F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 (18 page)

 
          
Cahill's
research indicates that fear or other strong emotions act as memory boosters.
The adrenal surge of epinephrine and norepinephrine in a stressful or threatening
situation activates the amygdala to stimulate the cortex to give tins
particular occurrence a prominent place in the memory banks. The adaptive
advantage is obvious.

 
          
—
Random notes: Julia Gordon

1

 
          
Julie
spent the next day rushing to pack her equipment for overnight delivery. Eathan
made all the arrangements with DHL, and the fragile electronics were waiting at
the hospital desk for pickup.

 
          
Her
few clothes were already packed. Her flight was still hours away.

 
          
There's
time, she thought.

 
          
She
wanted to see Sam's studio again, Sam's
real
studio, be-'ore she
reentered the surreal virtual studio of Sam's mind. She may have missed a clue.

           
Taking her bag with her, she caught
a cab to the 6th Arrondissement, back to the last place Sam was conscious.

2

 
          
Madame
DuPont, the landlady, recognized Julie and, with one of her Gallic shrugs, let
her into the room. The top floor was chilly. A storm was coming in, and the
skies over
Paris
had turned a nasty gray.

 
          
The
woman stayed at the door for a moment. Then she said, "Il me
faut
preparer le diner.
..." It was the dinner hour.

 
          
Julie
raised a hand. "Merci,
Madame,"
she said. The woman turned and
left.

 
          
And
Julie was alone in the room.

 
          
She
walked the floor, stepping on the dried splatters of paint, the remnants of
Sam's last work. This had been Sam's world. Now it was an empty, shadowy space,
keeping its secrets.

 
          
Julie
looked around. The fresh colors on the floor were a bright orange and a dark,
blackish blue.

 
          
Julie
pondered the paintings, wondering if there was an order to them. Did they get
progressively darker, the images more bent and twisted?

 
          
She
stopped before one that showed a deformed face as though distorted by a
fun-house mirror. The mouth hung open in a frozen scream. A disturbing work,
and it gave her the creeps to be standing here alone with it.

 
          
She
bent closer, looking at the open mouth ...

 
          
And
spotted a detail she hadn't noticed. Inside the mouth, at the back of the
tongue, were tiny figures, a family sitting in a quaint 1960s living room. A
mother, a father, two children
—
two girls. The father was
carving a roast. Julie leaned closer. No, not a roast. . .

 
          
She
jerked back.

 
          
...
a human hand.

 
          
I'm
so dense, she thought.

 
          
She'd
looked at this painting on her first visit, but hadn't seen this. A severed
hand. She'd seen one in the memoryscape. Twice now. It must mean something to
Sam ... but what?

           
What else am I missing?

 
          
I
wish
... I
wish the missing painting were here.

 
          
She
moved on, retracing Sam's memory of coming into this studio with Liam. Reality
and memory, the line was becoming blurred.

 
          
A
floorboard creaked behind her.

 
          
She
turned.

 
          
A
girl stood there, ten or eleven years old, watching her. Mme. DuPont's
daughter. She snapped her gum.

 
          
Julie
stumbled to say something in French. "Er,
qu'est ce
—"

 
          
"Mama
says you are Mademoiselle Samantha's sister."

 
          
The
girl's English was perfect, with just a delightful hint of an accent.

 
          
"Yes.
I was. I mean, I am
—
"

 
          
"She's
not better?"

 
          
"No.
Not better. But she's going ... home." The word didn't come easy. Was
Oakwood home anymore.
⁷

 
          
The
girl took a step into the studio. "That's good. Because I think
—
" She looked out into the dark hallway. "Because
I think that the man might come back."

 
          
A
chill trickled down Julie's spine like a bead of ice water. She thought of the
roses, and the prowler the Sainte Gabrielle staff had seen near Julie's window.
This is real, she thought. I'm not in my sister's head now. This girl is
standing here, telling me
—

 
          
"It
was raining. And the man, he came wearing a hat and an overcoat. I told Mama
—
"

 
          
"Yes?"
Julie said gently.

 
          
"I
told her that I couldn't see his face. But after he left, I knew something had
happened."

