Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
Time Out of Mind (28 page)
“
Who says so?”
”
I would think she'd know. Or her mother or grandmother would.”
I would think she'd know. Or her mother or grandmother would.”
“
Not necessarily, Jonathan. Not necessarily at all. It is a
rare person indeed who can confidently trace his lineage
more than three generations back. The history books are
loaded with illegitimate children. Da Vinci, Alexandre Du
mas, William the Conqueror, Richard Wagner, to name just a few. For every acknowledged bastard there are probably hundreds more who simply have no idea. They might have
been the product of adulterous affairs, they might have been
adopted, they might have been bought and sold. If a child
is a result of a forcible rape, he or she is hardly likely to be told. And many women have married one man while
they were already carrying the child of another. Genealogy
is hardly an exact science.”
Not necessarily, Jonathan. Not necessarily at all. It is a
rare person indeed who can confidently trace his lineage
more than three generations back. The history books are
loaded with illegitimate children. Da Vinci, Alexandre Du
mas, William the Conqueror, Richard Wagner, to name just a few. For every acknowledged bastard there are probably hundreds more who simply have no idea. They might have
been the product of adulterous affairs, they might have been
adopted, they might have been bought and sold. If a child
is a result of a forcible rape, he or she is hardly likely to be told. And many women have married one man while
they were already carrying the child of another. Genealogy
is hardly an exact science.”
“
You're saying I could be a descendant of the baby Mar
garet had for Tilden. That I'm Tilden's great-grandson,
maybe.”
“
I'm saying it's an avenue well worth exploring. It
would certainly explain a great deal. If Margaret is your
lover at one level and your great-grandmother at another, a
measure of ambivalence is more than understandable.”
I'm saying it's an avenue well worth exploring. It
would certainly explain a great deal. If Margaret is your
lover at one level and your great-grandmother at another, a
measure of ambivalence is more than understandable.”
“
My great-grandmother's name was Charlotte Whitney
Corbin. There really isn't much doubt about that.”
My great-grandmother's name was Charlotte Whitney
Corbin. There really isn't much doubt about that.”
“
She could have adopted your grandfather,” Gwen of
fered.
She could have adopted your grandfather,” Gwen of
fered.
Corbin shrugged off the suggestion. “My grandfather
looked too much like her. If you saw their photographs
you'd think so too. But even if that's possible, it's a hell
of a big step between accepting that and accepting that I'm
walking around with all of Tilden's thoughts in my head.
This genetic memory business is still just a theory.”
looked too much like her. If you saw their photographs
you'd think so too. But even if that's possible, it's a hell
of a big step between accepting that and accepting that I'm
walking around with all of Tilden's thoughts in my head.
This genetic memory business is still just a theory.”
“
Not theory, Jonathan.” Sturdevant waved a hand to
ward some of his psychology texts. “It's fact. Every crea
ture, through every phase of its evolution, has stored away information from generation to generation. That's what ev
olution is. It's how a species adapts and develops. Memories, experiences, are also stored away in the genes. Our
conscious minds prevent us from retrieving much of this
information because we can't quite bring ourselves to believe that it's there. So we find other, more comfortable explanations for the odd feelings we all get. For aptitudes that are not found elsewhere in our families. For strong affinities toward particular people or places. For certain
phobias that seem to have no basis in remembered experi
ence. That's why hypnosis is often so useful in getting to
the root of emotional problems. Under hypnosis, many peo
ple are enabled to recall a repressed experience and learn
to deal with it.”
Not theory, Jonathan.” Sturdevant waved a hand to
ward some of his psychology texts. “It's fact. Every crea
ture, through every phase of its evolution, has stored away information from generation to generation. That's what ev
olution is. It's how a species adapts and develops. Memories, experiences, are also stored away in the genes. Our
conscious minds prevent us from retrieving much of this
information because we can't quite bring ourselves to believe that it's there. So we find other, more comfortable explanations for the odd feelings we all get. For aptitudes that are not found elsewhere in our families. For strong affinities toward particular people or places. For certain
phobias that seem to have no basis in remembered experi
ence. That's why hypnosis is often so useful in getting to
the root of emotional problems. Under hypnosis, many peo
ple are enabled to recall a repressed experience and learn
to deal with it.”
“
But not a past life experience.”
“
Not usually,” Sturdevant explained. “Past life experi
ences are easily as significant as the others but now we
have another problem. If a patient is being treated by a
Freudian psychiatrist, whose discipline does not embrace
the notion of an alternate existence, that psychiatrist will probably not pursue any suggestion that the patient is burdened with another individual's memories. A Jungian psy
chiatrist, who will at least consider the possibility of a
subsidiary consciousness, will continue to probe for it while
the other will choose a new direction. You, Jonathan, have rejected the idea of seeing a psychiatrist altogether. You're
probably correct. It would be a crapshoot at best.”
