Last Words

by Michael Koryta

  “What are you thinking, Mr. Novak? You’ve grown very quiet. What’s on your mind?”

  “You own me now,” he said.

  “I don’t like that term.”

  “But it’s the truth. You distribute that recording, and you can blow my life up. You know that and so do I. So what do you want? What in the hell do you want from me?”

  “I want you to put Ridley Barnes in prison.”

  He stared at her. “What? I thought you were working with him.”

  “So does he,” Julianne Grossman said. “That’s why I had to go to the regrettable lengths that I did with you, in fact. Ridley does not trust easily. You have to prove yourself in the most severe ways to reach his inner circle. I’ve done that, I’ve broken my own ethical code to reach that point of trust with him, and I won’t waste that now.”

  “Why do you care so much about Ridley Barnes?”

  “Because I listened to him confess to the murder of Sarah Martin, Mr. Novak. Is that reason good enough for you?”

  37

  For a long time there was no sound but a ticking clock in some other room of the house. Julianne Grossman sat and waited and finally Mark said, “When did this happen?”

  “During a trance session with Ridley last month. I make my living by using hypnosis to help people through their difficulties. Most of the time, that involves addictions or fears. I help people quit smoking, lose weight, gain the confidence to handle public speaking. Ridley came to me with a different problem; he said that he didn’t remember whether he’d killed a child, and he wanted to know.”

  “You believed him.”

  “At the time, yes.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I believe that Ridley Barnes is a wickedly smart sociopath. I believe that he killed that poor, sweet girl and got away with it and that too much time has passed and he’s grown bored. It’s important to me to keep him occupied. Do you understand why?”

  “You think he’ll kill again if he’s not.”

  “I fear it’s a very real possibility.”

  “That’s a determination a good psychiatrist might be able to make,” Mark said. “Not a hypnotist. And if you’d had true concerns about Ridley and any conscience at all, you’d have spoken to police about this. They’re not aware of any confession, so I don’t think that you’ve told anyone about it.”

  “No, I haven’t spoken with police.”

  “So you’re full of shit,” Mark said. “If you’d heard it, and believed it, and cared as much as you claim, you’d have gone to them. Anything else is a lie.”

  “You’re an experienced investigator. You should understand just how much value a confession given under hypnosis means. It’s all but useless in the courts now, which is a true shame. One of the most valuable tools for witnesses has been removed due to ignorance and a few dishonest practitioners.”

  She wasn’t lying about this. At one time, police departments in Los Angeles and New York had maintained dedicated hypnosis units. There had been a brief flash point of excitement about the technique, but that had been all but obliterated in appellate courts. Arguments of implanted memory and coercion, along with scathing questions over the expertise of the hypnotists, had created an environment in which neither prosecutors nor defense attorneys saw much gain in introducing anything procured through hypnosis. It carried all the legal problems of the polygraph multiplied by the potential for human error and human fraud. The once-booming study of forensic hypnosis was not a popular approach anymore.

  “I tend to agree with the courts,” Mark said. “You realize the recording you played for me does absolutely nothing but prove that point? If you could convince me you were Sarah’s mother, what’s to stop you from convincing Ridley to confess?”

  “You’re part of the game now,” she said, “and I played a role in bringing you in. For that, I don’t apologize. I need the help. I apologize for the methods, because I realize they were hurtful. But I need the help.”

  In the silence, all Mark could hear was the ticking of that unseen clock.

  “Can you turn that thing down?”

  “The clock?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It bothers you?” She smiled, and he felt a surge of annoyance, because she seemed to understand why it bothered him—a childish, irrational fear that she was somehow going to be able to claim his mind against his will, use the ticking of the clock to lull him into a trance.

  “It bothers me because it’s all I can hear,” he said. “And you’re supposed to be talking.”

  “I’ve done my talking, Mr. Novak. You can run screaming to the police or to the media all you’d like, but I promise you this: the moment you do, Ridley’s belief that he has me as an ally—and right now he believes that firmly—is gone. And the best chance at seeing him answer for his crimes goes with it.”

  “So you’re going to extort me into helping you?” He gestured at the recorder that was still in her hand. “I’m supposed to trust someone who’d rather blackmail me than approach honestly?”

  “I’ve already told you that this was about gaining Ridley’s trust, not yours. I understand why it would be counterproductive for our relationship.”

  He almost laughed. “Yes, it could be viewed as counterproductive. I’m hanging on to my career by a thread, and you’re the reason!”

  “The purpose our meeting served is already paying dividends. I filmed my early sessions with Ridley until he decided he didn’t like that. This morning, he returned one of those videos to me. Because of you. Because of what he feels your presence means to the cave.”

  “Means to the cave?”

  “You’ll understand that soon enough. Now I’ll make you an offer. You feel blackmailed, you feel taken advantage of, all of these negative things. You fear the recording in my hand, don’t you?”

  Mark didn’t say anything. She already knew he did.

