by Joel Shulkin
After a heavy sigh, he said, “We never met before the other night.”
Cristina’s blood cooled. “So, you don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’re the only one who can help me free my daughter.”
“Your daughter?”
“In a tragic tale of corruption and betrayal, she’s an innocent victim—like you, I’m afraid. I’m sorry you were dragged into this—and that I must involve you again.”
“What do you mean again?” Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the knife. “Start at the beginning and tell me what the hell is going on.”
“That will take time that we don’t have. Let me simply ask you this: Have the nightmares started yet? About children being murdered?”
She nearly dropped the knife. “How do you know about that?”
He wiped a smudge off his thumbnail. “The same way I know you’re not Cristina Silva.”
Detective Wilson skimmed through his emails, then shoved away his keyboard with a grunt. He’d expected a response from the FBI’s fingerprint database two days ago on the print found at Cristina Silva’s apartment. It was only a partial, but still, what was taking them so long?
Wilson drummed his fingers on his desk. Why was he so fired up over this case? No one was dead. Nothing was stolen. So why couldn’t he stop thinking about it? Was it because Dr. Cristina Silva was a brilliant knockout?
Wilson rested his elbows on his desk and rubbed his ears. He’d already been busted once for losing his objectivity. He had no desire to do it again, no matter how silky her hair looked, or how much she smelled like lilacs.
“Hey, partner.” Detective Rick Hawkins patted Wilson on the shoulder. “Still puzzling over that suicide?”
“I wasn’t. But now that you mention it, you don’t think it’s weird that the day after a guy kills himself, there’s a break-in at his shrink’s apartment?”
“I think it’s weird that you didn’t join me for lunch. You’re not on that gluten-free kick like the boys in homicide, are you?”
“I don’t even know what the hell gluten is. I had to finish some things here.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Hawkins pointed at Wilson’s computer screen. “You’ve got mail.”
A new message icon blinked on his inbox. “It’s from the feds.” He scrolled through the email. “They found five possible matches for that print.”
He closed the email and logged into the fingerprint database A list of names potentially matching the print appeared onscreen. After copying the list onto his notepad, he opened the National Crime Information Center system on the FBI’s website and typed them in. The first two had no criminal record. The third was deceased.
After entering the fourth name, Wilson rubbed his chin. “Armed robbery and possession. Could be our guy.”
“Doubt it,” said Hawkins. “Look. Currently serving ten to twenty in an Ohio prison.”
Wilson typed in the last name. “Let’s try bachelor number five.”
A moment later, they both stared openmouthed at the screen.
“I’ll be damned,” muttered Hawkins.
The prints lifted from Dr. Silva’s door matched a familiar FBI mugshot of a Latin man with a thick brow and scarred cheeks. Next to the photo was a list of aliases, including the name Francisco Martins.
Chapter Twelve
The dining room tilted and shifted around Cristina. She gripped the back of her chair. Her other trembling hand still clutching the butter knife. Santos said Jorge and Claudia Silva were not her parents, but that was impossible. Cristina could feel her mother’s light, calming caress on the back of her neck during lightning storms. She could hear her father shout “Goal!” every time they watched the World Cup game on ESPN. She remembered every major event she shared with her parents since childhood, from her tenth birthday to her completion of residency.
And yet, when she stared at their photo, something was missing. Some element she couldn’t pinpoint was absent. And her dream of the teenage boy had been so real. If Santos knew about that, could he be telling the truth about the rest?
Cristina met his eyes and struggled to keep her voice steady. “So, everything I’ve remembered over the past two years—none of it’s real?”
“Let’s just say that those memories were not yours until after your true memories were stolen.”
“And why would someone steal my memories?”
“You saw something you shouldn’t have. Something that made you a threat.”
Cristina felt a chill. “What did I see?”
“I don’t know, but it was important enough for them to want you out of the way.”
“Why not kill me?”
“You’re still valuable to them.” His lips pressed together. “And me.”
“Because of your daughter,” said Cristina, wondering whether it was wise to buy into his delusions. As a psychiatrist, she could detect subtle signs when a patient was lying: avoiding eye contact, fidgeting, tightening vocal pitch. Santos held her gaze like a missile locked on target. His voice and hands remained steadier than her heartbeat. If nothing else, he believed he was telling the truth.
Cautiously, she asked, “Who did this?”
“A mercenary group called Zero Dark. They’re responsible for the deaths of Jorge and Claudia Silva.”
“That’s ridiculous. The crash was an accident.”
“It was a hit-and-run, no?”
She nodded.
“And they never found the other driver?”
“No.”
“That’s because it was not an accident. They were murdered.”
Cristina’s heart beat faster. As much as she didn’t want to believe it, his words rang true. Despite the other memories she’d regained, the crash was one of the few things she still couldn’t remember clearly. She’d had flashes—the sound of shattering glass, the pain of a blow to her head, the smell of blood—but nothing substantial. How could she be sure it really had been an accident? “Why would Zero Dark want to murder them?”