Not usually,” Sturdevant explained. “Past life experi
ences are easily as significant as the others but now we
have another problem. If a patient is being treated by a
Freudian psychiatrist, whose discipline does not embrace
the notion of an alternate existence, that psychiatrist will probably not pursue any suggestion that the patient is burdened with another individual's memories. A Jungian psy
chiatrist, who will at least consider the possibility of a
subsidiary consciousness, will continue to probe for it while
the other will choose a new direction. You, Jonathan, have rejected the idea of seeing a psychiatrist altogether. You're
probably correct. It would be a crapshoot at best.”
“
You said subsidiary consciousness.” Gwen Leamas
frowned. “Isn't that the same as multiple personality?”
You said subsidiary consciousness.” Gwen Leamas
frowned. “Isn't that the same as multiple personality?”
“
No. One is a subcategory of the other, as middle-
distance running is to track and field. There are many forms of subsidiary consciousness, not all of which need involve
prior existence. Carl Jung, however, was convinced that past lives are very much a part of all of us. That the lives each of us once lived are found in the lives we're living
now. Some behaviorists find proof of that statement in the
so-called idiot savant who sits down at a piano and plays
a Bach prelude upon hearing it once. It shouldn't happen
but it does. Retarded individuals who've had no musical
training whatsoever become instant virtuosos. Idiot savants
just as often become math or language prodigies. Some
speak foreign languages to which they've had no exposure and certainly no training. When this happens, by the way,
the retarded person is not troubled by it in the least. Unlike
you and me, he doesn't look for reasons. He does no con
scious rejecting. He doesn't say, I’ve never learned to do
this and therefore I can't do it.’ He just does it. He is hap
pily unencumbered by the intelligence the rest of us spend
so much time tripping over.”
“
You mentioned Bach.” Gwen leaned forward, fascinated. “What about people who were authentic geniuses,
not idiots? What about people like Mozart, who composed
a sonata at the age of four?”
“
Or like Sir William Hamilton,” Sturdevant added,
“who learned Hebrew at the age of three. But I'm not sure it's genius. Three-and four-year-olds, remember, don't re
alize that they're not supposed to be able to do these things.
In that respect they're like the mental defectives. They don't worry about where the ability came from.”
“
And you think it had to come from some remote an
tecedent.”
“
Where else, Gwen?”
“
Environment?”
“
There you go, tripping over your own intelligence. Ge
netic memory is a perfectly logical explanation of child
hood prodigy and yet adults resist it because it smacks of
a sort of haunting. Worse yet, fatalism. The conceit that
we're all masters of our own destiny causes us to deny the
simple truth that we are all products of what went before
us.”
“
Still,” Gwen answered doubtfully, “these were children. Or the mentally handicapped. Jonathan's an adult.”
“
An adult who admits that for most of his life he felt a
vague disorientation, as if he thought he might be someone else.
That's quite common, incidentally, even though most
people who have such a notion keep it to themselves.”
“
How common?” Corbin asked softly.
“
General George Patton”—Sturdevant scratched his
head—“thought he'd been a warrior in many of the major
battles throughout history.”
“
That's reincarnation again.”
“
Only according to Patton. I think it was something else.
A better example might be T. E. Lawrence. Lawrence of
Arabia. He was a product of the British upper classes and
yet all his life he felt drawn to the Arabian desert. Some
thought pathologically. Then there was Heinrich Schliemann, the man who located and excavated Troy at a time when everyone else believed that the city only existed in
myth. Schliemann was hardly a Greek scholar, by the way.
He'd been apprenticed to a German grocer when he was
fourteen. And yet he could actually feel the city of Troy.
He could see it. He could describe the people going about
their daily lives.”
Only according to Patton. I think it was something else.
A better example might be T. E. Lawrence. Lawrence of
Arabia. He was a product of the British upper classes and
yet all his life he felt drawn to the Arabian desert. Some
thought pathologically. Then there was Heinrich Schliemann, the man who located and excavated Troy at a time when everyone else believed that the city only existed in
myth. Schliemann was hardly a Greek scholar, by the way.
He'd been apprenticed to a German grocer when he was
fourteen. And yet he could actually feel the city of Troy.
He could see it. He could describe the people going about
their daily lives.”
“
Like Bridey Murphy.” Gwen nodded.