  “I’ll turn it over to you,” she said. “You can destroy it or do whatever you’d like with it, provided you give me twenty minutes of your time. If after those twenty minutes your concern is still with the recording, you may take it and go. I hope that won’t be the case.”

  “What are we going to achieve in twenty minutes?”

  “You’re going to watch a video.”

  She had no television in the living room, so he followed her down a narrow hallway and into a small bedroom that had been converted into an office of sorts. Bookshelves filled three walls—most of the titles had to do with hypnosis, mindfulness, or spiritualist topics—and the other wall was occupied by an ancient oak desk with a high-end Mac computer. The computer felt out of place in the room, the lone intruder. Julianne sat at the desk and fed a DVD into the disk drive. Then she turned to Mark.

  “You’re the first person other than me to see this. That’s all I’m going to say about it.”

  For a few seconds the screen was a bright, empty blue, and then it filled with an image of Ridley Barnes sitting alone in a straight-backed chair with a small pillow tucked behind his head. His eyes were closed. Mark recognized the room as Julianne’s living room. She advanced the frames until she reached a place that satisfied her and then she stood up, stepped back, folded her arms, and let the video play.

  The first voice that came, off-camera and soft, was Julianne’s. Mark recognized the familiar, lulling cadence.

  “Tell me more about Trapdoor. You’ve been there for a while, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” Ridley said. “Longer than I planned. Longer than I was ready for.”

  “Tell me what you see,” Julianne said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Why can’t you see anything?”

  “Darkness.” Ridley’s voice suggested that speaking took effort and he wanted to do as little of it as possible.

  “Is the darkness all around?”

  “All around.” He nodded slightly. His back was rigid, but his neck muscles seemed so loose that they were barely capable of holding his head upright, requiring
the support of the pillow.

  “Why is it dark?”

  “Lost my lights. Too long down here. Too long.”

  “Why do you think it has been too long?”

  “Tired. I’m tired. And…” His head rocked again, as if he were struggling to free his own thoughts, and then he said, “And it’s dark. It should never be dark.”

  “Right. It shouldn’t be dark. So why is it?”

  “Because my lights are gone.”

  “Where did the lights go?”

  “Burned out. I’ve been down too long.”

  “Why did you stay so long?”

  “Because I can hear her.”

  Mark felt his breath catch. He’d been watching the video with skepticism, or trying to, but there was something in the surreal sound of Ridley’s answers that felt authentic.

  “What do you hear?”

  “Crying.” Ridley’s voice wavered and nearly broke. “She’s crying. And I know she’s right there, but I can’t find her.”

  “You hear other things. There are other sounds. Tell me what they are.”

  Ridley’s hands began to tremble and then the rest of his body joined in a single shudder.

  “She’s asking me to stop.”

  Mark felt a prickle along his spine.

  “To stop what?” Julianne Grossman’s voice said.

  Silence. Ridley’s eyelids fluttered but he didn’t speak.

  “What is the thing that she wants you to stop?” Julianne asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “She wants to be found, doesn’t she?”

  These were the kinds of moments she’d mentioned to Mark, the moments that would render the video inadmissible in court. She was guiding him, coaxing him. An attorney couldn’t get away with those tactics on cross-examination even with a coherent witness, and when the witness was hypnotized, it stood absolutely no chance. The opposition would call it memory implanting, and that would be the end of it. That didn’t mean hypnosis wasn’t a valid technique, though, and it didn’t necessarily mean that she hadn’t gotten the truth from him.

  “I think so,” Ridley said, his voice so soft that Mark leaned closer to the computer.

  “Then why would she want you to stop looking?”

  “She wouldn’t.”

  “No, she wouldn’t. She would want you to continue, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re certain of this?”

  “I’m certain.”

  “Good. Very good. You know this to be true, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And since you know it to be true, then what does she want you to stop?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look around you. Tell me what you see.”

  “Nothing! Nothing, nothing. It’s all dark, I can’t see.” His voice had gone high, had an edge of hysteria that raised the hair on Mark’s arms.

  “Tell me about the place. Use all of your senses. Tell me what you can feel.”

  “Stone and…and dampness.”

  “You’re in the water?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the dampness, then? Are the stones wet?”

  Ridley’s body shuddered again, but he didn’t speak.

  “What do you smell?” Julianne Grossman asked.

  “Blood.” This answer came without pause, none of the previous hesitancy or sense of effort, just a simple, matter-of-fact statement. Mark’s mouth had gone dry and though he wanted to see Julianne Grossman’s expression he couldn’t bring himself to look away from the image of Ridley on the screen.

  “You smell blood. Yes. Good. Your memories are strong, aren’t they? Because the senses hold memories, and you are using your senses. They hold more memories, don’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Smell the blood, then. Use your senses to find the source. Are you bleeding?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So where is the blood coming from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is the dampness that you feel water, or is it blood?”

  “I don’t know.” His voice was still high, and now it had an angry quality, as if the questions were frustrating him.

  “Can you still hear her voice?”

  “No.”

  “But she was speaking. Now she is not. Why did she stop speaking?”

