MaryJanice Davidson - Me, Myself and Why?

ME,
MYSELF
AND
WHY?

MaryJanice Davidson

ME,
MYSELF
AND
WHY?

ST. MARTINS PRESS
NEW YORK

Table of Contents

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

ME, MYSELF AND WHY? Copyright 2010 by MaryJanice Davidson. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Book design by Elina D. Nudelman

ISBN 978-0-312-53117-1

First Edition: October 2010

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my husband, who tries so very hard to make me stick to a daily schedule. Strictly for my own good, of course, and not because hes insanely jealous that I get to sleep whenever I want. Love you, sweetie!

Acknowledgments

First, a thousand thank-yous to my ridiculously supportive editor, Monique Patterson at St. Martins Press. When I thought up a trilogy about an FBI agent with multiple personality disorder, I wasnt sure anyone would go for it. The truth is, this book presented challenges Id never faced before.

However, though I was cringing like a craven dog at the task before me, Monique was nothing but enthusiastic and fearless, from my casual what if? pitch over burritos and throughout the writing and editing process. Moniques faith never wavered. This was comforting, if terrifying.

My agent, Ethan Ellenberg, who worked hard on a deal for the Me, Myself and Why? trilogy, and never complains when I consistently lose paperwork. You know how some people believe everyones hell is individual? My hell will be to be reincarnated as Ethans assistant and forced to deal with authors like me. Memo to me: Embrace the horror.

Thanks are also due to my father, Alexander Davidson, who was a terrific sounding board when I was trying to figure out when to sign on the dotted line, and gave me much valuable advice during contract negotiations.

Special thanks for my dear friends Cathie and Stacy, who love me enough to worry about me when I get jammed up with deadlines and forget to e-mail back... and Im even more grateful for their patience when I disappear from the online world. They are much better friends to me than I am to them.

Speaking of disappearing from the online world, thanks are also due to my Yahoo! group, who are very patient when I dont post for weeks on end. They are the friendliest, least flaming-est group on the Web; you can check them out at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/maryjanice/ .

Thanks to my sister, Yvonne, who always stops what shes doing on a business trip to call and tell me which airport is carrying my books.

Thanks to my mother, who forces my books on her unsuspecting colleagues at various antique shows.

And thanks, always, to the readers, who dont mind following me down the occasional strange path.

Authors Note

In the real world, the FBI tends to screen out mentally disturbed applicants (at least, thats their official stance). Also, there arent nearly as many serial killers out there as the movies (and perhaps this book) would have you believe.

Also, the psychiatric community, as well as its bible, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders-IV (aka the DSMMD-IVnothing like a catchy, yet puzzling, acronym), has reclassified multiple personality disorder as dissociative identity disorder. I use the former wording for its familiarity to most readers.

A few things in this book remain true, however. Grown women do occasionally lick mirrors to turn on their partners, partners who work together can begin to resemble each other, rushed federal agents park government-issue sedans on public sidewalks, baking is lucrative, and its possible to wake up on a Monday morning with no memory of Sunday night.

So dont say I didnt warn you.

THE SKEPTICS DICTIONARY

JANET LONG

STEVE JOBS

Prologue

First comes the blood

First comes the blood

Screams, then comes the screams,

then comes the screams, and

The wheels on the bus go round and round,

Round and round,

Its so loud.

I just want to sleep, and the screams come around,

Alllll the daaaaay looooooong.

And I just want to leave, and disappear,

Disappear

Disappear

I just want to leave

And third comes the geese, alllll daaay loooong.

Are the geese really third, did they come third,

Really come third,

Or were they first?

I just want to leave, and disappear,

Alllllll geeeeeeese loooooong.

The screams wont find me, round and round,

Never will, round and round,

No they wont they never will,

Say goooood-byyyyyye.

Chapter One

The lilting strains of thrash metal crashed through my skull and I sat bolt upright in bed, clutching my ears. Someoneprobably my psycho sisterhad set my alarm to WROX and cranked it. It was a lot like being awakened on an airport runway by an approaching DC-10.

I clawed for the snooze button, missed, swiped again, knocked the radio to the carpet, slithered off the bed, fell on top of the snooze button, and, mercifully, the Sweet Jerkoffs new release, Raining Hell on Your Stupid Face, stopped.

Dont ask me how I knew the song and the band. I wont tell.

Too early, came a sonorous voice from the bed above. What the? Sleep more.

I cautiously peeked over the edge of the bed. A strange, nude man was tangled up in my Laura Ashley sheets. His long dark hair covered half his face and flut-tered as he resumed snoring. He had a tattoo of Donald Duck performing a sexual act on Daisy; it was almost four inches across!

And what the?I was naked, too.

Over his slurred protests (he smelled like hed fallen into a tequila vat on the way to my apartment), I pulled him out of bed as efficiently and politely as I could. I found his jeans under the bed, his shirt hanging over my bedside lamp, his boxer briefs on top of the heating vent, one of his shoes in the bathroom, and the other in my kitchen sink. It was tough work getting him dressed while not looking at his penis, but I managed.

Dont ask me how; I wont tell.

After the stranger was gone, I set about cleaning up the empty tequila bottles, the gnawed lemon slices (one was nestled beside my toothbrush like a bedraggled yellow comma), the spilled salt shakers (my moo cow shaker! in the toilet! darn it all!), and something that looked like a small purple whale.

I was studying it, hoping it wasnt what I knew it was, when it started to buzz in my hand and I dropped it. What was that doing in the fridge?

Never mind. Never mind. II had to get to work. Mustnt be late! Mustnt be late!

I kicked the vibrator across the kitchen floor until it was close to the garbage, then darted into the bathroom. I took a quick shower, dried at light speed (my blond hair looked all right, but my eyes were bloodshotwhat had my sister beennever mind, never mind), and dressed in my best conservative navy suit.