by Brad Meltzer
“To protect myself,” Hazel said. “Or at least to protect my family.”
“You really think I knew he was a criminal? You think I’d knowingly let someone dangerous near Dad?”
Hazel didn’t answer. She looked over at the young boy and the young girl, who were halfway across the park now. “Skip, I need a few hours. Can you give me that? Can you stall Agent Rabkin if he contacts you?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I talked to Rabkin. He’s called me five times in the last twenty-four hours.”
Hazel didn’t know her brother, but she knew that tone. “About what?”
“They found another body. This one in Dubai. The victim was wearing another Revolutionary War jacket…”
“…and had some sort of miniature bible hidden in his chest,” Hazel said.
“How’d you know that?”
“I was just—” She stopped herself. “It wasn’t a hard guess.”
Skip went quiet.
“So what do we do now?” he finally asked.
“I have something to do here first, but then I’m thinking of going to Spokane, where this guy Nixon lived. I’d like to see what he knew, talk to some neighbors,” Hazel explained, still hearing Rabkin’s warning to stay out of the way.
“You shouldn’t go to Spokane.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Want me to come with you?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“That wasn’t the question,” Skip said.
“Maybe you should talk to Rabkin. See what else you can find out about the new body. The one in Dubai.”
“Or maybe while you’re in Spokane, I can go to Dubai,” Skip said. “Maybe bring some cameras with me.”
“And that helps us how?”
“You really never went with Dad when he was filming, did you? Whenever he showed up with those cameras, people would come running, especially to me. Lovable Scrappy-Doo, remember? When I arrive, people take pictures, it gets folks talking. If someone saw something, or knows something, they’ll tell me. Isn’t that what we want?”
Hazel shifted her weight on the bench, noticed a few more kids running by. Of all the questions Skip asked, this was the hardest. When it came to her brother, she didn’t know what she wanted. Keeping Skip close meant he’d be underfoot. Plus, considering how often he got recognized, they’d lose all element of surprise. At least in Dubai, especially with cameras, they might get some answers. And even if they didn’t, he’d be far and safe. Probably.
“You really think going to Dubai is a good idea?” Hazel asked.
“You think it’s any worse than going to Spokane?”
“I don’t know. I’m upside down, Skip. What if I get up to Spokane and find evidence of myself—that I was there—what happens then?”
“You won’t.”
Hazel wasn’t so sure. She needed to talk to someone who might be.
“You realize,” Skip said, and Hazel thought she heard something in his voice that was actually close to glee, even in this situation, “that you believe we’re part of a giant, multilevel conspiracy, right?”
“It occurred to me, yes,” Hazel said.
“Welcome to the family business, Haze.”
25
Hazel found an open booth in the back of Jim’s Restaurant, a diner that had been in the Mission forever and looked like it, its wood-paneled walls covered with old black-and-white photos of the city, along with strange inspirational art. Hazel thought the one that read Life Is A Mystery To Be Lived, Not A Problem To Be Solved was an outright lie.
“I’ll have the chicken-fried steak and eggs,” Hazel said. She then tacked on the biscuits and gravy for another five bucks, figured what the hell.
Her waitress, a woman in her forties wearing jeans and a green apron smeared with splotches of what looked like Thousand Island dressing looked at her quizzically. “You don’t want your usual?”
“What’s that?”
“The Hangtown Fry.”
Hazel looked at the menu. The Hangtown Fry was an oyster, bacon, and mushroom omelet. The idea of oysters, bacon, and eggs together roiled her stomach, even if she still couldn’t taste much of anything. “No.”
“We’re real busy is the thing,” the waitress said. “So if you don’t like it, it’s a pain in the ass to make you something new. Manager doesn’t want a problem again.”
Again.
“I’m good,” Hazel said, but then she had a thought. “Maybe a plate of peppers. Jalapeños? You have those?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah,” Hazel said. “And some Sriracha. Just bring the bottle, and I’ll be great.”
