MemoryMen

by Michael Binkley

  Carly remembered how disappointed he had been after meeting Hasan, as the little man was nothing like what the professor had imagined. He had pictured a nervous, chain-smoking, quack originally. Instead he found himself meeting a country squire. Richly calm amid a walnut paneled room, the retired physician was the antithesis of Carly's imagination.

  From there, Carly vaguely remembers going to Salida. It seemed that the closer he got in actual time in trying to remember the events that led up to his wake-up in the shower, the less he remembered. All in all, his trip to Needlepoint was wasted. He learned nothing new from Hasan, just confirmation that Dombrowski died in Cañon City at the hands of state executioners. As he walked back to his room he decided to wait until he was back down the canyon, before he called Dave or Diane. He would stop in Cañon City, maybe Captain Hoffman would have something new for him.

  Maybe not, he thought despairingly. Back at the motel, he fell asleep quickly, his mind and body both equally exhausted.

  The next day's trip along the Arkansas River to Cañon City was slowed by tourist traffic, but otherwise uneventful. Carly tried as hard as he could to piece together the circumstances of the day before, but he couldn't remember anything beyond the time he spent with Hasan. Obviously the head injury was more than a casual bump on the noggin, and he decided to have it checked out when he got back to Ft. Collins. The last thing he needed was to have his eggs officially scrambled, not after half of Los Angeles 'unofficially' thought they already were. His worry was minor though, as he knew any good blow to the head could cause a lapse of memory, particularly those just prior to the accident. Those events, which seemed to be the freshest, the most inconsequential were the weakest in leaving an imprint. It explained why Carly could piece together parts of his talk with Hasan but nothing just before he hurt himself.

  Entering the prison office complex, he found Captain Hoffman in his office. Fred was eager to see him, as he wanted to hear every word about the interview with Hasan. The disappointment and confusion registered on his weathered face as Carly told him what little he knew.

  “Boy, Professor that sure in the hell doesn't sound like the Khahil Hasan I knew. Retirement must have mellowed him out quite a bit. I can't ever remember him sitting still for much more than a moment or two. He was always so hyped up on cigarettes and coffee when he was at work. I would have thought he would have been even more hyper and nervous with you talking to him. Maybe he was drunk, who knows? Then to imagine him as a hiker, what a laugh! Back when I knew him he smoked so much that a flight of stair started him puffing and coughing when he tried to haul that flabby butt of his up them. Retirement? Sounds more like a complete personality overhaul.”

  Listening to his friend across the desk, Carly found himself beginning to sweat profusely, his heart starting to race and he didn’t understand why. The images the guard captain talked about were exactly what he had imagined Hasan to be before he went to visit the doctor. So exact were the images, that Carly could actually visualize them almost remembering them, but not quiet. Not just a mere fantasy projection from an over-active, overtly fertile and fervent imagination, but a real image…almost a memory. At least it seemed that way, until suddenly the reality of Hasan sitting demurely on the couch with the afghan pulled up to his chin would superimpose itself on the other image, blurring one for the other.

  The confusion was frightening.

  The harder he thought about Hasan and the real image versus the imaged one, the more confused he became. Gradually he found himself falling into a deeply agitated state. Anxious and disoriented, he staggered to his feet seeking an open window in the office, as its very walls seemed to close in on him.

  “You all right, Carly?” the captain asked, coming to his side. “You're as white as a sheet, and twice as sweaty as one in a whore house. Are you okay, I can get a medic from the infirmary down here right away.” Fred motioned toward the phone, but Carly waved him off.

  “No!” he blurted out sharply, almost hostile.

  Slowly as Carly stared out the window he found himself idly curious about the action in the prison yard. As he watched the comings and goings of guards and prisoners he felt better, calmer, almost able to relax. Feeling steady, he turned to his friend with an embarrassed apology, he began to explain how he woke up in the shower.

  “I must have fallen; I don't know what happened. The last thing I remembered was talking to Hasan. I know head injuries can cause a variety of memory losses, including the loss of memory just prior to the accident. That's the only thing I can figure out. Other than a blistering headache, I haven't had any reaction to the fall until just now. Damnedest thing, talking about Hasan really threw me. It's like your description set off some unconscious images I had of him, then reality took over, confusing the issue. It's like suddenly remembering a dream when you’re awake. It’s real to the mind but it’s out of sync with the real world. Maybe I should get into a doctor, the fall might have rattled something around that needs fixing.”

  “I've seen panic attacks in the cons when they first come in, and you sure had that kind of look,” Fred added, with a touch of real sympathy. “It's not something I'd wish on anybody. Strange though that talking about Hasan set you into a spin. Why him? Especially if he was this newly converted 'mountain-hippie'. The old Hasan was more of the Las Vegas lounge lizard type.”

  Quickly an image of the Pakistani flashed through Carly's mind. It wasn't the quietly retired physician he had spoken with, but rather a liquor scented, yellow-eyed man with a calico cat that he saw, clearly and distinctly. Suddenly he snapped upright as the quiet man on the couch came to mind. Confused, he felt himself starting to lose control again, with his pulse beating rapidly, he felt a tightness in his chest, the air became too thin to breathe. Before the confusion washed over him and overcame his senses, he slowly and purposely stared past his startled friend and focused on the row of photos on the opposite wall. Grim faced men stared at him. Wardens they were, he realized…past wardens. Concentrating with all his might, he strained to read the names, and as he did a bit of peace returned, he felt less anxious, calmer.

