Eathan stiffened. "Do you think he knew what we saw yesterday."
"I don't see how."
"Did you tell him?"
"No! Of course not!"
"Then why is Alma dead?"
Oh, God, I wish I knew. She groped for an answer.
"It could have been an accident. The cliffs are treacherous—you said so countless times as we were growing up."
"Yes, it could be, but it seems a little too convenient." He swiveled toward the door. "I wonder ..."
Suddenly he was out in the foyer and heading for the family room. Julie followed.
When she got there he was rummaging through the stack of videocassettes.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for the tape of that last session—the one where we saw him in London at the time of the Branham Bank fire. Where is it?"
"It should be right here. Alma had it—"
Eathan threw a cassette across the room. "It's gone! Not only has he been on my grounds, he's been in my house! Damn him!" He swung around and jabbed a finger at her. "You'll have to live with this!"
He stalked back out to the foyer. Julie followed, feeling as if she were on a leash.
"Where are you going?"
"I have to go into Bay and arrange for the body, for"—his words stumbled, revealing a glimpse of his pain—"Alma to be taken care of. She has a son in London. I'll have to contact him. I don't know when I'll be back."
Julie had never seen him so angry.
He opened a closet and took out a suede fall jacket. Not his usual style. He didn't look like Eathan in it.
Without another word, he left the house.
Julie stood alone in the foyer, reeling with guilt about Alma, feeling lost, confused ... and lonely.
A strange feeling, lonely. She couldn't remember being lonely before. Ever. She'd always taken pride in being self-sufficient, self-contained. She'd joke about it: "I'm never lonely when I'm alone—I'm with me."
She heard Eathan's car pull out of the driveway. She walked over to the window and pushed aside the thin curtain. She saw the police cars parked to the side. Stephens was off retracing Alma's steps, checking the sand for other footprints.
Alone ... and lonely. She didn't want to be alone with Julie at the moment. She wanted company.
And she knew whose.
Julie walked upstairs to Sam's room. The nurse looked up police she came to the side.
"You can take a break," Julie said.
The nurse was used to her visits by now and quietly excused herself from the room.
"Hello, Sam," she said as the computer initialized the satellite feed and ran through the dozens of preconnect diagnostic programs. "Like it or not, your sister's dropping by for another visit. Without Eathan and without Dr. S." And, God, without Alma. "Just you and me."
Julie had to admit that she was a little uneasy about Sam's scape now. It seemed to be edging out of her control, increasingly involving Julie as a participant, not a mere observer. Dr. S.'s warnings echoed in her head.
But the 'scape was like a siren call, with a steadily thinning line separating Sam's fractured memories and Julie's reality now.
Even when I'm out here, I'm never really free of it. Which meant, she was sure, that she wouldn't stop until shejd gone as far as she could.
She pulled on her headgear. Nothing to see in there now, just blank video blue as the program prepared to run.
The loneliness was fading. Sam's door was opening.... A single vertical roll in the lenses of the headgear as they darkened, and then she was back.
And what she saw took her breath away.
Twenty-Four
1 was asked to be on a panel with a bunch of memory-recovery therapists. Normally I keep to myself, but this time I went—and gave them hell! Memory recovery therapy—it drives me up the wall. Never have I heard anything so bogus. And these therapists try to pass themselves off as scientific? They should be arrested. They're not recovering memories— they're manufacturing them!
—Random notes: Julia Gordon
Sam's studio is almost empty. The virtual wall space is bare. The lion in the gondola is gone. So is the faux Mondrian. The large unfinished canvas remains, along with a few others scattered haphazardly about.
One catches your eye: a painting of a boardwalk under a swirling fiery sky, beside the blue of water, a lake or the sea ...
But no people.
A boardwalk. Something about this entices you, but you're drawn to the door, to see what's happened to the watery wasteland overnight.
As you rise into the darkness you notice major changes in scape. In the moonlight gleaming off the black water, you see that the Mondrian island is gone, swallowed by the sea. You won't be able to search the rooms behind those other doors. And the Nighthawks island—gone too.
You feel a rush of dread as you realize that only three other islands remain... moving closer together. They almost seem to be gathering into a single landmass.
As you glide over the coalescing islands, you spot the boardwalk on one, a cartoony promenade rendered in crayonlike colors. Almost a kid's drawings—but you know this picture. Something about it is so familiar, yet some crucial identifying element is missing.
You wonder momentarily about the thing that lurks beneath the surface, but maybe that's still over near Venice.
You land on the boardwalk. The wooden slats glow with a burnished orange.
A boardwalk with no one on it. Strange, this doesn't look like the beaches at Brighton where Eathan took you and Sam for summer vacations. Is this memory something from Sam's Cote d'Azur days? Do they even have boardwalks on the Riviera?
You turn around, searching for someone, something....
An old fortune-telling machine sits alone, its back to the sea, its dimly lit glass case glowing like a beacon. Inside, an old plaster gypsy stares out at you with dark glass eyes. Eerie... but you move closer.
As soon as you reach the gypsy, her right arm starts to move, stiffly, just like a real arcade fortune-teller, moving as if dealing out a card.
