“The process is reversed. The plaque returns. But …”
“What about in non-Alzheimer’s patients? Any signs of plaque or dementia from taking the stuff?”
“No. Now, why are you asking me all this?”
“Because I think I witnessed the murder of my mother.”
“that?”
“I was very young at the time, but I’m almost certain somebody killed her in my presence. And I’m just remembering it by way of memory-related nightmares and flashbacks.”
“Flashbacks?”
“Yeah. Sometimes when I’m awake I have these spells. Just scraps, like a filmstrip with lots of frames missing.” And he described some of the episodes. But as disturbing as they were, he felt relief in getting them out, in telling her—and it was not just like lancing a psychic boil. For some reason he wanted her to know. He wanted René Ballard to know about him.
At the moment, she seemed transfixed. “Go ahead.”
“I think it was at the cottage on Homer’s Island the night she disappeared,” he continued. “And I think she knew whoever it was, because I don’t sense immediate hostility as with a stranger. I think there was a fight, because I remember shouting and commotion. The next thing, I’m looking outside and the man is smashing her skull with a hammer—actually, a meat mallet, I think.
Die, goddamn it. Die.
“My sense is that the killer was desperate to finish her off, because I keep seeing him hanging over her and hammering away.”
René studied him suspiciously. “Do you have any idea who he was?”
“I couldn’t see his face—just a vague dark shape with a pointed hat or something covering his head. Maybe a rain slicker. I couldn’t make it out. But I have a strong feeling it was somebody she knew. Besides, a storm was brewing so there wouldn’t have been strangers boating up, and the only other male in the area was a frail old guy in the mansion who couldn’t have made it down the stairs.”
“And you’re certain you’re recalling something you’d experienced, not just a recurring dream.”
“I know the difference between a dream and these spells. It’s like I’m reliving a very bad thing in flashes, but I can’t get the whole footage.”
Silence fell between them as the sounds of the restaurant filled the gap. René took a sip of her drink. “What’s the connection with Homer’s Island?”
“I’m not sure of the exact details, but Thaddeus Sherman let her stay in the caretaker’s cottage.” And he explained what Olivia Sherman Flanders had told him. “The official story is that she got swept off her boat while trying to secure it.”
“And you don’t believe that.”
“No.”
“But someone she knew entered the cottage that night, had a fight with her, then killed her with … a meat mallet, you’re saying.”
“It’s my grassy knoll.”
He knew how absurd it all sounded—trying to piece together evidence of a thirty-year-old murder when there was no physical evidence and no body, where the only witness was a two-year-old baby and suspicion was rooted in bad flashes following emergence from a coma. Not exactly a hard-and-fast case.
Even on the off chance that his mother was murdered, Jack had no idea how to mount an investigation. Most island residents from back then were probably dead or in parts unknown. Even if he had money to hire the best private investigator in town, there was virtually nothing to go on. And he had neither the energy nor the resources to play Sam Spade.
“What I’m having problems with is how old you were at the time. Memory consolidation doesn’t start until a child is three or four years old.”
“You don’t remember things from very early in life?”
“Not that early. And what little I do remember is mostly fictionalized.”
“Fictionalized?”
“Yes. I know my father took me to the Statue of Liberty when I was five, and in my head I have a recollection of being there. But in reality I only remember the memory—what my father told me. I just put together the details and re-created the scenario, but not the experience itself.”
“But isn’t that what’s happening with your dementia patients, the ones you’ve been testing at Greendale?”
“Those are more interactive, autocreative.”
“So you’re saying that I’m experiencing meaningless vignettes put together from some old horror flicks.”
“I don’t know where they’re coming from.”
He thought for a moment. “Maybe I am crazy.”
“Doubtful, but I can suggest something to help counter the experiences.”
“I’ve got enough meds. And that’s the problem. They’re working too well.”
“Too well? What does that mean?”
“It means that I don’t want to bury them. I want to catch them. I want to go back.”
A sucking silence filled the space between them.
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
“Memorine. I’ve seen how it works on people with dementia—sending people back in their heads. I’ve seen what the stuff can do.”
René’s eyes flared at him. “Jack, what you’re suggesting is ridiculous. It’s also impossible.”
“Maybe, but to me it’s worth a try.”
“Not to me. One, it’s a trial drug not for public consumption. Two, it’s not something you can fine-tune, just dial a date and pop a pill to relive it. Three, if I gave you samples it would also cost me my job. And that’s not going to happen.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “But nobody would have to know if a few pills are missing.”
“Jack, every pill, every capsule, every cc of patient medication is accounted for, rigorously documented on forms and signed off by doctors, nurses, and pharmacists.”
“You mean to say that you can’t cop a few tabs and write down that Mrs. Smith took them?”
René looked at him in disbelief. “No, I can’t.”
“Or you won’t.”
“And I won’t. Besides, we don’t know what the effects would be on you.”
“But you said there were no effects on non-Alzheimer’s patients. Besides, they couldn’t be any worse than what I’d already experienced. Unfortunately, that’s gone the way of Zyprexa.”
“Pardon me?”
He tapped his head with a finger. “My VCR’s dead. Not even a lousy LED light. That stuff killed the flashbacks. I haven’t had one for days.”
“Then maybe you should count yourself lucky.”
So much for that idea, Jack told himself, and he dropped the subject.
When it was time to go, Jack said, “By the way, doesn’t it seem odd that the same jellyfish that knocked me into a coma happens to be your Alzheimer’s drug?”
She thought of that for a moment, “Just a coincidence. No more so than if you’d gotten stung by a bee. Ever hear of apitherapy?”
“No.”
“Bee stings can be fatal to some people, by causing such a severe allergic inflammatory reaction that the person can go into shock and die. But in small doses, the toxin is sometimes used to treat other inflammatory conditions such as rheumatoid arthritis or neuralgia. Just a matter of the right dose.” And she stood up to go.
“While we’re playing Scrabble, maybe you can tell me just what species of jelly it was. They said it was rare, but nobody ever gave it a name.”
“Solakandji.”
71
THE WOMAN WITH THE CHILD FROZE when she saw him.
Louis had just buried his parachute in a flowerbed and was crawling on his belly toward the water, his weapon in his right hand, two ammo clips and a grenade belt over his left shoulder. An enemy gunship was rounding the bend in the river. He could make out men in the machine-gun nests. One scream from her, and Commie soldiers would be all over him like ants. And if they didn’t kill him on the spot, they’d haul him off to another prison camp and finish him off for good. Or, worse, take him back to the Red Tent to beg Chop Chop and Blackhawk for death.