F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 (24 page)

 
          
Julie
coughed. She couldn't take much more of this smoke. It was like the house was
on fire.

 
          
"Yes.
Utterly mad. Obviously." She turned to Eathan. She wanted the answer to
one question before she hightailed it for the fresher air of the second floor.
"I didn't know my father was a neurochemist. And that he'd published. Why
didn't you tell me?"

 
          
He
puffed out a plume of blue smoke. "Of course you knew
—
at least you knew he was a neurochemist. I thought that's
why you wound up in neurology yourself."

 
          
"I
knew he was a chemist, but not a neurochemist. I had no idea."

 
          
"How'd
you find out?"

 
          
She
rolled out her prepared answer, hoping it didn't sound too glib.

 
          
"I
was doing a computer search and noticed an abstract from an old article by
someone named Nathan Gordon, Ph.D.
—
from way back in the sixties. I downloaded it and was shocked to realize I was
reading my father's work."

 
          
Eathan
smiled. "Nathan published sporadically. His theories on the developing
brain weren't widely accepted at the time. Too bad he didn't live long enough
to pursue them. He was a brilliant, brilliant man. He'd be a giant in the field
of developmental neurology today if he'd had time to complete his work. As it
was, with all his papers lost in the fire, no one could pick up where he'd left
off."

 
          
Alma
cleared her throat.
"Probably you've simply forgotten that you knew he was a neurochemist. But
the knowledge may have influenced you subliminally."

 
          
Julie
wanted to say that she knew all about memory and subliminals. But she had to
admit it no doubt was more than coincidence that she, the daughter of a
neurochemist, wound up with a doctorate in neurophysiology.

 
          
"Perhaps,"
she said.

 
          
Another
question popped into her head. "Tell me, Eathan: Did Dad have a bad
temper?"

 
          
"What
makes you ask that?"

 
          
"One
of Sam's memories I saw today. He was arguing with our mom and seemed to be on
the verge of a violent outburst."

 
          
Eathan
stared at the glowing tip of his cigar. "Your father was a visionary. He
saw the world differently and sometimes reacted to it in an unorthodox
fashion. He was a good man, and he absolutely adored you and Samantha. I
remember him talking endlessly about the two of you, how absolutely fascinated
he was that identical twins could be so different. He fostered those
differences, nourished them whenever possible. And as I'm sure you've realized,
I've tried to do the same in his absence."

           
Eathan tapped his ash into an
oversized tray on an end table, then looked back at Julie.

 
          
"But
he had his faults too. He was often too wrapped up in his work for social
niceties. People often mistook Nathan's preoccupied state for aloofness or
even rudeness. I think you can empathize with that, can't you, Julia?"

 
          
Julie
gave him a sheepish smile. She'd been misunderstood more than her share of
times, people thinking she'd snubbed them when in fact she hadn't even been
aware of their preseties.

 
          
"Yeah
... I suppose I can, but
—
"

 
          
Eathan
raised a hand. "You know, I've been giving the scorched appearance of
Samantha's memoryscape a lot of thought," he said, "and I was
wondering if it might relate symbolically to this Liam O'Donnell fellow she
was seeing. I mean, he is a known arsonist, reportedly a firebomb
specialist."

 
          
"Oh,
dear,"
Alma
said. "Arsonists? Firebombs? I don't think I like the
sound of this."

 
          
"Oh,
don't worry about O'Donnell," Eathan said. "I've learned that
Scotland Yard has a standing warrant for his arrest. He'll be avoiding British
soil at all costs
—
which is one of the reasons
I wanted Samantha brought back here."

 
          
Julie
felt a flush creep into her cheeks at the memory of the man's lips on her, his
tongue, the feel of him inside
—

 
          
No,
not me
—
Sam! He was inside
Sam.
And don't forget it!

 
          
Taking
a deep breath, she said, "But if all that's said of him is true and he
wanted to get rid of Sam, what would be the reason? And wouldn't his preferred
method be fire?"

