If he was shocked to hear this, his face didn’t show it. “I see,” was all he said. “That must be very disconcerting for you.”
“I can think of stronger words,” I said, and he smiled. “Was I here?”
He nodded. “Yes, you were. Three times. For one hour each time.”
He said it with no particular affect, yet it felt like I was punched in the face. “Three times,” I repeated, because at the moment I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Why don’t you sit down?” He pointed to a chair I had probably been in three times before; it was probably my favorite chair, and I sat in it.
I was a little nervous about what I was going to hear, so I opted for a pathetic attempt at small talk. There was a picture on Garber’s desk of him in the cockpit of a small plane, waving to the camera, so I said, “You fly?”
He smiled. “It’s a passion of mine which I indulge far too often. But let’s focus on you. Please start at the beginning.” He then opened a notepad and held a pen at the ready, and took a few notes during our talk.
“This is the beginning for me. So if you don’t mind, please tell me what we talked about when we met. Was I here as a patient?”
“You were, and we talked about some things you were feeling.”
I felt a quick flash of anger; my life was down the tubes and he was using bland shrink-talk on me. “Any chance you could be more specific? Did I talk about a woman named Jen?”
“Yes. And I should tell you that I read your article in the magazine. I considered contacting you, but decided that if you wanted to talk, you would reach out.”
“What did I say about her when I was here?”
Garber paused for a few moments, as if measuring what he should say. It made me realize that as unique as this experience was for me, it was not an everyday occurrence for him either. “You were having fantasies about her, and it was frightening you.”
“What kind of fantasies?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“You were having moments, extended moments, when you believed that she was real.”
“Was she real?”
He shook his head sadly, as if in sympathy. “No, Richard, she was not real, or at least I saw no evidence that she was. You knew that then, and that’s what you told me. You were frightened by your fantasies about her.”
His words were devastating to me, and I’m sure he could see it. “Why don’t you tell me everything?” he said. “Perhaps I can help you.”
I wasn’t looking for help; it was too late for that. I was looking for truth. “I’m insane; is that what you’re saying?”
He shook his head. “You’re not insane, Richard. You’re troubled, and you’re in pain, but there’s a way back from this. So let’s get started, shall we? How did you come to call me, if you have no recollection of having met me?”
I told him about the cell phone bill, and then I told him all about Jennifer, starting at the beginning. I was able to give him an abbreviated version, since he had read the magazine piece, but I went on to talk at length about Allie and her missing sister. He listened without saying a word.
When I finished, he asked me a few questions, mostly about how I was dealing with all this.
“Look,” I said, “I’m sure this is standard procedure. The patient talks, and you listen, and you make observations. I’m sure that’s how it went in the three sessions that I don’t remember. But that’s not why I’m here, not today. I’m here for information.”
He nodded. “If I have it, it’s yours.”
“Did I talk to you about a story I was working on?”
He thought for a while, trying to remember, then started skimming through his notepad. “Yes, though not in much detail. It was in the context of your saying that these fantasies were getting in the way of a story you were pursuing, affecting your concentration.”
“Did I say what the story was?”
He was reading from the pad now; none of this was from memory. “You mentioned a man named Lassiter. At least I had the sense it was a man; I’m not sure if you actually said that. You made a comment about returning to your journalistic roots, but you didn’t explain what you meant.”
I knew exactly what I would have meant by that. Sean Lassiter was the indirect subject of the first major story I ever worked on, though it was left to other writers to really bring it to fruition. My piece was an intimate study of a young woman who had taken a prescription medication for a kidney infection.
Within three weeks she was paralyzed, and she and her family were positive that the drug was at fault, though they did not have the resources to fully explore their legal options. We had a friend in common, so when I heard about her I wrote about her plight, and I thought that would be that.
That wasn’t that. It created a mini-stir, and set other, more experienced reporters on to the story. A scandal was uncovered, and bribery was alleged between the small, very successful biochemical company that developed the drug, and the FDA. Nothing was ever proven, but high-level people at the FDA resigned from their jobs, and the biochemical company shut down.
The head of that company was Sean Lassiter, and he came after me, both in the press and through intermediaries. I was actually told that Lassiter was going to “get” me; it wasn’t a physical threat so much as an inference that he would use his substantial resources to destroy my career.
That revenge never happened, and by all indications, Lassiter had landed comfortably on his feet. He managed to stay out of jail, and apparently to put away enough money to live very comfortably for a very long time.
I couldn’t imagine why I would be chasing another story about Sean Lassiter, and Garber could not provide any further help.
“Why did I come here?” I asked. “I mean, why you? How did I come to you?”
“You said it was by reputation. And a motivating factor was the work I have done in the field of memory. Apparently you had researched it and read some of my papers in the field.”
“I was worried about my memory?” I asked.
