by Jon Land
“Why? Who are you?” Hedda repeated.
“A name?”
“For starters, since somehow you know mine.”
“August Pomeroy.”
Hedda’s face turned blank. “I’ve never heard that name. I feel I’ve known you all my life and I’ve never heard that name.”
“I was only part of a block for you.”
Hedda started to feel weak at the knees. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about obstacles placed in your mind to prevent conscious recall of past events.”
She moved closer to him, wanting to deny the words but knowing she could not. Perhaps her unconscious had always known what her conscious mind was learning. “Sometimes I have pieces of thoughts run through me, like dreams that slip away before I can recall them.”
“Thanks to the blocks. Something comforting, something soothing for the mind to turn to as an alternative to the pain of actual memory.”
“Your image on the farm, as my grandfather.”
“Chosen for practicality, as well as ego and extension. For the block to be effective it had to have at least some substance in reality. If not a true event or happening, at least an actual person to be transposed onto an illusion. Like a character filmed in front of a fake background for a moving picture. There was so much work I had to do with you that I seemed the natural choice for that character.”
“You’re saying my entire memory is a lie. You’re saying I have no idea who I really am.”
“Your life as Hedda began four years ago.”
“And before that?” When Pomeroy remained silent, Hedda drew closer to him. “And before that?”
August Pomeroy gazed at her for several moments before responding. “This is your last chance to choose the door, Hedda. From here there will only be more questions, and the answers will get progressively more unpleasant.”
“I’ve got to hear them, Mr. Pomeroy.”
“Doctor Pomeroy. In the kitchen, then, over tea.”
Pomeroy set the water to boil himself. Hedda sat watching him, hands twisting and turning atop his thick oak kitchen table.
“I am a psychiatrist,” the old man said as he wheeled his chair toward the table. “For many years I was quite respected in my field, quite well known for my area of expertise.”
“Memory?”
“Not precisely. Pain: when people’s lives had been ruined by guilt or sadness over a particular event, a wrong choice made, perhaps a loved one’s loss. I dedicated my life to relieving that specific pain, to soothing it and repairing it the same way a surgeon does a damaged knee or broken limb. I set it right again so the mind could regain its symmetry.” His voice tailed off slightly. “I married an American woman and relocated my practice to the United States where my work prospered. Then my wife died tragically and I found myself in need of my own medicine. Physician, heal thyself, is the phrase, I believe. I was lost, and in that state men came to me with a challenge that could make my life worthwhile again.”
He stopped and cleared his throat. On the stove the teakettle had begun to rattle.
“Work in the field of memory suppression was accepted and well documented. But what these men wanted to accomplish was the total suppression of a person’s past and its replacement with transparent screens and backdrops.”
“My memories of … you, the farm, peacefulness.”
“Exactly. You see, Hedda, an area of the brain called the hippocampus is responsible for the formation and recall of long term memories. What my work essentially did was short circuit the hippocampus’ ability to send signals to other areas of the brain which would have ordinarily summoned memories. Once the signals were received, the false memories—the blocks—I had implanted would rise to prevent disorientation and soothe the mind.”
“Madness!”
“Anything but, I’m afraid. I was charged with furnishing subjects who had no past, only a present.” The old man sighed. “Subjects for a project called Renaissance.”
“Subjects … How many?”
“How many Caretakers are there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I. But it could be hundreds. Other psychiatric specialists were brought in and taught my system.”
“By whom, Doctor?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I did not know?”
“No.”
“It’s true. I have my ideas, of course. A private army, a renegade faction of the American intelligence community. It doesn’t matter, really. I did what they asked in order to ease my own pain. Who they actually were didn’t matter to me, Hedda. It might be one of the reasons why I’m still alive.”
“And also the reason why millions of people might be about to die.”
“What are you talking about?”
“TD-13, a transdermal poison someone tied to The Caretakers was in their possession. Deerslayer and I were part of the operation that obtained it, one they were determined to erase all trace of.” A bolt of realization struck Hedda. “That’s why you were surprised to see me. You knew Deerslayer was dead, so you thought I would be, too! That’s it, isn’t it?”
“He … came to me.”
“Deerslayer? He came here?”
“Twice. The first time because the blocks had begun to erode for him. He caught a glimpse of me in the park and followed me back. He wanted answers.”
“And you gave them to him.”
“Just like I’m trying to do for you now.”
“Who was he before Renaissance? Who was I?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must!”
The teakettle began to whistle. Before Hedda could move, the old man had wheeled himself backward toward the range. He pulled the kettle off as he spoke.
“How much do you know about the original Caretakers?”
“Original? You mean there’s more than one group?”
August Pomeroy set the two cups of tea down on the table and wheeled himself back to his place. “An organization of the same name preceded yours and flourished from just after the end of the Vietnam War to the early eighties, when it was brought down by one of its own. Jared Kimberlain, known as the Ferryman and presently the last survivor of the original members, was betrayed by his own people, and it was he who exposed The Caretakers as a result. It was not until five years ago that other interested parties rechartered the organization.”
