Julie's interest leaped. "What were they? What was he into?"
Eathan shrugged. "I don't know. He rarely discussed his work-—thought it would bore everybody but him. As you've probably guessed, the board saw little or no commercial potential in his proposals so they turned him down. He stayed with the company but eventually the product-oriented research and testing wore him down until he couldn't take any more. He quit and began applying for research grants. Didn't have much luck, I'm afraid. So all his papers and experimental journals were at home. They all were lost. Up in smoke. He had a dream. I don't know what it was, but he never got to make it real."
Julie's heart went out to the man she barely remembered. She felt a kinship with him that went beyond blood. What if she hadn't hooked up with Dr. Mordecai Siegal? She might be stuck in some deadly dull research job, bored, frustrated as hell, and climbing the walls. She might be thinking of quitting and hunting for research grants ... just like her father.
"Poor Dad," she said. "I wish I had some idea of what he was working on." She gave out a hollow laugh. "Maybe I could find a way to complete it."
She looked up and caught Eathan staring at her. For an instant she thought he had tears in his eyes.
"What a wonderful thought," he said. "And what a loving gesture that would be, if only it were possible. But who knows? Perhaps you are carrying on his work and don't even know it."
"Now that would be creepy."
Eathan raised his glass. "To Nathan's dream—whatever it was."
Julie raised her own, then sipped. They stood in silence, savoring the moment of communion with someone long gone but dear to both of them.
And then Eathan turned away and reached for his cigar.
"I think I'll go out for a little walk around the gardens," she said as he began relighting it and fouling the air with plumes of smoke. "I could use a little air."
"It's dark out there. Be careful."
"I know the paths by heart. I can walk them with my eyes closed—unless you've changed the landscaping."
He smiled. "No changes. Everything is just as you left it."
Julie grabbed her Mets baseball jacket from the hall closet and stepped out the front door onto the steps.
It was cool, and the darkness out here reminded her of the bleakness inside Sam.
Still, as her eyes adjusted to the night she saw only a few familiar constellations: Orion, the Pleiades, the Big Dipper. They were old friends, reassuring.
She took in a deep lungful of the clean, briny air and let it out slowly. Clouds had moved in, obscuring the rest of the stars, and a fine mist was drifting in from the water. Soon it would be soup out here.
That's more like it, she thought. Now we're back to typically English weather.
She angled right across the driveway and followed a winding path that ambled among the gardens and along the manicured lawns, past the line of trees that bordered the grounds proper, and into the rough. The breeze against her face stiffened as she picked up the mutter of the North Sea at the base of the cliff ahead.
Chilled, she pulled die jacket more closely around her as she stopped at the fence that ran along the rocky edge.
Even though the cliffs had been a good walk from the house, Eathan had feared that one of them—Sam was the more likely candidate—would fall the hundred feet or so to the jagged rocks below, so he'd put up the fence when they first moved in.
Julie leaned against one of the posts and felt it sag under her weight. Apparently Eathan had let the fence go to rot. No sense in maintaining it nowadays. She remembered sneaking out here with Sam to look for fossils in the shale. The cliffs were supposedly loaded with them. Once they'd found the remnants of a prehistoric fern, tattooed into a slab of rock, another time a spiral ammonite that she'd treasured for years. She wondered where it was now. She smiled—maybe in Eathan's cabinet.
She was staring out at the darkness, listening to the waves on the rocks, letting wind fingers run through her hair, when she had a vague sensation that she was not alone.
She turned but saw no one. She could make out the high grass and heather in the rough, and the lights of the house through the trees, but no sign of anyone else.
She'd been out here long enough anyway.
She made her way back to the grounds, retracing her steps along the path until she came to the sunken gardens. Standing on the top step on the rim of the deep, bowl-shaped depression, she tried to remember how it looked when she and Sam used to play here. And they had played. In times of truce they were just like any other sisters—laughing, joking, playing make-believe with their dolls and toys. This was their special place where they shared their secrets and hid from their uncle and ate the sweet-cakes they'd steal from the kitchen when cook wasn't looking.
