"As women rise into positions of power," Sheila said, audible now, as though she'd moved closer to the recorder, "it's natural they should share the same afflictions as men. There are studies that show a significant portion of both men and women in the business and political world suffer from a range of sociopathic tendencies, from narcissism to delusions of grandeur. Even paranoia."

"I don't know about that," Barclay said dismissively. "What I do know is that this idea people have, women in particular, that we'd all be better off if women called the shots..." He fell into a high-pitched impersonation: "If women were in charge, there would be no war. There would be no poverty, no famine, and we'd all live together in peace and love and harmony."

He laughed, reverting to his normal voice, suddenly furious. "Well, I call bullshit! Where's the proof of that, Doc? I defy you to show me a matrilineal culture that's not just as fucked up, if not more fucked up, than any phallocentric society in the history of the world!"

"I'm not an anthropologist."

The sound of him rising from his chair was as loud as a car crash. "You're goddamn right you ain't!"

"Again, Mr. Barclay, I'm going to have to ask you to sit down."

"All right, all right. No need to get emotional."

Martin could just make out Barclay's snicker under the sound of his shackles jingling, the chair scraping against the floor as he righted it.

"I mean, that's what this is all about—this feminization, this gynefication, this Lorena Bobbitting of society. And you, Doc, you're the heart of the beast: you and your colleagues. Psychiatry," he said with unrestrained contempt, "is the huge swingin Mother's teat of the Modern Age, coddling and pacifying these—these children in grown-up bodies. You talk it over, you dispense the medicine and you kiss all the ouchies away. But we never really learn nothin for ourselves, do we? We always need more help. It's an addiction. It's chiropractic for the soul."

"Say what you will about him," Sheila said from the floor, "his sermons could give Charles Manson a run for his money."

"You mentioned earlier—" she said, this time on the tape. A pause as she leafed through her notes. "You said it was your obligation to murder those women. Your purpose. Do you think you can tell me about that now?"

"I s'pose you heard of the Bantu. Them African folk?"

"I believe that's a derogatory term now."

"Be that as it may," Barclay scoffed. "There's this old tradition—musta read about it in a book when I was a young feller, cain't say fer sure—anyhow, there's this tradition where all the females of the tribe, the women and the girls, they all gather in a circle shakin and hollerin, an' this old woman with a big ole headdress on and a long, bloody spear, she's standin in the middle, big brown eyes all bugged-out like a cow 'fore the slaughterhouse, flickin at all them girls with a swatch, dancin and shakin and leapin out at em all. Now this tribe calls her the Witch Smeller. And whoever she touches, they drag her off right there an' then an' slaughter her just like an animal."