 
          
"Do
you think it was her boyfriend?"

 
          
"I
do not know. I liked your sister. She was nice. She always gave me gum. She
—
"

 
          
"Cecile!"

 
          
A
voice yelled from below, the landlady summoning her laughter.
"Cecile,
viens ici!"

 
          
A
stranger, Julie thought, but the child didn't see the face. Just a figure in a
coat, a hat. Still, Julie should make sure that the French police came and
spoke to Cecile.

           
And maybe it wasn't such a good idea
to stay here, alone. She took one last look around the room and left.

3

 
          
Julie
had to race to
Orly
Airport
.

 
          
A
particularly nasty thunderstorm hit
Paris
at the peak of rush hour,
slowing traffic to a crawl. She kept checking her watch. She gripped the back
of the cabbie's seat as if she could urge the driver to find some magical
shortcut.

 
          
The
driver whistled and happily chewed on a sausage, oblivious to the precious
minutes slipping away.

 
          
But
once out of the center of the city, traffic finally began to flow. Julie sat
back, telling herself to accept her fate if she missed the plane.

 
          
More
mayhem at the airport as the wind whipped the rain sideways, creating giant
puddles.

 
          
Julie
handed the driver a stack of franc notes and dashed out into the maelstrom with
her bag held tight. She thought of her hardware, all padded and crated, and
hoped it was protected from the storm.

 
          
The
British Airways counter line curled back and forth a dozen times. Julie looked
up to the monitor and saw that her departure was "On Schedule."

 
          
Why
was there never a delay when you needed one?

 
          
She
ran over to the customer service desk and showed her ticket to an airline representative;
the woman immediately saw the urgency and brought Julie to a side desk. In
minutes Julie was easing into her coach seat on the near-empty flight to
Manchester
.

 
          
Shortly
after takeoff, she dozed, thinking of Oakwood.

 
          
She
never could bring herself to describe the old stone manor as "home."
No, home was the place that burned in upstate
New York
, a place she and Sam never
would return to. In her mind that house was in eternal flames, her father
bravely rescuing her and Sam, setting them on the grass, saying "Stay
here. I'm going back for your mother," then rushing back into the fire.

           
Never to return.
That
was
home.

 
          
Oakwood
was always something else, a strange old place; protective, almost castlelike,
filled with halls and hiding places. But never home. Julie closed her eyes. And
slipped into a dream...

 
          
...
of another rainy night, with terrible thunder outside and the brilliant
lightning flashing long shadows onto the carpeted floor of the great library
of Oakwood, filled with fine leather-bound books and overstuffed chairs.

 
          
She
was playing hide-and-seek with Sam, calling out for the sister who always hid
too well. Sam knew secret places.

 
          
Julie
crept up the stairs and walked down the long hallway, calling Sam's name.

 
          
Until
she came to a room.

 
          
A
locked room.

 
          
Like
in a fairy tale. You may enter any room, save one. This
one
room you
must not enter.

 
          
Like
Beauty and the Beast.

 
          
She
touched the door. Uncle Eathan's study. He kept all his private papers in
there. He didn't want his nieces playing in such an important room.

 
          
Only
now, the always-locked door
opened.
The click of the turning handle was
deafening.

 
          
And
inside, she saw Samantha at their uncle's desk.

 
          
Trying
to open a drawer.

 
          
"I
—
I found you," Julie said.

 
          
The
game was over, hide-and-seek ended. But Sam shook her head. That game had
ended.

 
          
Sam's
face ... so grim, so determined.

 
          
Through
the library windows came a blinding flash of light, tollowed by a floor-shaking
crash of thunder. Julie closed her eyes. She covered her ears ...

 
          
.
. and woke up.

 
          
I
don't dream, she thought. God
—
I can't remember the last
lime I dreamed. What could have made me dream? And why about Eathan's office?

 
          
Or
maybe it wasn't a dream. Perhaps it was a memory. But Julie couldn't remember
that incident. Did it ever happen? Or had she carried it back from Sam?

 
          
Now
there
was an unsettling thought.