
Mind Play
by
Phillip Tomasso III
MIND PLAY "A brisk thriller"
Mind Play
by Phillip Tomasso
Copyright 2000 Phillip Tomasso III
Dry Bones Press, Inc.
P. O. Box 597
Roseville, CA 95678
(415)707-2129
http ://w w w. drybones .com/
Publisher's Cataloging-in-Publication
FICTION
Tomasso, Phillip III, --
Mind Play / by Phillip Tomasso
p. cm.
ISBN 1-883938-58-9
Disclaimer
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Author's Note
Below is my e-mail address. More than anything, I hope you enjoyed the book. I'd love to hear from you. Any comments you have, I welcome. Anything you want to ask, I will do my best to answer.
ptom3@netzero.net
Thanks
I need to thank my personal editor and close friend Stan Zon;
my publisher, and editor, Jim Rankin.
I cannot forget to thank God.
Bio
Phillip Tomasso III has had more than thirty short stories and articles published in a wide variety of magazines, such as issues of Lost Worlds, Crossroads, Dogwood Tales, Eclipse, Byline, Modern Dad, Mausoleum, Lynx Eye, Lite, Western Digest, Rochester Shorts, Inc. and Intellectual Property Today, a magazine devoted to patent law. He lives in Rochester, New York with his wife, and their three children. Currently, he is writing his next novel.
First, this book is dedicated to my wife, Jill;
to our sons, Phillip IV, and Grant,
and to Raeleigh, our daughter.
Next, I need to dedicate this book to my entire family; to all my friends who always believed in me--you know who
you are.
Lastly, but not in the least, this book is dedicated to the
memory of my nephew,
Baby Peter.
Naked, Randy Cook leaned out the window, a Clock Model 20 pistol in his grip. He took aim, arm extended, finger twitching anxiously inside the trigger guard. He sat straddling the backside of a chair taken from the small study desk. His clothing was scattered around the room, his sneakers neatly placed under the foot of the bed.
A half empty pitcher of water and a plastic cup stood on the nightstand beside the bed. Though his throat felt dry, he'd only moved twice from the window for a drink.
The sun had set hours ago. Street lights illuminated the road. The moon's beams reflected off the river. In another month, snow would blanket the area and bury New York for the next several months. Despite the present temperature of fifty-five degrees, he felt warm.
An urge passed through him to relieve himself. He set his handgun down on the window sill and stood up.
The walls of the room, drab shades of egg shell white, seemed overtly depressing. Pictures painted by talent-less artists and framed in cheap wood hung from chipped plaster, providing a sickly sense of atmosphere.
The small bathroom had two rolls of tissue sitting on the water tank behind the toilet bowl. A rectangular medicine cabinet with a mirrored face allowed for Randy to stare at his reflection while he urinated. In his own eyes he saw a stranger standing before him--a thin, wiry man with thick, black, curly hair. Vacant, blue-gray eyes were set under an overshadowing brow.
Without flushing the toilet, he walked back through the room to the chair, picked up his weapon, and again aimed it out the window. He waited, trance-like, for the signal.
People passed on the street below, any one of them--all of them-- were potential targets. When the signal came--the ringing of the telephone -Randy did not hesitate, but opened fire on the victims unfortunate enough to be outside the window.
With no sign of emotion he discharged his weapon, shooting only to kill.
Below, people scattered on the sidewalks and street after the sound of the first gunshot. The challenge of hitting moving targets neither angered nor excited him. He simply continued to aim and fire and people fell dead to the ground.
Randy continually fired the Clock for two minutes. The signal for him to stop trying to kill people sounded--again, it was the ring of the telephone. Randy, stuck the barrel of the weapon in his mouth, and calmly pulled the trigger.
From behind the two-way mirror hanging over the bed, three doctors stood side-by-side in the small, dark and crowded observation room: Dr.
Alexander J. Morrow, Dr. Henry Waxmill and Dr. Audrey Cox. Two aids for the experiment sat in folding chairs behind the doctors.
"Well?" Dr. Waxmill asked.
"Perfect. That went perfectly. He acted just as I predicted he might,"
Dr. Morrow said. "He was possibly in charge of his own thoughts and bodily functions, just not his mind or his actions."
"The game results show seventy-six percent accuracy from twenty-five yards. Not bad, for the type of weapon he used," Dr. Cox added.
"Good. Very good, indeed." Dr. Waxmill said. Dr. Cox watched him look at the glass, apparently staring at Randy, the fallen test subject.
The game, as Dr. Cox referred to it, was a virtual reality screen set up outside a stage prop window. It allowed the subject to believe that he was actually shooting at people. The handgun, very real, made noise, but fired only rays of light at moving holographic images on the screen. The overall effect was more real than a three dimensional arcade game.
Subliminal messages had been absorbed into Randy's mind through a series of commercials that he was forced to repeatedly watch before being hypnotized and entering the test room. The messages, carefully buried and
only traceable through the subconscious, softened the mind of the viewer, making hypnosis easier and more effective.
Like her associates, Dr. Cox held a clipboard with tests papers in her hand and used a ball point pen to make notes in and around the margins.
"Okay," Dr. Morrow said. "Why don't we get him up and out of the room.
As far as I'm concerned, the test was a success."
On cue, the two male aids left the observation room.
Inside the test room, Dr. Cox watched the aides lift the subject off the floor.
"We still need to make the 'Chicken Tape' for this kid. The others have theirs," Dr. Cox said.
"You can handle that?" Dr. Morrow asked.
Dr. Cox nodded. "Okay. All right, I can take care of that."
"Perhaps a toast in my office after work? How does that sound?" Dr.
Morrow asked. He sounds so proud, Dr. Cox thought, and he should be.
The event had been recorded. Dr. Waxmill pressed the eject button, took the video cassette out of the VCR, and handed it to Dr. Cox. He smiled at Dr. Morrow. "I think a toast sounds like a wonderful idea," he said.
Holding the tape to her chest, behind folded arms, Dr. Cox smiled.
"Count me in. I never miss a celebration!"
Randy, the unwitting volunteer test subject, was an eighteen year old freshman at the University of Rochester. He thanked Dr. Audrey Cox as she handed him a concocted video recording of the activities done to him while under hypnosis. The Chicken Tape. Also, she gave the student a check for three hundred dollars.
"Thank you," he said. "Let me know if you ever need to do more tests. I can always use extra cash." Randy smiled as he folded the check and tucked it in his back pocket.
Dr. Cox returned the boy's smile. "We will."
"I just hope I was a help."
"You were," Dr. Cox said.
"I think I had fun. I mean, I can't really remember, but I think it was a lot of fun." The college freshman's expression altered, his smile faltered.
Dr. Cox let her own smile widen. "You watch that tape. I think you'll find that you had a lot of fun." She forced herself to laugh.
"Well," he said, "thanks again."
She watched the boy, awkward, though cute, walk away from the lab toward the dormitories. She watched him until she could no longer see him.
Federal and state contracts needed to be prepared and signed for any and all testing done by either the university or Strong Memorial Hospital, otherwise risk losing grant moneys. She'd asked Dr. Morrow how he'd completed the forms and received clearance for his project in such a short period of time. Dr. Audrey Cox remembered him telling her that, once desired results were received, no one would give a "rat's ass"
about authorization and proper channels. At first she worried about the logistics of the study, but found herself more intrigued by Dr. Morrow's passion and credibility. She stopped being concerned about the paperwork.
Dr. Morrow had assured her and Waxmill that the tests were safe. "We'll avoid all the bureaucratic red tape for now. All of the forms are on their way through the proper channels as we speak, rest assured. We're just getting a small head start on a study that's practically guaranteed a green light," Dr. Morrow had told them. "The testing will prove perfectly harmless." So far, he'd been right. Dr. Cox sighed and stood in the doorway a moment longer, the fresh air felt good passing into her lungs. The feeling calmed her anxiety.
In her locker, Dr. Audrey Cox preserved the tape from the actual test.
She planned to take it over to the audio room and make a copy. She would show it to no one and hide her copy just to be on the safe side.
Destroying the tape seemed foolish. I'm anything but foolish, she thought, closed and locked her locker. She glanced at her watch, said: "Now to that celebration toast."
Ten Years Later Randy Cook pulled the van up to the scene--a raging fire swallowing a new, modern condominium complex building. Onlookers crowded the city street. Police stood in front of the spectators also watching the flames. Clouds of smoke rolled up into the sky like a black tidal wave.
Johnny Redman opened the side door and jumped out of the van.
"We've got to get a personal driver," Randy said. He put the van in park and grabbed his gear from the back. With the news camera seated on his shoulder, he carefully followed after Johnny.
Randy watched as a second news team--Channel Three--pulled up to the curb in a station wagon. Abruptly the car stopped. Four people jumped out and began to scramble around. They quickly assembled video and audio equipment.
"Ready Randy?" Johnny asked. He ran the palm of his hand across the part in his hair, patting down stray strands.
Randy knew Johnny was anxious, wanted to beat out the rival reporter. He said, "Okay, in four, three, two--"
"I'm Johnny Redman, first on the scene for News Channel Twelve. Behind me, a building burns, flames lick at the black night sky. Reports claim that Clark Meyers--only three years old--is still inside the building, perhaps hiding somewhere in fear." Johnny paused. He turned to look at the fire. Randy saw that Johnny held the microphone in a white-knuckle grip. From the building, a handful of firemen ran out the front door, flames waved goodbye. When Johnny spoke again, an audible tremor shook in his voice.
"It appears that firelighters have called off the search," Johnny said.
"The fire apparently began less than a hour ago and was never brought under control. The Meyers family told firefighters that their little boy was still inside the complex." Johnny turned again toward the fire.
Randy filmed giant hoses spraying gusts of water into broken windows and onto the roof of the building, the firefighters attempt seemed futile.
They were not gaining control of the fire.
"Police say--there," Johnny shouted, suddenly. "There's the boy!"
Randy swiveled the direction of the camera away from Johnny and zoomed in on the building. He scanned the floors and came to rest on a third story window on the right face. Randy brought the camera into focus on the boy. A young black child hung his head out an open window. Clark was screaming, Randy saw, though he could not hear the child's voice over the roar of fire, the sound of sirens and the gushing of water spraying from hoses.
The sight of Clark Meyers excited the crowd into triumphant shouts of relief and joy.
Randy wanted to get the boy and Johnny into a shared view in the eye of his lens. He took two steps backward, panned away to include a wider range of activity. Johnny was gone. Quickly, Randy moved his head away from the camera and looked around the crowded street. He found Johnny talking with a fireman, pointing helplessly at the building.
Randy lifted the camera back up onto his shoulder and began filming again. He moved from Johnny with the fireman, to Clark in the window.
The firemen assembled quickly. They moved the truck with the extending ladder around to the side of the building. It might have been Randy's ears playing tricks on him, but he thought he could hear the boy's screams now.
The crowd gasped as a sudden explosion erupted from the left face of the building. Windows imploded and flames, like the tongues of dragons, licked away paint, tasted clapboard. The smell of things burning irritated Randy's nostrils and his stomach muscles tightened, as he tried to control a nauseous spasm.
The fireman stopped his climb up the ladder. Was he going to leave the kid? Randy wondered. Could the building be on the verge of blowing up?
The police did not need to give direction, onlookers quickly moved further down the street, potentially out of harm's reach, but stayed within gawking distance. The firemen pulled out. The fire chief yelled, "Back, everyone! Back!"
A couple, Randy saw and assumed them to be dark's family, screamed. The mother yelled for her baby over an dover. The father restrained the mother, keeping her from charging the building.
What about the kid? "God, dear God, help that boy," Randy whispered. No one moved to help the boy as a second explosion from somewhere in the back of the building thundered.
Randy could watch no more. He lowered his camera to the ground and ran for the building. He ducked under yellow police tape. A police officer made a vain attempt to stop him.
Randy ran madly to the right face of the building. "Jump!" The boy, crying, did not move. "Jump," Randy called again. He cupped his hands around his mouth to project his voice toward the child. "Jump, kid!
Jump!"
The intensity of heat from the fire felt unbearable. Randy ignored it.
He continued to yell to the child. A woman's voice, coming over a bullhorn, cried: "Jump, baby. Honey, Clark, jump to the man!"
Randy looked to his left and saw the fire chief and the boy's mother standing side by side. Mrs. Meyers held the bullhorn up to her mouth.
"Baby, jump to the man, please. God please, jump Clark!"
A police officer had crossed the yellow tape and was coming quickly toward Randy. Randy planned to stand his ground. The police officer, a young woman, stood beside Randy and looked to the window. "Jump, honey,"
she yelled.
Randy cupped his hands around his mouth, again. "You can do it. Come on, jump!"
The little boy stopped crying and began to climb out the window. That's it, Randy thought. "That's it!"
The boy tried to get his legs over the side of the window sill.
In the back, but along the right face of the building a third explosion rocked the foundation. The condominium complex was about to collapse.
Randy watched in horror as the boy fell back into the condo.
A fourth explosion knocked Randy and the police officer to the ground.
Three fireman pulled them away from the complex as the building fell in on itself and flames consumed it all.
Randy stood silent and stared. "No." He yelled, "No!"
Randy saw Clark Meyers' mother continue to scream, as a paramedic injected a sedative into her arm.
The female officer grabbed onto Randy's arm. Randy could not look away from the flames. "He couldn't jump," Randy whispered. "I just, I just wanted him to jump into my arms. In my mind, I saw him jumping to me."
"You tried," she said.
"My God, Randy," Johnny said. He stood beside his partner. "I can't believe you did that. I'm sorry it couldn't be a different ending." He
patted his friend on the back. "Come on. Let's go sit for a while in the van."
"Not yet," Randy said.
The police officer gave Johnny a comforting smile. "I'll stay with him."
"Yeah," Johnny said. "Okay. Hey, that was very heroic, both of you--what the two of you did."
The police officer just thinned her lips, pursed them together. When Johnny Redman left, she asked, "Are you okay?"
Randy just shook his head. He was crying. I can't believe what just happened.
The fire chief walked toward Randy. He looked angry. "That was a crazy, stupid stunt and you could have gotten killed. Jamie, you of all people should know better than that," the chief said to the female officer.
"Clark Meyers did get killed," Randy retorted.
"But all of you could have gotten killed. It was reckless--"
"It was human compassion. I couldn't stand where I was and watch a young boy get burned to death, not when there's even a slight chance left at saving him," Randy said through clenched teeth. He turned and stormed away from the chief. He heard the chief tell Jamie: "It was great what you tried to do, but the two of you could have gotten yourselves killed."
"Why didn't you tell it to him that way?" Randy heard Jamie say.
Randy walked briskly through the still-gathered crowd. People patted him on the back. "Good try, man," several people said. Most regarded him with uncertain eyes.
"Hey! Hey, Randy," Randy heard Jamie call.
Randy kept walking. He did not want to talk to anyone.
"Randy, wait," Jamie said. The sound of her voice made Randy stop.
"Don't let the fire chief get to you. What you did was very brave."
Randy looked into Jamie's green eyes, compassion in them. There was a familiarity to them, to her, that he couldn't place.
Over Jamie's shoulder he saw Mrs. Meyers. She was charging toward Randy, something in her arms. "You murdered my boy! You murdered my boy!"
Randy pointed an uncertain finger to his chest. "No, I. No."
"You murdered my boy," she said. Randy saw she was holding a dead, badly burned child cradled in her arms. "You murdered my boy--"
Randy looked at the boy and the boy's eyes opened suddenly.
Randy popped up into a sitting position. His mouth opened wide as he let out a series of short, loud screams. His body, clad in sweat, shook as chills passed through him.
"Honey," Jamie said. "Randy, honey. It was just a dream," she tried. She sat up in bed. She reached out to touch his arm.
Randy gasped and breathed in quick shallow breathes. "He's dead!" Oh my God, he's dead!
"He's not dead, honey. Randy, he's not dead," Jamie said. She rubbed her husband's arm. "Come on. Lie back down. Try to go back to sleep."
Randy pulled the covers off and climbed out of bed. He moved to the window. Outside, the moon hid above a thin scattering of clouds like a flashlight attempting to shine through a white flannel sheet. "My God, Jamie--"
"Honey. Are you okay?"
No, Randy thought, I'm not. I'm not okay. "It was the dream again," he said.
The fire had happened two nights ago. Randy did not get any sleep the night of the fire, or the night after it. Whenever he tried to sleep, he saw the fire again, but in his dream-rendition, Clark Meyers always died.
"I know, dear." Jamie slid out of bed. She wore one of Randy's T-shirt's, fitting too long and loose around her trim, athletic body.
Jamie wore her long, blond hair pulled back into a pony tail at night.
"You were in it this time, too," Randy said. "We were both calling to him, to Clark. The building exploded and Clark fell back into the window. His mother brought the body over to me and blamed me for his death. She said I murdered him, that I murdered her son."
"Randy, that's not how it happened. It was just a nightmare. Clark lived, you saved him. Honey, Clark is fine."
Clark is fine, Randy thought. It was hard to convince himself. Clark is fine.
Randy ran his fingers like a brush through his sweat soaked hair. "It felt so, so real. I was there again, standing under the window and you came over to help me call to him, only I didn't know you. I could actually smell the smoke--"
"You sure it was me and not some super model?" Jamie teased.
"It was you and you were a policeman."
"A policewoman, might you mean?"
Randy let out a laugh. The dream was nothing more than a nightmare, he thought. He was fine, Jamie was fine and most of all Clark was okay, too. "I'm sorry I woke you."
Jamie stood on the tips of her toes and kissed Randy. "Don't apologize, honey. It was a traumatic experience, but everything worked out."
"Yeah. You're right. Everything worked out." He stood silently for a moment, feeling his heart beat wildly behind his ribcage. "Want to go back to sleep?"
"Well, I'm sure not in the mood for a game of backgammon."
Randy laughed, again. They climbed into bed. Jamie placed her head on Randy's chest and kissed his belly. She closed her eyes and seemed to fall asleep easily.
For Randy, it was not that simple. The dream--the way things turned out in the dream--troubled him.
The clouds outside moved passed the moon. Its beams entered the bedroom, casting cross-shaped shadows of the window frame onto the ceiling.
Unable to sleep, afraid he might dream, Randy just stared up at nothing.
Eventually, the moon gave up its hold on the night and the sun appeared, silently signaling another victory, the beginning of dawn.
Randy had not been back to work since the fire. This morning he made it in before nine. As he walked by office cubicles, his associates came out to verbally slap him on the back.
"Great job Randy. You're like a superhero now," someone said. Randy allowed a thin smile to form across his mouth, but kept on walking. He wanted to get to his office, the film edit room, as soon as possible.
"Hey Randy," Johnny Redman called. "How are you?" He fell into step along side his friend. "You look beat."
"Gee, what a nice thing to say. I haven't slept in two nights." Feels more like a week, Randy thought.
"Why?"
"I don't know, Johnny." I know why, it's the fire--it's Clark.
"Randy," a secretary called. "I saw you on the news. You were amazing."
"Thanks." He rushed past the secretary's desk.
"Hey, what were you doing watching Channel Three?" Johnny asked. He laughed, obviously teasing the woman. When Randy didn't laugh, Johnny said, "Don't tell me you aren't enjoying the attention?"
"I hate it," Randy said, stopped at the coffee pot, grabbed a Styrofoam cup from a small stack and filled it. He left it black, took a sip.
"Then you're really going to hate this. News Channel Three, you know how they filmed the whole thing?"
"I saw it last night. Jamie made me watch it." She even wanted to record it on the VCR when it was shown for a second time, at eleven, Randy remembered.
"Well this will be the first time one television station's ever done this for another--" Johnny started.
"What?" Randy asked. "Done what, Johnny?"
"Channel Three's news team, they want to nominate you for the Medal of Honor. They're also going to present you with an award of their own."
"Get real," Randy said. He walked past cubicles toward his office.
He wanted to get to work, bury himself in editing.
"I kid you not, partner. Man, you couldn't see yourself, but I sure as hell did. You knocked a policeman out of your way after you ducked under the yellow tape. You stood under a window, the building about to explode, and coaxed a terrified child into jumping into the safety of your arms! That was the rescue of the year, man. I think you pissed off the fire department, though. Made them look like a pack of cowards. They were going to just give up on that kid and let him burn." Johnny sounded excited.
"I didn't mean to upset anyone. I just, I did what I knew I had to do."
"That's the beauty of it, Randy. That's what Channel Three--not to mention Daniel--"
"What about Daniel?" Randy asked. Daniel Kester was the managing supervisor for Channel Twelve.
"He volunteered to organize the entire ceremony for Channel Three. I guess this way we're not left out of the picture. It's going to be complete with a sit down dinner, open bar, the works. "
"For me?" Randy asked. I don't want any party, he thought, almost bitterly.
"No, for the fire chief. Of course for you. The kid--Clark?--his mother is going to give you a special plaque and the kid's father is going to start the event with a Champaign toast." Johnny slapped his hands together, rubbed them vigorously.
Randy could feel his heart beat accelerating. He could feel his cheeks begin to burn and was sure they had turned red. "I don't want any of it."
"I don't think you have much choice," Johnny said. "You're a hero now."
Randy stopped walking, yelled: "I am not a hero."
"Hey, Randy-man, settle down," Johnny said. He laughed. "What's eating you?"
Randy set his cup down on a table, sat half a cheek onto the table's corner. "I've had this dream the last few nights, a nightmare really. It seems so real," Randy said. He quickly retold the nightmare to Johnny.
"Aw, man. Is that it? That's nothing. You just sound like you're in some kind of shock, you know? That's all." Johnny sounded concerned, sincere.
Randy regarded his friend for a moment and then abruptly stood up. I can't be here, he thought, I'm not ready for this. He began to walk
away.
"Where are you going?" Johnny asked.
"Home," Randy said. "I don't think I should have come in today. I just need some time off, I think."
"You can't leave, yet. Daniel wants to talk with you. He wanted to see you first thing this morning."
"He can reach me at home."
Johnny nodded in defeat. "Are you up to driving? You want me to give you a lift?"
"I can drive," Randy said, "but thank you."
He left without looking back.
Randy knew he needed to stop at the hospital before going home. Outside the office building, he ran across Main Street to the lot where his car was parked. Once in his car, he made a left at the light and headed south on State Street, drove through two intersections and made another left onto 1490 West.
Clark Meyers was being treated at Strong Memorial Hospital. Strong, noted for having the finest Trauma and Burn Center, received many outstanding awards in the pediatrics field, as well.
The parking lot nearest the hospital was full. Randy found a spot in the back lot, closer to the University of Rochester than to Strong. He walked toward the shuttle bus stop and stood beside a woman with her child.
"Waiting long?" Randy asked.
"We just missed one," the woman smiled. She messed up her child's hair.
She let out a tiny laugh.
"Figures," Randy said. He took a seat on a green bench, placed his elbows on his knees, folded his hands together. He thought of work, of what Johnny had told him. A party? I didn't save Clark for some party!
Channel Three is just looking for a way to boost ratings and PR.
Daniel's getting in on the deal for the same reasons.
Within minutes a shuttle bus arrived. Randy let the woman and her child on first. All the seats were taken. Randy stood. The bus stopped at the front of the hospital.
The doors swooshed open. Randy was the first one off.
He balled his hands into fists and stuffed them deep into his front pockets. He walked with his head down, toward the automated doors. I'm gonna have to talk with Daniel, he thought, I don't want to be made into some freak-hero. I'd rather just hang low and let this whole thing blow over!
Just inside the hospital, he greeted the security guard. "How are you?"
"Fine, sir," the guard replied.
Randy walked past the guard to the information counter. A young man sat behind a desk, worked on a computer. The man stopped typing, looked up as if silently asking: May I help you?
"I'm looking for Clark Meyers, or any member of his family?" Randy chewed on his upper lip. He wanted to make sure Clark was alright, but wasn't sure if he was ready to see the boy. The persistent nightmares had filled him with uncertain anxiety. Am I ready for this? he wondered.
"Do you know in which unit--"
"Burn. The burn unit I'd guess. He's only three, so I don't know for sure. He would have been brought in a few days ago."
"He's three? Okay, let me check." The man typed something into his computer. He stared at the monitor. "Clark Meyers is in the Trauma and Burn Center. It says here that only family can visit. I'm sorry, but do I know you from somewhere, sir?"
"I don't think so," Randy said. He quit chewing at his lip and tried to smile.
"Did you save that boy? Were you the one that saved him?" the man behind the counter asked. When Randy did not answer, the man said: "I knew it.
I thought you looked familiar. Really only family is allowed up to see Clark Meyers, but I think it would be all right for you to go up and see him, sir." The man grabbed a small square of paper from a stack on his desk. He jotted something down on the paper, handed it to Randy. "Room six-twenty-one-twelve. Take the hall here to the elevators. Go up to the sixth floor, then go right. There will be signs to guide you from there."
Randy nodded. "Thank you."
The paper read 6-2112. Randy put the paper in his pocket and walked to the elevators where a small gathering stood around the four sets of closed elevator doors.
The woman and her child from the shuttle bus stood there. She gave Randy a smile. "Just missed one," she said, laughed.
Randy couldn't help but smile. "Figures."
The doors to two of the four elevators opened. The people waiting filled the cars. Randy decided to take the next one. The elevator came, doors opened and people stepped off. Randy stepped on, used one hand to hold
the doors open for the others getting on behind him. He pressed number six. When everyone was in the car, Randy let the doors slide closed.
The elevator stopped at each floor on its way up. Come on, Randy thought, wishing he could urge the elevator along. I want to go in, make sure the kid's okay and get out!
When Randy got off the elevator the smell of urine mixed with disinfectant irritated his nostrils and nauseated his stomach.
He followed arrows and signs to the end of a long, orange hall. He passed through a set of swinging doors into the Trauma and Burn Center, the pungent odors suddenly gone.
The carpeting felt more plush under Randy's weight, the lighting brighter. The walls, decorated with contemporary wall papering, displayed a gallery of paintings and pencil sketches dedicated to the theme of lighthouses.
Randy walked slowly along the hallway and looked at each framed image.
He recognized immediately the lighthouse that still stood in Charlotte, along the Genesee River. He studied the detail of the pencil sketch.
"Mister Cook?" The sound of a man's tender voice startled Randy away from the lighthouse. He turned toward the voice. Clark Meyers' father, Pasha, stood beside Randy. "You ever been there?" Pasha asked.
"A few times," Randy said, softly. He looked away from the man, back to the drawing. I can't do this, he thought, I'm not ready to talk with these people. Not yet.
"You know, I've lived in Rochester all my life. I'm almost forty now, and I've never been to the lighthouse." Pasha let out a small snort.
"Can you imagine that?"
Randy remained silent. How do I just turn around and leave?
"I know I've thanked you before," Pasha said, "but I feel like I can't thank you enough for saving my boy's life. He's going to have a bit of discomfort--some pain for a while, not to mention all the surgery he'll have in the next year--but he's alive, Mister Cook--"
"Randy. Call me Randy."
"He's alive, Randy," Pasha said. He spoke each word, slowly. "I have a cottage, Randy. It isn't much. It's out, just past Kendall. It sits about a hundred yards in from the lake. I get out there maybe every other weekend in the summer. It's a sanctuary, man. I don't get out there enough. Work and family obligations keeps me from being there.
We've been staying there since the fire. I thank God we've got something like that. At least we have someplace comfortable enough to stay until
we find a new home."
"It sounds nice."
"Oh, it's more than nice, Randy. It's my small slice of heaven. Right now, I wish it were bigger, we'd live out there year round. Pretend we're out on some deserted island and forget about the rest of the world. I just want to be with my family, and protect them. Do you know what I mean?" Pasha asked.
"Yeah. I think I do," Randy said.
"I wish we'd been out there before this whole fire. Then it never could have happened. But that wish is impossible now. I can never make it come true. Never."
Randy smiled. Pasha held out his hand and Randy took it. They didn't shake hands as much as they just held them. Randy and Pasha stared into each other's eyes. Don't look at me that way, Randy thought, like I'm some kind of savior! Because I'm not!
"Do you want to come in and see him, to see Clark?" Pasha asked. "He might still be sleeping, but come one in anyway. My wife would love to see you, I'm sure."
Randy did not want to go in and see the boy. "Sure," he said.
Pasha did not let go of Randy's hand. Instead, he pulled Randy in close and wrapped his free arm around Randy's shoulder, the way a father might greet a son, or the way one brother might greet another. "My wife, Carol, she'll be so glad to see you."
Randy continued to smile. Pasha led Randy further into the Center toward Clark's room. Nurses behind a desk, in the center of the room, looked up from their work and offered comforting smiles.
"Honey, Carol? Look who was out in the hall," Pasha whispered.
Carol was sitting in a chair by Clark's bed, where the boy slept. His tiny body hidden under a white sheet. His head, wrapped in bandages, rested on the pillow.
Carol got to her feet. She began to cry when she saw Randy. She ran to him. Overcome with emotion, she hugged him. "Oh Mister Cook, Mister Cook--"
"Randy, please, just call me Randy." A small tingling sensation began to build in Randy's chest. He thought he could not breathe. He felt his heart beat accelerate. He let out a little gasp, tried not to reach for his heart. I need to get out of here, he thought.
Carol let go of Randy. She took both his hands and led him to the chair she had been sitting in. "Please," she said, "sit down for a minute?"
Randy looked around the room. The walls were decorated with Get Well cards, both store bought and homemade. Flowers, balloons and cookie baskets cluttered any flat surface available. Toys sat on the window sill.
Randy sat down. He could not look away from Clark, the tiny figure in the large hospital bed. Discoloration and missing patches of skin made up the child's face. "How is he?"
"Except for the operations coming up, the doctors say he's doing pretty good," Carol said. "I'm so glad you came to see my son."
"He's been on my mind a lot," Randy said. "I see him in my dreams."
Randy stared at Clark. Randy stood up and moved beside the child. He reached for the small hand sticking out from over the top of the sheet.
He did not touch the boy, afraid he might wake him. He is alive, Randy thought.
"Can I get you anything, Mister--Randy? A cup of coffee, or something to eat, maybe?"
"No thank you," Randy said. "How's the condo?"
"Ruined. Completely ruined," Carol said.
"Like I was telling you, we're fortunate to have the cottage. I haven't the had time to go out looking for another place, as you can imagine.
We're going to buy a house, though, no more condo's. It was the floor below us that caught fire first, a smoker who fell asleep. My little boy's in this hospital because an absent minded smoker fell asleep.
"Anyway, we've got a real estate agent out there looking. My father called him for us. Are you sure we can't get you anything? A soda from the vending machine?" Pasha asked.
Randy moved away from the bed. "I really can't stay. I have to be going.
I just wanted--" --needed-- "to see him, to be sure that he was" --
alive---- "okay, and he is. I really do need to get going."
"So soon?" Carol asked. "But you just got here."
"I'm afraid so." Randy thought he might pass out. He felt funny. His chest hurt. He gave Carol Meyers a hug and firmly shook Pasha's hand.
"As long as things are going okay here at the hospital, we'll be seeing you on Saturday night?" Pasha asked. He looked at his boy while he spoke.
"That's what I hear," Randy said. He smiled thinly. "I'll see you then."
"Let me walk you to the lobby," Pasha said. Clark began to stir, let out a small cry.
"Stay with your boy," Randy said. He watched Carol quickly move to her son's side. She took his hand in her own and kissed the tiny fingers.
"Go on," Randy needlessly urged Pasha. "Good luck on finding a new home."
Pasha slapped Randy on the back as he went to his wife's side, together they cooed and tried to soothe their son.
Clark let out another cry and a scream. Oh God. He sounds like he's in so much pain, Randy thought.
Randy left the room and quickly made his way down the hallway. He squeezed into a full elevator car. He needed to be away from Clark and Carol and Pasha. He needed to be away from the hospital.
When Randy stepped out of the elevator and into the main lobby he thought he might be sick. He walked briskly toward the sliding doors. He welcomed the fresh air and took a moment just breathing it in. He decided to walk back to his parked car, rather than wait and ride on the next shuttle bus.
She had seen him when he first entered the hospital and followed at a safe distance behind, as he'd made his way to the elevators. She did not need to ride in the car to know what floor he would get off at.
He had been on the news for the last two days, but even if he hadn't, she would still have recognized him. Aside from the weight he'd put on, Randy Cook looked exactly the same as he had when he was a freshman in college.
She knew he would visit Clark Meyers sooner or later. In a way, she had been waiting for him. She did not plan to talk with him, did not even want him to see her. She just wanted to see him, to see how his life turned out.
It appeared that he had done well for himself.
On his way down, when he squeezed with her and the others in the elevator, she had held her breath, afraid he might recognize her. He did not seem to notice her and she was thankful.
She dared to follow him as he stepped off the elevator and walked to the front lobby and out into the early morning sunlight.
"Doctor," someone said from behind her. She was angry for the interruption, did not want to turn away from Randy. She watched him standing outside, taking in deep breaths of air. "Doctor?"
"Yes," she said. She turned then to face a young intern.
"I was wondering if you could give me a hand for a moment?"
The doctor glanced over her shoulder, Randy Cook was no longer outside the front doors. She let out a sigh. He would be back, she knew. She would see him again.
"Doctor?"
"Yes, I'm sorry. Lead the way," Dr. Audrey Cox said, frustrated. She followed behind the intern, her mind wandering and racing and lost in a whirlwind of thoughts. Randy would be back and she would see him then.
Randy drove home on auto-pilot. He tried to think of nothing, his hands played with the radio, his eyes watched the road. He knew Jamie would not be home from work yet. In a way, he felt relieved, not wanting to see anyone, but also he wished she could be home, just so they could hold each other.
He loved being in the arms of his wife. Jamie loved him stronger and more completely than anyone else in the world. Her support got him through many problems. Her unconditional love and faith, lifted him to higher levels.
And right now I could use a little lifting, he thought.
He pulled into the driveway and sat for a while in the car.
I could call her out of work, Randy thought. He got out of the car and walked into his house, closed and locked the door behind him. He went right into the kitchen, grabbed a glass and filled it with milk. He sat at the table and picked up the morning newspaper.
The headline read: "University of Rochester Graduate Assassinates Governor Lippa." Why didn't anyone mention this at work this morning, Randy wondered.
Randy began to read the article. He stopped in the middle of the second paragraph. He stared at a name in the article, Wyatt Ransom.
"What the hell?" Randy said. He stood up still holding the paper in his hands. "What is this?" Not Wyatt, he thought. Wyatt murdered the governor? Noway! There's no way! Randy continued to read the article aloud: "Wyatt Ransom shot and killed Governor Patrick Lippa last night, before committing suicide--"
Suicide. Murder. Wyatt Ransom? "This has to be a mistake, a big--I don't believe it."
Randy felt his legs weaken. He sat down at the table and stared at the wall. He conjured up a mental image of his old friend, Wyatt. His mind whipped around with mixed emotions.
Randy sat on the sofa all afternoon. He did not turn on the television, or answer the telephone when it rang; the answering machine recorded the incoming calls.
At four, a car pulled into the driveway behind Randy's. Healing the car, Randy parted the curtains with the back of his hand. It was Jamie. He let the curtains close, folded the newspaper in his lap and stood up.
The front door opened. "You're home early," Jamie beamed. She gave him a quick kiss on the lips and hugged him. "What's wrong," she immediately asked, pulling out of the hug.
"I'm that easy to read?"
"What's wrong, Randy? Why are you home early, what happened?"
"I just had a bad day," Randy said.
"Oh, honey." She touched his cheek with soft, warm fingertips.
Randy led his wife to the sofa. They sat down. Jamie kicked off her shoes. "Randy, maybe you need to go and talk with a professional."
"A professional what? A therapist?"
"It could help. You know, maybe just give it a try? I hate to see you this upset." Jamie sat with her feet tucked under her rear. "I mean--"
"I know what you mean, I'll think about it."
"Will you?" she asked.
Randy gave her a smile. "At work this morning--you're not going to believe this--Johnny told me that Channel Three and Daniel are planning a big-to-do for this weekend."
"What? For you?"
"You got it. There's going to be awards, a sit down dinner, the works.
Johnny even said something about a nomination for Medal of Honor."
Jamie let out a happy laugh. "Medal of Honor, no kidding? Honey, that's wonderful, it's incredible. I'm so--"
"I don't want it."
"What?"
"I don't want it, the nomination, the awards, the dinner. I don't want any of it," Randy said. He talked in a calm, soft voice.
"I don't understand, Randy. You saved a boy who would have died. He would have burned in that fire. Are you just being modest? Because if you are--"
"It's not modesty." Randy stood up. "I don't know what it is. Something doesn't feel right. Inside me, something, I don't know what, but
something inside feels wrong. I don't know how else to explain it, or what word to use. I just feel wrong." I feel like I woke up this morning, only I wasn't me, he thought. I feel as if I don't know who I really am.
"You're scaring me, Randy, and I guess its because I can't really understand what you're saying. If Clark Meyers died it would be one thing, but he didn't. I don't know why you feel this way."
Neither do I, Randy thought. "It'll pass," he said. I hope.
"Is it the dream, Randy? The nightmare?"
"Well, yes, but no. There's more, there's something else that I can't figure out. It's like an emptiness."
"Depression?"
"I don't think I'm depressed, no."
"Are you depressed about anything?" Jamie asked.
"I don't think I am."
"But it all started after the fire, right? I mean, you didn't feel this way before--did you?"
Randy sighed. "No. This feeling definitely came over me after the fire,"
he said. Choosing to alter the subject, Randy said, "I went to the hospital after I left work."
Jaime asked, "How's he doing?"
"He's so tiny. He was asleep when I got there." Randy closed his eyes.
He could still envision Clark peacefully asleep in the bed, the sheets pulled up to just under his chin.
"His parents?"
"They were there. I stayed maybe less than five minutes. I just, I needed to see him. Now I don't know if I'm glad I did, or what," Randy said. He felt a tear roll down his face. "I know he's alive now. I've seen him. He's alive."
Jamie stood. "Randy--"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry, hon. Let's try to call someone, okay? I'll feel better if you talk with someone. Okay?"
"I couldn't take my eyes off him," Randy continued. He cried a little harder. "He woke up right before I left. He woke up screaming. He must be in so much pain."
"But he's alive, Randy. You saved him."
"I know I did," Randy said. "But--"
"But what?"
"That's just it, I don't know. Then I get home and I look at the paper," Randy said. Jamie looked at the folded newspaper on the sofa beside her. "I went to school with Wyatt Ransom."
"My God, the one who assassinated the governor?"
"We were friends, Wyatt and me. He lived in the dorm room across the hall from mine." Randy sat back down. Jamie put her arm around him. "I read the article, I don't know, ten times. Each time I thought I would realize I was reading the name wrong, that it wasn't Wyatt Ransom, but Will Ransom, or Wyatt Randell. But no, it was Wyatt Ransom, the kid I went to college with."
"I never heard you talk about him before."
"I probably didn't talk about him. I can't even remember the last time I thought of him. He didn't last the whole four years. He dropped out in the middle of our sophomore year. We kept in touch for a while--phone calls and letters, but, then, we just fell out of touch." Randy set his elbows on his knees. He lowered his face into cupped hands.
"It was a horrible thing. I read the article."
"I just can't believe Wyatt would have done something like that. You had to know him, Jamie. He was the meekest person I'd ever met. He was a funny guy," Randy said. He looked up from his hands. "I want to go to his funeral."
Jamie sat silent for a moment. She began to rub Randy's back. "Of course."
"What?" Randy asked. "You don't think I should go?"
"Randy, I didn't say that."
"You hesitated when I said I wanted to go to the funeral. Why?"
"Come on, Randy, stop that--"
"You hesitated. Why?"
"Randy--"
"Why, Jamie? Why did you hesitate when I told you I wanted to go to my friend's funeral?"
"He killed the governor, Randy. He murdered a human being, a person with a family that probably loved him. I know the community loved Governor Lippa. That's all. That's why I hesitated. You just said you haven't seen, or talked to this friend in what, eight, nine years?"
"You don't think I should go?" Randy asked.
"I didn't say that."
Randy, who had been yelling, lowered his voice as he said: "Does that mean you won't go with me?"
"If you want me to go with you to the funeral, I'll be right by your side, Randy." She spoke softly, stared into his eyes.
Randy leaned his head against Jamie's chest. She cradled him in her arms. He felt her kiss the top of his head. He closed his eyes.
Jamie lowered her husbands head onto the couch. He had fallen asleep.
She was worried about him.
Walking into the kitchen, she took the newspaper with her. She sat at the table and read the article for the second time that day. Why does he care so strongly about a person he hasn't seen in nearly ten years?
Jamie wondered. She folded the paper over, decided to start dinner and walked to the counter. She pulled out a pan from the cabinet and set it on the stove. She stood, lost in indecision for a moment, then grabbed the rolodex from on top of the refrigerator. She spun through the cards, looking for the doctor's phone number.
She dialed the number she found and waited for someone to answer, chewed on her nails. "Ah, hello," she said. "I'm calling to schedule an appointment for my husband. His name is Randy Cook. That's right. I don't know, I'd say the first opening you have?"
She cooked dinner, hoping she'd made the right choice. A cancellation in the doctor's appointment book left an opening for next Friday.
Scheduling the appointment had been easy, had felt like the right thing to do. Telling Randy what she'd done and convincing him to go would be another story.
She prepared a roast, potatoes and a salad. She set the table and when the food was ready she woke up her husband.
"Smells good," he said. He sat up on the sofa. "I fell asleep, huh?"
"Out like a rock," Jamie told him. "Which is good, though. You haven't been getting any sleep."
"Tell me about it. Look, I'm sorry I got so upset."
"I know you are."
"I just haven't been feeling like myself lately."
Jamie brushed the hairs away from his eyes. "You don't have to apologize."
"Yes, I do."
"Well then, apology accepted. Come on, let's go eat before my masterpiece goes to waste."
Randy stood up. "Oh, you made a master piece?"
"A roast."
"For you, that is a master piece."
Jamie playfully smacked his arm. "Watch it, Randy, or you could make yourself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich!"
Randy kissed Jamie. "I love you."
"I love you, too. I also--"
"You also, what?"
How do I tell him? Straight out. Don't hold back. "I made an appointment. You said you'd see a therapist."
"I never said I would see one for sure," Randy said. His voice sounded harsh. "Christ, Jamie."
"Randy, it's important to me. I'm worried about you, don't you understand that?"
"I understand that you think I'm going crazy! I'm not. I'm just upset--"
"About what, Randy? Tell me what you're upset about. You don't even know, do you? You can't be upset about Clark, because he's alive. You saved him. You can't be upset about Wyatt Ransom, because he's dead and you haven't seen him in ten years. So tell me, Randy, why are you so upset? Because you're going to be nominated for the Medal of Honor?"
Randy's face contorted. His anger seemed to subside, a confused look overwhelmed his features. He sat back on the sofa. "When's my appointment?"
"Friday. At Strong. Will you go, Randy? Please tell me you will?"
She watched him look around the room, avoiding eye contact with her.
He's embarrassed, she thought.
"I'll go," he said.
Jamie slid off the sofa, knelt beside him, took a hold of his hands.
"I'll go with you, if you want."
"No. I'll go alone."
"Okay. Okay, honey. That's fine. But if you want me to go, even if just to sit in the waiting room, I'll go." She kissed the back of his hand.
Randy's face showed a neutral expression. "I'm--I'll be going alone."
Randy held Jamie's hand, squeezed it tightly as they walked into the funeral home. The bright lights in the foyer and along the hallway did nothing to lift the morbid atmosphere. There were two wakes taking place tonight. Randy and Jamie looked in the first room, saw the name and moved on to the other room.
In the second room, the casket was set up against the back wall, flower arrangements stood around it. There were less than twenty-five people there to pay last respects.
"Are you okay?" Jamie whispered.
"I don't know if I can go in there."
"Do you want to leave?"
"No." I can't leave. I'm here. I have to go in, I have to force my legs to walk, Randy thought.
"Well, we can't just stand out here in the hall."
Randy saw the family lined in a row near the head of the closed casket.
He had met Wyatt's mother before. He remembered her as being friendly.
"Let's go in."
They crossed the threshold. No one seemed to notice them.
"Should we sign the book?" Jamie asked. She stood near a podium, an open book on it, a pen in the crease.
"Sure. Yeah, go ahead."
Randy looked around the room. What am I looking for? Who am I looking for?
Why did I think, who? he wondered.
"We should go up to the family," Jamie said. She took her husband's hand. "Do you know the family?"
"I've met them. I don't know if they'll remember me, though." Why should they recognize me? he wondered.
The walk from the podium to the casket seemed to last forever. Randy felt as though the floor were made of molasses, binding his feet, making each step he took a conscious, sticky effort.
"Are you going to be okay?"
"Fine," Randy said, softly. He wanted his heartbeat to slow down. He could feel himself begin to perspire.
"Randy? Randy Cook," Wyatt's mother said.
"Missus Ransom," Randy said. He let go of his wife's hand and shook hands with Mrs. Ransom's. He took deep breaths to control the odd feeling inside him. Randy said: "I'm so sorry about Wyatt."
The woman began to sob and hugged Randy. "My Wyatt, he couldn't have done what the papers claim! You knew my boy--"
"Mother," the man standing beside Mrs. Ransom said. "Please, mother."
"You stop it, Greg. Just stop it. You don't believe it, do you Randy?"
That's what I'm trying to figure out. Did Wyatt kill the governor? Did he commit suicide? "I haven't seen Wyatt in a long time. If he was anything like my friend used to be, then no, I don't think he did it."
"He was the same Wyatt. There Greg. Randy knew Wyatt. Wyatt wouldn't have done this. You really don't think he could have?" she asked, again.
Randy looked at Greg, then back at Mrs. Ransom. "No. I really don't think so."
Greg said nothing. Randy saw the argument in his eyes.
"Thank you for coming, and for your faith," Mrs. Ransom said. "You were always a good boy. I'm just sorry Wyatt didn't stay in school."
"Me, too," Randy said. "I missed him there."
"He missed you," Mrs. Ransom said.
"He did?" Randy asked.
"Yeah," Greg said. "My brother talked about you all the time. In fact I was wondering, if the two of you were such good friends, why couldn't you persuade him to stay in school?"
Randy cocked his head to the right, offended. "What?"
"Greg--"
"I'm sorry, Mother. I'm sorry Mister Cook. I have no right to say those things. I'm just angry and upset, looking for someplace to put the blame. What I just said wasn't fair and I'm sorry. I hope you can forgive me."
"No need to apologize. If it's any consolation, I did try my hardest to keep Wyatt from dropping out. He was a friend, a pretty good friend.
There was a time when I would have said he was my best friend. I didn't want to see him leave school," Randy said.
"I'm sure you did try the best you could, and like I said, I'm sorry."
Greg folded his hands in front of him. He did not look at Randy, but instead seemed to study the carpet.
Randy looked over at his wife, somewhat flabbergasted. Seeing her he said, "Excuse me, I'm sorry, I haven't introduced my wife, Jamie. Jamie, this is Missus Ransom, Wyatt's mother."
"It's nice to meet you," Mrs. Ransom said, solemnly.
Jamie took and shook the older woman's hand. "It's nice to meet you, too. I'm just sorry for the circumstances. I didn't know your son, but I know what he meant to my husband."
Mrs. Ransom gave Jamie a nod. "You're very kind. It's hard to be up here, knowing what people must be whispering of around the room. They all believe my son's a murderer."
Randy knew Mrs. Ransom was looking to hear Jamie say her son was innocent, too. He stared at Jamie. She didn't say anything. Jamie's silence betrayed her true feelings. Her silence angered Randy. Even Greg turned away from the two women who still stood holding hands.
Randy took his wife by the shoulder and led her to the casket. Beside the casket, on an easel, stood a framed 8x10 photo of Wyatt Ransom. They knelt together on a long rectangular, brown leather stool. Randy made the Sign of the Cross and quickly closed his eyes. He said the Our Father to himself. When he opened his eyes, he looked at the photograph again. In it, Wyatt Ransom was dressed in a suit and was smiling. "What happened, Wyatt?" Randy whispered. "What really happened?"
Jamie touched Randy's shoulder. She was no longer kneeling. He reluctantly stood up and took her hand.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
"Yeah. I'm ready."
