by Andrew Kane
“How do you know?”
“No creases on the spines. Brand-new. They make no sense. Aren’t read.”
Reddy considered what he was hearing and was concerned that Martin’s agitation might compromise the trance.
“Not real,” Martin said.
“What’s not real?”
Martin hesitated, then said, “Nothing.” His lips quivered as the word came out.
“Was there anything else, Marty?”
“No.” His voice returned to normal.
“What about in the bedroom?”
“Bedroom. Dream.”
“Do you remember the dream?”
“Cheryl.”
“Cheryl’s in the dream?”
“Shopping cart.”
“What else?”
“Cheryl. Shopping cart. Bookstore.”
“What is Cheryl doing with the shopping cart in the book store?”
“Throwing books in it?”
“Any type of books?”
“All types. No sense.”
“Was there more in the dream?”
“Katherine.”
“Katherine?”
“Katherine is in… bookstore with shopping cart.”
“Katherine is in the bookstore with a shopping cart?”
“Katherine,” Martin answered, his voice agitated again.
“Is it Katherine or Cheryl?”
“Cheryl. Katherine.”
“Katherine and Cheryl?”
“Cheryl. Katherine.” Martin’s body was starting to shake. “Cheryl. Katherine. Cheryl. Katherine…”
Reddy sensed that they had taken this as far as they could. “Okay, Marty.” He placed his hand on Martin’s. “It’s okay. Just relax. I want you to relax.”
Instantly, Martin obeyed.
“Now, Marty, in a moment I am going to count you out of your trance. First, you will remember everything we said here. Second, you will feel like your normal self. Together, we will be able to discuss this all objectively and find out what it means. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“And one more thing. Your right hand will return to its normal sensation. It will no longer feel anesthetized. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good, I am going to count forward now, slowly from one to ten. With each number, as I approach ten, I want you to gradually return yourself to a normal state of consciousness. Keep your eyes closed until I reach ten, and slowly bring yourself back to my office, back to where we started our journey…”
Martin opened his eyes to a look of concern on Reddy’s face.
“How was it for you?” Reddy asked.
Martin shook his head, still trying to awaken himself. “Weird,” he answered.
“Do you remember all of it?”
“I think so?”
“Good then, let’s talk about the dream. I think that is the key.”
“So do I,” Martin said, contemplating. “What do you make of it?”
“You became quite upset when you described it, also when describing the bookcase.”
“They’re obviously related.” Martin thought for a moment. “What bothered me about the books – in fact, what bothered me about the entire apartment – was that things didn’t seem… authentic.”
Reddy nodded in agreement.
“It all had a feeling as if it were, somehow, makeshift.”
“Put together for your benefit?” Reddy asked.
Martin threw up his hands, reflecting his own awareness that he sounded crazy. “I don’t know. It was just a feeling I had. The style of the place. The things. Everything felt contrived.”
“And the books?”
“They clinched it, I suppose. A bookcase full of brand-new, untouched paperbacks. Not a single crease on any of the spines. And what a hodgepodge, no two books reflecting a similar interest.”
“As if they were all just haphazardly thrown into a shopping cart in a…”
“Bookstore,” Martin interjected.
The two men looked at each other.
“It does sound curious.” Reddy considered his next question very carefully. “What about Katherine?” he asked.
Martin stared off into space.
“What does Katherine bring to mind?” Reddy reiterated.
“Someone who loved me.”
“Someone you could trust?”
“Of course.”
“Yet, Cheryl seems to be someone you can’t trust.”
“But she’s trying to come off as someone I can…”
“Trust,” Reddy said. “In your dream, Cheryl and Katherine are one and the same. You put them together and take them apart because you are not sure if Cheryl is fit to replace Katherine in your life. And the reason for this is because you don’t trust her. The books suggest deceit to you.”
“Precisely,” Martin said. “In real life, she is trying to take Katherine’s place, or at least I’ve been thinking about letting her do that. Did I tell you that she asked to meet Elizabeth?”
“Why would she do that if she was out to hurt you?”
Martin pondered the question. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe she isn’t?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that maybe this is still all in your head.”
“Then what do you make of the books?”
“There could be a lot of explanations. Who knows, maybe she just got them for decoration?”
“Paperbacks?”
“So she isn’t the best decorator. That is not exactly what I would call a smoking gun.”
Martin thought for a moment. “It wasn’t only the books, it was the whole apartment. It all seemed…”
“The word you used before was contrived.”
“Exactly.”
“So, because of this, you suspect her of some involvement with this patient of yours.”
“There’s more to it.”
Reddy appeared curious, waiting for the rest.
“I still can’t give you the details,” Martin said.
Reddy threw up his hands. “Then I cannot help.”
