person.
That kind of person doesn't do those kinds of things. Unless..
"Unless what?"
"The only answer I come up with is that you hurt a lot inside." He looked closely at her. "I can see it in your eyes. You need help.
You're crying out for it. That's what your painting says. Your bar adventures, too. They all say the same thing: ' me! Please help me before I break! ' "
She stared at him with something akin to the smirk she'd worn before, but he could see that it was a masking smirk. He peered back at her with all the concern he felt, and then he watched her break, slowly, before his eyes. Her smirk slipped away, her eyes enlarged, she changed position, became awkward in the chair. The vulnerability he'd observed in the police sketches now showed itself without confidence.
She looked to be on the verge of tears. The troubled little girl stood revealed.
He didn't want to hit her again so soon, but he knew no other way. He thought: Rub her face in it. Make her see! "Kirstin's dead. Did you know?" She brought her hand up to her mouth. "Tortured first. By the same guy who killed Dietz."
"But why?"
"To make her tell him where you live."
"She didn't know!" "He thought she did. Anyway, she knew how to find Diana. After he got that out of her he killed her. Which is just what he'll do when he finds you, especially when he discovers you smashed up his precious chip."
She'll cry now. When she does she'll turn away. That'll be all right.
But Gelsey surprised him. She didn't turn, just stared at him and began to weep without lowering her eyes. It was an extraordinary thing to witness. And he believed he understood why she was doing it-she wanted to show him her pain.
Later he would not remember how long he watched before he moved toward her and took her hand. It was a paternal gesture and she responded to it, leaning tentatively against him.
Looking down at her, feeling her body tremble, he asked himself what the hell he thought he was doing. This was not the way he dealt with criminals. But then, he realized, Gelsey was not like any criminal he had ever met.
After Gelsey let him see her cry, she didn't care what else he saw. She thought: In some strange way he owns me now.
And it also felt good to lean against him, feel his warmth and strength.
She had never touched Dr. Z-shrinks, she'd read, weren't supposed to touch patients, although sometimes shrinks transgressed. But this tall man beside her with the searching eyes was no more a shrink than he was a mark. She wasn't sure yet what he was. A detective-what kind of man was that?
"Ever try and imagine what it feels like to be on the receiving end of a drugged drink?" he asked her. "The terror as you're going down?" "I know all about terror," she said. She didn't want to listen to a fucking lecture. She could give him lessons in terror if she wanted to.
"We're not talking about you," he said. "We're talking about your victims." He paused. "Oh, I get it-you just feel sorry for yourself."
She peered at him. She knew she should put up a defense. But her heart wasn't in it. He had made her cry… so what was the use?
"Who else is going to feel sorry for me?" she asked.
"Jesus!" He stood, offered her his hand. "Come with me. "
"Where?"
"Get up! Come on!"
She stood, then allowed him to draw her across the room to the area where a dozen unframed mirror panels were stored in a wooden rack. He led her to within a foot of the first mirror.
"Look at yourself."
She turned away.
"Go on! Look!" He placed his hand on top of her head, then gently forced her to peer into the glass. "Instead of playing with mirrors, why don't you use one once in a while? Take a good, hard look."
She glanced quickly at herself and then at his image in the mirror.
"Not me! You! Why's that so difficult?"
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Look at who you are, Gelsey. You might see something you don't like.
Then you might want to do something about it. You might want to change."
She opened her eyes- She felt his eyes on her as she gazed at herself.
Then she mouthed some words.
"Speak up. I can't hear you."
"I did try to do something about it," she moaned. She stared at him and wondered: Does he like me? Does he like me even a little bit?
Janek listened as she told him about a psychoanalyst she'd gone to in Manhattan, a wise, sympathetic, elderly man who'd tried his best to help her. For a long time, she d, she didn't tell Dr. Zimmerman about her drug-robbery activities, confessing only that she picked up men in bars and went home with them for sex. When she finally told him the truth, he was shocked, but still willing to help.
"We were going to get to the bottom of it," she said. "Then the next time I came in a woman was there. She told me Dr. Z had died of a heart attack. She offered to continue the analysis. I never went back."
She turned to Janek. "I worshiped him," she said. "I thought he could be … " She turned away, embarrassed.
"What?" he asked.
She smiled, then shook her head. "My good father," she said quietly.
"The one I never had."