“Lucy! You brought me into this! Please don’t hold back now.”
She sighed. “It was that flash drive.”
“The one you brought to my office?”
“Yes. Kevin showed me where it was.”
“Showed you?”
Lucy related the background, explaining how Kevin had led to her discovery of the USB drive.
For a few seconds, Robert was silent. “Okay, I guess I can understand why you didn’t tell me that story when we first met. But why not today, when we were at lunch?”
“I wanted you to see something first.”
“See something. Like Kevin recognizing me, and knowing my name?”
“I didn’t expect that, but, yes.”
“You did talk about me earning Kevin’s trust.”
“Yes.”
“But I had to earn yours first.”
“That’s right.”
“You know, I won’t … I can’t be here all the time. I mean, I’m not going to be with you and Kevin every time he zones out and starts being Jack. More likely, only you will see it. More important, the chances are only you would understand the significance of whatever he says.”
“You being here all the time … that’s a different conversation.”
His hand covered hers. “I know.”
Lucy settled her body against his. “Do you want to have that conversation now?”
“Do you?” An inviting smile hovered on his lips.
She leaned in and kissed those lips.
Robert kissed her back …
And kissed her …
And kissed her …
Lucy’s head swam, and all reticence fled.
All resistance fled.
All doubt fled.
She loved Jack, and she would always love him, but it had been so very, very long …
She took Robert Olivetti’s hand and led him up the stairs.
19
The doorbell rang at exactly six o’clock. That had been the agreed time, and Lucy felt reassured by the man’s punctuality.
But people with OCD were usually punctual, and the man had seemed a bit weird on the phone. Weird in an OCD way. While they talked, she could hear a tapping sound in the background, as if he was tapping out the cadence of their conversation on his desk.
And he had kept repeating “Mmm, yes … mmm yes,” while she was speaking.
But, bottom line, the man was an assistant professor in the Psychology Department at Rutgers University who just happened to be involved in a research project that resembled the one run by Professor Tucker at the University of Virginia.
She opened the door to a short man wearing a beat-up cross-strap reporter bag and a straw fedora.
“Mmm, yes, Mrs. Hendricks? Neil Clooney here. Neil Clooney.”
“Hello. Thank you for coming, Professor.” She stepped to one side. “Please…”
“Thank you.” He snatched the fedora off his head as he stepped in. “Clooney’s the name. Mmm, yes. No relation to George,” he added. “People ask.”
Lucy eyed the dumpy little man standing in front of her and thought: Really?
Lucy had already thoroughly briefed the academic during their telephone discussion, in time with the background score of his rhythmic tapping, so she expected he would want to meet Kevin as soon as he arrived.
“I’ll call Kevin,” she said as she led him into the living room.
“No, no! Pre-meeting, Mrs. Hendricks. Pre-meeting. Very important.”
They took their seats. He set down his man bag, and then launched into a briefing that sounded very much like a playback loop, embedded in his brain from countless previous encounters with concerned parents. His verbal tics were distracting, but Lucy soon found that her mind was able to edit them out so she could focus on what he was saying.
He was explaining investigative protocols.
“The most important thing is for you, the parent, to make careful notes of what your child has been saying … yes? The accounts given by the child should then be followed up by independent investigators to determine if anything the child related was true, and to ensure that anything he or she said could not have been known to the child from a contemporary source. It is vitally important to demonstrate that there was no way the child could have picked up the information from an overheard conversation or some other medium. Only after those preliminary steps have been completed should the child be transported to any location or confronted by any person—if any living person can be identified—that relate to his alleged previous life.”
“At this stage, I don’t think there are any locations he needs to be taken to.”
“From what you told me yesterday, there may be a crime scene. The scene of his—”
Lucy cut him off. “I don’t want to expose him to that kind of trauma.”
Clooney seemed oblivious to such alien concepts as emotional sensitivity. Or, to be fair, maybe he was just following protocol.
“Mmm, yes. Probably right. Early days. Early days.”
He sounded disappointed.
Lucy offered him a sop. “I have been making notes, but I didn’t do that from the beginning. I only started recently, when things got so strange, so a lot of what I’ve written is based on my memory.”
“And the more recent entries … they were written immediately after the episode?”
“As soon as I could. If we were here, then right away, but if we were in the car, then as soon as we got home.”
“May I see the notes?”
“Of course.” Lucy went to her purse and retrieved a small, red notebook. “Would you like some coffee, or tea?”
“Mmm, yes. Tea would be nice, thank you. Just black, no sugar.”
When she returned with their cups, he was absorbed in her notes. He finally looked up, noticed the cup in front of him, took a sip, and said, “I would like to borrow these, to make copies. I will return them.”
“Of course.”
He slipped the notebook into his bag. “What about birthmarks? Does Kevin have any unusual birthmarks?”
“No, but as I told you, he sometimes limps, and the doctors couldn’t find any reason for it.”
“Tell me again, in as much detail as you can, about your husband’s physical injuries at the time of death.”
