More Deaths Than One (32 page)

“Look at it this way. Many people spend their
whole lives trying to deal with, and possibly eradicate the
memories of their youth. I no longer have to be concerned with mine
since they’re false.”

She stamped a foot. “Don’t you dare try to
make light of the situation. They stole your identity from you. You
don’t even know who you are.”

“I’m the man who loves you and who is going
to be with you always. That’s who I am.”

“But what if you were supposed to be a
different person?”

“Then maybe I wouldn’t have met you and, for
me, that’s unthinkable. Besides, you always become a different
person when you choose to be with someone. My new life is what
matters, not some mythical past.” He paused. “Maybe I was someone I
wouldn’t like to know.”

Her pacing slowed. “You make it all sound so
normal.”

“It is. Do any of us know who we are? Deep
inside your bones and soul, do you know who you are?”

“It’s not the same thing. I didn’t have my
past stolen from me. I know who my parents are, who my brothers
are. I know my name.” Her eyes widened. “Your family! How are we
going to find your family without a name?”

“We’re not. I’ve been dead to them for
seven-teen years, plenty of time for them to come to terms with my
demise.”

“But we have to look for them.”

“Why? After the first excitement of finding
out I’m alive, the truth—that the son they had known no longer
exists—could bring them nothing but more grief.”

“The military would still have your
fingerprints on file, wouldn’t they? We could find out who you are
by contacting them.”

“If the army discovered that I hadn’t died in
the war but am still alive, they would want to know why. The
thought of being back in the army’s clutches is every bit as
repugnant as being under Rutledge’s control.”

She peered at him. “You can live without
knowing what your name is?”

“Yes. We define our names. Our names don’t
define us.”

She sat next to him. “We haven’t finished the
letter. Maybe Harrison found out who you are.” She read aloud. “‘I
know I sound cold and distant as if I’m talking about a stranger
and not you, Bob, but if I let my emotions get the better of me, I
would never be able to continue writing, and you need to know the
truth. Or maybe not. Did the truth ever set anyone free? At the
very least, it comes with a price.

“‘I seem to be rambling again.

“‘Though I kept questioning the doctor, he
couldn’t, or wouldn’t, reveal your true identity. He told me, quite
condescendingly, that since you were officially dead, you no longer
existed as a real person. You were merely his lab rat and, as such,
merited no name.’”

Kerry let out a heavy sigh.

“Is it going to be a problem for you not
knowing my birth name?” Bob asked.

She was silent for several seconds, then she
smiled at him. “No. You’re right. What’s important is our life
together. At least I won’t have to worry about your parents liking
me.”

He returned her smile. “Now who’s making
light of the situation?”

“I guess it’s no more bizarre than thinking
you had another self running around or that your mother died
twice.”

He yawned. “Let’s finish the letter and go to
bed. I’m exhausted.”

“All right. Harrison continues, ‘Despite the
memory transplant, as Rutledge called it, the new Robert Stark
showed no signs of being a chameleon, but Rutledge was certain the
ability would eventually resurface.

“‘Around this time, the State Department
asked ISI to lend them someone completely unknown to the
intelligence community to help with a special project. Rutledge
volunteered the new Robert Stark. He thought such an assignment
would be the perfect thing to help you regain your powers.

“‘To the doctor’s disappointment, it didn’t
happen. You still had the ability to blend, but it was more of a
meek man’s tendency to fade into the back-ground than a true
chameleon-like ability.

“‘Rutledge hoped that one day you would
become a chameleon again. To that end, he had someone from ISI
keeping track of you all these years. He is no longer interested in
waiting, however. He thinks he knows a way of inducing the return
of your abilities so he can find out if your talent for near
invisibility is physiological or if it’s a form of mass hypnosis
where you don’t in fact disappear but somehow make people think you
do. He went on at great length about how much you were going to
contribute to the field of psychology. He wants to find out how the
imposed memories shaped your life and personality. Have you, in
truth, become Robert Stark or have you retained a vestige of the
person you once were?