They both said goodbye to Wyatt's mother and Greg.
Outside the funeral home, the glow of a full moon and a sky full of stars, lit the night. Randy looked to the Heavens, searching for, perhaps, God. "What do you think he looks like?" he asked, vaguely.
"Who? God?"
"Yeah. I mean, we all have a mental concept of what Jesus looks like because he was human. But what would you say God looks like?"
"I don't know, not an old man with a long white beard, I don't think."
"Me neither," Randy agreed. "Do you think he's just this massive ball of energy and light?"
"If I knew, I'd have written a book about it."
Randy laughed. "Do you think we're just puppets?"
"What? You mean like God's playing a game and we're just his marionettes? Or like pawn pieces from a chess game? No. I believe we all have a freewill." Jamie wrapped her arm around Randy's.
"I'm not so sure. There's this feeling in me, it's like an insatiable itch, that's telling me: You have no control over your life. Kind of silly, huh?" Randy stopped walking.
"Make sure you tell the doctor that."
"I sound kind of paranoid, don't I?"
"A little. But I think everyone feels that way sometimes. I know I've felt that way before, but I don't think I ever actually believed it. You know what I mean?" Jamie asked.
"I know what you mean, but I can't say the same. You know, I just lied in there, to Wyatt's brother."
"How?" Jamie asked.
"I told him I tried to keep Wyatt from dropping out of school."
"You didn't? But--"
"He'd changed," Randy said. "I don't remember how, but I do remember that by the Thanksgiving break in our sophomore year, the two of us barely spoke to each other. We didn't hang, nothing."
"Why?"
"I can't remember." Randy stuffed his hands into his pockets. He looked up to the dark sky. For a few moments he just stared at the stars and at the moon, tried not to think about anything, tried even harder not to remember.
"Let's go home, Randy," Jamie said. She broke his concentration. "I feel cold and tired."
Randy just nodded. He walked his wife to the car and in mutual silence, part comfortable, part awkward, they drove home.
At home, in the driveway, Randy did not turn the car off.
"What's wrong?" Jamie asked.
"Just thinking."
"What are you thinking?"
Randy turned to look at Jamie. He smiled. He reached for her hands. "As soon as it's clear to me, I'll tell you."
"You promise?"
"I do."
"Take me inside," Jamie said. "Make love to me; Laying on his back, hands cupped together behind his head, Randy did not even attempt sleep.
Jaime, a wonderful lover, slept peacefully on her belly beside him, the lower half of her naked body hidden under the white sheet.
Randy was thinking of Wyatt and of Clark when the telephone rang.
Quickly, he said: "Hello?" He glanced at the alarm clock. It read: 12:24
AM. "Who is this? Yeah, I was there tonight. Who? No, my God. No I didn't see you. Why didn't you come--tomorrow?" Randy glanced over at his wife. She still seemed to be sleeping. "I guess so. When? Okay.
Where? Okay. I'll see you then."
Randy hung up the phone. He stared at the window. He was faced with more new questions and so far, no answers. Everything was getting cluttered in his mind.
"Who was that, honey?" Jamie asked, her words sounding slurred. She stirred slightly.
"I don't know," Randy lied with a whisper. "Go back to sleep honey."
It had been Gloria Grahm on the phone. Gloria, his ex-girlfriend from college. She said she had been at Wyatt's wake. She had seen them, Randy and Jamie, talking with Mrs. Ransom. Because of Jamie, Gloria had not come over to say hello. But she needed to talk, she had told Randy. It's important, very important, she had said. It had to do with Wyatt, and with her and with him.
With me? Randy thought, puzzled.
Randy did not ask her questions, afraid talking on the phone might wake Jamie. He agreed to meet with her in the morning. After hanging up the telephone, he wished he had kept her on the line.
What troubled him about Gloria's phone call was the sense of lightness that came along with it. Randy closed his eyes and fell asleep. His dreams turned into nightmares, again. This time, Randy did not dream of the fire or of Clark Meyers, instead, he dreamt of shooting people.
"Did the phone ring last night?" Jamie asked. She and Randy sat at the
kitchen table eating breakfast.
"It did. It was a wrong number. Some kid looking for a, I don't know, a Glen, or something." Randy forked some eggs into his mouth. He took a bite from his toast. Why did I just lie to Jamie, he wondered. I don't have any more feelings for Gloria, he thought. It was probably because of the way she had called him, in the middle of the night, needing to talk with him.
"You going into work today?" Jamie asked.
"Yeah. I'd better." Another lie, Randy thought.
"Want to meet for lunch? I can probably get out for an hour around noon?
We could go to The Bent Elbow for hamburgers, or something? I could actually go for a Philly Cheese Steak sub. What do you say?"
"Sounds terrific. We haven't been there in a while."
Jamie stood up and brought her breakfast plate to the sink. "I better run. I got a bit of filing to do, especially if I'm going to take an hour for lunch." She came back to the table and kissed her husband on the lips. "You were wonderful last night."
"You weren't so bad yourself," Randy said, imitating Grouchomarx. "I'll see you at lunch?"
"At noon, The Bent Elbow. Hey, have a good day at work. I love you."
"Yeah right. I'll try." Jamie grabbed her keys and purse off the counter. "I love you, too," she said and left the house through the kitchen door.
Randy did not finish his eggs. He cleaned off his plate and went into the bathroom to shave. He was to meet with Gloria Grahm in one hour.
After so many years, what could she have to say that could seem so important? he wondered.
Randy drove north along Lake Avenue, toward Charlotte. Traffic looked light. He played with the radio dial, searching for a song to relax him, but found only morning talk shows. He switched the radio off.
The sky was littered with scattered puffs of small gray-white clouds, though it did not look like rain. The sun, just beginning to make its way into the sky, made a silent promise; it would be a warm, if not hot, day.
This is crazy, Randy thought. Why do I feel so nervous?
Because I don't have any idea why Gloria wants to see me.
I don't have any clue, or do I?
No. No, I don't. I don't know, maybe, dammit, he thought. I don't know.
Randy closed his eyes as he stopped the car for a red light. He held the steering wheel tightly in his hands and lowered his forehead down to the wheel. A horn from behind blared.
Randy looked up. The light was green.
He drove another quarter of a mile, just past Kodak Park and turned right, into the parking lot of the small diner, Dogs. The lot, badly in need of paving, diseased with pot holes, held four other vehicles. Randy parked along side one of them and shut off his car. He sat for a moment, wondered if he should get out, or if he should start the car up and just leave, go into work and wait until noon when he would meet with his wife for lunch.
He knew he should do the latter. Despite the anxiousness growing within him, he chose to get out of the car. Standing by his car, he nervously ran his hands up and down the thighs of his jeans. He glanced around, took a deep breath and started for the front door.
He was conscious of the sounds his shoes made as they crunched on the loose gravel. He could smell exhaust fumes, the stench adding to the nausea building in his stomach. He looked to the sky, saw the sun and the few patches of clouds. A chill raced down his spine. When's it going to warm up, oh Mister Sun? he thought. I'm freezing.
He saw her the second the door closed behind him. The diner could have been packed full and still he would have noticed her. Gloria Grahm did not look any different now, than from their days together in college. If anything, she looked more attractive. Her dark hair, now worn short, came to her shoulders and was curled out, Mary Tyler Moore style. Her complexion looked soft, and was clear, unlike how it used to look at the University of Rochester. Her eyes, blue, radiated with an iridescent glow of warmth.
She's staring right at me, Randy thought. He watched her fidget with a paper napkin. She finally flashed him half-a-smile. It was a beautiful smile. How could I not have seen her at Wyatt's wake? Randy asked himself.
Randy walked away from the front door toward the table. "Gloria," Randy said. "I can't believe it's been so long. You look beautiful."
Gloria did not stand up. Her smile grew, but only on the right side.
"Randy, my God, you look great, too."
An awkward silence fell between them.
Randy leaned over the table and kissed Gloria on the cheek.
His kiss broke the silence. "Sit down, please. I really don't know how long we have," Gloria said. She shifted her weight in the seat. She looked uncomfortable.
Randy quickly sat across from her. "What do you mean, 'how long we have'?"
"Randy--"
"Are you all right?" Randy asked. Gloria was talking funny. She only seemed to be using one side of her mouth. "Gloria--"
"I had a stroke."
"Oh my God. When?"
Gloria looked around Dogs. She was trying to keep from crying, Randy could tell. "About a month ago."
"A serious one?"
"Serious enough," Gloria said. "That's, well, my stroke is part of the reason I called you."
"Whatever you need, I'll help as much as I possibly can," Randy said. It was hard to believe Gloria had suffered a stroke at twenty-seven years old. "Isn't a stroke uncommon for some one your--our--age?"
"There was a boy here in Rochester a few years back who suffered severe
a stroke at seventeen."
"Seventeen? What caused it? Drugs, cocaine?"
"No. Nothing like that. The doctors never classified or isolated what caused his stroke. My stroke is comparable to his, they tell me." Gloria used the back of her right hand to wipe away the tears under her eyes.
"So what does that mean?"
"It means they have no clue why the hell this happened to me, so it makes it even harder for them to treat it."
Randy was silent a moment. "How's the seventeen year old?"
"He's a grown man now and doing fine."
Randy wanted to say, see, you'll be fine, too. He said nothing.
"I'm not here for sympathy, or for help--not the kind of help your thinking of. This has to do with me and you, now."
"Now? What are you saying?" Randy asked. He folded his hands on the table, eyes never looking away from Gloria. The intensity within her was captivating. "You had said something about Wyatt on the phone last night?"
"He was a part of this. My guess is, there are more, too. We just didn't know them, so how can we know about them, right?" Gloria asked.
"Gloria, I don't have any clue what you're talking about. We didn't know about who? A part of what?"
"I know you don't know what I'm talking about right now," she said. "We can't talk about it here, though," she whispered. She took a sip from a water glass on the table.
"Gloria--"
"Randy, please. I'm not trying to be dramatic or anything."
"But you are--"
"Randy--"
"You were a little actress even in college," Randy said. He smiled.
"Remember?"
"I was a good one, too."
"Could make yourself cry on the drop of a dime." Randy said. In a more comfortable silence, they stared into one another's eyes.
A waitress came over. Gloria looked at Randy. "Just a coffee," Randy said.
"Make it two," Gloria said. "I saw you on the news," she said to Randy when the waitress left.
Randy pushed slightly away from the table. He averted her stare.
"Randy?"
"I'm having a little trouble with that." He laughed. "I don't get it either. I mean, the boy, Clark, he lived. I saved him. For some reason though, I keep having these dreams. Nightmares, really." I can't believe I'm telling this to Gloria, Randy thought, going silent.
"Is the boy still okay?" Gloria asked.
"Yes. He's burned, but he's going to be all right, they say."
"What's in the nightmares, Randy?" Gloria asked, leaned forward, rested her arms on the table.
The waitress returned with two cups of coffee. "Can I get you anything else?"
"We're fine," Gloria answered in a curt voice. The waitress walked away.
Gloria asked again: "What's in the nightmares?"
Randy leaned in close, his chest pressed hard into the table. He could smell bacon and coffee. He could hear the murmur of people talking around him. The diner seemed suddenly more full. He could feel the cold table top on the palms of his hands. His heartbeat began to accelerate.
Why do I feel this way when I think about Clark? he wondered. He whispered. "I dream that the boy died, and his mother accuses me of murdering him."
"Murdering him?"
"Its so real, the nightmare. I can't sleep at night. Last night, after I got off the phone with you, was the first time I didn't have that nightmare." I had a different one, he thought.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Gloria said. She settled back in the chair.
How can I be so stupid, Randy thought. I'm bothering Gloria with tales of my dreams, after all she's been through. A simple nightmare must seem like a foolish problem. "I'm sorry. I'm talking stupid. Its just a nightmare. It's nothing serious."
"But it's bothering you?"
"Well, yes. It is," Randy said.
"In a way, I can't sleep at night either. It's a nightmare that keeps me awake, but its a different kind of nightmare."
Randy nodded, sure Gloria was speaking of her stroke.
"That's why I knew, when I saw you at Wyatt's wake, I had to call you."
Randy shook his head now. "What is it, Gloria? What are you being so secretive of?"
"Can we go for a drive?"
"What, now?" Randy asked.
"Uh-huh."
"Sure we can," Randy said. "Do you want to ride with me, or do you want me just to follow you?"
"I took a cab," Gloria said. She stood up, the angled handle of a cane in her right hand. The cane had three legs for stability, Randy noticed.
"I'm not ready to drive. I get tired pretty fast."
"Are you tired now?" Randy asked.
"Yes, I am."
"Then--"
"Don't worry about me," Gloria said. "I'll rest later. I'm serious when I tell you that what I have to say is important."
"Would you care to lean on my arm?"
"I have to do this on my own. I hope you understand?" Gloria said. She started to walk toward the door. She still looks incredible, Randy thought, watching her. He tossed a five dollar bill onto the table.
Gloria stopped at the front door, struggled to keep her balance and gave the door a push. She bit at her upper lip in concentration. A pang of pity sprang inside of Randy's chest and stabbed at his heart. He walked behind her, noticed the limp. The toe of Gloria's left foot dragged across the loose gravel of the parking lot. Her left arm was pulled in to her chest, the hand curled in.
Randy ran forward and grabbed the car door.
"I can do it," Gloria snapped.
"I was just going to unlock it," Randy said. "I'm sorry."
Gloria stood near the car door. She reached for him with her left hand.
Randy saw the strain in her face. It must have taken a tremendous amount of effort for her to reach for me, he thought. He held her hand tightly in his own. It felt cold.
"No, I'm sorry," Gloria said. "I just feel like I have so much to prove."
"You don't have anything to prove to me."
"Not to you, Randy. To me."
Randy unlocked the door, left it closed. He went around to the driver's side, got in and started the engine. He tried not to watch as Gloria made several failed attempts at opening the door with her left hand. She gave up, used the right and with obvious frustration, climbed into the car. She closed the door and strapped on her seat-belt. "Let's get out of here."
Randy did not know what to say. He chose to say nothing, put the car in reverse and pulled out of the lot.
Samuel Huntly, Sam to his friends, sat in his car in Dogs parking lot hoping to appear invisible. He set his digital camera down on the seat beside him and casually began to follow the car with Gloria and the man.
He did not recognize the man and so he took extra pictures, close-ups of him, as they came out of Dogs together. He didn't know for sure, but thought the man might interest his employer. There was something familiar about him that Sam couldn't quite place.
With dark hair and dark, beer bottle brown eyes, Sam considered himself to be good looking, though not handsome. His teeth were white, but not the straightest. His skin, slightly blemished with acne, was more pale this summer than most. He'd not been to the beach at all and spent most of his time in the library studying. His body was strong, and for the most part, solid, except for the beginning signs of love handles.
With a school full of students enrolled in the criminal justice program at the university, Sam felt lucky to have been chosen for this special assignment. He'd been fortunate enough to be taking a summer class, and to have seen the posting on the Jobs Cork Board in the Student Union.
His grades were not good, but he applied for the position. He did not actually expect to get the job. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
He clearly remembered the excitement he felt when he'd been chosen for the job. Three weeks ago, he'd been called at home by a man and was asked to begin the job before the new school year started. He would then be reporting his findings to a Dr. Audrey Cox.
Today was his first day on the job. It seems a simple job, but one which requires my special skills, he thought. He was only to follow Gloria Grahm. She was never to be out of his sight, he'd been told. Sam and one other person were chosen for the job and they were going to take turns watching her, seven days a week. Apparently, Gloria Grahm did not need to be watched during the night. That was fine with Sam.
Sam kept three car lengths behind the man and Gloria. The steady flow of traffic became his natural camouflage. He thought quickly back to the pictures he had just taken. They were both artistic and revealing. He took them from the window, outside Dogs. He didn't use a flash, adjusted the F-stop and zoomed in on Gloria and the man sitting at the table together. He wished he could hear what they were saying. He was sure an audio cassette along with the images would provide a well padded bonus to his already high-paying summer job.
The man driving the car signaled a right hand turn. The small road led
to the historical lighthouse along the Genesee River.
"Dammit," Sam muttered. If he turned with them, they would see him. He was told specifically not to be seen. Of course, with the lighthouse involved, I could pretend to be a real photographer--but no, that would be no good, Sam thought.
Sam drove past the turn and made a U-turn a little further down Lake Avenue. He sped back up the road toward Stutson Street, crossed the bridge over the river and drove toward the pier. It ran along the river, across from the lighthouse. It was taking a chance, letting Gloria out of his sight, and his employer might not approve, but Sam wanted to show initiative in leadership and creativity.
He parked his car, grabbed his camera and ran for the pier.
From it, he saw the lighthouse. The sun was to his back, perfect for taking pictures.
He saw Gloria and the man. Using the lighthouse for background, Sam began to take more pictures. He was thankful he did not need to reload the camera with film every thirty-six shots. Over one-hundred images were saved on a disk, inserted into the drive on the side of the camera.
After the photographs Sam had taken at Dogs, he'd replaced the full disk with an empty one.
"Don't pay any attention to the man with the camera," Sam said to himself, took three pictures of Gloria and the man. "He's just pretending to take these wonderful shots of the landscape."
They sat on the grass, their backs against the brick face of the light tower. The sun was warm on their faces.
"I can't believe you never got married," Randy said. He crossed his legs at the ankles. Plucking a fistful of grass from the ground, he began to scatter the blades.
"No time for it, really. I've been busy working at my career."
"And here I was, worried that when we broke up, you just couldn't stand the thought of getting married to anyone but me."
"Not even close," Gloria said and they both laughed. "No, I had a fiance for a while. We planned to get married and everything, but, well, I don't think he was that comfortable with me wanting a professional career."
"What did he do?"
"He was a lawyer. We met downtown. I think he wanted a wife slash mother, you know? Someone who would have dinner ready for him when he got home from the office? That's okay, and everything, but that wasn't me."
"Is it now?"
"Who would want me now?" Gloria asked, softly. She looked away.
"You're still a beautiful woman, Gloria." Randy spoke just as softly, throwing away a handful of grass.
She let out a small snort. "Come on, Randy. Be real. I can't even tie my own shoes in the morning. I had to have my brother buy me these Velcro sneakers." She slapped her feet. "Walking up a flight of stairs knocks the wind out of me. I'm ready for bed at seven. I can't believe the crap I'm going through. Every day I have to ask myself if it's even worth it."
When Gloria started to cry, Randy moved in close to sit beside her. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and she buried her face against his chest. "Of course it's worth it," Randy said.
"I'm sorry," Gloria said after a few moments. She lifted her head UP-
"Forgive me."
"Gloria, there's nothing to forgive, I just wish I could do something to help you."
"You're here."
Randy smiled. "I'll help you." He watched Gloria look out over the river, raising her hand to block the sun's glare.
"I hate to change the subject but--"
"Why did I bring you here," Gloria said, finishing the sentence for Randy. She lowered her hand and turned her attention back to her friend.
"I think I'm being followed. I wouldn't be surprised if someone's following you, too."
Randy laughed. "Gloria--"
"I'm not kidding. I'm not sure what's going on, but I have this idea, this theory, and it might sound crazy, but Randy, I think we were all involved with something in college, something big and something bad."
"What?" Randy wasn't sure what Gloria was getting at. He was worried about her. Does a stroke effect the mind? "What do you think happened?
What were me and you ever involved in that--"
"And Wyatt," she added, quickly.
"What? Me, you and Wyatt? We did lots of things together. Some of the things we did were bad, a little crazy and dangerous, even. I can remember that time with the giant--"
"The Chicken tape," Gloria said, flatly.
"The Chicken tape?" As Randy said those three words a shudder passed through his body.
"You remember the tape?"
"Of course, but I mean, I've watched it. There was nothing bad in that tape. We didn't do anything wrong. Gloria--"
"Look Randy, I didn't say I had this thing figured out, but just listen.
Give me a chance to say these things out loud. Okay?"
"I'm here, Gloria. I'm listening."
"Ever since my stroke, it's like, I don't know, I remember things I didn't know I knew. Does that make sense?"
"No," Randy said.
"Okay. I've been having these memories, or flashes of memories-- like snapshots, only I can't recall having done the things I'm remembering.
God, this is so hard to say." She looked flustered. She curled her right hand into a fist and punched the ground.
"You mean like Deja vu?"
"More than that, but yes it's just like Deja vu."
"Everyone experiences--"
"No. No, Randy. It's more than Deja vu. It's more than that." Gloria leaned forward. She stared at Randy with her trademark intensity.
"You've got to believe me. Randy, there's no one else I can go to. No one else will believe me."
I'm not sure I believe you, Randy thought. "Gloria, even if what you're telling me is true, that you're having strange memories, how does that bring you to the conclusion that someone is following you, or me, for that matter, hmm?"
"See that man over there, across the river?"
Randy looked. He cupped a hand over his eyes. "On the pier?"
"The one taking pictures."
"Yeah. I see him."
"He was at Dogs. Now he's here with a camera. He's taking pictures of us."
"Gloria, that's a little--"
"Paranoid? Coincidental? I don't think so," she said.
"He's taking pictures of the lighthouse, if you ask me. It's a historical monument, isn't it? A piece of history. Just because he was at Dogs, I'm going to guess, I don't know, that he was hungry and thought he might get a bite to eat before coming out here to take some scenic photographs. Lighthouses are very popular," Randy said. He was thinking of the artwork in the Burn Unit at Strong Memorial Hospital. A fleeting image of Clark Meyers passed through his mind. He remembered the nightmare. "Gloria, I'm sorry. That all sounded harsh--"
"No. I understand." She looked more calm. "I'm not sure I'd believe you, either, if you came to me talking crazy about nothing."
"I didn't say it was nothing."
"I know you didn't." With obvious effort, she stood up. Randy got to his feet. "Can you give me a ride home? I feel very tired now."
Randy smiled. "Of course."
Gloria gave Randy directions to her house. "I hope this isn't too much trouble?"
"No trouble. I don't have anything planned until this afternoon," he said. He concentrated on the road. The situation between himself and Gloria turned awkward. He wanted to believe her, but couldn't. "You talked a few times about your career, like with your fiance, before. You
never mentioned what it is that you do."
Gloria pursed her lips. "I worked side by side with Governor Lippa."
Randy stopped the car. The driver of the car behind him was forced to stop quickly, showed his agitation by blowing the horn at Randy.
"What?" Randy asked.
"I worked for Patrick Lippa." Gloria looked out her window.
Randy began to drive again. "My God, how awful. How weird. How did you manage attending Wyatt's--"
"It wasn't easy. I had to do a lot of explaining. I still don't think everyone believed me."
"Is that why you think you're being followed? Because you worked for the governor and you knew Wyatt?"
Gloria continued to look out the window. "I thought of that, yes, but no. I don't think it's people like that following me. It could be, and I guess I could understand it if they were, but I don't think so."
"Gloria, why do you think Wyatt killed the governor?"
"Make a right here," Gloria said. She pointed to the side street. Randy signaled his turn. "It's the third house, there. The ranch."
Randy pulled into the driveway. "Do you know why Wyatt killed Patrick Lippa?"
"Do you have another minute?" Gloria asked. Randy wondered if she were dodging his question on purpose. Did she know why Wyatt killed the governor? Randy couldn't help but wonder.
"What do you need?"
"There's something I want to show you."
Randy looked at the house. It was white with black shutters. The front yard was meticulously manicured and the landscaping impeccable, outlined with a select variety of complementing plants and flowers. "Where?"
Randy asked. "In the house?"
"It's the last thing I'll show you, the last thing I'll tell you, and if you still don't believe me, then I won't bother you anymore."
Randy smiled. He wanted to say, but you're not bothering me. In a sad, but truthful way, he thought, her conspiracy theories would drive him crazy, if they were all she talked about every time he saw her.
"Gloria--"
"Just come in and see what I have to show you before you come to a final decision. Please?"
"Okay," Randy finally said. I've come this far, he thought. "Okay."
Inside Gloria's house, Randy immediately fell in love with the tongue and groove, brilliantly polished, hardwood floors. Despite the book shelves which lined the main living room, the place was bright and lively with colorful art hanging tastefully on three of the four walls.
A treadmill sat in the middle of her living room, set in front of a television set.
Randy bent down, untied his shoes.
"You don't have to do that," Gloria said.
Randy took them off anyway. He slid on his socks on the floor. "This place is beautiful."
"I'm glad you think so. Do you want a tour?"
"Love one."
Gloria led him down the hall to her office, a converted bedroom, no doubt. In it sat a computer and modem, color laserjet printer, photocopier and a fax machine. "It's a little cramped. I've thought of putting the office in the master bedroom and the bed in here."
She was slamming herself, Randy knew, telling him that she would be alone for the rest of her life, so why not busy herself with her work.
Randy left Gloria's comment alone.
The bathroom was larger than Randy would have imagined. It was also, blue. Ignoring over the master bedroom, Gloria led Randy into the kitchen. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"I guess. Sure, since we didn't get to drink the one we ordered at Dogs."
"I'm sorry about that. I just wanted to get out of there, to someplace a little more private."
Randy nodded. "I understand. I'm glad we went to the lighthouse."
They sat after the coffee was poured and made small talk for a few minutes. Randy could not help but glance over Gloria's shoulder. He read the time on the microwave.
"You have someplace to be?"
"No, not yet," Randy said.
"Just anxious, huh?"
"I'm not anxious, just curious about what you wanted to show me."
"Wait here." Gloria stood up. She gripped the handle of her cane tightly and walked out of the kitchen. She returned a moment later with a white cloth in one hand. She carried the cloth as though it held a fragile jewel within its folded corners.
Randy watched as she carefully set the cloth on the table by the sugar bowl. She unfolded the corners. "What the hell are you doing with that?"
Randy asked when he saw the gun.
"I was going to kill Governor Patrick Lippa, Randy."
"Gloria--"
"After my stroke, I remembered buying this gun. But, I hate guns. I would never buy a gun." Gloria sat back down. She looked physically and mentally drained.
"Maybe you had some kind of breakdown prior to the stroke."
"I may have. But, I know I was meant to kill the governor."
"Did the two of you fight--"
"Never. We got along great."
"Excuse me for asking something personal--"
"No," Gloria said, quickly. "We were not lovers. I think he wanted us to be. He's married. I would never do something like that. We didn't fight, we didn't sleep together, but worked wonderfully as a team. I would never dream of hurting him. He was the best boss I ever worked for."
"So, you didn't hurt him," Randy said.
"No, but I know I was supposed to."
"Supposed to? I don't understand that. I don't get what you're saying."
"I don't either. It's just the way I feel. Inside, I know what I was meant to do. This all may sound funny, Randy--no funnier than everything else I've been telling you," Gloria said and laughed, "but, I think the stroke kept me from assassinating the governor."
Randy looked away from Gloria, to the gun. "What the hell's going on?"
Gloria started to cry. "Am I crazy, Randy?"
"No. No, I don't think so. Listen, there's a reason for this," he said, waved his hand over the gun. "You probably just suffered a nervous breakdown and then, unfortunately, a stroke. That would explain it all."
"It would. Wouldn't it?"
"Yes. Did you tell your doctors about this? The gun?"
"My God, no. Should I? Would you?"
Randy shook his head. "I don't think so. I mean, you didn't do anything with it, right? I mean, you didn't do anything wrong."
"What about Wyatt?"
What about Wyatt? Randy thought. The coincidences were questionably
bizarre.
"He killed the governor only a month after my stroke. Think about what I'm telling you," Gloria insisted. "I was going to kill him, but had a stroke. Wyatt does kill him, and then he kills himself--only a month later."
Randy stood up and walked over to the sink. He looked out the window. He turned around, leaned against the counter. "Did Wyatt work for the governor?"
"No. I didn't even know he was still living in Rochester until I saw him in the papers."
Randy sat back down at the table, sighed. This is strange, he thought.
There had to be a reason for the whole thing. With Wyatt dead, though, they would never know why he'd done the things he did. Randy was sure it was all just a coincidence, nothing more.
"So what are you proposing?" Randy heard himself ask.
"I think this has something to do with the Chicken Tape, Randy. I mean, think about it. We, the three of us--and God only knows how many other students--volunteered to get hypnotized, right?"
"Yeah," Randy said.
"Then we get a check and a video tape."
"I know all of this."
"How do we know for sure what was done to us while we were hypnotized?"
Gloria asked.
"It's on the tape--"
"What if what's on the tape, is all that they wanted us to see. There could have been more, edited footage. You're a cameraman, for Pete's sake. You should know how easy it is to edit. What if they didn't record the actual test, and concocted the Chicken Tape just to give us something tangible after the real experiment was performed? I've been remembering horrible things."
"Gloria, listen. I think you're driving to hard toward something that isn't there. Okay? What happened with you, with Wyatt, I don't know, exactly." Randy stood up. "I wish I could explain everything, but it just sounds like coincidence. That's all."
"It can't be," Gloria protested. "Do you hear yourself? A coincidence?
Come on, Randy."
"It has to be. What you're suggesting is impossible."
"Why?"
"Why?" Randy laughed. "Why? Because, because schools, hospitals--they don't do that kind of thing."
"They don't lie? Randy--"
"You know what I mean."
"No," Gloria said. She looked angry. "I don't. If it were a, say, a government test conducted in secrecy--"
"Do you hear yourself, Gloria? You just brought the government, some secret service, into your conspiracy. You're making rash calls without any sound evidence. You're basing your theories on paranoia. I'm sorry this sounds harsh, but after all these years, I'm still your friend, okay? I'm just trying to help."
"Well you're not helping, you're turning your back on me," Gloria said.
She was crying again. She went to the sink and grabbed a tissue. "You can go now," she said as she blew her nose. "Go!"
Randy walked slowly into the living room. He stopped and looked back.
Gloria was not watching him. She stood by the sink, her head hung low.
Her shoulders shook as she cried.
"Gloria--"
"Go, Randy. Get on with your life. I'm sorry I bothered you. Believe me, I'll keep my promise. You won't be hearing from me again."
"That's not what I wanted. I feel like I've found a lost friend. I'd hate to lose you again."
"Yeah, well, I'm still lost Randy. I'm swimming in a mind of darkness.
The problem, Randy, the real problem is, I don't know whose mind I'm in.
Now please, just, just go."
"You look preoccupied, honey. What is it?" Jamie sat at the table across from her husband at the Bent Elbow. She lifted the steak submarine sandwich to her mouth.
An untouched cheeseburger sat on a plate next to a half eaten order of french fries, drowned in mustard. Randy stared at his glass of soda for a moment. He looked away from the bubbles. "I'm sorry, honey. Last night, remember when the phone rang? I told you it was a wrong number?"
"Yes. It wasn't?" Jamie set her sub down.
She's not going to take this well, he thought, but I have to tell her.
"No," Randy said. He sat up straight. He picked up a french fry and used it to poke at the others. "It was an old friend."
"Who, Randy?"
"Gloria Grahm."
"Your old girlfriend from college? I don't think I like--"
"She was at Wyatt's wake. It's nothing, not like you're thinking," Randy said, quickly.
"How do you know what I'm thinking? A woman you haven't seen--or have you seen her?"
"No honey. It's not like that, you've got to believe me," Randy said.
"All right, let's just say then, for the sake of saying it, that a woman you haven't seen in years calls you in the middle of the night, what could she possibly want?" Jamie demanded.
"To see me, to talk with me." God, he thought a little too late, that sounds terrible.
"Oh, this is great. I don't know if I want you meeting with one of your ex-girlfriends, Randy. Put yourself in my position, here. Would you like it if an ex-boyfriend of mine called me in the middle of the night asking to see me? Huh? Okay," Jamie said, "when does she want to see you?"
"I met with her this morning." Randy leaned forward. "Jamie--"
"My God, didn't you go to work?"
"No. They weren't--"
"You let me think you were going to work, you bastard," Jamie said. "So she called you again? Gloria? When? When I left the house?"
"No--"
"No? What, Randy? You knew," Jamie said suddenly. She looked as if she might cry. "You knew you were going to meet with her? When? Last night?
You knew last night, didn't you?"
"Yes. But it's not like you're thinking--"
"Please stop telling me what I'm thinking! If you knew you were going to meet with her, then why didn't you tell me, Randy? If it's so innocent, like you're trying to make it sound, then why didn't you tell me? Huh?"
"I don't know why, Jamie. I swear though, I swear there are no feelings between us. None. That wasn't it," Randy said. "She wanted to--"
"Then what was it, huh? No, forget it. I don't want to have this talk here. Not now. I'm going back to work. We'll talk later."
Randy asked, "Tonight? At home?"
"I don't know," Jamie said. "I may go to my mother's tonight."
"Jamie--"
"You don't seem to realize just how serious this is, do you?" Jamie asked.
"I didn't sleep with this woman. If you'll just give me a chance to explain. I think you're being unfair here--"
"Unfair," Jamie flared.
"You never cease to amaze me with your lack of perception."
"Jamie please, give me one minute to explain--"
"I don't have time for lies right now, oh-greathusbandof-mine. This conversation, as of now, is on hold. I don't want to talk about this here, not anymore. Okay? We'll discuss it later." Jamie wiped her lips on the napkin, she pushed her sub to the center of the table, stood up.
"I'm not hungry anymore."
Randy stood up.
"No," Jamie said. "I don't want you to follow me, or to try and talk to me. I'm not ready for you to try smoothing things over. Just stay, finish your lunch. I want to be alone right now."
"Jamie," Randy whispered. "You're letting this whole misunderstanding get blown out of proportion." He tried to laugh.
Jamie stared at Randy then, her green eyes like green flames of ice. She spoke with an edge to her voice, as if each word were it's own sentence: "Don't tell me what's being blown out of proportion! You lied,
deliberately lied, Randy. For what ever reason there was, infidelity,
or otherwise, you lied. So just think about that while you eat your disgusting french fries."
Randy watched her turn and leave. He went back to the table. He felt like everyone in the Bent Elbow was staring at him. He tried to ignore the eyes. He sat down and sighed, folded his hands in his lap and stared at the bubbles in his soda. He stuffed two french fries with mustard into his mouth.
This is great, he thought. Just wonderful. That's two women who have now, basically, told me to get lost in less than two hours.
At the end of Sam Huntly's shift, he filled in his replacement, told him about his mini-adventures, then drove back to university. He was anxious to get to work on the photographs he'd taken. He pulled into the student lot, got out of the car with his camera, locked the car doors and started across the campus.
In the fall, the court yard would be full of students and faculty. At the end of summer, only a few people were around. Everything was quiet and comforting.
Sam's stomach growled. I can wait, he thought, and grab something to eat later. He held the camera tightly in his hand and let the neck strap dangle as he walked.
In the graphics building, state-of-the-art technology awaited enrolled students. All you needed to enter the building was a student ID badge.
Sam had his ID ready as he entered the building and jogged down the stairs to the basement, where the school's journalists-to-be put together the weekly university newspaper.
"Hey Sam," Jerome Carter, the editor-in-chief of the paper called out.
"How are you, Jerome?" Sam asked. Jerome was black, tall and slim. He wore his hair short. His glasses were gold, round, complimenting.
Sam looked at the rows of computers and equipment set on five eight foot tables lined in the center of the room. There were several printers sitting next to each other in the back of the room.
"I guess I'm getting apprehensive about the new school year," Jerome said.
"You'll be a senior, huh?" Sam asked.
"That's right. Kind of a scary thought, don't you think? I know it scares the hell out of me, going out into the real, working world."
Jerome shook his head, looked disgusted.
"I wouldn't know that feeling. Still too soon for me." Sam laughed. "No one said you couldn't go on for your Master's degree."
"Don't think I'm not looking into it. My mother tells me I just want to become a professional student. I don't know if she's wrong." Jerome switched on a computer. "Here, you can use this one. Yesterday, I updated the software on most of these systems. This one has it all. It's the one I use."
Sam walked over to the computer. He set the camera down on the table.
"This thing is wild."
"Easy enough to operate?" Jerome asked. He lifted the camera in his hands and ejected the money-clip sized disk from the drive, handed it to Sam.
"I thought so. I mean, it has more bells and whistles--"
"It goes for just under thirty-thousand," Jerome said. He sat on the table and stared at the camera.
"Dollars?" Sam asked, sitting in the chair in front of the keyboard.
"You got it."
"Jesus, Jerome, what the hell did you let me use such an expansive camera for?" Sam asked. His hands tightly gripped the arm rests. "What if I dropped it, or lost it, or something? What if it got stolen?"
"I knew it wouldn't. Besides, its not the newest model anymore. We just ordered Kodak's latest and greatest."
"What's that one cost, one-hundred thousand dollars?"
"No," Jerome said. "Actually, it costs about a third of what the school bought this one for and it has twice as many--as you said--bells and whistles on it."
Sam nodded. He didn't really care about the camera. He was anxious to get to work.
"Do you need any help?" Jerome asked.
"I'm not sure." Sam stared at the monitor.
"What are you going to be doing with the images?"
"I need to send them to somebody," Sam said, casually, carefully. "I filled one and a half disks."
"What the hell were you shooting? I could have lent you a video camera If I knew you wanted moving pictures," Jerome said and laughed.
"People, lighthouses, that kind of thing," Sam said. He removed the first disk from his pocket, quickly handed it to Jerome. It was the only
thing he could think to do to stop the editor's questions.
"Do you need help with the images themselves? Are you going to be saving them to a floppy, because if you want, we can burn them onto a compact disk."
"Burn them onto a compact disk? You mean like a music CD?" Sam asked.
"Sure. We can download the images from the disk onto the computer's hard drive, manipulate the contrasts, brightness, the hues and saturation and save the photos. We'll print them on the color laserjet--at 600 dpi, dots per inch, you'll get film-like quality. Then we can laser write the images onto a compact disk. It's simple. Then you'll have a permanent archive. You'll be able to make printouts from that CD anytime you need.
And if we don't fill it, we can always add more images in the future."
Sam's smile wilted. "Is it expensive?"
"Free. The service is on the school."
It took hours to edit, size and adjust the photo quality of the images.
Jerome did not hang around for all of it. He gave Sam a crash course on the software before heading out to lunch and running errands around campus.
The digital photographs showed clean, crisp images of Gloria alone and of Gloria with the man at Dogs and then again at the lighthouse. With Jerome's tutorial, Sam was able to make each picture look as if a professional had taken it.
When Jerome returned, he provided further assistance.
"These pictures with the lighthouse, are beautiful. You ought to think about getting a website and trying to sell some of these images," Jerome said. He placed a blank compact disk into a CD writer. The writer uses a laser to copy the images from Sam's file onto the compact disk.
"I don't have time to manage a website--much less set one up," Sam said.
He was sure Jerome knew the theme of his photographs was not the lighthouse, but the reappearance of the same woman in every picture. He was thankful Jerome did not ask anymore questions.
"Well, I've got a friend that sets up webpages for a living. If you decide you want to try and sell some of these images over the net, you let me know. The potential money market for photographs selling over the Internet is huge."
"I didn't realize that."
Jerome smiled. "You can find anything you're looking for over the net.
Keep that in mind."
Sam just nodded. He knew computers, had surfed the net, but was not about to become a computer geek over a summer job.
"Well, the disk's done. Images look great," Jerome said. "And you still need to use the camera?"
"If it's all right," Sam said.
"Sure man. Did you erase the camera disks?" Jerome asked.
"Yep. I'm all set there," Sam said, hesitated.
"What man?" Jerome asked. "You need something else?"
"Would it be too much trouble to get one more CD made?"
Jerome regarded Sam for a moment. "What? You mean like for a back-up disk?"
"Exactly," Sam said. "That's exactly what I mean. I'll even pay for the CD--"
"Get out of here. Like I told you, it's no problem." Jerome grabbed a second compact disk. "All the work's been done to the photos, burning the file onto another CD won't take long."
Sam's smile brightened. "Then let's do it. Hey, is there anyway I can type up a letter on this system?"
"Are you kidding me, Sam? These computers are for future journalists."
"Oh yeah," Sam said. He laughed. "What do I need to do?"
"Just click on the Word icon and type away. I have to run to the little boy's room, okay?"
"Go ahead," Sam said. "I won't be going anywhere for a bit."
"All right, if you get stuck, I'll be out in a minute." Jerome gave Sam a salute.
"I should be okay, I have Word on my computer at home," Sam said.
Sam typed: To: Dr. Audrey Cox, From: Samuel Huntly. He typed the date at the top left corner of the page. He scrolled down a few lines and typed: Summary Report.
Staring at the otherwise blank page, Sam realized he had no idea what to write, or how to go about writing this report. After a few more seconds without inspiration, Sam tried to close the page. The computer asked if he wanted to save and name the document he'd created. Sam clicked in the NO box. The page closed. He quit the Word application.
When Jerome returned from the restroom he asked Sam, "How'd it go?"
"I think I need to work on a rough draft first. I got a notebook in the car. I think I'm all set here. And it's no problem, me coming back every couple of days to work on newer photos?" Sam asked.
Jerome shrugged. "Nope, at least not until the semester begins. Not that you can't still do what you're doing, we'll just need to make more specific time arrangements. You know what I mean?" He took the backup CD
out of the laser writer, placed it in the plastic case, handed it to Sam.
"I know what you mean. I'm not sure this little job will last that long," Sam said. He was sorry he chose to use the word job. He decided to get away quick, grabbed the camera, the blank disks and the original CD. "Thanks for your help, Jerome. I really appreciate it." Sam left the basement, the building and walked quickly across campus.
At his car, he locked the equipment in his trunk. The thought of driving around with a camera that cost more than two years tuition to the university, made Sam a little nervous.
He stopped at Burger King before going home, grabbed a couple of Whoppers, a large order of french fries and a vanilla milk shake. He ate in the restaurant while working out the first draft of his report in a notebook. He wrote in pencil. He would jot down a sentence, read it out loud, scribble over it and start again. By the time he finished eating, he'd written very little.
He closed up his note book, cleared off the table, and left.
In his apartment, Sam sat at the desk and switched on his personal computer. The screen came to life. With his mouse, he did a double click on the Word icon and waited patiently for the software to kick in.
He created a new file, named it G. G. He copied the notes he'd written in Burger King onto the page. He found it easier to write sitting at his own computer, rather than using a pencil and notebook to conduct a draft, or the school's terminal.
The report was written in less than two hours. He printed the new document, saved a copy to the G. G. file and switched off his system.
The report consisted of five double spaced pages.
He placed the report with the one CD in a padded manila envelope, sealed it. He labeled the envelope with the university's address, Dr. Audrey Cox's name and department.
In his kitchen, in a cabinet by the stove an dover the sink behind the coffee mugs, Sam hid the back-up CD.
He took the envelope and drove to the post office. He had his envelope
weighed and meter-stamped by the woman working behind the counter.
"Gone," he said. I mailed it, just the way I was told to do so, he thought, left the post office.
Randy stood by the picture window in his living room and stared at his lone car in the driveway. He turned to look at the time on the VCR. 6:43
P. M. Jamie was not home from work yet. She should have been home over an hour ago.
Randy went to the phone and called Jamie's mother. "Hiya Ma," he said.
"It's me. Is Jamie there? No? Well, yeah. A small one. All right, listen, if she shows up--"
Jamie's car pulled into the driveway. "Never mind Ma, she's here. Okay.
Thank you. Okay, I'll have her give you a call. Bye Ma."
Randy hung up the phone and went to the front door. Don't crowd her, he told himself. Give her some space and a chance to get into the house.
It seemed to take forever for her to get out of the car. Maybe I should sit on the sofa? he thought. He moved from the door to the sofa. "No,"
he said. "Greet her when she comes in."
Jamie walked slowly up to the house. Randy watched her for a moment, then pulled open the door. Jamie stopped walking. "Honey?" Randy said.
Jamie walked up the concrete step, into the house. He wanted to hug her, to kiss her.
She said, "I'm sorry I didn't give you a fair chance to explain yourself. You caught me off guard. I never expected you to lie to me. I thought about it all while I was at work. I'm going to give you a chance to talk."
Randy just nodded. He thought a moment, then said: "Can we at least sit on the sofa?"
Jamie did not answer. She walked past her husband and sat on the sofa.
Randy shut the front door, locked it. He went over and sat beside his wife. "This better be good," she said. She was already crying.
If it's not, she's going to leave me, Randy thought. I can see that look in her eyes. She's really upset. "Okay," Randy started. "I'm going to explain this in story form. I have this video--"
"You've got visuals for your explanation?" Jamie asked.
"Remember the Chicken Tape, well, it's a part of this. So is Wyatt, and
I've been thinking about this, and I think Gloria was right, this has something to do with Governor Patrick Lippa and his assassination."
"Randy--"
"Please, you said you'd give me my chance to explain. Let me tell you everything."
Randy retold the story, leaving nothing out. He explained his own skepticism, and could clearly read Jamie's. "And that, honey, is what went on." He held his breath.
Jamie looked away from her husband. "It still doesn't explain why you lied."
"No, not really. But do you believe me?"
Jamie smiled. "It's a wild story, Randy."
Randy laughed. "It's off the wall. But--as God as my witness-- it's true. Every word of it."
"Do you see how lying could hurt you? Why should I believe any of it?
You've lied tome once already. How do I know how many times you've lied to me in the past? What's to say you're not lying now?" Jamie stared at Randy, as if studying his eyes and facial expression for a reaction.
"Jamie, everything I just told you is true--"
"I believe you."
"You do?"
"Don't ask me why, but I believe you."
"So you're not mad at me?" Randy asked. He slid closer to Jamie. "You forgive me for lying?"
"I forgive you, but I'm still mad."
Randy nodded, kept silent.
"Let's watch the Chicken tape," Jamie said.
Randy popped the video into the mouth of the VCR. He grabbed the remote and started the tape playing. He sat back on the sofa, felt a funny feeling begin to rumble in his belly.
On the television, Randy acted like a dog, down on all fours. He barked at the camera. He raised a leg to take a pretend leak on a imaginary fire hydrant or tree. Jamie laughed. Randy squirmed.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"The tape," he said. "I never really felt comfortable with it. Besides acting like a fool, I mean, I feel like there's more."
"Like Gloria suggested?"
"Not to her extreme, but yes. Do you think the school and hospital did more to us while we were under hypnosis?" Randy stopped the tape and set it down.
"Do you?" Jamie asked.
"I really don't know."
"Isn't there any way you could find out? There must be records somewhere at the university, or at the hospital. They probably have a master video, too."
"Yeah, they must," Randy agreed. "Maybe I'll look into it."
"With Gloria?" Jamie asked.
"I don't know."
"Randy, I don't think its a good idea." Jamie stood up. She folded her arms and began to pace the room.
"If it troubles you that much, I won't include Gloria. But really there's nothing going on between--"
"No, that's not it. I don't want you to find yourself in an incriminating situation," Jamie said. She walked over to Randy and knelt beside him. "The police--I'd bet the FBI--are all looking into the governor's death. If you start digging up things about Wyatt and Gloria and yourself, you might draw a line leading the police to you."
"Jamie, I didn't have anything to do with--"
"That's not what I'm saying. I don't think you had anything to do with the governor's assassination either. I'm just saying, you go digging for answers and the authorities might begin to ask, who is Randy Cook?
Right?"
It was Saturday night and the party house, decorated brightly, displayed banners in Randy Cook's honor. Two hundred people filled the room. The round tables, each seating ten, were dressed in sky blue table clothes with navy blue, cloth napkins. A place setting and glass of wine sat in front of each chair at every table. The head table was set for six, Randy noticed.
"Oh, this is nice," Jamie said. She had wrapped herself snugly onto Randy's arm. Randy knew she was excited. She'd spent hours at home getting ready, looked stunning.
Johnny Redman waved to Randy from across the room. He stood beside Daniel Kester at the bar. They were both dressed in slate gray suits, Randy saw.
"There's Johnny," Jamie pointed out. She gave Randy's arm a squeeze.
"I see him," Randy said. "I don't think I want to be here." I don't think, I know, he thought. I know I don't want to be here.
"Randy--"
"This doesn't feel right." Randy scanned the room. He saw Pasha and Carol Meyers leave a crowd of people and walk arm in arm toward the head table. "There's the boy's parents." He said to himself.
