F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 (23 page)

 
          
Julie
gaped. Uncle Eathan ... it looked as if he'd saved just about everything of
theirs he'd been able to lay his hands on. But why hide it away like this? Was
he afraid to show that he cared this much for them?

 
          
And
why don't I feel touched? she thought.

 
          
She
stepped up and tugged on one of the file-cabinet drawers. It slid open,
revealing a row of hanging folders. The first was unmarked but each after that
was tagged in succession: Julia: Age 6 ...
Julia: Age
7... and so on.

 
          
Her
heart beat a little faster as she reached into the drawer. What was all this?

 
          
She
pulled out the first folder, the unmarked one. It contained a number of folded
newspaper pages, stiff and yellowed with age. Julie carefully unfolded one of
the sheets and found herself staring at page one of
The MiUbum Express.
An
ominous feeling crept over her when she saw the issue date of
March
7, 1972
.
She knew that date. No need to look for the story. The banner headline told it
all:

 
          
COUPLE
DIES IN FIRE
—
CHILDREN MISSING And below
it:

 
          
Millburn
: Shortly after
midnight
, fire gutted the home of
Nathan and Lucinda Gordon in the western hill section ...

 
          
Julie
couldn't bring herself to read any further. And she could barely do more than
glance at the grainy photo of the charred ruins that had once been her home.

 
          
Pretty
damn morbid keeping that in here.

 
          
She
carefully refolded it and tucked it back where she'd found it. Enough hard
news. What was the rest?

 
          
She
pulled out the Age 6 folder and opened it. The first thing she saw was her
primary school picture at the
Saint John
School
in
Whitby
. She saw her six-year-old
face staring un-smilingly at the camera. Sam stood close behind her, practically
spooned against her, looking no more happy to be there than her sister. A
pretty grim time for them: their mom and dad dead only a year before, placed in
the care of their
uncle
Eathan, who'd moved them to
England
, where all the other kids
thought they talked funny.

 
          
Someone
—
Eathan, she assumed
—
had
circled a J
and
pointed an arrow to her. But why no arrow to
Sam?                   
"

 
          
She
flipped through the rest of the file: report cards, penmanship lessons,
spelling and addition tests. All hers. Why no Sam? Unless...

 
          
She
pulled open the top drawer on the neighboring
file
cabinet. And there
she was:
Samantha: Age
6 ...
Samantha:
Age 7...

 
          
A
quick peek in Sam's Age 6 folder revealed the same class picture, only this
time a circled S pointed to Sam. And along with Sam's report cards was some of
her early crayon art. Typical of Sam, she never bothered to stay within the
lines. A rebel even then.

 
          
Julie
pulled open more drawers and saw that the Age cards went all the way up to
30
for each of them, even though they were only twenty-eight. Obviously
intended as an ongoing project.

 
          
And
equally obvious why the folders started at six: Everything up to age five had
been consumed in the fire. The newspaper in that first, unmarked file was like
a black stripe scorched across their timelines, marking the starting point of
their recorded history.

 
          
But
why? Why such a detailed chronicle of their lives? Even the most devoted
parents weren't this obsessive. It was almost scary.

 
          
But
then again, Uncle Eathan had to be one of the most meticulous people she'd ever
met. Maybe this was just his way. It certainly showed how much he loved them.

 
          
But
why keep it locked?

 
          
The
last cabinet was a different make than the others, a little wider, a little
taller, and much older. She tugged on the top handle but the drawer wouldn't
budge. And then she noticed a four-digit combination lock on the facing above
the drawer.

 
          
Great.
A locked file within a locked cabinet. What did Eathan have in here? Another,
smaller, locked cabinet?

 
          
Julie
jumped as a car door slammed somewhere out front.

           
She darted to the window and saw
Eathan getting out of his Bentley, but couldn't see who was in the passenger
seat.

 
          
Oh
God! He's
back!

 
          
Quickly
she closed the open file drawers. They banged shut.

 
          
"Damn!"
she said, annoyed at her clumsiness.

 
          
More
gingerly, but still hurrying, she shut the doors, re-locked the cabinet, then
returned the key to Eathan's desk drawer.

 
          
Trying
to look as casual as possible, Julie strolled out into the hall.

 
          
A
quick glance left and right: empty.

 
          
She
released the breath she'd been holding and hurried toward her room.

 
          
My
uncle's hiding something.

 
          
Yeah,
Sam, she thought. You're right about that. Eathan is hiding something. But
nothing bad. That was pretty obvious.

