Stan nodded.
“But why? If I’m this…this…genius or whatever you’re making me out to be, why would I want to…rewind, flush my mind, my identity, my achievements, all down the toilet?”
Stan looked everywhere but at me. “Listen, Barn. I’ve told you all you need to know. The rest, it doesn’t matter. Now what we have do, we have go back to the apartment. Skip’s one of our best techs, and more importantly, you can trust him. He won’t speak a word of your new identity. He’ll finish what Charlie started. You’ll wake up in Dallas, but wake up right this time. You’ll have a complete past, present, an entire life. You’ll know everything from your favorite porn site to the codes for your overseas bank accounts—”
“I have overseas bank accounts?”
“What we’ve put in your Citibank account is spare change, my friend. Your new life, you’re going to love it.”
“Tell me why I would want a new life, Stan.”
“You don’t need to know that. You don’t want to.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
I stood. “See ya.”
Stan shot to his feet a second later. “Wait!” He gripped my arm. “Jesus Christ, Barn, you’ve always been a stubborn bastard.” Sweat beaded his forehead. “Why you’re doing this?” He shrugged. “For the same reason why everyone else does it.”
“I have traumatic memories. Sorry, Stan. I don’t buy that.”
“It’s true. But for you, Barn, there’s more to it.” He swallowed. “You’re in trouble. Big trouble. With the law.”
I wasn’t surprised by this revelation. In fact, it’s what I’d been waiting to hear. “What did I do?” I asked simply.
“I told you, Barn, you don’t need to—”
“Tell me!”
“Barn, I’m one of your best friends. Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to know. It’s why you agreed to the procedure in the first place.”
“What if I don’t want to go through with ‘the procedure’ anymore?”
Stan was shaking his head. “Don’t you get it, my friend? Behind door number one is a life of pleasure. Behind door number two is a life in prison—haunted by memories that will cannibalize you from the inside out until you die an old, forgotten man.”
***
“Murder?” I stated. “That’s it, isn’t it? I murdered someone?”
Stan didn’t reply, but the look on his face told me it was true.
“Who?” I said. “My wife? Was I married? Did I murder my wife?”
“Barn…”
I shook my head, causing the headache behind my eyes to flare. I rubbed my forehead. “I’ve been strolling around the city for the last day, Stan. I’m supposedly one of the most influential people of the twenty-first century, I’m a murderer to boot, and no one recognizes me?”
“Because you’ve already got your new face,” he said.
I started. “My new face?”
“Face transplant,” he said. He must have mistaken my expression of horror for one of surprise because he added, “It’s no big deal, Barn. Doctors have been doing head transplants for quadriplegics for years now. Charlie, it’s why he let himself go the way he did. Said he’d just get a head transplant one day, place his on a new young body. But he always had some excuse or another why he wouldn’t go through with it. Anyway, face transplants are routine. Once you secure a donor, you’re in and out in a few hours, and the lasers don’t leave any scars. Same with your voice box. Easy-peasy. We could have given you a voice like Sinatra, but you insisted on…well, what you got.”
I touched my face, plied the skin with my fingers, yanked my hands away in disgust.
It wasn’t mine. I was wearing something else’s face.
“I know, Barn,” Stan said, “it’s a lot to take in. Let’s just go back to the apartment, finish the rewind—”
I stumbled backward, away from him.
Stan frowned. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to look myself up on the internet.”
“Barn—”
“Why not?” I said. “If I’m getting my memory wiped again, why not know what I’ve done—everything?”
“Because…” Stan hesitated. “Because you might do something to yourself. After what happened…we had to watch you until you got into that chair. You were suicidal. You tried to kill yourself. Twice. I was the one who found you the second time. You’d slit your wrists.”
I glanced at them. Smooth as a baby’s bottom.
“Same guy who did your face,” Stan said.
I shook my head. “I don’t think I want this anymore.”
“Barn, you’ve already made the choice. It’s why you were in that chair in the first place.”
“I need time—”
“You’ve had time!” he snapped. “Eight months, to be exact. This was your best option. This or prison. No, there’s a third option now, I guess. Doing nothing. Remaining just like you are. And I don’t think that’s something you want, is it, Barn?”
“Why Dallas?” I said. “Why can’t I stay here in New York?”
“Our technology is near perfect. Near perfect. Ninety-ninety percent perfect. But sometimes a client’s memories come back. Impressions usually, nothing more. Maybe you read about your brother’s obituary in the paper, and something just…clicks. You think you know him, so you ring up his wife to pay your condolences, and things get a bit messy. It’s why we’ve started offering to relocate the clients who opt for a complete new identity. It’s a precaution so they don’t go through, well, what I suppose you went through these past couple days. You chose Dallas yourself. Good climate, big place, easy to be anonymous.”
“I took the laptop.”
“What?”
“From the apartment,” I said. “I was trying to figure out who the hell I was. I took it, and a box of papers—”
“Sure, sure, no problem. Skip will bring everything he needs, don’t worry, don’t worry about any of that, Barn. It’ll be sorted. Now come on, we’ll grab a cab—”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Where?”
