by Gary Braver
“I’m just thinking that once this is over, what do you say we give it a shot? I know a nice place in Watertown. They also have takeout.”
He could see that she clearly was not in the mood to talk about some future date. “We’ll see.”
Jack nodded and stored that away, glad that he had not yielded to his foolish impulse and spoiled the moment. Besides, he reminded himself, another reason she was out here was to vindicate her old friend and mentor, Nick Mavros, from the nuttiness of Jack’s experiment. But her “we’ll see” gave him hope.
With dinner, Jack took another half tablet. Still nothing happened, and the storm was getting closer.
After they ate, René settled on a couch with a book. She did not want to talk any more, sending the message that she was not a participant in Jack’s nutty experiment.
At eleven Jack took another tab—swallowing a whole pill to René’s protest. By one o’clock he still felt nothing but drowsiness. He put more logs on the fire.
Meanwhile, René sat with her book and sipped wine. Vials and syringes of antiseizure agents were lined up on the coffee table. Every so often she’d mutter how she couldn’t believe she was doing this. And on the other side of the coffee table Jack sat in another sofa, where the crib had been, and stared at the door.
After a while he felt a fluidy warmth spread throughout his brain. The lull of the rain against the roof and the fire conspired against him, and he closed his eyes as a delicious drowsiness settled over him.
He could hear the rain pelt the roof like BBs. And in the distance, a deep-bellied rumble of thunder.
On the coffee table sat a shiny metal meat mallet he had brought. Also, the photograph of him on a pony beside a statue of an Indian; his mother was holding him in the saddle. According to the faded ink on the back, it was taken on the Mohawk Trail when Jack was fourteen months old.
It was the last image in his mind as the warmth of the fire pulled him under.
He knew he must have fallen asleep, because sometime later he vaguely felt himself being lifted and carried to another room, which was dark and where he was laid onto a bed and covered.
“And here’s Mookie.”
And he felt something nuzzle up against his side.
“Ahmahn seerem.”
(How did René know Armenian?)
“His eyes are moving.”
“That’s good, he’s dreaming.”
“Jack, I’m right here.”
(Beth? I thought you were in Texas.)
“They’re just going to take some pictures.”
He could hear her through the door, on the far side of the living room. He tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn’t work.
“You won’t feel a thing.”
Thunder rumbled.
“Almost there.”
(I’m coming. I’m coming. I’m coming … . )
He was in a deep sleep when he heard a knock at the door. His eyes cracked open, and through the space of the open door he saw René let in the visitor. “I thought you’d never make it,” she said in a low voice.
(How did René know somebody was coming out here?)
Jack saw the figure pass the opening of his door. Because of the storm, he was wearing a dark, hooded slicker that blocked his face. René closed the door and asked how he managed to make it in this weather, and he said something about the sea not being bad yet.
Jack did not identify the voice. And René’s voice sounded strange, accented. And she looked smaller, darker than he recalled. And her hair was in a bun.
Jack knew he wanted to stay awake—he knew how important it was that he take watch …
The big replay, pal. What you’ve been waiting for, stole all the blue beauties for …
But for the life of him, he could not keep his eyes open.
A sharp voice woke him again. “I’m not going to do that. Simple as that.”
“I’m a part of this, too.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“You never give a damn.”
“I do, but I’m not going to give it all up for him. It’s as simple as that.”
“Stop shouting, you’re going to wake him. Stop it.”
Jack climbed out of the crib and onto the floor. He walked to the opening and looked into the living room.
The next moment exploded in a flurry of movements. The man’s back was to him but he could see the woman slap her hand at him. “You son of a bitch,” she cried.
The man’s own hands rose to block her attack, but she continued to swear and swing at him, and he slapped her back, connecting with sounds of smacking flesh, her screaming.
Her screaming …
“Call the friggin’ cops. Go ahead.”
And with a fist he backhanded her in the face. The blow sent her stumbling backward, and her head cracked against the stone edge of the fireplace—the contact passing into Jack’s brain like a hot needle.
Jack heard himself cry out—a sharp, bright cry that sliced the air.
“Shut up, goddamn it.”
But Jack could not shut up. The man turned toward him, his face still out of view, and a terrified Jack scurried back into the bedroom. A moment later the man slammed the door shut.
Jack crawled under his crib, his stuffed mouse pressed against him, the hard wood floor cold against his legs. He could see movement in the light strip. And he could hear movement and the man’s voice. “Oh, shit, Rose! Rose!”
Then a long silence. Jack crawled out from under the crib and padded to the door, his mouse still held against him. There was no lock on the door, and he knew how to open it—just push the metal handle down.
He did, and through the crack he saw the man with the slicker on his head dragging her out the front door, a thin dark trail smearing the floor.
Jack could feel the cold breeze rush into the room. A moment later, the man closed the front door. Thunder cracked overhead and the window flickered blue light.
Jack went to the front door.
“Goddamn you, die.”
Jack opened the big door to see the man hanging over the woman on the ground. In the man’s hand was the meat mallet. In the dark wet the woman was whimpering and her feet were twitching horribly, as if she were trying to walk on air. And the mallet came down and down.