But as the truces grew shorter and the battles longer and more fierce, the sunken garden became a war zone, to be occupied exclusively by only one combatant at a time.
In the end, it became Sam's place. To sketch, to brood, to do other things.
What a shame, Julie thought. We could have been friends ... if only Sam had been different. And—maybe—if I had learned to lighten up ... Trouble is, I still don't know how to do that.
She walked down the steps to the sunken center of the garden. She rested her hand on the marble pedestal of the sundial that used to be "home" in their games of tag.
Julie heard a sound behind her, a scrape. She turned but saw nothing moving in the darkness. Probably a dry leaf blown against the slate walk.
But as she walked around the pedestal, pivoting her finger on the point of the sundial, she caught a blur of motion to her right, movement that looked like something other than a shrub swaying in the breeze. She froze and stared but could see nothing out of the ordinary.
Time to head for the house. Could be her imagination was running in high gear after her most recent sortie into Sam's memoryscape, or could be someone else was out here in the sunken garden. Either way, she wanted out of here—now.
She turned and hurried up the steps.
She didn't make it to the third one before she was grabbed from behind. A leather-gloved hand clamped over her mouth, sealing off her cry of terror as a powerful arm snaked around her waist and lifted her off her feet.
Frantically, desperately, Julie kicked and struggled with all her strength. She jammed an elbow backward, but to no effect. Her heart raced, her breath whistled through her nostrils as she fought for more air. Visions of rape and death, memories of the Central Park jogger's fate, flashed through her brain, fueling her terror.
But here—at Oakwood? It was insane.
And then lips pressed against her ear and a voice whispered.
"Hush now, darlin', and be calm. I wouldn't be hurtin' you for all the world. I need your help...."
That voice, that accent—oh, God, she knew who it was.
"Do y'hear me now?" he said, still whispering. "Do you understand? I'm sorry for frightening you like this, but it just wouldn't do to have you shouting and raising a fuss. I'm a friend of Sammi's. Do you understand? A friend ... and I've got something to tell you."
Though her mouth was still covered, the pressure was less intense.
"If you promise not to yell, I'll let you go and we'll talk like regular people. Do I have your promise?"
And what if 1 don't promise?
Julie stopped struggling. She didn't have much choice. He was so much stronger than she. And if she kept fighting him, what would he do? If he let her go, she might have a chance to get away, to scream for help, to do something.
She nodded and he released her. Julie coughed and sucked in a couple of deep breaths, then turned to face him. He was all in black, from knitted watch cap to his shoes, his face a pale blur not two feet in front of her. And she loathed him. She swung a fist at his face with all her strength but he easily dodged it.
"Ooh! Right-handed, are we? Your sister's a lefty."
"You bastard!"
She swung again but this time
he caught her wrist in midair.
"Now, now, love. None of that." He sounded amused and she hated that. "You promised."
She wished that she had done more than the introductory class of Tae Kwan Do. Her words hissed between her teeth as she wrenched her wrist free.
"I promised not to yell!"
"That you did. But I've no time for lawyerin' about it. I'm here to ask about Sammi—and warn you about your uncle."
"And what does Liam O'Donnell know about my uncle?"
That got him. His head snapped back as if her swing at him a moment ago had finally connected.
"Wh—what makes you think I'd be any such person?"
"Sam told me."
He grabbed her by both her upper arms and practically lifted her off the ground.
"Sammi! Sweet Jesus, she's awake? She's come 'round?"
Julie couldn't make out his expression and couldn't tell whether his whispered voice was hoarse with alarm or joy. But that wasn't what bothered her most. Julie felt herself responding to his touch. Warmth grew where his gloved fingers gripped her, spreading up her arms, into her chest, and downward. —
"No," she managed to say. "She's still out."
"Oh."
