* * *
Bryan opened his eyes and a thousand thoughts flooded his head. Michael Backer had been his father’s best friend. Doc had even been in his wedding. Which meant …
Barbara. Holy Christ, Bryan had dated his mother—and dumped her. He felt ill.
He tried to sit up but his back protested. He had to quit passing out in his car. As he climbed into the driver’s seat, he looked back at Linz’s building and fought the urge to call her. He wanted to tell her everything, to have her remember it. For her not to possess these memories along with him felt close to physical pain.
With that thought a new fear engulfed him. What if she never remembers? No, he couldn’t think that way. The fact that her subconscious had reproduced a piece of Juliana’s life meant Diana must have taken Renovo too, and if she had, then it was possible she would remember more, like him.
Bryan was frustrated by his inability to recall Michael’s life in its entirety. And he was afraid that perhaps he never would. Only fragments were coming, and he knew he needed a tidal wave of memories to understand it all. Michael had only been forty in 1982. If these dreams were memories of a past life, then he had died young—along with Diana. What had happened to them? To their research? To Finn and Conrad?
The questions bombarded him. As he drove home, his mind sifted through what he had learned tonight, but he found no answers. He only knew Michael had remembered Origenes as well, and whatever drug Michael had taken had somehow formed a bridge between their lives.
Bryan glanced at the clock on the dash—two a.m., too late to go to his parents’ house. He would question his father about Michael tomorrow. The Internet would have to do for now.
When he arrived home, he fired up his laptop and made coffee, but instead of sitting at his computer, he found himself wandering over to his studio, drawn to a blank canvas. Without hesitation, he put fresh paint on his palette and picked up a brush, overcome by an urge to paint Diana.
He painted her on the beach at Nantucket, with the sun on the horizon. She and Michael had rented a little bungalow for the weekend, and Bryan captured her expression at the exact moment when Michael had asked her to marry him. She stood in the ocean, laughing, her arms opened wide as she embraced the wind.
Bryan stared at the canvas and whispered, “What happened to us?”
He was afraid to find out, but he had to. He put down the brush and abandoned the portrait. His computer was already on, and he knew the Internet was waiting with answers. He typed in the name Michael Backer and stared at the links as they started to pop up. He clicked on one: “First grant given by the National Institute of Aging for a study on memory enhancement.” An article appeared, along with a photo of Diana, Michael, Conrad, and Finn, looking fresh out of med school and ready to take on the world.
Bryan skimmed the article and clicked on another. His heart stopped when he read the headline. “NIA Neuroscientists Perish in Lab Explosion.”
He forced himself to read it. Michael and Diana had died in the lab. Bryan sat back, stunned. That was impossible. He continued reading. “Finn Rigby, the one survivor, was pulled from the flames by firefighters.”
The article was dated March 10, 1982. Bryan reread it again and again. Michael and Diana had died, and Finn survived. But where was Conrad in all of this?
He typed Conrad’s name and National Institute of Aging into the search engine and came up with twenty times more hits. He clicked on a link, scrolled down, and saw Conrad’s picture with the caption: “Conrad Jacobs leaves NIA to form Medicor Industries.”
Bryan clicked on the corporate Web site. It appeared to be a global company with operations around the world. Conrad had come a long way in thirty years. Bryan studied Medicor’s corporate logo for a moment. It was the symbol of a pyramid, with a DNA strand running up through its center and a phoenix resting on top.
He would need to track down Conrad and Finn at some point, but he couldn’t just show up at their doors—at least not until he had more answers. Right now, he needed to figure out how he was going to talk to his father about any of this.
TWELVE
Off the 128 Beltway, within a cluster of skyscrapers, one building stood apart from the rest like a towering pinnacle: Medicor Industries, one of the world’s largest pharmaceutical companies.
Mozart’s Haydn Quartet emanated from Linz’s car as she pulled up to the entrance of the parking lot. She flashed her badge and ignored the look on the security guard’s face when he saw her name. She was used to getting these reactions.
As she started to park, she glanced at her watch and swore. She was late. There wasn’t even time to stop by the lab. She tied her hair in a knot, and slipped on her lab coat as she entered the building. On her way to the top floor, she fished fake eyeglasses from her purse and put them on. When she stepped out, she looked more like the scientist she claimed to be.
She power walked through the hallway, smiling hello to assistants and secretaries as she whizzed by, all the while wondering how in the world she was going to sneak into the conference room unnoticed. Distracted, she collided with an intern carrying a tray of coffee. A caramel macchiato found a new home all over her lab coat.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” The poor intern looked ready to cry, as she grabbed a bunch of napkins and began blotting up the mess.
Linz stopped her from spreading sticky macchiato foam onto her clean shirt underneath. “It’s okay. I’ll live.”
She took off the jacket, and went back to just wearing a not-so-professional T-shirt. Something told her the cute little monster yelling “Hey! Spare Some DNA?” wasn’t going to fly.
The intern was too impressed with Linz’s tattoo to notice. “Cool. I love that. Is that a DNA strand?”
Linz nodded, about to go in. “Could I leave my coat with you?” She opened the doors. Everyone was about to meet the real her—monster, tattoo, and all.