"Should you go over and say hi?" Jamie asked. "Oh boy, here comes Johnny."
Pasha saw Randy and smiled. Randy gave the man a friendly nod. He watched as Pasha poked his wife in the arm. Carol Meyers looked in the direction her husband pointed. Her eyes met Randy's--
You murdered my boy, Randy thought he could hear her say in his mind, a flashback from his nightmare.
--and she smiled. She gave Randy a wave. They began to walk over.
Randy shook his head, tried to clear out the sudden haze that filled his mind.
"Honey, are you okay?"
"I don't think so," Randy said, answering his wife honestly.
"Randy, how are you?" Johnny asked. He slapped his friend and partner lightly on the back. He leaned over and kissed Jamie on the cheek. "You look wonderful, Jamie."
"Thank you," Jamie said.
Randy tried to smile.
"How are you?" Johnny asked, again. "It's not the same at work without you. I got some kid as a cameraman who's more concerned about filming live footage of young beautiful girls, not that he doesn't do his job well, but hey, he ain't working for Playboy here. Am I Right?"
Randy continued to smile, and nod. He'd heard what Johnny just told him, but wasn't really listening. "I'm sorry, Johnny, he doesn't what?"
"Nothing, man. I'm just wondering when you plan on coming back to work.
I, well, I miss you. I can say that, you know. I can say I miss you."
He's drunk, Randy realized and could tell Johnny was feeling jealous.
Johnny wants the party for himself, he thought. He's drunk because he can't deal with this Medal of Honor crap. "Soon. I'll be back Monday."
Johnny smiled and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Great, man.
That's great. Look, if there's anything--"
"I'm all right," Randy said. "I have to say hello to the Meyers. Okay?
Excuse me just one minute."
Johnny shrugged and backed away. "I'll be over at the bar with Kester."
"I'll come over in a bit," Randy said.
"See ya," Johnny called to Jamie. "You really look beautiful!"
Randy watched his wife just smile. "God he's obnoxious sometimes," Jamie said, when Johnny was safely out of range to hear her comment.
"That's most of the time," Randy said. "Mister and Missus Meyers--"
"Now I thought we went over all this," Pasha said. He flashed a bright smile and extended his arm. Randy and Pasha shook hands.
Carol smiled and took a hold of Jamie's hands. "You call us Pasha and Carol, nothing else."
Jamie smiled at Randy. To Carol, she said, "I'm Jamie, Randy's wife."
"And a lovely wife at that," Pasha said. "It's a pleasure to meet
"How are you Carol?" Randy asked.
"We're getting along."
"How's Clark?" Jamie asked. She bit her upper lip. She looked nervous.
"It's okay," Pasha said, immediately. "You'd be surprised how many people--"
"Especially family," Carol added.
"--Don't ask us how Clark is," Pasha concluded.
"They think it's taboo, or something I guess. Or they just become uncomfortable around us. I suppose I understand," Carol went on. "But he seems to be doing okay. His aunt is staying with him tonight."
"My sister," Pasha explained.
"I was terribly sorry to hear about the accident," Jamie said.
"You aren't the only one," Pasha said. He let out a small laugh. "But we're thankful, our family is alive. Losing the condo is nothing. The things in it may have seemed valuable, but they're not. The well being of our family, that's all that matters really."
Carol's eyes began to tear. "Hey Randy. We found a place, a new home."
"You did," Randy said. "That's terrific. Where?"
Carol told him where it was. Pasha wrapped an arm around his wife. "We had a chance to see the place this afternoon," Pasha added. "It's real nice. We got an assumable mortgage. We start moving in whenever we're ready."
"That's great, sounds wonderful. I'm glad to hear it. Would you two like to sit down someplace? We could talk for a while?" Randy asked.
Randy's haze never completely lifted. He'd persuaded the bar tender into giving him three aspirin tablets and washed them down with a soda.
Randy walked to the head table and took a seat by his wife. On Jamie's side sat Adam Mosman, the director for channel three news. The podium sat next to Randy, then the Meyers and Daniel Kester.
Minutes later, dinner was underway. Minestrone soup, escarole, Artichoke French and salads were brought out for starters. The entree, a choice of Chicken Cordon Bleu or prime rib, was served after the salad bowls had been cleared away.
Jamie and Randy each ordered something different, then shared their meals with each other. The food was wonderful. "This is terrific," Randy whispered.
"Are you having a good time?"
"No," Randy said. He laughed. "Just kidding. Yeah, I guess I am having a pretty good time."
"And it's all for you," Jamie said. She smiled at her husband.
Randy looked away from Jamie, out over the twenty tables, nearly every seat full. "For me, huh?"
"My hero," Jamie whispered. She used her fork to steal a piece of prime rib off his plate and ate it. "This is so tender."
Daniel Kester stood up at the end of the head table and walked over, knelt between Jamie and Randy. "Good eats?"
"Excellent," Randy said.
"Adam, how's everything?" Daniel asked channel three's news director.
"I haven't felt this full in a long time. I'm used to gobbling down a cheeseburger and soda. Five courses--"
"Don't forget dessert. It's coming," Daniel said.
"I don't know if I'll have any room," Mosman said. He laughed and patted his bulging belly.
Daniel smiled. Randy knew Daniel was done talking to Adam. The formalities of informality were over and Adam seemed to know this, as well, Randy thought, and watched as the competitor turned his attention away. But he's still listening, Randy knew. That man will hear every word Daniel has to say.
"We're going to get things going just as soon as the plates are cleared away," Daniel explained. "Randy, how are you doing? I've got to admit, I'm a little worried about you."
"I just needed some time off," Randy said, smoothly. "I'll be back to work on Monday. I had the vacation time--"
"No, no. I don't care about the vacation time. You're covered there. I'm really worried about you. But if everything's okay?"
"It is."
"Then I'm not going to worry. Okay?" Daniel said. He slapped his hands together. "Okay. Then as soon as everything's cleared away, we'll get this show on the road."
Daniel Kester stood behind the podium. He braced the edges and nodded silently. His pause, to Randy, seemed overtly dramatic. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're here tonight to honor a man who risked endangering his own life to save another. The perils of fire taunted and challenged the man sitting next to me. He battled a most certain inner fear, and won.
People, Randy Cook did what the brave firemen could not do. He saved the life of three year old Clark Meyers. Ladies and gentlemen, I am here to introduce to you--without question--a hero, a Medal of Honor nominee and my top camera man, Mister Randy Cook!"
Applause exploded in a thunderous tone. A standing ovation overtook the room. People cried as they clapped. Randy saw Jamie was crying, too. She clapped the hardest, perhaps the loudest. Her tears wet her lips, and as she leaned over to kiss him, those same tears wet his own. "I love you,"
she said in his ear.
Randy stood up. His heartbeat accelerated in his chest. He swallowed while he unconsciously massaged his chest. He was at a loss for words.
Daniel shook hands with Randy and slapped him on the back before going back to his seat. Pasha stood up suddenly and walked over to Randy, obviously overwhelmed. He wrapped Randy in a loving bear hug. The man was crying and this made Randy uncomfortable.
The hug resurrected the sound of dying applause. People began to whistle, clapped harder.
Randy closed his eyes while being hugged. In his mind's eye he saw the fire and Clark in the window. He heard the explosion, felt the heat, smelled the burning condo building. He saw Clark jump from the window and land in his arms.
I caught him, Randy thought, suddenly. I did save him.
Standing side by side, his arm still around Randy, Pasha spoke with his lips practically on the microphone. "I am not a public speaker. I stumble on my words and tend to talk in circles." He looked away from the group and stared at Randy, as if suddenly standing face to face with the only other person in the room. "What you did for my family, I will never forget and I will be indebted to you, forever."
"Mister--"
Pasha silenced Randy's initial protest with another hug.
Carol Meyers was standing on Randy's opposite side now, sharing in the embrace. She held something in her hands. "This is a plaque for you, Mister Cook, Randy." Carol spoke in a whisper just loud enough for the microphone to hear. Her soft voice came through clearly, powerfully, over the PA system. "In itself, it is meaningless, but it is the best tangible token we can offer to show our, our appreciation." She handed Randy the plaque and then hugged him around the waist.
This isn't right, Randy thought. "Please," Randy said, quietly. Pasha and Carol released him. They stood beside him. Everyone seemed to be waiting for Randy to say something.
A lump caught in his throat, trapped his voice. Randy tried to clear it.
"Mister-- Pasha, Carol," Randy said. "I, um, I don't know exactly what to say, except I just did what I had to do. I didn't plan on saving anyone. I just, from where I was standing--holding that stupid camera,"
Randy stuttered. He set the plaque down on the table. He wasn't talking into the microphone or to the people in the room. He looked at Pasha and Carol while he spoke. "I saw him in the lens. He was sticking his head out the window, and I couldn't hear him, but I knew he was screaming.
How could I keep on filming that? How could I stand there and film something like that? I saw the firemen pull out and I thought, this little boy's going to die," Randy said. He looked to the ground, concentrating, remembering. "I just dropped my camera and ran for him. I can get him to jump, I remembered thinking. Even if I can't catch him, even if he hits the ground and breaks a leg, or an arm, or even both. I mean, right?" Randy asked. The room was dead silent. Every person was lost in his story, hanging on his every word, listening to his rendition. "And I heard the fire crackling and smelled the wood burning.
When I stood under that window, I finally did actually hear the boy screaming for help. I'll never forget that scream," Randy said. He began to cry and tightly closed his eyes. "He was crying for help and I yelled for him to jump. Just jump, I told him!"
Randy cried hard. Pasha grabbed the man by the shoulders and hugged him again. Carol yelled, "And he's alive!"
The room burst into a third round of applause. Jamie stood up and hugged her husband, taking him from Pasha's loving clutches.
Randy buried his face into his wife's neck.
I have to get out of here, he thought. God, get me out of here. He hugged Jamie tighter than he'd ever hugged her before.
On Monday, Dr. Audrey Cox drove to work as usual. She stopped at the 7-11 for her first cup of coffee, a morning ritual she was sure the cashier of the convenient store has come to expect and perhaps, look forward to.
"Morning, doctor," said the young girl behind the counter. "Just started the first pot."
"God, you're a life saver. You wouldn't believe how difficult it is going all the way from my place to work without a cup of coffee." Audrey filled her travel mug. "You'd think being a doctor, I'd know better than to let my body become addicted to a drug like caffeine."
"You'd think," the girl agreed. She laughed.
"You know what I was wondering?" Audrey asked. She set her mug and purse on the counter. She reached into her change purse for money. "On your way to work, where do you stop for a cup of coffee?"
The girl smiled at first, as if confused by Audrey's question. Then obviously got the joke and laughed. "Ah, get out of here!"
"Have a good day," Audrey said. She left the store and hopped back into her car. She sat behind the wheel and took a sip from her mug. "Ah," she said. "Exactly what I needed."
She held the mug in her hand while backing out of the lot and pulling onto the road. Audrey never drove with the radio on. It annoyed her. A radio in a car, she often said, is a major distraction and probably the cause of many accidents. While visiting patients in the ER, she'd seen many car accident victims, who claimed half the time: I only went to change stations on the radio and when I looked up. No, Audrey thought, I do not like radios, or car phones. Both should be illegal. She felt driving was too serious a privilege not to demand a driver's full attention.
Once at work, Audrey pulled into her parking spot. She took a quick moment to run a brush through her hair before getting out of the car.
She walked briskly under the lamps in the parking lot to her office building. Audrey held onto a palm-size can of pepper spray attached to her key ring. The silence of the morning and the darkness, always left her feeling anxious.
She could not help but glance over her shoulder, as each step she took, her heartbeat accelerated.
At the building's front entrance, she punched the four digit security code onto the key pad. The red light blinked out. A green light came on.
She inserted a key to disengage the dead bolt. Once inside, she re-locked the dead bolt and rearmed the system.
The lights in the hall were always on. Audrey took the elevator up to the sixth floor and walked more casually to her office. She felt as safe in her building as she did in her home.
Her door was locked. Resembling a credit card, Audrey inserted a plastic key into the mouth of the lock. The scanner inside the mechanism read the access code along the strip of magnetic tape on the back side of the key. The door made a clicking sound. Audrey walked into the reception area and turned on the lights.
She closed the door, walked around the room switching on more lights.
She did the same in her personal office, a bright room with a large cherry oak desk and an ergonomically correct, high back, green leather chair. Her computer sat on a rolling stand, to the left, not wanting anything to scratch the surface of her desk. She grabbed the large stack of mail from her in-basket and began sifting through it on her way to the coffee pot in the back room.
She set the mail down and started a pot of coffee. She rinsed her office mug out in the sink. She set the mug down, picked up the mail again and looked through it while the coffee brewed.
Audrey let out a quick, short gasp. She removed an envelope and a padded manila envelope from the stack, set the rest of the envelopes beside her mug and immediately went into her office. She closed the door, went to her desk and sat down.
Using an envelope opener, Audrey sliced through the seal of the one envelope, took out a small stack of pictures and a one page report. She read the boring report. She held the pictures in one hand, the negatives carefully in the other and slowly studied each photo. She paused on one, half way through. She leaned back in her chair. "Nice, I guess. Nice, not bad," she said.
The padded envelope puzzled Audrey. She opened it and removed a compact disk and five-page report from Samuel Huntly.
Audrey switched on her computer, placed the disk in her CD-drive and clicked her mouse cursor on the icon. The icon opened to reveal a file named GG. Audrey clicked on the file, it opened to reveal over one68
hundred digital images.
One, by one, Audrey opened and carefully studied the images. Sam Huntly has performed exceptionally well for such a below average student, she thought, slightly amazed at the boy's resourcefulness. She stared at Randy Cook's face as he sat next to Gloria in front of a lighthouse.
Audrey picked up her phone and called Dr. Alex Morrow on his pager. She dialed in her office phone number when told to do so, then hung up the phone.
Alex Morrow called back in less than five minutes. "Yeah, Audrey? You better have a good reason for calling at this ungodly hour."
"I think I do." Audrey sat in her chair, the phone wedged between her cheek and shoulder. She was still scrolling through the digital photographs. "We might have a problem." It's just like he thought. How could he have known? she wondered.
Alex Morrow did not respond for a moment.
"Are you there?" Audrey asked.
"I'm here. I'll be ready in less than an hour. Get a hold of Waxmill and we'll meet in my office. Keep it low key. Don't tell Waxmill any thing until we're all together. Got that?" Alex sounded nervous.
"I got it. I'll get a hold of him right now." She hung up the phone and called Dr. Henry Waxmill's pager. Like Dr. Morrow, Henry responded quickly. "We are to meet in Alex's office within the next forty-five minutes," Audrey told Henry.
"Why? What's going on?" Henry asked. He sounded drugged. Obviously, her page had pulled him out of the realms of sleep. She could just picture him in bed, propped up on one elbow, rubbing the goo from his eyes.
"Something happen?"
"We can't talk now," she said. She wasn't sure why, perhaps just personality conflicts, but Henry annoyed her. "Just get here ASAP, understood?" Audrey slammed the phone down.
She used a rubber band to keep the photographs together, grabbed her white lab jacket from the coat rack beside her office door, slid the photos into the pocket. She started out of her office and stopped. She had forgotten the CD. She went back to her terminal and was about to remove the CD when she decided to make a copy of Samuel's file onto her hard drive. With that done, she ejected the CD from the drive, placed it in the case and slid the case into her pocket.
Knowing she had at least a half hour before heading over to Alex's office, Audrey poured her second cup of coffee for the morning.
Dr. Alex Morrow sat behind his desk, his fingers pounding away the letters on the keyboard. He looks mean in the morning, Audrey thought entering his office. He'd aged so much in the last several years. His hair had thinned considerably, the skin around his eyes was wrinkled and underlined by dark bags of sagging flesh.
He was still on the cutting edge, though, Audrey thought. One of the best psychiatrists she'd ever met and lucky enough to work for. He was also an outstanding and inspirational writer. His first book on hypnosis and a second book on self-help have topped the best-sellers list. Even now, he devoted hours a day to writing his newest manuscript. No one knew the topic of his piece. Morrow was private about his writings, until after publication.
"How's the new book?" Audrey asked. She turned to close the office door.
She could smell the doctor's after-shave. Old Spice.
Dr. Morrow did not stop typing. "Good," he grunted. "Give me one second," he said. "I just need to finish this thought."
"Go ahead," Audrey said. "Don't rush on my account."
A soft knock at the door sounded. Audrey opened the door. It was Dr.
Henry Waxmill.
"So what's going on?" Henry asked. He walked into the office. "Alex, what's going on?"
"He's working," Audrey said.
"I don't care. Alex, I want to know what's going on." Henry looked scared. He was so obnoxious, Audrey thought, but right now he just looks scared.
Alex Morrow stopped typing and pushed himself away from the keyboard, took a deep breath, held it for a moment before letting it out in a sigh. "Audrey called me, Doctor Waxmill. So you are asking your annoying question to the wrong person. Audrey, perhaps you'd like to inform Doctor Waxmill and myself of your findings?"
Audrey took a quick, deep breath. The scent of his cologne tickled her nostrils. She reached into her lab pocket and pulled out the rubber banded photographs. "The students we have playing Magnum PI mailed these pictures to me on Friday," she said. She let Morrow and Waxmill sift through them, "So?" Dr. Waxmill said.
"I'm rather inclined to agree with Waxmill, Doctor Cox. I see no-- old on a moment," Audrey said. She removed the CD from her pocket. "Can we pop this into your drive?"
Dr. Morrow frowned. "Let me close up what I'm working on," he said. He quickly stroked some keys on his keyboard. "All right. Let me have the CD."
Audrey handed her boss the CD. He brought up the images. They all looked at the images in silence.
"It's just like you thought might happen," Audrey said to Dr. Morrow.
"Gloria and Randy have gotten together."
"I can see that," Dr. Morrow said.
"After all these years?" Dr. Henry Waxmill asked. "It was the death of their friend, wasn't it?"
"Precisely," Dr. Morrow said. "When I found that Wyatt Ransom had died, I thought there might be a chance--"
"That's not good," Waxmill said. "I mean, you've got to be straight with us, Alex. What are the chances of them remembering things?"
Audrey felt the tension in the room growing with each breath. She listened to Waxmill, but did not look away from Alex. When Alex did not respond to Henry's question, Audrey asked, "Well?"
"Well what? We have nothing to worry about." As always, Dr. Morrow was confident. He stood up and began to walk around his desk. He sat on the corner. He folded his hands across his lap. "We have people following Gloria and if you'd like, we can put someone on Randy."
"Christ, Alex. What good is that going to do? Huh? These aren't highly trained private investigators, their college sophomores. Alex, we need to work through this--"
"Give him a chance," Audrey said. She was defending Morrow, but inside, she wondered if Waxmill wasn't right. She hated the idea of agreeing with the little weasel. Calmly, she asked, "Alex, what are we going to do?"
"What is there to do?"
Audrey and Henry stared at Alex for a long, silent moment.
"Doctors," Alex said, "the tests we performed years and years ago were safe. Perfectly safe. You both were present, witnesses to the tests, and can testify to the results. What happened with Wyatt Ransom and his situation--I'll admit--is ironic and unfortunate. His death has brought together two other subjects, and yes this may seem like a problem, but I assure you, they are not. Gloria and Randy are two different people.
Randy is married, a celebrity let's say. Gloria is--was--in politics,
but she's sick now, needy."
Audrey mentally chewed on Dr. Morrow's words. Gloria had suffered a stroke, yes, but needy? No, she did not think so. Still, she thought, the doctor has made one good point: The tests were successfully performed over a decade ago. Maybe it all boiled down to one large, cyst like coincidence.
"So what do you propose?" Dr. Waxmill asked. He was now pacing back and forth in front of Dr. Morrow. "You said have them both followed?"
"We could do that. But it seems unnecessary to me," Audrey said.
"Oh," Dr. Morrow said. "And why is that?"
"If we keep the tail on Gloria, then we'll find out just how often she's meeting with Randy Cook. If she continues to meet with Randy, we'll know about it."
"Good," Dr. Morrow said. "Then we should consider this meeting over unless something else comes up in the meantime."
That's it? Audrey thought, he's dismissing us?
"Is there something else, Doctor Cox?"
"No," Audrey said, truthfully. I just thought we'd do or talk about something more.
"Then I am very busy and must get back to my work." Dr. Morrow stood up and went back to his chair. He rolled in close to the keyboard, ejected the CD. He placed the compact disk in its case and into his desk. He apparently started up software he'd previously closed and began typing.
His eyes stared intently at the monitor.
Audrey followed Dr. Waxmill out of the office. She quietly closed Dr.
Morrow's door.
Dr. Alexander Morrow waited for the door to close before he stopped typing. He took the stack of photographs Audrey had left on his desk and leaned back in his chair. Slowly, he looked at each picture. "Damn it all to hell," he mumbled. He thought of the CD in his desk drawer, more specifically, of the photographs depicting Gloria and Randy sitting in the grass by a lighthouse.
He closed his eyes for several minutes against the pressure building up behind them.
When he opened his eyes, he'd forgotten momentarily about Gloria and
Randy. He looked at the words he'd written on his monitor, line after line of nothing. The new book was moving along at a snail's pace, he thought. The idea was there, and strong, however writer's block plagued the aging doctor's mind. He didn't dare let his colleagues know this, or worse, his publisher. Alex's editor was anxious to see the first three chapters. Alex had been able to put him off up until now, but for how long could he continue to do so? I'll continue to type nothing until something important fills the electronic pages, he decided.
The book was only one of his problems. Gloria and Randy were another. At the moment, he wasn't sure which bothered him more. But he was certain of one thing; he would resolve both issues and soon.
After seeing the news Saturday night and immediately recognizing Randy Cook, Sam Huntly came to a decision first thing Monday afternoon. He pulled together what extra cash he could and drove over to an electronics store.
He entered the shop, an electronic bell rang to signal his presence, and a sales clerk emerged from a door in the back of the store. The young man was neatly dressed in a white shirt, lavender tie and black slacks.
"How are you today?" the sales clerk asked. "Can I help you find anything in particular?"
Sam strode up to the counter, hands clasped together behind his back. He leaned over the display case, eyed the merchandise. "I'm not sure you'd have what I'm looking for."
"What are you looking for?"
Sam turned away from the counter and scanned the items shelved along the wall. "I need a special device, a sensitive microphone and recording unit."
"We sell electronics like that."
"How sensitive are the microphones? How small do they come?"
The sales clerk smiled. "What do you intend to use the microphone for--not to be personal, but if you can give me an idea of what you plan to use it for, I'll have a better chance of supplying you with suitable equipment."
Sam smiled back. He did not want to say he was spying on people. He did not want the sales clerk to think he was invading the privacy of others.
"I'm looking to capture sounds of animals, without them knowing I'm around."
"Like hiding behind a tree and listening to the sounds animals make from a distance?"
"Exactly. Listening to the sounds animals make from a distance."
"Okay, I think I got what you mean. We have spy equipment that I believe will work perfectly."
Sam's smile widened. Spy equipment? If he'd known such a term existed,
he would simply of asked for it. He followed the young clerk to the back of the store.
"We have only one brand, but a few different models. I think what you're looking for is called, generically, a shotgun microphone. We have this one here," the clerk said, grabbed a small plastic bag off a hook mounted to a pegboard wall. "It's sensitive enough to pick up sound from one-hundred and fifty feet away. It's got a jack that hooks right into a walk man, this way you can record the sound directly and compactly. It doesn't come with headphones, though. You'd have to buy those separately."
Sam owned a walk-man. "I have headphones at home," he said.
Sam took the bag. The microphone's cable was coiled. The microphone itself was at least eight inches long, but thin. "Do you have anything smaller, maybe a little more powerful?"
"We have this one. It's the newest model. It has a range of up to three hundred feet, plus or minus a few feet, I guess. The mike is three inches long and just as thin as the one." The sales clerk handed the package to Sam.
Sam compared the two. "Is there a big price difference?"
"About two hundred dollars."
"Do you have a layaway program."
"No," the sales clerk said. "But if we don't have these when you come in, you can always place an order."
Randy saw Johnny Redman walking toward his office and let out a sigh. He wasn't in the mood for talking and Randy knew Johnny would only want to discuss the events that took place at the party Saturday night.
"Randy--where the hell have you been?" Johnny asked. He picked up his pace, jogged over to Randy. "We've got to get out and start roaming. And get this, Daniel--he got us a driver."
Randy laughed. "Come on?"
"I kid you not, my man. I just found out. See, you didn't want that party, but I'd say being a celebrity has paid off." Johnny held out his hand. He gave Randy a warm smile.
Randy shook his friend's hand and felt guilty for having been annoyed by his appearance, only moments ago. "I guess I'm ready."
"Guess?"
"It's a hard feeling to explain," Randy said. Everything happening inside me, every thought, is hard to explain. Randy closed and locked
the film edit room. "Don't worry about it," he said to Johnny. "Come
on, I'm anxious to meet our chauffeur."
Johnny nodded. "Me, too."
It was their van sitting in the news station's garage. Neither Johnny nor Randy recognized the man leaning against the vehicle. They began introductions.
Randy held out his hand. "I'm Randy Cook."
"I'm Paul Scianno," the driver said. "I've seen you on the news a lot lately. What you did, that was great, man. I mean, I don't know how I would have reacted if I were in the same situation."
Paul looked to be in his mid to late twenties, Randy calculated, and obese. The young man's hair was long and stringy, worn tied back in a pony tail.
Randy smiled. "That's just it, Paul. None of us knows how we'd react."
"Well, it's great to meet you," Johnny said, perhaps feeling cold not under the spotlight. He spoke in his reporter voice. "I'm Johnny Redman."
Randy hated it when Johnny spoke in his reporter voice. He did it to obtain recognition and didn't realize, Randy guessed, how silly the voice sounded. It sounded too unnatural, too strong and booming. Each word was overtly pronounced. Give it a rest, Randy thought.
"Nice to meet you," was all Paul Scianno said.
"Where to first?" Paul asked. He pulled the van out of the garage and brought the vehicle to a stop at the corner red light. Traffic was thick and congested. "What's with all the traffic, isn't it a Monday morning?
Shouldn't some of these people be working?"
Randy laughed from the captain's seat behind Paul's. Johnny sat up front. Johnny didn't laugh.
"I don't know about you guys," Randy said, "but I could go for a cup of coffee."
Johnny shrugged. "I guess I could, too."
"I'm in. I only had time to drink half a pot this morning," Paul said.
Randy found himself laughing, again. Looking into the rearview mirror, he saw Paul's smiling face. Randy looked at Johnny. "Lighten up, Johnny."
"I'm light, I'm light. I'm just thinking," Johnny said. He spun around to face Randy. "Do you think we should do a follow-up story on Clark Meyers? You know, go to the hospital--film the child in the bed, interview the parents again. Aside from Saturday--"
"I don't think it's a good idea," Randy said.
"But why--"
"I don't either," Paul said.
"No one's asking you," Johnny snapped.
"Hey, watch it Johnny. Paul's part of the team now," Randy said.
"I'm sorry Paul," Johnny said. His teeth seemed to be tightly clenched together while he spoke. "I didn't mean it."
"Relax. I just think the Clark story had a perfect ending with the ceremony Saturday," Paul said. "If you go and try to get more sympathy reporting, people will know what you're up to, and they won't like it."
"And just what makes you an--"
"I think he's exactly right," Randy said. "Johnny, Paul just said the same thing I was going to say. The Meyers story is over. Sequels are never as good as the original and you know that. Let that family heal and get on with their lives. We need a new story, a fresh bit."
Again, Johnny looked upset. He turned back in his chair without a word.
Randy looked up to the rear view mirror. Paul gave him a wink. Randy winked back and smiled.
Paul parked the van. "This place has the best bagels and gourmet coffee."
"Gourmet? I just want good, all American black coffee," Johnny whined.
"They've got just the plain stuff, too," Paul said.
"Plain stuff? Kid, you have no idea what your talking about," Johnny said.
Randy just laughed. "Am I going to have to listen to childlike arguments all day? That's exactly how you're acting--Johnny. Grow up."
"Me?" Johnny asked. "I'm not acting like a baby, he is!"
Paul smiled. Randy patted Johnny on the shoulder. "Johnny, just listen to yourself. Try to relax. Okay? Maybe you two should just, reintroduce yourselves, shake hands and start all over. How does that sound?"
Paul stopped walking. Johnny stopped beside him. Johnny stared at the
ground for a moment. Paul held out his hand.
Johnny took Paul's hand and shook it. "Look," Johnny said, "I'm sorry I acted like a jerk--"
"You don't have to apologize," Paul said. "You were right. I'm just a driver--"
"No," Johnny said. "You shouldn't feel that way. The more input we can get, the better a job we can all do. We have to work like a team.
Sometimes I forget that. I get this swelled head, and I'm sorry, but it clouds my better judgment."
"There," Randy said. "Now don't we all feel better."
The cellular phone clipped to Paul's belt rang. "Hello? Got it." Paul clipped the phone back onto his belt. "No time for coffee, guys. An alarm has gone of at Rochester Community Bank. Three blocks down. We've got to roll."
Randy and Johnny spun away from the coffee shop, both amazed to see Paul already at the side door of the van. He unlocked and opened it. He ran around to the driver's side, jumped in.
"Let's roll, let's roll!" Paul continued to shout as he started the van's engine.
Randy jumped into the van behind Johnny and pulled closed the side, sliding door. "Roll then! Roll!"
Paul yelled, "Rolling, rolling."
Paul drove fast, exceeding the speed limit by fifteen miles per hour, though to Randy, it felt as though they were traveling at the speed of light.
"My God," Paul suddenly said. "I think we beat the police!"
"This is too much," Johnny said. He sounded excited.
Randy had his gear on, the camera ready to go. When Paul stopped the van, Randy jumped out the side door and immediately began filming the bank.
The Monroe Community Bank was in a small plaza parking lot, separate from the sidewalk mall stretching for several stores behind it. The bank displayed proud signs that advertised 24 hour banking--because an ATM machine sat in the foyer, in front of locked doors leading into the bank.
Several cars were parked around the bank.
"That car's running," Johnny called out. "Film the license plate, Randy!"
Randy zoomed in on the plate. "Got it."
The front doors of the bank opened. Two men backed out, each held a gun and a bag, presumably filled with stolen money. Randy filmed it all, taking steps away from the bank.
When the bank robbers turned to face the news crew, despite the ski masks, they were clearly shocked.
"Son of a bitch," the one in the blue ski-hat spat. Without warning he aimed his gun at Randy and fired.
Randy dropped the large camera from his shoulder, still held the top handle--never stopped filming, and ran around to the back of the truck.
Two more shots rang out.
"Oh boy," Randy muttered. He crouched down, tried to ease around the side of the van. He lifted the camera back on to his shoulder, peeked around the side. The bank robber in the red ski mask was about to hop into the running car. He saw Randy and fired his gun.
The bullet smashed the taillight, ricocheted off the van.
Randy felt his heart leap into his throat, his breath suddenly trapped in his lungs. The bullet had come within inches of his forehead.
"Jesus!"
"We've got to get out of here," one of the robbers yelled.
In Randy's ears, the hopeful sound of sirens replaced the buzzing vibration of guns being fired.
Randy then heard the sound of two car doors opening and closing. He stood up behind the van and ran to the opposite side of the vehicle, trained the lens of the camera on the rear of the getaway car.
"You get all that?" Johnny asked.
Randy opened the eye he'd been squeezing shut while he filmed. In his peripheral line of vision, he saw Johnny on his belly under the van.
Randy snorted. "Got it."
The car was trying to leave the parking lot. Police cars blocked the exits just in time. The getaway vehicle skidded to a stop and then began to move in reverse.
"They're coming back this way," Paul shouted. He was still in the van.
Randy guessed the driver had dropped to the floor when the shooting started.
"Get into the bank," Randy called to Paul and Johnny.
People were coming out of the bank, apparently all watching the police chase unfold. Randy filmed the patrons of the bank quickly. He turned his attention back to the getaway car.
Randy did not know if Johnny and Paul had run for the bank. He did not
want to stop filming to look. He kept his camera rolling, catching the getaway car weave back and forth in the parking lot, as if the driver were constantly looking over his shoulder to see where the police were.
"This is great," Randy said to himself.
"You're getting it all?" Johnny asked, he stood beside Randy.
"I said get in the bank--"
The police had the robbers; two police cars sandwiched the getaway vehicle, a third got in front of the vehicle and a fourth blocked the rear. All four squad cars slowed their speed considerably until the getaway driver was left with two options--slam into one of the police cars, or stop and surrender.
Randy ran to be as close to the scene as he could get.
The police jumped out of their cars, weapons drawn. The lead officer began yelling out orders.
"Holding your weapons by the barrel, I want you to throw them out the window. Now! Throw the guns out your window," The officer shouted.
Randy zoomed in on the car. He watched the men inside fail to react.
"Throw the weapons out the window," the officer repeated. "Throw them now!"
This time, perhaps realizing the game was over, the guns were tossed out the window.
Randy continued to film as the police ordered the bank robbers out of the car, hands on their heads. The robbers were ordered onto their bellies on the pavement, police officers then kneeled on their spines, cuffed their hands behind their backs.
Getting closer still, Randy heard the Miranda Rights being read to the bank robbers.
He panned back and saw the crowd of people standing outside the stores along the sidewalk mall. They seemed riveted to the scene. Johnny would have plenty of people to talk to when he conducted his interviews, not to mention the victims unfortunate enough to be in the bank during the holdup. Hopefully, there would be enough people to provide accurate testament to the course of events that have just unfolded. God, it should feel good to be back to work, Randy thought, but it doesn't.
Randy sat beside Jamie on the sofa. Together they watched the six o'clock news.
"My God, Randy. You had a busy day," Jamie said. She reached for his hand. She held it tightly, squeezed it over an dover. "Were you scared?"
"Out of my mind," Randy said. He sat on the edge of the sofa cushion.
"You'll never guess where Johnny was."
"In the van?"
"Nope. He must have dropped to his belly and rolled. Because when he asked me if I got it all on tape, he was talking to me from under the van."
Jamie covered her mouth, laughed. "That's not funny," she said. She laughed a little harder. "That was the right thing to do," Jamie insisted, suddenly.
"I know," Randy said. He laughed with his wife. "It was just funny to see him under the van."
"You getting hungry?"
"Like a wolf," Randy said. He stood up, took his wife by the hands and helped her to her feet.
"I've got the water boiling, I just need to drop the spaghetti in."
"Let's go out to eat. Except for lunch last week, when's the last time the two of us have gone out for a nice dinner."
Jamie smiled. "It's been a while, I guess."
"Exactly. Shut the water and we'll go somewhere atmospheric. How does that sound?" Randy asked. He pulled his wife in close and held her tight. He kissed an eye lid.
"Sounds wonderful," Jamie said. She stood on her tip-toes and kissed him full on the mouth. "Let me shut the burner, and give me a few seconds to change my clothes. Okay?"
"Perfect."
After her stroke, Gloria Grahm spent a short three weeks in physical therapy. This was mainly because of her young age, and relative good body condition, the therapist had told her. Exhausting, difficult and challenging exercises, such as using a walker to cross the floor, were given the dedication of hours per day. The therapist, not unlike a personal physical trainer, would sit in a hallway with Gloria. The therapist would roll her a soccer ball. Gloria would try to coordinate a kick-return. The game, frustrating, seemed to go on forever. Each time Gloria kicked out and missed the ball, the therapist would tell Gloria to go and retrieve the ball. Walking for the ball, the therapist had told her, is part of the training and rehabilitation.
Once Gloria was released from the hospital, it was recommended that she continue to come for physical therapy. Gloria, feeling humiliated by her inadequacy toward achieving the most simple of tasks, ignored her doctor's recommendation. She began working out at home.
She invested some money in a treadmill. If she dedicated enough time a day to the use of the machine, she was sure, she would rapidly rebuild the weak muscles in her left leg. She had the exercise equipment set up in her living room, had paid the delivery man fifty dollars to assemble the thing. She walked on it for as long as she could, usually while watching television, always making a conscious effort to plant her foot heel first on the conveying belt.
As each exercise time came to an end, she felt every muscle in her leg ache and stiffen, as if in defiance to the work-out. It became frustrating, the pain and the fact that she couldn't walk more swiftly or gracefully. Most of the time she just wanted to cry, but vowed not to. She promised herself she would get stronger and healthier. The stroke, she was sure, was unnatural. Somehow, she believed, inflicted.
Gloria became more and more determined to unfold each crease in the mystery before her, to find answers to questions that cluttered every thought in her brain.
Tonight, while she walked, she watched the news footage of the foiled bank robbery. She knew Randy had been the cameraman when she saw Johnny Redman reporting.
When the news ended, she thumbed the button on the remote control, switching the television set off. She tried to walk a few more minutes, but could not.
Stopping the machine and panting, she leaned her head against the handle bar for support. Finally, she caught her breath, moved to the sofa and
collapsed. She closed her eyes and concentrated on trying to control her breathing. She turned her short, quick and shallow breaths, into long, deep ones.
Gloria fell asleep. While she slept, she dreamed things she never knew she knew. The nightmare gradually began; a long forgotten memory--
... Naked, she was in a room holding a pistol and was aiming the weapon out the window ... The dream played itself out.
"No," she screamed! She sat up on the sofa, her body doused in a sheet of cold sweat. "My God, oh my God," Gloria moaned. She used the palm of her hand to wipe away the sweat along her brow. She closed her eyes, tried to vividly recall the nightmare, but most of the details were gone. Gloria wondered, why do I want to remember such a horrible dream?
Because, I have to remember, she thought.
What she did remember, was shooting at people. Was it the governor she was shooting at? She couldn't remember exactly. Was it a memory, or just a nightmare? She wondered, but didn't know.
Gloria felt parched. She did not want to get off the couch, but stood up anyway and walked on weak legs into the kitchen.
Gloria could not believe the time. She squinted and leaned forward, to make sure she was correctly reading the time on her microwave oven.
"Great," Gloria said. "It's almost bed time, and I'm just getting up from a two hour nap."
She leaned her back against the counter and drank a glass of tap water.
"I suppose I should make something to eat," she said to the empty room.
"What am I in the mood for?" She set her glass down and shuffled over to the cupboards. "Oh goody, I feel like Old Mother Hubbard. Not a damned thing worth eating in this house."
Discouraged and frustrated by the sight of bare shelves, Gloria slammed the doors closed. The loud bang that rang out startled Gloria. A flash of memory exploded in her mind's eye.
"It's a doctor," Gloria said, her eyes closed tightly. She was trying to see things from her past. "There are two of them. One woman, one man.
Yes! Yes. One woman, one man. They are watching me undress." Gloria moved slowly into a sitting position on the floor, leaned her head against the cupboards under the sink. Keeping her eyes closed, she fought to remember more.
The doctors walk her over to a bed in some room. The man doctor tells her something; she sees herself picking up a handgun. She remembers
holding it in her hands and walking over to a chair by the window.
Behind closed eye lids, she can see the entire room; oil painted reprints on the walls, one mirror hung over the bed; ugly green curtains over the window.
Yes, Gloria thought and began to laugh, I'm remembering it. I remember it!
She cupped her hands over her face and began to cry. For the first time in a long time, she realizes where the tears are coming from.
It had been horrible, the not remembering. She knew something was lost, or blocked inside her, but until now, did not know what the something was. Being unable to retrieve the memory felt like a form of torture; an insistent itch in the back of her brain that she could not possibly scratch.
Gloria continued to cry and to remember. Though not all of the memories were viewed with crystal clear recollection, for the most part she was able to begin sorting through the jigsaw pieces. With enough pieces fitted together, one can still see enough of the final image depicted in the puzzle, Gloria knew.
Feeling cumbersome, Gloria managed to get to her feet. Despite her promise, she felt a need to call Randy. She picked up the telephone and dialed his number.
While Randy's telephone rang, Gloria pulled a chair out at the table.
She needed to sit. She felt a little weak. On the fourth ring, Randy's answering machine clicked on.
In the middle of Randy's recorded message, Gloria hung up. "I don't want to do that," she said. "I don't think I should leave a message on his machine for anyone to hear."
I'll get a hold of him tomorrow, she thought. Maybe I'll go and see him at work.
With renewed vigor, Gloria decided she'd find things in her cupboards worth eating and prepare a small, late evening feast. Just because I slept through dinner time, she mused, doesn't mean I'm full.
Both Randy and Jamie knew exactly where they were headed for dinner. The Harbour Docks. The restaurant sat on a dock along Lake Ontario. The establishment, frequented by many boaters who secured their various vessels along the docks, maintained an atmosphere that always felt light, lively and exuberant.
The crowd, a blend of twenty-something's and thirty-something's, enjoyed live musical entertainment on most nights of the week, with a dance floor by the stage; large screen television sets in the upper dining and bar area of the restaurant were tuned in to sports channels; a three-tier deck in back, provided a perfect seat to enjoy the activities that took place on the water during the day, and a splendid view of beautiful sunsets at night.
Randy and Jamie were regulars, knew most of the waitresses and waiters and felt comfortable sitting in anyone's section.
"They look a little crowded for a Monday," Jamie said, as Randy parked the car. "Want to go somewhere else?"
"You in some kind of hurry?" Randy asked. He shut the car's engine.
"Come on. We'll go in, eat, have a few drinks and just relax."
Jamie leaned across the seat. Randy met her half way. Their lips touched, remained pressed against each other, then separated. Randy stared into his wife's eyes. "You know your beautiful?"
Jamie did not laugh. She wet her lips, closed her eyes and leaned in for another kiss. Randy gently held his wife by the back of the neck as his lips rubbed and slipped across hers. Their tongues met, twisted together, as if dueling in a passionate sword battle.
When the kiss ended, Randy still felt a tingling sensation throb through his lips and throughout his body. "Maybe we'll go home and relax after dinner?"
Jamie smiled. "That's exactly what I had in mind," she said, and opened her door.
Randy got out of the car, took his wife by the hand, and walked up to the front door of the Harbour Docks. "Smell that?" he asked.
"Smells great. What is it, steak?"
"Yep. That's what I'm having, I think," Randy said, patted his belly.
"How are you guys," the hostess greeted Randy and Jamie. She held two menus, and a drinking list in her hands.
"Great, Betty," Jamie said.
"Saw you on the news Randy. I hope you get that Medal of Honor award."
Betty smiled, she reached out and pinched the sleeve of Randy's shirt.
"Thank you," Randy said, as calmly as possible. "Could we sit out on the deck this evening?" He looked over at Jamie. The expression on her face told him that she knew he had purposely changed the subject away from the award. She twisted the look of concern on her face, into a smile.
"Let me just make sure there's a table. It's a popular spot on a night like tonight."
"I'll bet," Jamie said.
When Betty was gone, Randy wrapped an arm around his wife.
"Are you okay?" Jamie asked.
"I'm fine. I just didn't want to talk about it."
"I know that. I understand. I just wanted to make sure you were still all right."
Randy kissed Jamie on the forehead. "Fine. Perfectly fine."
Betty came back, all smiles. "I got one. Come on, follow me."
They shared an appetizer known as the Blossoming Onion--an artistically carved onion, deep-fried in a beer batter mix--peeled away, and hungrily ate each and every delicious pedal. Salads came with any meal ordered, a bowl full of bread and butter sat on every table. Randy decided on the Chicken Cordon Bleu instead of the steak for his main dish, Jamie ordered the smoked Salmon.
After the plates were cleared away, Randy sat comfortably back in his chair and nursed a second beer. Jamie held the straw from her daiquiri between her fingers and mindlessly stabbed at the thick, red, fruity drink. They both agreed, the dinner had been wonderful.
"What a night," Randy said. He was looking out over the lake. "Look how calm that water is." He watched a loan seagull swoop down toward the water, then soar up into the sky to join a second bird.
"Randy, I have to tell you something. I hope you won't get upset."
Randy leaned forward. He set his beer down. He quickly studied Jamie's face. It looks serious, he thought. "What is it?"
"I moved your doctor's appointment up, some." Jamie pushed away her straw. She reached for her husband's hand.
"How up did you move it?" Randy asked. He held his wife's hand, felt his heartbeat accelerate some. God, how I hate this feeling in my chest.
"Tomorrow afternoon."
"Jesus, Jamie. I have to go to work." Randy let go of Jamie's hand and sat back in his chair. He looked away from his wife and out to the water. He stared at the skyline, consciously smelled the variety of scents wafting through the air. Randy tried to breathe easy. He could feel the pressure build in his chest. He did not want Jamie to know just how fast his heart was beating. It might scare her, he thought. It's
sure scaring the hell out of me.
"Well, your appointment was for Friday--how were you going to get out of work for that one?"
Randy didn't know. I didn't really think Friday would ever get here, he thought. Maybe I wouldn't have gone. "I don't know. I would have."
"Can't you do the same thing now, that you were going to do on Friday?
This appointment is important, Randy. Please go for me?" Jamie asked.
"What am I supposed to tell Daniel Kester? That I have an appointment with a psychiatrist?" I don't like this, Randy thought. I don't think I need a doctor to tell me I might be going crazy. I can feel the craziness inside. It's there. What can a doctor do to stop the feelings I have hiding in my mind, or in my past, or wherever --or whatever?
"You don't have to tell him that if you don't want to. Just tell him you have a doctor's appointment. I can't imagine him asking with which kind of a doctor are you meeting with. Can you?"
"No. I guess not." Randy stopped looking at the water. He forced himself to look in his wife's eyes. He could hear the love and concern in her voice. How could he ever look away from her? he wondered.
"You said you'd go for me, remember?" Jamie asked. She tried to give Randy a reassuring smile.
Though her expression did nothing to reassure him, Randy smiled in return. He glanced at the lake. He saw the sun--half a sphere--like a handless child, dipping a vanilla wafer into a bowl of water. The effect was both peaceful and inspiring. "I remember," he said. "Tomorrow, huh?"
"If you've changed your mind about going alone, I'll go with you. I can get the time off work," Jamie said.
Her eyes are shinning, Randy thought. I've made her happy. Despite the effect the kept-promise had on his wife, Randy felt a cloud send darkened shadows over his own, once happy, mood.
"I'll go alone," Randy said, softly.
"But you will go?" Jamie continued to ask.
"I'll go."
"I love you, Randy," Jamie said. "I'm only doing this because I love being married to you. I don't want anything to happen to you, or to us.
Okay?"
"Don't worry. I'm not upset with you, if that's what you might be thinking. I guess I know something's wrong," Randy said. "I just wish
there weren't. It bothers me." He sat closer to the table. This time,
he reached for Jamie's hand. "I'm scared. I don't like to think I'm not in control of my mind, or of my body. I get these, I don't know, this feeling like a surge of adrenaline. It scares me a little. My heart gets racing and I can't breathe very well--"
"You never told me this before, Randy. That's scary. Please, you have to tell all of this to the doctor tomorrow," Jamie said. She squeezed his hand. "It's important that the doctor know all of this. I know that Buspar can help people cope with panic attacks. I work with a girl who gets, what she calls, small attacks. She swears the pills are wonderful."
"But I don't want to be drugged in order to cope with my life--"
"You won't be drugged! And if they help, and if you need them--" Jamie tried to lovingly argue.
"I guess." Randy said. He loved holding her hand. He gave her long slender fingers a squeeze.
"You'll tell the doctor all of this in the morning?"
"I will," Randy said. The mood is spoiled, he realized. The relaxing evening, over. The night of passionate love making he'd fantasized about all during dinner, would not come true tonight, Randy knew. "I think I want to go home now."
The next morning, Randy dressed for work in the bedroom and in the dark.
He did not want to disturb Jamie while she slept. His night had been fitful. He was anxious, he was sure, because of the doctor's appointment.
In the kitchen, he started a pot of coffee. While it brewed, he sat at the table, his head rested in cupped hands. He stared at the table and tried desperately to just think of nothing. It proved a difficult order and his mind would not obey it.
Randy thought of Gloria and of the things she'd said to him. Though he didn't think he believed her, something inside told him not to totally dismiss her claims. There was something about Gloria's accusations that struck several cords within him. He wondered about the Chicken Tape for several minutes, mentally reviewing the footage contained on the ten year old videocassette.
