F Paul Wilson - Novel 05

by Mirage (v2. 1)

  "What's up, doc?" she says.

  You pull back. Too abruptly, and you're out of the house. No door slams behind you.

  Did the memory end, or was there more to see?

  The feelings overwhelm you. And you think: I don't get overwhelmed by feelings. Christ, that's not me. And then there's a more important question: What is this memory doing here?

  At least some part of the memoryscape is alive and you should be glad about that.

  But it's starting to feel like a minefield. And you've got so many unanswered questions.

  You click on the Window button and a few seconds later Dr. Siegal appears.

  "Yes, Julie? Ready to come out?"

  "Not yet."

  Can there be anything this compelling in the real world? you think. It's like a drug. I can't pull away.

  "That was a pretty tense scene. Was your father always so ill-tempered?"

  Instantly you resent the implication.

  "Frankly, I don't know if that was real."

  "You were present in the memory as a child."

  "But I don't remember that scene. I don't remember my parents fighting, or my dad having a temper like that."

  "You were awfully young. Perhaps that memory is gone."

  "But not for Sam. And she was just as young."

  "Different people retain different memories."

  "But why am I encountering these memories? Is it a random process? Or have these particular memories surfaced for a reason? And if so, what's behind them?"

  "Not what," Dr. Siegal says. "Who. Who could it be but your sister?"

  You think he might be onto something.

  "Could some residue of Sam's consciousness—or maybe her subconscious—have forced these memories to the surface?" The thought jolts you, excites you. "Good God-—is Sam trying to tell me something?"

  "That sounds a little far-fetched, Julie," he says, ever the conservative theoretician. "But it might indicate that there could be more than erne level to Sam's memoryscape."

  Your excitement grows. Multiple levels to die memoryscape— it's not a new concept, but you've never seen evidence of it in anyone else's 'scape. It's not impossible. These memories struggling to stay alive could be mere tracers, telltales of die real secrets buried deeper, perhaps levels down in this construct of Sam's mind.

  Lord, what do those levels look like?

  "Thanks," you say. "I'm going to keep looking."

  You float higher, searching. The scorched bleakness of the 'scape is relieved only by the dim glow of a half-dozen nodes.

  "Your sister's memoryscape appears to be collapsing. You have to find a way to get to the deeper levels."

  "Right. But how? Dig a hole?"

  "No. Look for a portal, maybe a common nexus point for all the levels"

  You drift past the sinking Oakwood to the cliffs overlooking the sea.

  A flash of white in the water.

  "Did you see that?"

  Then another flash near the dark shore below.

  Maybe it's another piece of the message from Sam.

  "I'm going to take a look."

  You click the window shut and drop down the hundred or so feet to something that looks like a boat floating in the dark sea. A giddy white froth of waves churning. The rise and fall of a choppy ocean.

  No, not a boat. Now you see that it's a bed. With two people in it. Sam and Liam, rolling on the sheets, laughing, naked.

  You turn away. You shouldn't be here. This is too much of an invasion of Sam's privacy. And you're not alone here. Dr. Siegal is watching. And there's a videotape running. Other people will see this.

  But that will only matter to Sam if she comes out of this. And she won't come out of this unless ...

  You raise your hand and pull yourself closer, floating toward the bed, floating right over it and—

  Sam laughs, running her fingers through Liam's red hair.

  "Now, why don't you tell me who you really are."

  He laughs too, but then he looks at the ceiling.

  "And haven't 1 been telling you?" he says. "I'm here representing a bloody Irish import-export company." He turns back to Sam, a warm, disarming smile on his face.

  But Sam doesn't believe him. No, she believes what her flamboyant friend Edmund, owner of the Galeries Nouveau, told her.

  He's very bad news, Samantha, though I certainly see why you like him. But I'm sure, even after the IRA cease-fire, he's still a criminal. Don't even think about playing with him.

  But that's what makes this so attractive. And besides, she loves his brogue.