Jack let out a cry. And the man looked up, his hood casting a sharp shadow over his face. Jack ran back to his room and closed the door and climbed back into his crib.
But the door flew open and the man filled the light, his head a large black bullet, the mallet still gripped in his hand.
Jack heard himself crying so loudly that it felt as if pieces of his throat were breaking loose.
And the man just stood there taking in the screams, watching Jack squirming, cowering in the corner of his crib, clutching Mookie to him, the blanket over his head but with just enough of a hole in the folds to see the man who continued to stand there in the doorway staring at him, his terrible head and slanting shoulders—thinking about what he should do about the baby in the crib eyeing him through his blanket.
Jack could hear himself whimper, wishing he could stop, wishing he could just disappear, blink out of existence.
“Won’t remember a thing.”
And then the room lit up in an electric blue light as a crack of thunder shattered the air.
The man closed the door.
He must have cleaned up the mess in the other room, because Jack could smell something—bleach—as he lay there in the dark waiting for the door to burst open again. But it didn’t.
And some time later he heard the outside door bang shut.
JACK HEARD A WARBLING CRY AND snapped his eyes open.
He had slipped to the floor. His throat felt thick and his chest hollow as if he had been sobbing deeply. His mind was raw. He looked around the room.
All was still, and outside a gentle rain pattered against the roof. The fireplace was a bed of glowing coals and burnt log ends. A soft yellow night-light burned in a
lamp on the table. The clock on the wall said 3:35.
René was curled up on her couch under an afghan.
Jack must have made sounds as he awoke, because René rolled onto her back and sat up. “You okay?”
He nodded. “I saw his face.”
5
83
“DAD, WE HAVE TO BE THERE at six. Might be time to get dressed.”
Louis had just stepped out of the shower. Through the door he could hear her voice calling up the stairs. “Okay,” he said. He could hear the excitement in his daughter’s voice. She had been that way since the invitation came. In fact, since he’d been home on furlough.
Then she added, “Remember, you’re going to be one of the star guests tonight. You excited?”
“Yup.”
Then another voice yelled up the stairs. His wife’s. “And don’t forget to take your pills. The white ones. They’re on your bureau with the water.”
“Okay.” He found the pills. The white ones. The ones that dulled his brain. He dropped them into the toilet.
Then he toweled himself off and looked in the mirror. He raised his arms and flexed his muscles, which bulged up thick and tan from going shirtless under the hot Asian sun. He inspected his teeth—white and straight. Then he smiled at the smooth young face staring out at him. With a comb he slicked back the thick black hair so that it looked like an ebony plate across his head. He had his father’s hair. Unfortunately, Dom had gone bald by the time he was fifty. Louis still had thirty years to worry about that.
On the bed lay the black tuxedo his wife and daughter had gotten him. That would be his cover.
Before he got dressed, he checked the map again and the recon photos, trying to fix in his head the layout of the village center and the entrances to the pavilion. When he had them burned into his brain, he slipped them back into the plain envelope.
He put on his watch: 18:22 hours. All was going according to schedule.
He slipped on his fatigues, then the monkey suit. In the mirror he fixed his bow tie and sent the comb through his hair for the last time. He wished they had some kind of hat to complete the look.
Under his jacket he fixed his weapon, certain that the layers would hide the bulge. He took one last look in the mirror and gave the soldier a stiff salute.
Then he headed out. At last. This time it was the real thing: Operation Buster.
84
FOLLOWING THE ANNOUNCEMENT of the FDA’S approval of Memorine, Alzheimer’s organizations, support groups, caregivers, and allied health-care people everywhere celebrated the good news. And so did the White House.
And on this balmy Saturday evening, a huge victory gala was held at the seaside estate of Gavin E. Moy. In the setting sun, the place glowed like a huge and magnificent jewelry box on the Manchester cliffs overlooking Moon Harbor, where Gavin Moy’s boat the Pillman Express lay moored in a black-glass sea. Inside, a small regiment of tuxedoed waiters moved throughout the crowd with trays of canapes and champagne.
There must have been two hundred people spread throughout the thirty rooms and out on the patios, but mostly filling the first-floor ballroom, the library, and various parlors. There were executives and scientists from GEM, of course, and medical and health-care folks from all over New England, as well as representatives from different Alzheimer’s organizations, the FDA, the state legislature, Capitol Hill, and, of course, the White House. The president himself could not be there, but he sent a telegram that was read by Gavin Moy over the PA system.
Partway through the evening, Jordan Carr silenced the crowd. The house lights dimmed as monitors positioned around the rooms flickered to life. The videos contained old and new footage of AD success stories, including some of Louis Martinetti, who addressed the camera in a clear and lucid delivery. Louis was then introduced. He was wearing a tuxedo and was flanked by his daughter and wife. He did not give a speech. In fact, he looked overwhelmed, even anxious, mumbling to himself. But through tears of joy, his daughter thanked everybody for making Louis a living miracle.
A thunderous applause arose from the group, many of whom were wiping tears from their own eyes, René included.
