by Dan Simmons
Natalie blanched, her skin going the color of old ashes. “That’s impossible,” she said in a small voice. “I counted the bullets when I took them out. There were seven.”
“Your daddy must’ve jacked one into the chamber an’ then lowered the hammer,” said Gentry. “Some folks carry ’em that way. That way they can carry eight rounds instead of the usual seven.” The sheriff clicked in the empty magazine and squeezed the trigger.
Natalie flinched slightly at the dry click. One glance at what Gentry had called “the loaded indicator” told her that the red was no longer showing. She thought of when she had pointed the gun at Saul yesterday . . . of being so sure the weapon was unloaded . . . and she felt a little sick.
“What’s your point this time, Sheriff?” Saul asked.
Gentry shrugged and set the small pistol back on the table. “I think that if we’re going after these killers, then somebody’d better know something about weapons.”
“You don’t understand,” said Saul. “Weapons are useless with these people. They can make you turn the weapon on yourself. They can turn you into a weapon. If the three of us went after the Oberst . . . or the Fuller woman . . . as a team, we could never be sure about each other.”
“I understand that,” said Gentry. “And I also understand that if we find them, then they are vulnerable. They’re dangerous primarily because no one knows they exist. Now we do.”
“But we do not know where they are,” said Saul. “I thought that I was so close. I was so close . . .”
“Borden has a background,” said Gentry, “a history, a film production company, associates and friends. That’s a place to start.”
Saul shook his head. “I thought Francis Harrington would be safe,” he said. “A few inquiries. If it was the Oberst, he might have recognized me. I thought Francis would be safe and now he’s almost certainly dead. No, I want no one else to become directly involved . . .”
“We’re already involved,” snapped Gentry. “We’re in this thing.”
“He’s right,” said Natalie.
Both men turned toward her. The strength had come back into her voice. “If you’re not crazy, Saul,” she said, “then these freakish bastards killed my father for no reason at all. With you two or without you, I’m going to find those old murderers and find a way to bring them to justice.”
“So let’s pretend we’re intelligent beings here,” said Gentry. “Saul, did Nina Drayton tell you anything in her two sessions with you that can help us out?”
“Not really,” said Saul. “She did talk about her father’s death. I inferred that she had used her ability to murder him.”
“No talk about Borden or Melanie Fuller?”
“Not directly, although she mentioned friends in Vienna in the early thirties. From her description, it could be the Oberst and the Fuller woman.”
“Anything useful there?”
“No. Intimations of sexual jealousy and competition.”
“Saul, you were used by the Oberst,” said the sheriff. “Yes.”
“Yet you remember it. Didn’t you suggest that Jack Ruby and the others were suffering from something like amnesia after being used?”
“Yes,” said Saul. “I think the people that the Oberst and the others used remember their actions— if they remember them at all— as one would remember a dream.”
“Isn’t that consistent with how psychotics remember violent episodes?”
“Sometimes,” said Saul. “At other times, a psychotic’s regular life is the dream and he is truly alive only when he is inflicting pain or death. But the people the Oberst and the others used are not necessarily psychotics— only victims.”
“But you remembered exactly what it was like when the Oberst . . . possessed you,” said Gentry. “Why?”
Saul took off his glasses and cleaned them. “It was different. It was wartime. I was a Jew from the camp. He knew that I would not survive. There was no need to spend energy erasing my memory. Besides, I escaped of my own volition, shooting myself in the foot, surprising the Oberst . . .”
“I wanted to ask you about that,” said Gentry. “You said the pain surprised the Oberst into relinquishing control for a minute or two . . .”
“A few seconds,” said Saul. “OK, a few seconds. But all of the people they were using here in Charleston must have been hurting a lot. Haupt . . . Thorne, the ex-thief Melanie Fuller kept around as a servant, lost an eye and kept going. The girl— Kathleen—was beaten to death. Barrett Kramer had fallen down stairs and been shot. Mr. Preston was . . . well, you see what I’m getting at . . .”
“Yes,” said Saul, “I have thought a lot about this. Luckily, when the Oberst was . . . in my mind, there is no other way to say it . . . then I caught glimpses of his thoughts . . .”
