F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 (39 page)

 
          
Dr.
Elizabeth Loftus is doing fascinating work with false memory. She's been able
to create fake childhood memories in adults ranging in age from 18 to 63. Her
subjects became genuinely convinced that they'd got lost in a particular store
at a particular age; each embellished the false childhood memory with a host of
personal details and emotions, but it never happened. Some were so adamant
about the veracity of the memory they were willing to bet money on it.

—
Random
notes: Julia Gordon

1

 
          
Morning
light filled her room. For a moment it seemed like another dream, but then she
felt the cold, damp morning air, and the light in her eyes. What time was it?

 
          
She
turned to the end table and saw the small digital clock. 10:30. Way too late.

 
          
I'm
sleeping too much, dreaming too much
. . .
chasing phantoms, chasing
secrets.

 
          
1
think I'm losing it.

 
          
She
got up quickly. She needed a dose of reality
—
needed
to talk to Eathan some more. She had to clear the air between them.

 
          
Downstairs,
the maid informed her that Dr. Gordon had left, that he had business to attend
to in
Whitby
.

 
          
Julie
went into the dining room hoping for a note from Eathan, but found nothing
except a pile of rolls and coffee. She picked up a roll and bit into it,
savoring the taste as it crumbled in her mouth. Good to have a real sensation.
She poured herself a cup of coffee, dosing it with milk and sugar. She gulped
it down and poured another.

 
          
She
had to get out of the house.

 
          
She
finished the roll and found her jacket in the hall closet. She stepped out the
front door and stood there, taking in the gently rolling hills that led to the
high moors. A chilly morning, damp, rehearsing for an English winter. No
police about this morning.

 
          
She
went down the front steps and cut around the side, heading for the cliffs.

 
          
She
took the path slowly, scanning left and right. What am I looking for? she
wondered. A bit of fabric stuck to one of the brambles? A half-smoked Gauloise?
A shoe-print?

 
          
And
all the time she wondered: What if Liam had nothing to do with Alma Evans's
death? What if she did fall? I mean, if a whole hotel can fall off one of these
cliffs, why not a lone woman? It had almost happened to her.

 
          
Why
the hell couldn't she accept that Liam had done this? He had motive: The
missing tape of Sam's memoryscape placed him at the scene of the Branham Bank
bombing. He had opportunity: He'd been on the grounds; maybe
Alma
had caught him stealing the
tape and he disposed of her. It was all so plausible.

 
          
Resisting
the obvious was irrational, so much more like Sam than Julie.

 
          
Maybe
I'm not
the
girl I
was.

 
          
She
kept searching the trail, peering into the tiny crevices of the rocks. Surely
good Inspector Stephens and his men would have found any clue that had been
left behind. But it was important to Julie to look for herself.

 
          
The
wind blew at her open jacket, and the mist dampened her skin.

           
Then she spotted something peeking
out of a tiny crack between two rocks. A bit of white. But when she bent to
reach for it, she found it was a tiny flower with three white petals. Pretty,
hiding in the crevice, protected from the wind.

 
          
She
kept walking until she reached the cliffs.

 
          
No
need to go to the edge, she thought. Unless someone else was down on the rocks.

 
          
There
was a grim thought.

 
          
Just
yesterday morning she'd come up here to clear her head, to look over the edge
—
and all hell had broken loose.

 
          
Poor
Alma
.

 
          
She
stared out at the water and watched the sea fret, as the locals called the fog
that rolled in with the tide, make its way toward shore. Beautiful... and
eerie. The fog bank seemed almost alive, moving like a living thing.

 
          
She
turned around.

 
          
And
saw that she wasn't alone.

 
          
Liam
stood on the path, glaring at her. Julie was keenly aware that the cliff was
behind her, and that below were the same rocks that had so roughly cradled
Alma
's body. She felt a
tightening in her midsection.

 
          
Liam's
eyes flashed. "You gave me the hell up!"

 
          
Julie
tried to keep her voice calm. "You should know
—
th-that there are probably police here, watching
—
"

 
          
Liam
took a step closer.

 
          
"Don't
give me any of that crap! The stupid locals couldn't find their own bloody
shoelaces. But now the Yard and the rest of the damn country know I'm
here."

 
          
Julie
glanced over her shoulder. She could hear the sound of waves breaking on the
rocks below... far below.

