Amnesia (27 page)
Authors: G. H. Ephron
“SYLVIA JACKSON?” Annie gasped when I told her who I thought had picked up the phone. “Why would your patient be calling her?”
“Maybe she wasn't calling Syl. Maybe she was calling someone else, someone she knew would be at Syl's house.”
“Maybe Angelo,” Annie said. “She was his ex-wife. His alibi.”
I remembered the first time I'd met Angelo, how his powerful hands had circled Syl's neck. In my memory now, the gesture seemed menacing. This was the same man Maria said became enraged when the unexpected happened.
My mind was churning. I checked my watch, barely noticing the position of the minute and hour hands, acutely aware of the second hand sweeping across the dial. If I was lucky, it wasn't too late to prevent whatever terrible thing I knew in my gut was about to happen. Sitting still and waiting, mindlessly following doctor-patient etiquette, wasn't an option. This time, I wasn't going to be too late.
“Do you know where Sylvia Jackson lives? I think we should get over there. She could be in danger. And so could my patient.”
Annie pulled out her appointment book, turned to the back, and read off an address. I hurried out of the room and down the hall with Annie close behind. “Maybe we should call the police,” she said.
“And tell them what? To come protect me while I go snooping around at a private home?”
We hurried out past Kwan. He was on the phone, looking harried. He raised his eyebrows in a question. “I think I know where she might be,” I told him. Before Kwan could reply, Annie and I were gone.
Annie drove while I struggled to see a map in the beam of her little penlight. After a few wrong turns, we found Syl's house on a side street behind Mount Auburn Cemetery in a mazelike neighborhood of one-ways and dead ends.
As we approached, Annie turned off the ignition and the headlights and rolled to a stop just beyond the house. From the car, I could see a white colonial-style house with an attached garage. Tall bushes shrouded a shadowy front porch. Only a sliver of light between drawn drapes suggested anyone was home.
Someone had made an effort to dress up the house for Halloween. On the small lawn, dried cornstalks were teepeed around a lamppost. A pumpkin grinned from the top of a wheelchair ramp. Opposite the pumpkin was a little barrel of chrysanthemums. Beside the front door, barely visible in the shadow, a scarecrow dummy wearing a cowboy hat was slumped in a chair. I exhaled, realizing I'd been holding my breath.
“Okay, we're here,” Annie said. “Now what?”
This time, I wasn't going to do nothing. “Let's just check things out quietly first.”
Annie got out and eased the car door shut. I did the same.
We moved cautiously, up the side of the house, crouching as we passed under the dark windows. I was conscious of every sound â my own breathing, traffic whooshing up and down the adjacent streets, the far-off pulsing wail of a siren. At every step,
the sound of leaves crunching underfoot seemed thunderous.
the sound of leaves crunching underfoot seemed thunderous.
Annie disappeared around the rear of the house. I glanced back toward the street. The lights of passing cars briefly illuminated the Jeep.
“Peter,” came Annie's urgent whisper as she reappeared around the corner. “Come look!”
In the corner of the yard, lit by the dim glow from what I guessed was a curtained kitchen window and looking like the ghost of a small beached whale, sat a small boat. I raised an edge of the tarp that covered it. Just a stinkpot, like every other stinkpot that plagues the river. I lifted a dark hooded sweatshirt from under the wooden seat. I dropped it back into the boat and sniffed my handâit smelled of mildewed eau de Charles River.
A nearby branch snapped and we both hunkered down beside the boat. A cat darted out from behind some bushes. In the darkness, all I could see were little white paws mincing toward me and the white tip of a tail held aloft. It sauntered up and rubbed its back against my leg.
“Shoo,” I whispered, gently pushing the cat away. It skittered off and disappeared. “Let's check out the garage.”
We crept around the back of the yard, staying as deep in shadow as we could. We approached the back of the garage and I peered in through a window. “Can't see a blessed thing,” I whispered.
Annie shined the penlight through the glass. We couldn't make out much, but there was definitely a car parked inside, and it was definitely red.
“Let's go around front,” I said. “I think there's a door.”
It wasn't possible to go around the far side of the garage without making a racket, crashing through the branches that grew close to it. So we crept back around the house, skirting the yard, and returned to the front.
