Mesmerized

by Gayle Lynds

  Stephanie pulled milk from the refrigerator, sugar from a sideboard, and sat. "It'd help if you'd tell me what's happened since your transplant."

  Beth was silent. Now that she was here, all her lawyerly caution had returned. "You're a shrink. I'm relying on that, because what I'm about to say can go no further than your kitchen."

  "All right. Consider it a professional courtesy."

  Beth warned, "Not even for that study of yours for the Walters Institute."

  Stephanie frowned. "That's asking a lot. Tell you what I'll do—I won't use anything without your permission."

  "In writing."

  "Agreed. In writing. You drive a hard bargain."

  Beth snorted. "This was nothing."

  She caught Stephanie studying her and saw immediately in her eyes she understood. Recognition passed between them—two strong women in what was still a man's world, working in professions dominated by men, who loved their work and excelled despite the odds, and yet knew it was not enough for them to achieve the recognition, money, and respect men at their level could expect automatically.

  It was not a Brady Bunch moment. More like a Courage under Fire one.

  Beth raised her mug in salute. "At least we're not bored."

  Stephanie chuckled and raised her mug, too. "Amen."

  Beth began by recounting the nightmares, new food tastes, Russian poetry, explosive temper, odd pieces of information that seemed to come from nowhere, how quickly she had succeeded at karate, and her new ability to drive well at outrageous speeds. Then she backtracked and described the phone number that had led her to Meteor Express and the dead defector, Anatoli Yurimengri, and then to the man who had murdered him—Jeff Hammond.

  By the time she finished describing the mysterious house and address, the two women were on their second cups of coffee, and Stephanie was leaning back, arms crossed, a thoughtful expression on her face.

  At last she said, "Beth, forgive me. I don't mean to intrude . . . but from what you've said, I believe you're afraid you've got the heart of a killer, and that, if there's anything to cellular memory, you've 'inherited' violent traits from him."

  It sounded ridiculous, like some rug-chewing idea from a bad science-fiction novel or a B-grade horror movie. She wanted to deny it. She wanted to pretend nothing had happened. She wanted to slip between the floorboards of Stephanie's kitchen and disappear like a fugitive with her dreadful secret. But something inside her demanded to be understood, too.

  She pursed her lips, then admitted, "Yes. I'm concerned. I'd like to take a vacuum cleaner to my brain and suck out everything that's happened since my surgery so I can start fresh."

  "Oh, yes. The old suck-the-brain-clean cure."

  "You don't seem shocked. What's happened to me? What does it all mean?"

  "I don't know whether your donor had a relationship with Colonel Yurimengri or why this Jeff Hammond killed him, but I can address cellular memory. We'll do it the easy way and start with the brain, because a lot of that's already common knowledge." She paused. "The brain's remarkably complex. In fact, it's got more cellular connections than the Milky Way has stars. It analyzes, remembers, and decides by using the electrochemical energy that links its synapses—the little gaps between brain cells. This process has been proved beyond a doubt. In fact, scientists have recorded images of synapses firing—or what we call thinking."

  Beth nodded. "I remember an article about that in Scientific American. But what about the heart?" She took a deep breath and asked the million-dollar question: "I can't believe a heart thinks like a brain. Are you telling me this new heart of mine has cognitive powers, and it's sending me messages from my donor? If you are, you're going to have to do a hell of a lot more explaining to convince me."

  The scientist smiled. "I'll see what I can do."

  15

  The kitchen was quiet, the only sound the electric clock on the wall ticking, as Stephanie Smith paused to consider. At last she said, "The short answer is yes . . . and no." She held up a hand as Beth started to protest. "Give me a chance to explain. At this point, those of us studying cellular memory have evidence that indicates the heart can indeed think, but in a far less brazen, ego-driven way than the brain. You probably know about Albert Einstein's breakthrough—that energy and matter are interchangeable."

  "E = MC2."

