Nothing worked. Every road led to a dead end. When memories were sparked, they were almost always Ivan’s. With each new dead end, Cole’s frustration grew. Not only was he frustrated that he wasn’t making any progress, he also knew that if he didn’t have success soon, he was going to have to rely on Dr. Tyson. Needing her help was close to the last thing he wanted. He could think of only one thing in the whole world that he wanted less.
So, when Cole heard the knock on his door, he knew who it was. Ed knew that he had gone back to his apartment to continue to work through Faith’s files. It could have been someone from the FBI or one of the other groups working on the case. But they would have knocked louder, with less hesitation. The knock that Cole heard was tentative, almost nervous.
Cole walked to the door. People weren’t supposed to be able to get into the building without someone buzzing them in, but the lock on the main door had been broken for months. Even though Cole knew who he was going to see when he looked through the peephole, his heart still began to race when he saw Dr. Tyson. He unbolted the door and opened it.
“You made it here fast,” Cole said to Dr. Tyson, skipping any pleasantries. “Did they move Boston closer to New York or were you just waiting nearby, hoping I would call?”
“Ed told me that you needed help. He told me that it had something to do with the bombing in Queens. So I came down as fast as I could get here. Are you going to let me in?”
“Come in.” Cole walked toward the kitchen, leaving the door open. Dr. Tyson was left to step inside Cole’s apartment and close the door behind herself.
Dr. Tyson looked around. She had spent hundreds of hours inside Cole’s brain, but she had never seen his apartment before. It was about what she would have expected, sparse and generally free of personal touches. Personalizing an apartment would quickly become a Sisyphean task for someone whose personality changed every time he inherited another stranger’s memories. She guessed that Cole had tried after the first two or three memory transfers but that it had become too frustrating. Who would want to face the reminder, every time you inherited another stranger’s memory, that you no longer liked things you liked only a short time ago? Most people had to deal with that on the timelines of decades, not months.
Cole was sitting at the table in his kitchen. It had been over a year since Dr. Tyson had seen him last. He looked healthy but tired. She had to guess that the case had been wearing him down. Otherwise, he looked good, and she told him as much.
Cole looked Dr. Tyson up and down. She hadn’t changed. In all the time Cole had known her, she had barely appeared to age at all. Cole knew that she was well over fifty but she could have passed for being only a few years over thirty. She looked as smart and confident as always. Her hair was cut neatly into a short Afro. She wore the same round maroon eyeglasses. The only thing that had changed since the last time they had met was Cole’s opinion of her, and that made her much uglier in his eyes than she actually was.
“So, Cole, how can I help?” Dr. Tyson finally asked him. She wanted to move closer to him but didn’t dare do so without being invited first.
Cole looked up at her. “I have the bomber’s memories in my head, but I can’t seem to break into them. We know there’s going to be another bombing in three days, but we have no clues as to where or by whom. We’re hoping that there are clues trapped inside my head, but if I don’t remember them soon, it will be too late.”
Dr. Tyson had helped Cole stay sane in between every case he’d ever worked. Because she knew almost everything about him, she wouldn’t have to waste time on useless questions. She didn’t have to ask if he was sure that the memory transfer took. She knew that he’d know. She didn’t have to ask if he’d been seeking out appropriate memory triggers. She knew that was the first thing he would have done. So she began by asking, “What happens when you try to remember?”
“I invariably remember somebody else’s memories instead.”
“One person’s or lots of people’s?” asked Dr. Tyson.
“One person’s.”
“Whose?”
“One of the victims of the bombing.”
Dr. Tyson was visibly taken aback by Cole’s answer. He could see the shock in her face. “How?” she asked.
“They weren’t sure which one of them was the bomber so they gave me both their memories.”
“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” asked Dr. Tyson.
“No,” Cole answered her. “Do you?”
Dr. Tyson stopped to think about her answer. She was walking on eggshells. She didn’t want to say anything that might upset Cole. She knew how mad at her he already was, and she knew why. “There is no documented history of anyone ever taking two memories at once. It’s been illegal ever since memory transfers became an approved medical practice. Children whose parents die at the same time, parents whose children die at the same time, none of them have been allowed to do what they did to you.”
“Why not?” asked Cole.
“Because there is evidence that it would have a destabilizing impact on the inheritor’s mental health.”
“Meaning that it would drive people crazy?”
Dr. Tyson took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“But I’m not crazy,” Cole said with pointed defiance.
“I said that we have evidence of potential impacts. The evidence is from computer models and animal testing. I never said it was a sure thing. Besides, you might be different.”
“How so?”
“Through all of your historic memory transplants, transplants that have been almost uniformly disturbing in nature, your brain may have developed the ability to protect itself. You may have essentially built up a tolerance.” Dr. Tyson eyed the chair across the table from Cole. “Can I sit down?”
“I won’t stop you,” Cole told her. She walked over and sat in the chair across from him. They were now mere feet apart.