There was that protocol, again, but an answer was unavoidable. Lucy took a deep breath, and recited every detail she could remember from reading the autopsy report.
“There have been cases,” Clooney said, “some of which I have personally investigated, where birthmarks or unexplained physical problems have exactly matched injuries suffered at the time of the previous personality’s death.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“You’ve done some reading on this subject?”
“Just on the Internet.”
“Are you also aware of the research program at the University of Virginia?”
“Yes. I read that they have a department that investigates cases like Kevin’s. Cases of children who remember past lives.”
“Mmm, yes. What do you think about that?”
“If you’d asked me a year ago, I’d have said the whole idea is ridiculous. That universities have better things to spend their money on.”
“The UVA’s Division of Perceptual Studies is supported by a very generous private grant. Professor Neil Clooney, on the other hand, is an unfunded one-man show. So, depending on my findings, I may want to invite Professor Tucker and his colleagues to look into your son’s case. Are you okay with that?”
“Maybe. Probably. But because all of this is tied in with an unsolved murder—my husband’s unsolved murder—I want to leave that for a later decision. Yesterday you agreed that your investigation will remain confidential until I say otherwise. Is that still our agreement?”
“You have my word. I just wanted you to be aware that my facilities are limited.”
Finally, Lucy fetched Kevin from his bedroom, where he had been engrossed in the t
ask of assembling a barely identifiable “castle” using Scotch tape and a collection of cardboard paper towel and toilet rolls.
Right from the start, Kevin was wary of Clooney. He was more interested in the man’s straw hat than his strange questions. Finally, the boy got frustrated and turned to his mother.
“Can I go back to my room? I’m working on stuff.”
Lucy flashed on an idea.
“Kevin … Qui perd sa langue, perd sa foi.”
Kevin’s eyes blinked. Blinked again. “That’s what my mother said.” The boy’s voice was changed. It was huskier. Gruffer. Older.
Clooney had already skimmed through Lucy’s notes, so he caught on quickly. He jumped in.
“Detective Hendricks? I’d like a word with you, sir.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I need to ask you about one of your cases.”
“I don’t discuss my cases with civilian personnel.”
“I’m a special consultant who works for the police. I need your help.”
“Then meet me at my office. I don’t bring my work home. It upsets my wife.”
Choosing his words, Clooney planted a seed. “I understand you have an office here … in the building.”
“Yes.”
Clooney shot a questioning look to Lucy. She replied by darting her eyes toward the rear of the house.
“Your office is here on the ground floor?”
“Yes.”
“Could I make an appointment to meet you there?”
“I suppose.”
“Perhaps this evening?”
“I’m sorry. I’m very busy.”
“I understand.” Clooney checked his watch. “Shall we say this time tomorrow—seven o’clock?”
“All right.”
“Here at your office?”
The boy nodded.
“Thank you, sir.” Clooney held out a hand. “Until then.” He and Kevin shook on it. The boy turned, limped to the stairs, and climbed slowly.
“This is genuine progress, Mrs. Hendricks!” Clooney exclaimed, after Kevin was lost from view. His face wore a hugely gratified expression. “I will return tomorrow at exactly seven o’clock. Perhaps you could arrange for Kevin to be waiting in his office at that time.”
Lucy couldn’t find her voice. Pale with shock and disbelief, she managed a nod.
Clooney scooped up his bag. She followed him to the door.
“Tomorrow, then…”
“Yes,” Lucy responded, her voice barely above a whisper.
“The best approach is for you to say nothing to Kevin about what just happened. He may volunteer something—perhaps later, when you put him to bed. I noticed in your notes that he tends to bring things up at bedtime. But please don’t encourage him.”
She recalled the advice on Dr. Tucker’s website: Avoid asking a lot of pointed questions …
“I understand.”
Professor Clooney gave a little bow and left.
Watching him, Lucy thought she detected a definite spring in the academic’s step as he made his way down the walkway to the street.
20
“Lucy Hendricks?”
The tall man standing in front of Lucy when she opened the front door was wearing a sports jacket, slacks, and an open-necked dress shirt. He looked exactly like a police detective, and the shield visible on his belt confirmed Lucy’s instant impression. His partner was similarly dressed.
“I’m Detective Geary. This is my partner—”
Carla Scarlatti!
“I know who your partner is! What’s the Jersey City police doing on my doorstep?”
“I’m with the Hudson County Sheriff’s Department. Detective Scarlatti is assisting me.”
With the Scarlatti woman standing on her doorstep, barely hiding a smirk, Lucy was in no mood to be polite. “Assisting you with what?” she snapped. “More harassment over my husband’s murder?”
“No. We’re investigating the murder of a university professor named Neil Clooney.”
To the detectives, the shocked expression on Lucy’s face must have spoken volumes.
“Clooney?”
“May we come in?”