Next, Randy thought of Clark--no, not of the boy, but of the nightmares that included the boy. Were the nightmares really about Clark, Randy began to wonder. He was beginning to believe that they might not be.
But what could they be about then? he asked himself, stood up and poured a cup of coffee.
"It's early," Jamie said. She stood in front of Randy, dressed in one of his pajama tops. She ran a hand through her hair, stretched and yawned.
"Coffee smells good."
Randy grabbed a cup from the cupboard and filled it for Jamie. "Did I wake you?"
"No. Yes, I guess. I heard you close the bedroom door."
"Sorry," Randy said. They both sat down at the table. "I couldn't sleep.
I figured I'd head in to work a little early. I've got enough to do, especially if I plan to leave midday."
"Nervous?"
"Sure am," Randy said. "Don't worry though, I'll get through the visit."
"I know you will."
Together, and in silence, they sipped their coffee.
Randy told Daniel Kester that he had a doctor's appointment and needed to leave work early. Daniel, fortunately, was late for a meeting.
Randy's boss scrambled to gather papers and folders off his desk and from a filing cabinet.
"I hate it when Deborah is out," Daniel said. "I don't know where anything is." Daniel held papers askew under his arm. "The hell of it is, I'm not even sure which conference room the meeting's in."
Randy wanted to laugh. "Can I grab anything to give you a hand?"
"No. No, I got it. What did you need again?"
"To leave early, I have a doctor's--"
"Yeah, yeah. Right. That's fine. Just, somehow make up the hours you miss over the next couple of weeks? All right? That sound okay? This'll save you some vacation time."
Randy shrugged and smiled. "Sounds fine."
When Randy left Daniel's office, he felt a strong sense of relief flood through him, because Daniel was too busy to ask what the doctor's appointment was for.
Johnny Redman walked toward Randy. "My heart's still pounding from the other day. We gonna head out early today, or what? Paul's down putting gas in the tank."
"We can head out, but I have to take off early." Randy held his breath.
Getting time off from Daniel without an explanation had been a breeze.
Getting around Johnny without having to hear a million questions might prove an entirely different story. He wasn't in the mood for a bunch of questions. He hoped Johnny would just mind his own business.
"Why, what's going on?" Johnny asked.
"I just have a doctor's appointment," Randy said.
"You taking the second half of the day off?"
"Yeah," Randy said.
"Why? Paul and I can come and wait outside the office--"
"I don't think that's a good idea, Johnny." Randy stepped into the film edit. Steel shelving cases lined the walls. A desk sat in the center of
the room, video and editing equipment sat stored on tables and under tables and filled every ounce of space available. "I need a cup of coffee."
"It's on me," Johnny said. He followed Randy back toward the coffee pot.
Johnny dropped two quarters into a small, pine lock box. "How long could your appointment take?"
He's not going to let this end, Randy thought. He could feel himself become angry. "I'm not sure, exactly. Look--"
"Hey Randy," someone called from across the cluster of office cubicles.
Randy stood on the tips of his toes. He looked around the room. "Yeah?"
The top of someone's head rose high enough above the cubicle walls for Randy to see a set of eyes. "There's a woman here to see you. She's waiting in the lounge."
"My wife?" Randy asked. "Jamie's here?"
"No. It's definitely not your wife."
Randy frowned. "Okay, thanks. Hey, did she give a name, or say what she wants to see me about?"
"Gloria. That's all. She just said to tell Randy Cook that Gloria's here to see him. Oh, and she said that it was very important."
"Thanks," Randy called back.
"Gloria?" Johnny asked.
"I have to go talk with this woman for a minute," Randy said. He was annoyed with Gloria. She should not be showing up where he worked. Randy set his coffee cup down.
Johnny slapped Randy on the chest, flashed a menacing smile. "Hey, is she your doctor's appointment?"
Randy nearly growled. His lips curled back, revealed teeth. "Don't be an asshole, Redman!"
Walking away from the coffee pot, Randy was sure he'd left behind a stunned Johnny Redman, slack jawed and speechless.
The lounge was a windowless room down the hall from the news station.
Three sofas and four reclining chairs, two big, round tables and one rectangular table shared the room with three soda and candy vending machines. Gloria sat on a sofa in the back half of the room.
Randy knew she saw him. She stood up. He walked into the room an dover to her. He did not realize how much he wanted to see her again, until
just now--as he saw her. He wanted to give her a hug, refrained.
"Gloria--"
"I know I promised to leave you alone," Gloria said. "But I had to see you. I've remembered more."
"Gloria, I just don't think this is a good idea. I mean, I'm here for you, but not for the conspiracy theories. I can't listen to all of that.
It's not real. If I let you go on then--"
"You're naked in a room, a small, hotel-like room. You have a pistol in your hands and your sitting by an open window--"
Randy stopped trying to argue when Gloria began to rattle on. He was about to stop her when an image, the one she'd just painted, vividly leapt into his mind. She just described the dream I had the other night!
He sat down on the sofa. Gloria sat down beside him.
Was the image real--a memory--or was it just planted in my head, Randy found himself wondering.
"You're remembering it, aren't you?" Gloria asked.
Randy closed his eyes. He felt the beginning of a headache, a slow throb in his temples. He used his fingers to massage the areas. "What you're describing--"
"You sit by the window waiting for a sign--" Gloria continued.
"Wait. Wait, I don't think--"
"The telephone rings. That's the sign. You begin firing your weapon at the people outside the open window. As the people on the sidewalk and streets fall and die, you keep firing until you hear the signal to stop shooting at the people. The signal to stop is again, the ringing of the telephone." Gloria is holding Randy's hands.
"No. No. This isn't right. I don't know what you're trying to do to me,"
Randy said. The pain in his head felt worse, stronger. He pictured every word Gloria spoke in his mind's eye. "Gloria--"
"When the phone rings that second time, you stop shooting at the people, stick the barrel of the pistol into your own mouth and--"
"Stop it!" Randy jumped to his feet. "Jesus, Gloria, stop it. Listen to what you're saying? Do you hear what you're telling me? Can you--"
Gloria stood up, too. She used the cane for support. "Why is it so upsetting to you, Randy, if it isn't true? If it didn't happen, then why are you so angry about the scene I'm describing?"
"Look--"
"No, you look," Gloria said, sternly. "I need to get to the bottom of this. It's driving me crazy. I can't sleep at night. You think you
suffer from nightmares, let me tell you, I suffer from realities.
Every time I close my eyes I seem to remember more and more from a time in my life where I remember very little.
"For whatever reason you're choosing, I will not ignore what happened to me, to us, ten years ago. That school messed around with us, Randy. They performed tests, I'll bet unauthorized tests, on us. Why? For the military?" Gloria seemed to be studying Randy's face for reactions.
Randy took in a deep breath. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to start asking questions. For whatever reason, I know that Patrick Lippa's death is somehow linked to this, to everything. I don't know why, but dammit, I'm going to find out."
Gloria started to walk away. She struggled to get around the furniture.
She looked very agitated, angry. "Gloria, wait. Where do you plan on beginning? How do you even know who to talk to first?"
"I'm going to visit with Greg Ransom this morning," Gloria said matter-of-factly. "When I called him, he seemed a little anxious. He has something to say. Maybe he just wants to bitch about his brother's crime and suicide, I don't know. But believe me, I'm going to listen to whatever Wyatt's brother has to say.
"It's a beginning for me, Randy. I've been forced to start my life over because of this stroke. I'm not going to start it over in the dark. It's up to me --no one else--to go around and turn on all the lights. I can't sleep in the dark anymore, Randy. I'm afraid of it. The dark scares me."
When Gloria was out of the lounge, Randy began to follow her. In the hall, he watched the elevator doors slide closed. "Dammit. This is crazy," he said to himself. He stood by the elevator, trying to think.
He knew Gloria was right.
She had broken through some wall within her own memory, Randy realized.
Though his wall was still there, he could see she's dug a peephole through it for him.
He supposed if the wall crashed in all at once, the effects could be devastating, could perhaps cause a mental breakdown, perhaps a stroke.
"Hey, Randy? Where'd Gloria go? Is she gone?"
"Not now Johnny," Randy said. He ran toward the staircase.
"We heading down to the garage? Paul's probably waiting."
"I have to go. I've got to run. Tell Kester I need the whole day off,"
Randy said, pushed open the steel door. "Never mind. I'll tell him.
Don't worry about it."
"But Randy--"
"I've got to run. Believe me, I'll explain it all to you later." The door closed behind Randy, his voice echoed in the staircase, as if following him down the flights. He ran as fast as he could.
From the lobby doors, Randy saw Gloria outside with a small crowd of people on the corner. They all waited for the light to change, in order to cross the street. "Damn, she's fast," Randy mumbled out loud. He bolted for the door and out onto the city sidewalk. He yelled, "Gloria!
Gloria, wait!"
Several people turned to look at Randy. Gloria stopped and stood in the middle of the street. She stared at him, questioningly.
"I'm in! I'm in," Randy called out to his friend. "I'll help you."
Gloria's face lit up. She flashed him a broad smile, as the light changed, as drivers impatiently began to honk their horns. Gloria did not seem to mind the blaring displays of agitation. She concentrated on walking tall and proud back across the street.
"Watch it, lady," a driver yelled out his window.
Randy quickened his step over to the crosswalk.
"You believe me, then?" was what Gloria asked first.
Randy found that he could not speak. He clearly saw the expression of relief in Gloria's face, in the glowing of her eyes. "Yes," he finally managed. "I believe you."
"I wish we had time to go somewhere and talk," Gloria said, "but I don't think we do."
She sounds like a general in the army, Randy thought. She demanded action in this new battle, and not a moment to lose. "We can work on a line of questioning on the ride to Greg's house. It may not give us much time, but at least when we get there we our questions won't sound completely raw."
"Okay. That sounds like a plan to me," Randy said. "My car's parked in the rear lot." Randy did not want to risk running into Johnny Redman and Paul Scianno. If they were in the garage, perhaps waiting on a cameraman to ride with them for the day, there was a chance they would see him cross the street to the employee parking lot. "Wait here," Randy said.
"I'll bring the car around."
As Randy started to walk away, back toward the building, Gloria called out to him. "I'm glad we're going to be solving this thing together."
"I just hope what we're going to be doing, has a solution," Randy
replied. "Wait here, I'll be right back."
Randy walked through the main lobby with his hands in his pockets. He did not want to be recognized. He walked swiftly toward the rear exit.
He was beginning to feel a sensation tingling inside him. He knew the feeling, adrenaline. About to become submerged in the depths of solving a mystery, Randy thought the idea felt more frightening than exciting.
A large clock mounted on the wall over the doors told Randy that he had four hours before his doctor's appointment.
It shouldn't take much longer than that to talk with Wyatt's brother, Randy assured himself. That'll leave plenty of time to still make it to the doctor's.
Randy left the building and crossed the street to the parking lot. He jumped in his car, turned off the radio and drove to pick up Gloria. She stood waiting for him, right where he had left her. He saw her smile as he came around the corner.
Randy pulled up to the curb, debating pushing open the door for Gloria, then decided against it. She stepped up to the car, and with her left hand, pulled open the door with only a slight hint of difficulty.
When Gloria sat in the car, she said, "Some days just click for me, and other's it drives me crazy enough to kill."
Randy laughed. "Lately, my dear, that has been the story of my life.
Okay boss, where to?"
Gloria pulled a small note pad out of her purse. "Head out to Greece.
Greg still lives with his mother. They live by Park Ridge Hospital, off Long Pond Road. Snowapple Drive. Twenty-Six, Snowapple Drive."
Randy pulled away from the curb at the first break in traffic. "You sure we want to do this?" Randy had to ask.
"It's the only thing in my life that I'm sure of right now. I have to know why I'm having these, these sick memories. I know now that you're having them, and if there is a way to find out if Wyatt was having them then--"
"Then what? What will similar memories prove?" Randy asked. He signaled a left hand turn. He took the expressway, 1490 West to 1390 North.
"Then it will prove that the school screwed around with our minds."
"Who will it prove it too."
"To me," Gloria yelled. "It will prove it to me, dammit!"
"No, you're missing my point. You already know the school is responsible for screwing with your mind, and I guess I know it, too, or I wouldn't be here right now. It's even safe to assume that Wyatt's memory was messed up as well," Randy concurred.
"So what's your question Randy, because I must be missing it." Gloria strapped on her seat belt. She kept her right hand on the nylon strap, her left hand resting on her knee.
"What proof will Wyatt's condition--as told to us by his brother--
provide us with? None. That's what I'm saying." Randy checked his rear view mirror before changing lanes. "I mean, even if Greg tells us that Wyatt was having these weird black-outs, or vivid nightmares, what proof will that give us that will help us fight the school?"
"I don't know Randy. Right now, I think, I just need to hear some more evidence that my theory is right. I know it is in my heart, of course, but sometimes the heart and the mind are two separate entities. And maybe, just maybe, my mind isn't as convinced about this whole conspiracy as my heart is. Does that make sense?" Gloria asked.
It's the exact same way I feel, Randy thought. "Completely," he said.
Randy pulled slowly up to twenty-six Snowapple Drive. "This is it?" He parked the car on the curb, under the branches of a large maple tree.
The name affixed to the mailbox answered his question. "This is it."
"I didn't think I'd feel this nervous," Gloria said, softly.
"Want to take off?" Randy asked. He felt nervous, too. His stomach seemed to be growling. "Just say the word, man, and we're gone."
"No, Randy. Come on. I think I better get you to that door before you chicken out and leave me here, stranded." Gloria smiled.
"Stranded? No, never. I'd call you a taxi from the next town I stopped in."
Gloria laughed. "You're still a funny man."
"I always thought so," Randy said. "But you're right. Let's get up to that door before I lose what's left of my nerve."
On the door step, Randy nudged Gloria in the side. "You going to knock, or what?"
"I was kind of hoping they'd see us pull up and be waiting for us at the door," Gloria said. "I guess things don't always work the way you plan, huh?"
"I'll knock," Randy said.
"Go ahead," Gloria urged. "I'll knock next time."
Randy shrugged, then knocked three times on the screen door, it rattled loudly with each knock--sounded like a loose snare drum.
Randy and Gloria stood side by side for several moments. "Maybe you should knock, this time?"
"Me?" Gloria asked. She pointed a finger at her chest.
"You said you would knock next time," Randy reminded her.
"I meant, the next time we come here--or if we go someplace else. Then I'll be the one to knock," Gloria explained. "Right now, it's still your turn. See?"
Randy nodded. "Oh, is that what you meant?" He knocked two more times.
The door opened. Greg smiled, weakly. He pushed the screen door open.
"Come on in," he said. "I thought I heard a knock, but I wasn't sure."
Randy hadn't noticed this at Wyatt's wake, but Greg looked amazingly similar to his brother. They had the same dark hair, the same mud-brown eyes, milky complexion. He's at least two inches shorter than me, Randy thought.
Gloria walked into the house first. Randy followed and closed the screen and front door. "Nice place," Randy commented, out of courtesy. The house smelled musty and was dark. Green shag carpets covered the floors in every room. Fuzzy wallpaper was affixed to the walls--and in areas--peeled away at the seems. Streams of morning sunlight slipped through a part in the drapes, illuminating the slow swirling downpour of dust particles in the air.
"This is the way my mother likes things," Greg said, casually indicating the room's decour.
Randy couldn't tell if Greg liked or disliked the way the room looked..
He stepped into--what appeared to be--the family room and picked up a picture of Greg and Wyatt standing by a tree, arms around each other's shoulders. He looked closely into the face of his old friend. He felt a glimpse of pity begin to stir in his heart. He wondered, for the first time since the funeral, what could have happened to turn Wyatt into a murderer?
"Is your mother home?" Randy heard Gloria ask. Randy set the framed photograph back onto the end table. He left the room and walked down the narrow hall to the kitchen. Gloria was just about to sit at the table.
Randy pulled the chair out for her. She flashed him a look.
"Just being a gentleman," he explained, softly.
"Thank you," Gloria said. She sat down.
"I have coffee made," Greg said. He held a glass pot in his hand.
"Anyone?"
"Please," Randy said. He sat down "I'll take a cup," Gloria said. "I hope we're not bothering you?"
"No, you're not. For the most part, the FBI and the police have written the whole mess off. They've closed the case. It makes me laugh, really.
To them, it was all as simple as open and shut: my brother went crazy and killed the governor." Greg set three coffee cups and saucers down on the table. "I'm sorry, but nothing is ever that simple."
"That's exactly how I feel," Gloria said. She leaned back in her chair while Greg filled her cup.
After filling his and Randy's cup, Greg set the pot down, grabbed the
creamer and sugar bowls, spoons and napkins. He quickly folded the napkins, set one next to each cup, then placed a spoon on each napkin.
Greg finally sat at the table. "I'm not sure just how much I can help, but ask any questions you might have. I'll do my best."
"Okay, Greg, I have a question," Gloria said. "Describe your brother's behavior, or attitude, the week before the murder?"
Greg closed his eyes, pursed his lips together. "He, um, Wyatt seemed to be walking around in a daze two days before the murder. I'd ask him, I'd say 'hey, Wyatt, what's with you'."
"What would he say?" Randy asked.
"Not much, really. I didn't pay much attention to it at the time. We both lived here with mom, but Wyatt had his life and I had mine. We talked and everything, just never about anything heavy. We especially didn't talk about things like feelings and emotions. I wish now that we had." Greg swallowed hard. Randy thought he was holding back tears.
"Greg, what about when Wyatt left school, how was he then?" Randy asked.
"What do you mean? Was he like, depressed? Yeah. I'd say he was. I remember mom asking him, over an dover, 'why would you leave school'. He never really answered her, except saying things like, 'I'm not really cutout for school'," Greg said. "When he moved back home, I did talk to him. We were young then, you know? We were more like friends. As we got older, well then things changed. We drifted. I think most brothers drift as they get older. I don't know why that is."
"What did you talk about when Wyatt came home?" Gloria asked.
"Well," Greg said, "I asked him, you know, why he dropped out."
"And?"
"And he told me his mind was all messed up. I asked him if he'd been taking drugs, or something. But he said that he wasn't. I remember asking if it was a girl, but again he'd said no. He told me he felt like he wasn't himself." Greg lifted his cup to his lips, took a small sip then set the cup down. "I asked him what he meant by that, and he said something odd. He told me it felt like a football game had been played inside his brain. He said he felt all jarred and banged up inside. I don't know what he meant by that, but that was the last thing he'd said on the subject."
Randy looked at Gloria. He thought he might know what she was thinking.
He was thinking the same thing. Wyatt had left school it seemed, only weeks after the filming of the Chicken Tape. Though Randy couldn't remember feeling the way Greg described Wyatt feeling right after making the tape, Randy knew he'd been feeling mentally jarred and bruised lately.
"You know, I do have one thing I found that the two of you might be interested in. I found it after the funeral, when I was in Wyatt's room.
I didn't show it to the police or the FBI. I don't think I ever would.
At first, I wasn't even going to show it to you, but," Greg stopped talking, as if he might still be considering keeping whatever it was that he'd found.
"What is it?" Gloria asked. "If you've found something and you think it's important, please, Greg, don't hold back."
"It's a journal," Greg said after a long moment of silence.
"A journal, like a diary you mean?" Randy asked. He thought his heart might stop, his interest piqued. "Is it dated?"
"Every entry," Greg said. "I read it. All of it. I don't understand much in it, but well, some of it makes my brother sound crazy. He wasn't crazy."
"Is that why you didn't want to give it to us, because you were afraid we might judge Wyatt unfavorably?" Gloria asked. "Let me tell you something, we don't think your brother was crazy, Greg. In fact, we don't think he's guilty of murder, either. It's hard to explain, and right now too unclear even to Randy and I to talk about. You have to trust us. We're going to prove that your brother was innocent."
"How could you do that? How can you prove he was innocent?"
"I can't explain how. You just have to trust us," Gloria said. "Can we please see the journal?"
Greg seemed to consider Gloria's request for several seconds. "It's upstairs. Wait here."
When Greg was out of the room, Randy whispered. "How can you make promises like that?"
"Aren't you listening to him? Wyatt suffered some kind of damage, some kind of brain damage as a direct result to the hypnosis," Gloria said, sternly.
"Gloria--"
"Did you hear what Greg said?"
"You can't make that conclusion, Gloria. It's unfounded. You have no stable proof. You didn't suffer brain damage from the hypnosis, and neither did I."
"I suffered a stroke."
Randy regarded Gloria's comment skeptically. "Gloria--"
"Don't, Randy. Don't."
"You can't honestly believe that your stroke was caused by the hypnotic
testing performed ten years ago, do you?"
"No. I don't. I think the time frame is too broad. Anything could happen in ten years," Gloria said.
"Then--"
"Then, I think the stroke was caused when I was contacted to kill the governor. I think my brain fought the command. I think I suffered a stroke, like a defense mechanism, against committing murder. That's what I think." Gloria was crying now.
Randy shook his head. "Please, don't get all upset."
"How can you say that?" Gloria asked. "You don't know what my life has been turned into. I think someone at the school, involved with the testing, is responsible for my physical condition. I'll be damned, Randy, damned if I don't find the people responsible and bring them to justice."
"Justice, Gloria? Did you mean to say justice? Or is this whole thing for revenge?" Randy asked.
"What whole thing, Randy? Are you following the ball game here? Is your set on? Yes, I want revenge. Look what they did to me--"
"If they did--"
"They did Randy. They did this to me. Look what they did to Wyatt, for Heaven's sake. Look at where we are right now. You're here with me, so you must have some idea of what I'm talking about. Some part of your mind knows exactly what I'm saying, and believes every word I've spoken.
Don't deny it, Randy. Don't deny me, and don't deny yourself. We were used. Why? I don't know. I will find out, though. You have my word."
Randy let Gloria's words penetrate his wall. She was right. It all made a kind of sick sense. Why do I continue to fight what I know to be true, he wondered. Randy reached for Gloria's hand. When he held it, he felt its warmth. He gently squeezed her fingers. "I'm sorry, Gloria. I believe you. If your stroke was caused by someone screwing with your mind, we'll find them and they will pay for what they've done."
Gloria smiled. Randy thought she was about to say something, but Greg came back into the room. He held the book in his hand. "If I let the two of you have this, I expect to get it back when you're done with it."
"If you want, we could take it to the library, make a copy and return it in an hour, or so," Gloria said. She was reaching for the book. Greg did not seem ready to hand it over.
"I guess that could work," Greg said. He held the journal out to Gloria.
She took it from him.
Randy could tell it took every bit of restraint for Gloria to keep from opening and flipping through the pages immediately.
"Ah, you don't have to do all that," Greg said. "Just please, return it when you're done. That's all I'm asking."
"We promise," Randy heard himself say.
"What ever is in that book and whatever I told you, is about all I know.
I have plenty of questions of my own," Greg said. "I wish there was someone I could ask my questions to."
"You miss him?" Gloria asked.
Greg surprised Randy by crying. "He was my big brother," Greg said.
Randy and Gloria left Greg in the kitchen, showed themselves out of the house. Gloria held the book under her left arm. She seemed tired and relied heavily on the strength of her cane to get down the front steps and driveway, to the car.
Once in the car, secured in seat belts, Randy said, "I don't think we should hang onto that journal."
"Why not?" Gloria asked.
"Let's run by a copier shop, make a couple of copies and return it. I know I'll feel better not having it around. The book seems important to Greg. I know if it were my brother, I wouldn't want some almost complete strangers taking it. Do you know what I mean?" Randy asked. He backed the car out of the driveway.
"I suppose."
"It shouldn't make a difference if we have the actual journal or not. We just be sure to copy every page. This way too, you'll have a copy to read and I'll have a copy," Randy said. He drove toward a copier shop he knew of on Lexington Avenue.
The journal, one-hundred pages--two-hundred sides--also held several loose notebook pages, folded and tucked inside.
Gloria remained in the car while Randy ran into the copier shop. He handed the journal and loose pages to a clerk behind the counter. "I need two copies of this entire journal."
The clerk totaled the pages, and gave Randy a price. "It can be ready in ten minutes. Do you want to wait for it, or-- "
"No. I'll wait," Randy said.
The clerk worked on the job personally. He made two crisp copies from
the original. Randy paid, took the copies, the journal and left.
Noticing the time, Randy drove back to Greg's house at a few miles over the speed limit. He ran the journal up to the door and knocked.
"You didn't have to bring it right back," Greg said. He took the journal from Randy.
"I feel better about doing it this way, and so does Gloria," Randy said.
"I'm not sure what we hope to accomplish, or not as sure as Gloria is. I think, we think, their may be some things--some unethical things--that took place years ago and maybe are still going on today. If we can uncover whatever is going on, we'll tell you. But, unfortunately in the end, we may come up with absolutely nothing."
Greg held out his hand. Randy shook it. Greg said, "I can see now why Wyatt liked you so much. I don't know what you guys think you're looking for. I only hope you find it. I'll keep both of you in my prayers, though. God bless you, man."
"Thanks. I hope He sends a blessing down on us all," Randy said. He turned and jogged back to the car.
"All set?" Gloria asked, as Randy closed his door.
"Yeah. He seemed relieved to have the journal back. Listen, I have this appointment I can't miss--what if I drop you off home for now, and give you a call later on tonight? How does that sound?" Randy said.
"That sounds fine, only instead of my house, can you drop me off at the library?" Gloria asked.
Is it because your house seems so big and dark and empty, Randy wondered, and because you don't want to spend the night at your kitchen table alone? "Sure Gloria," Randy said. "No problem."
Randy wanted to make one stop before his doctor's appointment. He drove towards Heckman's Plaza. In the plaza, he parked by the entrance of Toys City. Walking around the store, Randy found himself faced with terrible indecision. He had no idea what to buy for a little boy.
The store was filled with a never ending variety of toys, games and stuffed animals. Clark Meyers is three years old. To Randy, the suggested age labels affixed on toy boxes seemed inappropriate. Randy finally decided on a couple of figurines and a handful of books.
He paid for his items and left.
Randy found a parking spot close to the main entrance at Strong Memorial hospital. He walked from the parking lot to the front doors. A security guard stood just inside. Randy passed the guard and walked up to the Information Desk. A young receptionist stopped working on the computer and looked at Randy.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm not sure where to go, I have an appointment with a Doctor Steltson?"
The woman smiled and turned back to her computer. She typed some words onto her keyboard and stared at the monitor. "No, I'm sorry. You're in the wrong building. You want the psyche-building. The hospital buildings are all connected so you won't have to go back outside." She gave Randy easy-to-follow directions and finished by saying, "Have a nice afternoon."
Randy winced inside. He did not know the doctor's office was in a building dedicated specifically to psychiatric patients. Just the idea of that made him nervous. What was Jamie thinking, sending me here?
Randy walked away from the counter. He looked at his watch. He still had plenty of time to pay a quick visit to Clark and his parents.
Holding the toy bag in one hand, the other stuffed into his pocket, Randy walked to the elevators. He got off on dark's floor and walked down the hallway to the set of double doors. In the burn and trauma unit, again, Randy felt a tightening in his stomach. He tried to ignore it, walked past the lighthouse art on the wall without stopping, forced himself to go right to Clark's room.
Randy saw from the hall that Clark was awake and talking with his mother.
He hesitated at the door. Carol must have felt his eyes on her. She turned and smiled. "Come on in, Randy. Look who's here, Clark? Look who's here?"
Clark's head was wrapped in bandages still. The skin on his face looked slightly discolored, but good, Randy thought. It took every bit of strength for Randy to step into the room and then to ask, "How are you, Carol?"
"We're doing fine. Pasha had to go back to work. He didn't want to, but we can't survive if he doesn't," Clark's mother said. She looked as if she might begin to cry.
"I'm sorry to hear that. I'm sure being at work is hard on him, too,"
Randy said, softly. Then an awkward silence settled in. Clark broke the silence. He let out a loud fog-horn sound. Carol and Randy both began to laugh. Randy went up to the side of the bed. "Hey, buddy," Randy said.
"Can you give me five?"
Clark stared at Randy for a few seconds, smiled and slapped Randy's hand. "I know you don't know me," Randy said, "but I brought you some presents!"
"Presents!" Clark said. "Presents!"
"This is the man who helped you," Carol explained. Clark seemed to ignore her words.
Randy handed Clark the bag. Clark opened the bag and pulled out two books at once. He yelled with excitement and tossed the books to the foot of the bed.
"Now Clark," Carol said. She seemed embarrassed.
"Don't, please. It's great," Randy said. "Look at his smile."
Carol closed her eyes and smiled, too. Tears slid down her face. She clapped her hands together, looked like she might be silently thanking God.
Clark found the little action figure toys. He tried to open the casings.
Frustrated, he handed them over to Randy. Randy opened them, gave one back to Clark and held onto the other.
"Hey," Randy said, taking on the sound of a new voice to be depicted by
his figurine. "What do you say we save the world!"
"Save the world," the little boy mimicked with his figurine. "We should save the world."
Standing just outside Clark's room, Carol held both of Randy's hands.
"You know, Pasha's going to be sorry he missed your call," she said. "He talks about you all the time."
"He's a great man," Randy said. "He's a lucky man." Randy kissed Carol on the cheek.
"Please come back anytime you want," Carol said. She looked into the room. Randy looked, too. Clark was happily playing on his bed. The figurines were walking on the books. "I think you've made a lifetime friend in my son."
"I love that little kid," Randy said. "Don't worry. I'll be back. And please, if he goes home, or if anything goes on, call me. I gave my number at home and at work to Pasha."
"I know," Carol said. "We have it. And remember, like Pasha told you, if you ever need anything, anything at all, come to see us. We owe you so much--"
"Neither of you owes me anything." Randy gave Carol a hug and walked quickly away. Now, he was late for his appointment. Jamie will be very upset if I miss it, he thought. Very upset.
Randy found Dr. Madaline Steltson's office without a problem. The office, complete with contemporary furniture and plush carpeting, did nothing to calm Randy's sudden anxiety.
"I'm here for an appointment with Doctor Steltson," Randy said hesitantly to the receptionist. "If because I'm a little late, she's too busy, I can always come back--"
"She'll be with you in a minute," the receptionist said, graciously. "As it is, she's running a little behind."
"She will, huh? All right."
"If you want, you can have a seat and I'll call you as soon as she's ready." The woman smiled.
Randy picked out a magazine and sat down. To nervous to read, he simply flipped through the pages, glancing at the pictures. I shouldn't have locked Wyatt's journal in the glove compartment. I should have brought it
in to read while I wait, he thought. He closed the magazine and tossed it on the coffee table, with the cluster of magazines.
"Mister Cook?" The receptionist called, "Doctor Steltson's ready to see you now. If you want to go right through that door?"
Randy stood up, wiped his hands down the thigh of his jeans. "Okay, yeah. Thank you." He walked to the door and cautiously reached for the knob, as if afraid he might receive an electrical shock.
"You can go right on in," the receptionist said, again she smiled.
Randy opened the door. He expected the door to lead directly to Dr.
Madaline Steltson's office. It did not. Randy found himself in a small hallway with three doors to choose from. He assumed the receptionist's door was the one on his left. One door probably led to a bathroom. Randy knocked lightly on the door closest to him.
"Come in," a voice called out. "It's open."
Randy took a deep breath. He opened the door. In front of her desk, in a large, comfortable looking chair, sat the doctor. "Mister Cook? You can come on in. Close the door behind you? Thank you."
"Ah, you can call me Randy. I never really liked being called Mister Cook," Randy said. Jeez, he immediately wondered, would she transform that innocent comment into imaginary, harbored, negative feelings about my father? Randy blurted: "That has nothing to do with my father, you know."
Dr. Steltson laughed. She was a plump woman, though not fat. Her dark hair was cropped short and curly. She wore just enough makeup to make her face appear pretty. Her legs seemed to thin for her body. She sat with them crossed. She wore gold, round-rimmed glasses, which framed warm, pecan sand colored eyes.
"Please don't be so nervous, Randy. I assume this is the first time you've ever met with a psychiatrist?"
"It is, and I wouldn't be so nervous if I didn't have so many things going on in my head," Randy said. He walked closer to the doctor, stood beside an empty chair--a clone to the one Dr. Steltson sat in.
"If you didn't have so many things going on in your head, you probably wouldn't need to be here today." Dr. Steltson smiled. "Why don't you sit down, try to get comfortable. I promise, this session should prove to be quite painless."
Randy sat down. The chair was as comfortable as it looked. The cushion spread to form around his body, fit against him perfectly. He could smell Dr. Steltson's perfume, a pleasant fragrance that seemed to fit her
personality. He looked around the office, noticed one wall, behind the doctor's desk, displayed three framed diplomas.
"There, now how do you feel?"
"Still nervous," Randy said. "Comfortable," he added, "but still nervous."
"Comfortable is a start. We can't do everything in one meeting, can we?"
The doctor laughed. Her laugh caused a calming effect in Randy's body.
Dr. Madaline Steltson was not overbearing, or overtly concerned.
Randy allowed himself a small laugh. "This doesn't seem so bad, I guess."
"I'm glad you feel that way. Shall we get started?"
"Now?" Randy asked. "I mean, now is okay, but how? How do we get started?"
Dr. Steltson shifted her weight in the chair. She leaned forward. "I like to start most first sessions by having my guest tell me a little about themselves. Not necessarily why they're here, but a little about who they are, or who they think they are. How does that sound?"
Randy snorted. "Difficult."
"It is a rather difficult chore, to self-express. Still, I find this to be the best way to get the ball rolling. Now, if you have any questions, about me or my methods, or my background, feel free to ask them, or ask them at any time. You'll have to remember, I listen to people talk all day long, rarely do I get a chance to say anything. I love it when people ask me a question. It gives me a valid excuse to run at the mouth," Dr. Madaline Steltson explained.
This lady's all right, Randy thought, with a bit of amusement. He found himself relaxing more and more as each minute passed by. He still wasn't sure if he belonged here, but decided if he had to see a doctor, he was relieved to be talking with Dr. Steltson.
"Okay, one more thing before we begin. I like to use a tape recorder for all my sessions. If this makes you uncomfortable, I can take notes, but let me tell you what I do, okay? I record the session, then when I type up my report, I erase the tape. How does that make you feel? Can I use the recorder, or do you prefer I take hand written notes?" Dr. Steltson asked.
"I guess the tape recorder is okay," Randy said, hesitantly. "I hate the way I sound on those things."
"Everyone does, believe me. So, are you sure you're okay?
Because if it makes you too uncomfortable--"
"No. It's okay. The tape's okay."
"All right then, with that little bit decided, shall we begin?" Dr.
Steltson asked.
Randy took a deep breath. "Well, you already know my name-- Randy Cook.
Ah, how far back do you want me to begin?"
"How far back do you want to go? Do you want to start with your birth?
Your high school days? College? Work? Marriage? Start wherever you want.
If you want to start at one place and jump to another, I should be able to follow along." Dr. Steltson leaned back in her chair. She rubbed her shoulder blades against the cushion, as if snuggling up to the chair, getting ready to read a good book.
Randy started talking about Jamie, about how they met. "I knew I was going to fall in love with this one," he told the doctor. "There was just that something about her. I think that scared me, too. I mean, love--not Jamie. That's a serious word, and commitment. Was I ready for all that? See, but if I wasn't, then I'd risk losing Jamie. I didn't want to lose her. I knew that for sure. That's how I knew I was in love." Randy reflected on his thoughts for a moment.
"Do you still feel this way, now that you've been married for several years?" Dr. Steltson asked.
"Oh, definitely. Jamie has always been more than just my girlfriend and now, more than just my wife. She's always been--and is--my best friend, too."
"I think that's great," Dr. Steltson said.
Randy continued, talking a little about work, and a little about his childhood. His words flowed as he repainted moments once forgotten in his memory. When Randy paused, Dr. Steltson said, "We're going to be ending this first session soon, Randy. We have another ten minutes. Is there anything that you really wanted to, if not discuss, at least mention before we schedule a second meeting?"
Randy shook his head.
"Now, when this appointment was initially made, there was a notation that indicated paranoia and depression. What I've heard and seen today, tells me that you are not depressed. Paranoia is hard to glimpse on a first meeting. Let me ask you this, okay? Do you feel you're a paranoid
person?" Dr. Steltson asked. She spoke in a professional tone.
If I tell her about Gloria and Wyatt and the journal, or of the Chicken Tape, she'll not only think I'm paranoid, she'll know it, Randy thought, desperately. So now what? he wondered.
Randy could tell the doctor was trying to read his facial expression. He wondered how she evaluated his look.
"Now, I know you're the hero that's been on the news," Dr. Steltson said. "Mentioned for the Medal of Honor. That's a wonderful honor."
Was she asking a question, without asking a question? Randy wondered.
Just how much information did Jamie give this woman?
"I've been a little upset about the--that whole situation. I can't explain why. For some reason, I've had these terrible nightmares ever since the fire. In my dreams, Clark--the little boy--"
"Yes, I know who he is."
"Well, in my dreams, Clark doesn't live. He dies. Then his mother carries the charred body over to me and tells me that I murdered her son. I try to tell her that I didn't, but before I can speak, dark's eyes pop open!" Randy explained. He found it difficult to breathe. He does not like the feeling he has, his heart slamming wildly in his chest. "That's when I wake up," Randy said. I need to go now, he thought. God I can't breathe and I need to go now.
Randy could not look at the doctor, but knew she was watching him.
"Do you feel all right, Randy?"
"It's hard to breathe," Randy said. "I feel suddenly closed in , like the walls in this office are closing in on me."
"What you are describing, is something known as a panic attack. It's a very common problem brought on by stress, actually about one in seventy-five people experience at least one attack in their lifetime."
"Is that bad, that I have them regularly?" Randy asked.
"Not at all. A panic attack, or Agoraphobia, is when the brain chemicals, or neurotransmitters, unleash a wave of physical responses that should only occur if you were in a life threatening situation. So, you see, the fear--or anxiety you feel is real, but the danger is not.
It's as if your body kicks into a fight or flight mode," Dr. Steltson explained slowly. She smiled while she talked, her hands folded in her lap.
"That's exactly it. That's how I feel, like I'm in serious trouble-- or, like, someone dangerous might be hiding around the next corner. It's weird, because I never tried to analyze the feeling before. So what can I do about it? I think knowing I might have a panic attack--causes a panic attack," Randy said. He let out a nervous laugh. He noticed that he could not keep his hands still, they fidgeted with each other.
"Well, one easy thing you can do--and I say easy because it's something you can consciously control is--when an attack comes on, try to relax and concentrate on your breathing. You want to take nice, normal, slightly deeper-than-usual breaths. In cognitive-behavioral therapy--"
"Cognitive?" Randy interrupted.
"I'm sorry, cognitive just means mental, or intellectual. In cognitive-behavioral therapy, patients learn how to form more accurate thoughts about what they experience during attacks, what provokes them and how to control them. Lastly, we have--what I'm going to do for you now, because you are in therapy--is prescribe something, a pill, that works wonders, Randy," Dr. Steltson said. "On our next visit, I want to talk more about this nightmare and we'll see how the medication is working."
Dr. Steltson tore the paper from her prescription pad. "You take one of these pills every morning before breakfast, Randy. It will help the symptoms immediately. If you find they don't work, call me. We'll try something else. Okay?"
Randy tucked the prescription paper in his pocket. He stood up, felt embarrassed.
"We had a good session today, Randy. We actually accomplished plenty.
Schedule an appointment next week with the receptionist. Well," Dr.
Steltson laughed, "make the appointment with my receptionist, but schedule the appointment with me."
Randy laughed. "I get it. Ha, ha."
"You didn't think it was funny?"
"Doctor humor?" Randy asked.
"Uh-huh."
"No. Sorry, it wasn't funny." Randy opened the door. "Doctor Steltson, thank you. Believe it or not, just talking--like we did--seemed to help something inside."
"I'm glad to hear that, Randy. I do look forward to seeing you again.
Take care now." Dr. Steltson popped the cassette out of the tape recorder and set the tape on her chair. She stood up. "And Randy, we'll get to the bottom of your nightmares. One way or another, we'll get you sleeping through the night again."
"God, I hope so. I'm getting awfully tired." Randy left the office, closed the door behind him. He scheduled an appointment with the doctor for late, the following week.
Dr. Steltson heard a knock on her door. She glanced at her wrist watch.
I don't think I have anyone scheduled now, not before lunch, the doctor thought. "Come in? Audrey, how are you? I haven't seen you in what?
Months?"
"Has it been that long," Dr. Cox asked, walked into the room, closed the door behind her. "We shouldn't let that much time slip between us."
"Tell me about it," Dr. Steltson replied. She stuffed groups of paper into a manila folder. She filed the folder in her cabinet, locked it.
"What can I do for you?"
Audrey smiled. "I was thinking, lunch? I know this great little place--"
"Oh, Audrey, I'm sorry. I have plans to meet with my husband for lunch,"
Dr. Steltson said. "You're welcome to come along. You know my husband?"
"He's the proctologist?
"Pediatrist."
"That's right. Well, no thank you. I don't want to be a third wheel,"
Audrey said, while walking around the office.
"Oh, but you wouldn't be, Audrey. Don't be silly. We'd love to have you join us. If you want to, that is." Dr. Steltson took her brief case over to her desk. She took some folders out, set them down, and put new folders in. She closed and locked her brief case. "What do you say?"
"No. I'll pass. I know about being married to a doctor. Always on call, phone calls at all hours of the night. You're both doctors, so it's got to be doubly worse, if doubly is even a word. Go on and enjoy each other. Just remember, next time--you give me a call and we'll do lunch."
Audrey beamed.
Dr. Steltson smiled. "You got it. I won't forget, either. Hey, why don't we just say lunch tomorrow? How does that sound?"
Audrey frowned. "Let me check my calendar. I'll get back to you." The doctor turned to leave the office.
"Hey Audrey, thanks for thinking of me. That actually means a lot. For a while, I was beginning to think you didn't like me."
"Don't be ridiculous. I've just been extremely busy. I'll check my calendar and get back to you by the end of the day." Audrey opened the office door. "Have a great lunch and tell your husband hello for me."
"I will. I will." Madaline watched Audrey leave the office. She smiled and stared reflectively at the door for a moment. What a nice person, she thought. Oh, look at the time, I'm going to be late. "Now that's funny," Madaline said out loud. She stood over her leather chair. "It's gone, but I know I left the tape cassette from Randy's session right here next to the recorder."
Randy stopped at the drug store and filled his prescription. The pills were expensive, despite his health coverage. He ordered them in a three month prescription, saving over sixty percent of the cost.
Driving home from the drug store, Randy replayed the session with Dr.
Steltson in his head. Talking with the doctor felt like it did relieve some of his immediate layers of stress. For the moment he felt better, anyway. He planned to keep his second appointment and maybe even looked forward to it a little. He was surprised to find it so easy talking with a stranger. Dr. Steltson had managed to relax him, which allowed for him to open up to her. Of course, he hadn't told her much, but he did tell her about the nightmare. Randy thought, that's a start.
He sat at the kitchen table, Wyatt's photocopied journal in front of him. He had a glass of cranberry juice in his hand. He read the first entry, flipped through the pages, scanned the text. One thing Randy noticed immediately was Wyatt's deteriorating hand writing. By the end of the journal, the sentences appeared to have been written by a child in fifth grade resembling scribbled letters, incomplete thoughts.
Randy turned back through the pages in the journal. He wanted to read the entire booklet, starting again on page one. While he read, Randy was fascinated and flattered to find his name mentioned as often as it was.
The first entry was made one week after Wyatt left the University of Rochester, but did not talk anything about school, or why he dropped out.
When the telephone rang, Randy looked at the time and was surprised to see that it was nearly five o'clock, that Jamie would be home soon.
"Hello?"
"Are you reading this thing?" It was Gloria Grahm. She sounded excited.
"Trying. I'm half way through it. It's weird, it's like reading the letters of Alister Crowley." Randy laughed. "I don't get much of it, but I understand why Wyatt's brother didn't want to show this thing to the FBI or the police."
"For sure," Gloria said. "Did you get to the part where Wyatt reflects
on his nightmares? He even draws a thin, connecting line to the Chicken Tape."
"No, I didn't get that far. Where is it?"
"March twenty-first. Um--"
Randy flipped through the pages. "I got it. Hold on, let me skim through it."
Gloria didn't wait for Randy to read what Wyatt had written. "He says he kept having dreams of murdering people, but that the dreams felt more like memories. He worried that he might be going crazy."
"Okay, I see it." Randy read: "Last night I had the nightmare again. I dreamed I was naked in a room, shooting people as they walked in. It was horrible. It felt more like something that really happened to me. Could I be having black outs? If I am, did I really kill the people I'm dreaming of? If this nightmare doesn't stop, I'm afraid I won't be able to sleep anymore."
"Sounds a lot like you. Doesn't it?" Gloria asked.
"Frighteningly so." Randy closed the journal. "I don't think I like this. I'm afraid of where all this might lead. Do you think we should take this journal to the police?"
"We promised Greg, Randy."
"There's things going on here and I have no idea what. Gloria, we have no idea what we're doing. This is crazy and dangerous, and I'm not afraid to admit, I'm a little scared here." Randy stood up. He could sit down no longer.
"I have someone I'm going to meet with tonight, a hypnotist."
"A hypnotist?" Randy asked. He thought about making a joke like, haven't we had enough trouble with hypnotists, but wasn't feeling in the joking-mood. "Where'd you find him? You didn't just flip through the yellow pages, I hope?"
"He helped the Gov--he helped Patrick Lippa quit smoking. That's what this hypnotist does: he helps people lose weight and quit smoking. You know, that kind of thing. He thinks I'm a smoker and he's going to cure me. When I get there though, I'm going to drill him for answers on questions I have about hypnosis. Want to come along?"
"As much fun as that sounds like its going to be--"
"I thought you were in? You said you were in, Randy," Gloria said. She sounded agitated, disappointed.
"I am in. You just want me to come because you need a ride, right?"
"I can take a cab, Randy. I'm not helpless." She missed the joke, Randy thought. "And I'm not going to let you go alone. What time is the appointment?" Randy asked. He walked with the cordless phone into the living room. Jamie's car was pulling into the driveway. He waved to her.
The car horn let out a friendly sounding honk. ;
"Six. Right after dinner time. Pick me up at my house around five-thirty?" Gloria asked.
"I'll be there." Randy hung up the phone. He opened the front door. He wondered, quickly, how he would explain his day to Jamie. First, she would want to know about his doctor's appointment. Next, he would have to tell her about his sleuthing with Gloria. On a last note, he would ask her to take a ride with him--and Gloria--to see a hypnotist.
As Jamie walked up the steps to the front door, Randy thought he might need to take one of the pills Dr. Steltson prescribed. The anticipation of talking to his wife was suddenly giving him a panic attack.
Sitting at the kitchen table together, Wyatt's journal open in front of them, Randy talked slowly and calmly. He wanted to explain everything clearly to his wife.
"I see a slim connection here," Jamie said. "I mean, to hear you explain it, there is no other possibility as to what's going on. But Randy, how serious are you about a school slash hospital conspiracy? It just doesn't sound real? I don't want you to think I'm against you, but maybe you should wait until you talk with Dr. Steltson a few more times before you take this investigation that you're conducting any further. Does that sound unreasonable?"
"It does, Jamie," Randy said. He knew now that this discussion would end horribly. He did not want it to happen that way. He controlled his emotions, continued to speak slowly and carefully. "It sounds unfair.
You've known me for a long time. I don't get involved in something unless I believe in it. If I don't believe something, I won't give it a second thought."
"You believe in space aliens, Randy--"
"I believe that there is life on other plants, yes. Are they more intelligent than us? I don't know. But I do believe life outside of earth exists, yes. Why would God create all these planets and put life only on one? To me that isn't logical. And Jamie, that is all besides the point."
"I'm sorry," Jaime said. "I just don't know what to say, or how to respond. I mean, think about it--you're describing the plot of a Hollywood movie and asking me to accept it as a part of your life, your past. It's such a huge--forgive the word--fantasy, Randy. You're asking me to put myself in your shoes. Well, try mine on. To make things even tougher, you're gallivanting around the city with an old college lover.