  “It happened again didn't it Professor?”

  “Yeah. Was Hasan a cat lover? Did he have one when he was here?”

  “Sure did, a couple. How did you know that?”

  “What kind? Calico?”

  Surprised, Fred blurted, “Yes. He had two calico cats. Made a big deal out of it too because one was a male. Guess they're pretty rare.”

  Slowly, breathing deeply and purposefully, Carly tried to talk about the two images of Hasan. He was less anxious this time around because he knew that as the waves of confusion rolled over him, he could steady himself, just by not thinking about either of the two Hasan's, at least not directly.

  “I see two Hasan's in my mind. One is the one I described to you first. A quiet man sitting on a large couch covered by an afghan. This one I can talk about easily, without any disturbance. The second Hasan, is more problematic.”

  As he felt the panic start to set in he stopped himself by taking a long deep breath and read the name of the third warden hanging on the opposite wall. He made a point of concentrating on the image of the stern looking man with white cowboy hat who had run the territorial prison back in 1873.

  As if discussing a passing after thought, he talked about the second physician. “He had yellow-eyes.” Carly drew a deep breath and wondered if the man had recognized the symbolism behind his white hat.

  Trance-like he spoke in a monotone, “A calico cat sitting outside, one inside. The one inside was a male, he was licking his balls.”

  Another breath, the fourth warden only lasted nine months.

  “Hasan smoked. Reeked of liquor. Moved around constantly, mostly to get more booze from the kitchen” he snapped out, as if he had been interrupted while working on something else. “His place was a hovel too, not a retirement villa of a lottery winning physician.”

  He took a deep breath, followed by a review of
the fifth warden, a thirty-year veteran. He took the prison into statehood.

  “Ratty little bastard. Came to America through Langella, Dombrowski's attorney. He's been hiding out. He figured someone like me would show up.”

  Carly stopped and walked over to the window, using the diversion of the prison yard to calm himself, the image was getting sharper, but the clearer it became the more intrusion he felt from the other Hasan.”

  Counting the number of inmates in the yard, Carly continued, “He told me about Dombrowski and how Langella had him meet....”

  The sweat poured from his brow and dripped on the window, his hands shook as he followed the image in his mind. Gradually the imaged Hasan and the real Hasan switched in his mind.”

  “What is it Carly? Another anxiety attack?”

  “No Fred,” Carly turned toward him with a smile, “no more anxiety attacks. I know what happened, now.”

  “I met the Hasan you knew. I talked with him and he spilled his guts. He was relieved, he knew the truth about Dombrowski. He knew the truth about Merriwhether, and the sons of a bitches tried to kill him at the monastery!”

  For a man who lived life by the book, Captain Fred Hoffman found himself in completely uncharted territory. “What do you mean, 'the truth about Dombrowski'? Who's Merriwhether? Who the hell is this other Hasan?”

  The two men sat for nearly another hour as Carly told him about meeting the real Hasan, the physician that Fred had known, the boozer, the chain-smoking, hyper-active cat lover. As the story unfolded, Fred found himself this time to be the one with the cold sweats.

  “My God, Dombrowski's alive?” he asked, the incredulity spreading across his face.

  “He may be. He sure in the hell didn't die here, like we all thought. Merriwhether had Hasan fake the death and then snatched him. He paid off Hasan, but since he didn't trust him, he kept the little man on ice up in Needlepoint. You see Hasan may be a lot of things, but he isn't stupid. He told me he made it perfectly clear that if something happened to him, a complete record of Merriwhether's business with him would hit the Denver Post, the internet…all the major media.”

  Fred agreed completely, knowing Hasan was not stupid even if he had been a flop as a doctor and human being.

  “That explains why Hasan stayed alive. Everybody else who was too stupid to protect themselves ended up dead. The greedy ones died first so did some of their innocent associates.”

  “So what happened to Hasan?”

  “Brother Damien shot him, I jumped Damien. Jesus Fred, I think I shot the monk! I remember the gun going off, blood pooling on the floor, then I imagine somebody shanghaied me because the next thing I knew, I'm waking up in a sleazy motel in Salida.”

  The look in other man's eyes asked the question without saying a word.

  “What happened to me?” Carly asked before the other man could.

  Suddenly he had the answer, it all made sense now.

  “They tried a little MemoryLock voodoo on me, I believe. It makes so much sense now. Merriwhether and his people have been doing this for years. They must have patched Hasan up enough to prop him up on the monastery couch, covered his wounds with a blanket and did a tape of him. They then ran me through the tape via a virtual reality player, trying to superimpose the second Hasan over my original memories.”

  “They can do that stuff? Here in rural Colorado?”

