Erasing Memory (33 page)

“Roger that. Will call for support and paramedics immediately.”

Borisov looked back at Mendez and smiled, then looked over to the surfers and did a semi-bow before he turned seaward, still singing. “Got to keep those lovin’ good vibrations a-happening with her.…” He dipped his knees, swung his arms like Greg Louganis on the ten-metre platform, then pushed off, launching himself into a perfect swan dive before he disappeared from view.

“Sweet Jesus!” Mendez rushed over to the edge, followed by the surfers.

The perfect dive broke when Borisov hit the side of the cliff. He cartwheeled downward and slammed into the beach with a delayed, muted thud, ending up draped over one of the rock formations that jutted up from the sand.

“No fuckin’ way, man. That was way too cool—him smiling, singing and all.”

“Fubar. Truly fu-bar,” another surfer said slowly, emphasizing the two syllables. “That stoner could fly, man—but gravity wins.”

Below, surfers began to gather around the body. Mendez retrieved the megaphone from the trunk of his cruiser. Several more vehicles had now stopped on the shoulder, emptied of the curious, who lined the edge of the cliff.

Pressing the button of his shoulder radio, Mendez said, “Status, please?”

“On their way, Sergeant. Should arrive shortly.”

Through the megaphone, Mendez called down, “Stay away from that body. Do not touch it. There is a medical team arriving shortly. I repeat, stay away from the body.” His hat flew off in the updraft, skidding across the gravel, where it was picked up by a large woman in a yellow tank top, Lycra cycling shorts and flip-flops who’d stepped out of a camper. He thanked her when she returned it, placed it snugly on his head, raised the megaphone again and, looking down the line of people gawking over the edge of the cliff, said, “Okay, folks, there’s nothing left to see here. Please get back in your vehicles and leave immediately.”

Turning to the three surfers he said, “I’ll need your IDs so I can call you as witnesses.” Each dug something out of his baggy cargo shorts and handed it to him. Mendez wrote down the information and handed their cards back. Stuffing the
notebook into his Kevlar vest, he said, “You guys can go too. But catch your waves farther down the beach. I don’t want to see you below. Understood?”

“Right on, dude. Seriously bad karma here anyway,” said the tallest of the three as they climbed back into the truck. Just before they pulled away, the driver reversed to get closer to Mendez. The kid with curly hair was leaning out of the window. “Hey, officer, what’d you say to get him up on the hood in the first place?”

“Damned if I know, son. Damned if I know. Buckle up now, drive safe and ride some waves for me.”

“Rock on.” The truck pulled ahead slowly to minimize the kick-up of dust and gravel before powering onto the highway.

For several moments afterwards Mendez could hear only the wind and the calls of seabirds. He looked down again. A crowd of people was standing some yards away from the body, and it included a yellow Labrador that was slowly, warily edging closer. On the sand was a dark starburst of blood and brain matter from Gheorghi’s exploded head. The dog was sniffing the end of one of the splatters.

“Get that dog away from the body!” he shouted through the megaphone. Its owner stepped forward, grabbed it by the neck and pulled it away towards the shore, where he let fly with a Frisbee. The dog took off after it, snagging it before splashing down into the surf. Mendez returned to the trunk of the Mustang.

The second suitcase contained more new clothes, two pairs of Prada shoes in soft beige bags, and a large manila envelope. Inside were two sheets of blotting paper, each with a grid of eighth-inch brown dots.
Old-style acid
, Mendez thought. The
corner of one sheet had been neatly torn off and two dots were missing. Underneath the envelope were two black cases, one that looked vaguely like his daughter’s flute case, the other four inches or so longer and slightly wider.

Opening the smaller one, he discovered a stainless steel syringe, which he assumed would be used for large animals, maybe elephants or rhinos. It was nestled in black Styrofoam that had been cut to its exact shape. He snapped the case shut and laid it back in the suitcase before opening the other one. Inside he found a similar Styrofoam nest but with nothing in it. In the foam were two long, slender slots an inch wide and deep, one slightly longer than the other. There was an oddly shaped section that he couldn’t identify, and another that sent a chill through him—the shape of a pistol grip, angled back and scalloped with four finger-sized grooves.

