by Douglas Jern
“What’s he doing?” asked Homer. “He’s as good as dead. Why struggle?”
“No, Homer,” said Laura as she wormed a delicate tendril of thought into his mind, toward the center. “You’re the one who’s dead.”
She sent a simple mental command through the many layers of creases and synapses of Homer’s brain. It traveled at the speed of light, the speed of thought, past dense memory banks and loose speculations that floated like ponderous jellyfish, until it reached the center, the core of Homer’s being: The Memory Hole.
Homer’s fascination with Orwell’s Ministry of Truth and its past-altering activities manifested itself in his mind as a vast office landscape, an endless vista of chestnut-walled cubicles, all of them in darkness but one, which bore a simple metal nameplate that read “Winston Smith.” Within it stood a wooden desk and a swivel chair, and on the cubicle wall above the desk was the hole itself, a circular opening covered by a metal lid marked with the letters “M. H.”
The switch was simply a switch; a metal rod, ten inches long and mounted on the center of the desk. It had a red rubber handle on the end. She flipped it. The Memory Hole above the desk opened, letting out an intense heat and the same brilliant light she had seen before. This time, however, she was watching it from the inside, so to speak, and saw how it worked.
A fluttering as of countless wings came from above, and when Laura looked up, she saw the memories, Homer’s memories, come flying toward the Memory Hole, ready to cast themselves into the fires within. As they came closer, she saw that they were all part of one continuous strip, like an unrolled film.
As the world began to twist around her, Laura reached out and snatched the ribbon of memories out of the air and held it tight. For a moment, history was at a standstill, hanging in the balance between past and future, in the infinite Now. Possible, but not yet determined. She held the ribbon closer and observed Homer’s recollection of the last fifteen minutes. From his viewpoint, she saw the enclosure and the people standing in it, saw Homer cut his own throat and pass the injury to Joey, saw Zachary arrive and shoot Homer, who passed it on to one of his men, saw Homer pass his fatal gunshot wounds on to Zachary. She noted every act of violence recorded in Homer’s memory.
She ran her fingertips along the ribbon, watching the past change before her eyes, feeling the heat that Homer felt every time he worked his powers. It was exhilarating. Laura rubbed and scratched at the ribbon of memories, erasing, replacing, and revising, weaving a new version of the past into existence.
Then she let it loose. Into the Memory Hole the ribbon went, spiraling through the air as it disappeared into the flames. The brilliant light grew even brighter, the heat even fiercer, as the Memory Hole worked its magic for the last time. History exploded in a wave of light.
Switch
Homer crumpled like a house of cards, bleeding out from all the wounds inflicted during the night. He could no longer speak, but Laura saw the fear in his mind. It was the fear of death, stronger than any emotion she had sensed in him before.
Not so funny when you’re on the receiving end, is it? You’re dying, Homer, and no one will remember that you ever existed. This is no more than you deserve, you piece of shit.
A faint reply started to form in his dying mind.
Re…bir…th…
And then there was nothing.
Laura stood in silence over the ruined body, her vengeance finally achieved.
“I hope you burn in hell,” she muttered.
The corpse at her feet made no reply. Its silence infuriated her. How dare he mock her even in death! She raised Brianna’s gun and fired at the corpse, over and over, riddling it with bullets, feeling a savage pleasure at each thumping recoil as she pulled the trigger again and again.
Before long, the magazine was empty. The loud reports gave way to weak little clicks. She wished she had more ammo, more noise, anything to fill the silent void. Anything to make everything go away.
All in vain. The corpse was just a corpse; it could not feel her pain no matter how much she wished to inflict it. There was no way to make Homer suffer any more than he already had. The thought brought back the rage, and with it came the realization that she herself had stood little to gain all along. Jeffrey was dead, and so was Homer. The truth of this bizarre affair would never be revealed to the world at large. Only Laura knew what had really happened. This torment was hers alone. She felt as if her insides were burning up.