More video presentations and testimonials followed. Also, a television commercial for Memorine that would begin airing on all major networks and cable on Monday. The spot was mostly visuals, with swelling background music, as happy and focused elderly folks played in grassy green yards with grandchildren, pushed them on swings, sat around dinner tables. And the only words were those of the unseen narrator: “Alzheimer’s: At last a cure. Ask your doctor about the Memorine solution.” And at the bottom of the screen the name GEM Tech and its sparkling diamond logo.
Following the video, Gavin Moy gave a brief speech in which he thanked all those scientists, researchers, physicians, nurses, and others for their dedication and determination to bring to an end the scourge of Alzheimer’s disease.
After the cheering, people formed a line to congratulate Gavin.
WITH A BRIEFCASE IN HAND Jack waited patiently behind people he didn’t know, in front of people he didn’t know. Somewhere in the crowd René was talking to the Martinettis. She had told him about Louis and how he had become a very special patient of hers and how his successful comeback from dementia had been like a redemption for her—a final exorcizing of her own guilt and of those tormenting memories of her father as he faded away. Louis’s recovery was a kind of recovery for her too.
When his turn came, Jack took Gavin Moy’s hand.
“Hi,” Moy said, his large, smiling, tanned face taking focus on Jack.
“Meds Gama.” Jack’s voice was barely audible over the din of the crowd.
“Beg pardon?” Moy said, cocking his head toward Jack.
Jack repeated the words. “Meds Gama.”
Moy’s expression ruffled. “Nice to meet you,” he muttered, and tried to pull his hand away.
But Jack did not release Moy’s hand. Nor did he release the grip of his stare. “Meds Gama, also known as Meds Garmir, also known as Big Red.”
Moy looked at him, startled. “Sorry, but I don’t believe I know you.” The others in Moy’s entourage were beginning to take notice.
“I think you might have an idea.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Jack Koryan. Son of Rose Najarian, also known as Rose Sarkisian.”
Something passed over Moy’s face as he held Jack’s glare, then he turned to the others. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and tortured his face into a smile.
When a bystander offered to accompany him, Moy said he’d be fine. He looked back to see René suddenly tailing Jack. He raised a cautionary finger at her. “I think you can stay here.” And she fell back. Jack did not like the threatening gesture, but he said nothing and nodded for her to fall behind.
Moy continued to smile as he cut his way through the crowd, making terse comments to people, a big strained Happy Face preceding him as Jack followed him out of the ballroom and into the hallway.
Jack expected Moy to turn on him when they were alone, but he said nothing and led him down a corridor, then up some back stairs and through two rooms and doors and into a corner room overlooking the harbor. Moy’s home office was furnished with bookshelves, a robust marble table, and a large desk in the windowed corner. Moy moved behind the desk and sat in the big black leather mitt of a chair. He folded his hands and leaned across the desk glowering at Jack. “Okay, what’s this all about?”
On the walls behind him were photos of Moy and other people on his boat posing with fish. Others showed him in hunting outfits with dead deer. Also on a table were trophies for pistol marksmanship. “It’s about the death of Rose Sarkisian.”
Moy stared at him impassively and said nothing—a withering ploy he probably used to bring his employees to their knees. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“You don’t recognize the name?”
“No.”
“Think hard. Rose Sarkisian.”
And Jack enunciated the syllables with deliberate clarity.
“Look, I’ve met thousands of people in my travels over the years.”
“She was my mother.”
“So, good for you.”
“You killed her.”
Moy’s face froze for a moment. Then he leaned forward menacingly. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are coming in here making such claims, but I’ve heard enough.” His hand moved toward the telephone.
Jack pulled out a photograph of Rose and Nick and slid it across the table.
“That’s Rose Sarkisian and Nick Mavros taken about thirty years ago. I did some research. They’re standing in front of Junior Dee’s Auto Parts store, which used to be where Kendall Square is now, behind MIT It’s where you had your lab down below.”
Jack watched Moy intently, but there was nothing in his face that betrayed him—not a flicker of his eye or a microtwitch of his facial muscles.
“So I knew her.”
“And you were at the cottage the night she died.”
“What cottage? What night?”
“Homer’s Island, August 20, 1975, Vita Nova.”
“I don’t know what you’re friggin’ talking about.”
Jack pulled out of his tuxedo jacket a photocopy of the story of Rose Sarkisian’s disappearance.
Moy glanced at it. “You know nothing,” he said. He picked up the phone. “You’ve got ten seconds to get out of here or I’m calling the police.”
“You murdered her. I was there. You came in. You had a fight and pushed her. She fell backward and hit her head and went unconscious. But that didn’t satisfy you, so you smashed her on the skull, then dragged her outside to finish her off with a kitchen meat mallet that she used to make dinner for you. Then you came back in and cleaned up the mess with bleach. Then you left to dump her body in the water.”
Moy looked at Jack as if he were an alien. His eyes were intense and his mouth in a twisted rictus. He looked positively stunned. “How?” That was all he could say.
“How do I know?” Jack pulled out a single blue tablet and slid it in front of him. “The Memorine solution.”
