Even if she opened the hotel door and eased out into the hall, the odds were she would only just run into him. She couldn't hide and just not answer t...e door. He had a key waiting in the lobby. She picked at the cuticle on her right hand, with not quite steady fingers. She had planned this, initiated it even. There was no need to deny it. In the abstract, it had seemed very attractive, just the thing to distract and get even. Now with reality settling in, she wondered if she was just going to. What kind of help did she expect to find? What was the help for? The only rational, if somewhat questionable, idea I could come up with was some form of therapy, but for who? For what? For me? For the scars on my back? No, that didn’t make sense. She hadn’t mentioned anything about needing therapy when we talked. She didn’t seem to have any problems that needed therapy either.I looked at the house again. It was small with only two little, curtain covered windows to the right of the front door.. The joyous sounds were garbled and muffled into unintelligible gibberish by the gas mask that he was wearing. He looked a like a strange alien insect from some b-rated feature film. He looked down with disdain at the dark blue striped ‘pyjamas’ that he was wearing, gave a snort of disgust, and looked at his watch yet again. At last! The thirty minutes were finally up and he positively ripped the mask of his face and let out another, louder burst of mirthless laughter. They couldn’t keep HIM. " Okay, I'll meet you at the fieldhouse at three-fifteen," he said. "I'll let Pick know we'll be in his office by three-thirty."It gave me more to worry about. Pile it on, I said to myself. Let's get it all over with sooner than later. It was strictly a defensive mechanism, though, and even I, in my muddled mental state, could recognize it. I was posturing for nobody but myself.I met up with Eddie on Wednesday afternoon. He didn't have any more information on what Pick wanted with me than he.
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