How do I swallow all this and give you my consent, my blessing?" Jamie asked. She stood up. She wasn't crying, but looked as though she might start. She had her hands balled up into fists, her arms arrow-straight down at her sides. "Help me Randy, because I need it. Help me to see what it is you're seeing."
Randy remained sitting at the table. "Gloria called just before you pulled in. She's going to talk with a hypnotist tonight. She wants us to go along with her. In a way, I guess she's going to consult a professional."
"A professional. Who is he, Doctor Hundini?"
"That's not fair--"
"None of this is. My whole life, my happy life, is becoming a nightmare.
I don't know what's happening to my husband, and because I don't, I don't understand what's happening to me!"
"I don't understand any of it," Randy said in a loud voice. "I can't sleep at night, I can't think straight during the day. I have weird, unfinished blurbs of memory that sometimes make me think I'm responsible for killing people with a gun. The memories are too vivid not to be real. Inside me, Jamie, I wonder if I'm responsible for murder." It was the first time Randy admitted this to anyone, including himself. I said it, he thought. God, I finally said it. "Did I murder someone? Have I blocked that memory out? I don't know who I am, or who I was, Jamie.
That's a horrible feeling--one I hope you never have to experience.
People say it all the time, that they are going to look for themselves.
For most of the people who say that, they're full of it. They're just looking for an excuse to leave responsibility behind, nothing more. I don't want to leave anything, I want to stay. I can't stay, though, Jamie, if I don't have any freaking idea of who I am!" Randy felt his face heat up. He knew his cheeks had to be red. He felt his tears, like ice cold water, roll down his cheeks. He refused to wipe them away. "I'm in love with you, Jamie. I love you. What's going on between Gloria and I is a nightmare. Neither of us wants any part of this piece of history.
There is nothing seductive about not remembering your past. Nothing."
Jamie suddenly bent down and wrapped her arms around Randy. "I love you, too. I'm just scared. This whole, bizarre thing is scaring me, Randy."
"We'll get through it. Somehow, we'll figure out what the hell's happening--or what happened ten years ago."
"I can come with you and Gloria to see the hypnotist?" Jamie asked.
"I'll wait in the car. But, I want to help. If there's something wrong, I want to help you make things right."
Randy stood up, his wife's arms still tightly wrapped around him. He hugged Jamie in return. I'll even let you ride up front with me." He laughed, they kissed.
"What time do we have to go?"
"In a little while, why?"
Without a word, Jamie took Randy by the hand and led him out of the kitchen, into the bedroom and closed the door.
When Randy pulled into Gloria's driveway, he sensed Jamie's tension. She seemed to go stiff beside him. He saw her hands bunching and clenching the legs of her jeans.
"Relax, honey," Randy said. He reached out and patted his wife's hand.
"It's just weird, meeting your ex--what should I say, girlfriend, or lover." Jamie sounded angry.
Randy tried to understand. "Let's just call her an old friend."
Gloria came slowly out of the house. Randy noticed she was walking better, still using the cane.
"She's beautiful," Jamie said, softly. "You never told me she was that beautiful."
Randy decided not to comment on Jamie's remark. Instead, he watched Gloria get closer to the car.
"Aren't you going to help her? Open the door?" Jamie asked.
"No. Gloria likes to do things on her own," Randy said. He wanted to get out of the car and open the door for her. Fighting his urge was difficult, he realized, as his hands tightly gripped the steering wheel.
Jamie got out of the car. "Hi," she said. "I'm Jamie, Randy's wife."
Randy silently cringed.
"It's really a pleasure to meet you, Jamie. I'm Gloria." Gloria extended a friendly hand. Jamie shook it.
"I hope you don't mind I'm coming along," Jamie said. "This whole thing is--"
"Screwy. I know. Of course I don't mind that you come along. The more minds we have at work here, the better off I think we're going to be,"
Gloria said.
"Here," Jamie said, "why don't you sit up front. I'll jump in back. I'll bet you and Randy have things to discuss. In the back, I'll be able to listen without getting in the way."
"That's a generous offer but--"
"I insist," Jamie said.
Randy wondered, is Jamie being over-nice to compensate her feelings of guilt, or is it because Gloria's handicapped? Whatever the reason, Randy realized, he was relieved by her behavior.
"Well, thank you," Gloria said, accepted Jamie's offer.
Jamie stood by the door while Gloria managed to climb into the car. When she was in, Jamie closed the door and jumped in back. "All set," she said.
"Okay," Randy said. "Where to, boss?"
Gloria nodded. "We have to go to Monte Carlo Circle. The appointment's at his house. Hop onto Lyell Avenue, we'll take it west, toward Brockport. I brought along a copy of the Chicken Tape. I figure the hypnotist will be interested in seeing the video."
"I'll bet," Jamie said.
A silence fell over them all as Randy drove toward Brockport. Despite the awkward sensation the silence caused, Randy was thankful for the quiet. It allowed him time to clear his mind. He was sure useless small talk would only heighten the anxieties and confusion and uncertainty everyone seemed to be feeling.
Randy tried to keep his mind blank. He concentrated on the road and the traffic. He knew Jamie was dying to say something, but was probably unsure of what to say. The situation the three of them were now in felt odd, to say the least.
"Does the hypnotist know we're all coming to his house, or is he just expecting you," Jamie asked. She sat, resting her arms on the front seat, her head propped between Randy and Gloria.
"He knew Randy and I would be there. He shouldn't mind at all if you're with us," Gloria said, sincerely. "It may prove to be a costly Q and A session, but if we get some of the answers we're looking for, the money we spend will be well worth it."
"I agree," Randy said.
"Oh, me too," Jamie added.
The house on Monte Carlo Circle seemed more like a small castle. The U -
shaped driveway, lined with lava stones and an appropriate amount of flowers and shrubbery, held a black BMW and a Lincoln 4X4. Randy parked along side the BMW.
"Careful opening the doors," Randy said. "I don't think we want to see
how much it costs to rub a scratch out of that thing."
Jamie laughed. Gloria opened her door and began the struggle of getting out of the car, apparently not concerned with scratching a car's paint.
The three stood huddled together on the front step. A name plate was mounted to the door. Doctor Mark Ryan. Gloria rang the door bell.
"You didn't say he was a doctor," Randy whispered.
"You never asked."
"Can I say something?" Jamie asked, quickly. "What are you going to tell this doctor when he starts asking his questions? Because he is going to have questions, especially after he sees the Chicken Tape. If he were inquisitive at all, he'd want to know where the tape was made, who the hypnotist involved was, you know, that kind of thing."
Randy realized, suddenly, that his wife was right. "Maybe Jamie and I should go wait in the car?"
"What difference will that make now, he's already expecting two? If Jamie's right, then the man will still have questions. Maybe, if we can do it right, we can answer questions without saying anything," Gloria explained.
"You're the one in politics. I'll let you take the lead. I'll try not to answer any questions. If they're asked directly of me, try to jump in.
Okay?" Randy said.
"You both know I'll keep my mouth shut," Jamie said.
Randy reached for Jamie's hand as Dr. Mark Ryan opened the door.
Dr. Ryan, roughly in his late thirties, was a tall, thin, wiry man. He wore black, round frames around his eyes. The deer-brown goatee streaked with wisps of white over his chin, matched the mat of hair on his head.
His smile revealed evenly nicotine stained rows of teeth. When he introduced himself, his voice boomed.
Randy shook the doctor's hand first. "I'm Randy Cook."
"And you look familiar to me, I can't say why," Dr. Ryan said, his thumb and finger stroked the hairs of his goatee. "Don't tell me, I know, I know. You do commercials, or no, no--television?"
Randy smiled, blushed. "No. No commercials, no television. I'm a cameraman for the local news."
"Randy Cook," Dr. Ryan said. Recognition gleamed in his eyes. "I apologize."
"There's nothing to be sorry about," Randy said. He wanted to shift the
attention off himself. "This is my wife, Jamie."
"Jamie, it's a pleasure to meet you," Dr. Ryan said. He gently shook Jamie's hand.
"And this is a very good friend of ours, Gloria Grahm--"
"I know Gloria. I remember her calling to schedule the appointment for her boss last spring. How are you Miss. Grahm? I was both shocked and saddened by Governor Lippa's death." Dr. Ryan held his hand out.
Gloria tentatively took his hand, Randy saw. "You can call me Gloria."
"And if I'm not mistaken, you made the appointment for this evening, Gloria?"
"That's right," Gloria said. "Only I lied to your secretary."
"Lied? How so?" Dr. Ryan asked. He took a step back.
Randy thought the doctor suddenly looked scared; he'd just invited three strangers into his house.
"We want you to watch something," Gloria said. She had a sharp edge to her voice. She handed Dr. Ryan the video tape. "After you watch it, Randy and I, and Jamie--we have some questions we'd like to ask," Gloria said. She quickly added: "We'll pay you for your time."
Dr. Ryan tried to smile. His lips curled, then puckered. "Then you're not here to be hypnotized? Any of you?"
"No," Gloria answered, speaking for her companions. "Please, if you'll just take the time to view the tape, I think you'll understand a little more clearly as to why we're here."
"It's because of who all of you are, that I will agree to this.
Otherwise, I find this entire scenario highly irregular." Dr. Ryan turned around. He began to walk away. He said, softly, "If you'll follow me, please."
Gloria flashed Randy a wink. She patted Jamie on the back. "Past stage one."
Dr. Mark Ryan watched the tape without a sound. He sat, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together, his chin rested on his knuckles.
When the tape ended, Gloria was ready to talk. Dr. Ryan picked up the remote control. He rewound the tape all the way back to the beginning.
After watching it the second time through, he grimaced and snorted.
"Humph".
Dr. Ryan ejected the tape from the mouth of his VCR. "That's you in the tape, Gloria--what, ten years ago?"
"On the nose," Gloria said.
"Well," Dr. Ryan said, "I think you are more beautiful today."
Randy felt the blushing embarrassment of his old college girlfriend. Was the doctor coming on to her? Randy wondered. Go Gloria, he thought.
"Now this tape is interesting," Dr. Ryan said. He sat down on the sofa, next to Gloria. "Randy, you have a tape similar to this one, only in it you are the guinea pig?"
"That's right," Gloria said for Randy.
"And what about you?" Dr. Ryan asked Jamie.
"She's just here to support her husband," Gloria said.
"Support?" Dr. Ryan asked. "I don't think I understand why someone would need support."
Ignoring Dr. Ryan's question, Gloria asked, "When you are hypnotized, how come you can't remember any of the things you did while you're under?"
Dr. Ryan set the tape onto the arm of the sofa. "Your subconscious remembers it. Sometimes, recognizing the memory is difficult."
"Why is that?" Gloria asked.
"When someone is hypnotized, deeply hypnotized, the memory is deeply buried. But it's always there. Always."
Randy thought that this bit of information sounded encouraging.
"How long can some one be hypnotized for?"
"How long? Well, I'm not sure of any world's record, if that's what you're asking. But, let's say I hypnotized you today, to quit smoking. I would use a key word, actually a phrase, that takes you under. Now, let's say down the road, years and years away, you start smoking again.
You decide you want to come to me, and have me hypnotize you again--so you can kick the habit, right? Well, it would be much easier for me to hypnotize you the second time. All I would need, mostly, is to repeat the phrase we'd initially installed in your subconscious."
"It would be that easy?"
"It could be," Dr. Ryan said. "I know I always leave a, what I call, a backdoor. It's a way in to the subconscious."
"Is that ethical?" Gloria asked.
"It is. Most hypnotists leave a backdoor." Dr. Ryan said. "I'll bet the doctor that put you under in order to make this--what did you call it, Chicken Tape?-- I'll bet this doctor left a back door. He'd of been a fool
not to have. Do you remember the doctor's name responsible for the hypnosis performed?"
Gloria shook her head.
"Me either," Randy said.
"That's a shame."
"I have a question?" Randy asked. "If Gloria and I were hypnotized ten years ago--is it possible that we are just now beginning to remember things that might have taken place from when we were under?"
"It's not only possible, it's probable. Ten years is a long time for the mind to keep a secret from the memory. In a way, you could say your subconscious is trying to come clean, to fess up to the past. Whatever barriers and walls the original hypnotist built around the events that took place are probably old and decrepit, ready to come down. Does that make sense? So if you both are remembering things, I'm not surprised."
Gloria asked, "After all these years, you're saying, a backdoor would still work on our minds?"
"It should, depending on the carpenter who performed the installation.
Metaphorically speaking, of course." Dr. Ryan sat back down on the sofa.
"When is it my turn to ask some questions? Because I must say, it seems like there is more to this than just the Chicken Tape. There is, isn't there? The both of you look extremely troubled. From this tape I just watched, I don't see anything troublesome."
The four people in the room sat silently. Randy heard a clock ticking away the seconds. Five seconds passed.
"You're not going to let me ask any questions, are you?"
"We just needed some answers." Gloria tried to stand up. Dr. Ryan stood, too, helped her to her feet. "You've answered them, and believe me, we appreciate your time." Gloria pulled a piece of paper from her pocket.
It was folded in half. She handed it to Dr. Ryan. Dr. Ryan looked at the paper. "I'll give you back your check, Gloria, in return for answers to just three questions. How does that sound?"
Gloria started out of the room. She walked slowly, relying less and less on the cane, Randy noticed.
"Two questions?" Dr. Ryan asked.
"I'm sorry," Gloria said. Randy and Jamie moved past Gloria, into the foyer.
Randy heard the doctor's final plea: "Then, at least have dinner with me?"
Randy's heart skipped a beat. He felt excited for Gloria. Unfortunately, he did not hear her response.
Driving Gloria home, Randy said, "Well that was very informative."
"I thought so," Jamie answered. "The things he said gave me chills."
"You and me both," Gloria said.
"He seems like a smart, nice and rich, man," Randy said. He looked over to Gloria. She did not react to his comments. "And good looking, too."
"What, did you hear him ask me out, or something?" Gloria shot the question at Randy. He could tell she was merely embarrassed.
"He asked you out?" Jamie asked.
"I said yes, if it will make any of you feel better--and get you to drop the subject."
"I feel better. How about you Jamie?" Randy asked. He drove with a big smile.
"Where's he taking you?" Jamie asked. She patted Gloria on the shoulder.
"He didn't say," Gloria answered. She sounded, for the first time, shy and quiet. Even softer, she said, "I hope it's somewhere nice."
Through finger parted curtains, Dr. Mark Ryan watched them pull around his Lincoln and out of his driveway. He let the curtains slide closed.
He walked back into his study, his hands in his pockets. Gloria Grahm was his vision of beauty. The idea of taking her out, excited him immensely.
He thought about her vague reasons for coming over. This troubled him.
In the study, he skimmed the spines of text books lining the rows of shelves along the book cases. He stopped when he came to an old book, written by an icon in the hypnosis field, Dr. Alex J. Morrow.
He pulled the book out and opened the flap. The book was autographed. In it, Dr. Morrow had written: To an aspiring doctor and to one of my most favorite and brightest students. Call on me anytime you have a question.
I will always be here for you. Your friend, and it was signed, Dr. M.
Dr. Ryan sat at his desk, in front of his computer. He reached for the
mouse and the monitor came alive. He manipulated the mouse along the tool bar at the top of his screen, found his rolodex and Dr. Morrow's home phone number. Pressed return and the computer dialed Dr. Morrow's house.
When Dr. Morrow answered the phone, his face showed up on Dr. Ryan's monitor. Both doctors had camera's set up on their computers. Each doctor was viewing the other as they spoke together via the computer's phone system.
"Doctor Ryan, how are you?"
"I'm good. How are you?" Dr. Ryan asked.
"Couldn't be better. The new book's coming along nicely."
"Glad to hear that," Dr. Ryan said. "Tell anyone what the topic is?"
"Ah-ah-ah. You should know me better than that. What can I do for you?"
"Well, I'm calling because I just finished with a rather strange group session. Do you have a minute?"
While Jamie took a shower, Randy laid in bed. He had stripped down to his boxer shorts. He clasped his hands together behind his head, stared out the window and listened to the sound of the water running in the bathroom. He listened, also, to the sound of his wife humming a song he could not remember the name of. Even from the bedroom he could smell the strong perfumes in her soap and shampoo, enhanced by the heat of her shower.
When the water stopped, he looked away from the window and to the bedroom door. After a few moments, Jamie entered the room; one towel wrapped around her chest, just long enough to cover her rear, a second towel wrapped like a beehive around her hair.
She bent forward, removed the towel around her head, used it to dry her hair. "You just staring at me?" Jamie asked. She stopped what she was doing, waited for an answer.
"You're beautiful. Do you know that?"
"Gloria wasn't so ugly herself," Jamie pointed out, went back to drying her hair.
"You're more beautiful and more sexy and I married you." Randy got off the bed. His mind was full of confusion about his life, about his past.
He had questions that demanded answers. Yet, for the moment, he could think of nothing he'd rather do than make love to his wife.
Jamie stood up straight, tossed the towel she'd been using next to the hamper in the corner of the room. "You just remember that. You married me."
Randy just smiled.
"I know that look," Jamie said. She smiled back. She seemed to be teasing him. Each step he took toward her, she took a step back. "Didn't we already do this today?"
"That was earlier," Randy said. He reached for her. She let him catch her. His hand, in one slow tug, removed the towel wrapped around her chest.
Without covering her nakedness, Jamie stood there. "Do you like what
you see?"
Randy studied her body, starting with her legs; long and shapely and tan. He loved the suppleness of her hips, the sight of hair between her thighs. He loved the flatness of her belly, the fullness of her breasts, her erect nipples. He loved her neck, her lips, her eyes. "I like," he said. His body had been ready for her since the moment she came in the room. He lowered his shorts.
Jamie walked closer to him. She reached down for him, held him tightly in her hands. He could feel himself throbbing in her palms.
He held her by the hips, his fingers lightly tracing her flesh. Her body responded to the softness of his touch. She moaned.
Randy grabbed the back of her legs and lifted her, pinned her lovingly against the wall. Jamie moved her hands to around his neck. She kissed him full on the lips, her tongue entered his mouth.
With an art of familiarity, Randy entered her slowly. Holding her carefully, he began to move inside her. Each loving stroke built the tension inside him.
"Wait for me," Jamie pleaded. Her voice, a whisper between gasps.
The wait felt agonizing, energizing. Randy restrained his emotions. She pressed the heels of her feet against his lower back, as if trying to fit more of him into her. He continued and waited, until he heard Jamie moan, felt her shudder. Only then did he allow himself the privilege of pleasure, released himself inside her. A long sigh erupted from his mouth as he pressed his body tight against hers. He savored the warmth generated between them.
"I think you're going to need another shower," Randy told his wife. He kissed her neck, licked the fresh sweat from her skin.
"Join me," Jamie said. She lowered her legs, entrapping him inside her.
"I'll even let you get under the spray."
Randy laughed. "With an offer like that, how can I refuse?"
In bed, holding each other, Jamie whispered in Randy's ear. "That was wonderful, felt incredible." She kissed his neck, then nuzzled in close against it.
Randy held Jamie close, enjoyed the smell of her body, the feel of her skin, the warmth. "I love you."
"I love you."
For a moment they just held one another in silence. When Jamie suddenly sat up in bed, she startled Randy. "What is it, honey? What's wrong?"
Jamie gave her husband a wide-eye smile. "Randy, the Chicken Tape. Come on," she said. She jumped out of bed, grabbed her husband's hand. "We have to go watch the tape. I just had a weird thought."
Randy got out of bed. Jamie let go of his hand. She ran out of the room and down the hall. Randy heard the television switch on. "What's up?"
Randy called after her. "Jamie?"
"Hold on, I want to see the tape. If I see what I think--"
As Randy came into the family room, he stared at his wife in disbelief.
Naked, she stood bent over in front of the set, the remote control in her hands. Intensely, she watched the screen. "What are you looking for?" he asked.
"There!" She pressed a button on the remote with what looked to be all of her strength.
"What, you found something?" Randy asked. He quickened his step.
Standing behind Jamie, Randy stared at the television screen. She had an image frozen on the television set.
"Not something," she said. "I found someone."
Randy found himself smiling. "I never even noticed this." He walked backwards toward the couch, sat down and reached for the telephone on the end table.
"Who are you calling?" Jamie asked. "Gloria? It's kind of late, don't you think?"
Randy looked at the time. It was nearly midnight. "She'd want me to call. I know I'd want her to call if she had some substantial new information." As he began to dial Gloria's phone number, a small ray of hope--that this whole nightmare would end--began to glow inside him.
Jamie continued to stand by the television. She was smiling, looking back and forth from the set to her husband. "Not bad for an amateur gumshoe, huh?"
Gloria's phone had rung three times. "Not bad at all," Randy said. Then Gloria answered the phone. Quickly, Randy told her what Jamie had found.
After a few minutes of talking, Randy said, "Well, it's too late to do anything about it now. First thing in the morning though, I'll take this tape into work. I'm pretty sure I'll be able to get what we need, then we can head over to the hospital," Randy said to Gloria over the phone,
and to his wife, now sitting anxiously beside him. "Okay, Gloria, I'll
tell her. Try to get a good night's sleep. No, I don't think that's necessary. I promise to call you as soon as I have something. I said, I promise. Okay. Hey, sleep well." Randy hung up the telephone. "Gloria says to tell you, you're her hero."
"I'm someone's hero? Wow, not that feels pretty special," Jamie said, dramatically. She pressed the palm of her hand against her heart. "Just kidding. Actually, it feels good to know I may have actually helped."
"Helped? Jamie, if I can do what I think I can, you may have brought this whole thing to an end. Peace of mind might be lurking just around the corner." Randy stood up. He took Jamie by the hands and helped her to her feet.
"I want to come with you to work tomorrow."
"I'm not going in tomorrow," Randy said. He smiled. "Daniel Kester and Johnny Redman will be there. They'll follow me around, ask all kinds of questions. No, I can't go in tomorrow."
"But Randy--"
"I'm going in now. There's no way I'll be able to sleep thinking about this. Besides, only a skeleton crew will be at the station now. The night news is over, most everybody will have gone home."
"Well, Lone Ranger, don't think you're going anywhere without your side-kick. I'm in this now, a major player, I'd say, and I won't be sitting at home just waiting for you." Jamie planted fists on her hips.
"Oh, is that a threat," Randy said. He playfully slapped her fists away.
He wrapped his arms around her waist. "Honey," he said softly, "it will actually be easier if you stay home."
"But Randy--"
"Listen," Randy said. "It's going to be hard enough explaining why I'm at the station so late. The security guard would become mighty suspicious if I show up at one in the morning with my wife--and tell him I'm here to work on an early edition news reel. Right?"
Randy watched Jamie's face. It was clear she knew he was right. She might not understand, Randy thought, but at least she knows I'm right.
"I'll be back as fast as I can. I promise not to go anywhere, or do anything without calling you first," Randy said.
"No. You better not do anything or go anywhere without picking me up first. I don't want to get some phone call telling me you're on your way to Zanzibar--"
Randy stared at Jamie. They both began to laugh. "Zanzibar? Jamie, dear, what in the hell are you talking about?"
"You know what I mean," Jamie said. She laughed and pretended to cry at the same time. She slapped at his chest. "Don't make fun of me. I just don't want to be left out."
Randy gave Jamie a kiss on the forehead. "Let me run and get dressed.
Okay? Pop that cassette out of the VCR for me, would you please."
Pulling into the empty parking lot, Randy felt vulnerable. He was not used to having the entire lot to himself. Still, he expected to see a handful of cars. Perhaps on the night shifts, he thought, everyone parks in the garage. It would make sense, he realized.
Randy crossed the street, walked along the sidewalk to the front of the building, up the stairs and through the front door. Randy always knew the foyer was mammoth in size, but to see it empty, he understood just how large it truly was. The marble floors squeaked under the soles of his sneakers. The sound echoed, alerting the security guard.
The security guard, his face hidden behind a thick, black beard and mustache, stood up from his desk. Though his bulging belly, no longer concealed, may have been all fat--the fact remained the same; this guard could do some serious damage to someone, if he wanted to.
"Can I help you sir?" The guard asked.
Randy walked over to the man and produced a news station badge. "I'm--"
"I know who you are, Mister Cook. Here working on a story?" The guard's bulking figure and menacing look vanished with one smile.
Randy patted the video cassette. "Exactly. Any problem going on up?"
"I don't see why not. I think that anchor man is still up there. Truth is, I think he spends a lot of nights here. Maybe the old lady kicked him out?" The guard shrugged.
Must get boring here on the night shift, Randy thought. This guy's just looking to talk. Well, I don't have time for it. "Well, maybe," was all Randy could think to say. "I don't know him very well," he added.
Randy walked away from the guard, who tried very hard to get a conversation going. "Yeah, well--I need to run." Randy did not want to wait for the elevator and risk becoming entrapped in small talk. He pushed through the door that led to the stairs, ran up one flight. He went into the hall, waited for the elevator on the second floor.
When Randy got off the elevator, the dead silence was the first thing he noticed. He walked into the station, could smell cigar smoke, heard someone snoring. He moved carefully through the office cubicles to the film edit room.
He walked by the coffee pot, stopped. There was a pot on. He decided a cup of coffee was exactly what he as in the mood for, poured one. He entered his office, switched on a light, closed and locked the door.
Randy set the video cassette on a table by the station's VCR. He sat in a chair on wheels and rubbed his face in the palms of his hands. He hoped this little job wouldn't take too long. It was late--or rather, early-- and it had already been a long day. Despite his anxiousness, he felt very tired.
Randy took a sip of coffee, set down the cup and quietly slapped his hands together. "Okay," he said to the empty room. "Let's get to work."
Turning on equipment, Randy continued to stare at the video cassette as though the black plastic might sprout legs and scurry away. It was, after all, perhaps one of the only things that offered hope for the time being, Randy knew.
When the equipment was on, and running, Randy grabbed the video cassette. He stared at the white-tape label on the spine. CHICKEN TAPE.
He inhaled, held it, then exhaled. He slid the tape into the mouth of the VCR. Like his wife, Randy slouched forward close to the television set and held the remote control in his hands. The television set was also attached to a computer, revealing the same images on the monitor, as those on the television.
The tape was at the exact spot where Jamie had stopped it on the VCR at home. Randy rewound the tape some, stopped it, pressed play. The tape ran for less than four seconds. Randy hit the pause button.
On the screen, the image was somewhat fuzzy. Randy stared at the face of one of the aides. There had been two aides there, ten years ago, Randy remembered. Throughout the filming, the aides moved back and forth in front of the camera, helping Randy get from one location to another.
Over numerous viewings of the Chicken Tape, Randy always failed to see the aide as a person. He always seemed nothing more than a mere prop.
The aide, thanks to Jamie, could now be identified.
Randy decided to manipulate the image on the computer monitor. He did not want the background images to interfere with the face of the aide.
He took the mouse in his right hand and moved it across the pad, which moved the indicator on the television set. He clicked the indicator in a
tool
bar, selecting the cropping tool. Using the tool, Randy enclosed the aide's face behind a computer generated frame. He clicked inside the frame and the rest of the images on the screen disappeared. Only the aid's face remained. Randy sized the image of the aide to an 8x10.
Randy struck the print button on the key board, allowing for the image of the aide to be sent to a color laserjet printer. The image would take several minutes to print. Randy set the printer to work at the highest level of resolution, 600 dpi.
While the printer hummed, Randy leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He knew he would not fall asleep. Too much adrenaline surged through his system. While he rested, he thought about Gloria and of how they first met. The memory came back to him.
It was a cold and gloomy September day. The sky, slate gray, threatened rain. Randy thought it felt more like the end of Autumn, rather than only the beginning.
As a young man about to begin his freshman year in college, Randy found himself feeling extremely awkward and out of place. He arrived on campus early, anxious to see his dorm room and meet the person that would be his roommate for the next two semesters.
His parents helped him lug his belongings across the court yard, into the dormitory building and up three flights of stairs. After several trips to the car, and several hours later, Randy's half of the room was crammed full.
Randy's mother packed his clothing into one of the two dresser's in the room and placed certain items on hangers in one of the closets. Randy's dad smoked one cigarette after another, sitting in the suite--the small area furnished with a sofa and chair, that connected two separate dorm rooms.
"Just do good," Randy's dad said. "Keep your mind on your studies. Stay out of trouble."
"I will dad," Randy said.
"He will, Howard," Randy's mom called from the bedroom. "Leave the boy alone, you'll make him nervous, more nervous than he is now!"
"I'm not nervous," Randy called out.
"You know we only live an hour away," Randy's dad continued. "You can call us whenever you need something, anything, money, or whatever. If you want to come home for a weekend--"
"Howard," Randy's mother hollered.
"I'm sorry, Ruth," Howard said. Howard looked at Randy then, a tear in his eye.
Randy couldn't believe it; his father was crying.
Howard dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed the lit end with the toe of his shoe. He held Randy by the shoulders and just stared.
"Dad--"
"I'm sorry, Randy, boy, but I'm going to miss you."
Randy hugged his dad; he felt as though he should. The moment may have appeared emotional, but it wasn't to Randy. He was glad to be out of the house and out on his own.
Randy remembered feeling anxious, not wanting his parents to hang around the college too long. He wanted to get out and view the campus up close, as a student this time, not as a touring visitor, as he had done only months ago with hundreds of other high school seniors.
When Howard and Ruth finally did leave, Randy recalled the sudden shock of being alone, sudden homesickness. The excitement of being on campus that first day dimmed as he wandered aimlessly around by himself.
Heading back toward the dorm, after two hours of doing nothing, he decided to wait for the arrival of his roommate. He walked with his hands in his pockets, stared at his feet. He noticed the first raindrops as they fell on the ground, next he felt one hit his head. "Oh this is great," Randy murmured. It started to rain.
Randy looked up and saw her. A beautiful girl, struggling to hold onto a box with one hand and a knee, while desperately trying to open the door to his dormitory building.
"I'll get that!" Randy called out. He quickened his step, grabbed for the door. "Wait, you hold the door, I'll get the box," Randy said. He moved away from the door before the girl was ready. The door began to close and banged against her back. She dropped her box. Luckily, it did not open. Randy picked it up. "I'm sorry--God, I'm sorry."
"That's all right," the girl said. She smiled. "I appreciate your help.
My parents couldn't make it today, they both had to work, so anyway, thank you."
The box felt heavy. "I can carry it up for you," Randy offered. "Is there much more in the car?"
"Well, yeah, like seven or eight more boxes."
Randy smiled. "What room are you taking them up to? I can run this box
up. If you want, you can get more from the car."
Randy helped Gloria bring the boxes from her car to her dorm room. They unloaded the car quickly, enjoying themselves regardless of the rain. In her new room, they each sat on an end of her footlocker, drenched.
"Thanks for your help, Randy. That would have taken me forever," Gloria said, smiled.
A strong sensation stirred within him, a feeling more powerful than he'd ever felt with any girl in high school. "I only live right in the other wing," Randy said. He regretted the words the moment he heard them spoken. I sound desperate, he thought, like some over anxious, freaking idiot! "Hey, you know what I'm in the mood for?" Randy asked, quickly.
Gloria gave Randy a sly, suspicious look. "What?"
"A pizza. I just walked around campus--in the Student Union, there's this cafeteria. I know after all this walking up and down flights of stairs, I could go for a pizza." Randy slapped at his belly.
Gloria stood up. "I think a pizza sounds perfect. My treat--"
"I don't think so," Randy said. He stood up.
"I want to pay you back for helping me. Buying a pizza would make us even," Gloria said.
"Why, are you worried about owing me?" Randy joked. He thought he saw a look in Gloria's expression suggesting, yes, she is worried about owing him. "We'll go Dutch, or it's on me. That's the best I can offer."
Gloria slipped her arm around Randy's. "Oh, that's your best offer, is it? Well, the pizza is on me. There will be no Dutch treat, and if I even see you stick your hands into your pockets--for money, or for whatever reason--I will never talk to you again. Know what I mean? So, don't say another word. Lead me to the elegant cafeteria you rave so highly of."
The laserjet printer let out a quick, high-pitched beep when it finished printing that jarred Randy out of the memory. Randy stood up and walked over to the printer. He grabbed the paper by a corner, lifted it out of the tray. He studied the quality. The work he had done to manipulate the image helped reduce the initial fuzziness. He held in his hands a crisp and clean printout. He looked at the face of the aide on the television screen. "I hope this leads to something," Randy said, softly. He moved to the key board and pressed the print button two times more.
The next morning, after a night without much sleep, Randy and Jamie drove to the Kingston Restaurant, where Gloria was to meet them for breakfast.
When Randy pulled into the parking lot, he noticed the dark clouds accumulating in the sky. August was nearly over. Summer was nearly over.
Soon, it'll be September, he thought. Autumn. Winter. He dreaded winter, shoveling. "It looks like rain," Randy said, flatly.
"Do you see her car," Jamie asked. She sat forward against the restraints of her seat belt, looking for a car she couldn't possibly recognize even if it were parked right next to them.
"She can't drive," Randy said. "She would have taken a cab. Why didn't I think of that last night? I should have offered to pick her up."
"Don't blame yourself. You're exhausted, both mentally and physically,"
Jamie said in his defense. "Besides, she didn't ask for a ride."
"She wouldn't ask for a ride. That's why I should have thought to offer one," Randy said.
"So, she might be here?" Jamie asked. She unfastened her seat belt.
"She might be. You want to go on in and check. Never mind," Randy said.
He was looking in his rear view mirror. "A cab just pulled into the lot."
Randy and Jamie got out of the car. Randy grabbed a folder from the back seat, closed and locked the car doors. He moved around the car to stand beside his wife. He placed an arm around her shoulder as they watched Gloria pay the cab driver.
"Do you still have feelings for her?" Randy heard Jamie ask, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
"Not like feelings I have for you. I'm not in love with Gloria, no. I think, though, she'll always be special to me. Can you understand that?"
Randy asked. He surprised himself, answering Jamie's question so honestly. \*"'" Jamie slipped an arm around her husband's waist. "I can understand that. I do understand it."
Gloria waved, walked, toward the front entrance of the restaurant.
Randy and Jamie followed.
Inside the Kingston foyer, a hostess greeted them. "Three?"
Randy smiled. "Please."
"Smoking or--"
"Which ever," Gloria said. She sounded excited, anxious. She was staring at the folder in Randy's hand.
The hostess led them to a booth by the window in the back, outer corner of the restaurant and placed three menus down in the center of the table. "Your server will be with you shortly."
"Thank you," Randy said, slid into the booth beside his wife. Gloria sat across from them, her cane by the table. "I didn't think of offering you a ride, Gloria, and I--"
"Forget about it," Gloria said. She showed the palm of her hand to Randy's face, quieting him. "That's trivial. What's important, I believe, are the photo's in that folder."
Randy watched Gloria lick her lips. She sat so her chest pressed against the edge of the table, hands folded over an unopened menu. "I thought about these all night," Gloria said. "Jamie, I love you. I mean, I never, I don't think not once paid any attention to the aides in the video. And I consider myself to be highly observant." She laughed. "Can we see them, Randy, or what?"
As Randy went to open the folder, the server showed up with a pad and pencil in hand. "Hi," she said and smiled. "My name is Cathy. I'll be your server. Would anyone like a cup of coffee or a cold glass of orange juice?"
Jamie said she'd love a cup of coffee. "Me too," Randy said.
"I'll take the orange juice," Gloria said.
"Oh, I'll take a large orange juice with my coffee," Jamie said.
When Cathy left, Randy slid the folder to the center of the table.
"There's one thing I was thinking about last night, before I left the office."
"And that was?" Gloria probed.
"How are we going to put a name--" Randy opened the folder and pointed to the man in the photo, "--with that face? I mean, we don't know if he's a nurse, or a physician participating in the hypnosis study. He could be a friend of the people doing the testing. He might even just be another student."
"Another student, you think?" Jamie asked. "Because if he's another student, then I might be able to help."
The server returned with two coffees and two glasses of orange juice.
"Are you ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes."
They ordered and Cathy left the table.
"Okay, Jamie, you were saying if this aide is--or was--a student, you might be able to help. How?" Gloria asked. She took a sip of orange juice.
"I have a friend, Marcie. You know Marcie, Randy," Jamie said. "She works in the Bursar's Office at the college, with student records. I don't know what kind of privileges she has concerning the records, though. That's why I say, maybe I can help."
Randy felt skeptical. "We can try your friend. But classes aren't for another couple of weeks. What do we do until then?"
Gloria let out a sigh. She looked tired, frustrated.
"The professors and administrators and things, have already gone back to work. They're getting the school back up and running, at least that's how Marcie put it."
"So, she's at work now?" Gloria asked.
"She's at work now, or she'll be going to work, I'd guess," Jamie said.
She added two packets of sugar to her coffee and stirred it with her spoon. "If you want, while we wait for the food, I can run over to the pay phone and try calling her office?"
Gloria nodded. "Please, Jamie. That would be wonderful. If we know she's there, and she'll see us, then I can relax and try to pretend I'm enjoying my breakfast. If she can't help, then I can eat my breakfast and go home."
Jamie laughed.
Randy did not laugh, he knew Gloria was not kidding. He felt a little sick to his stomach, too. He stood up, allowing room for Jamie to slide out of the booth. She kissed Randy quickly on the cheek. Taking her purse with her, she walked briskly to the pay telephone.
"If her friend can help," Gloria said, "we may find ourselves a break in the--I hate to say it--mystery."
Randy laughed. "Don't feel so funny. I feel like I'm trapped in a bizarre episode of The Fugitive, or something. Here we are, blindly looking for the man with one arm--"
Gloria laughed. "As surreal as all of this is, or as all of this seems -I'm actually scared. I don't like not knowing who I am, or what happened to me, but it is a little easier to deal with, not being alone, being with you."
Randy reached across the table. He took a hold of Gloria's hands.
"We'll get through this, you know."
"I hope we will." When Jamie came back to the table, she wore a smile that said it all.
"I take it Marcie's in and can see us?" Randy asked. He stood up so Jamie could slide into the booth. Cathy, the server, was right behind Jamie.
Cathy set the food down in front of them. "That's everything. Is there anything else I can get for you right now? Some more coffee maybe?"
"We're all set, thank you," Gloria said.
"Well?" Randy asked Jamie.
"Well," Jamie said. "Marcie is in and she'll help us. She said to come by around noon, her lunch hour. I explained a little bit of what we thought we might need."
"And she thinks she can help?" Gloria asked.
"What my friend explained to me was, the student ID's have photo's on them. All the ID's are stored in a file in the college mainframe. This way, should a student lose his ID, the school doesn't need to take a new picture, they just make a new student ID from the photograph on record in the school's computer," Jamie said.
"I know what you mean," Randy said. "It's like the way things are done at the Department of Motor Vehicles. You get the picture taken for your driver's license. That picture is saved in the computer. If you lose your license, the DMV-people can send you a new one, without you showing up to have another picture taken."
"Exactly," Jamie said. She peppered her eggs.
Gloria stuck her fork into the fruit salad. "I gotta say, if I lose my driver's license, there's no way they could stop me from going down for a new picture. God, the one I have on my license now is awful!"
Jamie laughed hard. "You should see mine--no, wait, forget that, you should see Randy's!"
Jamie and Gloria began to laugh at Randy's expense. "Oh this is real funny," Randy said. This feels good, he thought, the three of us together, enjoying each other. Randy knew it was because, for a second time, Jamie had brought to them a beam of hope, one that might lead to the end of a decade-old nightmare.
Randy buttered his toast, thinking: God, I pray this nightmare is almost over!
Dr. Alex J. Morrow called his secretary at work, said he felt ill and would not be in today. Truly, he did not feel well, though it was no flu or virus that upset his stomach.
Sitting in the dark, on his sofa, in the family room, Alex Morrow stared straight at nothing and tried not to think of anything. He had been up most of the night just thinking. He felt tired and was tired of thinking. All he wanted to do now was nothing.
Dr. Mark Ryan had called last night with news that caused the churning in Alex's stomach to begin. The pain in his belly was enough to force Alex to cradle his stomach with both hands. He dreaded the thought, but wondered, am I getting an ulcer?
Mark had been a student of his from years ago, an aspiring brain in the field of psychology. Alex always knew the young man would do well. He tried to keep in contact with the high honors graduate, and for the most part deemed his efforts successful.
Mark called from time to time with questions about psychology theories, or to comment on articles he'd read. Once a month, since graduating, Mark stopped by the campus to take Alex out to lunch. During the summer, Mark stopped by Alex's house, where Alex prepares a lunch for the both of them.
Dr. Ryan told Alex that Gloria Grahm, and the news-hero Randy Cook and his wife, Jamie, stopped to see him. Alex knew immediately that the rules of his game had changed. His initial plan had been bumped up from category Slightly Risky to Dangerous.
It was his conversation with Mark that Alex tried to ignore now. The questions Mark asked suggested the camerman and governor's aid knew much more about the tests performed on them than they should.
Forcing his mind to switch gears, Alex thought of the newest photo CD's Dr. Cox delivered.
The one spy they found to follow Gloria Grahm did outstanding, detailed work. His reports were complete, listing Gloria's daily events in specific chronological order. The spy saw and documented everything Gloria did.
Samuel Huntly's quality as a photographer was beyond impressive. Alex could not believe the close-ups that Samuel provided, the crisp quality - . of each shot. He wondered, How close does Samuel Huntly stand in order to get these pictures without being seen?
The other student hired to follow Gloria did an okay job. Mailed in 5x7
photographs on Fuji paper; for the most part the images received were over exposed, underexposed, or too dark to see any detail at all.
The fact that Gloria was still meeting with Randy Cook is what troubled Alex. He had convinced himself that the two had joined to mourn the loss of their friend, Wyatt Ransom. As it now seemed, however, there was more to their story. If necessary, Alex had a plan. He liked to think that he always had a plan on hand, ready to use.
Alex switched on a light. Across the room he stared at his personal computer sitting on the desk. He wanted to get back to the book he was writing. It would settle his nerves, he knew, to sit and write a new chapter, or line edit the one he'd just finished writing.
He stood up slowly, felt his bones creak some. "I never asked to get older," Alex said to himself. He walked slowly across the room to his desk, sat down.
In their prospective cases by the keyboard, Alex stared at the photo CD's from Samuel Huntly. He remembered clearly the photographs taken of Gloria and Randy by the lighthouse on the first CD.
He grabbed that CD, removed it from its case and slipped it into his drive. When the images came up on his monitor, Alex leaned back in his chair and just stared at the faces of Gloria and Randy. Stared at the faces, thought and planned.
When twelve o'clock slowly rolled around, Randy could feel the tension building in his chest. He thought of the pills that Dr. Steltson prescribed, but could not tell if they were working yet. It's still too soon, he decided. He concentrated on his breathing while he drove.
"Are you okay, Randy?" Jamie asked. She sat in the back seat. She had her arms stacked on the front seat, her chin rested on a forearm.
Gloria sat beside Randy. She was looking out the window, heard Jamie's question, turned to look at Randy. "Randy?"
"I'm all right," Randy said.
Jamie touched his shoulder. "Did you remember to take your medication?"
"Medication for what?" Gloria asked.
"I have panic attacks." Randy swallowed. "I did take the pill and I don't want to talk about it and we're here."
A monstrous sign stood in the center of a yard, equivolent in size to a football field in length and width, which read: University of Rochester.
"Do you know, I haven't been back here since graduation? Well, I came in once to pick up a copy of my transcripts, but other than that Randy, it hasn't really changed by looking at it, has it?" Gloria asked. She stared with wide eyes at the campus.
Randy followed signs along the road to the Bursar's Office. "I haven't been back either."
"This is a beautiful campus," Jamie said.
Randy heard Jamie's words, but stayed quiet. Flash clips of vague memories began to zip through his mind too fast for his mind's eye to see anything clearly.
"Randy?" Jamie asked, again.
"I'm okay. Just apprehensive about this, about being here," Randy said.
He parked the car and shut the engine off. "Well, I think we should get in there. I'm as ready as I'll ever be."
"Me, too," Gloria agreed.
Randy glanced up into his rearview mirror. Jamie was looking at him. He
gave her a reassuring smile and a wink. She returned the smile, leaned forward and kissed him.
When Randy stepped out of the car, he felt a cascade of emotions: fear, anxiety, dread, stress. What am I doing here? he wondered. "I feel like all of this is really just some game."
"If it's a game, then I don't remember signing up to play," Gloria said in a whisper. Randy could barely hear her words. "Correction," she continued, "we signed up to play a game, only no one showed us the rules."
"Is that why we're doing this?"
"It is a game, Randy. The game hasn't ended," Gloria said. "If we don't figure out the rules, the objective, then we can't win. I know confrontations were never your thing, especially self-confrontations, but we need to do this. You, Randy, you need to do this.
"Think of Wyatt. I don't want to lose the game the way Wyatt lost. I've lost enough already; I'm not going to lose at this whole at this whole, mind play thing."
"Nice speech, good pep-talk," Randy said. He clapped his hands together.
Jamie stood beside him, the folder with the photographs of the aide under her arm. "I feel primed. Let's go dig through files and see what we can find."
As they walked, Randy found himself faced with more clips of college day memories. He ignored them, pushed them aside in his brain. He rolled his fingers into balled fists, unclenched his hands, then fisted them again as he came to the door of the Bursar's Office. He wasn't sure why the negative feelings bubbled inside him. Being on campus however, was causing anxiety.
"Should we all go in?" Gloria asked.
"Maybe not. We'd look kind of funny all of us going in. Let me go and grab Marcie and bring her out here," Jamie said. "Okay?" When Jamie came out of the Bursar's Office, she was alone. "She's coming. She said she'd just be a minute," Jamie explained.
As Jamie promised, Marcie Sanna came out of the office only a moment later. "This is our friend, Gloria Grahm," Jamie said, quickly.
While Marcie shook hands with Gloria, Randy quickly took time to appreciate the appearance of Jamie's friend. The woman, a light skinned African American, always dressed professionally. She was very attractive with long, polished finger nails, shiny, mid-back length, straight black hair, large, radiant round chocolate brown eyes with swirls of dark fudge.
"Randy, how are you? It's been a while," Marcie said. She leaned forward to kiss Randy's cheek.
"I'm all right. You look wonderful," Randy said. "As always."
"Why thank you. Thank you. And, I saw you on the news not to long ago.
Medal of Honor, huh? A little impressive, but not less than I already expect from you. I'm afraid you just can't surprise me," Marcie said.
The flirting, Randy always knew, was innocent, harmless, but playful, fun. Jamie, he assumed, knew this, too. "Well, I sure surprise the hell out of myself sometimes," Randy said. "Scare the hell out of myself sometimes."
Marcie laughed. She touched Randy's shoulder. She didn't know he was serious. He smiled.
"Okay, you guys. Like I told Jamie on the phone, I'm not positive what I can do to help, but we have a system in the basement. It's tied into the school's mainframe," Marcie said. She started leading them to the elevator. She inserted a key into a lock on the control panel by the sliding doors. She turned the key and pressed the down button. The elevator hummed with sudden life. "I'm going to give you a password to access student ID's. I'm afraid the password will give you other privileges, too. It'll be my job if you're caught. All right?"
Randy smiled. "We'd never place blame on you."
"That's not what I'm saying. Just don't abuse the password. Jamie said what you needed to do was find a student, possibly enrolled here ten years ago. You'll be matching a photo against the ID badges, right?"
Marcie asked. The elevators doors opened. They all stepped into the car.
Marcie sent them to the basement with the push of a button.
Jamie handed the folder to Randy. He opened it and handed the photograph to Marcie. "That's all we're hoping to do. Place a name with this face."
"It may take a while," Marcie said. "If you know he was a student ten years ago, was he a freshmen, sophomore, junior or a senior?"
Randy gasped. "I never thought of that."
"This college, especially ten years ago, had as many as ten thousand students enrolled." Marcie sighed. "What if he was or is a staff member?"
"Can we see ID badges of staff members with the password you'll be letting us use?" Gloria asked. She watched Marcie expectantly.
"You could, but I sure didn't tell you that. Understand?" Marcie asked.
"We understand," Jamie said. She sounded nervous. "I promise Marcie.
We'll find what we need, tear up the password and get off campus."
"Finding this person is really important, huh?" Marcie asked.