“Like telepathy?” asked Natalie. “No,” said Saul, “not really. Not as it is generally portrayed in fiction. More like trying to capture the fragments of a dream one sometimes half remembers during waking hours. But I sensed enough of the Oberst’s thoughts to understand that his melding with me when he used me to kill der Alte . . . the old SS man . . . was unusual. He wanted to experience it totally, to savor every nuance of sense impression. My feeling was that he generally used others with a simple buffer between himself and the pain his victim was feeling.”
“Sort of like watching TV with the sound off?” said Gentry. “Perhaps,” said Saul, “but in this case no pertinent information is lost, only the shock of pain. I sensed that the Oberst enjoyed not only the vicarious pain of those he murdered, but in those he used to commit the murder . . .”
“Do you think memories like that can really be expunged?” asked Gentry.
“In the minds of those he used?” asked Saul. At Gentry’s nod he said, “No. Buried perhaps. Much as the victim of some terrible trauma buries the experience deep in the subconscious.”
Gentry stood up then, a large grin on his face, and slapped Saul on the shoulder. “Professor,” he said, still grinning, “you’ve just given us the way we can test to see what’s true and what isn’t, who’s crazy and who’s sane.”
“Really?” asked Saul, beginning to understand even as Sheriff Gentry smiled at Natalie Preston’s questioning look.
“Really,” said Gentry, “and by tomorrow we can do that test and know once and for all.”
Saul sat in Sheriff Gentry’s car and listened to the rain fall. It had been almost an hour since Gentry and Natalie had gone into the clinic with the old doctor. A few minutes later a blue Toyota had parked across the street and Saul caught a glimpse of a young blond girl, left arm in a sling, eyes dark and fatigued, being herded between a couple dressed in the impeccable but predictable style of young professionals.
Saul waited. It was something he knew how to do well; some skill learned as a teenager in the death camps. For the twentieth time he ran through his rationale to himself for involving Natalie Preston and Sheriff Gentry. The rationale was weak— a sense of arriving at dead ends, a sudden sense of trust toward both of these unlikely allies after years of solitary suspicion, and, finally, a simple need to tell his story.
Saul shook his head. Intellectually he knew it was a mistake, but emotionally the telling and retelling had been incredibly therapeutic. The reassurance of having allies, of others actively involved, allowed Saul to sit placidly in Gentry’s county automobile and be quite contented to wait.
Saul was tired. He recognized the fatigue as something more than lack of sleep and the aftereffects of too much adrenaline; it was an aching tiredness as painful as a bone bruise and as old as Chelmno. There was a weariness in him that was as permanent as the tattoo on his inner arm. Like the tattoo, he would take the painful weariness to the grave, surrendering to an eternity of it. Saul shook his head again, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Knock it off, Old Man, he thought. Weltschmerz is a boring state of mind. More boring to others than to oneself. He thought of David’s farm in Israel, of his own nine acres
far removed from the orchards and fields, of a picnic he and David and Rebecca had there shortly before Saul had left for America. Young Aaron and Isaac, David and Rebecca’s twins, no more than seven that summer, had played cowboys and Indians among the stones and gullies where Roman legionnaires had once hunted down Israelite partisans.
Aaron, thought Saul. He was still scheduled to meet with the boy on Saturday afternoon, in Washington. Instantly Saul felt his stomach clench at the thought of another unnecessary involvement in the nightmare. Family this time. How much did he find out? thought Saul. How do I keep him uninvolved?
The couple and the child emerged from the clinic; the doctor followed, shook the man’s hand, and the family left. Saul realized that the rain had stopped. Gentry and Natalie Preston stepped out, spoke briefly with the old doctor, and walked briskly to the car.
“Well?” asked Saul after the heavy sheriff slid behind the wheel and the young woman was in the backseat. “What?”
Gentry removed his hat and mopped at his brow with a kerchief. He rolled his window all the way down and Saul caught the scent of moist grass and mimosa on the breeze. Gentry looked back at Natalie. “Why don’t you tell him?”