 
          
It
could have been worse. She could have found a collection of whips and chains
and B-and-D sex toys. Or the bones of missing children. Or
—
she had to smile
—
a
closetful of women's clothing, all in Eathan's size.

 
          
Instead
she'd found ... their lives. Every event recorded, labeled, and filed away.
How strange. A labor of love worthy of the most dutiful parent. And hardly
sinister.

 
          
But
what about the file cabinet with the combination lock? Whose life was kept in
there?

 
          
None
of my damn business.

 
          
She
may have grown up here, but she'd overstepped her bounds just now in Eathan's
study. That was his private sanctum. She'd just paid her first and last visit
to his cabinet. From now on she'd concentrate on what she'd come here for: to
explore Sam's memoryscape.

 
          
She
slowed as she passed the top of the stairs. Dinner was rooking. Smelled
delicious.

 
          
She
wondered who Eathan's mystery guest was.

 
          
Memory
storage
is highly organized. Words, for instance: Nouns are stored along the
left temporal lobe, but they're not all lumped together. At least 20 specific
areas have been iden-tified for fruits, animals, numbers, colors, body parts,
plants, etc. Verbs are stored near the motor cortex. How elegant . . . since
verbs involve doing.

—
Random
notes: Julia Gordon

1

 
          
"Ah,
Julia, I'd like you to meet Dr. Alma Evans." A dark, compact, middle-aged
woman stood beside Eathan by the bar at the far end of the drawing room. She
stepped forward, smiling and switching her drink to her left hand
—
the one with the cigarette
—
and
extending her right, as Julie entered.

 
          
"Dr.
Gordon. I'd have known you anywhere. You look exactly like your sister. I've
heard so much about you from your uncle."

 
          
"Call
me Julie, please," she said, taking the woman's hand. It was cold from the
ice in her drink.

           
"Only if you call me
Alma."

 
          
"Deal."

 
          
Alma
Evans had dark hair and bright brown eyes. A nice smile, even if the teeth were
a little crooked and slightly nicotine stained. Her accent was strictly
upper-class British lockjaw.

 
          
Eathan
said, "We're trying a fifty-year-old single-malt scotch 1 picked up
outside
Edinburgh
last month. Care to try
some?"

 
          
"Fifty
years old? Is it still drinkable?"

 
          
"Eminently
so,"
Alma
said, holding up a short crystal tum
 
bler. "It's sinfully smooth----
"

 
          
Julie
accepted a couple of fingers' worth neat. Usually she took hers on the rocks
with a splash of soda, but diluting fifty-year-old scotch seemed a capital
crime.

 
          
She
raised her glass. "Cheers." And sipped.

 
          
It
was heaven
—
smooth, rich, with a smoky,
peaty tang.

 
          
"I'll
take a case," she said. She sipped again. "Make that two cases."

 
          
Eathan
laughed. "If you knew what this one bottle cost, I think you'd cut your
order."

 
          
They
discussed the various wonders of single-malt scotches until they'd beaten the
subject to death, and then it was time for dinner.

 
          
As
they headed for the dining room, Eathan drew her aside.

 
          
"Are
you all right? You look a bit frazzled."

 
          
"I'm
fine."

 
          
"Is
it the memoryscape? Did you see something?"

 
          
It's
not what I
saw,
she thought.

 
          
"Nothing
that made much sense."

 
          
"I
hope to change that," he said.

2

 
          
Rack
of lamb was served with a vintage
bordeaux
. The fine cuisine of
Oakwood's succession of chefs was wasted on Julie and her sister growing up
—
but she certainly could appreciate it now.

 
          
Eathan
raised his glass.

           
"While we're feasting down
here, let us not forget Samantha upstairs. To her quick recovery."

 
          
"Hear,
hear!" said Alma Evans. "Poor thing ..."

 
          
"How
well do you know Sam?" Julie said.

 
          
Eathan
said, "
Alma
has been Samantha's psychiatrist for a number of
years."

 
          
"Really?"
Julie wasn't terribly surprised. Eathan's mention of a psychiatrist this
morning, and then a mystery guest for dinner. She'd half suspected it.
"I'm amazed she'd agree to any sort of therapy."

 
          
"After
the
Venice
incident she decided maybe
she should try something,"
Alma
said.

 
          
Julie
shot Eathan a look. "
Venice
? What happened in
Venice
?"

 
          
Eathan
looked away. "A suicide attempt. She didn't want anyone to know
—
especially you."

 
          
"Especially
me." Julie thought, Why am I not surprised at that, either? "She's
overdosed before. You're sure this
Venice
incident was intentional?"