"It is," Gloria said.
"I wish you guys luck, then," Marcie said. The elevator stopped, doors opened. "You can take the elevator back up without a key. You don't have to worry. Because of the types of tuition files we store down here, we keep this floor locked, so the key is only used to get down to the basement floor." She led them along a narrow hallway.
Randy expected to see cinder block walls, smell mildew. The basement, refreshingly enough, was just like the rest of the building; bright, modern--only silent, without people.
Marcie stopped and unlocked a door. "The computer's in the back room of this office. Keep the noise down, all right? There's a phone in there too, in case you need to make a call, just no long distance calls, please." Marcie pulled a small piece of paper from the pocket of her dress slacks. "The password is written on this paper."
Randy took the paper. "Thank you."
"On that paper, I've written the telephone number to my office upstairs, too. You only dial the last five numbers, just like I have it written, okay? Call if you need help, or if you have any problems," Marcie said.
She smiled. Before she turned around, she said again, "Really guys, good luck."
Randy, Jamie and Gloria walked into the room.
"Should we turn on lights, or just the one in back," Gloria asked. "I don't want to attract attention."
"I agree," Jamie said. "Let's get to the back room and only use the light back there."
Randy took point. He walked carefully through the room, felt the corner of a table, or desk, jab him in the thigh. "Be careful here," he warned.
He found the door, in the back of the room, opened it. He slid his hand along the inner wall, found the light switch, turned it on. "There we go," Randy said.
Jamie and Gloria followed him into the room. Randy looked around. The office was no larger than Daniel Kester's. An impressive, lone computer system sat on an oversized, gray steel desk, like the desks teachers used in high school. Randy could tell the room had not been used in a while. Cobwebs cluttered ceiling corners, dust covered the surface of everything in the room except the computer area.
"Someone definitely uses that computer in this office," Randy said,]
"but why it's kept hidden down here is beyond me."
"Would you like the honors?" Gloria asked Randy.
Randy smiled. He guessed Gloria to be very efficient on a computer and assumed she did not want to use this one now because of the lack of coordination and strength in her limp hand. "It would be my pleasure,"
Randy said, graciously. "Ladies, if you would care to pull up a chair on either side of me, I have the feeling we're in for a long, long day."
He stood by the restrooms with a knapsack on his back and waited patiently. A cassette walk-man was clipped to the hip of his jeans and headphones over his ears. He flipped through a college course brochure.
He kept his head titled down, as if reading the listings in the magazine, but stared only at the closed elevator doors.
When finally the elevator returned, he held his breath. Because he didn't have a key, he needed to get onto the elevator without being seen. The doors opened, a beautiful black woman stepped out of the elevator.
He chanced it all. With stealth, he slipped into the elevator car.
Hopefully, no one had seen him.
He could not remove the smile on his face, as the doors closed and the car began to drop to the basement floor.
While the elevator descended, he removed and unzipped his knapsack. He pulled out the small microphone with a five foot wire and plugged it into the walk-man, next to the headphones jack. He switched on the tape recorder and held the microphone far from his mouth. In a soft whisper he said, "Test. Test. One. Two. Test. This is Samuel Huntly. I have followed the trio now into the Bursar's Office building from the campus parking lot. A woman from the office has taken the three of them down to the basement level. Luckily, I managed to get onto the elevator after them. I hope I haven't lost them." He heard the sound of his voice in the headphones.
He switched off the tape recorder. The elevator stopped. Sam found himself confronted with three possible routes to take. He could head straight, left or right. He stepped out of the car, stood there undecided.
"That woman wasn't down here that long, so they must be in a room, relatively close," Sam muttered. "Okay," he said. "I'll head left, first--no, I'll stop talking to myself first, then I'll head left!"
As quietly as possible, Sam began to hunt for the people he's come to
simply call, the trio. He walked slowly down the hallway, listening for any noise and looking for light.
Sam stopped at a door, took hold of the door knob, carefully tried to turn it. So far, all of the doors were locked. That doesn't mean the trio isn't in the room, though, he thought. But what could they be doing behind locked doors, in dark rooms, Sam wondered. He laughed and thought, but I doubt they'd come out to the Bursar's Office just for group sex.
Randy scrolled through the names of students, choose to see the students picture ID, closed the file, moved on to the next name listed. The computer moved at a snail's pace. They checked both male and female students because, as Jamie pointed out, "With some names, you can't tell if it's a boy or a girl, like Madison, or Terry."
"Good point, Jamie. Great. I never would have thought of that," Gloria said. "We have to check them all, Randy."
"I agree," Randy said.
Now, picture after picture and two hours at the keyboard, Randy felt the muscles in his back and neck stiffen. When he yawned, Jamie and Gloria yawned, too. He knew it was true--but not why--yawns were contagious.
"Sorry," Randy said.
"We could be here a while," Jamie said. "What should we do about bathroom breaks?"
Randy sighed. "You have to go?"
Jamie silently nodded. She bit her lower lip.
"Me too," Gloria said.
"Well, it's going to be up to the two of you to venture out and find a girl's room. I'll stay and keep looking. Okay?" Randy asked.
"Don't you have to go?" Jamie asked.
"I'll go when you two get back," Randy said. "This way you can keep an eye out for the men's room."
"You can only wish we'll tell you," Gloria teased.
Sam heard the sound of a door opening from somewhere down the hallway.
He took a step back, pressed his shoulders to the wall. He wanted to close his eyes, to become invisible. He looked straight ahead. On the door in front of him was the stick image of a girl in a dress, the word WOMEN written over the symbol. Next to that door was a water fountain
and then the men's room.
"Oh God," Sam gasped. "Okay, I'm going to guess I'll need a better place to hide."
The broom closet, marked with an Employee's Only sign, stood on the opposite side of the women's room. Sam looked down the hall, saw no one and made a dash for the door. He could hear his heart beat in his ears, as well as feel it slamming around in his chest. He prayed the door was not locked.
He twisted the knob. It opened. Sam slipped into the room and closed the door almost all the way. He kept it open just enough to peak through the crack and see who was coming down the hall.
"God help me if it's the janitor," Sam whispered.
He heard them, though, two women that he assumed to be Gloria andjamie.
"I'll bet it's down--there it is!" It was Jamie talking, Sam knew.
Thank God I moved, Sam thought. He could have been caught. He felt lucky to have seen the restroom signs, felt relived to have second guessed the destination of the women. How do I know these things? he wondered. A sixth sense, he told himself. You simply possess a sixth sense, or is it a seventh sense? Which ever it is, Samuel Huntly, you've got it!
After the girls went into the bathroom, Sam realized he could hear them talking. He could not understand all that they said, but he could hear sentence fragments, anyway. Taking a chance, Sam pulled at a dangling string. The string recoiled and a naked bulb came to life, bounced and danced with the string, cast moving shadows in the room.
Looking up, Sam found what he had hoped to find. He pushed a box up to the wall and stood carefully on it. He pressed the record button on his walk-man and held the microphone up to the heat duct, by the ceiling. He turned up the volume on his walk-man. While the tape recorded the conversations of Gloria and Jamie, Sam listened intently to every word they said.
What the women talked about made little sense. He thought he understood one thing for certain: They were looking for someone, a student, perhaps, from ten years ago.
So where in that room, exactly, are they looking for this person? Sam wondered. Then he heard Gloria mumble an answer to his silent question.
"Randy's pretty good on that computer, huh?" Sam heard Gloria ask.
"He loves computers," Sam heard Jamie answer Gloria.
They were in the school's database, Sam knew. Son of a bitch! The trio's scrolling through school records!
Sam followed, at a great distance, behind the women when they came out of the bathroom. They led me right to the room they're working in! He stood outside the closed door and pressed the microphone against the wood. He did not hear anything. He moved down the hall some and pressed the microphone against the wall.
He heard Randy speak: "I thought you two took off on me."
"Would we do that?" Sam heard Jamie ask. "It's your turn."
Sam mumbled. "He's got to leak, too!"
"I'm set for a while," Sam heard Randy say.
"Did you find anything?" It was Gloria talking, Sam knew.
"Nothing. Zip. I'm into the sophomores now," Sam heard Randy say.
Sam smiled and looked at the walk-man. The reels were spinning. He could hear the conversation through his head phones, so he assumed the cassette recorder was picking up the voices, too. Dr. Cox will be so excited, he thought. She' 11 be out-of-her-mind excited!
Got it! Randy thought. He stared at the monitor, the image matched Randy's color print out. He held the paper up to the side of the screen.
"I think I got it. I found him, or should I say, I found Harrison Kentman."
Gloria, who looked half asleep in the chair, sat up quickly. "Really?"
Jamie stopped pacing the room. She unfolded her arms and stood beside her husband. She planted the palms of her hands onto her knees. "That's a definite match," she said. "What year is he?"
"Senior," Randy said. "It figures, doesn't it?"
Gloria sighed. "Let's just thank God we found him. Who has a pen? I want to get down all the information that's there. We can look him up, or maybe look up his parents, and see where Mister Harry Kentman is now."
Jamie dug through her purse. She pulled out a pen. "But I don't have anything to write on."
Randy slid open two of the desk drawers. "Here we go," he said. He handed Gloria a notebook.
Gloria pulled three sheets of paper out of the notebook. Randy put the
notebook away while Gloria began to transfer the information from the monitor on to the paper.
Jamie's stomach gurgled. Randy looked at her. "Hungry?"
"I guess I'm kind of starving."
"Me, too," Randy said. "Why don't we go back to our place and I'll make us some dinner? It's nearly six-thirty." Randy laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in the chair. "What do you say?"
Jamie laughed. "You'll make dinner?"
"I could make dinner," Randy said.
"Randy," Gloria said, she had stopped writing. "If I remember correctly, you tried to make macaroni and cheese in a crock pot in your dorm room.
You went to class, and figured it would slow cook, so when you got back to the dorm lunch would be ready."
"No he didn't?" Jamie asked. She held her stomach as she laughed. "Come on, Randy. You didn't do that for real, did you?"
Randy tried to smile. "I didn't know any better," he pleaded his case.
He stood up. "It seemed perfectly logical at the time. Theoretically, I still think, it should have worked."
"I'm surprised you understood the concept of a crock pot enough to even try it," Jamie said. She hugged her husband.
"I got all we need." Gloria shut down the computer. "And I have a better idea. We can go to my house and order a pizza and some wings."
Jamie shrugged. "If those are our options, it's hard to not to lean toward Gloria's idea. Unless anyone's in the mood for macaroni and cheese?"
Gloria and Jamie burst into laughter.
"I guess I don't find this funny," Randy said. He started to walk out of the back room. The girls followed him. "Here I was, this kid--first time away from home--trying to take care of myself. And you guys are picking on me."
They stepped into the hall. Randy closed the door, made sure it was locked. They walked over to the elevator.
"Hey, now that's funny," Gloria said. She cocked her head to the side.
"What?" Jamie asked.
"The elevator, it just left the basement floor."
Everyone stared at the lights above the elevator doors. The letter B was dark. The number one lit up.
"Are you sure?" Randy asked.
"Positive. The B was lit. Someone just left the basement." Gloria looked behind her, up and down the halls. "Randy, the only thing I can think of is--like at the lighthouse, the photographer."
Randy took in a deep breath. He bit his lower lip. He reached out to touch Gloria's shoulder. "Let's not worry about that right now. We know nobody was down here taking pictures of us. We were locked in a room.
We'd have heard someone sneaking up behind us and we would have seen a flash."
"I guess you're right," Gloria agreed.
"But what if they were just listening?" Jamie asked.
"How? Through the walls? That's not too likely," Randy said. "Come on.
We're just making ourselves nervous and jumpy. I'm the one suffering from the anxiety attacks here, okay?"
"Well, for now I'll pretend that we're not being followed. But just for now." Gloria sounded angry. Randy knew she had a right to be, having already been mentally molested.
When it arrived, Randy would not let Gloria pay for the pizza and wings, despite her protest. He handed the food to Jamie, took out his wallet.
"Smells wonderful," Randy heard Jamie say from the kitchen.
"You know, Randy," Gloria said. "I never would have suggested buying food if I thought you'd pull this." She began to walk from the living room to the kitchen.
"Here you go," Randy said, handed the young boy a twenty. "Keep the change." The kid smiled as he turned and walked away.
Just down and across the street, Randy thought he saw a man slouching in a parked car. Or do I? he wondered. He closed and locked the front door.
"What's wrong?" Jamie asked.
"Hmm? Oh, nothing. I can't believe what a nice night it turned out to be after all that rain," Randy said with fabricated enthusiasm and interest. He sat at the kitchen table next to his wife, a paper plate and napkin in front of him. "Looks good."
While they ate, Randy thought about the person he saw in the car. Could it be the photographer from the lighthouse? he wondered. All this time, has he been following Gloria and me?
I'll keep my mouth shut for now. There's no reason to unnecessarily scare Jamie or Gloria. He reached for a second slice of pizza. Eating will keep me from talking and allow time for me to think.
"Where do you keep your phone book?" Jamie asked. She wiped the sauce from the Buffalo-style wings off her hands onto a napkin, then stood up.
"Sit down and finish eating. We can look Kentman up after," Gloria said.
"We've been going at this all day. We got a lead. It won't just disappear. Enjoy your pizza. Have some more wings."
Jamie smiled. "I know, I know. I just can't relax. I just want to see how many Kentman's there are in the phone book. If there's a Harrison, will we call him tonight?"
That's a good question. "I don't know. I think I'd like to work on a line of questioning," Randy said.
"Okay counselor, we'll take a short recess--"
"You know what I mean, Gloria. I don't want to just get him on the phone and stutter through a bunch of awkward questions. I'd like to develop a direct line. We don't know anything about Mister Kentman. He may not be willing to talk to us. If he does want to talk, he may not talk for long. If we're going to ask him questions, let's make sure they are exactly like we want them to be."
"I agree. Should we make a list?" Jamie asked.
"Okay. A list sounds good. I got a notebook and pen right on the counter by the phone," Gloria said. "My phone book, Jamie, is right under the end table in the living room, if you don't mind--"
"Nope. I'll grab it." Jamie left the kitchen.
"I didn't want to say anything," Randy whispered. "I think your house is being watched."
Gloria just nodded.
"You'll come with us to our house tonight," Randy said.
"I will not."
"You will not, what?" Jamie asked. She held the telephone book, notebook and pen in her arms. "What's going on?"
Randy sighed. "Okay, here's what's happening. Sit down, Jamie. Listen, there's a person parked in a car just down the street. I only find it odd because the person was crouching, like he might be trying to hide, to stay out of view. I noticed him when I paid the pizza kid. I think it' odd."
"If the guy was just sitting up in the car, you might not have thought anything of it," Jamie said.
"Exactly. But this person wasn't. I don't want to say the person in the car is a guy. We need to keep our minds open. It could very well be a girl following us. Dammit, if we're even being followed!"
"Don't get upset, Randy," Gloria said.
Randy stood up. He felt angry. "But I am upset. I sound paranoid. We don't know if we're being followed--"
"You just said--"
"I know what I said. How do I know the person in the car isn't looking through the glove compartment for a map or something?"
"You don't," Gloria said, "but under the light of our circumstances, we have to assume--"
"I can't assume anything," Randy said. He stormed out of the kitchen.
"What are you doing, Randy?" Jamie asked. "You can't go out there. What if he, she--damn you. What if they have a gun?"
Randy ran out the front door. He sprinted toward the car. "Hey," he shouted. "Hey you!"
The car's engine started. The head lights came on. Wheels squealed as the car lunged forward at Randy.
Randy dove out of the way, to the left side of the road. The car roared past him. Panting, palms scraped, Randy sat in the street, leaning on one elbow. He stared at the car--too dark to see the license plate--until it turned the corner.
Gloria and Jamie were yelling, screaming.
"I'm all right," he yelled to them. He stood up slowly and slapped his hands on his jeans. "I'm okay." He walked back to Gloria's house. "Well, we don't have to assume he was following us. He was. I think it's safe to bet he has pictures, too. Great."
"So now what?" Jamie asked.
"Now it's a whole new game, and I don't have a clear image of who our opponent might be. But I don't think they like seeing me and Gloria together. It must be scaring them." Randy followed the girls back into the house.
"Do you think he'll come back?" Jamie asked.
"Not tonight. I don't think so, no." Randy closed the door, locked it.
His heart still raced in his chest. "Jamie, grab that phone book. I think we better try to find and talk with Harrison Kentman as soon as possible."
Gloria kneeled on the sofa, her fingers parted the drapes. She looks scared, Randy thought. He was scared. What a nightmare this is, what a godawful nightmare.
"There are only a few Kentman's listed in the white pages," Jamie said.
She walked from the kitchen into the living room, the phone book open in her hands.
The telephone rang.
"I got it," Gloria said.
"Any Harrison's?" Randy asked.
Gloria picked up the telephone and said hello. "Oh, how are you Doctor Ryan? All right, Mark. Good. Listen, this is a bad time, ah, could you hold on one second?"
Randy waved at Gloria. "Talk," he whispered. "Jamie and I will work on writing down some questions in the kitchen. Talk."
Gloria sighed. "I--"
"Talk," Jamie insisted. She took Randy by the hand and led him into the other room.
Randy and Jamie sat across from each other at the table. Jamie had the pen and paper because, she said, she wrote more legibly.
"Okay, what's the first question we should ask Mister Kentman when we find him?" Jamie asked.
"The first question? Well, Missus Journalist, the first question I'd ask Mister Kentman is: who in the hell were you working for during the filming of the Chicken Tape?"
Jamie looked tense. She held the tip of the pen to the paper, licked her lips.
By ten to midnight, Randy felt comfortable with the short, specific questions they planned to ask Harrison Kentman. "Now all we have to do is find him," Randy said.
"We will," Gloria said. "I know we will."
"I'm sure we will," Randy said. He spoke with little conviction. "It's late. Gloria, you should come home with us."
"I agree," Jamie said.
"I don't agree," Gloria said. "I'm perfectly capable to stay alone in my own house."
Randy sighed. "Right now, none of us should be alone. We have no clue who's out there, or why," Randy said, pointed at the front door. "I think it's important if we stay together and not split up."
"I agree," Jamie said.
"I don't agree," Gloria said.
"Don't be difficult."
"Then you can stay here. That would make more sense, anyway. Why drive all the way home? Like you said, Randy, it's late." Gloria huffed. She crossed her arms. "See? No one really likes to stay anywhere but in their own home."
"We'11 stay," Randy said. He produced a tight-lip smile. "Thank you for the generous, albeit spiteful, offer."
Jamie laughed. "You two must have made one hell of a couple in college."
"I've got twin beds in the spare room, down the hall. You can push them together if you want." Gloria smiled slightly. "I guess I'm glad you're
both staying."
Jamie stood beside Gloria, placed an arm around her shoulders. "We'll all get through this, Gloria. I know we will."
Randy stared at his wife and old friend. His stomach churned. He could not help but feel responsible for them both. He worried about tomorrow--what they might encounter. Who's following us? he wondered.
Maybe more importantly, why, exactly, is someone following us? Was it possible that a conspiracy really existed? Are we part of a decade old coverup?
The questions continued to spin around in his head. Jamie took his hand, lead him down the hall. They whispered goodnight to Gloria.
Something started ringing. The loud, intrusive sound, shot through Audrey's head. Her eyes opened. Immediately, she sat up in bed.
The security system? she thought with alarm. No, no, it's the telephone.
It's the telephone, she realized. She grabbed the receiver. In a curt voice she said, "Hello? Who is this? Sam? Oh, Kyle. What do you mean you quit?" Audrey slid her legs out of the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. She ran her fingers like a brush through her hair. "Kyle, slow down, tell me again what happened? You relieved Sam at the college, okay. What were they doing at the college? Sam wouldn't tell you? Okay, so you followed them and they saw you? Oh, they ordered a pizza and Randy saw you when he paid the delivery guy. Yeah, I'm getting all this.
He came running out of the house? Right at you? I don't see why you're quitting, Kyle. You take very good pictures," Audrey lied. Kyle was not as good a photographer as Samuel Huntly. Still she knew she needed to continue to stroke Kyle's ego. "Kyle, we're not doing anything illegal here. Listen to me, if you quit, it's important that you honor the contract. You can tell no one. I know you know, I'm just reminding you.
I'm just reminding you, Kyle." He hung up on her. Audrey stared at the receiver for a moment, hung up.
She lifted her alarm clock. 12:40. Great, she thought, I'll never get to sleep now.
Audrey put on her robe, slippers and went into the kitchen where she poured a glass of milk. From the cupboard she took out a package of chocolate chip cookies, sat at the table, dipped cookies into the milk and ate them. She stared at the window over the sink, out at the blackness of the night.
She tried to raise a milk-saturated cookie to her lips, the moist cookie crumbled before she could take a bite, fell into her glass.
"Figures," Audrey said. She stood up and rinsed her glass out in the sink.
Picking up the phone, Audrey began to think about what she might say to Dr. Morrow as she woke him in the middle of the night. To her surprise, Alex Morrow picked up the phone on the second ring and did not sound groggy. "Dr. Morrow, it's me. Audrey. I just got a--I don't know-a phone call from one of the photographer's working for us," she said, carefully. "Yeah, I guess it can wait until morning. All right. I'll be at your office then."
Audrey sat and rested her elbows on the table, hands cupped her face.
"Something's going on here," she whispered. A puzzle formed in her mind, the pieces strewn about. "Why is Randy with Gloria? What's going on?"
Audrey stood up, her hands balled into fists. "They're remembering. My God, what could happen if they remember it all?"
The doctor left the kitchen through a door, switched on a light, walked down stairs into the basement. She could smell the strong scent of bleach and fabric softener, mixed with the unpleasant odor of mildew.
She removed a framed painting of the Golden Gate Bridge from a wall to reveal a safe. It was mounted in the cinder blocks of her foundation.
She spun the dial clockwise, counter clockwise and clockwise again, pressed down and pulled on the handle. The safe opened.
Everything important to her was kept in the safe. Her birth certificate, US Savings Bonds, her diploma's and special certificates and in the back, wrapped in bubble wrap, the video cassette containing the actual testing of the students conducted many years ago.
She reached into the safe, held the wrapped video in her hand and froze.
After several seconds she let go of the tape, closed and locked the safe.
She replaced the picture on the wall. "I think Dr. Morrow and I need a heart to heart."
She ran upstairs, closed the light and the door. Audrey felt suddenly tired. She decided to try and get back to sleep. In her room, she reset her alarm. She would go to work early. She needed to call Samuel Huntly, perhaps he would be interested in taking over Kyle's shift and watch Gloria Grahm sixteen hours a day. It would make for a long boring day, but Dr. Morrow, she was sure, would financially compensate the young college student for his extra time and effort.
When Randy woke up, Jamie was still asleep in the bed on the other side of the room. He watched her for a minute before getting up. He thought about what Jamie had said to him last night, before falling asleep: It's kind of funny, sleeping in the house of your old lover. Yeah, he had told her, don't let it bother you. But he'd thought --yeah, it sure as hell is awkward.
He heard Gloria talking to someone in another room.
Randy put on his clothes and quietly left the room. He found Gloria in the kitchen, a cup of coffee and the white pages in front of her. She was talking on the phone. She smiled when she saw him. She held up a finger. "Okay," she said into the phone. "Thank you." She hung up.
"A lead on Kentman?"
"I got lucky on my second call. I found his mother. She's a nice enough lady; one of these people that just waits for a person to call her so she can talk, and talk and talk," Gloria said. "Get yourself a cup of coffee. I just made it. Jamie still sleeping?"
"Like a baby," Randy said. He poured a cup of coffee. "And, about getting lucky?" he asked. He sat at the table, across from Gloria.
"And about getting lucky, Harry doesn't live with his parents anymore."
Gloria said.
"God I should hope not. He's a grown man," Randy said. "So where's he living?"
"She's not exactly sure where he's living now," Gloria said. She played with the spoon in her cup, stirred the coffee.
"And you got lucky how? Because I can't see--"
"It seems Harry is a homosexual, came out of the closet about two years ago. When he told his folks, his father freaked, disowned him," Gloria said. "Anyway, his mother says she had to go along with her husband.
Harry's not allowed over the house, ever, not even around the holidays."
Gloria took the spoon out of her cup, placed it on the table. She took a sip.
"I guess I'm still missing the part about how you got lucky with the phone call," Randy said, impatiently.
"She still sees Harry, behind her husband's back. He tends bar at a gay club called Helmets. It's downtown, near the Liberty Pole." Gloria shrugged. "Harry's mother said he graduated from the university, has a CPA. That's another thing about Harry that pisses his father off. The kid has a degree and what's he doing, he's serving drinks for a living."
"How'd you get all this information? I mean why would Harry's mother tell a perfect stranger all of this over the telephone? I don't get it."
Randy said.
"I told her I was in Harry's graduating class, that I was an old friend of his. She bought it. I said I was trying to put together a small reunion. She thought that sounded wonderful. And, I think she's lonely.
She misses her son. I gave her a chance to talk. I feel bad for her, really. I see both sides, kind off. I'd be mad if my son had a degree and chose to be a bartender instead," Gloria said.
"Maybe he can't find work as an accountant," Randy said.
"Maybe he never looked for a job as one. Hey, why are you defending everybody?" Gloria asked. She sounded angry.
"I don't know, I guess because it sounds like you're persecuting everyone. I don't know, I didn't sleep well--"
"Try, I didn't sleep at all," Gloria said, softly. "I just laid in bed with my eyes open staring at the ceiling. I thought about my past, the present and my future--or lack of one, anyway. Randy, I feel like nothing in my life makes sense anymore. A little over a month ago, I would have said, I have it all. Now, I have nothing."
"That's not true," Randy said. "What about Doctor Ryan?"
"What about him? Ah Randy, it's so much more than that. My life is empty. It's meaningless. Do you know what I want? More than anything, do you know what I want?" Gloria asked.
"What?"
"I want to find out why I had this stroke. Why did this have to happen to me? If I find out the school and the hospital are responsible in some way, I'm going to sue them for every cent they have. That is, if I don't go up on murder charges first." She spoke through clenched teeth.
"Murder?"
"Yeah, murder. If I find an individual responsible for my stroke-- I'll kill 'em!" Gloria tried to laugh. She began to cry. She cupped her face in her hands. "Oh God, Randy--do you want to know my nightmares? I have several, do you want to know them?"
Randy reached across the table and touched her arm. "I'm listening."
"What if our lives, starting ten years ago, aren't ours? Huh? Did you ever stop to think of that? What if we're nothing more than puppets? A part of some mind game. In this mind game, we're just players--"
"Gloria--"
"Randy, I know I was supposed to kill Patrick Lippa, and I thank God every day that I didn't. Killing the governor was not my plan. It was someone else's. I was just a pawn, Randy. Do you know how that feels.
You start to question everything in your life. If I go to the store, I wonder, am I here because I want to be, or because someone else wants me to be. That's a horrible question to be asking yourself after every decision you make. It's a horrible question and I'm tired of asking it."
Randy wanted to tell her that she was crazy, overreacting. Under the light of their present situation, he could not call her crazy, or say she was overreacting. Possibly--though he'd never thought of it--Gloria's concerns might prove real.
"Then I have another nightmare," Gloria said, softly. "Only it's from an actual memory. After my stroke, when I was in the hospital, I had just begun to feel my legs and arms. The paralysis was wearing off. I was just beginning to move my limbs, only I still couldn't control my bladder. People were visiting me, my mother and brother," Gloria said.
Tears fell from the corners of her eyes. "I urinated on myself. When the nurse came in the room, she scolded me in front of my family. She made me feel so small and stupid," Gloria said. She began to cry harder.
"Gloria--"
"Let me finish. I tried to tell the nurse that I didn't know I had to go, but she just laughed at me. I remember looking from the face of the nurse over to my mother. I thought I would die from shame and embarrassment. My entire stay at the hospital is filled with stories like that. I've been suffering ever since, too, Randy. Just because I'm not in the hospital, doesn't mean I don't still feel humiliated limping to the cab, or down the aisle in a grocery store, I feel like some stupid freak!"
Randy thought it best to keep quiet. Gloria was venting, he knew. He watched her bury her face in her arms as she laid her head on the table and cried. He touched her shoulder. She reached up, held his hand.
Dr. Alex J. Morrow sat alone in his office. The meeting with Audrey upset him. She had talked to him for half an hour, explaining to him
what Kyle had explained to her on the phone last night.
While she talked, Dr. Morrow could tell Audrey was also probing for answers. He did not like that. Asking too many questions, he wanted to tell her, could lead you into a mess of trouble. But he had said nothing and avoided answering any of her indirect questions. She left frustrated, he knew, and that was okay.
His plan, spinning out of control, was taking him places he could not have anticipated.
The timing was bad. The photographer, Kyle, posed a serious problem.
Dr. Morrow stood by the window, pulled the cord and raised the blinds.
Rays of sunlight filled the dark office, but did not rid it of the gloom. Or is the gloom just a part of my mood? Dr. Morrow wondered.
The new book was finally falling into place. Yesterday he sent the first three chapters and the table of contents to his agent, via Express Mail.
It was hard to get excited about the book, though, when the rest of his life weighed so heavily in the balance.
The intercom on Dr. Morrow's desk let out a buzz sound. Dr. Morrow pressed the talk button. "Yes," he said.
"Doctor Morrow, Doctor. Cox is back. She says she needs to speak with you again, that it's important," Dr. Morrow heard his secretary say. "Do you have a moment?"
"Hold my next appointment and send Doctor Cox right in," Dr. Morrow said. He went back to the window, closed the blinds. The bright sunlight hurt his eyes. More often than not, he preferred the comfort one can only find in the solitude of darkness.
There was a soft knock at the door. "Come in," Dr. Morrow said.
Audrey stepped into the office. "I just got this," Audrey said. She closed the office door. "It's an audio cassette. After our meeting earlier, I went back to my office. Sam Huntly was there. He told me he didn't want to mail this, that it would take too long for us to receive it."
"An audio cassette?" Dr. Morrow asked. He sounded puzzled.
"Apparently, Sam invested in a, what's known as a, long distance shotgun microphone. He recorded conversations between Gloria, Randy and Randy's wife, Jamie." Audrey held the tape between her fingers and slapped it against her palm. "I didn't hear the whole thing, but I heard enough. I came right over."
"I have a player," Dr. Morrow said. He took the tape from Audrey and opened a wall cabinet, revealed a stereo system. He popped the tape
into the mouth of the player.
For one hour, Dr. Morrow sat by the right speaker and silently, listening to what Samuel Huntly recorded. Dr. Cox paced around the room, chewed on her finger nails.
The tape stopped.
"Alex, they know who Harrison Kentman is. When they find him and talk to him ... then where are we?" Audrey asked. She sat in the chair next to Dr. Morrow.
Dr. Morrow ignored Audrey's question. Harry Kentman had been hypnotized like the others. Harry should not remember anything from the days he spent as an aide during the testing, Dr. Morrow was sure. Morrow tried not to worry about Kentman. But, he thought, Gloria and Randy should not be remembering anything, either. Gloria and her stroke, he thought.
"This is crazy," Dr. Morrow said with a sudden upbeat tempo. "Audrey, you're worrying about nothing."
Audrey stood up. She looked shaken, as if she had just been slapped. "I don't understand? If they go and see Harrison Kentman, he'll tell them all about the actual testing done that week--that the Chicken Tape was a farce, a concoction!"
"He won't," Dr. Morrow said with authority.
"How can you know that?" Audrey asked, desperately. "Look, you told us ten years ago that everything we did in that time frame was legal, government approved. Then suddenly, we have student-spies following political figures. God, Alex, just level with me. Tell me what the hell's going on here!"
"Audrey, there is nothing going on. The tests we performed were all legal." Dr. Morrow did not want to say much more. He stood up and removed the tape from the player. "I need to keep this. And listen, we need to try and stop worrying so much."
"Why do I get the feeling that there's more? I'm not an idiot, doctor."
Dr. Morrow walked over to Audrey, touched her shoulder. "Of course I don't want Gloria and Randy remembering the past. When I hypnotized them I placed a very complex memory block in their minds."
"Well, the wall is crumbling Alex. They are remembering. That tape in your hand is the proof," Audrey shouted.
Dr. Morrow felt an urge grow within him. He wanted to slap Dr. Cox across the face as hard as he could. "Now Audrey, let's try to keep a level head."
"A level head? How much does Waxmill know?"
"Less than you. I haven't been, what you'd say, keeping him in the loop." The way that man freaks out, he's more of a liability, Dr. Morrow thought, than an asset.
When Audrey left the office for the second time that morning, Dr. Morrow felt a burning sensation in his heart. It was not a heart attack, he was sure, just the ulcer acting up again, no doubt.
Dr. Morrow sat down at his computer, brought up his electronic address book, searched for a telephone number, found it.
Though Dr. Morrow did not consider Harrison Kentman a threat, he was worried about the others.
He sighed, picked up the phone, dialed the number from the screen and waited for someone to answer at the other end. When no one answered after the fourth ring, Dr. Morrow slammed the phone down. "Dammit all to hell!" I'll put a stop to their investigating, he thought. If they want to try and throw a wrench into my life, I'll blow apart theirs!
Randy called Helmets and received a recorded message. The bar was closed, it opened at noon. "Okay, here's what I plan to do," Randy said after hanging up the telephone. Jamie was sipping a cup of coffee.
Gloria held an exercise device in her hand that, when used, would strengthen her wrist and finger muscles in the left arm. "I want to--"
"What you plan to do?" Gloria asked. "What are we supposed to do while you're out doing your thing? I don't plan on just sitting around the house waiting for you to finish the game."
"Gloria, just let me finish. Helmets is closed right now. They open at noon. I want to go to the bar when it opens. It will more than likely be dead. That'll give me time to either meet or ask questions about Harrison," Randy explained.
"Why don't you just call first," Jamie said. "What if Harry quit last night, or hasn't been to work in weeks. If you call first, you might save yourself an unnecessary trip."
"That's a good point," Randy said. "Did his mother say he quit, or when the last time she met with him was?"
"She didn't, but just the way she talked made me think they'd recently seen each other. She sounded sad, hurt even, like the wounds were fresh," Gloria explained.
"All right then. I'll call Helmets at noon. What do we do until then?"
"I would like to go to the library. I wouldn't mind looking up some books on hypnosis and subliminal messages," Gloria said.
"I think that's a great idea. As my great-grandmother would say," Jamie said, "when you have questions and no answers, go to the library."
"What was she? A character out of a gumshoe novel?" Randy asked. He stared at his wife. Randy began to laugh.
"Randy--she was a librarian," Jamie said, seriously.
Randy coughed, then he and Gloria laughed harder. Jamie chuckled twice and laughed with them.
When the laughter died down, Jamie said, "Well, before I go anywhere I want to go home, shower and put on some fresh clothing."
"I second that call," Randy agreed. "Gloria, give us an hour, maybe an hour and a half to get ready. Okay? We'll call you from our house before we leave. We'll head out to the library and while the two of you do some research, I'll see what I can find out at Helmets."
Gloria nodded. "It's a plan."
"I don't think I like my husband going to Helmets by himself," Jamie said quietly. Her comment caused the three of them to begin laughing again.
It's the stress, Randy thought. We're finding everything so funny because we're all losing our minds!
Sam Huntly stepped out of the shower. The television in another room was on, tuned in to a talk show. While he towel dried his hair, he absently listened to the sound of an audience cheer over the pleading of someone trying to make a point.
He laid his clothes out on the bed; jeans, a Miami Dolphins tee shirt, white tube socks and underwear. He looked out his bedroom window, saw it was going to be another day of rain, the sky appeared dark, gray.
While he dressed, he daydreamed about the money he'd be making. Dr. Cox had asked him if he might be interested in tripling his weekly pay.
"Sure," he'd said. "How?"
"All you needed to do is work Kyle's shift, on top of your own," Dr. Cox had explained.
How could he say no to that? Especially after using his credit card to buy the shotgun microphone. "That's it," he'd said. "Consider the position filled!"
He put on his socks and stared out the window.
When the telephone rang, it took him a moment to regain his composure.
He leaned across his bed and picked up the phone in the middle of its third ring. "Hello? Yeah--"
Sam sat stiff on the edge of the bed, felt a throbbing pain, as if a large metal door were being repeatedly slammed shut and opened in the front bridge of his forehead. He heard it shut, too, like thunder in his skull. He listened to the person talking on the other end of the line.
His eyes stopped blinking.
When Sam hung up the telephone, he finished getting dressed, stood up and walked into his living room. He opened the front door to his apartment and left it open. He walked slowly into the kitchen, to the cupboard, reached in and pulled out a hand full of CDs. Each CD was labeled GG, followed by a number. He took each CD out of it's hard plastic case, placed the CD's on the floor and smashed them with his feet. He picked up the pieces and dropped them into his garbage pail.
Sam opened the refrigerator in a robot-like fashion, grabbed a new bottle of vodka from the top, back shelf. He set the bottle on the
counter, opened it and took a long swallow.
Turning around, Sam saw Kyle standing in his kitchen. Without reaction, Sam handed the bottle to Kyle. Without emotion, Kyle took the bottle and drank from it.
Sam grabbed a brown lunch bag. He slipped the bottle of vodka into it.
He and Kyle left the apartment taking the vodka with them.
They rode the elevator down to the parking garage. They hopped into Kyle's car. Kyle left the engine on. They both strapped on their seat belts. Sam drove, pulled out of the garage and onto the main road.
"I need to make a left here," Sam said, speaking in monotone. It was the first word he had spoken since receiving the phone call. Sam's eyes surveyed the area while Kyle sat placid beside him. He slowed down, made a left.
Kyle drank more of the vodka, while Sam drove to Gloria's house.
Randy showered and dressed and felt a good.
In the living room, he saw the answering machine had three messages. He pressed the play button and listened. "Hey, Randy, man. It's Johnny.
What's up? Give me a call when you get in. I don't care what time it is."
The answering machine beeped. A computerized voice told Randy the date and time of the call.
The second call was from Nicholas Tantelo, Jamie's boss. "I know you're on vacation, but I need a file that I think you might have locked in your desk. Jamie, I hate to bother you, but can you stop in at the office-- anytime--and just get the Milberg file for me? I'd appreciate it and I'm sure Milberg will, too," Nicholas said.
The third call was from Daniel Kester. "Randy, it's Daniel Kester. Are you going to be in this week? Give me a call, fill me in. Okay? Don't worry about your vacation time. We can work all that out later. Just call me."
Randy pressed the stop button on his machine. "Sounds like work can't function without us, honey," Randy said, though Jamie was not in the room to hear him. He did not erase the messages so he would be reminded to call back Johnny and Kester.
While Jamie showered, Randy knocked on the bathroom door. "Honey, Nicholas called. He said something about needing the Milberg file."
"It's in my desk," Jamie yelled.
"That's what he said. He wants you to stop in work and get it for him.
Okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I'll take care of it," Jamie said.
Randy went into the kitchen and called Helmets, again. It's almost noon, he thought. There's a chance someone might answer the phone.
As luck would have it, someone did answer. "Helmets," the man on the phone said.
"Ah, hello, yes," Randy said. "I was wondering if you could tell me if Harrison Kentman is working today, or when his next scheduled work day is?"
"Who is this?" the man asked.
Randy knew from the man's tone of voice, that he was now talking to the Harrison. "Harrison?"
"Who's asking?"
"You don't know me, at least I don't think you do. My name is Randy.
Randy Cook--"
"I know you," Harrison said. "I've seen you on the news. Just last week.
You're receiving the Medal of Honor, or something like that. What does a man like you want with me?"
Randy found the question to be honest and sincere. Harrison spoke softly with just an edge of defensiveness. "I need to talk with you. It's important."
"Is it about that bogus class reunion? My mother told me a woman called her yesterday claiming to be an old college friend. I can tell you, I didn't have many friends in college. Even fewer friends that were women.
I don't know if my mother told you, or not, but I'm gay," Harrison said.
"I'm fine with that. Listen, Harr-- can I call you Harry?" Randy asked.
"I really prefer Harrison."
"Okay, Harrison. I just have some questions that you can help with. I promise not to take up much of your time, but like I said, it is important," Randy said. He knew he sounded desperate, perhaps over dramatic, but he could not mask his feelings.
"You're not the police, or anything, are you? Because if you--"
"I'm not the police, Harrison. I'm not even a private investigator."
"Then what's this about?" Harrison asked.
"I don't feel comfortable talking about it on the phone, but I assure you, it's of a serious nature," Randy said.
"Well, when did you want to talk, I mean I'm working--"
"As soon as possible," Randy said, quickly. "I promise I won't take much of your time. You might be the only person who can help."
"Me, huh? Okay, when? Where?"
"Can I come down to Helmets?" Randy asked.
"What, now? I guess. I'm working though."
"Hey, I'll even help. What do you say?" Randy crossed his fingers. He held them up near the mouth piece on the phone. He knew even if Harrison said no, he would still show up at the bar. "Please, Harrison. I swear this is important."
"Yeah. Sure. Park around back, ring the bell." Without a goodbye Harrison hung up.
"Yes!"
"What?" Jamie asked. She was dressed in a blue shirt, jeans and sneakers. She stood in the kitchen behind Randy.
"I just got off the phone with Harrison--don't call me Harry-- Kentman.
He's at Helmets now. He says I can head down there and talk with him for a bit. Where's my Chicken Tape video. I'll bet they have a VCR down there."
"You don't want to upset him, Randy. What if he doesn't want to answer your questions and denies ever taking part in the hypnosis testing? What are you going to do, call him a liar and tell him you illegally surfed through school records to get his name?" Jamie asked. "That's not a good plan."
"I still think I should bring the tape, Jamie. I'm not going to badger him. I'm just going to ask him the questions we worked on last night. If he won't answer them, he'll be telling me plenty, won't he? I promise I'll leave if he's hostile." Randy smiled. "Scouts honor."
Jamie pursed her lips together. "Just promise me you'll be careful. This whole thing is scaring the hell out of me. I was surprised I was able to fall asleep at all last night."
"I know. Me too. But we're getting close. This thing will be over soon.
One way or another, this whole thing will be over."
Jamie just shrugged.
"Look," Randy said. "You take your car, pick Gloria up and head to the Rochester Library. That's not too far from the Liberty Pole. I'll head over to Helmets now and meet the two of you at the library when I'm done. Okay?"
"Yeah. I guess that sounds good," Jamie said. She wrapped her arms
around Randy's waist. She kissed his lips with tender passion. "I love |
you, Randy."
"I love you, Jamie." He hugged her tightly. "Make sure you call Gloria first, let her know when you're on your way. Okay? I'm going to run."
Jamie smiled. "See you at the library then? Oh, I'll have to stop at work first and get that stupid file for Nick. Okay?"
Randy kissed Jamie on the forehead and broke the hold of their hug.
"Fine."
Randy drove with the radio off and the windows in the car down. jt;> The list of questions were folded and stuffed into his back pocket. The Chicken Tape sat next to him on the passenger seat and he found heavier afternoon traffic than he anticipated. When he exited the expressway, he drove toward the heart of downtown.
||;x :,:«"'
Helmets sat sandwiched between a bank and a Chinese restaurant.
||;; Randy went down a side street to the back of the small plaza, and parked his car beside a new 4X4 truck.
Randy got out of his car, locked the doors. He looked around the loose-gravel lot. A rusted wire fence outlined the area, Parking Reserved signs hung along the fence. Aside from the truck and his own, the lot was empty. Randy walked up to the back door labeled Helmets in a fancy lettering. "Here we go," Randy said. He rang the door bell.
A man opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow. "Mister Cook?"
"Call me Randy." Harrison closed the door, disengaged the chain and opened the door all the way. "Come on in," Harrison said.
Randy stepped into the back kitchen of Helmets. Harrison closed and locked the door behind them. Seeing Harrison now and remembering what the aide looked like on the video tape and on his student ID badge, Randy thought Harrison had not changed much. The man's hair and body weight looked considerably thinner, but for the most part, those were the only obvious differences he noticed.
"I appreciate you letting me come down here."
"You brought a movie? Hey man--"
"No. It's not a movie, it's well, if you didn't believe what I had to tell you, then I wanted to show you what's on this tape," Randy said.
"What the hell is this, man? What the hell is going on?" Harrison said, spoke with teeth clenched. He looked angry, his cheeks looked flushed.
Randy saw the man clench his hands into fists.
"I promise, everything should make more sense--hopefully, for the both of us--after watching this tape."
"Mister Cook, you better just tell me what the hell this is about,"
Harrison said. He sounded tired now. His fists deflated.
"I went to the University of Rochester."
"So did I, so?"
"I participated in an experiment, to make some extra cash my freshman year. It was a hypnosis test, or something off the wall like that."
Harrison cocked his head slightly to the right. "You know, I think I participated in something like that, too. Only I wasn't a freshman. I haven't thought about that, or college even, in a long time."
"But you remember the hypnosis study, that you were an aide?" Randy asked. He knew he sounded excited, but he couldn't contain himself.
"An aide? No. I can't remember being an aide. I remember getting some kind of an animal video from them--I threw it out. It was like a rooster tape? I don't know."
"The Chicken Tape," Randy said.
"It might have been. I don't remember it that well. It was a long time ago. It could have been the Chicken Tape, but like I said, I tossed it.
I did it for the money," Harrison said.
Randy smiled. The wall of tension seemed to crumble between them.
"Could, could I get a glass of water or something?" Randy asked. His throat felt dry. He ran his finger tips along his throat.
"Sure. Sure. Here, follow me."
The sun streamed in through the slats along the front window of Helmets.
The dust particles swam in the beams of light. All the chairs were sitting upside down on the tables. A vacuum looked lost in the maze of tables, its plug cord extending across a large dance floor and behind an entertainment stage.
A sign on the stage, set in front of drums and amplifiers, read, The Four Skins, and they would perform live every Friday and Saturday night.
"The place do a good business?" Randy asked. He sat on a stool at the bar. Harrison sat on the stool next to him.
"Better than most might imagine. There are a lot of gays in Rochester."
Randy just nodded. He did not know how to comment on Harrison's statement. "Do you have a VCR here, because I really think we should see the video I brought, first. Then we can talk about it. I have some questions, and if I'm right, you're going to have some, too."
Harrison smiled a wide, devilish smile. "So we have a VCR?" He laughed.
"Follow me, Randy. Bring your water, if you want."
Harrison unlocked a door, switched on the lights inside a room. Randy saw a mini-theater. Rows and rows of seats, bolted to a down-sloping floor, set in front of a large screen. i; "Welcome to Helmets Theater,"
Harrison said. "You like?" l|"' "I'm impressed."
ji|; "Weddings aren't legal for gays in New York. But we still get H
married, you know. What's nice about guys is, you only have the one stag fe--' party. This room is perfect for that. We show movies in here, play cards out I j/ in the bar. I don't know. It's pretty wild," Harrison said, thoughtfully. I ., "It's huge," Randy said.
||i "Here. Give me the video, I'll put it into the VCR. Sit down and ||
make yourself comfortable. I'll come back out after the tape starts.
Okay?" ||? "Sounds good," Randy said.
|| Randy took a seat in the middle of the theater, in the center of the p.- row. The lights in the room dimmed. Within seconds, the tape began to p; play.
B Harrison sat next to Randy. "It was definitely the Chicken Tape. I I remember that now, after seeing yours."
[.. "I thought so. I think they made tapes, Chicken Tapes, and gave I one out to everyone involved," Randy said. How many people were I involved?
"Now I wish I'd kept mine," Harrison said. He stared at the screen. I '; "That's you, huh?" Harrison laughed at what the Randy on the screen was jj doing. "Where am--was that me? Wait a minute. I have to go stop the
I tape"
p Harrison stood up and left the theater Randy watched the video H': stop, rewind and play again, stop, rewind and play again.
sf' Randy heard Harrison yell out the question. "I was an aide?"
slff "Yes. I think so, do you remember anything?" Randy yelled out his k question.
H "That's me," Harrison said. He stepped out of the projection room, I: 172
Randy's video in his hand. "I don't remember being an aide. They never told me I was an aide. I got a tape, like yours, where I acted like a dog and a cow, and some other stuff. I can remember that tape, my tape, now. This-- me being an aide, or an assistant--wasn't a part of my Chicken Tape. I know that for certain," Harrison said. He sounded troubled.
