left. He’s sectioned it off, so carefully, because your hair is so thick. It’s gonna take him a long time to cut it, but he’s looking forward to it, because your hair is healthy and shiny. Jerry’s lifting a lock, and trimming it . . . the scissors give a little snick. A little bit of hair falls on the plastic cape and slides off to the floor. You feel his fingers in your hair again. Over and over, his fingers move in your hair, lift a lock, snip it. Sometimes he combs it again, to see if he got it even. It feels so good, just sitting and having someone work on your hair. There’s no one else . . .” No, wait. I’d raised a hint of unease. “There’s only a few people in the shop, and they’re just as busy as Jerry. Someone’s got a blow dryer going. You can barely hear voices murmuring in the next booth. His fingers run through, lift, snip, comb, over and over . . .”
I didn’t know what a trained hypnotist would say about my technique, but it worked for me this time, at least. Bethany’s brain was in a restful, fallow state, just waiting to be given a task. In the same even voice I said, “While he’s working on your hair, we’re going to walk through that night at work. He won’t stop cutting, okay? Start with getting ready to go to the bar. Don’t mind me, I’m just a puff of air right behind your shoulder. You might hear my voice, but it’s coming from another booth in that beauty salon. You won’t even be able to hear what I’m saying unless I use your name.” I was informing Stan as well as reassuring Bethany. Then I submerged deeper into the girl’s memory.
Bethany was looking at her apartment. It was very small, fairly neat, and she shared it with another Bat’s Wing employee, who went by the name Desiree Dumas.Desiree Dumas, as seen by Bethany, looked exactly like her made-up name: a self-designated siren, a little too plump, a little too blond, and convinced of her own eroticism.
Taking the waitress through this experience was like watching a film, a really dull one. Bethany’s memory was almost too good. Skipping over the boring parts, like Bethany and Desiree’s argument over the relative merits of two brands of mascara, what Bethany remembered was this: she had prepared for work as she always did, and she and Desiree had ridden together to their job. Desiree worked in the gift shop section of the Bat’s Wing. Dressed in a red bustier and black boots, she hawked vampire souvenirs for big bucks. Wearing artificial fangs, she posed for pictures with tourists for a good tip. Bony and shy Bethany was a humble waitress; for a year she’d been waiting for an opening in the more congenial gift shop, where she wouldn’t make the big tips but her base salary would be higher, and she could sit down when she wasn’t busy. Bethany hadn’t gotten there yet. Big grudge against Desiree, there, on Bethany’s part; irrelevant, but I heard myself telling Stan about it as if it were crucial information.
I had never been this deep into someone else’s mind. I was trying to weed as I went, but it wasn’t working. Finally, I just let it all come. Bethany was completely relaxed, still getting that haircut. She had excellent visual recall, and she was as deeply engaged as I was in the evening she’d spent at work.
In her mind, Bethany served synthetic blood to only four vampires: a red-haired female; a short, stocky Hispanic female with eyes as black as pitch; a blond teenager with ancient tattoos; and a brown-haired man with a jutting jaw and a bolo tie. There! Farrell was embedded in Bethany’s memory. I had to suppress my surprise and recognition, and try to steer Bethany with more authority.
“That’s the one, Bethany,” I whispered. “What do you remember about him?”
“Oh, him,” Bethany said out loud, startling me so much I almost jumped out of my chair. In her mind, she turned to look at Farrell, thinking of him. He’d had two synthetic bloods, O positive, and
I didn’t know what a trained hypnotist would say about my technique, but it worked for me this time, at least. Bethany’s brain was in a restful, fallow state, just waiting to be given a task. In the same even voice I said, “While he’s working on your hair, we’re going to walk through that night at work. He won’t stop cutting, okay? Start with getting ready to go to the bar. Don’t mind me, I’m just a puff of air right behind your shoulder. You might hear my voice, but it’s coming from another booth in that beauty salon. You won’t even be able to hear what I’m saying unless I use your name.” I was informing Stan as well as reassuring Bethany. Then I submerged deeper into the girl’s memory.
Bethany was looking at her apartment. It was very small, fairly neat, and she shared it with another Bat’s Wing employee, who went by the name Desiree Dumas.Desiree Dumas, as seen by Bethany, looked exactly like her made-up name: a self-designated siren, a little too plump, a little too blond, and convinced of her own eroticism.
Taking the waitress through this experience was like watching a film, a really dull one. Bethany’s memory was almost too good. Skipping over the boring parts, like Bethany and Desiree’s argument over the relative merits of two brands of mascara, what Bethany remembered was this: she had prepared for work as she always did, and she and Desiree had ridden together to their job. Desiree worked in the gift shop section of the Bat’s Wing. Dressed in a red bustier and black boots, she hawked vampire souvenirs for big bucks. Wearing artificial fangs, she posed for pictures with tourists for a good tip. Bony and shy Bethany was a humble waitress; for a year she’d been waiting for an opening in the more congenial gift shop, where she wouldn’t make the big tips but her base salary would be higher, and she could sit down when she wasn’t busy. Bethany hadn’t gotten there yet. Big grudge against Desiree, there, on Bethany’s part; irrelevant, but I heard myself telling Stan about it as if it were crucial information.
I had never been this deep into someone else’s mind. I was trying to weed as I went, but it wasn’t working. Finally, I just let it all come. Bethany was completely relaxed, still getting that haircut. She had excellent visual recall, and she was as deeply engaged as I was in the evening she’d spent at work.
In her mind, Bethany served synthetic blood to only four vampires: a red-haired female; a short, stocky Hispanic female with eyes as black as pitch; a blond teenager with ancient tattoos; and a brown-haired man with a jutting jaw and a bolo tie. There! Farrell was embedded in Bethany’s memory. I had to suppress my surprise and recognition, and try to steer Bethany with more authority.
“That’s the one, Bethany,” I whispered. “What do you remember about him?”
“Oh, him,” Bethany said out loud, startling me so much I almost jumped out of my chair. In her mind, she turned to look at Farrell, thinking of him. He’d had two synthetic bloods, O positive, and
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