More Deaths Than One

by Pat Bertram

  She laughed. “Here’s a note in what I assume is Harrison’s handwriting. It says, ‘Sounds like Todd used more than his share of the drugs. He can’t remember what The Sweeper looked like, what his name was, where he came from. Quite a commentary on modern life, wouldn’t you say? For months, Todd lived with a soldier with an incredible gift, yet all he can remember is the man was a loner who didn’t take drugs. He couldn’t even tell me if the man kept to himself by his own choice or because no one would have anything to do with him.’ What do you think?”

  It took Bob a moment to realize that Kerry directed the final question at him.

  “Probably a bit of both,” he said. “If in fact The Sweeper did have an unusual talent, he’d feel a need to nurture that talent, particularly since it would help him survive. He wouldn’t be able to do that if he was just one of the boys. Nor would the boys want to have anything to do with him. Being different, truly dif-ferent, is a failing few people can tolerate in others.”

  Kerry nodded. “I can see that.” She held out a batch of papers. “Do you want to go through these?”

  “Not now. I feel a headache coming on, but you might as well continue.”

  She sorted through the papers in silence for a few minutes, then let out an excited cry she quickly stifled.

  “Here’s Harrison’s interview with Dr. Brewer.” Her head bobbed as she turned the pages, then she tossed it on a stack of papers she’d already skimmed. “Nothing new. At least we know Brewer told us the same story he told Harrison.”

  Bob massaged his temples. “That means the doctor had plenty of time to get the story straight in his mind, not that he told us the truth.”

  Kerry continued to examine the contents of the valise. When she finished, she frowned at the piles of paper littering the floor.

  “Most of the interviews are with people who rambled on without saying anything. I don’t understand why Harrison insisted you have these papers. I thought they would be notes about the war, but most of this is research into the mind and memory, nothing so contro-versial that it needed to be locked in a safe.”

  “Harrison had brain cancer. Sometimes paranoia is a side effect.”

  “Even if someone gave the cancer to him?”

  “Especially if someone gave it to him.”

  ***

  They sat on a braided rug in front of the fireplace and ate a picnic supper. A buried memory kept niggling at Bob as he listened to Kerry speculating about what it must have been like to be a war cor-respondent, and then all of a sudden he had it.

  “The valise has a false bottom where Harrison kept extra cash and important papers. That’s why he never left the case unattended.”

  Kerry jumped up. “A false bottom. Of course.” She brought the valise to Bob and sat back down.

  He pulled the tab that opened the hidden compartment and drew out a fat manila envelope with his name written on it in wobbly block letters. He handed it to Kerry.

  “Are you sure? Don’t you want to read it in private?”

  He shook his head, ignoring the pain. A feeling of dread crept over him, and he didn’t want to be alone when Harrison revealed the secret he had died protecting.

  Kerry opened the envelope, removed the sheaf of papers, and read aloud.

  “‘Dear Bob. There’s something I haven’t told you, something you need to know. A couple of months ago we met in O’Riley’s for a farewell drink before I took off for New York. After you left, a man slipped into the seat you vacated. He introduced himself as Ed Keaton, then said Robert Stark walked pretty good for a gimp. As you can imagine, that caught my attention.

  “‘Keaton proceeded to tell me that you and he had both been supply clerks in Vietnam, and that one day, inexplicably, the two of you had been ordered to accompany a truck convoy. The entire story coincided with what you once told me. Until the punch line, that is. The Robert Stark he knew got a foot blown off and a medical discharge. You got your head jostled and a flight back to Vietnam.

  “‘I thought the coincidence remarkable and kept questioning Keaton. His story never wavered. He said he knew about the foot because he had found it. He had been in the rear of the convoy. Unscathed by the explosion, he went running to help. He stumbled over a boot with your foot still inside, then found you ten feet away from it.