 
          
"What
did you expect? Alma Evans is dead."

 
          
Liam
looked away, raising his hands to the sky. "Ah, and you're thinking I did
that? More likely it was your bloody uncle. Or maybe
—
just maybe
—
it was an accident. Did that
little thought ever occur to you?"

 
          
The
waves crashing, a steady tattoo.

 
          
"But
you wasted no time in telling 'em about me, did you now."

 
          
"She's
dead. Eathan thought
—
"

           
Liam leaped forward and grabbed
Julie. "I should push
you
off the bloody cliff!"

 
          
She
let out a yell but the wind took it, and she was far too frightened to make
another sound as he drove her back, closer and closer to the precipice, backing
her up until her heels were on the edge and she could feel the sand and shale
giving way beneath them.

 
          
"Why
don't I give them another body to scrape off the rocks?" He shook her.
"Eh?"

 
          
But
then he yanked her back and shoved her roughly away from the edge.

 
          
"I
didn't do a thing, love," he said, near breathless with anger. "Not a
blessed thing. I wanted to help Sammi. Christ, I wanted to help you, but now
..."

 
          
He
took a step back down the path.

 
          
"Well,
you've fixed it so's I'd better be makin' meself scarce. It's too bad. I loved
your sister... and"
—
he looked back at her with a
flash of a smile
—
"I liked you."

 
          
Julie
believed him. He could have thrown her off the cliff. And he easily could have
sneaked into Oakwood and harmed Sam by now. But he hadn't.

 
          
"I
tell you this," he shouted. "That uncle of yours has more secrets
than those mementos of your childhood. Sammi suspected something about him.
But you're all she's got now. Look after her well, sister Julie. And do this
for me, will you?" He looked Julie right in the eye. "If she ever
comes out of it, tell her that I never gave up on her." Another flash of a
smile. "And tell her that if there's a way, I'll be back." His
expression turned grim. "And you, sister Julie
—
you watch your back."

 
          
With
that, Liam raced down the path.

2

 
          
Like
a moth to the flame, Julie was drawn back to the study.

 
          
She
wished she'd had more time with Liam, time to get over the shock of his
presence so she could ask him about the missing videotape. Had he seen it? Had
he peered through a window while
Alma
was watching it?

           
What about that scene on the cliff?
Was he really going away, or was he hoping she'd pass that on to the police
while he stayed nearby, watching?

 
          
A
thought struck her: If he'd been able to pilfer from the family room, why
couldn't he have reached the study? He'd been so fascinated by the wall
cabinet.

 
          
Julie
stepped over to Eathan's desk and opened the top drawer.

 
          
The
key was missing. Damn! Liam had been up here too.

 
          
She
ran to the wall cabinet and unlocked it with her own key. She heard her
breathing, deeper, huskier... almost hyperventilating. Got to keep cool, she
thought.

 
          
She
pulled open the doors, and with the nervy aplomb of a practiced safecracker,
she ran through the combination for the file cabinet. She flubbed it once, and
for a dreadful moment she feared the combination had been changed. But the
second time through, the lock opened.

 
          
Inside,
all the files hung in straight, neat rows, pretty much as she'd left them. She
rifled through them, seeing the letters, the affidavits, the yellow and
tattered clippings from decades ago.

 
          
They
seemed to belong to someone else's life.

 
          
She
went to the window. The driveway was clear, empty. I could have all the time in
the world, she thought. Or just a few minutes.

 
          
A
scene she'd witnessed in Sam's 'scape had hovered on the edge of her thoughts
for the past two days, haunting her. Now it leaped front and center: little
Julie, playing with matches behind the furnace.

 
          
She
pawed to the back of the file and pulled out one of the old newspaper
clippings. This one was dated later than the one in the unlocked file. She
scanned the crumbly paper, forcing herself to read every word, numbing herself
to the gruesome details of the fire: How the bodies of Lucinda and Nathan Gordon
were found close together
—
"As if he was trying to
get his wife out," a state trooper said
—
a
fire of unknown origin, probably electrical, that started in the basement, and
how it spread so quickly through the old house.

 
          
.
. .
started
in
the basement. . .

 
          
Julie
felt sick. She leaned against the file cabinet.

           
Oh, God. Was it me?
Eathan had
always said it was an electrical fire that raged through the wooden house. But
was
I
the cause? Did 1 start the fire that killed my parents?