The conference room was packed with board members and project directors. Everyone was sitting around an enormous glass table, listening to the new director of Medicor’s Genome Project, Dr. Parker, give a presentation. Linz still felt annoyed with herself even though she was only a few minutes late. It was the company’s quarterly meeting and the first she’d attended since she had arrived. Talk about a stellar first impression. She took a seat and ignored the inquisitive look from her father, who was seated at the far end of the table.
Dr. Parker was a frail, cerebral-looking man in his late sixties who spoke with an earnestness that made him seem more charismatic than he was. Linz pretended to listen while her thoughts drifted.
So much had happened since the art opening: She had met someone who shared her dream—literally—and she had discovered that she spoke Greek. In her heart, she also knew she had met someone who could change her life if she let him—and if he would stop running out on her. Two days had passed since their strange night together and she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind. She couldn’t focus on work; her concentration had splintered. He had taken up residence inside her brain, occupying her every thought. Had they really been Origenes and Juliana? What did that mean?
Life itself had suddenly become the puzzle. But at the end of the day, she was still a scientist who dealt with bodies of facts confirmed by evidence, observation, and experiments—and he was an artist who painted dreams. They lived at opposite ends of a spectrum. Two lives had never seemed so far apart.
Her father was speaking now. Linz forced her attention back to the room.
“I think you’ll all agree our Genome Project is on the fast track with Dr. Parker at the helm. I’d also like you all to welcome my daughter, Lindsey, to the Genetics Department. We were lucky to entice her away from Stanford. She and her team are making great strides with her plasticity study.”
With all eyes on her, Linz gave a warm smile even as she cringed inwardly. Did her dad really have to introduce her as Lindsey?
“I think her accomplishments speak for themselves. The results of h
er research can only be called revolutionary. She has won the National Academy of Sciences Troland Research Award and the Society for Neuroscience Young Investigator Award for discovering one of the first plasticity gene receptors in the brain. Lindsey, do you have anything to add?”
Why didn’t he go ahead and tell them her GPA while he was at it? Linz couldn’t help the scowl on her face, annoyed at her father’s blatant display of pride. Feeling like a kid on the first day of school, she stood up and launched into an overview of her study.
“To understand the brain’s mechanisms, we need to identify genes, their functions, and the proteins they encode. Our ultimate goal is to decode all three hundred sixty-two genes and their receptors, which control the brain’s ability to create and retain memories. Once we identify the function of each gene—its characteristics—then we can define it. For example, a candidate plasticity gene I’ve just targeted has been shown to slow a cell’s apoptosis. We need to figure out what triggers it, what causes it to construct and deconstruct, and how these events can be controlled. We’re also looking at synaptic structures and their dynamics using several methods.”
Linz knew she sounded like she was on automatic pilot, but she couldn’t summon the energy necessary to engage the room. She decided to wrap things up more quickly than she’d planned to spare everyone, including herself, the pain.
“Once we have that knowledge in hand, our ability to heal any brain disorder will be unlimited. We have a long road ahead of us, but I am confident we will achieve success. Thank you.”
She sat back down. Her father shot her a questioning look. She was rarely ever off her game.
* * *
The meeting adjourned and when the last suit had left, Linz stayed behind to face the music. Her father shook his head. “What happened? You made Dr. Parker seem downright entertaining. I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Sorry, I know I underwhelmed,” she admitted. “But don’t think I didn’t notice that you called me Lindsey. What happened to Dr.? Or even Linz? That introduction was beyond embarrassing. We talked about this. I don’t want anyone to think I’m program director because of you.”
“No one thinks that. Hell, they’ve all seen your résumé.”
She shot him a warning look.
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. From now on it’s Dr. Linz, no relation. I promise.”
Linz rolled her eyes at his attempt at a joke. He pressed a button and the conference room wall slid open to reveal his private office. It was the size of a large hotel suite. In the far corner, nine flat-screen TVs were mounted on the wall, each continuously broadcasting news from a different country. A sleek leather sofa sat just far enough away to allow perfect viewing, and behind that there was a bar fully stocked with every fine liquor imaginable to accommodate international visitors.
The most dramatic aspect of the room was a magnificent life-sized sculpture of Atlas holding up the world on the back of his shoulders. The sculptor had captured every strained muscle of Atlas struggling to lift a spiraling strand of DNA toward the heavens with his free hand. Linz remembered when her father had commissioned that sculpture. She was sixteen and it had been the inspiration behind her tattoo.
Her father headed to his desk, walking past a wall of windows that offered an all-encompassing view of Boston. Linz took a seat, admiring an unusual antique chair from sixteenth-century France for the umpteenth time. She was always struck by how palatial his office seemed. Her father definitely knew how to make an impression, and the same could be said of the way he presented himself. If anything, he had grown more handsome and commanding over time. Linz remembered seeing old photos of him that had been taken before she’d been born and giggling at the scruffy nerd who had been captured on film.
She watched him sift through the paperwork on his desk and asked him, “Did you have your checkup with Dr. Alban?”
He playfully tapped his chest. “Ticking just fine. The pacemaker got a new battery and an oil change.”
