by Allen Wyler
He squeezed the trigger, blowing out the left front tire, stepped around the car did the same to the right, then was back in the rental, peeling rubber as the light turned amber.
THEY DUMPED THE rental on a residential street in Everett two blocks from an Enterprise car rental where, using the Rush ID and credit card, Tom picked up a beige Toyota.
Next, they drove I-5 north of Everett to the Premium Outlet Mall where he purchased new jeans, a sweatshirt, and a baseball-style cap at Ralph Lauren while Sarah got a new blouse and slacks. He also picked up a cheap cell phone at a Verizon kiosk. Dressed in the new clothes and cap, he stopped by the Sony store and purchased a 12-megapixel camera with a supplemental sixteen gig flash memory card and a second set of fully charged batteries. Tasks done, he located one of the few existing pay phones left in the world.
Sarah stood next to him, scanning the crowd for anyone paying too much attention to them. “Who we calling?”
“Charles Russell.”
Sarah said, “Don’t look now, but a security guard’s checking us out.”
49
MCCARTHY’S FIRST REACTION was to hang up the phone and get the hell out of there, but he figured that’d only draw more attention. “Where is he?” The pay phone was in a hall to the lavatories.
“To your right, by the doors.”
A woman, who McCarthy assumed was Mrs. Russell, answered the phone. Without identifying himself, he asked to speak with Charlie. A moment later Russell picked up.
“Charlie. Tom McCarthy. Can you talk?”
Russell hesitated. “Am I going to get into trouble for it?”
With all the news reports during the past twenty-four hours, McCarthy could understand if Charlie might be hesitant, but it was crucial to learn what few facts he could. He hoped their excellent doctor-patient relationship would override any concerns the media reporting might cause.
“If talking to me makes you nervous I’ll hang up, but I really need your help. You might be one of the few people who can clear this mess up for me. For what it’s worth, I didn’t kill anyone yesterday. The press has it wrong.”
Russell let out a dismissive snort. “I didn’t believe a word of it when I saw it. Wouldn’t be the first time reporters got something wrong. What can I do for you?”
As he remembered, Russell’s accident occurred while he was working at a shipyard in a cherry picker thirty feet up, painting numbers on the hull of a dry-docked freighter. For no apparent reason, the machine collapsed, crashing the basket onto the cement below. Luckily Charlie survived but his injuries included several long bone fractures, a crushed lumbar vertebra, and a pulped left temporal lobe with an acute subdural hematoma. A swift emergency airlift to Lakeview Medical Center saved his life.
“I need to ask you a few things about your memories, Charlie.” Tom scanned the immediate area for someone eyeing him, then turned to face the wall and pulled the baseball cap low on his forehead to hide as much of his face as possible. Sarah leaned in close to hear what she could and also block the view of his face.
“Thought I told you all about them in the hospital.”
“You did. But the thing about the prostitute, can you think of any way we could determine if it really happened? Just to double check. It’s really important to do this.”
Russell gave a soft groan. “Believe me, it happened.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I remember it as clear as just about anything that ever happened to me.”
“I know you do. But bear with me on this. I know you remember it, but the question is, did it really happen to you. Maybe it happened to someone else and for some reason it’s now one of your memories.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. I remember it too well.”
“I understand, but let’s think about this a moment. Can you remember what date it happened?”
“Clear as spring water.”
“Okay, we’ll come back to that. Now, is there any other memory like the prostitute thing that you wish had never happened?”
“What do you mean?”
During the interview, Russell had become emotional, eaten up with self-loathing and embarrassment for an act he couldn’t imagine himself doing. It had taken a great deal of patient coaxing to bring him to the point of recounting the incident. McCarthy wondered if other heinous acts were eroding Charlie’s conscience too. Every one of his instincts told him that Charlie Russell could not have killed the prostitute.
“I know how much that memory eats at you and that you can’t believe you did it. Is there anything else like that you haven’t told me? Things you might’ve done?”
Charlie didn’t answer.
“Here’s the thing, Charlie. The other week I saw another patient who, just like you, who remembers things other people—her family, mostly—swear never happened. And guess what? When we checked out her story, it turns out the family was right. Those things never happened to her. They happened to someone else. See what I’m saying?”
“Not really.”
“We think, for reasons we can’t explain, she’s experiencing someone else’s memories.”
Russell sounded doubtful. “How could that happen?”
“I don’t know. But in a lot of ways, she’s very similar to you. In particular, she had a head injury like yours. What I’m thinking is, maybe sometime in her past someone told her about the things she now remembers, or maybe she saw them on TV. Then, for some reason the head injury scrambled her thoughts so much that she believes they happened to her. Make sense?”
“You think there’s a chance I really didn’t do them?” For the first time in the conversation Russell sounded hopeful. “Exactly. In your case, maybe you saw it on one of those true-crime shows.”
Sarah was leaning close to the earpiece now, so he angled it for her to hear more easily. Her body heat radiated against him, carrying a faint lemon scent.
“Hold on a second. That means there’s a way I can get rid of them?” Russell sounded excited.