“At the apartment.”
Stan frowned. “We had a deal, Barn. You agreed, you and me—”
He stepped forward; I stepped backward.
“I’ll be there,” I said. “Six tomorrow morning. I just—I need some time on my own.”
“Barn—”
“Six. End of discussion.”
I turned and walked away.
When I reached a branching path, I glanced behind me. Stan remained by the bench twenty yards back, though now he was speaking on his phone.
I turned left down the new path until I was out of sight, then I ran.
CHAPTER 6
In the suite at The Plaza I grabbed a bottle of Chivas with one hand and flipped open the laptop with the other. I took a long, burning drink, then stared at the desktop. I must have remained standing there for at least a few minutes, because the androgynous face of the operating system’s personal assistant appeared and asked me how it could be of help.
“I need information on a person,” I said.
“What is the person’s name?”
“Barney—” I bit my lip.
“Can you provide a surname?”
“Forget it.”
“Is there anything else I can assist you with—?”
I slapped the screen shut, then fell backward onto the bed, arms spread eagle, still gripping the Chivas in one hand. My mind replayed everything Stanley Williams had told me. All the while I took swigs from the bottle and debated with myself the pros and cons of verifying the information for myself. On the one hand, of course, I would learn the truth about my past and my influence in history—and who I murdered and why. On the other hand, I might find what I did so horrific I would…what? Kill myself?
Maybe. Because I was suicidal, wasn’t I? Stan had said I’d tried to kill myself twice already, and the temptation to jump through the
window over yonder had indeed crossed my mind just this afternoon…
These were the last thoughts before I fell into an exhausted, drunken sleep. I didn’t remember closing my eyes, but when I opened them it was dark outside, and the room lights had dimmed themselves.
The bottle of Scotch lay on the bed next to me, empty. I glanced at the clock on the night table. It was eight thirty in the evening. I would have kept lying there, kept feeling sorry for myself, had my bladder not ached so badly. I got up and went to the bathroom. I avoided my reflection in the mirror—I didn’t want to see the face that wasn’t the one I was born with—and by doing so noticed the note Beth had left on the vanity.
I picked it up and read what she’d written in her quick, slanted script. Then I read it again. And again. The third time an emptiness filled me. Because I was going to go through with it, wasn’t I? I was going to be at the decrepit apartment at 6 a.m. tomorrow. I was going to wipe my memory. Beautiful Beth with the sad eyes would become nothing but a… The word that came to me was “memory,” but she wouldn’t even be that, would she? She’d be nothing. As if she’d never existed.
Same went for me. Barney Hunter. I might not remember my life, but I still had a sense of self. And regardless of whether or not I knew or liked that self, wiping my memory felt a bit like agreeing to be taken off life support, because everything this poor shmuck had been, and currently was, would be gone, cleaned, erased, forever.
As if I’d never existed.
***
I knocked on Beth’s door an hour later. I had showered, dressed in a new suit, purchased two bottles of wine from a liquor store a short walk from The Plaza, and took a taxi to the address she’d left me. I knocked again, then stepped back on the small stoop, looking up at the two-story Victorian brownstone. All the lights were on inside.
A moment later Beth opened the front door. She was dressed casual-chic in tight jeans and a gray turtleneck over a white dress shirt, putting it up for debate whether she had just stepped out of a supermarket, or off a catwalk. She greeted me with a dazzling smile. “I wasn’t sure you were going to come,” she said.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “I—”
“You’re fine. Come in, please.”
Beth stepped aside and I entered a small foyer. I had expected the house to be carved up into individual units, but it appeared she owned or rented the entire place. She led me through a cozy living room and a pink-walled dining room—both with twelve-foot ceilings and decorative crown moldings—to a spacious, modern chef’s kitchen.
I handed her the gift bag that contained the two bottles of wine. “I wasn’t sure what was on the menu,” I said. “So I came prepared.”
“Just a salad and lasagna, I’m afraid. My mother’s recipe though. I hope you’ll like it.”
“Smells delicious,” I said, and it did. When was the last time I’d eaten something substantial?
Beth read the labels on both bottles, then set them on the center island. “Would you care for a glass? It’ll still be another half hour until the lasagna is ready.”
“Love one,” I said. “White, please.”
I would have preferred a Scotch, but who brought a bottle of Scotch to a romantic dinner date? I wasn’t going to ask Beth if she had anything harder than wine in the liquor cabinet either. The shower had sobered me up a fair bit. I’d also drunk about a liter of water before leaving the suite at the hotel. Consequently, I felt in control and didn’t need to make a mess of myself.
Not on the last night Beth and I would ever see each other.
This thought hammered me with regret, and I shoved it promptly from my mind.
Beth retrieved a corkscrew from a drawer, opened the Chardonnay, and poured two glasses, filling each a finger more than a standard drink.
“Cheers,” she said, raising her glass.
“Cheers,” I said, clinking.
“Umm… Should we go to the living room?” she asked.
“You’re the boss.”
