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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.”
    A bark made us both turn. Robin returned with Spike on his
leash.
    Moreland brightened. “Oh, look at
him.
”
    He went over and crouched, hand out, palm down.
    Spike panted and jumped, then nosed the old man’s
crotch.
    “Oh, my,” said Moreland, laughing and standing. “You’re
a
friendly
little fellow. .   .   . Has he had his
dinner?”
    “He just finished,” said Robin, “and we took a short
walk.”
    “Lovely,” Moreland said, absently. “Do you two have
any plans for