The scarecrow dummy still sat, nonchalant in the aluminum chair on the porch. Scarecrow dummies used to terrify me when
I was a kid. I'd skip the trick-or-treats at any house where one sat guard. This one slouched spinelessly, one leg pointing forward and the other one doubled over, angled back awkwardly, as if he might at any moment lurch to his feet and stagger off down the driveway in search of the black cat. Stuffed garden gloves sewn to the sleeves of a torn plaid shirt rested on threadbare jeans. Close up, I could see the childlike drawing of a jacko'-lantern face on his pillowcase head. I couldn't help thinking of the pillowcase that covered Tony Ruggiero's head while he was beaten and shot.
I was a kid. I'd skip the trick-or-treats at any house where one sat guard. This one slouched spinelessly, one leg pointing forward and the other one doubled over, angled back awkwardly, as if he might at any moment lurch to his feet and stagger off down the driveway in search of the black cat. Stuffed garden gloves sewn to the sleeves of a torn plaid shirt rested on threadbare jeans. Close up, I could see the childlike drawing of a jacko'-lantern face on his pillowcase head. I couldn't help thinking of the pillowcase that covered Tony Ruggiero's head while he was beaten and shot.
There was an ordinary door alongside the garage's overhead door. I twisted the knob gently. I pushed. The door gave about half an inch and then stuck. I pushed harder and felt the pile of objects pressed up against it inch back, just enough so that we could squeeze through.
It was pitch black inside. Annie switched on the penlight. Behind the door were stacks of boxes, one overflowing with old clothes, another exploding with miscellaneous plumbing innards. One bay of the garage was empty. In the other was the red Firebird we'd seen through the back window. Annie ran the light along one side. It was covered with scratches, as if someone had driven it heedlessly through underbrush. We squeezed around behind the car and Annie sidled up the far side, toward the front. She ran the light along the front fender. “Do you see what I see?” she asked, indicating a dent and a streak of dark green paint.
I started to answer when Annie put her finger to her lips and doused the light.
The door to the house on the opposite side of the garage opened. I crouched. Footsteps were barely audible, rubber soles crossing the garage's empty bay. As my eyes got accustomed to the dark, I began to make out a pale round shape, floating, suspended in the shadows at about head height.
There was a click and the room sprang to light. I blinked
away the brightness. “Well, if it isn't the expert witness,” a voice sneered.
away the brightness. “Well, if it isn't the expert witness,” a voice sneered.
Angelo di Benedetti stood facing me. He wore a black turtleneck and baggy black pants, rolled at the ankle above combat boots. His handsome face was hard and a vein pulsed in his forehead. He had his hands in his pockets. I wondered where Annie was, but I didn't dare look at the spot where I knew she'd been not more than ten seconds earlier. Another instinct told me not to move suddenly.
Angelo's eyes were cold and disdainful. “So nice of you to join us.”
Through the open door behind him, I could make out a figure sitting slumped over a kitchen table. It was Sylvia Jackson. She sat in her wheelchair, her back bowed, her chin resting on her chest. Just like the scarecrow dummy. Two half-filled wineglasses were on the table. Where was Maria? Was she here, too, drugged and comatose in one of the bedrooms?
“Why don't you come inside where we can be more comfortable,” he said, drawing out the last word so it took on sinister overtones.
He stood aside and I walked past him into the house. I went over to Syl, trying to move deliberately and not betray the panic I felt. I touched her shoulder. No reaction. I pressed two fingers to the side of her neck. The skin was cool, pulse faint. I shook her gently. Her body listed to one side. She was unconscious. Not dead. Not yet.
“She needs a doctor,” I said, keeping my voice even.
“Isn't that what you are? A doctor?”
“I'm not that kind of doctor.”
“Oh, that's right,” he said, chuckling unpleasantly. “You're the memory doctor. You and your stupid tests. Syl really has the hots for you, you know.”
I'd already started walking over to the phone on the wall beside the refrigerator. I picked it up, hoping to hear the reassuring
buzz of a dial tone. Instead, I heard the echoes of an empty seashell. No wonder I hadn't been able to call Sylvia Jackson back. Then I heard the door from the kitchen to the garage close.
buzz of a dial tone. Instead, I heard the echoes of an empty seashell. No wonder I hadn't been able to call Sylvia Jackson back. Then I heard the door from the kitchen to the garage close.