"So you don't remember who they are, then, do you?" Randy asked. He lost the sense of hope that had been building inside him since discovering Harrison on the college's mainframe.
"I'm kind of pissed off, you know? What else did they do to me while I was hypnotized? Huh? Did they mess with my mind, or what?" Harrison asked. He gave Randy back the video.
"That's why I'm here, that's what I'm trying to figure out. There's a girl, too, who's trying to piece this mess together," Randy said. He remembered the list of questions in his pocket. He choose to ask them from memory. It seemed to impersonal to use a list of questions. "Do you remember anyone's name? Now I remember a doctor, a female doctor--she was very attractive, but for the life of me, I can't remember her name."
"I remember an attractive lady, but Randy, I haven't thought of college days in years. I won't remember the doctor's name. I wish I could. I'd look her up in the school phone book, call her and tell her a thing or two!"
The faculty directory. The on-campus phone book, Randy thought. Maybe I can skim through the names? One might jump out at me. It's worth a try, anyway.
Harrison walked Randy through the kitchen, to the back door. "Listen, if you find anything out, will you let me know?"
Randy shook hands with Harrison. "I promise to let you know."
"It's weird, kinda, you stopping by like you did. I feel like I have this, I don't know, mind block inside me that I didn't notice before.
But I feel it now. Randy, I don't like the feeling."
"You and me both," Randy said and went to his car.
Jamie called Gloria before she left her house. "Gloria, I need to stop at work for one quick minute. Would it be all right to pick you up first? We'll stop at the office, then head over to the library?"
"That's fine. When are you leaving?" Gloria asked.
"I don't know. Now?" Jamie asked.
"I'll be ready."
Jamie took her keys and left the house. I wonder how Randy's doing? God, please take care of him? Take care of us all, please.
"How do you think Randy's making out?" Gloria asked.
"Good, I hope. This thing is making me nervous and I know it's tearing Randy apart inside. He's so confused." Jamie drove with both hands on the steering wheel. She repeatedly checked her mirrors, her attention in tune to her surroundings. "Can I ask you something?"
Gloria softly snorted. "Sure. I bet I can guess your question, though."
"I'll bet you could. I hate to sound jealous--"
"I loved Randy a long time ago. I love him now, but not in any way you might interpret as threatening. I'm glad to be his friend--and nothing more. He's quite a guy. We had our time together. It was special, but it was in a different life, too. No, Jamie, I'm not in love with Randy. But I am in love with what the two of you have together," Gloria said.
Jamie smiled. "Thank you. I'm sorry--"
"Please don't be. If I were you, I'd be feeling the same way, I'm sure,"
Gloria said. "Can I ask you something?"
Jamie looked away from the road, to Gloria then back to the road.
"What?"
"What did you think of Doctor Ryan? Mark?"
"You mean besides him being cute, in a sexy kind of way, and besides the fact he appears to be rich, and not to mention the fact that he's a prominent doctor and respected in the field of science?" Jamie asked.
"Uh-huh," Gloria said.
"I don't know. I guess he was alright." Jamie laughed.
"You liked him, then?" Gloria asked. She sounded nervous.
"I liked him."
"He called me again, while you and Randy we're home getting ready,"
Gloria said.
"He did?"
"He did. He just wanted to ask how my morning was going," Gloria said.
"Well now, isn't that special?" Jamie reached over and touched Gloria's leg. "My God, Gloria. You're trembling."
"I know. I'm excited. I think I could like this guy. I'm just so confused. There's so much going on in my life right now, so many things that--"
"Life is always going to be confusing, granted Randy and, especially you, have a little bonus confusion. I say, go for it, Gloria. We're going to figure this whole mess out sooner or later. Life is not going to wait for us to do what needs to be done! He, or she, who waits, loses. Isn't that what they say?"
"I guess that's what they say. So you think I should go for it, huh?"
"I don't think. I insist!"
Gloria laughed. "You sure you aren't just telling me this so I won't think about trying to steal your husband away?"
Jamie narrowed her eyes. "Okay, you got me," she said and laughed.
Gloria sat silent for a minute. "Okay," she said. "I think I will go for it. No, no. I am going to go for it."
"Good," Jamie said. "I'm glad to hear that." She pulled into a parking lot. "This is where I work. I'm gonna leave the car running, so you can have the air conditioning on. I just have to run in, and I'll be right out. Okay?"
"Okay," Gloria said. "Jamie, I'm glad we had this talk."
"You and me both," Jamie said, got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk and into the building.
Sam followed Jamie and Gloria, kept a safe distance between the two cars. Beside him, Kyle continued to drink the vodka, passed the bottle to Sam after every few sips.
Sam had been told on the phone to get drunk, but not to act drunk. He'd been told not to let the alcohol effect his reflexes. He had been told that Kyle would be over and would need to get drunk, too. Sam knew specifically how to kill Gloria.
Sam took two quick swallows of vodka and then began to pour the alcohol over his head. He handed the bottle to Kyle, who took one long swig and then poured the fluid over his head, too.
They pulled into the parking lot behind Jamie and watched Jamie get out of the car. As soon as Jamie was in the building, Sam took a match out of a pack and lit it. He dropped the match onto his lap.
Sam's body caught fire immediately. The fire engulfed his body, his hair. The flames quickly spread, igniting Kyle's clothing and flesh.
Neither men screamed in pain or even whimpered.
Sam pressed his foot hard on the gas petal. The car lunged forward.
Gloria heard the screech of tires. She turned and looked at the car, the people inside the car were on fire. The car was quickly coming at her.
Oh my God. No, no. They're headed right for me! They're going to hit me!
In a gripping, paralyzing mix of fear and shock, Gloria stared in horror at the car. It slammed into the passenger door. The sound of the crash thundered. Jamie's car was knocked sideways into another parked car. A shaft of metal from the crunched door pierced her leg. The force of the crash jolted Gloria to the left, across the front seat. Her head cracked against the steering wheel, the seat-belt kept her from flying through the driver's door window.
In great pain, she pulled herself into a sitting position. A high pitched, piercing noise sound rang in her ears, sounded like someone screaming. She could smell something burning, found it difficult to keep her eyes open. She knew her head was bleeding, could feel the warm blood gushing from the wound, slide down her face.
She looked out the front windshield, which had shattered to look like a spider web. The burning figures in the other car were unrecognizable and possibly--hopefully--dead. Their car was wedged against Gloria's door.
She realized the immediate danger. She had survived the accident, but the cars we're going to blow up, and she was trapped inside!
Her left hand reached and struggled to grasp the seat belt lock. She could not unfasten it. Gloria became frantic as she looked at the spreading flames in the car next to her.
Her right hand reached over to assist the left, unfastened the seat belt. Looking up, she saw people coming out of the building. "Help," she heard herself scream. "Somebody help me!"
Her door could not possibly open. Weak, she tried to pull herself across the front seat. When she moved, the shaft of metal in her leg sent wicked pain coursing though her thigh and back. Gloria screamed. Her leg was trapped.
Jamie came out of the building, had heard the commotion was about. She pushed her way through the small crowd, parted the people as she walked.
She smelled something burning, heard people saying, "Oh my God." Her car had been hit and the other car was on fire.
A man stepped out of the crowd and ran toward her car. "There's someone in there," he shouted.
Gloria's trapped in the car, Jamie suddenly realized. I have to help her. She followed the running man, saw Gloria through the cracked windshield. "I'm coming," Jamie shouted. She smelled gasoline. She heard the growing roar of the fire from the other car. She couldn't help but stare at the flames rolling out of the window; couldn't help but star at the charred bodies in the front seat. She turned, concentrated her attention on getting to Gloria.
"It's going to blow," the running man shouted. He turned away from the scene of the accident and tackled Jamie to the ground.
"No," Jamie screamed. "My friend is in there! I have--"
The car that caused the accident blew up. Flames wrapped in black smoke, launched into the sky. Car shrapnel flew through the air. Jamie's car blew up less than three seconds later.
"No," Jamie screamed. "No!" God no!
Crying, Jamie felt herself being dragged away from the burning cars.
"We have to help her--Gloria," Jamie moaned.
"Was that your car, Jamie?" the running man asked. Jamie recognized the man, but could not think of his name. "Was that your car? I tried, Jamie. I tried to get therein time!"
Gloria's dead, Jamie thought. Oh my God, Gloria's dead. "This isn't possible. This isn't happening. This didn't happen! I have to call my husband," Jamie said, her hand on her forehead. She stood up, slapped her hands against her jeans. She stared at the burning cars, heard the sound of sirens approaching. She could feel herself beginning to panic inside. My heart is beating, too fast, she thought. I'm going to have a heart attack! It was becoming difficult to breathe. Is this how Randy feels when he's suffering from a panic attack?
I have to get a hold of him, she thought. My God, what do I do now? How do I tell Randy?
Jamie pushed her way back into the office building. She needed to get to a phone.
She went to an office, sat at the desk, picked up the phone and dropped it. She started to cry. Gloria's dead, my friend is dead!
"Jamie," someone said softly, "can I help you get a hold of your husband?"
"Please," she said. I can't dial, I can't think straight. "Please help me."
"Where is he?" the person asked.
She said, "He's at Helmets, downtown."
(If ' pounds :^
\*
Randy started the car. He felt overwhelmed, wondered what steps to take next. In what direction should they try to steer the investigation?
Harrison had mentioned the faculty directory, the on campus phone book.
Perhaps the name of the doctor, if he saw it, would seem familiar, strike a cord in his memory?
He could not think of many approaches left to take. Looking through the directory might be the next, possibly last, logical step.
Perhaps Jamie could call Marcie Sanna again and ask if they could look through the directory in the computer--put a face to the names of the doctors. He knew if he saw her again, he could identify her--absolutely certain he could identify her.
Randy put the car in reverse. The back door to Helmets opened. Harrison stepped out of the kitchen. He held up his index finger. Randy rolled down his window. "Someone's on the phone for you," Harrison said.
"My wife?"
"No. It's a man, unless a man is your wife?" Harrison gave Randy a mocking smile. "I'm serious though. The guy said it was important that he talk with you, if you were still here."
Randy shut the car and walked back into Helmets with Harrison.
"I told the guy I could probably still catch you," Harrison finished explaining. He pointed to the back corner behind the bar.
Randy picked up the phone.
Randy drove fast, through two red lights. He made it from Helmets to where Jamie worked in under ten minutes. Even before he pulled into the parking lot, he saw the four fire trucks, two ambulances and an entire squad of police cars. "Oh my God," he whispered.
Randy felt tears burn his eyes.
He had not believed what the man on the phone was telling him, insisted on talking to his wife. Jamie had confirmed what the man had said, her
car had blown up and Gloria is dead.
Gloria was dead.
Is Dead.
A police officer stood by the parking lot entrance, directed traffic elsewhere. Randy stuck his head out the window. "That's my wife's car!"
The police officer stared at him for a moment, then let him through.
"Don't park anywhere near the scene, got it?"
Randy pulled into the lot and parked in the last row. She can't be dead.
She can't be dead, he told himself. There's no way that Gloria's dead.
Jamie's mistaken, she's just overreacting.
He saw the three body bags. A sickening feeling in his belly and in his bowels told him Gloria's body was in one of the three bags. Gloria's '"\*\* doesn't deserve to be confined in a black plastic bag. She's too good to go ||; out that way! Dammit, is anyone up there listening to me?
She's too good J|J to be treated like garbage! jjj He saw his wife.
"Jamie!" H
"Randy," Jamie called. She ran from the front of the building, halfway through the parking lot.
Randy ran to meet her. They hugged, she cried. "I'm so scared. I was so scared. I can't believe it. How can she be dead, I keep asking myself?
How? Randy, what's going on? I don't think--I can't think this j was just an accident. What have we started?" .;;j; "We didn't start anything, honey." Randy looked over his wife's it shoulders. He watched the paramedics load the three wrapped bodies into ' one ambulance.
"Someone started this. Someone else started this."
"I don't want to play anymore, Randy. I could have been in that car. I could be dead right now, or you could be dead. How do we know if there isn't someone right now, trying to kill either one of us? We don't know.
Someone might be aiming a gun at the back of your head right now, Randy," Jamie said. Her body trembled in Randy's arms.
Randy smelled the pungent odor of fire, gasoline, burned flesh.
The scene brought back memories of Clark Meyers. He closed his eyes. "I can't live the rest of my life in fear, Jamie. I can't keep on wondering if I've been programmed to kill someone, the way Wyatt was, the way someone tried to do with Gloria. Jamie, what if tomorrow I go out and try to murder the president? Whoever these people are, they have corrupted my mind. They have made it so I have no choice but to doubt my own thoughts and fear my own actions. I know you're scared, honey, but I am, too."
Jamie swallowed. She lowered her head against Randy's chest and hugged
her husband tightly.
"Maybe you should go away for a while. Visit your sister in Colorado?
Jamie, I think that would be an excellent idea." Randy watched the paramedics close the ambulance door. In silence, the vehicle pulled away.
The people in front of the building began to disperse.
"Can we leave," Randy asked, "or do the police need to talk with you, us?"
"We have to hang around."
Randy kept his arm around Jamie's waist as they walked back toward the cluster of police cruisers. "Did anybody see what happened?" Randy asked.
"No. Apparently not."
Randy got in the shower when they got home. He felt sick to his stomach.
While he washed, he could not help but think of the Gloria Grahm he met in college, dated, loved. Then he thought of Gloria Grahm, the woman he was just getting to know again and love as a friend.
With the palm of his hands planted against the shower wall, head under the spray, his tears mixed with the water. He kept his eyes closed. Only when the hot water turned ice cold did he get out, wrap a towel around his waist.
"Randy? Honey," Jamie asked. She knocked on the door. "Are you okay?"
"I'll be out in a minute," Randy said.
"Are you okay?"
"I'll be okay," Randy said. "I just need a minute."
He looked at his refection in the mirror. I swear I can actually see the emptiness inside me, he thought. I can see the void behind my eyes!
Jamie sat on the sofa with her knees pulled in tight to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs, one light on in the corner of the room.
She found it difficult to believe that Gloria was gone.
She heard the bathroom door open. She waited, but Randy did not come into the living room. She heard a door close and assumed he had gone into the bedroom. Should I go to him? she wondered. He needs time. I'll give him some time. Then she thought, I need some time.
Jamie thought of her last talk with Gloria. She had told Jamie that she would go for it with Dr. Mark Ryan.
Jamie cried for Gloria, for herself and for Randy. How fast our lives have changed in the last few weeks, she thought.
Jerome Carter woke up slowly, his alarm clock resounded with a continual buzz beside his face. He had pressed the snooze bar twice already. If he hit it a third time, he would need to rush around to get ready in order to be to work on time. He hated to rush. It always seemed to ruin his morning and ultimately, most of his day.
Sluggishly, he lowered the blankets and slid out of bed. The hardwood floors felt cold under his feet. In boxer shorts, Jerome hugged himself to keep warm as he briskly walked into the bathroom.
He ran the shower and while the water heated up, brushed his teeth. Once dressed, he left the apartment, picked up his newspaper from the bottom of the stairs, tucked it under his arm and went to the car.
He tossed the newspaper onto the seat beside him, started the engine. As he pivoted his body, to back out of the parking space, his eyes caught sight of the front page headline.
Jerome hit the brakes. He put the car in park. He lifted the paper up onto his steering wheel. "I know her," Jerome said. He stared at the photograph of an attractive woman. Below her picture, Jerome read the name. "Gloria Grahm, huh? It doesn't sound familiar." But she sure looks familiar.
In the photograph next to Gloria's, Jerome saw two cars on fire. "Whew, what the hell happened there?" Jerome began to read the article. It continued on 12A. Turning the paper, Jerome felt his stomach muscles tightened.
Suddenly, Jerome remembered where he'd seen Gloria Grahm.
"This is the woman Sam's been following. Son of a bitch, what's going on here?" Jerome said out loud. His words caught in his throat as he read the last four paragraphs in the article.
What the hell, Sam's dead? Jerome couldn't believe it. Sam got drunk and smashed into Gloria? Jerome thought the story sounded incomplete. Jerome read: "The fire started in the car registered to Kyle--Samuel Huntly was believed to be driving while intoxicated. The two, students of the University of Rochester, smashed into Jamie Cook's vehicle. Gloria Grahm, trapped in the vehicle, died when the two cars exploded and burst into flames. Police and fire investigators are looking into the strange and highly unusual accident and suspect foul play.
"Gloria Grahm worked side by side with the late Governor Patrick Lippa who only weeks ago, was assassinated," Jerome read. "Son of a bitch." He set the paper aside.
Jerome ran back into his apartment, called in sick to work. He paced around in the living room, chewed on a thumb nail. "What was Sam up to?
There's something here, somewhere, but what?"
Sam had been acting funny, nervous maybe, anxious, Jerome thought.
Gloria Grahm was in every picture Sam saved on those CDs, Jerome remembered. "I've a bad feeling about this. I think I need to look into this, if not for Sam's sake, then for Gloria's," he said to an empty room. He needed to switch his thinking around, change his mind set to that of a major reporter.
And I know just the thing to do to start this investigation, Jerome thought.
Leaving his apartment again, Jerome Carter drove quickly to the college campus. His mind raced him all the way. Sam was up to something, Jerome knew. What? There was that man in a lot of those photo's --and dammit I know I've seen him somewhere before, too! Who is he?
Jerome thought, if I can find out who the man is in the photo, perhaps I can find out what Sam was up to.
The mystery was there. Should I call the police? Jerome wondered.
He said, "No, no, let's wait and see what we can do with the computer.
Let's not rush and call the police." You wouldn't see New York City reporters calling the police--this is your chance, man. He convinced himself to take the chance. "As a senior getting ready to face the real world next summer, it's your time to rocket into the world of journalism!"
And this is your chance to find out what happened to your friend, a rational voice in Jerome's head added. "That's right," Jerome said, humbled. "I'll find out what went down, Samuel. Have faith, man. I'll find out."
"What the hell is this?" Dr. Audrey Cox asked. She threw the morning newspaper down on Dr. Alex J. Morrow's desk. "I saw this and I told myself I was crazy--there couldn't be a connection. Dammit Alex, I almost convinced myself that this accident was all just some bizarre fluke.
Can you believe that? I came this close" --she held her thumb and finger close together-- "to writing the accident off as a coincidence."
Audrey punched her fists into her hips and left them there. "Well? Are you going to answer me, or what? What the hell is going on?"
Dr. Morrow, looking smug, sat behind his desk expressionless. He stared at Audrey, his thin lips pursed together looked especially thin. Audrey felt an urge to lean across the desk and slap his face. "Alex, did you kill them?"
"That's absurd," Dr. Morrow said. He stood up. "You read the article.
Our spies teamed up, got drunk, followed Gloria and accidentally killed her. It's all here," he said. He picked up the newspaper. "Or didn't you understand the article?"
"I did understand the article. Both the police and the fire chief find the accident strange. Dammit Alex, several eyewitnesses claim those boys were both on fire when they drove into Gloria. They were already on fire, Alex. Explain that?" Audrey asked. "I knew something was up, all along, I knew. I wanted to trust you--"
"Then trust me now," Dr. Morrow said.
"How can I? What reasons are you giving me to trust you? You've been lying to us, Dr. Waxmill and myself, haven't you? Come on Alex, what gives?" Audrey asked. She felt that she needed to calm down. This man might be a killer, and if he is a killer, I shouldn't talk to him like this, she thought. I can't control the way I feel! "Just answer my question, damn you!"
"And what question was that, Audrey?" Dr. Morrow asked. His teeth looked clenched together.
Was he grinding them? Audrey wondered. I am pissing him off.
"Did you," she started. She thought, Oh my God! making a sudden, mental connection. She took steps backwards.
Dr. Morrow walked toward her. "What is it? Audrey, what's wrong?"
"I have to go," she said. She knew that she needed to get out of Dr.
Morrow's office and away from him. Her stomach began to churn. "I need to go."
"I think we need to talk," Dr. Morrow said. "I need for you to believe that I had nothing to do with this." He slapped at the paper with the back of his hand. "Audrey--"
"We do need to talk. You're right," she said. She reached for the office door. "But I can't talk now. You're going to come clean, though.
You have to tell me what's going on. I can't help you--or even back you up--if I don't know everything," she said. She had to let him think she was still upset, but an on his side, someone he could trust.
"Then we'll talk."
"You better believe we'll talk. If you want, I'll keep Waxmill out of the loop. If you want, we can keep him out of the loop," Audrey said.
She was certain Henry would see the newspaper and make similar connections. Henry Waxmill was no dummy. She assumed Alex knew this about Waxmill, too.
"Maybe we should include him, place all of our cards on the table," Dr.
Morrow said.
"If that's what you want," Audrey said. She felt her heart racing inside her chest. She held tight to the door knob. She began to turn it.
Dr. Morrow slammed the palm of his hand against the door. Audrey screamed. "Let's talk tonight. Come to my house for dinner. What do you say?"
Dr. Morrow's breath was hot, Audrey wanted to cringe as it passed over her flesh, it made her skin crawl. He was staring at her in a mad, crazy, lustful way, making Audrey uncomfortable.
"Tonight for dinner? What time?"
"Six?"
"Six is good," Audrey said. She would never go to his house. She would never come to his office again. She hoped when she got out and away, she would never see him again!
"Wear something special. I'll pick up two lobsters on my way home," Dr.
Morrow said. "We'll eat, and I'll fill you in on everything. How does that sound?"
Audrey wanted to vomit. "Wonderful. I haven't had tails in the longest time. F11 bring a bottle of wine."
"Splendid. That would be perfect. See, I knew this could work-- us. Now I feel foolish for having waited so long." He smiled.
Audrey pulled open the door. She left without a goodbye.
"How was everything," Dr. Morrow's secretary asked.
"I can't talk right now," Audrey said, quickly leaving the office. She felt safe walking down the hall with secretaries and professors in nearly every office she passed by. He wouldn't come running after her, not now. She felt an urge to look over her shoulder and gave in.
Dr. Morrow was standing in the hallway, his hands in his pockets, staring at her, watching her walk down the hall. She waved. He did not return the wave. He stepped back into the reception area.
Dr. Audrey Cox walked faster to the elevator.
While she waited for the car to come to her floor, she began to fit together the puzzle pieces. She knew, without giving it much thought, where every piece fit now. Maybe, she thought, I always knew.
As ironic as it sounded, she would need to get a hold of Randy Cook. He might be the only one who could help her. She knew she had until six o'clock--when she was supposed to be at Dr. Morrow's house for dinner--when she didn't show, Dr. Morrow would know something was up, that she was not on his side. She would be considered a liability against him and his evil plans.
Dr. Morrow sat at his desk. "This isn't going to work," he said matter-of-factly. He let out a small laugh. "I can't believe this.
Everything I've worked so hard for is going to be gone, stolen from me."
He stood up. "Well, that's just not acceptable. No, I can't--I won't let this happen." He stood by the window and parted the blinds with his fingers. He watched for Dr. Cox. She came out of the building a half a minute later. She walked quickly toward the parking lot. Both her hands held onto the strap of her purse. "Why are you so nervous?" Dr. Morrow spoke to himself.
As if hearing Dr. Morrow's question, Audrey turned to look toward Dr.
Morrow's building.
"You're not going to meet me for dinner, are you? You lied, didn't you?
So where are you headed now?" Dr. Morrow said.
The intercom on his desk let out a buzz. His secretary said, "Doctor Morrow, Doctor. Waxmill's here to see you. He says it's important. He doesn't look very well."
Dr. Morrow almost told his secretary to send Dr. Waxmill away. He pressed the talk button on the intercom. An idea formed in his brain.
"Send him right in," Dr. Morrow said.
There was a knock at the door, Dr. Morrow said, "Come in."
Dr. Henry Waxmill walked slowly into the office, closed the door. His looked around the room, appeared agitated and nervous. Dr. Morrow watched him, bemused. "Can I help you with something, doctor?"
Henry must have found what he was looking for. "You've seen it? The paper? Alex, come on man--what's going on? I've been trying to bury the past here, or at least not think about it too much and it's like you just won't let me! Hey, just fill me in. What the hell are you up to?
What kind
of a mind play are you pulling on us?"
Dr. Morrow smiled. "You got me."
"Got you? What are you talking about?" Henry asked. He looked nervous.
His fingers fidgeted, joined at the palms. "Alex--"
"You got me. You put the puzzle together. I'm impressed."
"I didn't put anything together. I don't even know what the hell's going on. That's why I'm here, to find out. All I know, is Gloria's dead, killed by the spies you hired to follow her. It's too odd a coincidence, to me. It's all too neat."
"Like I said, 'the sun has become the moon'," Dr. Morrow said in monotone. He watched as Henry's body went stiff. "You may sit down, Henry. We have a lot to talk about."
"I may sit down," Henry said. He sounded like a person talking in his sleep. He did not blink. Slowly he walked around the office, sat in the chair in front of Dr. Morrow's desk.
"Are you comfortable?" Dr. Morrow asked. He always felt amazed, seeing someone fall back into a hypnotic trance without the slightest bit of his effort used.
"Yes. Thank you." Henry sat still in the chair. His arms on the arm rests. He continued to stare directly at Dr. Morrow.
"We have a problem."
"What--"
"Do not interrupt me again," Dr. Morrow said. "We have a problem with Doctor. Audrey Cox."
Dr. Henry Waxmill nodded.
"She's going to be causing us a lot of trouble and unwanted attention. I can't have that, do you understand? I'm going to explain to you exactly the way I want this problem dealt with. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Show me that you understand. Slap yourself across the face as hard as you can," Dr. Morrow ordered.
Without hesitating, Dr. Waxmill slapped himself across the face. The blow nearly knocked him out of the chair.
Dr. Morrow could not help but chuckle. "Henry, this is what I want you to do ..."
I Chapter 28
Gloria's wake was at noon.
Cars filled the parking lot. Randy and Jamie parked in back, held hands while they walked to the entrance. Both remained quiet, each mourned in silence, tried to find a way to say goodbye to a friend.
Randy walked into the funeral home, still holding his wife's hand. The room, filled with Gloria's friends and relatives, made Randy feel claustrophobic. "Son of a bitch, if this isn't the worst case of Deja vu. Are you holding up?" Randy asked.
Jamie was crying. "I can't believe she's gone."
Her ashes, placed in an exotic gold urn, sat on a table by an 11x16
framed picture of her. They stood by the urn and picture, a kneel bench by the urn. Randy and Jamie knelt side by side. They both made the sign of the cross. Randy began a silent prayer. He started to mentally recite the Our Father and stopped. The words in the prayer did not cover the feelings he had inside. Gloria was his old friend, an old lover. God, Randy thought, now that Gloria's with you, I hope she's happy again. I know she's with you. She deserves to be in Heaven. She deserves nothing less. God, please let her soul rest in peace. Hey, Gloria, I'll miss you. I'll always love you. Remember that, and if it's possible while you're up there, try to keep us in mind. Give us a hand when you can.
I'd love to have you for a guardian angel. Goodbye, Gloria.
Randy crossed himself, ending his prayer, stood up. Jamie was already on her feet. They reached wordlessly for one another's hand. They slipped out of the parlor, back into the parking lot. Jamie began to cry again.
Randy wrapped his arm around her shoulder.
Then he saw her --a woman he vaguely recognized. She was not walking toward the funeral home. She just leaned against the trunk of their car, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her blazer.
"Who's that on our car?" Jamie asked. She sniffed, wiped away tears.
Randy shook his head. "I don't know," he said. Yes I do, he thought. I know her. I know who she is. Where do I know that lady from?
Where?
"Do I know you?" Randy asked. His wife clung to his arm.
Audrey stopped leaning against the trunk. She left her hands in her pockets. "I think you should, Randy. It's been a long time, but I think you should remember me--remember my name" Unless Dr. Morrow programmed you to forget everything the minute the tests were over, she thought.
"You look familiar," Randy said.
Audrey could see the puzzled look on Randy's face. He looked as if he were trying hard to remember. "I know you know who I am."
"We don't have time for this, lady," Jamie said, suddenly. "We just lost--"
"Gloria Grahm. I know. I know all about her, all about what's happened and what's been happening," Audrey said. She gave them a weak, thin smile.
Randy shook his head. "I do know you--"
"Cut it out, lady," Jamie yelled.
"I know you know me Randy, and it's important that you remember me, remember my name." Jamie held tight to Randy's arm. Audrey knew she wanted to take her husband and leave.
"You're the doctor, the one from the Chicken Tape."
"Yes," Audrey said.
"Doctor Cox. You're Doctor. Cox!"
"Yes, Randy. Yes." Audrey said. "I need your help."
"Our help," Jamie laughed a wicked laugh. "You must be insane. If I'm understanding things here, you're the one responsible for everything we're going through."
"One of the people responsible, yes."
"Get away from us. If we could, if we had the proof, I'd have you arrested," Jamie screamed. "Our friend is dead. Randy's been living in a nightmare. Who are you to come to us for help? Who in the hell do you think you are?"
Audrey did not back down. "I didn't make all these bad things happen."
Audrey looked around the parking lot. She did not feel safe. By now, Dr.
Morrow will have realized her infidelities to his cause. She feared his power and the control he possessed over people. "Look. I'm here to
help. I need your help and you need mine. We need to talk. I think it's important that we go somewhere safe and talk."
Randy laughed. "Define safe? Right now doctor, I don't know what the word means. I mean, I know my friends are being killed, that lots of people are getting killed. You have answers and explanations?"
"I think I do. Yes."
"How are we supposed to trust you?" Jamie asked. "We don't know what's going on, so how can we trust you?"
Audrey couldn't argue. "I don't know. I guess I can't ask you to trust me, but I need to ask you to at least give me a chance to try and explain some things."
"You can tell me why Gloria's dead?" Randy shouted. "Because if you can tell me why she's dead, then I'll probably want to kill you for revenge.
Do you see how this plan of yours might back-fire? You started the game, you and whoever else. I plan to get to the bottom of it all and kill it and expose it!"
Audrey listened to Randy, felt his anger and frustration. She cried. She had caused his pain and felt ultimately responsible for the death --
murder-- of the others. "Please, let me explain?"
Randy looked at Jamie. Audrey prayed they would give her a chance. She desperately needed them. "I want to blow this whole thing open, too. I'm tired of keeping everything a secret and scared of what lies in-store for us, for us all."
Randy's look softened. Jamie still seemed to regard Audrey with a suspicious eye. I can't blame her, Audrey thought.
"We can go back to our house," Randy said. "I'll put on a pot of coffee."
"No--"
"No?" Jamie asked. "What do you mean 'no'?"
"No. I mean we can't go back to your house. I don't think you should go back to your house until this is all over. It's too dangerous. Please.
Doctor Morrow," Audrey said to Jamie, "if he can get a hold of Randy, he can control him, control his mind."
"Like with Wyatt?" Randy asked.
"And like he tried to with Gloria," Audrey added.
"She was murdered, wasn't she?" Jamie asked. She sounded broken.
"I think so, yes. So were the two boys who killed her."
Randy sighed. "I think I know someplace we can go. Do you want to
follow us, or should we drive together."
"Let's drive together. Now that we've united, I don't think we should be apart from each other."
Jamie let go of her husband's arm. She humphed. "You better not have an ulterior motive in mind. If you try something funny, I'll kill you myself!"
Audrey tried to smile. "I assure you, Jamie. I'm going to try and help.
We'll try to help each other. Okay?" She held out her hand. She watched Jamie study it and reach for it. They shook hands and Jamie finally smiled. "Together we stand."
"Together we stand," Randy repeated.
"Divided we fall," Jamie reminded them all. "Let's get going then. I've got a fire inside me and I don't want the flames to fade until after I've done some damage."
This woman has a fire inside her, that's for sure, Audrey thought. I like that! "Let me get my purse out of the car and we'll go."
He walked into Helmets through the back door. He stopped, let the door close behind him. The kitchen seemed exceptionally silent. From out in the bar area he could hear music. The music was loud, sounded bad, too bad to be coming from a jukebox.
The swinging doors opened. The waiter stared at Dr. Henry Waxmill standing by the back door.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for Harrison Kentman," Dr. Waxmill said. He spoke softly.
"Do you know him?"
"And you are?" The man asked.
"His cousin," Henry lied. The man in front of him could not know this.
"We haven't spoken in a while. We kind of had words a few years back.
I'm here to talk to him, to patch things up between us. I don't care if he's gay. It shouldn't matter, right?"
Though he spoke with little emotion, the Helmets employee seemed touched by Henry's words. "He's out tending bar. Wait here, man. I'll go and get him. Hey, what you said, I think that's beautiful. I wish the rest of the world could look at us that way and be as open minded as you."
The man pushed back through the swinging door.
Henry reached into the pocket of his wind breaker and pulled out a gun.
When the door swung open, Henry aimed his pistol.
"Hey," Harrison said. "I don't have any cousins. What is this? Huh? Who are--"
Henry fired the gun three times. Two bullets struck Harrison Kentman in the face. The third bullet took him in the throat. Blood sprayed from the wounds. Harrison fell dead to the ground. Henry walked up to the body and sent three more bullets into the back of Harrison's head.
Henry put the gun into his pocket. The music still screamed from outside the kitchen. Apparently, the shots had not been heard. "Good," Henry said. He left Helmets through the back door, hopped into his car and drove away.
The first part of his assignment was complete.
Next, he needed to find Dr. Cox.
Jerome Carter made the connection, smiled. Randy Cook was the man in the digital photographs with Gloria Grahm. Randy Cook, nominee for the Medal of Honor.
Though knowing the identity of the mysterious man didn't do a damn thing to clear up the mystery, it did lend Jerome a clue. He now had a lead to follow. He was sure Mr. Cook would be interested in the digital images Sam had taken of him and Miss. Grahm together. Hopefully, Mr. Cook could provide answers, or puzzle pieces to help construct a clearer picture as to what's going --or what went--on.
Jerome sat in front of his terminal in the school at the paper. It was the same terminal he'd let Sam use. He pushed away from the desk and opened the phone book on the counter, flipped through the pages and found a listing for Randy.
He jotted down Randy's home address and telephone number on a piece of paper. He stuffed the paper into his pants pocket. At the phone on his desk, he tried calling Randy at home.
An answering machine picked up on the fourth ring. "Mister Cook. You don't know me, I'm a reporter for the University paper. My name is Jerome Carter. I need to talk with you about an issue you might find important," Jerome said. He left his home phone number and the number at the paper. "Please give me a call."
Jerome hung up, stared at the phone. I feel like I need to do more, he thought. There has to be something more I can do. Son of a bitch, I got it!
He stroked some keys on the computer. He scrolled under the find tool bar. He choose the recover command. He selected a folder. He pressed enter. Information began to crawl across the screen, gradually picked up speed. After two minutes, it stopped.
An information box appeared in the center of the screen. It read:
1,021 files successfully recovered \* 0,450 files are damaged and unreadable
\* 0,255 files are damaged with some readability \* 0,316 files are not damaged and readable
Jerome deleted the damaged and unreadable files. He began to scroll through the remaining files until he came across the ones named Samuel Huntly.
"Bingo!"
Manipulating the system, Jerome pulled the trashed files from the electronic garbage and placed them back on the hard drive. In less than two hours, Jerome had nearly completed a folder full of the images Sam had taken.
He activated Photoshop, did a double click on an image icon. The photo opened on the terminal screen. Jerome became more excited with each new photo he was able to view. He Looked at the pictures, studied them carefully. Jerome shook his head, stared at a picture of Gloria and Randy walking out of Dogs. "Just what in the hell were you up to, Sam old buddy, old pal? And who in the hell were you working for?"
Jerome made a new folder. He labeled it JC. He transferred the images from Sam's file into his folder. He copied the folder onto a JAZZ disk, ejected the disk from the drive and slapped it against the palm of his hand.
Jerome looked at the clock hanging on the wall over the door. It was nearly five. He slid the disk into it's compact holder and the holder into the pocket of his jean jacket. "It's still early," he said. He shut down the computer. He locked up the room. He ran across campus to his car. Randy works for the news station, right? So I'll just pop in over there and see if he's around. "Yeah, that's exactly what I'll do!"
Because of the time, he easily found a parking place on the street across from the building the news station was in. He locked his doors and jogged to the building, worried the security guard in the main entrance might stop him. With so many people leaving, Jerome was able to slip onto the elevator unnoticed.
When he stepped off the elevator, he tried to concentrate on blending in. He wanted to act as if he belonged. He interrupted a woman shutting down her computer. "Excuse me," he said. "I'm looking for Randy Cook. He was supposed to meet me in the foyer?"
The woman looked around the office area. "I haven't seen him today.
Actually, I haven't seen him the last few days. Johnny Redman's still here. I saw him. He might know where Randy is."
Johnny Redman. Jerome didn't like Redman, thought he was a big actor in front of the camera; always faking emotions, not a true journalist at all. "Where does he sit?" Jerome asked, smiled.
"Right around the bend over there. He was in his cubicle a few minutes ago. You can wait for him if he's not," the woman said.
"Thank you," Jerome said. He walked to where the woman had directed him.
He saw the small name plate mounted on the outside of the cubicle. The small, roofless room was empty. Inside the office, Jerome noticed all the plaques Redman received over the years. None recent.
"Can I help you, son," someone said.
The voice startled Jerome. He spun around. "Mister Redman?"
"Yeah. And you are?"
"My name is Jerome Carter. I'm a reporter from the University of Rochester school paper." They shook hands.
"A reporter?"
"That's right. I was hoping to find Randy Cook. He's caused quite a stir in the journalism community and it would be great to run an interview with him in the school's first edition this year." Mister Redman here is going to see right through my lie, Jerome thought. He found himself holding his breath while Redman stared at him.
"Well, isn't that nice. I'm sure Randy would be thrilled to hear this, as it so happens, I'm looking for him too," Johnny said, flatly.
"What does that mean?" Jerome asked.
"He hasn't been to work in a couple of days. He's kind of on a vacation.
I don't suggest you go chasing him down at home, either. The man's burnt out. He's finally taking a good rest, and deserves it. Understand?"
Johnny asked.
"Sure, I understand. I can always get an interview with him and run it in the second issue of the paper." Jerome bit his upper lip. He was trying to think of what he could do next. It was important that he try to help Sam, and it was important that he not just walk away. A real reporter would not just walkaway.
"Of course. Look, I'm a little busy here--"
"Oh yeah, sure. I'm sorry," Jerome said. He stepped back, let Redman walk into his cubicle, sat behind his desk. "Funny what happened to Gloria Grahm, huh?"
Redman stood up. He cocked his head. "You think what happened to Gloria
Grahm was funny? That's sick--"
"No, not funny ha-ha. I mean funny, ironic. I mean, first the governor is assassinated, then his right hand man, ah, woman dies in a bizarre car accident --slash-- explosion." Jerome made the small connection on his drive from the school to the news station. "But I'm sure you already put those two elements together."
"Of course I did. Half the journalism world made that obvious connection," Redman said.
Jerome pulled a business card out of his pocket. "Okay, listen, I'm going to run. If Mister Cook comes around--"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll see to it he gets this," Redman said. He took the card from Jerome, looked at the card, set it on his desk.
Jerome thought about his future. As a senior, he would be graduating into the real world in May. May, only seven months away, loomed like a noose in front of his neck. "One other thing," Jerome said, wondering if he sounded at all like Columbo.
"Yeah, what is it?" Redman asked. He sounded annoyed, bothered.
"I was just wondering, how did Gloria Grahm and Randy Cook know each other?"
Redman shrugged, as if the same question wasn't eating away at his insides. Jerome assumed Redman was going crazy, trying to get a hold of Randy --so many questions to ask him.
Jerome saw the wheels in Redman's mind beginning to turn. I started the ball rolling I hope. "I don't know," Jerome said. "It all just kind of sounds funny--ironic--to me. I mean, Gloria dying in Randy's wife's car and all. I don't know. Well, like I said, I need to be running. You can reach me at either of those numbers, if you need to."
"Hey Carter!"
Jerome peeked his head back into Redman's cubicle. "Huh?"
"Level with me, man. What do you know? Don't try to bullshit me here, either. I smell something's up with you. What gives?" Johnny leaned back in his chair, tried to appear cool and in charge.
Jerome wanted to laugh.
"If I did know something, how could I use the information towards getting my foot in the door with this news station?" Jerome asked. A devious smile spread across his lips. He saw the utter distaste in Redman's eyes, but didn't care. Do all you can to survive, his father always told him.
"How good is your information?"
"I believe I have a story that would knock the face off 60 Minutes,"
Jerome said. He laughed.
"That good, huh? Maybe we should discuss what you have with my supervisor." Redman picked up the phone. He pressed one number. "Kester?
It's Redman. Yeah. Got a minute?"
Randy was surprised at the silence that filled the car. He'd bet Jamie would be shouting questions at Dr. Cox, demanding answers the entire ride.
Only when Randy pulled into a driveway did Jamie break the silence. "So where are we, Randy? Who lives here?"
This place doesn't look so safe, Randy knew his wife wanted to say, could tell from the tone of her question. "We're here to see Pasha Meyers for a minute," Randy said. He told me to call on him if I ever needed help. Well, buddy, I sure as hell need you now.
"Pasha--Clark's father? Why?" Jamie asked. Randy ignored his wife's question. "You two wait here. I'll be back in a minute."
Randy got out of the car, walked up to the door, knocked. When the door opened, Randy saw the confused look on Pasha's face.
"Mister Cook?"
"Randy."
"Randy," Pasha corrected himself, the surprise expression gone from his face. "How are you? What are you doing here? I swear you look as white as a ghost. Is something wrong?"
"My gosh, Pasha," Carol Meyers said. "You just fired a line of questions at the poor man like he was being interrogated by the police, or something. I'm sorry, Randy. Come on in. I can put a pot of coffee on.
It'll only take but a minute to brew."
"No thank you, really," Randy said. "I can't stay for coffee. I came because I need to ask a favor."
Pasha smiled. "Anything for you, Randy. I've told you that. Anything you need. If I don't have it, I'll get it. I owe you my life."
Randy smiled, too. "I don't need any thing as serious as your life. I just--"
"You got people out in that car?" Pasha asked. He was squatting by the front door, his hand raised in a salute as he strained to see. "Is that Jamie out in the car?" He waved out the door.
"Yes. Jamie and another person. Anyway--"
"Well, don't leave them out in the car," Pasha said. "Tell them to come on in. You and I can talk about what you need and the girls can talk about girl things, dark's home, you know. He looks real good, too."
"I'm glad to hear that," Randy said. "Really, I am."
"So go on. Tell your wife and friend to come on in. Carol, why don't you go and start that pot of coffee."
"Sure thing," Carol said, disappeared around the corner into the kitchen.
Randy shrugged in defeat, went to the car and told Jamie and the doctor to come in the house with him. He said, "They're putting making coffee on."
"Hello Pasha, Carol," Jamie said, stepped into the house. Pasha and Carol both gave Jamie a hug and a kiss. "Your new home is beautiful. It looks absolutely beautiful.
"You like it?" Carol asked.
"I love it!"
"Jamie, how are you?" Carol asked.
Jamie just shrugged, tried to smile.
"This is Doctor Audrey Cox," Randy said, introducing the woman standing next to him.
"Pleased to meet you," Pasha said.
"Like wise," Audrey said.
"So," Pasha said to Randy. "You need to talk? Should we go somewhere private?"
Randy nodded. He didn't want to ask for his favor in front of everyone, in case Pasha needed to say no. He did not want Pasha to feel like he had to say yes, just because he was being asked in front of everyone.
There was no need to put Pasha on the spot. "I think it would be best to talk alone," Randy said.
As Pasha and Randy walked down the hall, Randy heard Carol whisper, "Oh dear. I hope it's nothing too serious."
Pasha opened a door. Randy expected to see a bedroom. Inside the room, however, was an antique roll top desk and a computer desk. On the computer desk sat a state-of-the-art computer system, a laser printer on a shelf underneath the keyboard. Randy saw a fax machine and a modem, too. Filled bookshelves took up every bit of wall space available. "What do
you do for a living?"
"I'm a software programmer." Pasha pulled a seat out from behind the roll top desk. "Here. This chair is simply wonderful for the back."
Randy sat down.
Pasha sat on the corner of his desk, arms crossed. "What can I do for you friend? I see it in your face. You're in some kind of trouble. How can I help?"
"It's a big favor, Pasha. I'll understand it completely if you need to say no. So please, don't feel like you have to--"
"Randy! Get to the point. There's no sense going to bat over a favor you haven't even asked for, yet. I told you, I will do anything to help you.
Anything."
"Remember in the hospital, a few weeks back, when I was in the hall, looking at the pictures and drawings of the lighthouses?"
"Of course," Pasha said.
"Well, you told me you had a small cottage, just past Kendall."
"I do."
"I --Jamie, the doctor and myself-- need a place to stay for a while.
We've done nothing illegal. We're not running from the police--"
Pasha held up a silencing hand. "I don't care what you need the place for. You take the place. Use it as long as you'd like."
"Are you sure? I mean, it's no problem? I remember you telling me how important that place was to you, how you wished you could get out there more often," Randy said.
"I have no time to use the cottage right now. I'm rebuilding my life, standing strong beside my family. Randy, please, take the cottage and use it until you don't need to use it anymore. There's even a computer down there that's on-line. The password is written on a piece of paper and taped to the under side of the desk," Pasha said.
"Thank you, Pasha. This means a great deal to me. When what I'm going through is over, I'll tell you all the why's of what's been going on,"
Randy said.
"There's no need. I'm just glad you called on me when you needed help, friend." Pasha held out his hand.
Randy shook it. Pasha pulled Randy out of the chair and in for a hug.
"Friend," Randy said. "I have one other favor to ask of you. This one is a little more serious."
The embrace broke. "Yes?"
"If I mail you a package in the next couple of days, you won't have to
open it. Now, if something happens to me, something--anything, I want you to give the package to this person," Randy said. He grabbed a pen off Pasha's desk and a Post-It. He wrote down the name Daniel Kester and the address of the news station. "This is my boss. If you give him the package, he'll know exactly what to do with it."
"So, should anything happen to you I give the unopened package to,"
Pasha looked at the Post-It, "to Daniel Kester at your news station."
"Right. Listen, if this is asking too much--"
"It's not. I don't feel like you've asked for too much, not in the least. Is there anything else?" Pasha asked.
Randy cleared his throat. "No. There's nothing else. Well--"
"Yes?"
"Should anyone, but I don't think anyone will, but should anyone come here looking for me, or Jamie or the doctor--"
"I can't tell them where you are, right?"
"It would be appreciated."
"I promise not to tell a soul. I won't even tell Carol."
"I don't want you to keep any secrets from your wife," Randy said.
"She'll understand. Trust me."
"I do, Pasha. That's why I'm here."
Pasha opened a desk drawer. He pulled out a key chain with three keys on the ring. He took a Post-It and wrote on it. "These are the directions.
They're pretty simple. You shouldn't have any trouble finding the place." He handed the keys and the paper to Randy. "Come on. Let's go have a cup of coffee."
Randy tucked the keys and directions to the cottage into his pocket, stood up and followed Pasha out of the den.
In the car, pulling out of the Meyers' driveway, Randy said, "Something else is bothering me."
"What's that?" Audrey asked.
Jamie waved goodbye to Carol and Pasha standing at the door. "What favor did you ask of them?"
"We're going out to their cottage. We should be safe there. It's just past Kendall." Randy switched on the head lights.
"That sounds perfect," Audrey said. "What's bothering you, Randy?"
"If your boss gets a hold of me, can he re-hypnotize me with a word?"
Randy asked.
"It's a phrase," Audrey said.
"Whatever."
"Yes. He could. That's what he did with Gloria and with Wyatt." Audrey sighed.
"If I went to another hypnotist, could he, say, break the hypnotic door?" Randy asked.
Jamie sat up straight. "I know where you're going with this."
"I don't know," Audrey said. "It might work. Where are you going to find a hypnotist, though?"
Randy smiled. "I just happen to know of one."