Santos opened his mouth as if to answer when Cristina’s phone rang. Surprise or fear crossed his face. “Who’s calling?”
The caller ID listed Detective Wilson’s number.
“A police detective,” she said.
He jumped to his feet. “Answer, or he’ll think something is wrong. But I cannot stay.”
“What? You can’t leave. What does Zero Dark want with me? Why did you send me those articles?”
“I’m out of time.” He withdrew a cheap burner phone from his pocket and slapped it on the table. “When you’re ready for the truth, use this to call me. I’ll tell you where we can meet. If I don’t hear from you by tonight, or if you involve anyone else, you won’t hear from me again.”
He swept past her like a gale wind and disappeared into the kitchen. The knife slipped from her grasp. She sank into the chair. The last few minutes felt so surreal she wondered if she’d been daydreaming or had a seizure.
She tried to focus on her parents’ faces, but they blurred. She became slowly aware that her phone was still ringing. Shaking off the haze, she accepted the call.
“Dr. Silva, are you okay?”
“Yes, Detective, I’m fine. Why?”
“I called your office, and no one picked up.” He spoke rapidly. “When you didn’t answer your cell, I thought—”
“Thought what?”
“The print we found on your lock matched a wanted felon. The guy’s extremely dangerous. He’s wanted for terrorism, attempted murder and arson.”
“Oh, my God. What was he doing in my apartment?”
“That’s what I wondered, so I dug deeper.” He paused. “Francisco Martins was accused of burning down your parents’ house.”
Cristina felt like she’d
been punched in the face. “I’m sorry. He what?”
“You don’t know anything about it?”
“No. I mean, I knew their house burned down, but I had no idea it could’ve been intentional. Why isn’t this man in prison?”
“It seems the charges were dropped. But if he’s going after you now, that may have been a mistake. I’m going to ramp up the patrols at your apartment and your office. Now that we have a name and a face, we’ll find this guy. I promise.”
She ended the call and leaned forward, burying her face in her hands. Everything that Santos told her suddenly seemed real. If Francisco Martins worked for Zero Dark, he may even have been the one who had run Cristina and her parents off the road. Why had he returned to her apartment?
“Signora . . .”
Cristina turned to find the waitress standing next to her with a Styrofoam box: Devi’s leftovers.
An impulse nearly drove Cristina to jump up, grab the waitress by her collar, and shake out anything she might know about Santos or Martins or Zero Dark. She managed to fight it back. Instead, she took the box. “Thanks.”
“Do you need anything else?”
“No, grazie.” Cristina pocketed the cell phone Santos had left, withdrew a few bills from her purse and laid them on the table before pushing past the waitress. “I’ve had enough.”
Chapter Thirteen
When Cristina returned to her office, Devi was scribbling a note while squeezing the phone between her cheek and shoulder. She jumped when she saw Cristina.
“Oh, sir, may I place you on hold?” Devi pressed a button and replaced the phone on the cradle. “That’s Mrs. Watterson’s son. He sounds worried and was talking so fast that the only part I understood is he needs to speak to you.”
“Transfer the call to my office.” Cristina handed Devi the to-go box. “When’s my next patient?”
“Not until two.”
“Thanks.”
After closing the office door behind her, Cristina flopped onto her chair, propped her head, and stared at the inactive computer screen. Following her discharge from the hospital after the car crash, her life had seemed like that: blank, empty, meaningless. Until Cristina was able to access those buried memories. Until she knew who she was.
She removed Santos’s envelope from the top drawer and dumped the articles on her desk. As she traced her finger over their photo in the article about their death, she heard her parents whispering to her that everything would be okay. She could feel their arms around her.
Yet when she flipped to the O Globo article, she felt wind on her face as she rode the tram up Sugarloaf Mountain in Brazil. The tangy smell of feijoada, a stew of black beans and meat, tickled her nostrils. How could Cristina remember so clearly if she’d never been there?
She jumped when her intercom buzzed.
“What is it, Devi?” she snapped into the intercom.
“Mr. Watterson is still waiting on line two.” Devi was curt, clearly offended.
Cristina instantly regretted her tone, but Devi hung up before she could apologize.
Cristina took the call. “Mr. Watterson, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. How can I help you?”
“It’s Ma,” he said in a thick North Shore accent. “Something’s wrong with her.”
“Is she sick?”
“Nah, she’s healthier than ever. She started riding horses.”
“Really?” Cristina couldn’t help smiling at the thought of prim and proper Martha on horseback. “I didn’t know she rode.”
“She doesn’t.” His voice cracked, on the verge of tears. “She insists she was a champion equestrian back in college but keeps falling out of the saddle. She’s lucky she hasn’t broken anything. Dr. Silva, before last week, she never rode a horse in her life.”
Cristina’s smile washed away. “Maybe she never told you before.”
“If she was so good, shouldn’t it be like riding a bike? She shouldn’t forget how, right?”
“Alzheimer’s affects both factual and procedural memory. Has she forgotten how to do daily activities like brushing her hair or cooking?”
“No.”