“
Like Jonathan describing the Hoffman House bar. A
comparatively modest vision if you don't mind my saying
so and yet the principle is identical. All these people—
Patton, Lawrence, the lady from Colorado, Schliemann, and
our own Jonathan Corbin—have probably been carrying memories that have been recessing for many generations, perhaps hundreds of generations as in the case of Patton or Schliemann. This would not mean, however, that a Schliemann was the first of his bloodline to be affected by that
particular compulsion. He may simply have been the first
to do anything about it.”
Like Jonathan describing the Hoffman House bar. A
comparatively modest vision if you don't mind my saying
so and yet the principle is identical. All these people—
Patton, Lawrence, the lady from Colorado, Schliemann, and
our own Jonathan Corbin—have probably been carrying memories that have been recessing for many generations, perhaps hundreds of generations as in the case of Patton or Schliemann. This would not mean, however, that a Schliemann was the first of his bloodline to be affected by that
particular compulsion. He may simply have been the first
to do anything about it.”
With a slow shake of his head, Jonathan Corbin stood
up and wandered in the direction of the photographs on the
far wall of the study.
up and wandered in the direction of the photographs on the
far wall of the study.
”
I gather you've anticipated my next thought.” Sturdevant followed him with his eyes.
I gather you've anticipated my next thought.” Sturdevant followed him with his eyes.
“
You're about to suggest I do something about it.”
Raymond Lesko turned off Queens. Boulevard, a bag of
Chinese takeout in one arm, and walked the two blocks to
his small apartment in Jackson Heights. As always when returning home at night, he stayed close to the curb, avoid
ing doorways and alleys such as the one from which old
Mr. Makowski down the street got clubbed last December.
Not that he was nervous. Since the Makowski mugging and
ever since Mrs. Hannigan got beaten and tied up in her
apartment last summer, Lesko had been praying that some
junkie kid would be hurting enough to try to take him on one of these nights. Just for the pleasure of snapping his
spine and leaving him draped across the top of a parked
car. His gift to the neighborhood.
But it wouldn't happen tonight. Muggers don't like it this
cold. They don't like ice and snow under them where they can't move fast or run and where their hands and feet turn
numb while they're waiting for the right patsy to come
along. Not even if he played drunk, which he did some
nights when he knew a couple of bums were looking him
over back on the boulevard. One of these days, though.
Some night one or two of those pieces of shit would make
their move and Lesko's perfect teeth would be the last thing
they saw before they went to meet Jesus.
But they'd have to wait. This, Lesko decided, would be his last night in this apartment for a while. After tonight there could be someone a little more dangerous than a
strung-out Queens Boulevard schtunk waiting for him. He
might even have company before morning. It would depend
on how nervous Dancer is getting right now and how fast
he can make another connection. Which probably wouldn't
be all that fast. Dancer didn't figure to keep a card file of
shooters handy. Otherwise how come he had to find
Lesko's name in the newspapers. '”I’m told you're a reli
able sort,” Dancer said that first time. “In street jargon,”
he told Lesko, “you're said to be a stand-up person.”
That's stand-up
guy,
you asshole. Stand-up
guy.
“I'm look
ing for a trained man in need of cash, a man who can be
decisive when the need arises, and a man who is depend
ably discreet. The precise terminology is irrelevant.”
Dancer had said the two magic words. The first being
cash. The second being discreet. Lesko was discreet all right. Discreet enough not to say a damned word to a dis
trict attorney looking to find out how Lesko's partner, Dave
Katz, could have a log house up in Sullivan County and a
condo down in Florida on a gold shield's salary and why
he got his face shot off a minute after he took his kids back
to his ex-wife's house in Bayside with Harriet looking out the window. Lesko might have let it pass except for that.
Dave asked for it. Lesko kept warning him that the bums he was leaning on were going to lean back one of these
times and don't give me any bullshit about how you're just
doing this for your kids and to climb out of a hole after
your divorce because the truth is you got greedy. It wasn't like Lesko didn't warn him that there'd be a bill. He asked
for it. But not like that, not right in front of Harriet and
two little kids who got their father's brains all over their
clothes. Lesko had explained that to the slobs who did it. But it didn't do any good. Guys like that, they don't understand. Even the dago wise guys knew from hitting someone in front of his family, but these were Bolivians,
who only know from blasting away at anything that moves
and cutting out hearts like they've been doing since before
Cortez. And they know from nose candy. Cocaine. Two full kilos
of which the woman who was with them tried to buy him off with. The first blast of Lesko’s shotgun
exploded the plastic bags she was pointing to.
After that it was like shooting through a cloud.
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