She led me back the way we’d come and sat on a two-seat Queen Anne sofa with white leather and black wood trim. I hesitated a moment, wondering if I should choose the armchair. I sat next to her.
“You have a beautiful home,” I said.
“Thanks, Harry.”
Harry. The name rattled me. I had already begun thinking of myself as Barney.
What other lies had I told her?
“Are you okay?” Beth was looking at me, a frown touching the corners of her mouth.
“Sorry,” I said, giving her a reassuring smile. “Just wondering if I’d remembered to bring the keycard to my room. Not that it matters. I can get another from the front desk.” I sipped the wine to stop babbling.
“See any interesting sites today?”
“Central Park Zoo.”
“You know, I’ve lived in this city my entire life, and I’ve only been there once.”
“The sea lions were great. Had beach balls and everything.”
“The best zoo I’ve ever been to was in San Diego. It’s—” She shook her head. “I apologize. This is silly.”
“What’s silly?” I asked.
“We’re talking about zoos, Harry.”
“They make the best small talk.”
“I’m just a bit…you know…” She stared into her wine.
Yes, I knew. She was nervous. She had a thing against dating strangers, and here I was, in her home, seeing her for the second time in as many days.
“You have roommates?” I asked, to change the topic.
“Roommates? Oh, you mean because of the house?”
“It’s a big place for one person.”
She smiled. “Thanks for being tactful, Harry, but I know you mean an expensive place for one person.”
“I was thinking that too.”
“It was a gift from my ex-husband.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You were married?”
“For three years. Signed a prenup, so the house is all I got in the divorce. It was a gift.”
“Nice gift.”
“He traveled a lot. Where we lived together, it always felt like his place. Fine when we were together, but when I was alone I wanted something more…homey, I guess the word is. So he bought this townhouse for me as a birthday present.”
“What did he do for a living?”
“He had his own business.” She pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Anyway—”
“He must have done pretty well for himself.”
“He did very well.”
“What was he into—?”
“He’s dead, Harry.”
I blinked. “Jesus, Beth. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t even know how we got onto him.”
“My fault,” I said quickly. “We should have stuck to zoos.”
She laughed at that, breaking the tension that had stolen over the conversation.
“How about you?” I said, eager to move on. “Do anything fun today?”
“I went to the supermarket to buy the ingredients for dinner.”
“That’s fun?”
“I enjoy grocery shopping. I really do. There’s something about a supermarket that’s calming.” She glanced at me sideways. “You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”
“Beth, you’re one of the most beautiful, kindest women I know,” I said. And this wasn’t a wisecrack because of my lack of memory. I was being one-hundred percent sincere. “To be truthful,” I went on, “I really wouldn’t care if we talked about cows all night.”
Beth leaned close and kissed my cheek. “You’re a very sweet man, Harry.” She stood. “I’m going to check on the lasagna. Be right back.”
I watched her pass through the dining room, skirt the large spruce table, and disappear around the corner into the kitchen—all the while wondering to myself what the hell I was doing. I’d decided to see Beth a final time because I had been alone and scared in the suite and wanted to be with someone for my final night
as “me.” I enjoyed her company the previous evening, and I knew if anybody could take my mind off what awaited me tomorrow morning, it would be her. And, yes, somewhere in the back of this depraved, selfish mind of mine, I thought maybe I could get her to sleep with me again.
And then what? Sneak out of her bed in the middle of the night. No note. No nothing. Just—gone.
I swished the wine around in my glass, then finished it off with one gulp.
Shit, I wasn’t a part-time asshole. I was a fulltime one.
I got up and made my way to the kitchen. Beth wasn’t there.
I went to the fridge, to retrieve the bottle of Chardonnay, and noticed a photograph stuck to the door with a magnet. It was of a little boy, no older than six or seven. I plucked it free and examined it more closely.
“He was my son.”
I turned. Beth stood several feet behind me, at the mouth to the hallway. She’d likely been in the bathroom.
“Adorable,” I said, sticking the photograph back onto the fridge. I opened the stainless steel door and withdrew the Chardonnay. “Just looking for this. Top-up?”
“Please.”
I refilled both our glasses and we returned to the living room.
“Lasagna is nearly done,” she said. “Fifteen minutes.” She sat on the sofa.
“Wonderful,” I said. This time, however, I chose the armchair.
“So what’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I said, poker-faced.
How could she know?
“Statue of Liberty? Empire State Building?”
“Right.” I swallowed. “I…um…”
“I don’t start work until five. If you’d care for a tour guide, I’d be happy to show you around. And I promise, no boardrooms or airports.”
I smiled at her joke—and felt my heart break. Seeing her so bright, innocent, lovely, caring made me feel like scum, and I knew I couldn’t do this, couldn’t go through with the evening, lead her on, leave her in the middle of the night without an explanation.
“Harry?” she said, concerned.
I cleared my throat. “There’s something I have to tell you, Beth. I know I said I was going to be around New York for a while. But the truth is something has come up.” I hesitated. “I have to leave tomorrow.”
Dark Hearts: Four Novellas of Dark Suspense Page 12