Martin weighed carefully what he was about to say. “I can tell you this: last night, Cheryl so much as confessed to me that she wasn’t who I thought she was.”
“People say things like that all the time.”
“Not like this. She became hysterical about it, wouldn’t explain herself, and left in tears.”
Reddy appeared unconvinced.
“This morning, slipped under my door, was a manila envelope containing documents about my patient.”
“Documents?”
“As in evidence about things he did.”
“And you believe Cheryl had something to do with that?”
“As I said, there are just too many coincidences.”
“But they may be just that, coincidences. I do not know what to make of any of this, Marty. It seems so… fantastic.”
“It is! But I know my instincts are right, and I’m going to find out what the connection is.”
“And then?”
“That’s a good question.”
“You mean you aren’t going to tell me what you are going to do about your patient.”
Martin looked at his friend. “Ashok, I want you to promise me something.”
Reddy nodded.
“Whatever happens, whatever you piece together on your own from things you may hear or learn, we are never going to speak about this again.”
Reddy caught Martin’s determination. “Okay,” he said with hesitation in his voice. “But whatever does happen, whether you are right or wrong about Cheryl, there is one thing I am certain of…”
Martin raised his eyebrows.
&n
bsp; “She cares very deeply for you.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Let’s just say that you aren’t the only one here who has good instincts.”
chapter 47
Galit Stein knew it was Martin Rosen the moment she heard the buzzer. She toyed with pretending she wasn’t home, but dismissed the idea as quickly as it came. She pressed the intercom button, told the doorman to let the gentleman come up, opened the apartment door and waited.
Martin walked off the elevator, turned, and saw her standing in the doorway. He approached her, a blank look on his face, carrying the manila envelope. Without saying a word, he dropped the envelope in her hands and marched past her into the living room. He stood before the bookcase, giving it one more examination, then turned around.
She fidgeted with the envelope. “How did you know?” she asked, her accent suddenly no longer British, though he couldn’t quite place it.
With that, any hope he had of being wrong vanished. He looked at her, almost impassively, and responded, “It wasn’t hard once I saw all the pieces. You have lots of books, all unread. And this place, these furnishings, just don’t seem to fit your persona, at least not the persona I thought you had.”
“That’s what bothered you that first night you stayed with me?”
“It might appear trivial to someone else, but not to me, not now. I admit I had dismissed it until last night.” He pointed to the envelope. “Until that.”
“And now that you know?”
His expression took on a blend of anger and incredulity. “Who are you?”
“Who do you think I am?” She asked, her tone defensive.
“I believe it’s time for you to offer answers rather than questions.”
“You’re right,” she conceded, lowering her gaze.
His eyes focused on the envelope still in her hand. “You left that for me.”
“Yes,” she said, “I did.”
“What’s this all about? What’s your role in it?”
She gestured toward the couch, her hand shaking slightly. “Please sit.”
“I don’t feel like sitting.”
She looked at him, searching for some sign of forgiveness, but found none. “My name is Galit Stein.”
He digested the information, appearing stoic. “Galit, that’s a Hebrew name.”
She nodded.
“You’re Israeli?”
Another nod.
He turned away as if he couldn’t look at her. Feeling that he needed more support than his legs presently offered, he walked around the couch and sat himself down. Staring into space, he found himself wordless.
“I didn’t intend for it to turn out this way,” she said.
He lifted his eyes to hers. “And exactly what did you think was going to happen?”
“I didn’t plan for it to go this far between us.”
“Oh,” he said, an uncharacteristic bite in his tone. “And how far is that?”
“I didn’t think…”
“What? What didn’t you think would happen?”
“I didn’t think… I would fall in love with you.”
He struggled to ignore the tears forming in her eyes, convincing himself that she wasn’t to be trusted. “And what is it that you were hoping to get from me?”
“Something on Benoît.”
“You mean you actually thought I would throw my professional life out the window, betray all my ethics, everything I believe in, for your cause.”
“There are more important things involved here than what you believe.”
“What do you know of my beliefs?”
She was silent.
“Oh yes,” he continued, “you probably know all about me. No doubt you studied my past and targeted me as just the sort to help you. Must be humbling to learn that your profile was bullshit.”
“My parents also survived the Holocaust. I would never exploit that. You were his choice, not ours. We simply followed where the trail led.”
“But you did intend to get close to me.”
“Yes, I did,” she admitted. “But not as close as I got. You have to believe me!”
“Why should I believe anything you say?”
She considered the question. “I suppose you shouldn’t.”
He stared at her. “How could you possibly think I would help you? Even if I had something to tell you, you could never use it.”
“Not directly. We were hoping you might give us something, anything that might lead us to something else that we could use.”
“And what made you think I would?”
“Nothing. It was a shot in the dark.”
Silence.
She hesitated. “What happens now?”