But no card is dealt.
Her glass eyes blink. The plaster lips move.
You hear nothing, but in the front of the machine, a small sign lights.
WHAT SECRETS SHALL MADAME HANAMSAT REVEAL TO YOU?
Below the sign, three subject areas begin to blink: LIFE . . . LOVE . . . FORTUNE.
And below each of those, a button waits.
"Okay," you say. "Tell me about—"
You reach out and press LOVE.
The gypsy's arm moves and a card falls into the slot. You, pick it up and read: How can you ask about love when you have none?
The card disappears.
The lights flash again: Ask another question. You realize you're annoyed at this glass-eyed gypsy.
You press LIFE.
The arm moves. Another card falls.
Life before . . . or after?
Before or after what1. This machine could have been programmed by Liam: It answers every question with another question.
And now two new words blink, two new buttons wait: BEFORE and AFTER.
You press the button beneath BEFORE.
Again the arm moves, again a card falls.
This one says The moon, the house, or the mask?
Great. You've stumbled onto the Zen monk of fortune-telling machines. But at least it's given you some more choices. The moon, the house, the mask...
Three choices, three buttons.
Of all the things you've seen in Sam's 'scape, this machine most convinces you that she's trying to make contact.
You reach out and press the button under the word MASK.
The plaster gypsy looks up. And for the first time she smiles, a knowing leer, a death grimace, while the glassy eyes retain the same expression.
The head cracks open.
And Nathan is there, sitting at a table facing you, and you're four years old__
Daddy wants to play the game again, alwa
ys the same game every day. And it's fun... most times.
"Julia, are you ready?"
She nods. "Yes, Daddy."
He brings out the cards.
Multiplication and division. Easy stuff. So simple. 3 X 3, 8 X 8' 7 X 6 ... except he goes fast, then faster.
"Come on, come on, Julia. You're hesitating. Come on. You know these"
Julie curls her legs around each other, locking them together. She snaps off the answers as fast as she can.
"Twenty-four... fifty-one... sixty-three ..."
But Daddy shakes his head, and only seems to go faster.
"Come on, come on.... This is rote stuff, only memory, Julia. That's all. No thinking here, none at all."
Faster and faster, until Julie feels as if she's riding a pony, holding on to its mane, galloping over the number cards like they're hurdles.
She sees him smile. She's doing well. Riding that pony well.
Until he gets to the end and she feels disappointed. Maybe he has other problems for her to do, like arranging the blocks, or looking at the triangles and counting them ... all the triangles, so many different sizes.
That's all for today, Julia. I have an important meeting."
He stands up. He's so big. He slips the cards into his pocket. He takes a step away from the simple wooden table
"Daddy..."
He stops.
"Can't I do one? To you?"
"I'm really very—"
"You always let me do one. Just one problem."
He smiles, and it's a good smile, a nice smile. He loves hen-she's sure of that.
"Okay. Fire away, missy."
"Okay, okay—" Now she has to search for a problem, something hard. She's supposed to know the answer... that's the way the game is played. But he's never, ever checked. Never.
"Ninety-nine times"—she tightens the curl of her legs even more—"sixteen."
His eyes narrow. He has to think about this. Then, he answers.
"One thousand five hundred and eighty-four." He isn't smiling anymore. "Is that the answer, Julia? Is that it?"
"I... I..."
She doesn't know, but now the game isn't fun. What's happening here? The game is always fun but now—
"Is that the answer, Julia?"
"I... I... don't—"
And then it happens. You see a thin line appear on Daddy's head, a line that runs right down the middle of his face, from his hair down to his nose, onto his mouth, his chin. Such a thin line. She wants to say something to him, when—
The line begins to widen ... a cracking, peeling sound as the line opens.
"Is that the answer, Julia?"
"Daddy, Daddy, I don't know—" She's crying, watching this line widen, the face crack open, like one of those nuts at Christmastime, opening up—
And suddenly it's Uncle Eathan in there, his dark beard not so full, his eyes glistening, repeating the same words, with the same tone, the same voice... as Daddy.
"Don't ever ask me a problem ... unless you know the answer."
Julie nods. The cracked outer head has curled away, like a shed snakeskin. Uncle Eathan turns and walks away.
Then the girl is gone.
Your first thought: That isn't Sam's memory. It's yours. God, you've just seen one of your memories in here. And not only that, you barely remember the number game you used to play with your father. You knew he drilled you, did puzzles and problems with you.
But what you just saw didn't seem like a game.
Then you're aware of where you are—on that boardwalk stretches to the horizon. You see a white dot at the impossibly far end. You didn't notice it before, and perhaps you should investigate, but you're too rattled to do anything more.
You turn around__
And the rest of the boardwalk is gone, ending as if washed away in a great storm. You see something near the edge, just beyond where the jagged remnants of the broken boards jut like spears. An upright stone pokes up from the black water.
You move to it.
And as you move, you have another thought, confusing, disturbing. ..
Eathan and Nathan ... they looked so similar, the eyes, and the voices. Of course they were brothers, but the way they spoke, their eyes ... so similar.