  Ridley’s voice dipped again, soft and low. “She’s too cold,” he said.

  “She told you that she’s too cold?”

  “No. I can feel it.”

  “How can you feel her sense of the cold? How is that possible?”

  “Because I’m touching her. And she’s too cold. She can’t speak anymore. She won’t speak anymore.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In my arms.”

  “When did this happen? When did you reach her?”

  “I don’t know. Time is…confusing.”

  “Did you hurt her?”

  On the screen, Ridley Barnes began to shiver. A single tear leaked down his cheek and into his beard.

  “Did you hurt her?” Julianne Grossman repeated.

  “Maybe.” His voice was childlike.

  “You need to tell yourself the truth. You need to be honest with yourself. Did you hurt her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is the blood hers, Ridley?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Why are you touching her?”

  “I’m moving her.” Each word sounded weighted with guilt.

  “Why?”

  “Because she shouldn’t be there anymore. Because they’re all waiting for her.”

  “How long have you been with her?”

  “Too long. Too long in the dark. She’s too cold, and we’ve been too long in the dark.”

  “Is she alive, Ridley?”

  “No. No, I don’t think she is.” More tears now, and the shivering was relentless. The neck pillow slipped loose and fell to the floor.

  “Was she alive when you found her?”

  “I think so.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Because she talked.”

  “What did she say?”

  “‘Please, stop.’”

  “What did she want you to stop?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you stop?”

  “I don’t know.” He was shaking, and his hands were opening and closing. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  “Why did you go into the cave, Ridley?”

  “To rescue her.”

  “Did you do that?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Bad things happened. Things I didn’t mean to do.”

  “What didn’t you mean to do?”

  “I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I didn’t.”

  “Of course you didn’t want to. But did you hurt someone?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to, but I did.”

  “Did you kill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you kill Sarah Martin, Ridley?”

  “I think so.”

  This proclamation, loud and shrill, put the first dent in Julianne Grossman’s steady, unflappable voice. There was a silence, and when she spoke again it was clear that she was searching for the right words and tone, that the questioning was no longer as natural.

  “Tell me how that happened.”

  “She was his responsibility. They’ll all blame me but she belonged to him first.”

  “What do you mean, belonged?”

  “If it’s my fault, then it was his first.”

  “Who are you referring to? Whose fault was it?”

  “The dark man’s,” Ridley said simply.

  “Who is the dark man?”

  “I don’t know. How would I know?” He was getting edgy again, and his fingers were in motion, tapping on his legs like a nervous piano student fumbling through a bad recital.

  “Did the dark man come into the cave with y
ou?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then when did he join you?”

  “He was always in the cave.”

  “That can’t be true, can it?”

  “Yes. Trapdoor sends him. He is the cave. He is the cave.”

  “Think about this. How can it be true?”

  “It’s true. It is true.”

  Julianne was pushing too hard now, and Ridley was resisting. For the first time, a clear break had appeared, and even in his trance state, Ridley was beginning to view her as an interrogator and not a guide. She seemed to realize it because she changed tacks, but it was too late.

  “Focus on the things around you,” she said. “Don’t worry about how it all came to be. Return to your senses now. Only the senses. Just tell me what you see, what you feel, what you hear, what you smell.”

  “I don’t want to be here anymore,” Ridley said. “I can’t be here anymore.”

  “That’s all right. You’re fine, you’re safe.”

  “No. Not here. In this place, no one is ever safe. Not ever.” The words had gone frantic.

  “You’re safe,” Julianne said. “Can you say that? Say the words and know that they are true. Say the words.”

  “I’m safe.” He sounded like a blubbering child being talked out of a crying fit, promised that his injury didn’t hurt as bad as he thought it did. His breathing had gotten so rapid that he was hyperventilating. It was as if Ridley’s mind had blown a fuse, and whatever protection the hypnotized state had once offered him was now gone.

  “I want to leave. Please. I want out of the dark. Please.” Each word left him with a gasp.

  “Then we’ll leave it behind. We’re going to count our way back now, all right? We’re going to start at one, and when we reach ten, you’ll be back where you are safe. You will feel better, because you’ve asked yourself the right questions, and you know that you need to ask those questions. When we reach ten, you will feel safe, and you will feel peaceful. You will feel these things because you deserve them, don’t you? Yes. You deserve to feel safe and peaceful. You deserve that. One…You know that you deserve peace. Two…And when you return you will feel good, you will feel alert and strong and clean, you will feel so much better than before. Three…You know that you deserve safety. Four…five…six.” As she counted up, her voice rose in volume just a touch, a slow but steady increase, and even from just the recording Mark could feel a shift in his own energy. “You have done all of the right things, and you have asked the right questions, and you will feel better now than before, you will be a new and better version of yourself, because you have sought these things. You will feel the peace that comes with doing the right things…seven…eight…Let yourself feel warmth again. Feel warmth and see light. Everything will be brighter now. Everything will be safe. Nine…feeling the warmth…feeling so good and so peaceful…and ten.”