Her server shrugged and muttered, “You say that now,” then walked away.
Hazel took out her new phone and made the one other call she was waiting to make. UCLA Medical Center. “I’m looking for Dr. Morrison, please.”
“I’m sorry, he’s unavailable right now.”
“It’s Hazel Nash.”
There was a pause. “Hold one moment for me.”
Hazel was transferred five times, each time thinking she was picking up another bug along the way, figuring she’d have Agent Rabkin, half of Quantico, and probably the Super Friends listening in too. Superman, Wonder Woman, and the Wonder Twins would all be getting ready to mobilize by the time she was finally patched through to the doctor’s cell phone.
“Hazel,” Dr. Morrison said, “I’ve been worried about you.”
“Everyone keeps saying that. I’m trying to figure out if that’s true.”
Silence. Hazel could imagine him, always in a blue shirt, staring down at his feet.
“I’m not exactly sure what you’re getting at,” he finally said.
“Dr. Morrison, can we talk about my father?”
26
Did you know my dad?” Hazel asked.
“I did,” Dr. Morrison replied through the phone.
“How well?”
“Not very.”
Dr. Morrison cleared his throat. It was something humans did. You couldn’t stop your throat closing when you felt tension, couldn’t train yourself out of it, Hazel knew. You could only recognize the sensation and then not do anything about it. “I worked with him on an episode called ‘The Murderer’s Hand,’” he explained. “It was a brain injury where a woman’s hand…Well, it doesn’t matter.” He paused again. “He called me sometimes, used me for research. I’d talk him through things. Purely professional.”
“So if I had research questions,” Hazel said, “you’d answer them for me? That would be a service you could supply? Or was it limited to my father? And maybe Agent Rabkin, I’m guessing.”
Again, silence. Hazel’s father wasn’t the only one doing private favors for the government.
“Hazel,” he said, “you need to come back. You need more treatment. More counseling.”
“I will,” she said. “But can you answer another question first?”
“You shouldn’t call here,” he said, but didn’t hang up. “Go ahead.”
“I was reading online and found that there was some kind of syndrome where people came out of traumatic brain injuries thinking they were aliens,” Hazel said.
“Well, no,” Dr. Morrison said. “They actually think everyone else is an alien. Aliens, replicants, impostors. It’s changed over the years, depending upon what’s been ingrained into the culture of the time. But yes. Capgras syndrome. And then there’s Cotard’s syndrome, where patients believe they’ve actually died and are now ghosts or, lately, zombies. Same thing. Whatever is culturally relevant, that’s what they believe.” He paused. “You don’t believe either of those things, do you, Hazel?”
She didn’t believe people were impostors. That had proven to be true. She didn’t believe she was dead. It had been proven that a part of her was, absolutely, dead. She lowered her voice, though the diner was so loud with people now, she could have been speaking into a bullhorn and no one would have cared.
“I
s there a syndrome,” Hazel said, thinking of the guns in her apartment, of all the books of obscure poisons, thinking of everything she knew about death, “where a person thinks they’re a hired killer?”
Dr. Morrison didn’t answer for a long time. Maybe thirty seconds. “Paranoid schizophrenia,” he finally said.
“If I’m lucid enough to ask the question, though, that would mean I’m not a paranoid schizophrenic, right?”
“You’ve been through a traumatic experience.”
“Have I? I know I was in an accident. I know my father is dead. I know my brother is alive. But what about my mother, Dr. Morrison?”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. My mother.”
“She died years ago.”
“I know,” Hazel said. “In your hospital.”
“It’s a hospital, Hazel. People die here. She had cancer.”
“The first day,” Hazel said, “you asked me to name my grandparents. Why did you do that?”
“It’s a standard question to check cognitive function.”