“So, you have three days to remember the bomber’s plans in order to thwart a second bombing, but whenever you try to access the bomber’s memories, you remember the ones you inherited from a victim of the bombing?”
“There’s one memory of the bomber’s that I can remember.”
“Which one?” Dr. Tyson asked. Cole could hear the fear in her voice. He was confident that she would have guessed correctly if he had asked her.
“I can remember the morning of the bombing, from when the bomber walked into the mall until moments before she set the bomb off.”
“She?” Dr. Tyson asked.
“Yeah. The bomber was a twenty-six-year-old woman. Does that surprise you?”
“A little, but that’s irrelevant. I’m merely trying to determine how to help you find the memories. The fact that the bomber is a woman could make it harder for you. You’ve always had a slightly harder time with women’s memories. What else do you know about her?”
“She grew up in an upper-class suburb in New Jersey. Her family is Christian but wasn’t really religious. She was white. She went to a good college and got a good job after graduating. She lived alone in New York. People at her job seemed to like her but she didn’t seem to have a lot of close friends.”
Dr. Tyson thought for a few moments. “So her memories won’t be so foreign to you that they’d be hard to locate, but they also won’t be so distinct that they’ll stand out. They could get lost inside some of the other ones in your head.”
Cole shook his head. “It’s more than that. It’s not that the memories are hidden or mixed with other memories. They really won’t come, other than the memory of the bombing and some dreams, I think, that I can’t remember.” The two of them quickly fell into the rhythm of their old banter. Cole almost forgot how she’d betrayed him.
“Okay, tell me about the one memory you can access, the memory of the bombing.”
“It’s strange. I mean, it’s more than strange. It’s totally impersonal, like I’m remembering the memory of a robot or—”
“Or what?” asked
Dr. Tyson.
“Or someone without a soul.”
“That actually sounds normal to me. We’ve been able to study failed suicide bombers and mass shooters. They almost always say the same thing, that once their plan starts they essentially go on autopilot. They turn off the part of them that’s human. If they didn’t do that, they could never go through with it. They’re usually very different from psychopaths. Psychopaths don’t feel sympathy. Suicide bombers have to turn their sympathy off. You’re remembering it the same way that she would’ve remembered it if she’d lived. She had to turn her humanity off as soon as she entered that building with the bomb strapped to her. It feels like a robot’s memory because it basically is.”
“Okay, but what about all the other memories?”
“In theory, those should be more normal. I mean, if you can call the memories of a suicide bomber normal. I’m sure they’ve given you a personality profile.”
Cole nodded. “Yeah. Socially isolated. Feels like they don’t have a purpose. The personality profile describes about seventy-five percent of the people walking down the street every day. Honestly, I’d normally be more afraid of the person who doesn’t fit that profile.”
“And every time you try to remember one of the bomber’s memories—”
“I remember one of the bombing victim’s instead. His memories are so strong.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He was in his late thirties. He was born in Puerto Rico. As a kid, he wanted to be a baseball player. He was pretty good too, but not good enough. He came to New York to work construction so he could send some money back home to his mother. The work was pretty steady until he got arthritis in his hands. Lately, he took jobs when he could get them and the pain wasn’t too bad. He was single. No kids.”
“And?” Dr. Tyson pressed.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you keep remembering his memories, there must be more.”
Cole’s fingers started moving on the table in front of him even before he answered Dr. Tyson’s question. “His grandmother taught him how to play the piano when he was a kid. He was really, really good. He gave it up when his grandmother died so he could focus on baseball. He hadn’t played the piano in years, but he recently started giving lessons to his neighbor’s young son. He was teaching the kid a lot of the same classical pieces that his grandmother taught him. He was at the mall because he was shopping for a gift for the boy.”
“Didn’t the arthritis bother him when he played?”
Cole shrugged. “He played through it.”
“You like these memories?”
“What do you mean?” Cole asked. His question sounded like an accusation.
Dr. Tyson was staring at Cole, the way she’d done all those years when he was her patient and he was telling her all of his secrets so she could try to help keep him sane. “Don’t bullshit me, Cole. I know you. I know how addictive other people’s memories can be. I know the type of hold they have on you.” She shook her head slowly. “I know how they can control you.”
“What are you implying, Dr. Tyson?” Cole used formality as an accusation.
“What do you want to get out of this, Cole?” Dr. Tyson asked him.
“Maybe you should leave.”
“Do you want to stop the next bombing?”
“Of course I do.”
“Do you want me to give you some theories about why you can’t remember the bomber’s memories?”
“That’s literally the only reason that I’m talking to you right now.” Cole didn’t even try to stop the anger from infecting his words.
