False Memory Part 13

19.

When Martie drove into the garage, she was disappointed to see that Dusty's van wasn't there. Because his work would have been rained out, she had hoped to find him at home.

In the kitchen, a ceramic-tomato magnet held a brief note to the refrigerator door: Oh, Beautiful One. I'll be home by 5:00. We'll go out for dinner. Love you even more than I love tacos. Dusty. Oh, Beautiful One. I'll be home by 5:00. We'll go out for dinner. Love you even more than I love tacos. Dusty.

She used the half bath-and not until she was washing her hands did she realize the mirror was missing from the door of the medicine cabinet. All that remained was a tiny splinter of silvered gla.s.s wedged in the lower right-hand corner of the metal frame.

Evidently, Dusty had accidentally broken it. Except for the one small sliver stuck in the frame, he'd done a thorough job of cleaning up the debris.

If broken mirrors meant bad luck, this was the worst of all possible days to shatter one.

Although she had no lunch left to lose, she still felt queasy. She filled a gla.s.s with ice and ginger ale. Something cold and sweet usually settled her stomach.

Wherever he had gone, Dusty must have taken Valet with him. In reality, their house was small and cozy, but at the moment it seemed big and cold-and lonely.

Martie sat at the breakfast table by the rainwashed window to sip the ginger ale, trying to decide if she preferred to go out this evening or stay home. Over dinner-a.s.suming she could eat-she intended to share the unsettling events of the day with Dusty, and she worried about being overheard by a waitress or by other diners. Besides, she didn't want to be out in public if she suffered another episode.

On the other hand, if they stayed home, she didn't trust herself to cook dinner....

She raised her eyes from the ginger ale to the rack of knives on the wall near the sink.

The ice cubes rattled against the drinking gla.s.s clutched in her right hand.

The shiny stainless-steel blades of the cutlery appeared to be radiant, as though they were not merely reflecting light but also generating it.

Letting go of the gla.s.s, blotting her hand on her jeans, Martie looked away from the knife rack. But at once her eyes were drawn to it again.

She knew that she was not capable of doing violence to others, except to protect herself, those she loved, and the innocent. She doubted that she was capable of harming herself, either.

Nevertheless, the sight of the knives so agitated her that she couldn't remain seated. She rose, stood in indecision, went into the dining room and then into the living room, moving about restlessly, with no purpose except to put some distance between herself and the knife rack.

After rearranging bibelots that didn't need to be rearranged, adjusting a lampshade that was not crooked, and smoothing pillows that were not rumpled, Martie went into the foyer and opened the front door. She stepped across the threshold, onto the porch.

Her heart knocked so hard she shook from its blows. Each pulse pushed such a tide through her arteries that her vision throbbed with the heavy surge of blood.

She went to the head of the porch steps. Her legs were weak and shaky. She put one hand against a porch post.

To get farther from the knife rack, she'd have to walk out into the storm, which had diminished from a downpour to a heavy drizzle. Wherever she went, however, in any corner of the world, in good and bad weather, in sunshine and in darkness, she would encounter pointed things, sharp things, jagged things, instruments and utensils and tools that could be used for wicked purposes.

She had to steady her nerves, slow her racing mind, push out these strange thoughts. Calm down.

G.o.d help me.

She tried taking slow, deep breaths. Instead, her breathing became more rapid, ragged.

When she closed her eyes, seeking inner peace, she found only turmoil, a vertiginous darkness.

She wasn't going to be able to regain control of herself until she found the courage to return to the kitchen and confront the thing that had triggered this anxiety attack. The knives. She had to deal with the knives, and quickly, before this steadily growing anxiety swelled into outright panic.

The knives.

Reluctantly, she turned away from the porch steps. She went to the open front door.

Beyond the threshold, the foyer was a forbidding s.p.a.ce. This was her much-loved little home, a place where she'd been happier than ever before in her life, yet now it was almost as unfamiliar to her as a stranger's house.

The knives.

She went inside, hesitated, and closed the door behind her.

20.

Although Skeet's hands were badly irritated, they were not as raw-looking as they had been a few minutes ago, and they were not scalded. Tom Wong treated them with a cortisone cream.

Because of Skeet's eerie detachment and his continued failure to respond to questions, Tom drew a blood sample for drug testing. Upon checking into New Life, Skeet had submitted to a strip search for controlled substances, and none had been found either in his clothing or secreted in any body cavities.

"It could be a delayed secondary reaction to whatever he pumped into himself this morning," Tom suggested as he left with the blood sample.