  Stephanie nodded. "Right. Remember, the brain needs electrochemical energy so it can think. Well, as it turns out, the heart has even more juice than the brain—in fact, five thousand times more electromagnetic power. We're now beginning to believe energy is interchangeable not only with matter but with information. If so, this electric power could account for how the heart can think and communicate." She paused. "On top of that, there's a lot of hardwiring between the brain and the heart—superconduits of energy and thought, if you will. It's recently been proved that not only the brain but the heart, too, has neurotransmitters."

  "You mean the same kind of 'neurotransmitters' that are so important to the functioning of the brain?"

  "Exactly. Most people realize there are simple neurological connections between all hearts and their brains. But now we know the link is far more sophisticated—more like a superhighway than a country road. In other words, scientists have established that neurochemical and electrochemical communication goes on all the time between hearts and brains."

  "So the heart and brain have similarities I never learned about in school," Beth said, thinking.

  "That's because science is breaking new ground in this area all the time." Stephanie leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her coffee mug cradled between her palms. Her face glowed with intensity. No matter that she lived and breathed this branch of science and speculation each day—she still found it fascinating. "We've known for seventy years all cells sense, learn, and recall. Every single one of them. For instance, cells in the immune system remember, find, and try to eliminate anything that doesn't belong to the body. And don't forget DNA—a nucleic acid in the center of our cells. It remembers genetic data that determine our appearance, our predispositions to certain diseases and personality traits, and even how long we might live."

  "All right. That's a form of memory. But it's not like what we're really talking about in the case of organ transplants."

  Stephanie nodded. "Right, but it applies. Maybe you read about this experiment, too: Back in 1993, scientists at the Army Intelligence and Security Command scraped white blood cells from inside the mouth of a volunteer. They centrifuged the cells, put them in a test tube, and stuck a lie—or emotion—detector into the tube. Then they showed a TV program with a lot of violence to the fellow who had donated the cheek cells. As he watched, the lie-detector probe read extreme excitation in the cells in the test tube, even though the man was in a different room down the hall. Scientists repeated the experiment several times, eventually separating the donor and the cells by fifty miles. Still, the cells showed the same results—responding as the man himself did right at the moment it was happening, for a full two days."

  "That's amazing. Wow. Okay, you've convinced me cells can remain emotionally connected to us even when they're physically apart. But what's that got to do with me and my new heart?"

  "Candace Pert, the former chief of brain chemistry at the National Institute of Mental Health, puts it all together nicely—the electrical power and connections, the neurotransmitters, the cellular memory. She explains that since the cells in the heart are loaded with molecules containing memory, some of those memories could easily accompany a heart when it joined a new brain and body. She claims that to assume the brain thinks independently of the body and the heart, that the heart is just an ignorant pump, and that cells can't remember doesn't jibe with the latest scientific knowledge."

  Beth found herself smiling. It was preposterous, and yet . . . "So you're telling me I wanted beluga caviar because my heart remembered liking it?"

  "It's a possibility. Yours is no isolated experience. Hundreds of transplant recipie
nts across the nation corroborate what happened to you with their own stories. It doesn't occur with everyone, but there's enough anecdotal evidence that we've had to pay attention. Fortunately, since several of us are now studying the phenomenon, it's more legitimate for other scientists in a variety of fields to discuss it, too. And that means more transplant recipients feel comfortable coming forward with what they used to think of as shameful secrets that surely proved they were liars or lunatics. A few, like a woman named Claire Sylvia, have written books about what it's like to receive not only someone else's organs but also some of their memories. In that way, they've increased national awareness. I can give you a list of some of these papers and books, in case you want to look at them. But in the end, what occurred to you is your experience alone. You get to be the judge of its accuracy and what it means."