  Slowly she lets her hand wander down Liam's chest, playing with the curly hair. Liam is old enough to have a wife and kids somewhere. Probably does. And that doesn't bother Sam at all.

  "I should go...." he says gently.

  Sam shakes her head. "No. I don't want you to."

  Now his hand, a big rough hand, a strong, perhaps dangerous hand, reaches out and caresses her. It trails haphazardly over her breasts. Such big hands, playing so gently, toying with her.

  "I have work to do in the morning," he says.

  "You have no work." She laughs. "No real work." And then she's serious. "Can you pick a lock?"

  His offended look is exaggerated. "You wouldn't be calling me a thief now, would you?"

  "No. I just want to know if you know how to pick a lock."

  "And why would you be wanting to know such a thing?"

  "Maybe I have a lock that needs picking."

  He glances around the studio. "Here?"

  "No... in England. In my uncle's house."

  The uncle who's always looking after you? He already gives you everything. Why would you be wanting to steal from him?"

  "My uncle's hiding something."

  Liam looks at the ceiling again. "I'm waiting for the day I meet someone who's not."

  "He's hiding lots of things, I think. And I know just where he's hiding them. There's a huge locked wall cabinet in his study. If you could get it open for me—"

  His grin is tight. "I could get it open for sure, but not by picking."

  "Super! Next time he's away, we'll fly over and—"

  "Oh, no, we won't. I'll not be flying to Merry Olde anytime soon."

  Samantha rolls on top of him, drawing up her knees beside his chest. She reaches down and grabs his wrists, playing at imprisoning him.

  "Yes, you will. I'll make you."

  "You think you can?"

  She bends down and kisses him hard, punishingly.

  "Wait and see," she whispers.

  Then another kiss, gentler now, trying to rekindle the fire. Feeling him grow hard, she loses herself in those kisses, until he kisses back and she can release his wrists.

  His arms encircle her and hold her tight. He pulls her close until her breasts press against his chest.

  And slowly, Sam straightens out, sliding her legs beside Liam, feeling him ready.

  "But if you have something better to do ..." she says, mischievously. "Then... go...."

  Liam answers by turning her over. In one smooth move he rolls her onto her back. Now it is her wrists that are pinned. A fierce glow lights Liam's eyes.

  Samantha wets her lips, watching Liam lower his head, arching her back as he starts licking her....

  You wet your own lips.

  They feel full, rubbery. As if—

  And there's more. Christ, you feel your nipples harden—as if you were standing in a draft after a shower. You're chilled, then there's a warmth.

  You take a breath. Another.

  You're responding to what's happening here.

  You're there, inside Samantha's mind, inside her body, sharing the feelings washing over her. In other nodes you've shared her physical pain, and even her emotional pain. But this goes further. Your body is reacting; you're having a physiological response to what's happening in the memory.

  You should leave. Yes, you know you should leave ... but God it feels good. You shift in your recliner, the
warmth spreading. ... So good ...

  Samantha reaches down and imprisons Liam's head between her thighs, locking it in place with her hands. "Yessss," she says. Then louder.

  She moans. The sounds could be cries of pain, the cries of a little girl who scraped her knee and came to Daddy for help.

  Except this is bliss. It makes everything else go away. There is no room, no studio filled with paintings that surround the bed. No dark canvases that won't let Sam go.

  Liam comes up and now he's a machine as he kisses her mouth, her eyes, while he enters her and begins a steady, forceful rock.

  The kisses continue while the dance drives everything away. It's wonderful. It's oblivion. It's heat. The burning of the two bodies, growing sweaty, almost desperate.

  Then there's something else in the bed.

  Fire. The bed in flames. The white sheets turn orange and rock.

  Samantha's eyes open.

  She looks up at Liam.

  He smiles cruelly as if this was a plan, to trap her body, to consume her with heat and flames.

  He speaks, and somehow it soothes her.