The bastard ruined my life. He killed my brother and made me a murderer. I can’t go back to what I used to be. Not anymore. In a way, I’m just as dead as he is.
And just like that, all the anger melted away. She could actually feel it happen, like her body had been filled with molten lead that now trickled out through her pores and evaporated, leaving not a trace of heat behind. She felt so light she might have floated away. She was free.
Very well, she thought, taking a deep breath, and even the stale air of the warehouse felt as invigorating as a mountain breeze. I’ll just have to make a new life, then.
She could do it. The power she had gained over the last few days was all she needed to start over. Let Laura Greenwood die… and let someone else rise in her place.
“Rebirth…” she muttered, and she smiled.
She bent down over Homer’s body. Before leaving, she wanted a souvenir.
When she was finished, she wiped her hands and looked up from the body to Zachary, who was still kneeling on the floor with a dazed expression. His sanity was hanging by a thread, his brain struggling to make sense of the mess Laura’s revision of events had made of his memories. Laura went to stand by his side, gently poking and picking at his brain, smoothing out the creases and smudging over the more outrageous impossibilities.
Poor Zachary. He had been through a lot because of her, and she owed him much.
“From now on, I’ll take care of you, Zach,” she said, stroking his graying hair.
Getting him to move was no effort; motor nerves are simple and sturdy, and it took her no time at all to figure out which signals to send. She guided him through the warehouse, holding on to his hand for good measure, and entered the mirror-walled enclosure.
Joey was standing in a corner, staring into space without seeing. His lips moved without a sound. He might have been praying or reciting a poem. One of the other Survivors sat next to the corridor entrance cradling his head in his hands and rocking slowly back and forth. The other two were dead; she had only had Homer’s memories to go by when she had used the Memory Hole, and he had not been around to witness these two meet their demise.
Tough luck, guys, she thought.
Then she noticed the third body in the room.
“Leo…” Zachary had regained some of his higher functions and crouched down next to Leo’s body. “I’m so sorry, Leo. It should have been me.”
Laura noticed with some concern that Zachary was weeping. He blamed himself for Leo’s death, but he did not know the whole truth. It was her mental command that had spurred him on through it all, driving him even to abandon his partner as he lay dying. If he ever found out, he would tear her to pieces.
That was a risk she could not allow.
“Zachary, look at me,” she said.
Zachary looked up from the body with red-rimmed eyes. She placed her hands on his cheeks and reached into his mind, going deeper than ever before, tracing his memories back through days, weeks, and months, until she found the one she sought.
Leo Hudson. Pleased to meet you, sir.
Zachary Zimmerman. If you’ve got any wisecracks to make about my name, best make ‘em now.
Not at all, sir. I’m really looking forward to working with you.
Yeah, yeah. Listen kid, I ain’t gonna be your “buddy” or your “mentor” or any of that crap. I’m gonna do my job and tell you how to do yours. You’re gonna watch and learn and ask only the questions you can’t figure out on your own. You stay out of my personal affairs and I’ll stay out o
f yours. Got it?
Yes, sir!
And can it with the “sir” already. This ain’t Camelot.
Zachary’s fondness for Leo showed through the thick layer of sarcasm. He had cared deeply for him, more than he would ever admit even to himself.
Laura sighed, knowing that what she was about to do was both merciful and hideously cruel. But it was for the best. One of her own memories rose to the surface. She and Jeffrey had been standing on Jeffrey’s balcony on New Year’s Eve three years earlier, talking about death and remembrance.
Mrs. Lewis passed away two days ago.
Oh, Jeff, I’m so sorry.
It’s okay. She had a long life. The way I see it, once you pass eighty, you’re living on bonus time anyway.
Wow, I bet that nugget would go over well at the home.
I’m sure they’d understand.
Kind of gets you thinking, though. Hard to imagine it’ll be our turn someday.