  So she was right back where she had started. Or was she? Stephanie had not given her the straightforward, black-is-black and white-is-white answer for which she had hoped. But at least there were new discoveries that helped account for her experiences. And, too, she was not alone. Other transplant recipients had also experienced unsettling events. But she was caught in a vise—she wanted to believe her perceptions were real, but if she had the heart of a killer—

  Beth rubbed her forehead. "Is it logic? Or is it prejudice? I've reached the point where I have to believe it's at least possible whoever's heart beats inside me has passed on some of who he was." She hesitated. "If it's true, then my donor was Russian or closely associated with Russians, he was good at karate, knew how to use weapons, was short-tempered, and liked fast cars. It's like putting a jigsaw puzzle together from unmarked pieces."

  Stephanie nodded sympathetically. "A couple of final thoughts. Marcel Proust said something like this: The real journey of discovery isn't in seeking new lands but in seeing with new eyes." She drained her cup and set it down. "If it's true your donor was a murderer, that was him. Not you. As you sort through everything, as time passes, you can make conscious choices about what you want to keep and what you want to discard not only from your life but from his. As the years go by, transplant recipients report that the 'memories' fade. And keep in mind that just because the bad dreams seem to be connected to the other events you're experiencing, that doesn't mean they're the literal truth about what happened to him. After all, they're nightmares, just something that happens in your mind while you're asleep."

  Beth nodded. Now she desperately wanted to know who he had been. If not his name, then at least his background. But she had signed an agreement not to search for his identity or to contact his family. As she thought that, she remembered the file she had glimpsed in Stephanie's portfolio at the transplant center.

  Beth's voice rose, incredulous, angry. "You know who he was!"

  Stephanie blanched. "What makes you think that?"

  "First, you're always direct, but this time you answered my question with a question—what makes you think that? Second, you had a file on me when you stopped by my hospital room. I saw it. This is vital, Stephanie. Crucial. You know Colonel Yurimengri was murdered. We don't want anyone else to get killed, including me. I need to stop Jeff Hammond. It might make up in some small way for whatever horrible acts my donor committed. You've got to tell me who he was."

  Stephanie took a deep breath. Worry deepened the fine lines on her round, pleasant face. She stood up, carried her mug to the kitchen sink, and rinsed it. She returned to the table and picked up Beth's.

  Beth looked up and held her with her furious gaze. "I can get a court order to find out. I've got enough so-called coincidences now to convince some judge." It was not true, but maybe Stephanie would believe it. "If you tell me, we'll save time. One way or another, I'm going to find out."

  Stephanie pursed her lips. "I know you will." She took Beth's mug to the sink, rinsed it, set it carefully in the draining rack next to her own mug, and turned back to face her. "I don't remember his name anymore, or who exactly he was. A lot of time's passed. Many interviews over the dam in the past year. In any case, we're not allowed to keep donor identification in our files. It's too confidential." Reluctantly she added, "I'm afraid your best bet is to get that court order after all."

  Beth ignored her frustration. "Look, neither of us wants any more corpses. If I'm in a similar position to that little eight-year-old girl you told me about—the one who had the heart of a murdered ten-year-old and helped track down the killer—then I may have critical information, even though it's just in my nightmares. I can't waste any more time. Surely you don't want to either. The hospital's organ-transplant office has the name of my donor on file."

  Stephanie said flatly, "None of the coordinators will give it to you."

  "Maybe not to me." Beth stood and smiled knowingly. "But they'll give it to you. Is there still a coordinator there on twenty-four duty?"

  "Yes."

  "Come on, Stephanie. How are you going to feel if you turn me down now and someone else gets killed?"

  Stephanie's face fell. "Not especially happy. Guilty would be a good word."

  "Right. We both have a responsibility to act."

  Stephanie sighed and closed her eyes. They stood there in the kitchen unspeaking.

  Finally Beth said quietly, "You know it's the right thing to do, Stephanie. Sometimes we have to bend rules for a higher good."

  The woman nodded mutely.

  "Your car or mine?"

  Stephanie sighed and opened her eyes. "You're right. We'll take mine."