Mendez closed the trunk and went back to the edge of the cliff. The crowd was smaller now and still staying several yards away from the body. He pushed the control on his shoulder radio. “How far away is the support?”

“Close. What’s the condition of the injured party?”

“Roger. Well, he likely took one brown dot too many and did a swan dive off the cliff. At the moment he’s four hundred feet below me on the beach. I’d say he’s feelin’ no pain. Over.”

“Ah, roger that, Sergeant. The medical team will arrive momentarily.”

“Let them know they can slow down; this is now a retrieval. Get the coroner’s office and the crime-scene boys down here. Send a tow truck for the Mustang. As soon as Montgomery gets here, we’ll secure the area upside and down.”

“Roger that.”

He could hear sirens approaching from the north and the south. He switched off the two-way on his belt, squatted down and watched the surfers. The waves had picked up, and three were hitting the peak to get a decent ride. The surfer on the lead board was squatting with his arms out, ripping along the lip of the wave.

“Keep cutting that edge, son.”

The dog was racing along the shoreline, barking and jumping through the foam, trying to keep up with the surfer. When the kid finally slid down the wave and his board slowed, the dog bounced into the waves to meet him. “The American dream,” Mendez said to himself, without a hint of irony.

The first three chapters of this book appeared to me in dsreams over the course of eight or nine months. I scribbled them down in the dark as Shirley slept beside me. A year or so passed from the time of the first dream to the moment when my wife read through them and thought they formed a narrative. She challenged me to continue: “There’s a book here. Why don’t you write it?”

Shirley is my first reader and reality check. David Young promised to read the first draft ruthlessly, “as if it was my own.” Margaret Atwood brought Bruce Westwood of Westwood Creative Artists into my life, and Kristine Wookey, Chris Casuccio and Bruce read
Erasing Memory
before agreeing to represent me. Bruce then passed it along to Anne Collins of Random House Canada, who swiftly became the book’s champion. She and her colleagues Marion Garner and Louise Dennys agreed to publish this first-time mystery novelist in their World of Crime series—something akin to three lightning strikes on a dime.

It has been an extraordinary education working with Anne; I am deeply grateful for her editorial guidance, and even her occasional “huh?!!” Thanks also to my close friends Shin Sugino and Roman Borys, my daughter-in-law, Christine Tizzard, and my colleagues Kirk Stephens and Mark Lyall, for helping me create a cover in forty-eight hours. Thank you, Scott Richardson of Random House of Canada, for contributing so selflessly to its realization.

My desire to write and draw was encouraged by my beloved uncle Wesley G. Woods, OBE, of Woodbridge, Suffolk—priest, classical scholar, bomber navigator, cultural diplomat, artist, linguist and birdwatcher. Whoever I am as a storyteller began in the lessons learned through our decades-long correspondence. He was, and remains, my hero. Robert Morrow, Doctors Dody and John Bienenstock, and Rae Lake all answered questions that I’m certain seemed bizarre at the time. Thank you, Sarah Jane Caddick, PhD, for introducing me to neuroscience, a journey I could never have imagined taking. I’m grateful to Marcello and Chris Barone, who always save my seat at the bar, and to my colleague Carmen Serravalle and my friend Tim Seeton for saving a place for me in their hearts. I want also to thank my family for their patience through this period of my distraction—Marsh and Andrea, Ian and Christine, Sophia, Ozzie and Charles. And to end with a confession, the dreams continue—even while I’m awake—and they’ve grown more intense.

SCOTT THORNLEY has had a diverse career, from designing the Gemini Award for the Academy of Canadian Television to the logos for
Mary Poppins
and
The Little Mermaid
. As president and creative director of Scott Thornley + Company (a strategic creative firm that defines, builds and maintains the brands of clients in Canada, the United States and Great Britain), Thornley has worked for twenty years with the pillars of the Canadian and international cultural and scientific communities in the field of applied storytelling. Having won over 150 international awards for design, he was inducted into the Royal Canadian Academy of the Arts in 1990. His interests also include drawing and photography—both of which he has exhibited.