Marti looked up from the pages and turned to Clay, who had wandered over and dropped into one of the vinyl-covered visitor’s armchairs. “When I first saw Odessa after I got to Gibson, I noticed a scar on his neck. This implant must have been the cause. Quinn’s comment about controlling Odessa with it sounds like it was some kind of stimulator that could activate spinal cord pain pathways.”
“The night I found both of you in the barn, he had a big gash in the back of his neck in addition to that pitchfork in him,” Clay said. “I thought he got the neck wound while you were fighting, but I wonder if he cut that implant out of himself. That would explain why he was able to get to Quinn.”
“It makes sense . . . not that any of this really does.”
“What else does Quinn say?”
Marti scanned the next entry silently then mumbled, “Of course . . .”
Seeing that she was continuing to read to herself, Clay said, “Explanation, please.”
“Sorry, I forgot you were here.”
“Oh, now that hurts.”
“You know what I mean . . . I just got so involved in this . . . Anyway, Quinn had some equipment that could roam through a person’s brain, stimulating memory circuits and making movies of the memory.”
“That doesn’t sound possible.”
“I agree, but he could do it. I’ve seen the proof. But whenever he made a memory movie, it erased the memory from the mind of the owner. To get subjects, he tricked people into participating in a supposed mind-reading experiment in which he drugged the subject and put them in the memory movie apparatus. He had an assistant named Nadine who helped him.”
“Sounds like both of them could have been arrested on assault charges just for that.”
“And they did it to me. That’s why I called you asking about the man who escaped from Gibson and came to my house. I had no memory of it, because Quinn stole it. Shortly after I confronted Nadine about what she did to me when I supposedly fell asleep after drinking a Coke she gave me, she committed suicide. There should have been a medical examiner autopsy of her body, but Quinn got her cremated without one. When I went over to the crematorium, the guy who runs the equipment showed me a melted black object he found in the oven after she’d been cremated. I didn’t know then what it was, but I do now.”
“The same thing Quinn implanted in Odessa?”
“The proof is right here.” She looked down and began reading.
“‘Nadine Simpson is now mentally stable. But with her background, she would make a first-rate assistant. So I have decided to keep her at Gibson. To ensure her discretion about our memory movie enterprise, I will also give her an implant. It may appear odd to some of the staff that two patients in the hospital became ill with appendicitis at about the same time, but it’s not something people will spend much time thinking about.’”
“He didn’t give a rat’s you-know-what about anybody, did he?” Clay said.
“Just himself . . . that’s about it.”
Clay wiggled his index finger at Marti. “Go on, let’s hear some more.”
Marti turned to a fresh page. “This is dated—” she did a quick calculation “—nine months ago.
“‘Implants working fine. O very cooperative. Have discovered that unlike other psychopaths, his amygdala and prefrontal cortex function normally when he’s shown material with an emotional content. Very exciting, but also puzzling. Must know more.’”
She looked at Clay. “The next entry is a week later.
“‘Am becoming increasingly convinced there is only one way to truly understand how Odessa’s brain functions. But the price is too dear.’
“A few days later he says, ‘God help me, I have decided to proceed. Even as I write this, the vehicle I purchased two days ago is being gutted to receive the necessary equipment. It should take about six weeks to get everything ready. Am not yet emotionally ready to pick a subject. In any event, whatever happens, there will only be the one. I can’t be responsible for more than that.’”
“What does he mean, ‘pick a subject’?” Clay asked.
“I think he’s about to tell us.”
“Okay, keep going.”
“Here’s the next entry: ‘Have found a suitable subject in Blake, Tennessee. She’s slim and has long blond hair, like all the rest of O’s victims.’”
“Blake . . .” Clay said, sitting forward in his chair. “Jesus, he’s talking about choosing the girl Odessa killed.”
“I know.”
“Why’s he doing it?”
Marti didn’t need to have anyone explain that, and at first she was surprised Clay hadn’t figured it out from what she’d already read. But then he didn’t know everything she did, and to an outsider, the story was surely so bizarre it wouldn’t be readily apparent.
“He’s decided that the only way he can understand how Odessa’s brain functions is to make wireless EEG recordings from his brain, while he’s murdering someone.”
Clay’s mouth dropped open and for a moment he just stared at Marti in astonished horror. “And they put this guy in charge over there? I thought his brain-rape hobby was perverted, but this—”
“I’m not sure Quinn himself knew what he was capable of before he got involved with Odessa.”
“Doesn’t seem to me they were all that different from each other. Does Quinn describe what happened in Blake?”
Marti turned back to the journal pages and continued reading.
“‘Subject lives alone in a small apartment down a wooded path behind a single-family home. Street in front of primary dwelling is deserted in the morning hours. Situation is ideal. Next trip will bring video camera. Do not know subject’s name and don’t wish to know.’
“Next section—” Marti said.
Before she could begin reading, a nurse came in carrying the breakfast tray the doctor had ordered.