  “‘He said he was hurt that you hadn’t recognized him, but he admitted that, despite being stationed together, you two had never been buddies. He also said, somewhat sheepishly, that he’d changed a lot—lost his hair, gained weight, grown old. He recognized you immediately. Said you looked the same except that you were in much better condition than when you were in the army. He thought it incredible, considering your foot and all.

  “‘I couldn’t get the bizarre coincidence of two Robert Starks with such similar histories out of my head. When I arrived in the states, I called a source in the Pentagon—a file clerk in the records department. I had him check the service records for both Robert Starks, but he could find only one—the one belonging to the Robert Stark with the missing foot.

  “‘My source told me a flag attached to the file demanded that ISI be notified immediately if anyone requested the records. He’d never heard of ISI, but he assumed it was one of the super-secret intelligence agencies, and he wanted nothing more to do with the file. He did say he had taken a quick look at it and saw nothing of note. Even the injury was not uncommon.

  “‘I tried to tell you this when I got back to Thailand, but I didn’t know how, and then I had to leave on my book tour. After we said goodbye, I turned back, determined to tell you what I had discovered. Looking into your clear, calm eyes, however, I could not find it in me to mess with your serenity.

  “‘I’ve spent the entire plane trip working on this letter. Now, if something happens to me before I can find the proper time to tell you what I discovered, at least you will know what I know. The problem is, I don’t know what it means. Maybe nothing. In that case, I can tear up this letter and we can have a good laugh.’”

  ***

  The memory of Harrison was so strong, Bob could feel a disturbance in the air, as if the writer were actually in the room with him and Kerry. He remembered how agitated Harrison had been the last time they’d been together. He opened his mouth to tell his friend not to worry, that it was okay, then he snapped it shut. It was not okay. Harrison was dead, possibly because of him.

  Kerry took a long drink of water. “Do you want me to keep going?”

  Bob closed his eyes against a stab of pain. Maybe it would be better not to know what the rest of the letter said. Finally, he opened his eyes and nodded for her to continue. If these were Harrison’s last words, the least he could do was listen to them.

  Chapter 28

  Kerry hesitated a moment as if waiting for Bob to change his mind, then read aloud once more.

  “‘As you can see, I haven’t torn up this letter. During the course of my research into The Sweeper, I found out that a doctor named Jeremy Rutledge might have treated him. I went to see Rutledge at the Rosewood Research Institute in Boston and, to my surprise, the doctor agreed to talk to me.

  “‘Forgive me if I ramble, but I’m having trouble concentrating. I woke with the flu this morning, and besides all the usual symptoms, including a splitting headache, I am so weak it feels as if my bones are dissolving. When I’m finished writing, I’ll go to bed and stay there until I get better.

  “‘Although I have every intention of telling you this in person when I return to Bangkok, I still feel compelled to write it. If I don’t get well, it’s the only way you’ll have of learning the truth, but of course I’ll get well.

  “‘I’m rambling again, aren’t I?’”

  Kerry looked at Bob, her eyes reflecting the horror he felt. “My God, he’s writing this while he’s dying, isn’t he?”

  Bob put his arms around his middle and rocked himself, trying to still a sudden nausea. He felt as if he should be doing something to help his friend, but nothing he
could do would change the fact that Harrison had already died.

  Kerry began to read again. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and her voice shook.

  “‘Rutledge told me about a soldier who had been brought to his attention, one so mentally exhausted he was catatonic. Rutledge felt sure the soldier continuously relived a traumatic experience. The doctor decided to help the soldier by getting rid of the memory of that experience.

  “‘There is a chance the soldier would have recovered on his own, but Rutledge didn’t want to wait. He had heard that the soldier had a tremendous gift, a supernatural ability to blend into his environment, rendering him practically invisible. Rutledge saw the soldier as his ticket to fame and fortune, but as long as the man remained non-responsive, the doctor could not study him.