When they got to Dr. Mark Ryan's house, Randy expected to see the lights off and no cars in the driveway. But the lights were on and the same vehicles as before were in the driveway.
"Okay, someone's home. Now what?" Audrey asked.
"We all go inside," Jamie said. "That's what."
Randy knocked on the door. Dr. Ryan opened it. "My," he said. "This is a surprise." He looked at the three of them. His eyebrows scrunched together. "I read about Gloria, about Miss. Grahm, in the newspaper.
Here, come on in." Dr. Ryan stood aside.
"Hi doctor. I'm Doctor Cox, I work at the university and Strong Memorial Hospital."
"How are you?" Dr. Ryan said. He closed the door. "What can I do to help the three of you this evening?"
Randy took in a deep breath. "Doctor Ryan, we need your help. I'm going to tell you a story--"
"Does it have to do with that video tape you showed me?"
"Yes, it does. There's a long story behind all of this, if you' we got some time to spare?" Randy said.
Dr. Ryan smiled. "Are you kidding? I've been dying to hear the rest of this tale."
After an hour of talking, Randy felt drained. They were all comfortably seated in Dr. Ryan's large office. "Okay, I understand all that you're telling me, and I know Doctor Morrow both personally and professionally.
In fact, after you came to see me the first time, I called him."
Wonderful, Randy thought. Dr. Morrow knew what we were up to. Coming to see Dr. Ryan could be dangerous. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing, just that I had some visitors asking questions about hypnosis.
He's an expert in the field. His books have all done wonderfully. If you'd like, we can call him and probably straighten this whole misunderstanding right out," Dr. Ryan said. He reached for the phone.
"No," Audrey shouted. "No, that's not a good idea."
"Really, Doctor Cox, don't you think the three of you are overreacting, even just a little?"
"I wish we were." Audrey stood up.
"But doctor--"
"Listen, Doctor Ryan, Doctor Morrow is responsible for Gloria's death,"
Audrey yelled.
"I know you say that, but--"
"He killed her, Doctor Ryan. She's dead and so are some other people.
Now, either you'll help us, or you won't. Which is it going to be?"
Dr. Ryan sighed. "I'll help you. I'm in."
"Doctor Ryan, can you hypnotize Randy, regress him in years and clear away the damage Doctor Morrow did to his mind."
"Damage?" Dr. Ryan asked.
"Yes, the damage. Can you do that?"
"I don't even know what phrase Doctor Morrow used--"
"I do." She wrote it down, handed the paper to Dr. Ryan.
Dr. Ryan looked at Randy. "Do you want me to do this?"
"If you can."
"I don't know what will happen, how things will turn out, but if you're willing, I can hypnotize you."
Randy leaned over his chair and kissed Jamie on the lips. He looked back at Dr. Ryan. "Fire away."
Dr. Ryan sighed. "Randy, 'the sun has become the moon'."
Randy's eyes closed. His body went stiff.
When Randy opened his eyes, Jamie and Audrey sat on either side of Dr.
Ryan. The three of them stared at him, each with an intense expression on their face.
"Did it work?" Randy asked.
"I think so," Dr. Ryan said. His complexion was white. "I can't believe the things I heard."
"They're all true. I was there when those tests took place. I have the actual tape from that day in a safe place," Audrey said. "Doctor Morrow said it was for government testing, that we had the green light to start generating data even though the school and the hospital never authorized the tests."
"And then Doctor Morrow wrote a best selling book on hypnosis," Dr. Ryan pointed out.
"That's right," Audrey said.
Randy felt weak. He tried to stand up. His legs wouldn't hold him. He sat down. "I'm free?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes. Let's try. Relax, Randy. The sun has become the moon."
Randy just stared at Dr. Ryan. "Excuse me?"
Jamie sighed with obvious relief. She wrapped her arms around Randy. "I love you, I love you." She kissed his forehead over an dover. She grabbed his hand and held it tightly between her own.
"What should I do now?" Dr. Ryan asked. He looked nervous.
"Pretend you never saw us," Audrey said.
"We were never here," Randy said.
In the car, Randy started the engine. He turned to look at Audrey in
the back seat. "What's this about a tape? It's different from the Chicken Tape?" he asked.
Audrey said, "That's right. I have it stored in a safe in the basement of my house. Do you think the cottage has a VCR?"
"I'll bet it does," Randy said, thinking of the electronic equipment in Pasha's den.
"Let's grab the tape, then," Audrey said. "We can watch it and I'll fill the two of you in on exactly what I think is going on. I feel so stupid for not seeing all of this years ago."
"Well, tell me how to get there," Randy said.
Audrey directed Randy to her house. When they pulled in her driveway, Audrey said, "I'll run in and grab the tape. It'll just take a second."
"We aren't going anywhere," Jamie said.
He sat in his car, parked just down the street from the doctor's home.
He knew Audrey would come back home, sooner or later. Dr. Morrow had told him as much.
He thought about going after her, but decided against it.
Two people stayed in the car, in the driveway, while Audrey went into the house. When the people in the car left, he would break into Audrey's house and kill her.
He waited.
After a few minutes, Audrey came out of the house and jumped back into the car.
The car backed out of the driveway.
He started his own engine, left the head lights off.
The car with Dr. Cox pulled away. He followed them. Once they were on the main road, he switched on his headlights and was careful to keep two car lengths back.
They led him to 1390 North. On the Ontario Parkway they headed west.
Randy concentrated on the road. The parkway was dark, the traffic slightly heavier than he would have thought for eight o'clock. "What exit do I need?" he asked his wife.
Jamie held the paper close to her eyes. "The next one, the Kendall Road exit."
Randy signaled his exit and drove toward Pasha's cottage. Jamie guided him according to the directions. They found the place easily. The resembled a miniature two story Victorian house. Randy understood immediately how the large home could represent a sanctuary to Pasha.
"Get a look at this," Randy said, softly. "Well, here we are."
He pulled the car all the way up the driveway to the closed garage door.
"Will you get a load to the size of this place?" Randy shut the engine, got out of the car. He took the keys Pasha had given him and jogged up to the front door. Jamie and Audrey stretched their legs and looked around.
"It sure is dark out here," Jamie commented. "Shouldn't they have street lights, or something? How close is the next house?"
"I think that's what Pasha found most appealing about the place," Randy said. "The seclusion."
"More like isolation," Jamie mumbled.
Randy unlocked the front door, felt along the wall for light switches, found three. He flicked the first. A lamp out at the edge of the front yard came on. He flicked the second. Two more lights came to life, illuminating the garage and the front door. "That's better," Randy said.
He flicked the last switch. The lamp in the family room came on.
Randy held the door open. Jamie and Audrey walked up the steps into the cottage. "This place is wonderful," Jamie said.
Together they toured the upstairs, found two bedrooms and a small den.
"Here's the bathroom," Audrey said from the end of the hall.
Randy opened a closet door in the master bedroom, closed it. He opened the door next to the closet. "Here's the attic. Man, this place is wild."
In the kitchen, they found the cupboards stocked with canned goods.
Utensils, flatware and silverware were also there.
In the family room, in the back of the house there sat a large hearth by sliding glass doors that led out onto a deck, providing a beautiful view of Lake Ontario.
Back in the kitchen, Jamie turned on the faucet. "Water works." In the living room Randy watched Audrey sit in a crumpled position onto the sofa. "I'm beat. Mentally spent."
"This is far from over, doctor. Don't get ready for bed just yet."
"I don't think I could sleep anyway," Audrey said. She sat up straight.
"I'm not sure I'll ever be able to sleep again."
"Someone said once, I think it was Alice Cooper, Welcome to my Nightmare," Randy said, quoting the rock legend.
Jamie and Audrey sat at either ends of the sofa together in front of the large screen television. Randy slipped Audrey's video into the mouth of the VCR. He pressed play, then sat between the women.
In shocked silence, they watched the tape. Randy felt uncomfortable by his nakedness. He knew Jamie felt awkward when she reached to hold his hand.
"That really happened?" Randy asked. He watched himself place the barrel of the pistol into his mouth, shoot himself. He watched his body crumple to the floor. "How--how could you do this to people? How could you lie to people and test them this way. My God, this tape is sickening."
Randy stood up. He let the tape run to the end. Static snow filled the screen.
"Randy, it wasn't meant to hurt anyone," Audrey said, pathetically trying to defend her actions.
"Were the tests done for the government? Are they trying to breed a hypnotic race of unfeeling soldiers, or something?" Randy asked. It seemed like the only plausible explanation.
"In the beginning of the tests, yes, that was what we were told. But no.
I don't think the government ever had anything to do with these tests,"
Audrey said.
Why then? Randy wanted to ask. His mouth went dry. He could not talk. He just gave Audrey a puzzled look.
Audrey stood up. "Ten students were tested. Yourself, Gloria and Wyatt you already know about. There were seven others. On top of the ten
test subjects, Doctor Morrow also hypnotized the two aides. One killed himself a week after the tests were concluded."
"We know about Harrison Kentman," Jamie said.
"So I've gathered. It was very clever, too, how you went about finding his identity."
"Thank you," Randy said, flatly. "What do you think Doctor Morrow was up to then, if not conducting tests for the government?"
"Honestly?" Audrey asked.
"If it's not asking too much," Randy said, sarcastically.
"I think he did the whole thing, the whole stupid test for selfish reasons. He was doing research for a book he was writing. I found out later his publisher paid him a heavy advance for an outline on a book about hypnotic suggestion," Audrey said.
"A book?" Jamie asked. "You've got to be kidding me?"
"No. I wish I were. So Alex--Doctor Morrow, involved me and Doctor Waxmill in his plan under false pretenses. He lied to us. He flat out lied," Audrey said. "He told us that paper work had been submitted, and that we were just getting ahead of the game, once everything passed through the proverbial red tape, you know?"
"No." Jamie crossed her arms in defiance. "I don't know."
"Universities --most colleges, really--and hospitals perform hundreds of tests a year. The paper work can hold up testing for months. When Alex said that he was sure he'd get the green light for his testing, mainly because it was being performed for the sake of the government, and because we were getting paid so well--probably money he paid out of pocket from the book publisher's advance-- how could Henry and I say no?
With hypnosis, ten years ago --we knew we'd be part of a ground breaking team. As a doctor, everything about the offer was alluring; the money, scientific study, government testing. You've got to at least understand that much?" Audrey begged.
"I don't," Jamie said.
"I guess I do, a little, anyway," Randy said. "But I'm not so sure I still understand. I mean, okay, he hypnotized a group of students, made us perform like a band of mercenaries, but what does that have to do with the here and now. The test was ten years ago. Where do Gloria and Wyatt fit into the game now?"
Audrey shrugged. "I'm not sure, really."
Randy sighed. "I want to take a few minutes, if you don't mind. I saw a pad of paper and a pencil by the phone in the kitchen. I need to write
someone a letter."
"Okay, honey," Jamie said. "I'm just going to sit here a while. I need to try and clear my mind a bit."
Randy kissed Jamie on the forehead. "Audrey, I'm going to be taking that tape."
"Take it. I'm too tired to fight you."
Randy ejected the video tape out of the VCR. At the table in the kitchen, he wrote a detailed letter to Daniel Kester. He explained to his boss everything he knew about what had been going on.
He found a rubber band in a junk drawer by the sink and secured the papers around the tape. Upstairs, in Carol Meyers closet, Randy found a shoe box with new sneakers inside. He removed the sneakers and took the box back into the kitchen.
In the cupboard he found an old, folded brown paper grocery store bag.
From the junk drawer he found a pair of scissors. He trimmed the bag to encase the shoe box. He placed the video cassette and letter into the box, taped the bag over the box, wrote Pasha Meyers name and address on the wrapping, and his name in the upper left-hand corner.
"Looks mail-able," Randy said to himself. In the living room, Audrey and Jamie were asleep on the sofa. Randy knelt beside his wife. "I'm going to run to the store real quick."
"What for?" Jamie asked. She sat up on the sofa.
Audrey stirred. "What's going on?" She asked.
The lights in the cottage went out.
"What just happened?" Jamie asked.
"The power went out. Probably blew a fuse," Randy said. "I don't even know where the fuse box might be." He stumbled toward the kitchen.
"Where are you going?" Audrey asked.
"Maybe there's a pack of matches or a candle or something in one of the drawers." The kitchen was lit by moon beams shining through the window over the sink. Randy began to search every drawer. He found a package of birthday candles, no matches.
"Find anything?" Jamie asked. She stood behind Randy. She touched his shoulders softly.
"Birthday candles, but nothing to light them with."
"How about the stove?" Audrey asked. "Is it a gas stove?"
"Good thinking," Randy said. He turned on a burner, touched the wicks of three candles to the blue flames. He handed Jaime and Audrey a candle, kept one for himself. "Anyone see a fuse box? I'm not sure this place has a basement."
Jamie and Audrey separated, each in search of a fuse box. Randy checked in the corners of the kitchen. "Anyone?"
"Nothing," Jamie called out. "No. Nothing," Audrey said.
"Great. This is just great. I'll bet the basement's outside." Randy went to the front door. "If I find it, yell when the power comes back on, okay? And lock this door behind me," Randy said.
"Why? You don't think--"
"I don't think anything, doctor, but I don't want to take any chances, either. Just lock this door behind me," Randy said and stepped outside.
He cupped the flame on his candle. "God, it's dark out here," he said.
Randy began to search along the parameter of the house. He walked slowly, looking for cables stapled to the clapboard. In the backyard, he found cables. They lead Randy to a walk-out cellar door.
"Great. This is just great," Randy whispered. The wind picked up around
him. The flame on the birthday candle went out. "Son of a bitch," he said.
Randy glanced over his shoulders, thankful for the light from the moon.
He felt the sensation of being watched. He saw no one. He scanned the trees to the left of the house, still no one.
He heard the sound of water lapping at the shore. He turned to face the lake. The moon shown brightly. "A sanctuary," he said, softly.
He bent down and pulled open the cellar doors. The rusted hinges creaked, but held. "I hope no spiders are down there," Randy said out loud.
"There are. Hundreds."
Randy spun around. He saw a man standing directly behind him. Because the moon was to the stranger's back, Randy could not see his face. "Who the hell--"
Without another word, the stranger reached out and pushed Randy, sent him reeling backwards, down the cellar stairs.
Randy could not scream, felt his back slam hard on the cellar's floor, the wind rushed out of his lungs. A pointed rock sliced through his shirt and the flesh of his right shoulder. The pain flew through his back, down his right arm. He rolled off the rock onto his stomach. "No,"
he gasped. He stared up the small staircase at the dark figure.
Silently, the figure closed the cellar doors. Complete darkness swelled around Randy. He managed to push himself up into a sitting position. He held his belly and coughed, caught his breath.
I have to get up those stairs, I have to help the girls.
He heard a click sound. He'd been locked in the cellar. Still, he crawled up the stairs, felt an insect slither over the back of his hand.
He shivered, stood up and slapped his hands together, hopefully brushing the creature off.
At the top of the steps he pushed hard on the doors. They did not budge.
I'm locked down here.
It was the perfect time for a panic attack. Randy felt his claustrophobia taking over. It became difficult to breathe. "I can't let this happen," he said. "Not now. I can't let this happen." He took deep breaths, tried to control his emotions. He had a strange desire to strip out of his clothing. His skin itched.
"Find the fuse box," Randy said. "Find the fuse box." Talking out loud made him feel better, less alone. He ran his hand along the moist, mildew walls as he walked down the stairs.
His hands came to rest on wood. "That's good. Wood's good."
He continued to feel his way around in the darkness, could feel his heart beat faster, but ignored it. He found the fuse box, felt around it, found a sliced cable, backed off to avoid touching a live wire.
"They've been cut."
Jamie sat at the kitchen table, watched Audrey suspiciously. Audrey seemed to sense Jamie's stare. "You don't trust me, do you?"
"How can I? How are we supposed to know if you're really on our side and trying to help, or if that evil Doctor Morrow sent you here to find out what we know. Then once you find out all you need, you'll kill us all and yourself, too?" Jamie asked. She folded her arms. "No. I don't trust you. Not even for a single second."
Audrey stood up. "If I am under Doctor Morrow's power, than I am completely unaware of it. But I don't think I am."
"Oh," Jamie huffed, "and why is that?"
"Because I feel like I am in control," Audrey said.
Jamie said, "Great answer, Audrey. I like how you put all that medical jargon into laymans terms. Your explanation makes me feel safe and secure." She eyed Audrey from head to toe and then back up.
"I'm sorry," Audrey said. "What can I do?"
"Nothing. We'll take it one step at a time."
There was a knock at the door. Jamie walked into the living room. "I guess he couldn't find the fuse box," she said. She unlocked and opened the door.
The man standing on the front porch was not Randy. Jamie screamed, tried to slam the door closed, couldn't. She threw her shoulder against it.
Audrey stood beside her, trying to push the door closed, too. "What is it? Who is it?"
The man on the other side of the door, fought to push it open. The women managed to close it and engage the dead bolt.
"Audrey," the man said, slowly. "Audrey, it's me! Please, Audrey, let me in. It's Henry. Alex is insane!"
"Henry?" Audrey asked. Her hands moved to touch the dead bolt.
Jamie grabbed Audrey's hand. "The Three Little Pigs," she whispered.
"Henry's an asshole, but I wouldn't call him the Big Bad Wolf," IF
Audrey said.
"Oh yeah, then how in the hell did he know we were here?" Jamie asked.
Audrey moved her hand away from the door. They backed up, toward the kitchen.
"Audrey," Henry said. He pounded on the door. "Let me in, Audrey. Let me in!"
"I saw a fire poker by the hearth. Get it," Audrey said.
"What'11 you use?" Jamie asked.
"I'll get a knife from the kitchen."
Jamie ran into the family room, on the other side of the kitchen and took the fire poker in her hands and was wielding it like a sword when she heard the gunshot. She screamed. She knew the man was shooting off the door's lock.
"Hide!" Audrey shouted from somewhere in the house. "Jamie, hide!"
Randy heard the gunshot, screamed. He scrambled around on his hands and knees on the floor, looking for the pick ax he'd dropped.
When he found it, he walked as quickly and as carefully as he could to the stairs. With all his might he held the pick ax over his head and began swinging at the locked doors.
The reverberation shivered its way up his arms, pain grabbed a hold of his elbows and shoulders. He ignored the pain and slammed the point of the pick ax again and again into the wooden doors.
"Please, God, please let them be all right," Randy prayed out loud as he lifted the pick ax over his head. The head of the pick ax fell from the long wooden handle to the dirt ground. "Son of a bitch!"
Randy used the broken pick ax handle to ram the door. The handle was too thin to be effective. Splinters became imbedded in Randy's palms.
Frantically, Randy began to feel along the walls again, certain if he'd found a pick ax, he'd be able to find another tool to help free himself from the cellar that had become his prison!
He walked into a wall of cobwebs and spat, swatted at the sticky strings. "There's got to be something down here! God, it's a cellar for Heaven's sake."
Jamie could not stop crying. She shrank in the corner, crouched by the sofa near the hearth. "Help me, Randy. Help me. Please don't be dead.
Please don't be dead," Jamie whispered.
She saw him, Henry, standing in the kitchen, beams of moon light shown through the part in the curtains.
She held her breath. Her heart beat loudly in her ears. Can he hear that? Can he hear my heart beating?
Henry looked quickly into the family room. "Audrey," Henry said, calmly.
This doctor was acting like a zombie, but how quick were his reflexes?
Jamie wondered. She held the fire poker in trembling hands, dared not wipe away the tears flowing down her cheeks. She had to breathe though, and tried to do so quietly.
Henry stood still a moment longer, as if listening for a revealing sound, then moved out of the kitchen.
In a flood of relief, a sob escaped Jamie's lips.
Like a pouncing lion, Henry jumped from the kitchen into the family room.
Jamie's hand flew up to cover her mouth, stifled the gasp.
Henry held something in his hand. Jamie did not see what it was, but it glittered in the path of the moon's light.
A knife? A gun? Oh, God, I'm going to die!
"Audrey?" Henry called. "I know you're in here. I heard you. Come on out."
Jamie wanted to close her eyes and wish herself invisible. She could not close them, though. He would be on her any second. There were only two, maybe three places to hide in this room. Foolishly, she had chosen the obvious.
"Audrey?" Henry said. He turned his back toward Jamie.
Jamie recognized an opening that might prove her only chance. She charged him, without taking time to think. She raised the fire poker over her head. Just as she was on him, he turned. She brought down the poker, missed his head, struck him on the shoulder.
He flinched from the pain, as a reflex, fired his gun and dropped it.
Jamie screamed, the bullet grazed her side. Hot searing pain burned her flesh. She knew she was bleeding, could feel warm blood seep from the wound. The fire poker fell from her grasp. She grabbed at her side with both hands.
When Henry knelt to pick up his gun, Jamie kicked him in the face. She cried, both in pain and panic. "You bastard! You bastard!"
The kick knocked Henry backwards. He started to crawl for his weapon, reached for it.
What do I do? What do I do, now? Jamie could not think straight. She kicked at the gun, sent it under the sofa. Run, she thought, just run!
Her body obeyed her mind. She ran from the family room, through the kitchen and around to the living room. Where is Randy? Is he out there, lying dead in the grass? She thought, as she stared at the wood splintered door.
No. No. He's not dead. He can't be dead. Jamie ran out of the house.
"Randy," she screamed into the night. "Randy where are you?"
She didn't care if the crazy doctor heard her. She ran along the side of the house into the backyard. There was no trace of her husband. She felt her body grow more weak by the second, the blood oozed from between her fingers. What will I do if he's gone? God help me, what will I do?
"Randy!"
"Jamie!"
She heard a muffled sound. Was it Randy? "Randy? Randy!"
"I'm here, Jamie, locked in the cellar. I'm in the cellar," he screamed.
Jamie fell to her knees by the cellar doors. She cried. "I knew you weren't dead, Randy. I knew you weren't dead!"
"What's going on, Jamie? Are you all right?" Randy asked.
He sounded so close. She wanted to touch him, she wanted him to hold her. The wood doors kept them apart. "I've been shot," she managed to say. "My God Randy, I've been shot."
"Jamie! Jamie, are you okay? Where did you get shot? Honey, are you all right?"
"I got shot in the side. I'm bleeding. It hurts so bad, like my side is on fire."
"Okay, okay listen. Stay calm, Jamie. Stay calm and open the walk-out cellar doors, okay?" Randy said.
"I can't. The doors are locked. There's a lock on the doors. It's a huge pad lock, Randy. Huge. What do I do? What do you want me to do?"
Jamie asked.
"Get a rock," Randy said. "Go down by the lake and find a big rock and smash the lock, Jamie. Find the biggest rock you can carry! The padlock hinge must be old, rusted. If you strike hard enough, the lock might not break, but the hinge should."
Jamie pressed the palm of her hand onto one half of the doors. She wanted to feel Randy's hand pressing through from the other side. "A rock. Find a rock," Jamie repeated her husband's words. On unsteady legs, she stood up, held onto her side and ran to the shore.
Audrey crouched in a back corner of the attic behind a foot locker and further concealed herself behind plastic wrapped dresses on a hangers on a rack. She held the handle of her knife tightly in both hands, the tip of the blade near her nose. She was still shaking, cowering, from the sound of the gun firing downstairs. She had heard Jamie scream. Is Jamie dead? Please --don't be dead!
A creaking noise stopped her train of thought. What was that?
The sound came again.
Someone was on the stairs, on their way to the attic. Was it Henry?
Fear gripped her, paralyzed her legs. She knew she should get up and move to stand by the door. When Henry came into the attic, she could try to stab him.
How can I stab him? How can I kill someone that way?
You have to! Dammit, you have to!
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay, I have to do this."
Audrey stood up, parted the dresses and moved slowly, cautiously, for the attic door. She could not hear anything over her own labored breathing. Her lips trembled, the muscles in her arms tightened and relaxed, tightened. Her stomach felt nauseous. Audrey hated the darkness, would give anything to be able to see. The one, small window in the attic faced the front of tre house, away from the moon.
The attic door opened, freezing Audrey in the center of the attic floor.
The shadow of a person stood at the top of the staircase.
"Audrey. Here you are, Audrey."
"Henry," she said, stuttered saying his name. "Please--"
"It's a shame we never got the chance to be a couple. Did you know I
had a thing for you? I'm sure you did. How could you not. But you never liked me, not even as a friend, did you?" His words came out sounding flat, but still sounded cold like ice.
"Henry," she said. "I liked you --I always liked you. You should know that."
Henry's head bent to the side. I'm confusing him, she thought. Could his love for me be more powerful than following Alex's hypnotic suggestion?
Audrey wanted to laugh, her nerves were shot. "I love you, Henry," she tried. She took a step toward him, the knife in her hand by her side.
Henry closed his eyes. He shook his head, as if trying to clear away the cobwebs that cluttered his brain.
She said, "I really love you, Henry."
He raised his gun and fired a single bullet into Audrey's leg.
Audrey fell, the knife clattered onto the floor beside her, slid away.
She screamed. The pain was beyond tolerable. She rocked back and forth holding her leg. "Ah God! It hurts! Please Henry, please, don't do this please!"
"You're in love me?" Henry asked. "You really love me?"
Henry was crying, his words sounded sincere. He looked as if he wanted to stop, but could not put the gun down. His emotions could not control what he'd been programmed to do.
Alex had programmed Henry to kill me, she knew.
It's that simple, Audrey thought. This is how I'm going to die!
She looked around the room. The knife was too far away to reach for, besides, it was a useless weapon with Henry standing so far away.
He raised the gun again, taking aim.
Despite the darkness, Audrey closed her eyes. She did not want to see the flash of fire spit from the barrel of the gun.
When the gun fired, Audrey screamed.
When there was no pain, Audrey opened her eyes.
"Audrey," Jamie yelled. "Audrey, are you hurt?"
"Shot. I've been shot."
"Where?" Randy asked.
Audrey could hear them both. They were breathing heavy.
Someone switched on a flashlight. It was Jamie. Audrey saw Henry's body face down on the floor, the blade of a pick ax embedded in his back, wedged between the shoulder blades.
Audrey began to shake. "In the leg. I'm okay. I'm okay --how are the two of you?"
Jamie sat on the floor next to Audrey. She hugged the doctor. She cried while she spoke. "We're okay. I got shot, but I'm okay. Randy was knocked down the basement stairs, hurt his shoulder on a rock, but he's okay, too."
"So now what? What do we do now?" Jamie asked.
Randy carried each one of the women, one at a time, down the attic stairs and into the family room. It was the only room with light--from the moon. Randy tore a sheet he'd taken from a linen closet in the upstairs hallway. He found cotton balls and a bottle of rubbing alcohol in the bathroom medicine cabinet. He cleaned the wounds on Jamie and Audrey and bandaged them with the shreds of cloth.
They sat in a circle on the floor, looked at each other.
"We can't get an ambulance here, because the phones are dead. So we need to get the two of you to a hospital," Randy said. "I have no clue how we're going to explain all of this to the police." He stood up.
"I'm going to tell the police everything," Audrey said.
"God, I should hope so," Jamie said.
"I will. I'll tell them everything."
Randy went into the other room, took the package he'd prepared and set it by the front door with his keys.
Randy went into the kitchen, looked into the family room. "We're going to the hospital," he said. "Come on, I'll help each of you to the car."
Randy drove as fast as he could along the parkway. He knew neither of the women were hurt bad enough to consider their wounds life threatening, but feared either of them going into shock. He remembered hearing once that a person could die from shock, despite the severity of the wound or trauma.
Jamie began to cry. "I can't believe this is over, that this nightmare is finally over."
Randy looked up into the rear view mirror. Audrey was looking at him in the mirror. Her eyes showed what Randy knew. The nightmare was far from over.
"Jamie," Audrey said. "It's not over."
"Not over? How can you say that--your friend, Henry, he's dead! It's over!" Jamie twisted around in her seat. She stared at Audrey.
"Jamie," Randy said. He touched his wife's leg. "We know for sure that Doctor Morrow hypnotized ten students ten years ago. How many has he hypnotized since? He might have a little army coming after us."
Jamie sat, looked forward. Her eyes closed. She pressed the palms of her hands against her eye lids. "Oh my God it's not over. Randy, you're telling me, it may never be over."
"I didn't say that--"
"No, but that's what you're telling me, isn't it?"
"I don't know what I'm telling you. Not really. But it's not over yet. I want to drop the two of you off at the hospital and then I'm going to try and find Doctor Morrow." Randy exited the parkway, hopped onto I 390
South. "Audrey, off hand do you know where the good doctor lives?"
"Palmyra."
"How about a more exact address?"
Audrey gave it to him. "Are you familiar with Palmyra?"
"I'll find it."
"What are you going to do?" Jamie asked.
"I'm not sure, yet," Randy said. He kept the car at fifty-five miles per hour. "I'll think of something when I get there."
"I don't think I like this plan. We know he's crazy, Randy. Why would you risk going to his house?" Jamie asked.
"I have to do something," Randy said.
"Call the police," Audrey suggested.
"And tell them what?"
No one answered Randy's question. Randy switched on the radio.
When the song playing ended, the news came on. Jamie moved to change the station, or to shut off the radio. Randy stopped her when he heard Harrison Kentman's name.
"Wait," Randy said.
"--was shot today at his place of employment. A gunman entered the nightclub, Helmets, from the rear. Helmets is located downtown, across the way from the Liberty Pole.
"The gunman concocted a story about being Kentman's long lost, forgiving cousin, says a friend of Kentman. When Kentman entered the kitchen, the gunman fired his weapon killing the thirty-one year old bar tender.
"Police are investigating Kentman's relatives at this point, and other possible leads. Police also claim to have an accurate description of the
gunman. We'll bring you more on the murder as the news becomes made
available--"
Randy switched off the radio. No one said a word.
"Where exactly are you taking us?" Audrey asked.
"We're going to the hospital in Ogden. There's no way I'm letting you out at Strong Memorial Hospital. I feel a little crazy, but I'm not nuts," Randy said.
He looked at the clock on the dashboard. 11:17 PM.
"Randy," Jamie said. "Maybe we should call the police from the hospital?"
"We won't have to," Randy said. "When you get to the hospital, because the two of you have been shot, they're going to want to know when, why, where, how and by whom. There's no way around it."
"That's right," Audrey said.
"Tell them about Pasha's home on the lake, then?" Jamie asked.
"Tell them the truth to whatever questions they ask," Randy said. He felt suddenly guilty knowing he'd inadvertently dragged Pasha and his family back into the media spot light.
"I think that would be best, too," Audrey said.
"Well, I'm sure glad to receive the doctor's approval," Randy snapped back.
"Please don't blame me--"
"Don't blame you? Don't blame you? Why the hell shouldn't I blame you?
Maybe you haven't noticed here, but there could be zombies out there trying the kill Jamie and me," Randy said.
"Henry was at the cottage to kill me, Randy. I think I know exactly how you feel," Audrey said.
Randy pulled into the emergency loop at the hospital, beeped his horn four times. He jumped out of the car and ran around to his wife's side.
He opened the door and helped her out. "How is it? Are you in much pain?"
"I'm okay," Jamie said. She kissed him. "I'll be fine. I don't even think I'm bleeding anymore. I'm more worried about you. I don't want to think about you out there, blindly chasing after some crazy man. I wish you'd call the police."
Randy smiled. He kissed Jamie on the forehead. He did not respond to her request.
"Hold on here," Randy said, leaned Jamie against the car. He opened the
back door and helped Audrey out. Audrey looked to be in worse shape. Her blood was all over the back seat. Her hands and arms were stained red from holding the wound on her leg. She limped out of the truck. "How about you, doctor?" Randy asked with genuine compassion.
"You feel all right?"
"I'll survive."
Randy smiled. Doors behind him swooshed open. He heard the sound of plastic wheels rolling on pavement. He turned around. "The troops have arrived!"
"What's happened," one nurse asked. "Who's hurt. "
"We've been shot," Audrey said. "I'm Doctor Audrey Cox, from Strong Memorial Hospital. I was shot in the leg. The bullet is still lodged in there. Jamie Cook --over there-- was shot in the side. Her bleeding has stopped, I think the bullet just grazed the skin."
"Okay doctor," the nurse said. "Sir, did you shoot these women?"
The question sounded almost comical. Randy felt too wired to laugh. "I did not. Jamie's my wife. Audrey --the doctor-- is my friend."
Audrey smiled, Randy winked.
"We're going to have to contact the police," the nurse said.
"Don't waste any more time, then," Randy said. He gave Jamie another kiss while a silent, second nurse helped Audrey onto the gurney. "I love you. You'11 be all right?"
"I'll be fine. Be careful," Jamie said.
"I will. I gotta go," Randy said.
Randy jumped into the car. Jamie called something out to him as the nurse started to lead Jamie and Audrey into the hospital. Randy rolled down the window. "What?"
"I said, 'I love you, too'," Jamie said. She blew Randy a kiss.
Randy stopped at a grocery store, bought three dollars worth of stamps from a machine, stuck them onto his package. He dropped the wrapped video cassette into the blue mail box out in front of the store. He jumped back into his car and drove to Palmyra.
Not many cars were on the road this late at night.
Without an actual plan, Randy felt foolish. What am I going to do, exactly? Just knock on this renowned doctor's door and start fighting him? Punch him in the nose?
"I should," Randy said. I should just knock on his door and when he opens it, kick the living shit out of him!
Randy found Dr. Morrow's house with no trouble. The good doctor lived in a home only slightly smaller than a mansion. The multi million-dollar piece of construction sat, illuminated like a haunted castle, at the top of a grassy hill.
Randy drove up the winding driveway, noticing the large pond in the front yard, the foot bridge leading over it, the amount of flood lights set around it.
"He's a freaking show off," Randy murmured. He turned off his own head lights, pulled up to the front door and shut the car's engine off. There were no cars in the driveway. The garage, a four car building down, past the house, was closed up. He did not know if the doctor was home.
"There's only one way to find out."
Randy took a deep breath and walked up the front step. He exhaled and knocked three times, decided on a direct approach. "And maybe a punch in the nose to break the ice--among other things," he whispered.
Randy saw the lights from the room to the right of the front door come on. "I guess there is a doctor in the house."
When the door did not immediately open, Randy felt sure the doctor was watching him. He looked, but couldn't find a peephole anywhere. Randy knocked again. "Open up, doctor. I know you're in there."
Randy waited. He heard the sounds of locks disengaging. He stood stiff, ready for the unexpected; ready to dive out of a bullet's path, if necessary; ready to charge the doctor, should he be holding a knife.
The door opened.
The man inside the mansion smiled. He was dressed in black satin pajamas and a long, blood red, satin robe. Slippers, like moccasins, on his feet. "Might as well come in, Mister Cook." He turned his back on Randy and walked deeper into his house.
Somewhat shocked by the casual mannerism, Randy walked in.
"Close the door, would you?" Dr. Morrow asked.
"Are you Doctor Morrow?" Randy asked.
"I am. I must say, I didn't expect to see you. Well, that's not exactly true. I just didn't expect to see you tonight." Dr. Morrow walked behind a wet bar near the back wall of a large library, off to the left of the front foyer.
Randy stood at the library's threshold.
"Could I mix you a drink?" Dr. Morrow asked. He sounded cordial, as if Randy were a guest, just over to be entertained.
"Mix what into it?"
"Been waiting long to say that one?" The doctor poured a drink into a tumbler, dropped an ice cube into the glass. "You're sure?"
"No. Thank you." Randy felt his temper growing, kept his cool. The shock from the doctor's calm behavior was wearing off.
"Really now, Randy. Now that you're here, what do you plan--"
"I know everything."
"Do you?" Dr. Morrow laughed. He stepped away from the bar. A gun in one hand, a drink in the other. "Enlighten me."
"Oh boy."
"Does this bother you?" Dr. Morrow asked, waving the gun in the air.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Now, fill me in on all that you know, and when I kill you, I'll do it as quickly and as painlessly as possible. How does that sound?"
Randy thought about turning and running back to the front door.
"It's locked. Before you even get to the door, I will have emptied every last bullet into your back. I have all night to chase you around my house, too. As you saw driving up here, my place is rather secluded. So now, where were we? Ah, yes" --Dr. Morrow pointed the gun at Randy--
"tell me all that you know right this very second or I will blow off your left knee cap, and let me tell you Mister Cook, I'm an excellent shot."
In the center of the library Randy sat in a comfortable, high back leather chair. Dr. Morrow sat in an identical one, across from Randy, legs crossed, gun pointed at Randy's belly.
"The sun has become the moon," Dr. Morrow said, a smug expression on his face. Randy held his breath. Nothing in him seemed to change. He smiled.
"Is that supposed to mean something?" he asked.
"You stopped to see Doctor Ryan again, I presume?" Dr. Morrow asked.
"You presume right," Randy said. "Let's cut the bullshit. What do you say?
"So, you know about the hypnosis book, do you?" Dr. Morrow asked. He sounded amused. "It was a good book. It climbed to the top of the best sellers chart in weeks. I did tours across the country. Do you know Mister Cook, that other colleges paid me between seventy and one-hundred thousand dollars to visit their schools as a guest speaker. I made more money as a guest speaker --well, you don't care so much about that, do you?"
"I don't care about any of it," Randy said. His courage was imaginary, forced. "I want to know about Wyatt and Gloria."
"I thought you said that you knew everything?" Dr. Morrow smirked.
Randy bit his tongue. He didn't want to push his luck and anger Dr.
Morrow. Getting killed wouldn't help matters, any. He had to think of Jamie. She needed him to come out of this mess alive.
"A new book. It's almost that simple, really," Dr. Morrow said, suddenly. "You can't have a best seller, and then disappear. Sure, I've had four other books hit the list, but they just went there because of my first book. I've been doing well because of the name, like Nike or Kodak. It's not the quality, at this point. Or it wasn't. My publishers tell me they're tired of the psycho-analytical bullshit that every Ph.
D. is writing. They need something new." He took a long chug from his tumbler. "Are you sure I can't get you one? I'll have another with you?"
"No thanks."
"Oh, that's right. You want the facts, ma'am, nothing buy the facts,"
Dr. Morrow said in a bad Joe Friday imitation.
Randy did not smile.
"You think I'm crazy, don't you?" Dr. Morrow asked.
"You had someone kill the governor for a book? Now, I don't have a degree in psychology or anything, but I'd be willing to wager that, yes, you're off your rocker."
"It's a little more complicated than you make it out to be," Dr. Morrow said, thoughtfully. "You see, Patrick was a prick. He was trying to cut research spending. He was making so much noise, quite a fuss, that people were actually beginning to listen to him. I don't know if you know anything about doctors, Randy, but we need our research. Without it we'd never have--"
"Best sellers?"
"Exactly. See, I knew you were a smart young man."
"But seriously. Research is important. Vital."
"And the governor was trying to cut research budgets. So you had him killed."
"Well now, Randy, that situation is two-fold. Yes, I was very upset when I found out the governor was going to cut research spending, mad enough to kill, but I'm not an irrational person. I don't act out in haste. I planned to write a book about it, too: Inside the Killer's Mind: What a Sociopath Thinks. It's still just a working title, but, you get the idea. I've interviewed family; Wyatt's mother and brother, who weren't helpfully really, but served as good research tools just the same. My editor likes what I've sent in so far. I think when it's done, it will top the best seller list." Dr. Morrow sat back in his chair, looked proud of himself.
Randy stared at the man. "And the book is about Wyatt? Or it's an autobiography?"
This comment seemed to upset Dr. Morrow. "Don't make me shoot you right here," Dr. Morrow said, laughed. "You're chair is sitting on a very, very expensive, hand woven oriental rug. I'd hate to ruin it with stains from your blood."
"Maybe I will take that drink now," Randy said.
Dr. Morrow seemed to study Randy, suddenly. He stood up. "I suppose a drink would be best. The alcohol will numb the senses some. It'll be better if you're drunk when I kill you."
"You can make it look like I broke into your house, wild and drunk, and you shot me in self defense," Randy said, reciting a scenario.
"Something like that. Yes." He handed Randy his drink.
Randy took a dainty, little sip. "Only, won't they know it was you're alcohol that got me drunk?"
"I'm not dumb, Mister Cook. I'll wash your glass, dry it and put it back on the tray. I don't think they'll comb through my belongings too closely. It'11 be you they're here for. You, friend of Wyatt Ransom, the man responsible for assassinating the governor. You, friend of Gloria Grahm, who dies in a freak explosion. Randy, didn't you even go and see that faggot at the bar downtown? No, I don't think the police will be too interested in me when they realize who it is that is dead on my floor. Do you?"
Randy found it hard to swallow; his mouth suddenly dry. He hated to ask the next question. He cleared his throat and asked, "So now what?"
"Now, I guess --as long as you don't have any other questions-- we'll move into the foyer, and I'll shoot you." He smiled.
Randy stood up.
"Ah, ah, ah. Slowly, hero-man. Move nice and slow."
Randy laughed. He emptied his alcohol onto the oriental rug. "OOPS. I seem to have soiled your carpet."
Dr. Morrow looked surprised, hurt, offended. "Why you--"
When Dr. Morrow looked at the massive stain on the rug, Randy hurled his tumbler. The glass caught Dr. Morrow in the chest, startling him. The gun fired into the air. Plaster chips from the ceiling rained down around them. Randy charged Dr. Morrow, knocked the aged man to the ground.
Dr. Morrow swung at Randy with the gun. Randy blocked the blow with his forearm, jumped onto the doctor's chest. Pinned the doctor's arms to the floor with his knees. He curled his fingers into a fist and delivered three punches into the doctor's face.
The third punch knocked the doctor out. The gun fell from Dr. Morrow's hand.
Randy raised his arm up, ready to punch him again, but stopped. There was no need.
He stood up, picked up the gun, stuck it in the waist of his jeans and filled a clean tumbler with scotch and ice cubes. "Now I'm really ready for that drink, thank you very much."
The sirens came closer to the house. Randy knew they must be coming up the long driveway. Who had called them? he wondered. Did the good doctor have a silent alarm? Probably, but he wouldn't have tripped it.
Randy went to the front door, unlocked it. He stood on the front step, the drink in his hand. He watched two police cars stop by his car, jump out of their cruisers, guns drawn.
"Identify yourself?" one of the police officers asked.
"My name is Randy Cook. I--"
"Are you okay Mister Cook?" the other police officer asked.
Randy felt confused. "I think so. Yes."
"Your wife called us from the hospital. We don't have all the details yet --is Doctor Morrow in?"
"He's--yes, in the library, on the left."
No one moved to see for sure if Randy was telling the truth.
"Are you armed, Mister Cook?"
"Yes. I'm going to set the gun down," Randy said. He moved slowly. Using the fingertips of his free hand, he lifted the gun out of the waist band of his jeans. He bent down slowly, placed the gun on the ground and kicked it away. He felt relieved to see the police holster their own weapons.
A van silently wound its way up the driveway. Randy watched it, curiously, recognized it a second later. He smiled. First on the scene, he thought. With or without me.
The news van stopped behind the police cars. A cameraman that Randy did not recognize stepped out of the van, began to film. Nice having a driver, Randy thought. He saw Johnny Redman step out of the van, too.
Randy took a step off the front step. The police officers drew their weapons. Aimed them. "Hands in the air. Now! Drop it, drop it! Down--
no!"
Randy thought his heart stopped beating. He raised his hands in the air, let his tumbler fall and shatter on the ground, yelled: "No!"
The police officers fired, anyway. Randy closed his eyes. His body
stiffened. He held his breath.
When the shooting stopped, Randy opened his eyes. He had not been shot.
He saw Johnny, microphone at his side, staring in awe or in shock, at him. The cameraman filmed away.
The police officers holstered their guns, again.
Randy turned around.
Sprawled on the front step, a growing pool of blood under his body, lay Dr. Alex J. Morrow. A large kitchen knife by his hand. To Randy, the doctor looked dead.
Randy felt queasy, thought he might faint.
Epilogue Randy stood with Johnny Redman, Paul Scianno, the driver and Jerome Carter. They all watched in silence as the police photographer took pictures at different angles of Dr. Morrow's body. Art, the news cameraman stood as close as he could, capturing the event on film.
Johnny asked, "How are you?"
"A bundle of nerves."
Johnny laughed. "When we heard the call on the police scanner, we knew pretty much what was happening."
"How could you know that? I only just mailed the video."
"Video?" Johnny asked.
"You don't know about the video?" Randy asked.
"No--"
"You will. In a few days, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about."
"What we did," Jerome said, "was go to Samuel Huntly's house."
"Samuel Huntly--the guy that was driving the car that killed Gloria?"
Randy asked, knowing the answer.
"Right," Johnny said.
"I accessed his home computer. We kind of, off the record, broke into his place. We'd recovered the pictures he'd taken of you and Gloria from the computer he'd been using on campus.
"When we checked his computer at home, we found reports to go with the photo's. There were smashed CD's in his trash can. Their useless, but they suggested a problem," Jerome finished.
"We put the pieces together," Johnny said, "so to speak, and connected a lot of things going on lately with you, Gloria, and a few doctors at the hospital and university. Never in a million years, did I expect to find such a dramatic conclusion."
Randy laughed. "You don't know the half of it. If you think you have a story, wait until after I fill you guys in on the giant chunks of puzzle pieces. It'11 blow your mind. Blow your mind! To start with, we have to do a major piece to clear Wyatt Ransom's name."
"The guy who killed Governor Lippa?" Redman asked. "Are you crazy? The man blatantly shot the governor and killed himself. Randy I think--"
"No, Johnny, sometimes you don't think. Trust me on this one. Wyatt Ransom is innocent," Randy said.
"You're going to need some pretty substantial proof to sell that one."
"Don't you worry," Randy said. "I've got it. Listen, I don't feel up to driving. Can you guys give me a ride back to the hospital?"
"Will the police let you just leave?" Paul asked.
"I'll tell them they can find me at the hospital, my wife's there. She's been shot--"
"My God, Randy. Is she going to be okay?" Johnny asked.
"She should be. The police shouldn't have a problem with me leaving, should they?" Randy said.
"I wouldn't think so. Climb in, I'll drive. It's my job, isn't it?" Paul said.
In Charlotte, Randy held Jamie's hand as they walked along the pier out over Lake Ontario.
"I really liked Gloria," Jamie said. "You know, despite my childish jealousy, I think we were becoming friends."
Randy stayed quiet.
"What are you thinking about?"
"I don't know. Everything. I was thinking about Greg."
"Yeah," Jamie said. "He and his mother seemed so, I don't know relieved?"
"I'd say relieved," Randy said. "The burden's been lifted off them. With Wyatt's name being cleared, they don't have to feel ashamed anymore
"It must have been horrible to think your son, or brother, is a murderer."
"I think about all that's happened--the fire, the hypnosis--the whole story. It's unnerving. I can't believe I was a part of something like that. Even though this whole thing will be exploited," Randy said, thinking of the phone calls he's received from the producers of 60
Minutes, 20/20, ABC, NEC, CBS and FOX. He thought specifically about the newspaper article he'd read the other morning. The U of R was recalling all students who participated in--or knew of someone who participated in--the infamous
Chicken Tape study. Audrey Cox helped provide names of students from her own notes. She and Dr. Cox planned to work side by side to defuse in the students the hypnotic suggestions implanted by Dr. Morrow. The thought that something like this really happened, and could happen again, made Randy shiver. "I worry about what kinds of tests are being done on people--in school, at hospitals--every day without the subjects consent. Man, it's scary. Isn't it?"
"Yeah. It is. So what can we do about it, you and I. I mean, they're going to make a movie about it. There's going to be a book. You have the interviews for those shows coming up. That's a way of getting the word out there," Jamie said.
Randy knew she was trying to be helpful. "A half hour after the movie, after the shows, after the book's read, people will forget. They'll think--hey, what a good story. What's on next? What do I read next?"
"It will effect a lot of people, I think. It'll make them question things more. Randy, what's happened is very disturbing, and just because it didn't happen to everyone else, doesn't mean it won't effect them."
"You think?"
"Yeah," Jamie said. They stopped walking. They stood by the light tower at the end of the pier. "I think."
Together they watched a large sail boat pass slowly by.
They were done talking for now. It seemed a lovely day. The sun stood brightly in a blue and cloudless sky.

