“Pull an SX on him.”
Fabian stops chewing and feigns ignorance. “Who?”
“The gardener. Who else?”
“There could be other options.”
“And this is the best.” Marco retorts with toast in his mouth. “Non-chronie Trackers are dispensable. We take one guy down and we get an easier ride. It’s standard protocol, Fabian. So don’t ever try to be a field operative if you’re not at least a century old.”
“There’s a long investigative process for an SX. We’ll be implicated.”
Marco tears another bite off his toast and drums his fingers on the steering to ease his frustration. “That’s my expertise, Fabian.” He speaks through his chewing. “You pull the SX and I show you the tricks to cutting red tape. That gardener is old and expired and we can’t afford compassion because it gets in the way. Do him neat and quick and you’ll be doing everyone a favour. We pull a fast track on our case and he gets a hero’s funeral and his family gets the money. Everyone’s happy.”
Fabian brings the tin of coffee broodingly to his lips but does not drink. “I don’t know,” he whispers almost inaudibly.
“I settle the paperwork, you get the job done, comprende?”
Landon rises from the therapy bed, fighting lethargy. A bruise of sorrow lingers in his chest. He finds his fists clenched tight. The back of his neck is moist with perspiration. There is spittle at the corners of his mouth. His muscles quaver and his heart races with the exhilaration that follows a recollection.
This time he seizes the memory and holds it in place. It is vivid, tactile, like a dream made real. Even the scent of her apartment lingers.
Hannah.
Beside him Dr Peck is scribbling. His assistant leans against a shelf, fingering a touchpad. Landon tracks her as she claps out of his sight on her stilettoes and reappears in front of him with a cup of water.
Her powdered, unsympathetic face carries a glimmer of caution in the eyes. She probably thinks he’s a freak turning mental and that Dr Peck is just too much a gentleman to point that out. He must’ve put up quite a show during the hypno-sessions.
“You have violent dreams often?” Dr Peck’s voice kills the silence.
Landon shakes his head.
“Did you see any recurring scenes? Or vague impressions of them?”
“Vague.” Landon feels awful lying to the doctor.
“Sure,” says Dr Peck, catching the doubt in his tone. “Do you want to continue with the sessions? I would respect it if you feel— uncomfortable with them.”
“No, I’m fine. We should continue.”
“Good.” Dr Peck clicks his pen and makes a note. “We’re getting close. It means the therapy is working, to an extent. It could be triggering engrams to release locked memories. They might appear as chronological sequences in dreams, but upon waking they scatter into disparate fragments. Our next task would be to try locating and retaining them.”
“What are engrams?”
“Hypothetical elements of the brain that store memories,” says Dr Peck. “They are not proven to exist physically but traces of their functions could be observed in the cortex or cerebellum of your brain. It’s something under study.”
Over his reading glasses Dr Peck looks at Landon and holds the stare a little too long for comfort. “Invoking your memories is only a part of the treatment,” he adds. “The other part involves finding the cause of your amnesia.”
Landon nods obligingly, taking care to reveal nothing by his expression or the movement of his eyes. If what John told him was true then the doctor would be better off knowing nothing about it. He is still reeling from the excitement of discovering the connection between Hannah and Clara. Could it be possible that both of them are—
“Your blood tests,” says Dr Peck, reaching across his desk to retrieve a document. “Mystifying.” He runs his finger along a column of data. “The markers point either to a rare, congenital blood disease or some form of synthetic chemical infiltration. They might have some connection to the functions of your striatum and cerebellum. You got any family history of blood problems, brain tumours?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“Somatosensory issues like touch or pain or…”
“No.”
“Are you using any illegal substance that I should know about?”
“No.”
There is suspicion in Dr Peck’s gaze and Landon pretends not to notice it. He looks away and sips at his water, wondering if he’d lose credibility by doing so.
“Well, tell me if you are, Mr Lock,” says Dr Peck. “We have to be truthful with each other if any of this is to work. I assure you that every bit of this is confidential. Even Casey is not privy to this.”
The assistant throws Landon a cold, fleeting glance and dutifully exits the room. Landon imagines her at a table full of girlfriends with iced mochas, chortling away over the Landon Freakshow.
“Anything you want to tell me?” says Dr Peck.
“No.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to do a urinalysis and a sperm count— you know, just to rule things out.”
“You think I’m a druggie.”
“Like I said, I hope there is trust between us. It affects the treatment.”
“Well, it could start with you, doctor,” says Landon.
The candour in the response draws a brisk chuckle from Dr Peck, even though he probably doesn’t condone the ill-placed wit. He tears out a chit from his pad and slips it through a little window in the wall. “I’ll prescribe the usual for another week and we’ll reduce the dosage from there. And I’d like to be thorough, so—I’d recommend going ahead with those tests.”
“Bring it on.”
“Thank you,” says the doctor. “Casey will fix your next appointment.”
Loewen Lodge basks in white sunlight. Just down the road FourBees has been hoarded up like a walled city, looking hermetic and forbidding. Around it bistros are waking up from their siestas and gearing up for dinner.
From a distance Landon picks out the old man and his usual caregiver. No Clara in sight. Having lost his latest journal to the fire he consults the notes on his mobile and finds the name Pam. He sees them at the lawn, in the shade of an angsana tree. When he goes over to them the old man turns vacantly to him. A glob dribbles from his jaw where three gangly teeth perch precariously in receding gums.
“You must be Pam,” says Landon to the petite caregiver.
“No, I’m Ruby.” She nods at her name-tag.
“I’m sorry,” Landon mutters. “I met another caregiver the other day. Do you know if she is a relative of this man?”
“We have relatives from time to time.”
“Her name’s Clara. She’s a slim young lady with a red knapsack, long black hair.”
“Ah, she visits sometimes.”
Landon pricks up. “When?”
“She doesn’t come on a fixed schedule.”
“Do you know where I can find her?”
“I’m afraid I don’t, sir.”
“I’m quite certain you have a number.”
“Sorry sir, we cannot reveal personal information about our residents.”
Landon rolls his eyes. “I desperately need to contact Clara, a phone number would do.”
Ruby utters an apology. “Perhaps you could speak to the front desk?”
No, thank you. It’s worse than talking to an actual desk.
Now the old man is making raspy hooting noises, as if trying to participate in the conversation. Landon leaves them and storms into the nursing home against a river of wheelchair-bound residents being trundled out to the lawn for their afternoon walk. Under the curious stares of an elderly audience, he walks up to the counter and engages in an acrimonious exchange with the seasoned matron, who threatens to call security if he doesn’t leave.