  "Now," he says to her, the rocking accelerating, the flames somehow magically receding. Another kiss, and he whispers in her ear.

  "Now!"

  Now!

  The word is a trigger. You feel as if you're in a dark, locked room with a heavy wooden door. The room is on fire and you're standing at its center. The word echoes in that room, and somehow that door clicks open.

  And water rushes in, a tidal wave that knocks you down but doesn't extinguish the fire.

  It pushes you around the room, swirling into a whirlpool that catches you and spins you, dragging you down.

  Now.

  The word is stunning in its simplicity, its directness. Not later, not yesterday, not tomorrow when you can, when it might be convenient. But right here, right now.

  You breathe out, and you gasp as waves of pleasure shudder through your body. You've no control at this moment. There is nothing but the pleasure, intense, fierce, all-encompassing.

  Your back is arched, your eyes are shut, your ears are roaring, your teeth are clenched to keep from screaming. But a little moan struggles free.

  A chime reaches you as the roaring fades and your muscles relax.

  You open your eyes and see the Window button blinking. You reach out a shaky hand and click it. Dr. Siegal drops down.

  "Julie—are you all right?"

  "Yes." You struggle to clear the hoarseness from your voice. "I'm fine."

  "Then what—?"

  "I'm exiting the 'scape now."

  You click the window closed and hit the Exit button. Before the screen fades to blue you see the bed—empty.

  It looks like a still life, you think.

  You feel loss, emptiness. You know what just happened to you, and you don't know how to respond, what to think.

  Sam is gone.

  Liam is gone. The bed remains.

  An empty boat on a dark and empty sea.

  Fourteen

  We don't realize how fragile memories are. Memories decay if they're not accessed regularly. We've got a finite number of neurons in our brains, so older memories get shunted around to make space for the constant flow of new ones.

  —Random notes: Julia Gordon

  Julie pulled off the headset and quickly glanced around. ,

  Alone. Eathan hadn't returned. No one had seen her. Thank God.

  She slumped back in die recliner and closed her eyes, drefl a deep, shuddering breath. She was weak, she was damp.

  My God! My . . . God.'

  So that's what it's like!

  Now Julie knew why Sam had always been so hot for the boys. How different her own attitude—hell, her whole life-might be if she could respond like that.

  She stared at her sister. Sleeping Beauty was still breathing softly, her cardiac monitor ticking along at a steady seventy-two beats a minute. No sign that she'd relived the moment Julie had just experienced.

  But as Julie's own racing heart slowed, as her jumbled thoughts reorganized, Sam's pillow talk came back to her.

  My uncle's hiding something.

  What was that supposed to mean? Hiding what?

  A beep from the monitor made her jump. The camera icon blinked insistently from the blank screen. Dr. S. wanted to talk.

  Talk was the last thing she wanted to do right now. She just wanted to close her eyes and luxuriate in this strange, peaceful feeling.

  Another beep.

  "Okay, okay." She found the mouse and clicked the icon. Dr. Siegal's face appeared.

  "Julie? Are you there?"

  "Yes, Dr. S. I'm here."

  "Are you all right? You quit the memoryscape so abruptly."

  "It was time to go, don't you think? I mean, that was an intimate moment."

  "You didn't have to stay in that particular node. You could have gone elsewhere in the memoryscape. Julie ..." His eyes narrowed as if he were staring at her through the screen. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

  Thank God the video ran only one way. She felt the warmth of her flushed cheeks. One look at her and he'd know.

  But she had to come up with a plausible answer. Probably the best tack was a little righteous indignation. She found it easy to sound angry.

  "It disturbed me to see my sister screwing the man who might be responsible for her present condition. All right? Is that up close and personal enough for you?"

  "I—I'm sorry, Julie," he said. "I didn't mean—"

  "I know you didn't," she said, softly this time. "It's just... can we talk about this later?"

  "Of course. I'll be here."

  "Fine. I'll get back to you."

