Dying Memories Read online

  Chapter 23

  When Bill comes to after the second time his dad breaks his nose, he hurts all over, especially his face. He’s lying on the sofa; his dad must’ve picked him up and placed him on it. He tries opening his eyes, but they are too swollen, and he can’t open either of them more than a crack. He struggles to push himself up and ends up collapsing back onto the sofa.

  “You had no right saying any of that to me,” his dad says, his voice low and gloomy and coming from the other side of the room. Without looking at him, Bill knows his dad is sitting in his chair watching him. “What did you expect saying such hurtful things to your own father?”

  Bill doesn’t say anything. He slowly runs his tongue over his teeth, and is relieved that he hasn’t lost any of them. After that there is a long silence lasting several minutes which his dad breaks by telling him that he needs to get him to the hospital. His dad then helps him to his feet and out of the apartment.

  When they arrive at the emergency room, Frank tells the attendant manning the check-in desk that Bill fell down a flight of stairs. She gives him a wary look, but doesn’t say anything at the time. When Bill is brought in to see a doctor, a security guard comes over to tell his dad to wait where he is. For a moment Frank looks as if he’s going to put up a fight over that, but instead sits back in his chair, his face deflated.

  “Did you really fall down a flight of stairs?” the doctor asks Bill once they’re alone.

  “Yeah,” Bill forces out, his jaw swollen so much that it is hard to talk.

  “It looks more like you were beaten,” the doctor says.

  Slowly, painfully, Bill repeats that he fell down stairs. He repeats the same when the police come to question him. The hospital holds him overnight, but outside of a broken nose and concussion he escaped serious injury from his beating. He’s released the next morning after a woman from Social Services talks to him about his home life, and particularly his father. A week later Bill packs what he has into a duffel bag and leaves home.

  Chapter 24

  The sales clerk from the spy shop had moved over to Bill so he could whisper without being overheard. “You’ve got something,” he said, his voice hushed but excited. “You want me to find it? Only take a minute with this baby.”

  Bill shook his head. He took several steps further away from his car and signaled for the sales clerk to join him. “What did you find?” Bill asked. “GPS transmitter or bug?”

  “Both,” the sales clerk indicated in the same hushed tone. Bill nodded grimly. It didn’t matter anymore whether he dropped his investigation or not. If they were bugging his car they weren’t going to back down. Even if he didn’t want a fight, he had no choice now. He got in his car and drove away from the spy shop. His next stop was the car dealership where he had bought his car a year earlier. When he got to the service desk he complained about how his car was stalling on him. “It’s happened four times already,” Bill told the service representative. “Each time it’s when I’m in stop-and-go traffic. Last time was an hour ago. I was traveling on 93 coming over the bridge and this damn car almost got me killed.”

  The service representative looked genuinely surprised. “There have been no reports of that problem with your model,” he claimed.

  “Yeah, well, you’ve got one now. I’m not driving the car again until you figure out what the hell’s going on and fix it. And I want a loaner car until that happens.”

  The service representative looked like he wanted to argue, but Bill had made sure earlier to mention that he was reporter for the Tribune and the rep recognized his name from Bill’s recent front page bylines. Instead the rep made a few phone calls and gave Bill an unhappy smile, telling him that he would make sure things were taken care of. When Bill left the dealership, he left with a loaner car.

  At a quarter to nine Bill was camped out across the street from ViGen Corporation’s headquarters, a nondescript gray brick building in the Central Square section of Cambridge. They had no sign out front, just the street number painted onto a glass security door. Security cameras were visible above the main entrance and Bill tried to keep out of their range. He also tried to look like he was waiting for someone and held a coffee cup in one hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm. While he stood there he used his cell phone to discreetly take pictures of the odd assortment of workers who entered the building. Almost all of them had that awkward quality that identified them as scientists, but a few were dressed well and had the more straight-laced look that most likely put them on the business side of things. After a half hour of this, Bill tossed his empty coffee cup and newspaper into a trash can, and walked across the street heading towards ViGen’s front entrance.

  Chapter 25

  Emily sat inside one of the cafes lining Hanover Street. On the table in front of her was a double espresso and a small stack of books that she had brought so she could do research for her doctorate thesis, but she kept finding herself distracted. Even though she fought against it, she kept playing back in her mind how Bill had told her he been abducted in broad daylight, then later admitting that he made the story up.

  When he first told her about being thrown into a van outside his apartment, it stunned her. She badly wanted to ask him if one of the men involved was a thin very pink-faced man with dot-sized black eyes, but in her shock she reacted defensively, even somewhat angrily, as all the dangers that she had been imagining were suddenly becoming very real. Then Bill admitted that he made the story up as some kind of bad joke, and all she could feel was foolish, almost like he had betrayed her by playing on her gullibility.

  She took a sip of her double espresso, added more sugar, stirred it, and took another sip. Satisfied with her espresso then, she took one more sip before putting the cup back down on the table and picking up a book on early Italian baroque sculptures.

