Under Marti’s unrelenting scrutiny, Harry withered. “All right . . . of course I don’t believe that crap about the letters. And I’d never kill myself either. I just say I will because . . . well, I have to do these things to justify bein’ able to stay here.”
“And why would you want to be here instead of free?”
“It’s safe here.”
“What are you afraid of?”
Harry gently pulled free of her grasp, crossed his arms in front of him, and looked at the floor.
“What are you afraid of?”
Harry looked up. “Years ago, when I had my own locksmith business, I made a mess of things—went bankrupt, my wife left me . . . I couldn’t make it on my own. I got confused, so I was sent here. Then, when I got to feelin’ some better, I found I didn’t want to leave.”
“Harry, lots of people lose businesses and wives, too. It hurts, but they keep going.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t, you might as well be dead.”
“I’m not dead in here.”
“Yes, you are. Isn’t there some small part of you that wants to try again in the world, to see if maybe what happened was just bad luck? Don’t you ever long for friends who can carry on a decent conversation? Don’t you get tired of the food here? Have you never awakened on a fall day and wished you could take a leisurely ride and look at the leaves? Don’t you ever want to go fishing? Do you never miss the feeling of being needed, of being productive, of standing back and looking with pride at a tough job you’ve completed?”
“I don’t fish.”
“What about the other things?”
“Sure, I feel all that from time to time.”
“So what do you say we do something about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve found you a part-time job that includes some locksmithing duties at Barker’s Hardware. Most of the time you’d probably just be making keys and helping out as a clerk, but they offer lock installation and you’d be the one doing that.”
“I dunno . . .”
“It’s only three hours a day.”
“Could I still live here?”
“I’ll see what can be arranged. If I can make that happen, will you take the job?”
“And we’d still be able to talk?”
“That’s a problem. Harry, I’m going back to California.”
“Why?”
“I came here only to see that Odessa was prosecuted for murdering my sister. Now that he’s dead, there’s no need for me to stay.”
“What will you do in California?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How are you getting to the airport?”
“My friend is driving me.”
“The guy who found you the night Odessa attacked you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like him?”
“He’s a very nice man.”
“Would you say he’s good lookin’?”
“Yes.”
“Have you got a boyfriend in California?”
“Harry, this conversation is getting a little too personal.”
“You mean for a mental patient talkin’ to his doctor?”
“No, Harry, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“I see.”
“What does that mean?”
“When is the most progress made with the fewest steps?”
“Another riddle?”
“Think about it.”
“You never gave me an answer about the part-time job.”
“Then we both have things to think about.”
There was a knock at the door and Ada Metz leaned in. “Trina Estes is out in the hall with someone who wants to meet you.”
“How did they know I was here?”
“I told them. I thought you’d want to see this person.”
Marti turned to Harry. “I’m not prepared to leave here without you agreeing to try that job. So when I’m through in the hall, I’m coming back to finish our conversation.”
“I’ll be here.”
When Marti went into the hallway, she found Trina Estes standing beside an attractive older woman wearing a white knit shell under a wide-lapel bouclé jacket and skirt accented with a peach scarf. On the floor beside the woman was a suitcase. Marti assumed this was probably a new psychologist Quinn hired before he was killed. As nice as she looked, Marti thought her pearl necklace and earrings were maybe a little too dressy for a mental hospital. Why this woman would want to meet her was a mystery.
“Hi, Trina.” Marti offered her hand to the other woman. “Hello, I’m Marti Segerson.”
The woman smiled warmly and took Marti’s hand. “Yes, I know. I’m Sarah Holman.”
Sarah . . . The name sounded familiar, but for a moment Marti couldn’t remember why. Then it came to her. Sarah Holman was the woman whose medication she’d changed to treat her severe depression. But this couldn’t be the same person.
“I wanted to introduce myself to you and let you see the real me,” Sarah said. “Because what you saw before you rescued me from the hell I was living in was someone else.” She let go of Marti’s hand and hugged her. “Thank you so much for giving me my life back.”
When Sarah released Marti, Trina said, “Hospital regs say you were supposed to sign her discharge papers, but you were kind of not available, so I authorized it myself, because she was so eager to leave. Hope you’re not upset.”
“Not at all. Sarah, I can’t tell you how pleased I am for you. You go out there and have a happy life.”
“I’m dying to talk to you about everything that’s happened,” Trina said. “But I need to deliver Sarah to her family who’s waiting in the lobby.”
“Of course, you go ahead.”
As Marti watched Sarah walking down the hall, totally transformed from what she’d been, Marti felt as though a space heater had come on inside her, suffusing her body with the most relaxing, wonderful heat she’d ever felt. And in that moment, she knew the solution to Harry’s new riddle.
She turned and let herself back into the ward, where Harry was sitting in front of the TV. She hurried over and sat beside him. “I know the answer,” she said.
“Okay, the most progress is made with the fewest steps when . . .”
“What you’re looking for is right in front of you.”
“Does that mean—”
“I’m staying.”
“Then I’m takin’ that job.”
“Blackmailer.”
“We loons do what we can.”
She nudged Harry gently with her elbow, then got up and headed for the exit.
Outside, Marti went up to the driver’s side of Clay’s truck and motioned for him to roll his window down. When he did, she said, “I hear the rental cottage at Blue Sky Farm needs a tenant. Do you think the landlord would rent it to me after the repairs are made?”
Clay’s stony expression melted. “If I put in a good word for you, I think that’s a distinct possibility.”
“And you know what?” Marti said, taking off her glasses. “I don’t really need these.”
(Please continue reading for more information)
Acknowledgements
I couldn’t have written this book without the generous help of Dr. Anice Modesto, who spent many hours with me discussing the operation of mental hospitals. Her constant good cheer and willingness to help whenever I had a question made me feel less like the pest I know I became at times. My understanding of the daily routines of a state mental hospital was also aided by discussions with Dr. Jim Mahan.
It seems that whenever I talk to Dr. Dianna Johnson about a book I’m working on, she tells me something useful for the story. This t
ime, she gave me the idea for Blue Sky Farm.
Unless you actually see it in operation, it’s difficult to get a full appreciation for the sights and sounds of functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI), so the several hours I spent with Dr. Robert Ogg and his imaging colleagues at St. Jude Hospital were a great help.
There wouldn’t have been a Clay Hulett in the story were it not for the demonstration of steer roping and discussion of the sport provided by Brown and York Gill. I’m grateful to Dr. Mark LeDoux for advice on neurological conditions that could lead to transient memory loss, and to Dr. Christie Brooks for insights into psychiatry residency training. Finally, thanks to Drs. Joseph Callaway and Randy Nelson for their perspectives on EEG recording and the theoretical considerations involved in making memory movies.
Author’s Note
Although there’s some truth in what I wrote about memory movies, we’re a long way from developing anything like that. On the other hand, brain fingerprinting is an actual technique that has already been ruled as admissible evidence in the courts of at least one state.
About Don Donaldson
Don holds a Ph.D. in human anatomy. In his professional career, he has taught microscopic anatomy to over 5,000 medical and dental students and published dozens of research papers on wound healing. He is also the author of seven published forensic mysteries and five medical thrillers. He lives in Memphis, Tennessee with his wife and two West Highland terriers.
The Memory Thief Page 26