She continued, ignoring his anger. “None of these are certain. They’re only ideas, but they are based on research we’ve done and on my experience working with you. One possibility would be that you are searching for the memories incorrectly, that you remembered the bombing first and you’ve tried to use that memory to help guide you to the bomber’s other memories, but it doesn’t work because the bomber turned herself off the morning of the bombing. So, using that memory as a key won’t unlock any doors.”
“But you know that theory is wrong,” said Cole. He knew Dr. Tyson almost as well as she knew him.
“Yes,” admitted Dr. Tyson. “It might work with anyone else but not with you. You have too much experience with memory transfers to rely on only one key. You know how much people change. I’m sure you’ve tried every key on the chain. You’ve met her parents?” Cole nodded. “Talked to her friends?” Another nod. “Gone to her office, talked to her coworkers?”
“Of course. So what are the other theories?”
“Another possibility is that the other memories aren’t there anymore, at least not in the same way that most people’s memories stay with them. This theory would posit that the bomber so fundamentally changed due to the bombing that any memories from before the bombing disappeared.”
“And you think that’s possible?”
“Partially,” Dr. Tyson said. “When we have had the chance to interview failed suicide bombers, it’s clear that many of their memories are fundamentally weakened. Positive memories from their childhoods, positive memories of old relationships, pretty much any memory of prior joys becomes greatly weakened.”
“But other memories?”
“That’s the problem. Other memories tend to become stronger. Memories of slights and injustices are often amplified. So, if this theory were true, you’d still likely remember something other than the bombing.”
“Are any of these going to make sense? We only have three more days.”
Dr. Tyson ignored him but she did keep on going. “A third possibility is that your brain is protecting you.”
Cole laughed out loud.
“I’m not kidding, Cole. I already told you that there’s evidence that inheriting multiple memories could drive someone crazy. I also told you that perhaps it’s not having the same effect on you because you’ve built up a tolerance to new memories. So maybe the way your tolerance is protecting you is by having your brain shove one set of memories aside and focusing only on the other set. That way, your body would react to these memories the same way it’s always reacted to single memory transfers.”
“So you think my brain is killing Faith’s memories?”
“I didn’t say killing. I don’t think the brain has any equivalent to white blood cells; it doesn’t attack diseased memories the way white blood cells attack diseases. But we know that repressed memories are real, so brains do have the ability to suppress memories that might be harmful to our sanity.”
“So my brain is suppressing Faith’s memories because remembering two new sets of memories at once might drive me mad?”
“Not just that,” Dr. Tyson said. “Her memories are also categorically dangerous. Her memories, whatever they may be, drove her to become a suicide bomber. Maybe your brain is trying to protect you from a similar fate.”
“And if this is true—” Cole began.
“Then there’s not much we can do to help you. And, even if we could, doing so could be extremely dangerous.”
“So is there a fourth theory?”
Dr. Tyson nodded. “There is.”
“Okay, then let’s hear it.”
“What is the name of the bomb victim whose memories you inherited?”
“Ivan,” answered Cole, unsure of where this was going.
“The fourth theory is that you are too enamored with Ivan’s memories to access any of the bomber’s.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not an insult, Cole. It simply means that Ivan’s memories are literally blocking your ability to remember the bomber’s, partly because they are strong memories and partly because you won’t stop them, as they’ve already become part of your addiction.”
“And you believe that? You believe that I can’t remember Faith’s memories simply because I like Ivan’s memories too much?”
“I don’t think it’s a conscious decision, C
ole. And I tend to think that the truth is probably some combination of the third and the fourth theories. I think that Ivan’s memories may be protecting you from the bomber’s memories.”
Cole didn’t answer right away. He thought about what she was saying. He couldn’t afford to simply prejudge her words, not if they could help him to stop any more kids from getting blown up. “Okay, let’s assume you’re right. Do you know of a way to help me remember the bomber’s memories?”
Dr. Tyson nodded but Cole could see some doubt in her eyes. Since she wasn’t normally the type to have doubts, Cole guessed that it didn’t relate to her idea. He was right. It was about something else entirely.
“How?” Cole asked. “How can you help me?”
Dr. Tyson hesitated. She took a deep breath. “We need to erase Ivan’s memories from your brain.”
“That’s impossible,” Cole said. “There’s no way to do targeted deletions.”
The doubt in Dr. Tyson’s eyes, now echoed in Cole’s words, edged ever closer to fear. “Someone has been working on an experimental procedure. So far, it’s produced some remarkable results.”
“Who?” asked Cole, though he was almost certain that he already knew the answer.
“This procedure is why I started working with them in the first place, Cole. I was trying to help you.”
“Who?” Cole asked again, only louder this time.
“Let’s not play games, Cole. You know who.”
“Fergus.” Cole spit the name out with disgust. Fergus, for all intents and purposes, ran the Company. He recruited the young people that the Company used to sow new memories. He harvested those memories and found buyers for them. And he did all of the other dirty work that the job entailed, which included dealing with anyone who tried to get in his way, even Cole.
The Murderer's Memories Page 12