 
          
Eathan
shrugged. "Maybe she knew something about him. Or maybe it wasn't him.
Maybe it was the people he works for. Maybe he has nothing at all to do with
any of it. I don't know. It's just that everything inside there seems to have
been burnt to the ground and ..." He rubbed a trembling hand across his
eyes and his voice broke as he stared at the floor. "Oh, Lord, I don't
think she's ever coming back to us."

 
          
Julie's
heart went out to Eathan. He'd always been able to protect Sam, to shield her
from the consequences of her recklessness. Now he was helpless and it was
eating him alive.

 
          
She
took a step toward him, but
Alma
got there first.

           
"There, there, Eathan,"
she said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder.

 
          
What's
this? Julie thought. She hadn't assumed Uncle Eathan was living a monklike
existence, but a relationship with Sam's therapist? If true, that was a little
surprising.

 
          
"Don't
you worry,"
Alma
was saying. "We'll find some way to help Samantha.
You've got a brilliant niece working on it, and I'll do anything I can to help.
You know that."

 
          
"I
do know that," he said, straightening and looking at
Alma
, then at Julie. "But I
fear that it's hopeless."

 
          
"Don't
count me out yet," Julie said, trying to imbue her smile with more
confidence than she felt. "I've only begun to fight."

 
          
She
was impressed by
Alma
. She seemed to have genuine empathy for Sam. She was a
practicing psychiatrist, she knew Sam's psyche, and the different perspective
she offered could help.

 
          
Julie
glanced at her watch. Almost
nine o'clock
. That meant it was
midafternoon back in
New York
. She could call Dr.
Siegal....

 
          
"And
speaking of which, I think it's safe now to make another foray into Sam's
memoryscape.
Alma
, would you like to monitor me?"

 
          
Her
eyes lit. "Really? I'd be thrilled."

 
          
''Good.
By the time you two finish polluting the air down here, I should be ready up
there."

4

 
          
When
Julie reached Sam's room she told the nurse she could take a break. Then she
popped out the videotape of her last session and stared at it. She didn't want
Eathan to know this existed, but wanted it available for review should the need
arise. She put a small X in a corner of the label, slipped it back "n
among the blank cassettes, and pulled out a fresh one.

 
          
She
had everything ready
—
including Dr. S. on-line
—
by the time Eathan and Alma arrived. They settled before
the monitor as Julie donned her headset and glove.

           
"
Alma
, before we start I must get
a verbal nondisclosure agreement from you. This equipment is proprietary.
Patents are pending. You may tell no one anything about what you're about to
see. Do you agree to that?"

 
          
"I
understand and I agree," she said. "I'll lock this away the
patient-privilege drawer and forget
it."                                
'

 
          
Oh,
I don't think you'll forget this, Julie thought. Especially if we catch Sam and
Liam going at it again.

 
          
She
snapped her goggles down, clicked the Enter button and she was on her way.

 
          
John
Kotre: "As a maker of myth, the self leaves its handiwork everywhere in
memory. With the passing of time, the good guys in our lives get a little
better and the bad guys a little worse. The speeds get faster, the fish get
bigger, the Depression tougher."

—
Random
notes: Julia Gordon

 
          
 You
stand amid the darkness and devastation now.

 
          
You
stand outside the glowing "studio" and scan the ruined vista. You
notice even fewer pockets of light, evidence of lost bits of memory sinking
through the seared crust of the 'scape. Signs of life persist, but not enough.
Nowhere near enough. The sky remains as dark as ever, and the perpetual pall of
smoke still hangs in the air.

 
          
A
sense of hopelessness, of utter futility, assails you. You can't make this
work. The devastation is too extensive, and worsening. What does it mean? Are
those sinking bits of memory lost forever? Or is there a way to revive them?
You wish there was a guidebook to this chaos. If this destruction represents a
similar process in her mind, then everything that was Sam will be gone forever.

           
You're losing her. You've
got
to
find another way.

 
          
And
then you notice a dark figure standing near the studio.

 
          
"Hello?"
you call, but the figure doesn't move, doesn't respond in any way. Something
wrong here.

 
          
You
step closer and realize with a shock that it's your father, standing there
shrouded in a long black cloak. But he looks different. His face is pale and
his hairline seems to have developed a widow's peak.

