“A parent,” I said.
“That would definitely qualify,” she said. “Memory can be the servant of emotional needs. If a child had a strong desire to believe what he or she had been told, then certainly, he or she could construct a memory and develop a related fear.” Dr. Leventhal uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “I should have asked you, did the child in question have any sort of help from a hypnotherapist in sorting out his memories?”
I shook my head. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Well, improperly practiced hypnotherapy has been implicated in the construction of false memories. Most often, we see that from therapists who specialize in sexual abuse. When the patient wants to ‘please’ the practitioner, often she’ll agree to leading questions under hypnosis: for example, ‘Is there someone else in the room with you?’ ”
“Not this time,” I said. “This boy didn’t have any therapy at all.”
Dr. Leventhal nodded. “I don’t mean to denigrate hypnosis altogether, but there’s still so much we don’t understand about it. Or about memory, for that matter. It’s a truly amazing field. Do you know what a screen memory is?”
I shook my head.
“Psychologists don’t always quite agree on the definition, or on how common it is,” she said. “But at its core, a screen memory is a defense mechanism. Some patients who have been through traumas can’t remember them at first. They remember simpler, more acceptable events.”
“Like what?” I said, interested despite myself.
“For example, a patient might say, ‘I looked out the window and saw a pair of crows in my neighbor’s yard,’ when in fact she saw a man beating a woman. The mind replaces an unacceptable image with an acceptable one. A screen.”
I must have looked amazed, because she smiled. “The mind is very powerful in its own defense,” she said.
“That’s fascinating,” I said.
“I can tell you’re interested,” she agreed, “because when we started talking, you were hanging back in my doorway, and now you’re halfway to my desk.”
I realized it was true.
“You seem quite skittish in here, Detective Pribek,” she said. “I assure you, I don’t strap people into one of my chairs and force them to discuss their childhoods.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said. “You’d be bored with recollections of my personal life. I had a pretty dull childhood.”
“It’s a common misconception that psychologists are only interested in the abnormal,” she said. “Healthy minds are often as fascinating as troubled ones.” Then she tilted her head slightly. “I wonder, though, if you’re being entirely honest with me when you call your growing-up years boring.”
“Well,” I said lightly, “I don’t remember seeing any crows, if that’s what you mean.”
A co-worker’s unexpectedly bad summer cold forced me into the slot of on-call detective two nights in a row, and I didn’t visit the Hennessy place either of those evenings. On the third day I glanced at the calendar, wondering why the date seemed to stick in my memory. After a moment it came to me: today was Marlinchen and Aidan’s eighteenth birthday.
The summer solstice was less than a week away, and the day was still bright as midafternoon when I drove out after work, parked, and went up to the French doors. Normally, Marlinchen was making dinner at this hour, but the kitchen was empty. Some pots and utensils were out on the counters, but no one was to be seen. I went around to the front door and knocked.
When Marlinchen opened the door, she looked years older than her age, wearing a silky cinnamon-colored shirt and a straight black skirt. Before I could comment on that, though, or she could speak, I noticed something else.
The Hennessys had never, in the time I’d known them, used the formal dining room. Generally, the kids ate at the kitchen table, where I’d first looked for them tonight. But now the family was grouped around the long table in the dining room. A pair of candles glowed between serving dishes, and faces turned to look at me.
The long and lanky form of Aidan, though, was not among them. Instead, at the head of the table, light gleamed off the metal of a cane that leaned against the chair. I lifted my gaze and met the pale-blue eyes of Hugh Hennessy.
“Sarah,” Marlinchen said, her voice light and surprised.
“Hey,” I said awkwardly. “I didn’t realize you’d be eating this early.”
“An earlier dinnertime is better for Dad,” Marlinchen said. “He’s tired from the move home, this afternoon.”
From his place about eighteen feet away, Hugh was still watching his daughter and me. He probably couldn’t hear us, but even so, I felt uncomfortable, and moved away from the open door. Marlinchen, being polite, followed me outside.
“I didn’t expect to see your father home quite this soon,” I said.
“We did the conservatorship paperwork this afternoon,” Marlinchen said, “and I signed him out. That’s why we’re celebrating tonight. The birthdays and Dad being home.”
“I’m in awe,” I said. “When do you run for the state legislature?”
Marlinchen laughed, pleased. “All of this is thanks to you,” she said. “Do you want to come in and join us? We’ve got plenty of food to share.”
“No,” I said. “No, that’s all right.”
“Are you sure?” Marlinchen said.
They were obviously halfway through their dinner already, but that was only partly the root of my refusal. Something about the scene- the family together, the way Hugh watched me silently from his place at the head of the table… Things had changed. The circle had closed, and I was an outsider.
“I’m sure,” I said. “Thanks for the offer.”
“Well, thanks for coming by,” Marlinchen said. “Really, I can never thank you enough for what you’ve done.”
It was impossible to miss the note of valediction in her voice. It’s been great knowing you, it said.
Gravel crunched under my boots as I walked not to my car but toward the detached garage, the current living quarters of Aidan Hennessy.
I wished I fully understood my discomfort with Hugh. I’d spent plenty of time around individuals who had done a lot worse than mistreat their children. Why, then, did Hugh’s baleful blue gaze have such an effect on me? It was as if he knew what I knew about him. I had to be imagining it, I thought, the idea that his cold stare said, My family is none of your business. Leave us alone. The past is the past.
The door to the garage was open. I knocked on the frame and looked inside. What I saw surprised me. Aidan was working on the old BMW. Its hood was raised, and a drop light glowed over the engine. He looked up at the sound of my knock.
“Happy birthday,” I said.
“Hey,” he said. “Come on in.”
I did. “What are you doing, there?” I asked him.
“This is the ultimate project car,” Aidan said, looking not unhappy at the challenge. “It hasn’t been run in fourteen years.”
“Fourteen?” I repeated.
“That’s what Linch says. She’s got access to all Hugh’s records.” He ran a hand along the roof. “I may be in over my head. I’m going to have to drain the fuel line. I can’t even list it all yet, everything it’s going to need.” He shrugged. “But what a great car it’ll make for Marlinchen, when it’s finally done. She hates that Suburban.”
I peered through a window at the interior, just as I’d done the night of Aidan’s return, when I’d checked out the property.
“It’s fairly clean inside,” he said. “Except the spiderwebs.”
He was right. I saw nothing unusual, the leather seats not torn or damaged.
“Where’d you learn mechanics?” I asked.
“I was always interested in cars,” Aidan said. “Most of it, though, I learned in Georgia. Pete had farm equipment, and an old truck I used to work on.”