  “‘To make a long story short, when Rutledge zapped the neurons to sever the soldier’s connection with his terrible memories, the laser pulsed, destroying the links to his entire memory bank.’”

  Kerry’s voice still shook as she continued to read, but Bob could tell that anger had displaced the sorrow.

  “‘As often happens with amnesiacs, the soldier remembered how to speak and to read, but he could not access his past, his sense of self, everything that made him unique.

  “‘Rutledge found him as non-responsive with no memories as he had been with too many. To rectify the situation, the doctor decided to give him a new memory.

  “‘He searched the hospital for someone who looked like his patient and found a couple of men who were also average-looking with an average build. He chose a man from Denver, but he didn’t mention if it was a coincidence, or if he wanted someone ISI could easily keep an eye on.

  “‘Did I tell you about ISI? I don’t remember. They’re a multi-national corporation based in Broom-field, Colorado that funded a private hospital in the Philippines during the Vietnam War where all sorts of mind control experiments were done, and they fund Rutledge’s research institute in Boston.

  “‘The doctor had the man from Denver transferred to the psychiatric ward and proceeded to borrow the man’s memory.’” Kerry stopped and stared at Bob. “My God, he’s talking about you, isn’t he? You’re the man from Denver. That must mean the other Robert Stark is The Sweeper.”

  Pain exploded behind Bob’s eyes. He put his hands on his head to keep the top from blowing off.

  Kerry gave him a concerned look. “Maybe you should go to bed. We can finish this another time.”

  “Keep reading,” he said. The words came out sounding like a croak.

  “Where was I?”

  The rattling of the papers and the crackling of the fire hammered in Bob’s ears, but her voice soothed him.

  “‘Under drug-induced hypnosis, the man poured out everything he could remember about his life, even the most trivial things, like the mole on his fourth grade teacher’s chin. After weeks of such sessions, after hundreds of hours of recordings, Rutledge sent the ringer home, but kept the ringer’s wallet containing all of his ID and a picture of his college girlfriend.’” Kerry stopped. “That’s not right. You still have your wallet.”

  She looked at Bob as if waiting for an expla-nation, but he found no words.

  “It happened a long time ago. Maybe Rutledge got confused,” she said, then continued reading. “‘The tapes were almost perfect for his project, but Rutledge felt the need to make a few minor changes. First, he erased all mention of the other man’s missing foot. Then, to explain the massive scarring on his patient’s chest, he turned an insignificant childhood hunting accident into a major event. Next, to take away any desire for his patient to return to his supposed home, he created a memory of the mother’s death. He also forged a Dear John letter from the girlfriend and stuck it in the wallet.

  “‘He kept the man in a drug-induced hypnotic state for weeks, maybe months, playing those tapes over and over and over again while showing him pictures of Denver and snapshots of his new family. One of ISI’s operatives had stolen the ringer’s family album for this very purpose.

  “‘I keep calling the other man a ringer, but he wasn’t really. The two men bore a superficial resemblance to each other. Plastic surgery enhanced the likeness.

  “‘When Rutledge felt certain his patient’s new memories would hold, he woke him and told him he’d been unconscious for five days with a minor head trauma, though in reality he had been unconscious for many months.

  “‘And so a new Robert Stark was born.’”

  Kerry put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Bob. That’s even worse than having your memory stolen. Do you remember any of it?”

  “I remember I’m Robert Stark, I’m from Denver, and I have both my feet.”

  She paced the scuffed wooden floor. “How could they do something like that to you? How could they think they had the right?”

  She stopped, bent down, and peered into his face. “You can’t remember anything beyond Robert Stark?”

  He gazed back at her. His legs were crossed, and his hands lay palms up on his thighs. He felt no trace of a headache.

  She jerked herself erect. “How can you sit there like nothing happened?”

  “Nothing has happened,” he answered calmly. “I’m the same person I was a minute ago.”

  The floorboards squeaked as she resumed her pacing. “They stole your life from you.”