His expression turned blank.
She sat down and fixed her eyes on the envelope. “It’s all true, you know. Every detail.”
Martin didn’t respond.
“What do you plan to do about it?” she asked.
“That’s all you care about, isn’t it? It’s not about us, it’s about what I’ll do for you.”
“It’s about many things, and as for what you’ll do, I only want you to do what is in your heart. You may not trust me anymore, but I still trust you. I know that whatever you choose, it will be the right thing.”
“And, of course, you already know what the right thing is,” he said with sarcasm.
“I know what the right thing for me is, and I thought I knew what it was for you.” She hesitated. “But I am not so sure anymore.”
Her admission surprised him, but mostly it left him wondering if this was yet another manipulation. He wanted desperately to believe it was genuine, but his defenses were fortified. He was reverting to the person he had been before she’d entered his life.
“What do you hope to accomplish here?” he asked.
“To bring Benoît to justice, and to remind the world once again of the atrocities against our people.”
“Benoît is old, and in the eyes of most people, so is this whole issue. The last time you folks tried to reawaken things, it sort of backfired. What did that teach the world?”
“If you’re referring to Demjanjuk, that is precisely the reason we need Benoît!”
“So, it’s about undoing your own mistakes.”
“It is about keeping things clear. Demjanjuk complicated matters, Benoît will clarify them once again – evil is evil and shall be punished!”
“Just like in the Bible.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “If that’s how you must have it: Just like in the Bible.”
He thought for a moment. “You know, this whole Benoît thing could work against you. He is a popular fellow, quite renowned for his philanthropy, and also employs tens of thousands of people, not to mention the stockholders who depend on the viability of his companies. Now you come along and spoil all that over something that happened more than fifty years ago. Even if he is your man, the world is a funny place these days and there may not be an abundance of support out there. The public may start criticizing you for not forgiving and forgetting, and – poof! – you wind up with just the opposite of what you’re looking for.”
“Is that how you feel?”
“How I feel isn’t important. I’m just considering the possibilities.”
“Considering the possibilities, or giving yourself an excuse to ease your conscience for letting him go free?”
“He’s not mine to free.”
She stopped to ponder his point. “Why did you come here tonight?” she asked.
“To see if I was right about you.”
“Well, you have your answer.”
“I also came to tell you that I can’t help you.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
“It all comes down to t
he same thing, doesn’t it?”
“As far as the outcome, yes. But in terms of what your convictions are, there is a difference.”
“I don’t have to justify myself to you!”
“That’s correct. Tell me though, to whom or to what do you have to justify yourself?”
He took a deep breath and looked away from her again. “I think we’re done here.”
She stared at him.
He lifted himself off the couch and began making his exit, acutely feeling the weight of his body with each step.
She sat, her eyes watery, still watching him.
His mind retreated inward, rendering him oblivious to everything. He had a faint sense of a voice and the closing of a door behind him, a sense of himself moving from a hallway onto an elevator. But until he stepped out into the crisp air of the night, he hadn’t fully realized what had transpired in those final seconds: She had said, “I’m sorry.” And he, offering nothing more, had walked out.
chapter 48
Martin Rosen’s eyes were fixated on the ceiling until he heard the noise. He was startled, like an animal sensing danger. Doused in perspiration, he lifted his head from the pillow, honing his senses for signs of movement from the hallway outside his bedroom.
A figure appeared in the doorway, seeming like a shadow from the way the faint lighting of the hallway hit it from behind. Suddenly, a sense of relief, a slowing of his heart, as Martin recognized his daughter. “Elizabeth?” he called out.
“Daddy,” she said, her voice trembling, “I’m scared.”
She ran to his side. He scooped her up and wrapped his arms around her. “What’s the matter?” he asked as calmly as he could, wondering if the same demons that had kept him awake had invaded her sleep as well.
“I had a bad dream.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“A bad dream?” He hugged her tighter. “Tell me what it was about.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Then how do you know it was bad?”
“Because I woke up scared.”
Martin was no expert in child psychology, but he knew that children frequently had difficulty articulating the things that scared them. And he was only too familiar with the fact that these things often came in the middle of the night. Two years earlier, immediately after Katherine and Ethan were killed, Elizabeth spent many nights running into his bedroom looking for her Mommy. It lasted for almost two months before subsiding, though it had never completely disappeared. Before he had left for Chicago, his first overnight trip away from her, he had been concerned that his absence might cause an exacerbation. Strangely enough, the result was actually the opposite. Since his return, the nights had been uneventful. He had attributed the change to a simple, sudden break in habit. But in truth, he knew that it was really one of those paradoxes of human behavior that defied understanding. And, whatever the reason, her problem had now resurfaced, causing him to wonder if her sense of his own terrors had somehow brought this about.
