HE COULD feel Dr. Gwen Patterson staring at him while he stabbed at her furniture with his white cane, fumbling for a place to sit down. Nice stuff. The office even smelled expensive, fine leather and polished wood. But why would he expect anything less? She was a classy woman. Finally, a challenge to up the ante.

He swiped his hand across her desktop, but there wasn’t much to disturb—a phone, a Rolodex, several legal pads and a daily calendar, flipped open to Wednesday, April 1. Only now did it occur to him that it was April Fools’ Day. How appropriate. He resisted the urge to smile, instead turning again and bumping into a credenza, barely missing an antique vase. The window looked out over the Potomac. In its reflection, he watched her grimace at his fumblings.

“The sofa is just to your left,” she finally instructed, but stayed seated. She wouldn’t embarrass him by coming to his rescue. Excellent. She had passed his first test.

He patted down the leather, feeling for the arm, and carefully sitting down.

“Would you like something to drink before we start?”

“No,” he snapped. Invalids could get away with shit like that. Then, to let her know he wasn’t such a bad guy, he politely added, “I’d rather we just get started.”

He set the cane by his side where he could find it easily. He bunched up his leather jacket and laid it in his lap. He adjusted his sunglasses. The lenses were extra dark so that no one could see his eyes. It was a lovely twist. Everyone thought they were being the voyeurs, safe in staring at him, pitying him. No one seemed to question whether or not a blind guy could actually see.

Except that the lie might be coming true. The drugs weren’t working, and he couldn’t deny that his eyesight was getting worse. He had lucked out so many times before, was his number finally up? No, he didn’t believe in fate. So what if he needed a little extra help these days, some assistance from an old friend to bring a little excitement into his life? Wasn’t that what friends were for?

He cocked his head to one side, pretending to need to hear her before he could turn in her direction. Through the dark lenses in the dark room, he found himself squinting. She was still staring at him, sitting back in her chair, looking comfortable and in control.

She came around to the front of the desk, leaning against the pristine top and standing in front of him. She looked soft and fragile, curves in all the right places, tight skin and few wrinkles for a woman in her late forties. She wore her strawberry-blond hair loose, letting it brush her jawline in delicate wisps. He wondered if it was her natural color, and caught himself smiling. Maybe he would need to find out for himself.

He leaned back into the sofa, waiting, sniffing in her fragrance. Her red silk blouse was thin enough to reveal small, round breasts and the slight pucker of nipples. He tucked his hands into his lap, making sure his jacket covered the swelling bulge, pleased that his new diet of porn movies seemed to be helping his temporary lapses.

“As with all my patients, Mr. Harding,” she said, “I’d like to know what your goals are. What do you hope to accomplish in our sessions?”

He held back a smile. She was already accomplishing one of his goals. He tilted his head toward her and continued to stare at her breasts.

“I’m not sure I understand the question.” He had learned it was good to make women explain. It allowed them to feel in control.

“You told me on the phone,” she began carefully, “that you had some sexual issues you wanted to work on. In order for me to help you, I need to know what you’d like to see come out of these sessions.”

It was time to see how easily she could be shocked.

“It really is quite simple. I want to be able to enjoy fucking a woman again.”

Her light complexion flushed slightly, but she didn’t move. It was a bit of a letdown. Maybe he should add that he wanted to enjoy fucking a woman without wanting to fuck her to death. Should he confess that seeing his women smeared in blood and screaming for mercy made him come in an orgasmic explosion like none he could achieve otherwise? Could she understand that this hideous thing inside threatened to take away the foundation of his being, his last primal instinct?

But, no, that would probably be a bit much. That was something Albert Stucky would do, and he needed to resist the urge to stoop to his old friend’s level.

“Can you do that, Doc?” he asked.

“I can certainly try.”

He looked over her shoulder, his body slightly turned to the side, despite her standing in front of him.

“You’re blushing,” he said, and allowed a curt smile.

The color in her cheeks deepened. “What makes you say that?”

Would she deny it? Would she disappoint him this soon and lie?

“I’m guessing,” he said, letting his voice be soothing, encouraging her to confide in him. If he was to accomplish his goal, he would need Dr. Patterson not to feel threatened. The good doctor had a reputation for delving into some of the most famous and devious of criminal minds. He wondered what she would think if she knew she was to be the guinea pig this time.

“Let me just say, I’ve been a psychologist quite a while. I’ve heard many shocking things, much more so than your problem. You needn’t worry about embarrassing me, Mr. Harding.”

Okay, so she chose to play it safe and cool, refusing him access to her inner self. This excited him nevertheless. He enjoyed a challenge.

“Perhaps,” she continued, “we should start by you telling me why you no longer enjoy sex.”

“Isn’t that obvious?” He used the tone he had perfected. The one that sounded offended yet sad enough to invoke the right amount of pity. It usually worked.

“Of course it’s not obvious.”

She was making this so easy. Playing right into his hands, so to speak. He cupped a palm over his erection.

“If you’re thinking your—” she hesitated “—your handicap—”

“It’s okay. You can call it what it is. I’m blind. I don’t mind anyone saying the word.”

“Okay, but your blindness should not mean a loss of libido.”

He liked the way she said “libido.” It made him anxious to hear her say “penis” and “fellatio”; he wondered how her lips would curl around those words.

“Is that what you’re saying, Mr. Harding?” she interrupted his thoughts. “That somehow your loss of sight has rendered you incapable of performing?”

“Men are highly visual creatures, especially when it comes to being sexually aroused.”

“True,” she said as she reached behind her and grabbed his case history. “When did you begin losing your eyesight?”

“About four years ago. Do we have to talk about that?”

She looked up at him over the open file. She had shifted to the other end of the desk, but he kept his gaze on the spot where she had been.

“If it will help us deal with your current problem, then, yes, I do think we should talk about it. Do you have an objection to that, Mr. Harding? You don’t appear to be a man who runs away from a challenge.”

“I have no objection,” he said, having some difficulty containing a smile. No, anyone who knew Walker Harding would never accuse him of running away from anything. But if he was to accept his new challenge, he’d need to depend on the master criminal mind that Dr. Patterson yet had the pleasure of examining. Yes, despite playing this new role, he would still need to depend on the genius of his old friend, Albert Stucky.