  As Stephanie went into her bedroom to change out of her sweats, Beth waited, jubilant and relieved. After twelve long months of unanswered questions . . . bizarre, inexplicable experiences . . . terrifying nightmares. . . she was going to find out whether these so-called memories could have belonged to her donor. For good or bad, she had to know.

  Out in the April night, in the moist, dank shadow of a flowering tulip tree, Nikolai Fedorov collapsed his equipment and fitted it back into his black tool box. He was nodding, preparing to repeat word-for-word what he had just heard. The big kitchen window with its narrow frame of red gingham curtains had been perfect. As the two women had talked, Fedorov had bounced a small, invisible laser beam onto the glass, the vibration from the conversation had made his reflected laser beam modulate, and he had used his demodulator to extract the audio from the beam.

  He had heard everything they said.

  Inside the kitchen, the light went out. The backyard with its white plastic lawn furniture and budding camellia bushes abruptly shifted from a bath of warm light to the moonlit glow of night. By feel, Fedorov checked the equipment in his box. He knew exactly where everything belonged. He tested the bands that secured each piece in place.

  Satisfied, he soundlessly closed the top and, low to the ground, hurried out to the street and into the front seat of his stolen Chevrolet van. He moved as if there were no bones in his body, as if he were a shadow. He was highly trained, efficient, and with his medium build and almost colorless features, he took great pride in being able to blend—no, disappear—anywhere.

  He had a few minutes while Smith changed clothes, so he crawled into the van's windowless back where he could not be seen. He used his scrambled cell phone to call Alexei Berianov, who, by the roar of helicopter blades, was still aloft.

  "Yes?"

  Fedorov told him, "I have a report, sir."

  "Yes, very well."

  Fedorov repeated the two women's conversation, and when he finished, there was a long pause. For a moment, Fedorov was nervous. What had happened? Then the noisy chop-chop of the blades slowed. He waited patiently.

  As soon as the helicopter landed at his Pennsylvania farm, Alexei Berianov jumped out and, crouching, moved quickly toward his Humvee, his cell phone in hand. He considered Fedorov's information. The investigation of Beth Convey's background had turned up one particularly disturbing fact: According to the medical records of her heart-transplant surgeon, Convey had complained of nightmares and changes in tastes and
habits that had led her to wonder whether she was receiving information from her donor's heart. From a Russian donor. To Berianov, it was complete hogwash. But what mattered was what Convey thought.

  Now it appeared she was inclined to believe it. As he drove off alone in the Humvee, he told Federov in Russian, "She'll find out who her donor was. We can't have that. It will encourage her to keep digging. She'll ask more questions and involve more people. She's an attorney with connections. She won't stop. It's not her nature."

  "Da, you're right. What do you want me to do?"

  Berianov's hand tightened on the cell phone, and then it relaxed. He could trust Fedorov. Fedorov was not as good as Ivan Vok, but he had been trained by Ivan and others in the old days and was still among the best.

  He decided, "With Convey and Smith, there's too much potential for trouble. It must look like an accident. We want no possibility, no matter how remote, that something could be traced to us." As he pulled to a stop beside his mansion, one of his people trotted toward the Humvee to open the door for him. "Purge Beth Convey. Purge both women." Caleb Bates broke the connection.

  Stephanie drove them through Georgetown toward the Fourteenth Street Bridge and the highway that would take them to the medical center in Virginia where Beth had regained her life. They continued to talk about transplants, the heart, cutting-edge discoveries in biophysiology, and the future of organ transplantation—human, animal, and artificial. It was almost midnight by the time they crossed the bridge and turned south onto the Jefferson Davis highway. The sky was black satin, and the lights of the vibrant metropolis rose in a pink glow.

  They had been talking about the usual post-surgical course of treatment for organ recipients when Stephanie asked, "How are your biopsies?"

  As all transplant recipients must, Beth underwent regular biopsies of her heart to assess rejection. A pathologist would examine a sample under a microscope and score it from zero to ten. It took little to rate "rejection"—anything above a four.