Lucy backed away from the door, leaving it open. The officers followed her into the house. Even in her distress, Lucy couldn’t bear the thought of Carla Scarlatti assuming the same position, in the same living room chair, as she had on her first visit. She led them to the dining room table and sat down. Geary took a chair opposite her. Scarlatti remained standing.
“Obviously, you knew Dr. Clooney,” Geary began. “What was your relationship?”
Lucy ignored the question. “You said he was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Sometime last night.”
Lucy let out a long breath.
Geary tilted his head. “Mrs. Hendricks, when did you last see Dr. Clooney?”
“Last night.”
Two sets of eyebrows notched up.
Scarlatti spoke up for the first time. “Where?”
“Here.”
“What time did he leave?”
“A few minutes past seven.” Lucy looked at Geary, then at Scarlatti. “I only met him yesterday. He came here at six, left at seven. How did you know to come here?”
“Two reasons,” Geary replied. “The campus police found your name and address on a notepad on his desk. Can you explain that?”
“Dr. Clooney’s a psychologist. He was here to help me with my son, Kevin.”
“Help you, how?”
“Kevin has some behavioral problems.”
“What behavioral problems?” Scarlatti asked.
Lucy wasn’t having it from her. “That’s not relevant.” She turned to Geary. “You said two reasons.”
Scarlatti answered for him. “His body was found at eleven-thirty last night … in a parkade at the Newport Centre.”
Suddenly, Lucy felt like she was having an out-of-body experience.
“What parkade?” She heard herself ask the question, but the look on Carla Scarlatti’s face had already told her the answer.
“The same one where your husband was killed. Clooney’s body was found on the same spot, with his head and feet oriented in the same position. So, I’m sorry, Mrs. Hendricks, but I have to ask you this: Where were you between seven o’clock, when you say he left your house, and eleven-thirty?”
Lucy’s eyes locked on Scarlatti’s. “What?”
At that very moment, Robert Olivetti walked into the room.
“The door was open. I saw the cruiser…” He took in the scene. “Geary … Scarlatti…”
“Counselor…” Geary responded, startled.
Robert’s gaze came to rest on Lucy, looking pale and stricken. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.
* * *
Olivetti had been outside with the cops for the past twenty minutes. When he came back in the house, Lucy was still sitting at the dining room table.
“Are they gone?”
“Not yet.” Olivetti pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. “I had to pretend I knew you had arranged for Clooney to consult on Kevin. ‘Behavioral problems’? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Just an idea I had. I found him through a blog on the Internet. I didn’t think I needed to consult you first.”
“I’m sorry. Of course you didn’t.” He glanced around. “Where is Kevin, anyway?”
“Swimming lessons. Tracy’s with him. I wasn’t feeling well, so she agreed to take him.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just time of the month. But I was feeling even worse after they left.”
“Why?”
“Those cops showed up.”
“They didn’t want to tell you this, but…” Robert grimaced.
“But what?”
“Clooney was tortured before he was killed.”
“Oh, God, no! Oh, Robert. How?”
“You don’t want to know.”
He took her hand. “What did Kevin tell Clooney? Did he get anywhere with him?”
“No. Well … yes, sort of. At first, Kevin was suspicious of him. He wasn’t responding to the questions. It was like they were circling each other. Then I recited that French phrase and Kevin did that thing, that zone-out thing. Clooney immediately started talking to him as if he were Jack. He made an appointment with him to discuss a case. To discuss the case. Jack’s murder. He was going to come back tonight, for their appointment. It was pretty spooky.”
“Okay. I doubt these cops will be smart enough to ask about Kevin’s behavior, but—”
“Scarlatti already has.”
“Hmm. Well, obviously you didn’t say anything about…”
“No, of course not.”
“It might be wise to avoid any of the details. I mean … credibility and all that.”
“Credibility?”
“I do have to work with these people.”
“Aah…”
“You can imagine how fast the word would spread that I was involved in some kind of paranormal inquiry.”
“I get it.”
“Thanks.”
Lucy suddenly remembered something. “Oh, damn! My notebook!”
“What notebook?”
“I’ve been keeping notes of things Kevin says. Jack things. Clooney took it with him to make a copy. He was carrying this beaten-up old leather bag. He put it in there.”
Robert looked disturbed. After a pause, he said, “I’m not going to ask them about the bag. They’ll want to know what’s in it. I’ll use another channel to get an inventory of what was found at the crime scene.”
The detectives came back into the house, asked a few more questions, and Geary made an appointment with Lucy to provide a formal statement.
As they were leaving, Lucy felt a sudden boil of anger toward Carla Scarlatti. Before Olivetti could stop her, she stepped in front of the woman and grabbed her by the arm.
“I won’t forget that question you asked, Scarlatti! ‘Where was I between seven and eleven-thirty?’ Are you for fucking real?”
Scarlatti pulled her arm away. “The question had to be asked.”
“I remember that parking garage! It has a security camera. Did it occur to you to check it?”
“It now has cameras on every level, but the lenses were covered with spray paint.”
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