“Renaissance …”
“But there was more, Hedda. The term renaissance also applies to the means by which their operatives were to be chosen. You know what you’ve been asked to do repeatedly for them. You know the kind of person they needed.”
Hedda remained silent.
“You, Deerslayer, the others—all killers par excellence. But they didn’t train you to be that way, they merely refined you.”
“What are you saying?”
“You don’t want to hear this.”
“Talk!”
“You and the others were chosen for an already-demonstrated capacity to commit violence. You had all shown you were good at it, and more, that you liked it.”
“Bullshit!”
“No, truth. That’s what you wanted and that’s what you’re getting. You and all The Caretakers were salvaged from prisons, asylums, stockades. Your ‘release’ was arranged so you could be reborn to do their bidding for them. You and all the others were taken to an island where I was waiting.”
“And you proceeded to erase our pasts.”
August Pomeroy shook his head. “I merely eliminated your memories, so you could start with a clean slate. Where chaos had once ruled all your lives, I made it possible for order to take over. The propensities were not changed. The capabilities and abilities were not changed, only the way they were channeled. The people over you wanted ruthless killers, but they wanted to be in control of them.”
Hedda felt her heart sink. “I see a boy sometimes. Who is he? Did I kill him?”
“I was never told spe
cifics. Not of you, not of Deerslayer, not of any of them.”
“How old am I? Where am I from?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know!”
“What is my name?”
“I don’t know!”
“Why Hedda?”
“The original Caretakers, as I understand it, were all given names out of Greek mythology. The new Caretakers, of which you were a part, were named after famous characters from literature. You, for instance, were named for Hedda Gabler.”
“You told all this to Deerslayer… .”
The old man nodded. “The first time he came, yes. Four days ago.”
“What about the second?”
“He came back again the day before yesterday to leave me a note.” Pomeroy’s red-streaked eyes held hers. “A note for you. He knew you’d be coming.”
The old man wheeled himself back toward the refrigerator. There, affixed to it with a magnet, was a plain white envelope. Like Poe’s purloined letter, Deerslayer’s message had been hidden in plain sight.
“He told me to give this to you. He said you’d know what to do.”
Hedda accepted the envelope. Its thin contents consisted only of a single newsclipping concerning the dramatic resurgence of a Massachusetts-based plastics manufacturing company called PLAS-TECH.
“Do you know what this means?” she asked August Pomeroy.
“I haven’t looked at it. I don’t want to. Deerslayer said it required no further explanation.”
No further explanation … And yet there was no mention of transdermal poisons or deadly plots undertaken by some force who had enlisted the aid of The Caretakers. But somehow, clearly, PLAS-TECH was connected to whoever had demanded her death and Deerslayer’s. He had figured that much out and had left it for her.
“What will you do now?” Pomeroy asked her.
“Find whoever’s behind the TD-13.”
“They’ll kill you.”
“Kill Hedda, you mean. You already killed the person I really am. They might be the only ones who can tell who that was.”
“I used drugs; they use bullets.”
“So do I, Doctor.”
The Fourth Dominion
Andrew Harrison Leeds
Monday, August 17; 2:00 P.M.
Chapter 15
“CAN YOU HEAR ME, young man?”
Arthur Whitlow could not clear the frog from his throat. “Yes, sir,” he croaked.
“I await your report.”
On one of the twenty-four television monitors that formed the wall directly in front of T. Howard Briarwood’s desk, a youngish looking man with glasses could be seen fidgeting in his chair. Whitlow was understandably awed. After all, in seven years with the company he had not met another executive who had even spoken to the head of the massive, multibillion-dollar conglomerate directly.
Briarwood Industries maintained holdings in virtually every sphere of American business, all of them overseen by the company’s leader himself, albeit from afar. The twenty-four television screens before him formed his link with his domain beyond the top floors of his executive tower. No less than five hundred similar transmission devices had been placed all over the world. Briarwood could activate them at any time he desired and peek in at the goings-on at his various holdings. Some would call it spying or eavesdropping. Briarwood called it good business.
Of course, Whitlow was aware of none of this. He knew only that the most important meeting of his life was being held with a television camera and a phantom voice that reached him in the room through an unseen speaker. The young man spoke at last with his eyes glued to the paper before him.
“The final shipment from PLAS-TECH was shipped yesterday. I am told the installation process has gone exceptionally well.”
“Splendid. It’s good to see Uncle Sam accepting the worthy advice of a willing nephew. Tell me,” the voice continued through the speaker, “have you seen any of the production process firsthand?”
“I have, sir. It’s most impressive.”
“And is the Kansas facility on schedule?”
“Ahead, actually. So much so that storage capacity was exceeded, forcing a preliminary shipment to three of the major distribution sites.”
Something in the voice changed. “Why was I not made aware of this sooner?”
“The shipments are being held back from distribution until the date previously arranged.”
“You’re quite certain of that?”