You're at the stone, a blank, meaningless piece of rock.
But is anything meaningless in this 'scape?
You lean over the edge, studying it. Directly below you, the black, oily water acts like a dark mirror, and—
You see yourself. You. The way you looked this morning. You see your shocked face studying your reflection.
"Oh ... my... God!"
The reflection mouths the words along with you.
"What the hell is going on here?"
You think the obvious. You're losing your mind. The memory-mapping technology works fine except for one small, tiny drawback: It drives you insane.
No way your reflection can exist here unless—
A splash. Suddenly tense, you look up, glance around. Nothing should splash here.
Another splash—louder. Oh no. You look down just as the thick, living cable of tentacle shoots out of the water, out of the open mouth of your horrified reflection.
You scream and recoil, but the tentacle is fast. It swirls around your ankle. God, it's cold—and slimy. The suckers have hooks, and the hooks are digging into the soft: flesh of your calf. You feel it tighten its grip and it hurts. This can't be happening. You're not part of Sam's 'scape. You're a ghost here. Nothing can grab you.
But something has grabbed you, and it's tugging you, pulling you by your trapped ankle, dragging you toward the water.
The Exit button. Got to hit it now.
As if sensing your thoughts, the kraken gives your ankle a harsh twist, rolling you off the edge of die boardwalk and into the water. It feels oily and cold. You bump against the rock and drag against its surface. The kraken—it's trying to tow you out to sea.
The Exit button—now!
But as you reach for it, the cinching pressure on your ankle lessens. The tentacle uncoils and slips away, leaving you treading water on the far side of the rock.
You look up.
The stone is within arms' reach, and you see now that it's a giant headstone. You read the names: NATHAN AND LUCINDA GORDON. Your parents' gravestone. Dates are carved below the names—the date of the fire, and the birth dates, Luanda's— May 17,1943—and Nathan's...
December 1,1941.
The same as Eathan's.
They looked so similar, the eyes, and the voices. . . .
The tentacle pulled you this far, then released you. Almost as if the kraken dragged you here so you could read it.
You reach out and touch the heavy headstone. Water from your fingers drips down its carved surface, settling in one of the dates.
December 1,1941.
Is that true? Nathan and Eathan are twins, just like you and Sam? How could you not know that? But then they never looked alike, especially with Eathan's beard. And you never celebrated your parents' birthdays....
And twins run in families, don't they.
You turn and look around. The kraken hovers submerged in the dark water under the dark sky, with only its glowing eyes above the surface, watching you.
You shiver. The cold water, or something else?
Whichever, you've got to get back to reality. Now.
Twenty-Five
From Macbeth: "Memory, the warder of the brain."
—Random notes: Julia Gordon
1
Julie sipped the hot tea, inhaling the aroma of lemon and honey. She had her legs curled up under her and a blanket over her shoulders. Trying to get warm.
Too much to think about. She wished she could share her latest memoryscape excursion with Dr. Siegal, but if she did, it would be her last. He'd pull the plug in a heartbeat. All he had to do was shut down the satellite feed and Julie would be shut out of the memoryscape.
God, if only she could tell him that she'd develop
ed a virtual presence in Sam's 'scape. What would he say to that? It was unheard of, undreamed of, but somehow the system was interacting with her own brain waves and memories and using them to construct a virtual body for her.
And it meant that she was in Sam's mind in a much deeper way than she'd ever imagined possible.
That might explain the number-game memory. That was Julie's own memory. At least she supposed it was. She had a vague recollection of her father drilling Sam like that, but she doubted he did numbers with Sam.
Probably showed her Rothko paintings instead.
But Sam must have witnessed the number game hundreds of times, had to know all about it.
Why had she stuck it there, on the boardwalk...
... near the gravestone?
That was the real shocker. Nathan and Eathan: twins. Was it true? And if so, how come Sam knew and she didn't?
She glanced over at her sister. Sam looked beautiful, so at peace sleeping there, peaceful in a way she'd never been when she was up and about. No sign of the sinister fortune-tellers and krakens and desolate landscapes that filled the inside of her head. Just her pale beauty, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest with every breath.
Julie drained her cup, the tea cool now.
Secrets, Julie thought. That's what this is all about.
She reached down and rubbed her right leg. Sore. She gasped when she pulled up the cuff of her jeans and stared at something that shouldn't be there—couldn't be there—and yet it was: A bruise encircled her ankle and lower calf.
No! A physical injury—from the memoryscape!
If it can bruise me, hurt me, what else can it do?
Kill me?
She rubbed at the welt. Maybe I should stop this.
And then a car pulled onto the stone driveway below.
Eathan. Uncle Eathan. Dad's twin, or was that a memory-scape fantasy?
Julie expected Eathan to come upstairs and look in on Sam, but he stayed below.
The dinner hour came but no one called her down. Perhaps Eathan had told cook to skip dinner.
But she couldn't postpone a confrontation any longer. Julie walked downstairs. She checked the living room, but Eathan wasn't there. She could see into the kitchen, and it looked dark and quiet. Strange. He was home, but—
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