“Sorry to interrupt,” the nurse said, “but Dr. Gilbert wants you to eat something before you’re discharged.”
She put the tray on the bed, pinning Marti between its legs, then stood back and beamed at her accomplishment. “Doesn’t that look good?”
Marti glanced down and saw that the two eggs and single piece of bacon on the institutional plate had been arranged like a smiling face. Earlier, when the doc had mentioned breakfast, it hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea, but now, after Quinn’s details of the Blake victim had personified her in Marti’s mind, eating was out of the question. But she played along. “Can’t wait to dig in.”
When the nurse was out of earshot, Marti said to Clay. “Do you want this? I can’t handle it.”
“Me neither.”
“If somebody doesn’t eat it, Gilbear with a T might balk at letting me leave.”
“Sure you couldn’t force it down? He wouldn’t have suggested eating if it wasn’t in your best interests.”
“Can’t and won’t.”
“I shouldn’t help you fool your doctor, but I guess, being one yourself, I’ll just consider your stubbornness a second opinion.”
Clay came to the bed, picked up the plate and the fork, and carried them into the bathroom, where he scraped the food into the toilet and flushed it. Returning to her bedside, he put the plate and fork back on the tray and set the whole thing aside. “Okay, read.”
As Clay retreated to his chair, Marti found her place in the journal pages and read the next entry.
“‘Showed O film of the girl in Blake—response all I had hoped for. After film, let him into the tunnel and went around to meet him at the exit. Hopes high for a successful experiment, but in Blake, disaster . . . recording equipment malfunctioned during the act. Memory of the event successfully taken, but no data obtained. A life wasted for nothing. Can’t do this again. Price too high.’”
“‘Price too h
igh,’” Clay echoed. “What a caring guy.”
“The equipment he mentioned here and earlier was a mobile EEG lab he had constructed so he could record from Odessa’s brain while he killed the girl,” Marti said. “I found the lab in a hidden room in Odessa’s garage the night Odessa came after me. Quinn must have found out I was onto them and sent Odessa to kill me.”
“That barn fire the night you were hurt was arson. I’ll bet Quinn set it to get me out of the way.”
“Seems plausible.”
“I need some help here . . . Suppose Quinn’s equipment had worked that night in Blake, and he had learned something important. He’d never be able to publish the results. So what’s the point?”
“I don’t think he cared about publishing. He just had to know. To him, the knowledge was all that mattered.”
“I don’t understand that kind of mind.”
“He wasn’t wired like the rest of us.”
“No, I’d say not. I wonder if Nadine knew Quinn was responsible for what happened in Blake?”
“That may be what drove her off the roof. If she was mentally stable as Quinn said, she was probably racked with guilt over the mind-rape experiments, if not the Blake murder. And she was trapped . . . forced to help Quinn and too afraid of the pain he could inflict on her to turn him in.”
Clay shook his head. “Where does such evil come from?” He gestured to the journal pages in her hand. “What else is in there?”
Marti took a moment to locate the next new section, then began reading again.
“‘More trouble. That idiot O took a souvenir from the Blake subject’s home . . . a small wallet-size picture of her. Molly Norman, one of the nurses on his ward, found it in his room. Realizing who it was from TV coverage of the murder and knowing that O was a suspect, Norman brought the picture to me. Had to put her in the memory movie apparatus and burn away everything she knows. A dreadful business. At least I can count on Nadine’s silence. Pain is a powerful ally.’”
“Poor Molly,” Clay said. “If she’d just gone to the sheriff with what she found instead of to Quinn.”
“Oh, my God,” Marti said, reading ahead. “I was wondering why Quinn kept the mobile lab around. Two months ago he decided to try his experiment with Odessa again. He already had the next subject picked out.”
“It’s a damn good thing you came here when you did. Whoever that girl is, she owes you her life.”
“I don’t know about that. Odessa was probably planning to kill Quinn at the next opportunity, whether I was around or not.”
“Maybe so, but after Quinn was dead, Odessa still would have been free to go find the girl if he knew where she was. And if he didn’t know, he would have found someone else.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
Marti had read nearly everything in the packet Banks had given her. She turned now to the last page . . . and . . . “He mentions me: ‘Marti Segerson . . . curse the luck. Today, while exploring her brain, stumbled into a recent memory that should never have been in long-term storage. To have this happen when I make every effort to avoid the short-term areas is infuriating. If I’d just known about Harry Evensky breaking into her bedroom, I could have anticipated that the emotional content of the experience would have moved its memory into long-term storage quicker than normal. There’s virtually no way she will fail to notice this memory lapse. Can only hope she won’t figure out when it happened. If she does, it’ll be bad for both of us.’”
“He was right to be worried,” Clay said. “That mistake was what led you to Molly, and from her to Blake.”
There was a knock at the door, and the nurse who’d brought the breakfast tray came in without waiting for a response.
“How are we coming with that food?” Seeing the empty plate, her already pleasant demeanor brightened even more. “Well, you made short work of most of it.”