“‘After a while, Rutledge’s enthusiasm for
his experiments, both past and future, made me sick, and I could
not bear to spend even one more minute in his presence. Pleading
illness—no lie. I really did feel sick—I staggered to my feet and
somehow managed to drag myself out to my rental car.

“‘Rutledge followed me, urging me to stay. He
said he had an empty hospital bed I could use. I got the impression
he wanted to physically detain me, but in the end, he stood and
watched me leave.

“‘I have a very bad feeling about all this.
I’m sure it’s a symptom of my flu, but I am consumed with a feeling
of impending doom. For you? For me? For a world that harbors such
men as the good Dr. Rutledge? I don’t know.

“‘If I were able to concentrate, maybe I
could figure out what we could do, but I’m losing focus.

“‘So very, very tired.

“‘Have to finish this letter.

“‘Put it away where they can’t find it . .
.

“‘I nodded off for a minute there, but I’m
trying to hold myself together long enough to finish this.

“‘I honestly don’t know what to say, Bob.
That I’m sorry? That if I could undo what they did to you, even if
it took everything I have, I would?

“‘Words. Just words.

“‘Keep in mind that however phony those other
memories are, you have forged new memories, ones that are true.

“‘Hsiang-li loves you like a father.

“‘I love you like a brother.

“‘We are your real family, as you are
ours.’”

Tears were trickling down Kerry’s cheeks when
she set the letter aside. “It must have pained him deeply to find
out what Rutledge did to you.”

Bob took her in his arms and kissed the tears
away. He understood her grief and Harrison’s, but felt only silence
within himself.

***

“Where are we going?” Kerry asked the next
morning as they got dressed to leave.

“Chalcedony.”

“So that’s it? Rutledge and the people at ISI
are going to get away with what they did to you and Harrison and
all those others?”

“I might not be emotional about what they
did, but I never said I wouldn’t do something about it.” He flexed
his fingers and a feeling he couldn’t identify stirred deep within
him.

“Then why are we going to Chalcedony?”

“I’m going to drop you off, make sure you’re
safe, then I have some things I need to do.”

“You don’t have to go all the way to
Chalcedony. I can call one of my brothers to come pick me up.” An
uncertain look crossed her face. “What about Sam and Ted? Won’t
they be able to track me there?”

Bob’s jaw tightened. “They won’t bother you.
I promise.”

She took off the money-belt encircling her
waist. “You should probably have this.”

“You keep it.” He handed her two envelopes.
“You’ll need these also. One is a letter to Harrison’s lawyer
naming you beneficiary in my will, and the other is a letter to my
bank in Thailand giving you access to my account. If anything goes
wrong, I need to know you’re taken care of.”

“I’d rather have you.”

“I know. I’ll do everything in my power to
come back to you.”

She hugged him tightly. “I’ll be
waiting.”

Epilogue

Alex Evans surveyed his surroundings with
deep satisfaction.

The day was perfect, as only an October day
in Colorado could be. Newly fallen snow powdered the mountains, but
not a single flake had visited the lower elevations. The skies were
clear, and the sun shone brightly on the beautiful people gathered
on the broad lawn.

Evans breathed deeply, savoring the bouquet
of expensive perfumes and after-shaves wafting toward him on a cool
breeze. He smiled to himself. Everything he had ever dreamed of lay
within his grasp.

He had a lovely home set on five lushly
land-scaped acres halfway between Broomfield and Boulder.

His children had been a disappointment, but
they were grown now, with families of their own. He smiled fondly
at the thought of his grandchildren. Delightful tots, all of
them.

Catching sight of his still stunningly
beautiful wife, he congratulated himself for having won her even
though, back then, he’d been able to offer nothing but an
overweening ambition. She had been the perfect helpmate, never
complaining about his long days at the office or his frequent
business trips. Ever the diplomat, she had made friends with the
husbands of important women as easily as she had made friends with
the wives of important men.

This party celebrated her triumph as well as
his.