 
          
Eathan
nodded. "She left a note. But that's all in the past. With
Alma
's help she got over what it
was that made her so desperate. She actually seemed to be straightening out.
Then this... coma. I brought
Alma
here to meet you tonight because
she knows probably better than anyone what's been going on inside of Sam
lately."

 
          
"This
puts me in somewhat of an awkward ethical position, as you can imagine,"
Alma
said. "But in weighing
patient privilege against patient survival, I see no choice but to come down
on the side of survival."

 
          
"I'm
sure I appreciate your help," Julie said. "Every day we seem to be
losing more of Sam, but I don't see
—
"

 
          
"I've
asked
Alma
to stay over for a few
days," Eathan said. "I thought she might be able to give us some
insight into Samantha's dreams."

 
          
"Dreams?"

 
          
"Yes.
Those things, those"
—
he waved his hand in the
air-
—
"fantasies you see
when you go into her memory."

 
          
"They're
not dreams. They're memories."

 
          
"But
they're not
accurate
memories, " Eathan said. "They're
distorted. That statue of Perseus was a good example. I don't know yet what you
saw today, but maybe
Alma
can interpret the symbolism."

 
          
Julie
didn't like this. For one thing, she didn't want Eathan or anyone else talking
up the new memory technology. For another, it was bad enough to have Eathan
and Dr. S. looking over her shoulder; now to have this stranger...

 
          
But
if she could answer some questions...

 
          
Julie
turned to
Alma
. "My uncle told you about the statue being
substituted for the microscope?"

 
          
She
nodded. "Yes. This memory process you've developed sounds absolutely
astounding. I must see it in action."

 
          
Julie
nodded. She didn't know how she felt about that. It was one thing to share
Sam's past with her therapist...

 
          
But
I'm in there too.

 
          
"You
will. But the distorted memory Eathan told you about: What's your take on that?
Any idea what it could mean?"

 
          
"I
really couldn't say,"
Alma
said. "I'd have to see more of these experiences
before I'd even attempt to come up with an interpretation. It seems
symbolic...."
Alma
looked over to Eathan, then back to Julie. "But of
what?"

 
          
Well,
at least she hadn't offered some facile garbage for an answer. Julie was leery
of any sort of instant analysis. Dr. Evans had just taken a step up in her
estimation. She respected any supposed expert who had the courage to say
"I don't know."

 
          
"Julie,
my plan was to have
Alma
review the videotapes you've made so far of your 'memory'
trips. Perhaps she might draw some conclusions, give us all a little
guidance."

 
          
Julie
stiffened as she remembered today's videotape.

 
          
The
VCR attached to the monitor feed had recorded this afternoon's journey into
Sam's memoryscape: the lovemaking ... and Sam's suspicions.

 
          
My
uncle's
hiding something. . . . He's hiding
lots
of things, I think.

 
          
She
knew he was hiding a collection of their artifacts, but was that all?

 
          
Sam's
suspicions might hurt Eathan. And might put him on his guard, make him even
more dubious about letting Julie continue. She wished to avoid both.

 
          
Because,
she thought, because
—
someday I might want to
learn what's in that locked file cabinet.

           
She took a deep breath, then a sip
of the
bordeaux
.

 
          
She'd
have to hide the tape as soon as she got upstairs. Later she'd say she forgot
to start the recorder before the session.

 
          
"Yes.
Of course. I wouldn't show them to just anyone. They're intensely personal. But
since
Alma
is her psychiatrist
..."

 
          
"Excellent!"
Eathan said. "The more heads we put together, the sooner we can resolve
this mess and return Samantha to consciousness." Eathan's smile faded.
"That is... if she
can
return to consciousness."

3

 
          
After
a dessert of lemon glace, they retired to the drawing room, where
Alma
lit a cigarette. Eathan
passed out glasses of port, then ignited a thick, dark cigar. Julie felt as if
she were in a
Masterpiece Theatre
episode. What was next
—
talk of the "Great War"? Trouble with the help?

 
          
"Since
when do you smoke?" Julie said, fanning her hand in the air before her.
She wanted to tell him how his stogie stank, but it was his house.

 
          
"I've
picked it up over the last few years. Only cigars, and only rarely. One or two
a week at most." He smiled. "I'm not a nicotine fiend."

 
          
Alma
laughed. "Your uncle
is learning to enjoy life a little. You Americans
—
so
terribly abstemious about the good things in life. Smoke-free planes and
restaurants, low-fat this, no-cal that, light, lighter, lightest. What a
joyless existence. Please don't take this personally, but most of us over here
think you're all quite mad."