  “Perhaps they gave me life.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Remember me telling you about the little girl who was catatonic because she couldn’t face the memories of her abuse? Rutledge thought he could save her by removing those memories. Maybe he did for The Sweeper what he couldn’t do for her.”

  Kerry’s voice rose. “Are you defending him?”

  He rubbed his chest and felt the scar tissue through the thin material of his shirt. “All I’m saying is that memories cause their own torment. The worst thing about a bad experience often is not the experience itself, but the endless loop of memories that come after.”

  “I feel like going to Boston and smashing that doctor’s arrogant face, and you’re talking philosophy?”

  “Look at it this way. Many people spend their whole lives trying to deal with, and possibly eradicate the memories of their youth. I no longer have to be concerned with mine since they’re false.”

  She stamped a foot. “Don’t you dare try to make light of the situation. They stole your identity from you. You don’t even know who you are.”

  “I’m the man who loves you and who is going to be with you always. That’s who I am.”

  “But what if you were supposed to be a different person?”

  “Then maybe I wouldn’t have met you and, for me, that’s unthinkable. Besides, you always become a different person when you choose to be with someone. My new life is what matters, not some mythical past.” He paused. “Maybe I was someone I wouldn’t like to know.”

  Her pacing slowed. “You make it all sound so normal.”

  “It is. Do any of us know who we are? Deep inside your bones and soul, do you know who you are?”

  “It’s not the same thing. I didn’t have my past stolen from me. I know who my parents are, who my brothers are. I know my name.” Her eyes widened. “Your family! How are we going to find your family without a name?”

  “We’re not. I’ve been dead to them for seven-teen years, plenty of time for them to come to terms with my demise.”

  “But we have to look for them.”

  “Why? After the first excitement of finding out I’m alive, the truth—that the son they had known no longer exists—could bring them nothing but more grief.”

  “The military would still have your fingerprints on file, wouldn’t they? We could find out who you are by contacting them.”

  “If the army discovered that I hadn’t died in the war but am still alive, they would want to know why. The thought of being back in the army’s clutches is every bit as repugnant as being under Rutledge’s control.”

  Sh
e peered at him. “You can live without knowing what your name is?”

  “Yes. We define our names. Our names don’t define us.”

  She sat next to him. “We haven’t finished the letter. Maybe Harrison found out who you are.” She read aloud. “‘I know I sound cold and distant as if I’m talking about a stranger and not you, Bob, but if I let my emotions get the better of me, I would never be able to continue writing, and you need to know the truth. Or maybe not. Did the truth ever set anyone free? At the very least, it comes with a price.

  “‘I seem to be rambling again.

  “‘Though I kept questioning the doctor, he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, reveal your true identity. He told me, quite condescendingly, that since you were officially dead, you no longer existed as a real person. You were merely his lab rat and, as such, merited no name.’”

  Kerry let out a heavy sigh.

  “Is it going to be a problem for you not knowing my birth name?” Bob asked.

  She was silent for several seconds, then she smiled at him. “No. You’re right. What’s important is our life together. At least I won’t have to worry about your parents liking me.”

  He returned her smile. “Now who’s making light of the situation?”

  “I guess it’s no more bizarre than thinking you had another self running around or that your mother died twice.”

  He yawned. “Let’s finish the letter and go to bed. I’m exhausted.”

  “All right. Harrison continues, ‘Despite the memory transplant, as Rutledge called it, the new Robert Stark showed no signs of being a chameleon, but Rutledge was certain the ability would eventually resurface.

  “‘Around this time, the State Department asked ISI to lend them someone completely unknown to the intelligence community to help with a special project. Rutledge volunteered the new Robert Stark. He thought such an assignment would be the perfect thing to help you regain your powers.

  “‘To the doctor’s disappointment, it didn’t happen. You still had the ability to blend, but it was more of a meek man’s tendency to fade into the back-ground than a true chameleon-like ability.