“Oh you’re funny.”
“I heard you turned your office into a rec room,” he said while signing several letters. “No doubt a maneuver to instill camaraderie among your troops.”
“We needed a lounge.”
“Give it time. This isn’t a university. You will get special treatment.”
“I know.” Linz rubbed her forehead. The past few nights of restless sleep were beginning to take their toll.
Her father looked up and put down his pen. “Okay out with it, Stormy Weather.”
She gave him a weak smile. Stormy Weather had been her nickname since childhood—it was what her father called her whenever she had something on her mind. She resisted the urge to share everything with him and asked, “Do you think two people can have the same dream?”
“The same dream?”
“I went to Penelope and Derek’s gallery and saw a painting identical to my dream.”
He looked speechless for a moment. “Of the woman and the priest?”
Linz saw his alarm and immediately regretted bringing it up. She loved her father, but he had a tendency to be overprotective. She tried to play it down. “He signed the painting with the priest’s name and it turns out the guy actually existed. It was just interesting, that’s all.”
“Really.” He took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “That is something.”
“I know. It was all kind of weird. But it’s not a big deal.” Hopefully he would let it drop and not get all worked up. What had she been thinking, telling him? Now he’d fixate on it.
“Well, I would put it out of your mind. Sometimes life throws strange coincidences at us. You stopped having that dream a long time ago.”
“I know. It’s nothing.” She could feel the worry emanating from him, and she pretended to check her watch. “Sorry, I have a meeting. I’m fine, really. Let’s just forget it.”
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and escaped the office, unable to stop the sinking feeling that she shouldn’t have said anything.
THIRTEEN
Bryan pulled into his parents’ driveway, relieved to see his mother’s car was missing.
Not bothering to try the front door, he went around back where he could hear his father talking to the plants. He smiled. Doc had gardened for as long as he could remember and over time he had transformed the backyard into a miniature organic farm. Everything he grew ended up at the restaurant.
“Am I interrupting a private conversation?”
Doc’s face lit up when he saw him. “Just coaxing my brussels sprouts along. They need extra love. Want to get your hands dirty?” He held out a bucket. “Pull up my Purple Majesties over there?”
Bryan took the bucket and went over to the plot. His father had once taught him that all potatoes were originally from South America and that there were over three thousand varieties. Doc was both a scientist and an artist when it came to food. He knew where everything came from and how to make it delicious. He possessed a true gift and Bryan had always admired him for it—especially since he only knew how to microwave frozen dinners.
They worked for a long time in comfortable silence, as they had a tendency to do. Bryan had always felt connected to his father. It made him wonder if people chose the lives they were born into. The relationships in his life seemed far from random.
Doc studied him. “You look different.”
“Not hungover today.”
Doc grimaced. “I am still recovering from that vodka you forced down my throat.”
“Hey, I paid for your cab.”
“Danke. How’s the painting going?”
Bryan thought of Diana’s portrait drying in his studio and wondered what his father would think if he could see it. “It’s going,” he said cryptically.
Doc held up an enormous string of sprouts. “Oh, these are beauties.” He placed them in his basket. “Did you sell all your paintings?”
Bryan shook his head. “No clue.” Der
ek and Penelope communicated with him by e-mail, and he hadn’t checked his in ages.
“Well, I know you sold at least one.”
Bryan stopped digging. “Dad, I told you guys not to buy anything. You’re welcome to it for free.”
“Your mother wanted to. She fell in love with that Versailles painting.”
Now that was interesting. But of course she would. The Versailles painting had been done after he remembered Louis Le Vau’s life, the first architect to Louis XIV, King of France. A brilliant innovator, Le Vau’s expertise in visual grandeur had left an everlasting mark on the country. During Louis XIV’s long and prosperous reign, Le Vau envisioned the Vaux-le-Vicomte château and La Salpêtrière hospital, rebuilt the Louvre, designed the Collège des Quatre Nations, and transformed Versailles into the magnificent palace it is today.
Bryan had dreamed Le Vau’s life when he was seventeen—the year before he had left home. The next morning he had come downstairs for breakfast and hadn’t said a word, trying to assimilate the memories. His mother had taken offense at his silence, which had resulted in their worst fight ever. In his anger, Bryan had struggled to speak in English. He could still remember the moment when he glared at her and recognized the spirit of Françoise d’Aubigné, Marquise de Maintenon, Louis XIV’s second wife. The most educated woman in court and the widow of a renowned poet, she had caught King Louis’s eye and replaced his then-mistress. When the queen died, Louis married her in secret and she wielded great influence over her husband. Although she was never officially titled, she liked to have a hand in all things pertaining to the crown, and Le Vau resented her involvement in his work. Bryan had thought then how fitting that his mother had once been a virtual queen, and he was not surprised to hear that she had a connection to the Versailles painting now.
Doc gave a rueful smile. “She said she wants to redecorate the living room so she can hang it there. Thanks a lot.”
“Anytime.” Bryan dug up more potatoes. The bucket was almost full. He decided to take the plunge. “I just got asked to be best man in a friend’s wedding.”
The Memory Painter: A Novel Page 7