“No. It’s not,” Hazel said. “Show me a picture of an animal, ask me to name it, that’s a cognitive check. Asking for the names of grandparents, that’s not on any scale. I know that. Unemotionally. You know why? Because they usually have nicknames. Nana, Pop, whatever. Nicknames. And you’d never know the right answer, anyway. I could have said anything. Unless you already knew them.”
“Hazel,” Dr. Morrison said, “you’re not sounding rational.”
“Did you treat my mother?”
Dr. Morrison took a breath.
“Did you treat my mother?” she repeated.
“I consulted,” Dr. Morrison finally said.
Hazel stopped. “Did I know you?”
“We met. Yes. We met.”
“How many years would you say you’ve been ‘consulting’ with my family?”
“Ten,” he said. “Maybe more.”
“Have you ever heard of Benedict Arnold’s bible? You were working for the government too, weren’t you, when they needed help?”
“Hazel, I’m going to recommend that you call 911,” he said, though Hazel could hear a catch in his voice. A new speed. Panic. “You’re having an episode. It’s to be expected. Are you somewhere safe? Why don’t you give me an address, and I’ll have an ambulance sent to you.”
“I haven’t felt this clear since you shined the light in my eyes,” she said. “You kept me for two days, not telling me what was wrong. But you were talking to Rabkin that whole time, weren’t you, updating him on my condition?”
Silence.
“You knew who I used to be, what kind of person I was, but you acted like I was just another innocent stranger in a car wreck. Was that Rabkin’s idea—to take advantage of my memory loss, to smooth out my bumps and reformat my hard drive—or was that yours?”
Silence.
“And it wasn’t just you, was it? The grief counseling you made me do…they told me I was a good daughter. And what about the extra-friendly Nurse Dexter who did the same? Does he still even work there? Did you sign off on him too? Someone must have. Because he wasn’t caring for a single patient other than me, was he?”
Silence.
“Didn’t you take some oath? Not to do any harm?” Hazel asked.
The waitress came and dropped off Hazel’s chicken-fried steak and eggs, came back a second later with the biscuits and gravy and a plate of dark green peppers. Dr. Morrison was still not speaking, but Hazel could hear him breathing, could hear the slap of his shoes on tile. The doctor must be moving rapidly through the hospital, chasing the reflection of the halogens on the floor. She could imagine him thinking, asking himself the questions he probably didn’t care to spend much time dwelling on.
Who was Dr. Lyle Morrison? She’d researched him briefly when she was in the hospital, just so she’d know who was inside of her head, so she’d be sure she could trust the person working on her hard drive, or at least giving it a decent system restore. Then she’d spent a bit of the last night reading about him too, when it became clear to Hazel that everything she thought she knew was up for interpretation.
She saw he’d graduated from Yale. She found his political donations, examined photos of him from social events—he looked good in a tuxedo, usually with what appeared to be his mother on his arm—found his Facebook page, private, except for the photos other people had tagged him in: surfing; once at a Jimmy Buffett concert at the Hollywood Bowl, a fin on his head; eating dinner with a big group of people, his arm around a woman in a black dress. Then there were all the listings of the finest neurologists in the country.
She found his age: forty-seven. Older than she thought by almost a decade.
Time wasn’t something she had a handle on these days.
She even found his house in Santa Monica Canyon, examined the satellite photos of it, imagined him walking through the hallways, standing in the yard, doing things like watering his lawn, all the normal human things people do to make up a life.
The things that mean nothing and everything.
She cut into the steak and it bled out into her eggs, turning the entire plate an off-shade of pink. She stuffed the bite into her mouth, prepared to taste nothing, but instead got a hit of copper in the back of her throat. She took a bite of biscuit, hoped she’d get another rush, but it was just like most things: moist sand. So she ate a pepper, felt a rush of sensation, no taste, just pain. She ate another.
“What was your price, Dr. Morrison? Or did they have something on you?”
“I need you to hang up. Do you hear me? Hang up.”
“Tell me I’m not crazy,” Hazel said. “Tell me you know I’m not crazy.”