Good question. “I don’t know, but the first thing we need to do is to find out for certain if those bad things you remember really happen to you.” McCarthy turned his head slightly for another look at the security guard. Was he still sizing him up?
“I understand what you’re asking me, but, like I told you before, I don’t want to talk about them. They make me feel awful.” “I know, but I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it wasn’t really important.” Charlie let out a short moan. A moment later, “I told you about the cat?”
“Yes.” The interview had been recorded when McCarthy first started Charlie’s work up. Just ten days ago, after Tom’s first interview with Bobbie Baker, he reviewed it again, so it was still fresh in his mind.
He waits in the corner of the back porch reading a Spider-Man comic until movement catches his attention. He sifts his eyes without moving his head, sees the big tomcat crouching at the foot of the steps, sniffing the air, tail twitching.
Nervously, the cat looks around before scooting up the steps to the front of the trap. Cautiously it sniffs again. Either satisfied it is safe or overcome with hunger, the tabby enters the trap. Before the cat can rip loose a piece of salmon and escape, Charlie slams the door shut, trapping it.
Wearing his mother’s rose gloves, he slides his arm into the cage and grabs the angry, frightened tabby by the neck. The cat hisses and claws at his arms, but the long leather gloves protect him. He wants to crush its neck right there but doesn’t. Instead, he basks in holding the creature’s very life in his hand. Literally. Killing it now—especially killing it quickly—will ruin the thrill yet to come.
Still holding the animal’s neck, he slips a noose over its head and cinches the rope, freeing his right hand. Now he can dangle the struggling cat at arm’s length and watch all four legs scratch frantically in the air. He’s hard now, a spot of wetness growing in his underpants.
He rushes to the secluded area behind the house, to the large apple tree
. Tosses the free end of the rope over a branch and ties it around the trunk, leaving the clawing tabby swinging three feet above ground. Peering into the cat’s dilated pupils he unzips his pants, freeing the tension, pointing his erection like a weapon. As the pathetic animal fights for air, his hand works rhythmically, coupling pleasure with the sight of impending death.
Suddenly he sprays milky white fluid at the dying animal. The little fucker’s finally getting what it deserves. That little fucker will never disrespect him again.
McCarthy asked, “How about this, is your mom living?”
Russell answered, “Yes. Why?”
“Will you call her?”
“About what? I’m not going to tell her that story. Not in your lifetime.”
“No, no, that’s not what I’m suggesting. Just ask about the neighbor’s cat, ask what happened to it.” He paused to let that logic sink in. “Can you do that?”
“Aw man …”
“And then I want you to verify where you were the date the prostitute thing took place. Go back over any records you have, a diary, calendar, scheduler, whatever. See if you can reconstruct where you were and what you were doing that day. Okay?”
After a few beats, Charlie said, “I’ll try.”
“How long you need? Fifteen minutes?”
McCarthy hung up and, with Sarah matching him step for step, headed straight for the glass door to the main concourse. “And our plan is?” Sarah asked.
“What happened to the guard?” There was none in sight now.
“I didn’t want to look obvious, so I didn’t keep an eye on him. The one time I did look he was gone.
They passed through the doorway, turned left, and headed for the parking lot.
Someone from behind them yelled, “Hey, you.”
McCarthy felt Sarah hesitate, so he said, “Keep moving. You didn’t happen to notice if he’s mall security or county sheriff, did you?”
“I don’t think he’s a sheriff.”
“Was he wearing a gun?”
“No.”
“Indian?” The mall, on reservation land leased to the developer, employed a large number of tribal members.
“I believe so.”
“Hey, I’m talking to you.” The person was louder now.
McCarthy continued to ignore the person and turned into the lot, heading for the aisle with their rental car.
A hand grabbed his left arm as the person said, “Stop.”
McCarthy jerked free of the grip and continued on without looking.
“Sir, I’m with mall security and I order you to stop.”
McCarthy saw their car up ahead and already had the key in his hand. He said to Sarah, “I’ll drive.”
Sarah split away from him, going for the passenger side.
“Sir, if you don’t stop I’ll call the sheriff.”
McCarthy slipped in and started the engine, but the guard stood directly behind the car. Luckily the space opposite him was empty, so he drove straight ahead.
“What’s he doing?” he asked Sarah.
“Exactly what you’d expect. He’s on the radio.”
50
MCCARTHY CUT DIAGONALLY through the south end of the parking lot, behind a Shell gas station, and blew past a yellow traffic light directly onto the southbound I-5 entrance ramp.
Sarah said, “Crap, look at that.”
But they were merging into heavy traffic so McCarthy had to devote all his attention to driving. “Can’t. What do you see?”
“A sheriff just took the northbound exit with all its roof lights flashing.”
McCarthy accelerated into the middle lane, moving between two semis, hoping they’d partially shield him from view. Sarah half turned in the seat to look out the back. “What do we do now?”
“We need to split up. We can’t afford to have you caught with me.” As he remembered it, there was a Park and Ride lot a couple miles south of Everett. He explained that if they could make it that far, he’d could drop Sarah there and meet up with her later.
Sarah said, “I know you’ve already thought of this, but the guard saw our license plate.”