He looked around, pleased to see the governor
standing at the buffet table talking to a state senator and a
United States congresswoman. At the bar, some of Denver’s old money
socialites condescended to drink with a group of recently rich.

This is merely the beginning, Evans
gloated.

Berquist’s prostate cancer, which had been so
slow-growing it had been practically benign, had suddenly taken on
a life of its own, courtesy of Dr. Reed. In a very few days
Berquist would be dead.

Evans grinned. As new Director of Research
and Development, he would be a very powerful man. And rich.

His grin spread as he thought of all the
money he had tucked away in a bank in the Cayman Islands. He also
knew Berquist’s Cayman account number. He should; he set it up. As
soon as his boss died, he would be doubly rich.

Blood rushed to his head as he thought of the
single thorn marring the perfection of his rosy future.

It seemed inconceivable he was being bested
by that lab rat, that skinny nothing, that freak with the
sec-ondhand memory.

Until Stark had come to Denver, Ted Kowalski
had been the man Evans most relied on to get things done, the man
he had chosen to take over his job when he took over Berquist’s.
Ted had been a natural born leader, whose charm and utter
ruthlessness had given him an aura of great power. Then Ted had
started acting like a raving lunatic, spewing hatred and vowing
vengeance.

Ted’s partner, Sam Jacobson had once been the
voice of reason, keeping the more volatile Ted in check; then Sam
too had gone off the deep end.

Evans banged his fists against his thighs.
Damn that Stark!

It should have been a simple, mindless
courier task.

When he had received word from the computer
department that the target was on the move, on his way to Denver,
no less, he had sent Ted and Sam to the airport to pick up Stark
and escort him to Boston where an eager Dr. Rutledge waited. They
were also to have relieved Stark of William Harrison’s papers,
which were still unaccounted for.

Normally, he would not have sent Ted and Sam
on such a trivial assignment, but he had chosen his best men so
nothing would go wrong.

That was ten weeks ago.

Stark was still at large.

And Ted and Sam were dead.

Somehow, someone had managed to snap both
Ted’s and Sam’s necks in sight of hundreds of ISI’s employees, on
ISI’s own grounds.

Not one person had seen it happen. Unless, of
course, you counted the two obviously demented individuals who had
insisted a bush reached out and killed them. According to both
witnesses, the bush had first killed Sam while Ted, sitting next to
him, had obliviously munched a sandwich. Then the bush had killed
Ted. All in a matter of seconds.

Evans made a mental note to send both
witnesses to Boston for an attitude adjustment. He blew out a
breath when he remembered Rutledge was also dead. The doctor had
been found in his backyard with a broken neck. No witnesses.

Dr. Reed and a voluptuous young lab assistant
had been found dead in a sleezy motel room, still en-twined in a
macabre parody of the sex act. Both their necks had been broken,
too.

Evans gritted his teeth. All three deserved
it. If he hadn’t needed them, he would have killed them himself
when he found out about William Harrison’s death.

Why hadn’t they followed the plan? It had
been foolproof. His operatives in New York had been waiting for the
right moment to give Harrison the cancer. Later, posing as
emergency medical tech-nicians, they would have taken him to Boston
for “treatment.”

Instead, when Harrison had visited the
Rose-wood Research Institute, those idiots had taken it upon
themselves to do the job. The lab assistant had shot Harrison with
the bio-innoculator, while Reed had readied his lab for his guinea
pig. It had been Rutledge’s job to keep Harrison occupied until the
super-fast-acting cancer could render him helpless.

A pained expression tightened Evans’s face.
Rutledge had not bothered with such benign topics as weather and
sports. Oh, no. He had entertained Harrison with stories of his own
exploits. Even worse, the doctor had let him walk away, giving
Harrison plenty of time to commit the confession to paper before he
died.

When Harrison landed in a New York hospital,
Reed had finally told Evans what they had done and demanded that
Evans retrieve his guinea pig. They had tried, but Evans’s men had
been unable to wrest Harrison from the hospital.

A genteel burst of laughter by the buffet
table reminded Evans he was neglecting his guests.