Does that scare you?
Dying? I don’t know. I just hope it won’t hurt when it happens. But the thought of being forgotten? Now that is scary. People just forgetting who you were and what you did… Like you never existed. Brrr, gives me the shivers.
Not me.
Oh yeah?
I’m not afraid of dying, and I’m not afraid of being forgotten. Of course, I treasure the connections I share with the people around me. Like you, Laura.
I treasure you too, Jeff.
I know. But even the strongest bond can’t last forever. Even the most precious memory will one day fade. And I’m okay with that. If I can live my life the way I want to live, be the person I want to be, what does it matter what people think of me when I’m gone? There are billions of people out there who don’t even know that I exist. Who cares about a few more?
Then they had toasted the New Year and watched the fireworks.
I hope you were right, Jeff, she thought. Sorry, Zachary. Sorry, Leo.
And then she wiped all memories of Leo from Zachary’s mind.
00:38 – Zachary
His head ached. He’d offered to drive, but Laura had talked him out of it. Probably just as well. That was a hell of a punch he’d taken. Might have gotten a concussion. With his luck, he probably had. His memories of the night were fuzzy, but he knew it had been a close call. He supposed he’d gotten off easy compared to the other guys. That young black dude, for example. Poor bastard. Getting shot in the gut was a nasty way to go.
In hindsight, going up against Homer just the two of them had been crazy. If all those guys had been packing, both he and Laura would be Swiss cheese right about now.
Still, all’s well that ends well. Homer was dead, and Laura and he were safe and sound. There was still the matter of them being wanted criminals and all, but Laura had said she’d take care of it. Zachary wasn’t sure how she was going to do that, but he was too exhausted to think about it right now. All he needed for now was a hot shower and a soft bed. The rest could wait until later.
“You all right back there?” asked Laura, peering at him in the rearview mirror.
“A-Okay,” he replied. “Bit of a headache, but I’ll pull through.”
“Good to hear. We’ll make a quick stop at Leo’s place before moving on.”
“Who’s Leo?”
Laura shook her head. “Just some guy.”
The forced casualness in her voice seemed to hide something. Zachary guessed that Leo was an old ex-boyfriend, someone she’d rather not see again if she could help it.
Well, whatever, he thought. I’m sure he’s a nice guy, whoever he is.
He yawned. It was getting difficult to keep his eyes open. Laura had said the drive would take about an hour. He might as well get a little shuteye while he had the chance. Despite his exhaustion, despite the uncertain future, he was feeling pretty optimistic. Whatever happened from here on out, they’d face it together.
It was all right, everything was all right. He trusted Laura.
EPILOGUE
REBIRTH
“We’re here. You want me to go with you?”
“No thanks, Zach. This won’t take long. You wait in the car, okay?”
“Okay. Stay sharp.”
Zachary said nothing more, and that was good. He could be an entertaining conversational partner when she wanted one, but she preferred reticence while out on business. She grabbed the blue handbag and got out of the car.
The estate situated on a hill overlooking the city was an exquisite work of architecture resembling a classic Roman Villa Urbana. Passing through the main gate flanked by two pillars sculpted in the images of Venus and Diana, Laura walked across the courtyard toward the main building, distinguished by its domed roof, where the person she was scheduled to meet resided. She was expected; the guards let her through without question.
Not that asking questions would do them any good, she thought as the ornate wooden door swung open to let her inside.
The vestibule was lofty and bright, with a magnificent mosaic floor depicting a herd of wild horses thundering across a windswept plain. A maid with a narrow face showed her up a flight of stairs and through a sunlit corridor that led to the study. The door at the end of the corridor was guarded by a stocky man in a black suit and sunglasses. He nodded at her as she approached and opened the door.