Natalie took a breath and nodded. She looked shaken, upset, but her voice was brisk and firm. “Doctor Calhoun’s office has a small observation room off the consulting room,” she said. “There is a one-way mirror. Alicia’s parents and we were able to observe without interfering. Sheriff Gentry introduced me as his assistant.”
“Which, in the context of this investigation, is technically true,” said Gentry. “I’m only allowed to deputize folks in the event of a declared emergency in the county, otherwise you’d’ve been Deputy Preston.”
Natalie smiled. “Alicia’s parents did not object to our presence. Dr. Calhoun used a small device like a metronome with a light to hypnotize the girl . . .”
“Yes, yes,” said Saul, fighting to keep his sudden impatience in check, “what did the child say?”
Natalie’s eyes became slightly unfocused as she recalled the scene. “The doctor had her remember the day . . . last Saturday . . . in detail. Alicia’s face had been set, emotionless, almost slack when she had come in, before the hypnosis. Now she lit up, grew animated. She was talking to her friend Kathleen . . . the girl who was killed.”
“Yes,” said Saul, with no impatience this time. “She and Kathleen were playing in Mrs. Hodges’s living room. Kathleen’s sister Debra was in the other room, watching tele vi sion. Suddenly Kathleen dropped the Barbie doll she was playing with and ran outside . . . across the courtyard to Mrs. Fuller’s house. Alicia called after her . . . stood in the courtyard shouting . . .” Natalie shivered. “Then she quit speaking. Her face went slack again. She said she was not allowed to tell any more.”
“Was she still under hypnosis?” asked Saul.
Gentry answered. “She was still under hypnosis,” he said, “but she was not able to describe what happened next. Dr. Calhoun tried different ways to help her through it. She continued to stare at nothing and reply that she was not allowed to tell any more.”
“And that was all?” asked Saul. “Not quite,” said Natalie. She looked outside at the rain-cleansed street and then looked back at Saul. Her full lips were pulled tight with tension.
“Then Dr. Calhoun said, ‘You’re going into the house across the courtyard now. Tell us who you are.’ And Alicia did not hesitate a second. She said— in a different voice, old, cracked—‘I am Melanie Fuller.’ ”
Saul sat straight up. His skin tingled as if someone had touched his spine with icy fingers.
“And then Dr. Calhoun asked her if she— Melanie Fuller— could tell us anything,” said Natalie. “And little Alicia’s face changed— it sort of rippled— the flesh showed lines and creases that weren’t there a few seconds before . . . and she said, in that same obscene, little old lady’s voice, ‘I’m coming for you, Nina.’ She just kept repeating that phrase, louder each time, ‘I’m coming for you, Nina,’ until she was screaming it.”
“Dear God,” said Saul. “Dr. Calhoun was shaken up,” said Natalie. “He calmed the girl down and brought her out, telling her that she would feel happy and refreshed when she woke. She wasn’t . . . happy, I mean. When she came out of the trance she began crying and saying that her arm hurt. Her mother said that it was the first time she’d complained about the broken arm since she had been found on the night of the murders.”
“What did her parents think of the session with Dr. Calhoun?” asked Saul.
“They were upset,” said Natalie. “Alicia’s mother started to leave the observation room to be with her when the girl began shouting. But when it was over, they seemed very relieved. Alicia’s father told Calhoun that even the girl’s discomfort with the arm and the tears were an improvement over the emptiness they’d been seeing all week.”
“And Dr. Calhoun?” asked Saul.
Gentry laid his arm on the back of the seat. “Doc said it looks like a case of ‘trauma-induced transference,’ ” he said. “He recommends that they set up visits with a full-time psychiatrist— fellow from Savannah the Doc knows— specializes in children’s cases. There was a lot of talk about how much of it the Kaisers’ insurance will cover.”
Saul nodded and the three sat in silence for a moment. Outside, the evening sunlight broke through the clouds and illuminated trees, grass, and moisture-jeweled greenery. Saul breathed in the scent of new-mown grass and tried to remind himself that it was December. He felt cut loose in space and time, lost on currents that were taking him farther and farther from any recognizable shore.