“Good. It hasn’t progressed that much, then.” Despite her reassurance, Cristina’s mind nearly overheated as she ran through possible explanations. If Martha was losing procedural memory, perhaps her Alzheimer’s was more advanced than Cristina had realized. Maybe even too much for Recognate to have an effect. “Keep close tabs on her and don’t let her on any more horses. If her safety becomes at risk, we may need to consider residential treatment.”
His breath hissed through the receiver. “I’m not ready for that. Since she saw you last, she’s started to forget who I am. What’ll happen if she’s not living with me?”
“We have to consider all options. Let’s focus on preserving as much memory as possible, okay?”
“Of course. It’s . . .” He paused, breathing heavily. “You know, she tried all these herbs and crystals and the therapies with you because she wanted to remember me. She risked everything, and now—it’s like she’s given up. She yells at me to get out of her house and claims I kidnapped her.” He choked back a sob. “I don’t understand, Dr. Silva. If something was stealing my memory, I’d fight with everything I had to remember her.”
Cristina’s heart jumped. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t kidnap my mother.”
“No, about stealing memory.”
“You know, the Alzheimer’s—it steals memory.”
She shook her head, but it didn’t clear anything. “Please, don’t give up. Bring your mother in next week, and we’ll discuss best options for her treatment.”
After hanging up, Cristina rubbed her forehead and tried to figure out when the world had started to fall apart. The only thing left in her life she could trust was her clinical skill, and even that seemed to be waning. She caught sight of her parents’ photo and took a calming breath. They wouldn’t want her to give up. Even if she doubted everything else, they were and always would be her parents. She needed to remember.
Chewing her lip, she withdrew Santos’s cell phone and laid it on her desk. Next to it, she placed her phone and scrolled through the call list to Detective Wilson’s number.
Cristina closed her eyes. Memories flitted through her mind: her mother beaming as she received her medical degree, her dad encouraging her to pursue her dreams . . .
Cristina picked up the burner cell phone and dialed. When she heard the click on the other end, she said, “We need to talk.”
Chapter Fourteen
Cristina dug her fingernails into her palm as the Green Line T clacked its way to Park Street. Not even Andrea knew where she was going. Santos had been clear about coming alone, and she had Jerry’s performance to attend later. But, even if Santos didn’t intend her harm, Francisco Martins was still out there.
A sea of black and yellow jerseys filled the train as it zipped down the tracks. Alcohol wafted through the cabin as the passengers pressed against each other and chanted “Let’s go, Bruins!” Cristina huddled in her seat and watched them out of the corner of her eye. Any one of them could be Francisco Martins.
Scheduling back-to-back with Santos and Jerry hadn’t been the best idea, but she couldn’t pass on attending the play, nor could she afford to wait another day to learn the truth from Santos. She checked her cell. Only 10 percent battery, so she shut it down. There was no signal in the tunnels anyway.
“Park Street,” announced an overhead recording as the train ground to a stop.
Cristina shoved her way through the mass of hockey fans and slipped through the doors a second before they shut. It took another three minutes to climb the nonfunctioning escalator.
The moment Cristina emerged from the station, she was assaulted by the blinding headlights and streetlamps on busy Tremont Street. She glanced at the
clock tower. Five thirty-seven. She was already late. The opera house was only a few blocks from the Commons.
After a few minutes on the zigzagging Boston Common paths, she spotted the brightly lit Frog Pond. In the winter, the pond transformed into an ice rink, attracting flocks of visitors. A sea of stocking caps and fur-lined hoods surrounded the pond. Picking Santos out of the crowd seemed difficult. He’d instructed Cristina to wear a green hat and scarf and promised that he’d find her.
She took a position near a statue of a frog with a fishing pole and watched groups of all ages take to the ice. Some floated along, performing pirouettes and double axels. Others clutched the railing like a best friend, trying to move in a straight line without falling. Some of Cristina’s tension ebbed as she laughed at the clumsier skaters.
A memory flitted through her mind of ice skating when she was eight. She slipped and would’ve cracked open her skull if her mother hadn’t dived onto the ice and caught her. Before Cristina could cry, her mother made a joke about penguins. As she replayed the memory, Cristina’s chest swelled with love, but doubt lingered. What if that memory never happened?
“Continue looking straight ahead,” said Santos’s gruff voice beside her. “Do not react.”
“I did as you ordered.” Cristina fought the urge to turn. “Now tell me what happened to my parents.”
“Are you certain you weren’t followed?”
“I wouldn’t know if I was. That’s why you should appreciate the risk I took coming here, especially with Francisco Martins out there.”
“What do you mean?”
The surprise in his voice made her look at him. He wore a heavy black ski parka and gloves. A knit cap covered his head. Frost clung to his unruly beard and eyebrows.
“That’s who broke into my apartment and attacked me. He burned down my parents’ house. The police and the FBI are looking for him.”
Santos’s gaze darted from side to side. He bit down on his lower lip.
“You know him, don’t you?” she asked. “Does he work for Zero Dark?”
After a deep breath, Santos said, “He did, but no longer. But he isn’t the one who attacked you.”
