“Then why—”
“Why do dreams seem like narrative scenes in weird movies? Because in addition to being a cataloger the brain is a coherence seeker. It’s always trying to connect the dots, even when the dots have no natural connection. The brain takes those random dust specks it’s stirring up with its right hand, and tries to arrange them in order with its left hand. That’s why ‘dream interpretation’ is total nonsense. You might as well throw a handful of goulash at the wall and pretend it’s a map of Hungary.”
A young waitress arrived at their table. “Can I get you folks some breakfast?”
“Oatmeal, coffee, whole wheat toast,” said Rebecca.
“Same,” said Gurney.
The waitress jotted a few words on her order pad and hurried off.
Rebecca continued. “Dreams are as random as raindrops. So, you ask, how could four people have the same one? The answer is, I have no idea. Everything I know tells me it’s impossible.”
When their breakfasts arrived they ate briefly in silence. At one point, they held each other’s gaze long enough that if they’d held it any longer it would have taken on an inescapable significance. Gurney broke the mood with a question.
“You told me on the phone that some of Hammond’s work was ‘on the cutting edge’—something about his using hypnotherapy to form new neural pathways, changing people’s behavior in radical ways?”
“I don’t honestly know that much about it. But I’ve seen the abstracts of technical papers he’s published recently that suggest he’s exploring areas of behavior modification that are beyond the generally accepted limits of hypnotherapy. It struck me that he wasn’t being completely open about his latest achievements.”
“That’s interesting. Look, I know how busy you are, but—”
She grinned unexpectedly. “If you want to get something done, ask a busy person.”
“It’s a huge favor, actually. Could you take a closer look at Hammond’s published work and see if anything pops out at you?”
“What am I looking for?”
“Anything that might relate to the police theory of the four deaths. Anything that . . . Jesus, Rebecca, I don’t even know what questions to ask. I have no idea what’s new and scary in that field.”
“I love a helpless man.” Her grin widened briefly, then disappeared. “There’s some potentially disturbing work being done these days in the area of manipulating memories, especially manipulating the emotional tags on certain memories.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that a person’s feelings about past events can be changed by altering the neurochemical components of their stored emotions.”
“Christ. That’s really—”
“Weird-ass, brave-new-world stuff? I agree. But it’s happening. Of course, it’s positioned in the most positive therapeutic language you can imagine. Ideal way to cure PTSD panic, and so forth. Just separate the specific event from the feeling it generates.”
Gurney was quiet for long while.
Rebecca was watching him. “What are you thinking?”
“If the emotional charge on the memory of a past event could be altered, could the same technique be used to change how a person might feel about a hypothetical future event?”
“I have no idea. Why?”
“I’m wondering whether someone who normally would be appalled by the idea of suicide . . . could be made more receptive to it.”
CHAPTER 22
Within the first few miles of Gurney’s drive back up into the Adirondack wilderness, the possibility of artificially altering something as basic as the value a person put on life itself began to seem unlikely, even absurd. On the other hand, it wasn’t any more unlikely or absurd than the so-called “facts” of the case.
As he drove farther into the mountains, the excitement he’d felt in his meeting with Rebecca morphed into a kind of uneasiness, which he attributed in part to the overcast that was diluting the blue of the sky and hinting at the approach of another winter storm.
When he arrived at the lodge, Austen Steckle was on the phone behind the reception counter. He ended his call quietly this time.
“Good to see you back. There’s a storm warning in effect. Do you know where Mrs. Gurney went?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your wife—she took one of the lodge Jeeps we have for our guests. Said she planned to do some sightseeing.”
“Sightseeing?”
“Yeah. Lot of people do that. See the mountains. She left right after you.”
“Did she say anything about any specific area? Ask you for any directions?”
“Nope. Nothing like that.”
Gurney checked his watch. “Did she say when she’d be back?”
Steckle shook his head. “She didn’t say much at all.”
“Does the vehicle she took have a GPS?”
“Of course. So there’s nothing to worry about, right?”
“Right.” In fact, he felt he had all sorts of things to worry about. But he made an effort to fasten his attention on something he could actually do. Seeing Steckle standing there on front of him brought a possibility to mind.
“If you have a few minutes, I’d like to finish the conversation we were having this morning.”
Steckle glanced around quickly. “Okay.”
They took the same seats in Steckle’s office on opposite sides of the pine-slab desk. “So. What’s on your mind?”
Gurney smiled. “I’m confused. About the relationships here.”
“What relationships?”
“To start with, the relationship between Ethan and Peyton. I’ve been told there were problems between them. Can you tell me what kind of problems?”
Steckle leaned back in his chair and rubbed his head thoughtfully. “The kind of problems you’d expect between a super-achiever and a wild-ass addict.”
“Ethan didn’t approve of Peyton’s lifestyle?”
“He sure as hell didn’t. Ethan threatened to disinherit him. Tough love.”
“Ethan had control of the Gall fortune?”
“Essentially, yeah. Ethan had a lock on the money. Their parents always saw him as the responsible one, so the bulk of the fortune went to him, with the understanding that he’d do the right thing by Peyton. And a little while back he figured the right thing would be to use the threat of disinheritance to get Peyton straight.”
“Did he plan to go through with the threat?”
“I think so. The thing is, he gave Peyton a taste of what could happen. In Ethan’s original will, the Gall New Life Foundation was supposed to get one third of the estate and Peyton two thirds. Then Ethan revised it, so Peyton would only get one third. He told him he’d change it back if he got off drugs for ninety days.”
“How did Peyton react?”
“He actually stayed clean for something like sixty, sixty-one days.”
“Then he picked up drugs again?”
“No. Then Ethan committed suicide, or whatever the hell you want to call it.”
“While Peyton was still clean?”
“Yeah. He did pick up the shit again, but that was like a few days after Ethan . . . after he ended up dead.”
“So even though Peyton was staying clean, Ethan didn’t live long enough to change the will back in his favor?”
“Life’s unfair, right?”
“So who gets that other third? The foundation?”
“I don’t think I have the right to tell you that.”
“Why not?”