He released her and turned away.
The warmth receded, thank God. She needed all her wits about her to deal with this man. But that response—was it a leftover from Sam, or her own? After all, she'd been about as intimate with Liam as one could ever be ... after a fashion.
He turned back to her. "But you said—"
"I knew this from before." I know more than you can imagme. "And I know Sam thinks our uncle is hiding something in his cabinet."
"But how?"
"I heard it from her own lips." That was certainly the truth. "And I can tell you he is hiding something in the cabinet, but it's nothing bad…"
Liam's face seemed to disappear for an instant as he rubbed a black-gloved hand across it. "I don't understand this. Did she call you? She more'n once told me about you. No love lost between you."
"She told me. How doesn't matter. But tell me: Did you send her those roses?"
He hesitated, then, "Yes."
"Why?"
"If you're knowing anything, you know I love her."
"I know nothing of the sort. Only you know that. But the note: 'Don't worry. I won't let them hurt you'? Why send a threat?"
"Not a threat—Lord. Just a promise. And a warning. I'm damned if I knew what you were doing to her with all those contraptions you moved into her room. She seemed like a poor bugger of a lab animal."
"So you were the prowler they spotted on the Sainte Gabrielle grounds."
"I was. And I'm the prowler here, as well. Especially now that you've brought in that head-shrinking bitch. Sammi never trusted her. So you can count on me prowling about until Sammi's up and well again."
"Is that what you want?"
"And what else would I be wantin'?"
"My uncle found out all about you. And he thinks that maybe you caused her coma. Maybe she knows things about you... and maybe you don't want her 'up and about again' at all. And maybe you're prowling about so you'll be the first one to know if and when she is."
Surprised by her own intensity, she stepped back, unsure how he'd react, and afraid. Liam was a big man, powerful. And even if she did scream, she doubted whether anyone at the house would hear.
"You may be her twin," he said, shaking an angry fist in her face, "but you don't have half her heart, and not a tenth of her soul." He lowered his hand. "But you've got her guts, I'll give you that... accusing me of harming her. Christ, if you were a man—"
Julie retreated. "Okay—so maybe someone you work for, then. Someone who wants her out of the way."
"I don't work for anyone. I'm kinda freelance, an indepen-dent contractor."
"Yeah. Import and export. Right." She took a breath. "I know you're with the IRA."
"Oh? And who in bloody hell would be sayin' that?'
"My uncle says Scotland Yard is looking for you. Is that true?"
"Are you the type who's believing everything she hears?"
Julie ground her teeth. "Must you answer every question with another question?"
"Now what makes you think I'm doing any such thing?"
Even in the darkness Julie caught the flash of his grin, and had to smile herself, though she did her best to hide it. He was a charmer, this one. Big, powerful... but charming. Better watch out for him.
And then his smile disappeared. "If I was you, I should be after looking out for me uncle," he said. "If Sammi said he was hiding something, hell, it's a damn good shot that he is. She says he's got all your da's papers tucked away somewhere."
Julie felt a chill worm its way through her coat. Or did it come from within?
"Wait. No, stop right there. That's wrong. Everything our father owned went up in smoke with the house."
"Ah, sure that's what you've been told. But Sammi didn't believe that. She said—"
"Julia! Are you still out here? Julia!"
Julie whirled. Eathan's voice—calling from somewhere toward the mansion. He could be here in minutes.
Closer now: "Julia, where are you?"
She turned back to Liam but no one was there. She searched the darkness but he was gone. Shaken, she pulled her coat closer and hurried up the stone steps. The whole episode had an unreal feel to it. She had to check her bearings to make sure she wasn't back in Sam's memoryscape.
"Coming, Eathan!"
When she reached the top, he was on the driveway and coming her way.
"The sunken garden," he said. "I should have known. What were you doing?"
"Reminiscing," she said.
"Out loud? I thought I heard your voice."
Should she tell him about Liam? Damn, she hated secrets.