“Is there another phone?” I asked.
“It's not working? Oh, my, I guess we'll have to get that fixed,” Angelo said.
“I have a phone in the car,” I said, and started toward the front door. But like a ninja, Angelo materialized in front of it. He stood there, feet apart, knees and elbows flexed, a small gun in his hand. Though he held the gun loosely, pointing it toward the ground, I sensed that every tendon in his body was taut. A jack-in-the-box, he was ready to spring at the slightest nudge.
He smiled at me. His eyes glittered with anger. They were nothing like the flat, lifeless eyes of Ralston Bridges. I had no doubt that the gun was real and loaded. And that Angelo wouldn't hesitate to use it. But for some reason, I wasn't afraid. I felt hyperalert. As if I'd been rowing long enough for the endorphins to kick in and create a center of calm, an ability to focus completely on the task at hand. For a brief instant, I even imagined myself neatly kicking the gun from his hand.
“Don't even think about it,” Angelo said, reading my thought.
I held his gaze as we stood, face to face. A rustle of movement broke the spell. Then footsteps. A connecting door pushed open and Maria Whitson appeared.
I took a step toward her and stopped. “Thank God you're safe,” I said.
“Dr. Zak. What are you ⦠? Why are you â¦?” she stammered. She seemed surprised and something else that could have been afraid. She wore black leggings with turquoise stripes up the sides and a matching windbreaker. A black sweatband held her hair back from her face.
“Come here, doll,” Angelo said, stepping over to her and pulling her toward him. Their wedding picture flashed briefly into my mind. Just as in that carefully posed photograph, Angelo
wound his arm tightly around Maria. She was the prize, and he her owner. Once again, I wondered if she'd left that album open on her bed so I'd know who'd taken her.
wound his arm tightly around Maria. She was the prize, and he her owner. Once again, I wondered if she'd left that album open on her bed so I'd know who'd taken her.
“Everyone is worried sick about you,” I told her.
“I'm fine,” she said woodenly, each word occupying the same amount of time and space as the next. “Much better, in fact.”
“I'm sure they've called the police by now,” I added.
“Shit,” Angelo hissed.
“I told you, you should have let me call the hospital,” she told Angelo.
Then Angelo turned on me, seeming to grow larger. “I knew I should have gotten rid of you a long time ago,” he said. “If you'd just stayed out of it, Doctor, our friend Stuart would have been convicted. That would have been the end of it. But no, you couldn't leave well enough alone. Fuck you!” His angry look turned to scorn as the gun rose. “You poor, stupid sonofabitch.”
I still felt eerily calm. As if this were all a movie. Breathe evenly, I told myself, and maintain eye contact. “You don't have to do this, Angelo,” I said, as if we were sitting in my office having a chat. “I know you thought there was a reason to kill Tony Ruggiero, but ⦔
“What do you know about that?” he snapped.
“I know you thought killing him was justified. Revenge ⦔
“Uncle Nino,” Angelo jeered. “There's no more Uncle Nino now, is there? We fixed that, didn't we?”
I wanted to ask, “Who's we?” But I thought better of it. What mattered at that moment was getting Sylvia Jackson safely whisked away to a hospital, getting Maria away from here, and getting Angelo put away so he couldn't hurt either of them.
“But Syl's different, isn't she?” I droned on, keeping one eye on the gun he still held aloft. “You know as well as I do, there's no reason to kill her. She doesn't remember anything. And she never will. You took care of that when you shot her in the head.”
“She has to die. Like he had to die.” It was Maria Whitson,
not Angelo, who said the words that trickled like ice water down the back of my neck. She stared at me wide-eyed. “She was
his
girlfriend. They both had to die.”
not Angelo, who said the words that trickled like ice water down the back of my neck. She stared at me wide-eyed. “She was
his
girlfriend. They both had to die.”
Her eyes were bright. Her pupils were pinpoints. I wondered what she'd taken. And suddenly, I understood. I understood the hurt that the young Maria Whitson had felt when she found her uncle, the young man whom she adored, having sex with his girlfriend. It was a betrayal she had never gotten over. Her recovered memories of sexual abuse were only stand-ins for the real nightmare. Take them away and the malevolence she felt toward her uncle and toward his lovers remained intact.
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