  “The monastery probably had a machine. It would make sense for programming people on retreats and such. The plan had half a chance. Actually it might have stuck with a bit of luck. Had I not come back to see you the mad monks of Needlepoint might have gotten away with it. Your description of Hasan triggered the original memory, the real memory, in my mind. The two competing images jousted back and forth causing the anxiety attacks you saw. What saved me was the realization that all I had to do was focus away from the two competing memories, sort of fill my mind up with fluff in the foreground and let the problem areas seep through. The activity in the yard and those pictures behind your desk did the trick. Sort of scary, when you think about it, had I not come back here, I wouldn't have had the memory conflict, as no one else I would have talked with up north would have even know Hasan, let alone been able to describe him.”

  Fred’s mind was working like someone who had been in Corrections his entire career as he asked, “Why didn't they just kill you? Who would have known? A car accident along the Arkansas River canyon, would have been easy to do and easier to explain.”

  “Just before all hell broke loose at the monastery, I had called Dave Ramirez in Denver and told him I had the case broken and was bringing him all the answers. Had I suddenly disappeared, it wouldn't have looked as neat as one might expect. Killing me would have raised Dave's suspicions. A body in the river with a bullet hole would have raised a few more eyebrows. Brother Damien made a critical mistake by shooting Hasan. If Hasan dies, the good doctor had it all set up to have some family member in Pakistan blow the whistle on Merriwhether and MemoryLock. Their only hope was to get me 're-adjusted' and leave me to explain to Dave that I really didn't have anything. After that if Hasan lives, they’re safe. If he dies it would be awhile before anyone would know, after all his last visitor of record remembered him looking quite fine in his mahogany paneled study.”

  The two men sat in silence for a moment pondering what had just happened. The taller man glad to have freed his mind of an imposed artificial memory, while the shorter man regretted the time and place in technology he found himself. An otherwise simple life, just grew immensely complicated. The silence of the moment was broken by a horn sending the people in the yard below off to dinner. As the two turned back to the moment, the question came out of their mouths simultaneously.

  “What now?”

  Carly tried to answer first. “I would imagine that the monastery is empty by now, but someone has got to check it out and pronto. If they had the capacity to do programming on me, then they've got equipment to move. If they've left, then there must be some way to track them. If Hasan isn't dead then they have to find him some medical attention, as the last thing they want is to have his Pakistani insurance policy come into the light of day with what is going on in L.A. They might have the capabilities of flying in a doctor, hell maybe even Oona, Merriwhether's wife. I would doubt that though, as it would be far too risky, plus she's not that kind of practitioner and they wouldn't be willing to risk another physician. Brother Damien is a rash thinker, if Hasan is alive they might have left a trail. If Hasan is dead, there's the possibility of finding the body. If not, in an area the size of Needlepoint or the rest of the high valley, someone had to notice Brother Damien and the crew leaving.”

  Both of them agreed the critical thing for Merriwhether, was knowing he had a very small window of time to cover their tracks. They had to have realized just how thin the programming was they used on Carly. Knowing Merriwhether might think it is better than it really is, as Carly surmised his ego would be that strong. It was a gamble at best, but at the very least they would have had a day's head start to cover their tracks. If Hasan lived, the only problem they would have would be Carly.

  He looked at Fred and shook his head, almost disbelieving what had transpired in the past couple of days. “Keeping in mind how thin my own credibility is right now, I've got little to go on. If people thought I was crossing the line into fantasy in L.A., all I'd need to do is show up in Denver with some wild story about crazed monks, virtual reality, and the theft of a man who's officially been dead for nearly ten years, to really appear certifiably insane."

  “Your best hope is the level of sloppiness that Merriwhether has displayed in this whole gambit. He let Hasan live to possibly blackmail him. He let some goon like Brother Damien run his operation in Needlepoint. And finally his own personal Frankenstein might be out running amok in Los Angeles. Anybody who makes those kind of mistakes, will make more,” Fred told his friend in all earnestness. Carly knew he was right. Merriwhether had never been a detail man and it w
as showing now. Sloppiness or hubris, either way Merriwhether was making mistakes.

  Pensive as he thought about the prospects of Dombrowski still alive and still killing, Fred indicated he could get the state police into Needlepoint within the hour. “I'll get on the horn and have them check out the monastery. I'll tell them we have a potential escape conspiracy that might involve a phony set-up at the monastery and a retired prison doctor. If everything appears fine with the Brothers, they can look for Hasan. If the monastery looks funny, then we can widen the search. At a minimum Hasan will be missing and they can start looking for him as a possible suspect.”

  Fred fell silent and Carly could see the wheels turning at high speed in the Captain’s thoughts. Finally, he looked directly at Carly and snapped his fingers. “What about Hasan's relative?”

  Fred asked his mind clicking through his mental index cards. “That story didn't sound right, as he didn't have any relatives in Pakistan. They were all killed in some kind of religious and political purge before he came here. His entire clan. Every man, woman, and child were killed. Not a brother, sister, aunt, uncle, or cousin was left. That's part of the reason he was able to stay here in the U.S. Not only was he a professional, but he was a refugee. From what I understood he had been in India at the time of the killings and immigrated straight from Delhi to Denver when he completed medical school. That’s why he was so fearful about being deported. He was a dead man if he went back.”