  She broke the connection and his face faded. She felt like a rat for jumping ugly like that, but she couldn't risk a lengthy discussion with him now. And she couldn't risk too many more sessions in Sam's memoryscape with Dr. S. looking over her shoulder. Sooner or later he'd put it all together and realize she was having sensory participation in the 'scape. And then he’d pull the plug. No question about it.

  Julie turned off the monitor and called the nurse, who slipped back in with a funereal air. Julie nodded to the woman and then headed for her own room. She needed a shower.

  On the way down the hall she passed Eathan's study.

  She slowed, the message from the memoryscape reverberating through her. She stopped, turned back, and stood outside the closed door.

  My uncle's hiding something. . . . He's hiding lots of things, think. And 1 know just where he's hiding them. There's a huge locked wall cabinet in his study.

  What could Eathan be hiding? Or, more likely, what could Sam have imagined Eathan was hiding? He'd always kept hi study locked when they were children, and that had provided a great source of mystery and intrigue. But as they grew older that need for privacy, to protect one's valuables, became perfectly understandable to Julie. Especially with someone like Sam foraging through the house in perpetual search of material for her endless stream of collages. A rare first edition could end up cut into a hundred pieces, adorning a crazy quilt a scrap paper, ticket stubs, and photos cut into fragments.

  Many a time Julie had opened one of her magazines—Astronomy had always been one of Sam's favorite sources—to find photos of nebulae or distant galaxies ripped out. She'd run to Sam's room to find them glued to a board amid a meaningless—to Julie at least—hodgepodge of other scraps of paper.

  But now, with the manor all to himself, was there any reason for Eathan to keep his study locked?

  She reached out and turned die handle. The door opened.

  I guess not.

  She stepped inside. Not the first time she'd been in here. She and Sam had charged in on occasions when Eathan was working at his desk, sneaked in on other occasions when he'd forgotten to lock the door. But they'd never been able to stay long. Eathan always appeared to scoot them away gently.

  Oak-paneled walls between the bookshelves, heavy gre
en drapes on the windows overlooking the front gardens, dark green carpet matching the drapes; a huge oak parson's desk gleamed in the light from the windows. All very staid, very solid, very British, very beautiful.

  But overwhelming all else in the room was the imposing bulk of the massive oak cabinet that dominated the north wall.

  Julie felt herself drawn to the cabinet. She fought it, moving instead to the bookshelves. A set of half a dozen tall paper spines stood out among the first editions. She pulled one out: The journal of Neurochemistry. She checked the date: 1968. All six were from the late 1960s. Odd. She quick-scanned the contents page and came to an abrupt halt at the name of one of the contributors: Nathan Gordon, Ph.D.

  Dad.

  Good God—research articles by her father. Her heart pounded. She hadn't known he'd published. She wanted to sit down and read these. Now. But how could she? She wasn't even supposed to be in here.

  Later. She'd find a way to pop in while Eathan was here and "find" them.

  After she replaced the journals in their spot, her feet seemed to move her toward the wall cabinet of their own accord. And then she was standing before it, gazing up at its towering height, staring at the intricate grainy swirls within the glossy surfaces of the massive pair of doors that guarded its contents from the outside world. The two handles were antique brass, but there was nothing antique about the sturdy Medeco lock plate that stared at her from above the right handle.

  She reached out and tugged on one of the handles. She'd never seen the inside before.

  Locked. Still locked. No one in the house but Eathan, the cook, and the maid ... and still locked.

  My uncle's hiding something.

  Julie turned and started for the door. Eathan's business was just that: Eathan's business. If he wanted to keep his cabinet locked—

  The desk. The huge oak desk caught her eye. If he didn't carry the cabinet key on him, where would be the logical place to leave it?

  She veered toward the desk but passed it without slowing. instead she went to the windows and stared out at the front gardens. Eathan wasn't back from the airport yet.

  He's. . . I'm here. . . . There's time. . . .