 
          
"Daddy?"

 
          
Suddenly
he smiles and you recoil from the sharp white fangs he reveals. Then he spreads
his arms and his cape and, like a scene out of a corny old horror movie,
metamorphoses into a bat that squeals and flies in dizzying loops before disappearing
into the studio.

 
          
Hesitantly
you follow him into the gallery and stop inside the entrance. It's empty. No
bat... and no paintings; they're gone.

 
          
You
push forward, searching for the large canvas, the one with the slowly emerging
painting. That's gone too.

 
          
You
feel the first stirrings of panic. As hopeless as it had seemed a moment ago,
at least you had the paintings. Now...

 
          
You
catch a flash of color in the corner. A mix of yellow and orange. You rush to
it.

 
          
Not
all the paintings are gone. One of Sam's originals, the lion with the flaming
mane, riding the gondola, remains. But it's been moved to the rear of the
gallery. Why? Why are all the others except this one gone?

 
          
You
touch the fiery mane and jerk back. Hot! But how
—
?

 
          
And
then you see that the mane is truly aflame now. And the fire is spreading, the
flames licking at the canvas around the lion's head. Within seconds it eats a
hole through and begins spreading in an ever-widening circle of fire. Before
you can do anything the fire has consumed the painting, leaving only smoldering
embers along the inner margin of the frame.

 
          
Beyond
the flame is blackness. Not the gallery wall, not an opening to the outside
memoryscape. Simply an opening. A void. A black hole.

 
          
You
move closer and peer through this rent in the fabric of Sam's inner reality.
Utter blackness lies beyond.

 
          
And
it beckons.

           
Entranced, you move even closer, but
the blinking Window button distracts you. You click it and Dr. S. appears. You
know what he's going to say.

 
          
"I'm
going in, Dr. Siegal."

 
          
"Now
wait a minute, ]ulie. Now Jet's just wait a minute and give this some thought.
You don't know what
—
"

 
          
"I
can click EXIT and end the session whenever
I
want."

 
          
"Yes,
but there may be more to it than that. We discussed
—
"

 
          
You
click the Window button and Dr. S. disappears.

 
          
Rude,
yes, but you sensed he was going to warn you again about the risks inherent in
your personal and genetic links to Sam. You'd have listened politely if you
were alone with Sam. But you can't risk alarming Eathan, who's watching the
monitor and listening to every word. If he thinks there's the slightest risk
to you, he'll withdraw permission and shut you out of the memoryscape
altogether.

 
          
Before
Dr. S. can interrupt you again, you dart through the frame
—

 
          
And
fall.

 
          
No
wind in your face, no sense of plunging in gravity's grip, yet you know you're
falling because a look behind reveals the glowing rectangle of the picture
frame receding above you like the hatch of a plane from which you've leaped.

 
          
You
look ahead. At least you think it's ahead. This utter blackness is
disorienting. You're losing your sense of up and down. You feel your chair
against your back but the vertigo overwhelms you. There's no sense of reality
here, only your virtual fall. Hopefully the program will keep you oriented.
You might well be panicking now if not for that comforting, ever-ready Exit
button on the bar across the top of your visual field.

 
          
And
now you see something: a faint, lacy pattern of blue-white light in the Stygian
blackness far below. You're falling
—
skydiving;
—
toward it. As you near, the
pattern reminds you of a silver filigree, but you need another moment or two
before you appreciate the scope of what you see. The silver is water, and the
openings in the filigree are islands. You are falling toward a vast, moonlit
archipelago.

 
          
Finally
your descent slows and you find yourself hovering a few feet above the craggy
surface of one of the larger islands in the center of the group. You glance up
for the source of the light and see a crescent moon, a narrow sliver of milky
light but impossibly huge, hanging impossibly close in the clear, starless sky.

 
          
No,
not hanging. You can see it falling down the sky, a glowing fingernail
clipping from a careless god.