But what if Sam was right about Dad's papers? What if they hadn't been burned? Why would Eathan hide them? Always so damn overprotective. Was there something in them? Some secret about their father?
Listen to me, she thought, taking the word of a known terrorist and Sam, that paragon of good sense and rationality.
But just in case ...
"Sometimes I think out loud," she said. "One of the perils of living alone."
"Let's go inside," he said. "Alma seems to be missing a tape."
She followed him to the darkened family room, where the tape of tonight's session was playing on the big screen. It had to be near the end because the point of view was in the deeper-level gallery, resting on the painting of the lion in the gondola. Then it swung over to the unfinished painting on the easel. Then it faded to be
Alma started as Eathan turned on the lights. "Oh! I didn't know you were there. I was so engrossed."
"Any insights?" Julie said.
Alma rose from her seat and turned to her. She held a yellow pad full of squiggles.
"Nothing that leaps out at me, but there's something there— lots there. I simply need more time, more viewings to put it all together. And didn't you say you ventured into Samantha's memory twice today? I seem to be missing the earlier one."
"That's because there isn't one. My fault—I forgot to turn on the VCR this afternoon."
Really racking up points in the deception category, aren't I, Julie thought.
"That's too bad. How much do you remember?"
Alma took furious notes as Julie described the glowing matrioshka ball, the argument between her parents, Sam and Liam making love . .. but left out Sam's suspicions about Eathan.
"Very good," she said as she scribbled her last note. "Very good. With that fresh in my mind, I want to review the tapes again."
"Tonight?"
"Yes. Immediately." Her eyes were bright, almost feverish. "I do believe Samantha is trying to tell us something."
Julie knew that look. She'd seen it before... every time she'd demonstrated the memoryscape. Dr. Alma Evans was hooked.
"Do you really think that's possible?" Eathan said. "How could
there be anything left—?"
Alma nodded. "Her conscious mind is down—a massive voltage spike followed by a power outage is probably the best analogy as to what happened in there. But her subconscious mind could still be active."
"'Could'?" Eathan said.
"Well, we don't know for sure. We don't know much for sure about the subconscious mind. We know it houses memories and functions that exist apart from the conscious mind. Habits, for example—all your habits, all your routine activities, exist in the subconscious mind. Take fingernail biting, for instance. You don't say to yourself, 'Let's chew on the left ring finger now.' But if you've got a nail-biting habit, you'll find yourself gnawing away on a finger, even if you don't want to, even if you're consciously trying to stop. But more, the subconscious knows things the conscious doesn't—it retains some of the garbage the conscious tosses out. It can make intuitive leaps the conscious wouldn't dare."
"But the subconscious is not as organized as the conscious mind," Julie added.
"Exactly!" Alma said. "It's nonlinear, nonlogical, nonverbal, and inherently symbolic. And that's the problem here. These inchoate memories we're seeing appear to be random in nature—"
"How can you be sure they aren't random?" Eathan said.
"I can't. But if the subconscious is at work here—if it senses the presence of its twin and is trying to communicate—then eventually a pattern will emerge."
"How long is 'eventually'?" he said.
Alma shook her head. "That I don't know."
Julie didn't want to bring everybody down, but she had to say it.
"'Eventually' had better not take too long, because we don't have forever. Deprived of stimulation and interplay with the conscious mind, the subconscious will become quiescent as well. And that's what worries me about the second level: We saw one very active memory node, but Venice was obviously a critical time in Sam's life. The rest of the level looks dead and drowned. I take that as an ominous sign. And if I can't find anything else there tomorrow... well, then, I'm afraid we might be in real trouble."
Eathan sighed and looked away. "You mean she's getting worse?"
"Memory nodes are disappearing, vanishing.... There's no question about it."
Alma grabbed her arm. "Then we've no time to waste. Every minute counts. I want to rewind these tapes so I can watch them again immediately."
F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 Page 17