“You were floundering, Richard. You were forgetting things that had just happened, and remembering things that hadn’t. You were having increasing difficulty distinguishing between what was real and what was fantasy. It scared you, and you were looking for help. That was understandable and nothing to be ashamed of. It was actually a healthy reaction.”
“So it’s possible that eventually the fantasy took over, and the reality was wiped from my mind?”
He nodded. “If your mind needed to do that to protect itself, then it might certainly do exactly that.”
“Protect itself from what?” I asked.
“That is what we would work to find out.”
That was an invitation to become his patient on a regular basis, so we could explore the depths of my feelings … blah, blah, blah. I wasn’t having any of it. “Jen was … is … real.”
“The mind creates its own reality.”
I shook my head. “No, I mean actually real. Flesh-and-blood real.”
“I think on some level you know better than that,” he said. “Just the fact that no one else in your life has any recollection of her proves that to you on a conscious level. Unfortunately, the conscious level is not enough.”
“What about Allie and her sister?”
“Richard, I’m going to say something to you, to ask you a question, that you will not like hearing.”
“I have quite a bit of experience with that lately,” I said. “Pile it on.”
He nodded. “Have you considered the possibility that Allie is a creation of your mind as well?”
I didn’t want to tell Allie what Garber said. I’m not sure why, but it was probably because if Garber was right it tended to prove that Jen was not real, and that therefore she was not Julie. According to Garber, there had once been a time that I knew Jen was a fantasy, and I had been trying to claw my way back to the reality-based world.
Allie would be crushed by this news, and I d
idn’t want to be the one to do the crushing. There was also a chance that she would go to Garber’s office and punch his lights out; she was not exactly the shy, retiring type. But either way she deserved to be told, and I did so when we went out to dinner that night.
She wound up dismissing it out of hand. “I’m sorry, Richard, I’m not buying it.”
“You think Garber is lying?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean he’s right. Look, none of this has made sense from day one, and if I was only thinking logically, I’d be back home, curled up in the fetal position, whimpering. But that doesn’t get me anywhere; it doesn’t get us anywhere. So I’m going on instinct, and I’m going to continue doing so until I can’t anymore. You can join me or not.”
“He also questioned whether you are real.”
Hearing that actually reduced the tension, and she smiled at the ridiculousness of it. “Just what we need: psychobabble bullshit. Now let’s get serious, okay?”
I could have argued, but I didn’t. She was willing her energy level to be so high, and her focus to be so complete, that I was fine being dragged along by it. I felt a kind of relief that I didn’t have to be the driving force, that I was no longer alone in my search. “Good. What’s our next step?”
“I’m going to see Susan Donovan; I found out where she lives.”
“Where?”
“Up near Monticello, in the Catskills.”
“It’s not very far from Ardmore.”
She smiled. “Exactly. But I don’t want to call her again; I want to surprise her by showing up. I’ll get a better sense of how she reacts that way.”
“I’ll go with you.”
She shook her head. “No, if she sees you, she might panic.”
“You realize she could easily have nothing to do with this.”
“She was scared on the phone,” she said.
“Maybe she thought you were a bill collector.”
“Richard, let’s be a little more positive, shall we?”
I smiled. “Sorry; I’ll try.”
We ordered dinner, and tried to talk about something else. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, passing near the front of the restaurant on the way. It was then that I noticed the car across the street, with the device sitting on the window.
I went back to the table and sat down. “There’s a car across the street, with a man sitting in it, and something on the window.”
“So?”
“So I think the same car was across from the Carnegie Deli when we were having breakfast yesterday.”
“How can you tell?”
“The thing on the window; when I saw it the first time I thought it might be a siren, and that it might be a police car. It caught my eye, that’s all.”
“Did you see the driver?”
I nodded. “Yes, and it looks like the same guy, although I can’t be sure. He’s staring at the restaurant, just like he was doing last time.”
“Do you think he might have anything to do with you?”
I shook my head. “I can’t imagine what. It just struck me as an odd coincidence.”
“Are you sure about this?” she asked.
“I’m a reporter, Allie. I notice things.”
“So let’s find out what he’s up to,” she said.
“How?”
“Confront him; see how he reacts.”
Once again Allie was advocating the direct approach, but I thought I had a better idea.
“When we’re done eating, if he’s still there, I’ll leave alone. You stay behind and see if he follows me. Go to your hotel, and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“Perfect,” she said.
We didn’t focus too much on the man outside, and managed to have a pleasant dinner. But when we finished, he was still there, so I left alone. I grabbed a cab and went to the hotel.
About fifteen minutes after I arrived, Allie showed up. The excitement on her face was evident. “He followed you. As soon as your cab left, he pulled the device back inside the car, and then pulled out after you.”
“Is he outside now?”
“I didn’t see him, but he certainly could be. Either way, he left because you did. It was obvious.”
“Who the hell could that be, and why would he be following me?”
She smiled. “We’re getting somewhere, Richard. I can feel it.”