Whitlow nodded toward the camera, confused by the line of questioning T. Howard Briarwood was pursuing. “Yes, sir.”
“And you’re equally sure that the services of PLAS-TECH are no longer required?”
“The contract has been fulfilled to everyone’s satisfaction. Additional orders have already been placed, of course, but for now—”
“You’ll be going back, won’t you, Mr. Whitlow? To the Kansas facility, I mean.”
“I could, sir.”
“I wonder if you might videotape their end of the process. I’ll arrange the proper clearances. You’ll do that, won’t you?”
“Certainly, sir.”
T. Howard Briarwood’s finger crept to a button on his console. “Then again, perhaps it would be a better idea if you didn’t.”
He pressed the button and watched on the screen as Whitlow’s body spasmed horribly. His hands and feet twitched in twisted symphony, as the electrical current continued to surge through his body. Then finally it was still.
The chair had been one of Andrew Harrison Leeds’s first inventions, and he had never shied from using it. As he watched Whitlow’s body smoke, he tried to imagine the scent of singed hair and flesh. Pity Whitlow had to die. The man had been nothing but loyal to T. Howard Briarwood. Too bad he knew too much about the plan of Andrew Harrison Leeds.
Leeds turned his fingers back to the sophisticated control panel on his desk and began scanning the screens, changing them like an impatient TV viewer with an overactive remote device. Locations in fifteen different countries swept by his eyes. Empty conference rooms, jammed hotel lobbies, a television studio. Leeds lingered on no screen long enough to see anything in its entirety, and yet he missed nothing. The contents of the screens belonged to Briarwood; to fully capture the scope of his holdings a thousand more would have been required.
A single screen in the vast wall remained blank until Leeds pressed the PLAY button that was within easy reach of his hand. Instantly the screen filled with a long shot of a man standing in a motor launch as it neared a dock. Leeds fast-forwarded to the point where a close-up of the man’s face filled the screen and froze it.
“Kimberlain,” he muttered. “I’m not going to let you catch me this time, not this time.”
Leeds advanced the tape in slow motion, studying each of the Ferryman’s moves, his every mannerism. He had been about to rewind the tape and view it yet again, when something snapped him alert.
“Ah,” he said out loud, “the meeting.”
He rose quickly and moved to the conference room door. Its electric eye caught him, and the door opened automatically.
Andrew Harrison Leeds stepped through into the opaque darkness of a windowless room.
“Good afternoon,” he announced to the figures gathered around the central conference table. “And a very good afternoon it is indeed… .”
Andrew Harrison Leeds killed for the first time when he was ten years old. He had reached out to pet a neighbor’s dog and the animal bit him. Leeds felt the sharp pain and yanked his hand away. The dog snarled, daring him.
Leeds snarled back.
That was the first time he had felt the raw, untapped rage that had driven him to reach the heights he had attained. But the rage was controlled. He did not lash out at the dog then. He returned to his house and stole a sharp knife from the kitchen, along with three slices of cold cuts from the meat drawer. Leeds watched the dog saunter off into the neighboring woods and headed after it. Finding it just inside the cover of trees, he extended the meat a
s a peace offering. So convincing was he, he scarcely admitted his intention to himself. The animal hesitated only slightly. Before its jaws had even closed on the balled-up cold cuts, Leeds pounced, driving the knife home.
He heard the cries and liked it.
He smelled the blood, felt it, and liked that, too. He remained calm through it all, never even breathing hard.
He killed other animals later, but it was never as much fun. A person would be much better. Leeds let himself fantasize. In his mind the act was always so simple, so … fulfilling. And for a time the fantasies were enough. Somewhere there was reality, but it didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. Reality was what you made it. Leeds had already discovered that in school. He knew how smart he was, far smarter than the brainless twits that taught him. But he never let on, kept his true self covered, exposing it to no one.
He began to see a younger girl from the neighborhood hanging around the woods a lot. She was often dirty, and sometimes she had bruises on her face. She said she was running away. Leeds said he would help her.
Thinking back now, he would have to say it was very much like the dog. He brought the girl food on the pretext of gaining her trust, and while she ate he looped a rope around her neck and strangled her. After burying the girl’s body near that of the dog’s, Leeds went home and listened to the radio.
He was twelve years old.
His parents never realized how smart he was. No one realized, because Leeds concealed his intelligence. They saw only what he wanted them to. Leeds could make people love him, hate him, follow him. He could frighten them, humor them, win them over, beat them down. They were playthings, toys. But they fueled his fantasies and kept him from needing to visit the woods too often.
He exposed his true potential only upon reaching college, because he saw it as a quicker route to dominate. Domination, after all, was what life was all about. Killing was about domination. Leeds could kill the body, but he could also kill the soul. By the age of thirty, three dozen people had perished under his hand. He was careful how he chose them, avoided patterns at all costs. It wasn’t enough, though. He lived off his fantasies, but to continue to make them viable he needed to merge them with reality.