 
          
You
lower your perspective and study your surroundings. You realize this is not the
peaceful archipelago it appeared to be from on high. Instead, you are
surrounded by another vista of unimaginable devastation. But this time the
engine of destruction was water instead of fire. A deluge of forty years
instead of forty days. These clumps of land around you are not islands
—
! they're hilltops. The ground beneath your virtual feet
could be a peak in the
Rockies
, or the
Appalachians
. Or
Mount Ararat
perhaps, waiting for the
Ark
to come to rest on one of
its crags. This may be a deeper level of Sam's memoryscape, but it is just as
wasted as its companion above.

 
          
You
land on the largest of the islands and stare at the water. It looked so clean
and clear from up there. Now, close up, you see oily rainbows drifting across
its moonlit surface. Black water. And nothing ripples that dark surface from
below or settles upon it from above. Truly this is a dead sea.

 
          
Dead...
does this represent a dead area of her mind, lost forever, or is this only
symbolic? But no one is here to give you answers. You're the first explorer in
this strange netherworld.

 
          
You
turn and freeze.

 
          
Behind
you is a giant black nautilus shell, an onyx mass gleaming in the moonlight.
How did it get here?

 
          
Never
mind. The rules of the outside world mean nothing here. What matters is the
light seeping from inside, inviting you in from the wet and cold of this
postdiluvian wasteland! You accept.

 
          
Inside,
you realize this is another gallery. New paintings decorate the walls. Only one
is familiar, and even that is changed: The gondola still plies the Venetian
canal in the magically
re
stored
canvas from the upper-level gallery, but no flaming lion rides in its bow. And
the large work in progress is back as wells You approach it and see that new
details have been added: more trees, and a fuller moon, the familiar moon
you've seen all your life, not the alien behemoth lumbering across the sky in
this place.

           
You return to the outside. Motion to
the right catches your eye. A dark shape gliding along the water, moving
closer...

 
          
A
gondola. So strange in this lifeless sea. No lion with flaming mane is
passenger in this one. It's simply an empty gondola. It gently floats to the
bank before you and crunches softly against the slimy rock. And waits.

 
          
"Okay,"
you say. "I guess I'm supposed to go for a ride."

 
          
You
expect another warning from Dr. S. but his window is quiet.

 
          
So,
reminding yourself again that you can exit anytime you wish, you step aboard.
It doesn't rock under your weight like a real gondola. Good thing too, since
you've never done well on ships or boats of any size.

 
          
As
soon as you seat yourself, the craft drifts from shore. You need no Charon to
guide you upon this
Styx
of the soul as your craft carries you along the polluted
channels, winding around and between devastated islands of rock that once
housed memories.

 
          
It's
dead here, deader than the scorched level above. The only light is in the
gallery dwindling behind you and the overbearing sliver of moon above. The
crescent has fallen closer to the horizon. Soon it will set and you fear the
darkness will be absolute. Perhaps you should go back.

 
          
You
admit something to yourself: You're scared here.

 
          
And
then ahead ... something bobbing upright on the surface, like a softly glowing
buoy. As you near you make out details ... and realize it's a giant plastic
glow-in-the-dark dashboard Jesus. You pass within a few feet of it, and as the
buoy comes abeam, it becomes flesh. Suddenly Jesus is standing on the water,
staring at you. He holds up a pierced palm in greeting

 
          
"The
blood is the life," he says, then turns and strides away ... across the
water.

 
          
"Blood,"
you whisper. "Dad as a vampire, and now Jesus. Are you still after me for
that transfusion, Sam?"

 
          
You
scan the horizon and see a larger glow. Yes! A memory node, no doubt, a
survivor of the deluge. That, you guess, is the reason for the gondola. To take
you to it. So you wait.

 
          
The
water moves past the gondola at perhaps three knots, yet you approach the glow
at something like fifty. And soon you recognize it.

 
          
Venice
. Not the
Venice
you remember from your trip
to the old city three years ago. This is the stylized
Venice
from Sam's painting. Gone
are the strings of lights and crowds of colorful people. Darkness, the great
equalizer, has stolen them. You sail the city's black waterways, cruise beneath
its empty footbridges, glide past the stuccoed fronts of its narrow houses
with their empty black windows.