“Went down just as nifty as you please,” Marti said, giving Clay a sly glance.
“No interest in the juice or toast?”
“Had enough.”
“All right then . . . If you’re ready, I’ll get you another gown you can slip on over the one you’re wearing, so you’re fully covered. Then we’ll take that little walk Dr. Gilbert asked for.”
“I’m more than ready.” She looked at Clay. “I don’t have any clean clothes to leave here in. Would you go to my house and get me some?”
“Sure. What do you want?”
She described the outfit she had in mind and reminded him not to forget her underwear. Her mention of the latter made Clay blush, a reaction Marti found charming.
“It’ll take me a while,” Clay said.
“I’ve got a couple of phone calls to make, so that’ll help pass the time.”
“You weren’t wearing your glasses when I found you in the barn. Were they lost while Odessa was chasing you?”
“I’m pretty sure they’re at the cottage.”
“I’ll bring them, too.”
Believing this wasn’t the time to explain that her eyesight was twenty/twenty, Marti just said, “Thanks.”
When Clay was gone, Marti proved to the nurse it wouldn’t be malpractice to let her leave the hospital. She then used the phone book in her room to look up the number of the first place in town she needed to contact to discuss a matter involving Harry Evensky. Her initial call went so well she didn’t have to make any others.
She was now looking at the beginning of her new life, whatever that was going to be. And, frankly, the steps leading up to it appeared even steeper than she had ever imagined.
Chapter 34
CLAY PULLED into a space in the Gibson State parking lot and cut off the engine of his pickup, which now had his camper top on it to protect Marti’s suitcases.
“I won’t be long,” Marti said.
“Take whatever time you need,” Clay said.
She was there to officially resign and say good-bye to the few people she’d grown close to. When she was finished with that, Clay would drive her to Memphis and she’d get on a plane back to LA, where she could start seriously thinking about who she wanted to be when she grew up.
Clay had not seemed like himself since he’d picked her up at the Best Western where, because of the damaged window at the cottage, she’d taken a room until her final business in Linville could be concluded. Missing his easy manner, Marti tried to coax it back one more time. “I appreciate you not holding me to my lease,” she said.
“Considering the condition of the place and what happened to you there, it wouldn’t be right.”
“And taking me to the airport . . . that’s very sweet of you.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
“I will call you when I’m settled, I promise.”
“I believe you. But I still don’t understand why you’re leaving.”
“Staying was never part of my plans.”
“Life can’t always be planned. Sometimes it just happens.”
Marti was having a hard time defending her return to California, because it wasn’t so much a decision as an instinct to be where she’d grown up, an injured animal seeking familiar surroundings to recover. Depleted of things to say about the situation, she left the truck and headed for the hospital’s front entrance.
Inside, she went first up to Two East to see Harry Evensky. Her hopes that she could get in and out without running into Ada Metz were not to be, for Metz was standing just inside the ward entrance.
They stared at each other without speaking for a moment, then Metz, her eyes still lingering on the bruises Marti hadn’t been able to hide even with heavy makeup, said, “You look terrible.”
“Thanks for noticing.”
“I didn’t mean . . . Look, I know I’ve been hard on you since you came here, but I want to tell
you I appreciate what you did. They’re saying some terrible things about Dr. Quinn, and I don’t know if they’re true or not. All I know is he always treated me fairly, and I liked him. It sounds like there’s not much doubt Odessa killed him before he came after you. The way I was brought up was that if you’re the friend of my friend, then you get the benefit of the doubt from me. Odessa killed Quinn . . . you killed Odessa . . . that means I give you no more crap. Deal?”
Metz extended the hamhock she used for a hand.
The woman’s premise that the killing of Odessa somehow made Marti and Quinn friends was so skewed Marti didn’t know what to do. Finally, just to get past the woman, she shook her hand.
Just then Marti saw Harry Evensky come into the dayroom. “There’s the man I came to see.”
With a benevolent nod of the head, Metz stepped aside, leaving the way clear. Seeing Marti, Evensky met her halfway.
“I knew he was coming after you that night,” Evensky said. “I tried to get to a phone to tell you, but they put me in a room where I couldn’t get at the lock.”
“Interview room,” Marti said, taking him by the arm and steering him in that direction.
When they were behind a closed door, Harry said, “The news said you got him with a pitchfork. Man, I’d give anything to have seen that.”
“Wish I hadn’t.”
“Yeah, I expect it was touch and go there for a while. Who was the guy who found you?”
“A friend. Harry, I’m not here to talk about me.”
“Why did you come?”
“I want you to level with me. You don’t ever think seriously about killing yourself, do you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you don’t really believe old letter Rs are going to be valuable someday either.”
“You’re wrong about that, too. And your disbelief is why they will. Takes a man with foresight to go against the tide.”
Marti walked over, took Harry by the shoulders, and looked into his eyes. “Harry, tell me the truth.”
The Memory Thief Page 25