Giuseppe Morricone looked older than she had expected. The sight of his wizened face and thin, snow-white hair puzzled her at first. But when the intense wave of grief washed over her as she stepped into the room and the heavy-set guard closed the door behind her, she understood. The death of his son had been a hard blow to the old mobster and had aged him prematurely. People say that time heals all wounds, but never seem to specify how much. In any case, Giuseppe Morricone would not have anywhere near enough time to get over his loss before he died. Seeing him look up at her from the low armchair by the open window with dull, forlorn eyes, she thought that her business here today would really be doing him a favor.
The room was sparsely furnished. There was a desk and chair near the far end, both unusually neat, as if no one had sat there for a long time. An oil painting of a beach in sunset hung on the wall behind the desk, no doubt, thought Laura, concealing a wall-mounted safe full of Morricone’s illicit loot. The left side of the room was dominated by a couch and a glass coffee table set up before an electric fireplace. The room was lit by a single lamp in the ceiling, its shade made of paper, casting the room in a pleasant orange glow.
From his leather armchair by the large window, Giuseppe had a spectacular view of the city skyline, silhouetted against the low afternoon sun, which would soon sink below the horizon and bathe the world in brilliant red, as if the sky itself were on fire.
“Quite a view,” she said.
Giuseppe made no response, but she thought she could see his shoulders rise by a fraction as if to say: “So what?”
She cleared her throat. “Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr. Morricone. I know you’re a busy man, and I promise I won’t take much of your time.”
Giuseppe remained silent, regarding her without much interest.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Laura, keeping her impatience out of her voice.
“The fuck you are.” The old man’s voice was coarse and dry, the voice of a heavy smoker on its last legs. He sounded like his throat was stuffed with sandpaper. “You think I don’t know what people were saying about my boy? They all hated him. Hated him and feared him. Sure, he was no saint, but who is? He was my boy. My flesh and blood.”
“I’ve heard he was a… controversial figure.”
Giuseppe waved her comment away with a disdainful look. He had no interest in discussing his son with someone who clearly did not understand him.
“What are you doing here, lady?” he asked. “I’ve never seen you before in my life, never spoken a word with you, and no one ever told me your name. Can you believe that? Some random broad claims she’s found Laura Greenwood, and suddenly my people set
up a personal meeting with her behind my back! No vetting, no double-checking, just ‘sure, mystery woman, come right over!’ Who’s the boss around here, anyway? And pardon my French, but just who the fuck are you?”
“I’m her. I’m Laura Greenwood.”
Giuseppe looked at her in silence. Then he began to laugh. It was quiet at first, but gradually built up into a howling belly-laugh that shook his considerable frame. He lapsed into a coughing fit, hacking and wheezing, vocal cords transformed from sandpaper to broken sawmill.
“Lady,” he said once the coughing subsided. “I know I’m old as shit, but I’m not senile yet. You’re not Laura Greenwood. I’ve seen her face on TV a thousand times, after she broke out of jail last year. You look nothing like her.”
“Nothing that extensive reconstructive surgery can’t fix,” replied Laura. “I may not look like her, but I am Laura Greenwood, make no mistake about that.”
While she talked, she reached into the handbag, took out a round object and held it out to him. It was a baseball, dirtied and tattered with age, its stitches fraying.
“What’s that?” asked Giuseppe.
“This, Mr. Morricone, is Homer Moley’s lucky ball. Do you remember Homer? I doubt you ever met him, nor would you have known him if you did. But I know you had dealings with him.”
Giuseppe took the ball from her hand and held it, turning it this way and that between his fingers, then let it drop to the floor.
“You came all the way here just to show me this?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“No, there’s more.”
She reached into the handbag again and fished out a stapled stack of papers. As Giuseppe accepted them and peered at their contents with rheumy eyes, Laura continued:
“You may remember the incident at the warehouse on Sylvester Drive last summer, where six men were killed under mysterious circumstances.”
“Only read a notice in the paper,” muttered Giuseppe. “What about it?”
“I was there. And so was Homer. I lived, and he died.”