  Emily tried to concentrate on the book, but her mind wandered as she imagined the way Bill looked when he told her his abduction story. Damn, he had a good poker face. He seemed so sincere at that moment. She found herself blushing with embarrassment thinking of how at first she thought it possible and how it had momentarily freaked her out. She tried to understand why he would tell her something like that in the first place, and the more she did this the more disappointed she became in him. Enough of that! She knew she was prone to looking for any excuse she could to keep people at arm’s length, and she didn’t want to do this with Bill. She certainly didn’t want to see their relationship damaged over something that was meant only as a joke, regardless of how bad a joke it might’ve been.

  She checked the clock on the wall and saw that she didn’t have much time before she had to be heading off to the university. She took several more sips of her espresso and forced herself to concentrate on her early Italian baroque art instead.

  Chapter 26

  Bill showed ViGen’s bullet-headed security guard his fake Boston Globe press credentials that used the name Mark Sullivan. Jeremy had made these credentials for him so he could use them when he needed anonymity, and he had done the same for Jeremy, providing him fake Tribune press credentials.

  “I’m doing a story on the growth of biotech companies in Cambridge and am hoping to be able to talk to your press relations person,” Bill said with a sincere smile.

  The guard stared blankly at Bill for a long moment before telling Bill to take a seat. The only chair was placed on the opposite end of the lobby and the guard waited until Bill did as he was asked before he got on the phone. After a few minutes of talking over the phone in a voice too low for Bill to pick up what was being said, the guard put the receiver down and informed Bill that someone would be seeing him.

  It didn’t take long after that, maybe three minutes, before a steel security door opened and a well-dressed man in a black power suit came out to greet Bill. The man looked a lot like Michael Douglas’s Gordon Gekko character from Wall Street, complete with a thick coating of gel greasing down his hair. His head tilted slightly to one side as he hel
d out his hand. Bill took the man’s hand and introduced himself using his Boston Globe alias. The man kept quiet about his own name and position in the company.

  “I hear you’re doing a story on the local biotech scene?” the man said with an overly friendly smile.

  “You heard right.”

  “I’m curious,” the man said. “How’d you pick us?”

  “I’m looking into every company in the area and when I saw your web-site promising the next generation of immunology technologies I put you guys at the top of my list. I’m hoping you’ll be able to give me a few minutes of your time.”

  “Of course, of course,” the man said. “Can I please see some identification? A driver’s license? Press credentials?”

  Bill handed over his fake press credentials and a matching fake driver’s license. The man peered at them with disinterest before handing them back.

  “Mr. Sullivan,” he said. “We’re at a very early stage in our development and need to operate in stealth mode so as not to give our competition any advantages. At this time we’re not seeking publicity, but when that changes, hopefully in the near future, I’ll be sure to give you a call. I’m sorry, but there’s not much more I can tell you.”

  “Other than that you’re involved in immunology technologies,” Bill said.

  The man smiled at that. “In the broadest terms, we’re trying to come up with a super-vaccine for the flu, something that will save thousands of lives yearly, as well as billions of lost dollars in productivity. I know that’s very vague and pie in the sky, but that’s all I can tell you. I hope that’s enough.”

  “Very impressive,” Bill said.

  “Yes, it is,” the man agreed.

  “Very impressive security door over there also. Steel, huh? None of the other companies I’ve visited have bothered with anything like that.”

  “As I mentioned, we’re working on a flu vaccine,” the man said, his smile cracking and a note of irritation in his voice. “We have hazardous biological materials that require this level of security. The door is appropriate.”

  “Let me guess, machine gun turrets on the other side?”

  The man’s thin smile disappeared, his expression all but saying that their discussion was over. He turned to walk away.

  “How long did Tim Zhang work here?” Bill asked.

  The man stopped and gave Bill a mildly amused look. “What?”

  “Tim Zhang. An immunology scientist from MIT. He was stabbed to death a year and a half ago.”

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about,” the man said.

  “Yeah, well, I’m surprised by that. I know he worked here. Who’s funding you?”

  The man faced Bill full on, a glint in his eyes. Bill also caught the signal he gave the security guard, as well as the guard talking quickly and softly over the phone.

  “Let’s quit this nonsense. You’re not here to do an article on local biotech companies,” the man said. Without bothering to wait for an answer, he looked at his watch, then back at Bill. “I can give you ten minutes and see if I can clear up your misconceptions. Why don’t we go back to my office?”

  Bill caught the way the security guard’s eyes darted in the direction of the steel door. “No thanks,” Bill said, “maybe another time.” He backed up and left through the front entrance before he had a chance to see who the security guard and the Gordon Gekko look-alike were waiting for. “Some other time then,” the Gordon Gekko look-alike called out to Bill with mild disappointment as he waved genially. Bill self-consciously found himself waving back.

  Chapter 27

  Dr. Sidney Whitfield’s soft owl-like face squeezed into a perturbed frown. “That is not possible,” he insisted, a nasal whine edging into his voice. “Injecting a subject with sodium pentothal will certainly aid and speed up the hypnotic process, but hypnotizing someone to commit murder? No. It simply does not work that way.”

  “What about creating false memories with hypnosis?” Bill asked.