“I suggest we go out for an early dinner and talk about some of this,” Gentry said suddenly. “Professor, you’ve got an early flight to Washington tomorrow, right?”
“Yes,” said Saul. “Well, let’s go then,” said Gentry. “Dinner’s gonna be on the county.”
They ate in an excellent seafood restaurant on Broad Street in the Old Section. There was a line of people waiting, but when the manager saw Gentry he whisked them into a side room to an empty table that appeared as if by magic. The room was crowded so the three kept their conversation general, discussing New York’s weather, Charleston’s weather, photography, the Ira ni an hostage crisis, Charleston county politics, New York politics, and American politics. None of them seemed overjoyed by the outcome of the national election just past. After coffee, they returned to Gentry’s car to pick up sweaters and raincoats, and then walked along the Battery wall.
The night was cool and clear. The last of the clouds had dissipated and the winter constellations were visible through the ambient glare of city lights. The streetlights of Mount Pleasant were bright across the harbor to the east. A small boat, navigation lights glowing green and red, moved west past the point, following the buoys of the Intracoastal Waterway. Behind Saul, Natalie, and Gentry, the tall windows of a score of stately homes glowed orange and yellow in the night.
They paused on the Battery wall. Water lapped at the stones ten feet below. Gentry glanced around, saw no one else in sight, and said in a soft voice, “So what next, Professor?”
“Excellent question” said Saul. “Suggestions?”
“Is your meeting in Washington Saturday pertinent to what we’re . . . discussing?” asked Natalie.
“Possibly,” said Saul. “Probably. I’ll know after the meeting. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific. It involves . . . family.”
“What about this guy who was following me?” said Gentry. “Yes,” said Saul. “Has the FBI been able to give you a name?”
“Nothing,” said the sheriff. “The car was reported stolen in Rockville, Mary land, five months ago. But nothing matches on the dead man. Not fingerprints, dental records . . . nothing.”
“Isn’t that unusual?” asked Natalie. “Almost unheard of,” said Gentry. He picked up a pebble and tossed it into the bay. “In today’s society, everybody leaves records of some sort.”
“Perhaps the FBI is
not trying hard enough,” said Saul. “Is this your theory?”
Gentry tossed another rock and shrugged. He had been wearing civilian clothes— tan slacks and an old plaid shirt— but before taking the walk along the Battery he had pulled his bulky sheriff’s coat and sweat-stained western hat from the trunk of his car and now he was the image of a Southern sheriff again. “I don’t think the FBI would use some half-starved jerk off the street like that,” he said. “And if the fella isn’t working for them, who would be using him? And why would he kill himself rather’n be arrested?”
“It would be consistent with the way the Oberst would use someone,” said Saul. “Or, most likely, the Fuller woman.”
Gentry tossed another pebble and squinted out toward the lights of Fort Sumter two miles away. “Yeah,” he said, “but that doesn’t make any sense. Your Oberst should have no interest in me . . . hell, I never even heard of him ’til you told me your story, Saul. And if Miz Fuller is worried about who’s chasin’ after her, she’d do a lot better tailin’ the State Highway Patrol, city hom i cide boys, an’ the FBI. This guy had nothing in his wallet but a picture of me.”
“Do you have it with you?” asked Saul.
Gentry nodded, removed it from his coat pocket, and handed it to the psychiatrist. Saul walked to a nearby pole lamp to get more light. “Interesting,” said Saul. “Is this the front of the City-County Building behind you?”
“Sure is.”
“Is there anything in the photograph to suggest when it was taken?”
“Yep,” said Gentry. “See that Band-Aid along my jawline, there?”
“Yes.”
“I use my daddy’s straight razor— use to belong to his daddy— but I don’t cut myself shavin’ too often. But I did last Sunday morning when Lester . . . one of my deputies . . . called me real early. I wore the Band-Aid most of that one day.”
“Sunday,” said Natalie. “Yes’m.”
“So whoever was interested in following you took this photograph . . . it looks like a thirty-five-millimeter, correct?” said Saul.