“I will lose everything,” Dr. Morrison said. “Do you understand, Hazel? I will lose my entire life.”
She heard the whistle of a wind gust, the roar of traffic, the doctor outside now, probably, Hazel thought, on Westwood Boulevard, the busy artery that ran directly in front of the medical center.
“I am not who I think I am. Am I?” Hazel asked.
“You’re not,” Dr. Morrison said.
“Thank you,” Hazel said, but the connection was lost. Hazel called him back, once, twice, three times, each call going straight to voicemail. A woman’s voice: You’ve reached Dr. Lyle Morrison. If this is an emergency, hang up and dial 911.
Hazel looked down at the table and ate another fiery pepper, then another. More and more pain, but at least she was feeling something. Finally, Hazel decided, it was time to dial a brand-new number.
27
This the place?” the cab driver asked.
Hazel looked for herself, up at the sign at the end of the strip mall.
butchie’z airborn adventurez!
One of those inflatable air dancers was out front, in full skydiving gear, goggles, everything.
“I think so,” Hazel said, picturing the photo on her wall. She’d seen herself falling from the sky holding on to Butchie. She was low on people she trusted. He seemed like the only person who might reasonably be one of them.
Hazel got out of the cab, approached the front door of the shop, and peered through the glass. Lights on. But no one was there.
“Anybody home?” she called out, pulling open the door. A wall of helmets of all colors, including the Raiders and 49ers, was on her left. Harnesses on her right. Straight ahead, past the glass counter, was the menu: $230 for Xtreme Weekend Divez Over The Pacific! and $109 for XtremeUltra GoPro Videoz of Your Jump!
Could she really be friends with someone this attached to Zs and exclamation points? Another sign read, We’ll Beat Anyone’z Price$! Hazel wondered how the hell a skydiving store even stayed in business. It seemed like piano and waterbed shops, the kind of places you only went to once.
“Butchie, you here?” she called, noticing the security camera above the cash register. Hazel looked directly at it, smiled thinly, waved two fingers.
A door in the corner, marked Employeez Only, burs
t open, and out came a thirty-year-old Hispanic man, beefy and aware of it, in a tight black tank top that showed a lattice of tribal tattoos twisting up his shoulders, across his neck. The straps from his tan cargo shorts hung down toward his flip-flops. He stood there, unspeaking, like he was unsure of what he was seeing.
“Hey,” Hazel said.
Butchie rushed forward, grabbed Hazel, pressed her against his body, pulled her away, held her face in his hands, stared into her eyes, and then kissed her forehead, her eyes, her chin, her whole face…other than her lips…then did it again.
“Girl,” he said, “I thought you were dead.”
“I did too,” Hazel said.
He looked over her shoulder. “You by yourself?”
“Yeah.”
He was still holding on to her, but he’d tensed up, again glancing outside. “You sure?”
“Can I just ask: You a drug dealer or something—?”
Butchie put his hand over Hazel’s mouth, not hard, not threatening, just to stop her from speaking.
“You carrying?” he whispered.
“I’m supposed to answer that?”
“You don’t got your knife?”
Hazel heard the word knife, and her first thought was this: There was no sense stabbing someone if you didn’t intend to kill them. If you cut open someone’s liver and they live? Same amount of prison time in California as making them dead, as long as it was in a fight and not some premeditated hit.
Hazel almost made this statement out loud, managed to stop herself, because she didn’t know why she knew this information. Didn’t even know if it was true. Was too scared to ask.
“No knife,” she said.
He reached under the counter, came out with a nine-inch blade, serrated, the kind of knife you might use to gut a deer. Or a man.
“Go out the back door,” Butchie said, slapping the knife into her hand. “Meet me at our spot in an hour. We’ll figure this out.”
“Our spot?”
“The range,” he said.
Nothing.
“What happened to you?” Butchie said.
“Something’s wrong in my head.”