I let that be the final word, because I wanted to believe it. When I left, I walked twice around the block, looking for the man in the car and trying to figure out if anyone was following me.
I didn’t see him or anyone suspicious, though picking out suspicious people was never really a talent I cultivated. I finally hailed a cab and went home.
When I got into my apartment, the one that did not feel like Jen was ever there, I tried to focus on Allie’s proclamation that we were getting somewhere.
Damned if I could see it.
“They are aware that you are following them,” the Stone said.
Juice was no amateur; there was no way they could have made him. “That’s not possible.”
“This is not conjecture. I’ve just finished listening to their conversation at the restaurant last night.” He proceeded to recount it in some detail, ending with the fact that Kilmer left first to determine if he was being followed.
Juice was annoyed with himself and embarrassed. He had underestimated Kilmer and gotten burned. That would be the last time it would happen.
“He won’t see me again.”
“You are losing control of the situation,” the Stone said.
“No, I’m not. What else was on the tape?”
“Tape?” the Stone asked, making no effort to conceal his amusement. “Welcome to the digital age.”
“You know what I mean,” he said. The Stone had not been making a joke or poking fun. That wasn’t his style; Juice had come to realize the Stone made Osama bin Laden look like Don Rickles. Instead he was subtly asserting his superiority, and Juice knew it. “What else do I need to know about their conversation?”
“A transcript is being sent to you electronically, as always. You’re going to be a busy man.”
“What does that mean? I’m already a busy man.”
“Read the transcript and you’ll understand. I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, but this is a tightly controlled experiment. Its value is entirely dependent on that.”
“When are you going to make your deal?” Juice asked.
“That doesn’t concern you. But let me put it this way: My end is going considerably better than yours.”
An hour later Juice had read the transcripts of Kilmer’s conversation in the restaurant. He was angry, not at Kilmer, but at himself. To have been detected by an amateur like Kilmer was inexcusable. The Stone was right about that.
The Stone was right about one other thing as well. Juice was going to be a busy man.
Monticello, New York, is what passes in the Catskill Mountains as the big city. That hasn’t changed over the years, even though everything else about the Catskills has.
The Catskills, back in the fifties and sixties, was where it was happening, at least if you lived in the New York metropolitan area. And if you were Jewish. And if you liked to eat a lot.
It was home to literally hundreds of hotels, the most prominent being the Concord, Kutsher’s, and Grossinger’s, and far more bungalow colonies. Big-name entertainment—Alan King, Zero Mostel, Milton Berle, Buddy Hackett, Red Buttons—headlined in the showrooms. The facilities were remarkable: hotels featured indoor and outdoor pools, bowling alleys, ice-skating rinks, pro-style golf courses, and even skiing. The restaurants served thousands, and part of the lure was that one could order as many appetizers, entrées, and desserts as he or she wanted, for no extra charge.
Since the clientele tended to be old, the food didn’t contain that much seasoning, and walkers were sometimes lined up outside the showroom.
But it’s almost all gone by now. As the years go by, old people have a
tendency to die, and in this case there weren’t young people to take their place. Part of this was because of the advancements in travel; it became almost as easy to take a flight to Vegas or Miami as it was to drive up to the Catskills. And Florida and then Arizona became the retirement destinations of choice.
Part of the decline came from a decades-long failure to bring in casino gambling. Local businesspeople saw it as the panacea, the miracle cure to save their way of life. Atlantic City residents might not agree at this point with that theory, but it never got tested in the Catskills. They’re still trying.
But Monticello was and is the hub. That is probably because of the presence of Monticello Raceway, which is still hanging on despite the economic tidal wave. Ironically, the racing is buttressed by slot machines and video poker, leaving table games as the last vestige of banned immorality in New York.
Of course, “hub” and “big city” are words that should be taken in context, since Monticello has barely six thousand residents. Two of those residents were Frank and Susan Donovan. Frank did well as a plumber, and in fact had two offices, in Monticello and Ellenville, and two other plumbers working for him. They worked mostly for companies, with some residential jobs to fill in when times were slow.
Frank was in his mid-fifties, and Susan was just three years younger. He talked about retiring; thirty-five years of twelve-hour days had been getting to him for a while. They considered moving to Florida or Arizona, though the irony that people moving to those places had killed the Catskills was not lost on them.
Juice arrived at their house just outside of town at a little before ten P.M. The back door was unlocked, so he easily slipped in unnoticed. Frank and Susan were upstairs, asleep in bed, so that’s where he headed. He entered their room, flicked on the light, and shot Frank through the head before he had time to lift it off the pillow.
Then came the part that Juice dreaded. He took Susan down to the living room and raped her, not because he had any desire to, but because he wanted it to look like a home-invasion robbery. Then he shot her as well, and proceeded to ransack the house. He took some cash and jewelry, not even enough to justify the drive up there, but again simply for appearance’s sake.
On Borrowed Time Page 7