McCarthy realized the ramifications immediately. “And once the sheriff runs it, they find out it’s a rental. They call Budget and find it’s been rented to Timothy Rush.” Then his false identification is either blown or they would figure it for a case of mistaken identity. Except for the fact they fled from the security guard. Might’ve been better to try to convince the security guard he’d made a mistake. “Okay, so where does that leave us?”
“Guess that all depends on how strongly the security guy believes you’re Tom McCarthy.”
Up ahead was the exit for the Park and Ride. McCarthy took it and turned into the lot. He found an empty space between two vehicles that would partially hide the car from the interstate. They got out, locked up, and walked to the small, covered bus stop. Being a holiday weekend there were no other commuters waiting. A schedule on the wall showed a bus due in five minutes.
THE BUS HAD only three other passengers so McCarthy and Sarah sat side by side in the back, as far from the others as possible. As the bus pulled away from the stop, McCarthy felt Sarah’s body relax, making him aware of his own tenseness.
Sarah whispered, “I’m not sure I followed all that conversation with Russell. I understand how one person may internalize another person’s memory but are you saying Russell had someone else’s actual memory in his brain? If that’s the case, I have a hard time understanding how that’s supposed to work.”
The explanation was so twisted Tom felt uncomfortable saying it. “I’m not entirely sure myself. I need to check more facts before I try to explain.”
“Okay, so next question: What’s with the camera?”
He wrapped and arm around her shoulder and drew her close. “Let me make a few calls first.”
He dialed Tony Cassera’s back line. The reporter answered with a simple, “Cassera.”
McCarthy held the phone so Sarah could hear also.
“Tony. Tom. I need you to run down something.”
“What? By the way, you’re going to be orgasmic when you learn what I dug up on your pal Wyse.”
“Before we get into that, the Green River Copycat murders, you remember them?”
“Remember them? Hell, I covered them.”
“They had a suspect, didn’t they?”
“Person of interest, Tom. That S-word will get you a libel suit. But yeah, the guy was looking pretty good for it too, until he got offed.”
“Refresh my memory. What happened?”
“He died. No a pretty death, either. Got into some sort of pissing match with a fat biker behind a trailer trash bar out on north Aurora. Story had it our guy just couldn’t keep his mouth shut and made a couple disparaging comments about the biker’s mother’s chastity and said biker—who thought nothing of sharing his squeeze with his buddies—took offense. Our guy tried to blow it off but just dug himself in deeper. End result was the biker’s friends followed him outside and smashed in his skull with a tire iron. The doer pled self-defense. And of course, with a hundred percent of his eyewitnesses blood brothers, he got off with a manslaughter charge.” Cassera gave a sarcastic grunt.
“The person of interest, you remember a name?”
“Yeah, how could I forget? George Pickett. Another one of your low-profile, average Joe citizens. Worked doing bids for a roofing company and came with all your usual serial killer trimmings: a wife, dog, two grown kids. Goddamn stereotype if there ever was one. The FBI didn’t even have to think more than two seconds to put that profile together.”
“You remember the approximate date of his death?”
“You bet. And the reason I do is I was at Lakeview covering the story at the time. April twelfth. Why?”
That would be three days before Charlie’s second operation. “Because I think Wyse transplanted pieces of George Pickett’s brain into someone.”
Sarah shot him an asto
nished look.
Cassera said, “Holy jumping Jesus, you serious? Is that possible?”
“First, tell me what you dug up.”
“Give me a sec to grab my notes.” After a moment of papers shuffling in the background, Tony came back on the phone. “Okay, here we go. First, I assume you know what DARPA’s all about?”
“I do.”
“And you know Wyse has been doing work on posttraumatic stress disorder.”
“Yes.”
“Okay then, here’s the story. Apparently, when Wyse first started down that path he was funded by the VA. For all the obvious reasons. Apparently there’s no effective treatment for it, so the VA’s looking for answers.
“Your friend bounced along like this for several years until a Pentagon colonel, Clyde Cunningham, took an interest in his work. Next thing you know, Wyse drops his VA grants for a hundred percent DARPA funding. This lasts about two years until RegenBiologic is formed. It’s hard to tell exactly where all the company’s start-up money came from, but it looks like a sizable chunk is from Cunningham’s Beltway buddies.”
McCarthy didn’t remember much about RegenBiologic. Because of Wyse’s interest in PTSD, he assumed it focused on that. “Did you learn what the company’s mission is?”
“Uh-huh. They’re developing a surgery to cure PTSD. The rationale is pretty straightforward. Wyse believes that the flashbacks are the root of the problem and are triggered and fueled by memories of the trauma. So, if you can locate and remove the spot in the brain where these memories are stored, you can cure the disease. Sounds easy, but the trick, of course, is how to locate where the memories reside in the brain. They claim to be able to do this by using a proprietary MRI technique. Sophisticated, huh?”
“Shit.” Bobbie had claimed her second surgery was for PTSD, but at the time he heard this, McCarthy figured she had it confused with something else because there isn’t any surgery for it. At least, that’s what he thought at the time.