During the past few years, through the worst of his periodic phases of addiction, Skeet had exhibited more peculiar behavior than Donald Duck on PCP, but Dusty had never before seen anything like this semi-catatonic glaze.

Valet enjoyed no furniture privileges at home, but he seemed to be so troubled by Skeet's condition that he forgot the rules and curled up on the armchair.

Fully understanding the retriever's distress, Dusty left Valet undisturbed. He sat on the edge of the bed, beside his brother.

Skeet lay flat on his back now, head propped on a stack of three pillows. He stared at the ceiling. In the light of the nightstand lamp, his face was as placid as that of a meditating yogi.

Remembering the apparent urgency and emotion with which the name had been scrawled on the notepad, Dusty murmured, "Dr. Yen Lo."

Although still in a state of disengagement from the world around him, Skeet spoke for the first time since Dusty had initially mentioned that name when they had been in the adjacent bathroom. "I'm listening," he said, which was precisely what he had said before.

"Listening to what?"

"Listening to what?"

"What're you doing?"

"What am I doing?" Skeet asked.

"I asked what you were listening to."

"You."

"Yeah. Okay, so tell me who's Dr. Yen Lo."

"You."

"Me? I'm your brother. Remember?"

"Is that what you want me to say?"

Frowning, Dusty said, "Well, it's the truth, isn't it?"

Although his face remained slack, expressionless, Skeet said, "Is it the truth? I'm confused."

"Join the club."

"What club do you want me to join?" Skeet asked with apparent seriousness.

"Skeet?"

"Hmmm?"

Dusty hesitated, wondering just how detached from reality the kid might be. "Do you know where you are?"

"Where am I?"

"So you don't know?"

"Do I?"

"Can't you look around?"

"Can I?"

"Is this an Abbott and Costello routine?"

"Is it?"

Frustrated, Dusty said, "Look around."

Immediately, Skeet raised his head off the pillows and surveyed the room.

"I'm sure you know where you are," Dusty said.

"New Life Clinic."

Skeet lowered his head onto the pillows once more. His eyes were again directed at the ceiling, and after a moment, they did something odd.

Not quite certain what he had seen, Dusty leaned closer to his brother, to look more directly at his face.

In the slant of the lamplight, Skeet's right eye was golden, and his left was a darker honey-brown, which gave him an unsettling aspect, as if two personalities were staring out of the same skull.

This trick of light was not, however, the thing that had caught Dusty's attention. He waited for almost a minute before he saw it again: Skeet's eyes jiggled rapidly back and forth for a few seconds, then settled once more into a steady stare.

"Yes, New Life Clinic," Dusty belatedly confirmed. "And you know why you're here."

"Flush the poisons out of the system."

"That's right. But have you taken something since you checked in, did you sneak drugs in here somehow?"

Skeet sighed. "What do you want me to say?"

The kid's eyes jiggled. Dusty mentally counted off seconds. Five. Then Skeet blinked, and his gaze steadied.

"What do you want me to say?" he repeated.

"Just tell the truth," Dusty encouraged. "Tell me if you snuck drugs in here."

"No."

"Then what's wrong with you?"

"What do you want to be wrong with me?"

"d.a.m.n it, Skeet!"

The faintest frown creased the kid's forehead. "This isn't the way it's supposed to be."

"The way what what is supposed to be?" is supposed to be?"

"This." Tension lines tweaked the corners of Skeet's mouth. "You aren't following the rules."

"What rules?"

Skeet's slack hands curled and tightened into half-formed fists.

His eyes jiggled again, side to side, this time while also rolling back in his head. Seven seconds.

REM. Rapid eye movement. According to psychologists, such movements of the closed eyes indicated that a sleeper was dreaming.

Skeet's eyes weren't closed, and though he was in some peculiar state, he wasn't asleep.

Dusty said, "Help me, Skeet. I'm not on the same page. What rules are we talking about? Tell me how the rules work."

Skeet didn't at once reply. Gradually the frown lines in his brow melted away. His skin became smooth and as pellucid as clarified b.u.t.ter, until it appeared as though the white of bone shone through. His stare remained fixed on the ceiling.

His eyes jiggled, and when the REM ceased, he spoke at last in a voice untouched by tension but also less flat than before. A whisper: "Clear cascades."

For all the sense they made, those two words might have been chosen at random, like two lettered Ping-Pong b.a.l.l.s expelled from a bingo hopper.

"Clear cascades," Dusty said. When his brother didn't respond, he pressed: "I need more help, kid."