  Whitfield’s frown grew more pained. “Not in an adult, no, at least not in the way you’re suggesting,” he said. “In a small child, maybe. For an adult, you would require brainwashing techniques, which is much different than hypnosis and far more intensive. It would take days, if not weeks. And to brainwash this woman into believing that she had a child who was murdered, a child who never in fact existed….” Whitfield rubbed his jaw while he considered the possibility of it, his fingers kneading deeply into his dough-like flesh. “I don’t know,” he murmured, a bit flustered. “But if something like that were possible it would take a long and drawn-out effort to break down the subject’s personality. I’ve never read any literature on the subject suggesting something as extreme as being able to create memories within a mother of a child who was never actually born.”

  “That part of it was an accident,” Bill said. “They grabbed the wrong woman. They meant to take Janet Larson, but Larson and Hawes looked so much alike…”

  Bill stopped as he saw how his theory fell apart. If they thought they had grabbed Janet Larson they would’ve brainwashed her that Forster had murdered her daughter. They never would’ve bothered trying to make her believe that she’d had this daughter in the first place.

  Whitfield smiled sympathetically at Bill, clearly seeing the same hole in Bill’s logic that he was now seeing himself. “Anything else I can help you with?” Whitfield asked.

  Bill shook his head and thanked the psychologist for his time. Something bizarre was going on, but it wasn’t what he had first imagined. Still, though, some bizarre shit. Abducting him in broad daylight and shooting at him. His car bugged, a GPS transmitter planted also. And then there were those emails from his good pal, G. He wished he could just dismiss them as cranks. Except G knew about his abduction. Not just knew about it, but claimed that he had organized his rescue…unless he was bullshitting about that part of it. G could’ve been only watching him. That Hummer running the stop sign and plowing into the side of the van could’ve been just a fluke accident. Maybe Tim Zhang had worked for ViGen Corporation, then again, maybe not. Even if he had, what would that mean? He was a renowned immunologist, the company is working on a revolutionary flu vaccine. Nothing sinister there…

  Except there was something sinister about the place. Even before they sent for muscle to deal with him he felt there was something very wrong there. Maybe it was the way that bullet-headed guard had stared at Bill when he first approached him, almost as if he knew who Bill was and that the identity he was being given was false. The same was true with that Gordon Gekko look-alike. Bill caught his flash of a smirk when Gekko glanced at the fake identification, also the look in the man’s eyes when he addressed Bill by his fake name, almost as if he were deciding whether or not to continue with the charade. But what really made the hairs stand up on the back of Bill’s neck was Gekko trying to get him behind that steel door.

  Different ideas of what to do next spun rapidly through Bill’s head as he drove, but nothing that held much promise. Without much hope for success he called Thomas Roberson. When the lawyer answered, his voice was less cheery than the day before.

  “I still haven’t decided if it’s in my client’s best interest to talk to you,” Roberson said flatly.

  “That’s not why I’m calling,” Bill said. Distracted, he had to brake quickly to avoid running a red light. A woman walking past him in the crosswalk glared hotly at him. Bill barely noticed. “I want to suggest that you have your psychiatrist examine Gail again.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “This might sound crazy.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “She might’ve been brainwashed.”

  There was a long uncomfortable silence before Roberson asked if Bill could repeat what he had said. Bill did so.

  “And why would I do something like that?” Roberson asked, somewhat incredulously.

  “It’s a theory I’m looking into,” Bill admitted.

  “And what would Gail hav
e been brainwashed to do?”

  Bill only paused briefly before saying, “The obvious. To murder Kent Forster.”

  All cheeriness in the lawyer’s voice left then, replaced by something cold and distant. “Do you have any reason to suspect this happened?” he asked.

  “Not really. Again, it’s just a theory. But it would help to know if your client went missing for several days before the shooting.”

  There was more silence from the lawyer, then Roberson saying, “I know you talked to Trey Megeet’s attorney. Paul gave me a call afterwards. Are you also trying to tell me that you believe Mr. Megeet was brainwashed?”

  “I’m not sure right now what to believe,” Bill admitted. The light had changed. He rode through the intersection, and mentioned to Roberson how Hawes and Megeet both had unexplained puncture marks on them.

  “Why would you think Gail’s puncture mark is what anyone would consider mysterious?” Roberson asked stiffly. “It was caused by a recent tetanus shot. And whether Gail has had any unexplained disappearances, wait one minute.”

  Bill heard the receiver being put down, then papers shuffled. When the receiver was picked back up, Roberson said, “The answer is no. I have Gail’s personnel file from work, and not only did she have a perfect attendance, it’s been over a year since she took a vacation. So I’m afraid, Mr. Conway, you’re barking up the wrong tree with this so-called theory.”

  “Yeah, well, it still couldn’t hurt to talk to her psychiatrist about it,” Bill said. He added jokingly. “Worst case, maybe you could use it to confuse a jury.”

  “I have to be ending this call,” Roberson said, his tone chilly enough that Bill could almost feel a wave of frost coming over his cell phone. “And I doubt at this point that it would be a good idea for me to allow you to meet with my client.”