Dead Wrong (35 page)

Still no word on McCarthy.

M
CCARTHY BECAME AWARE of a touch on his shoulder and someone saying, “Tom, wake up. It’s just past seven.”

He squinted at the light, momentarily disoriented. Where was he? This wasn’t his bed. Didn’t sound like Caroline. It came flooding back. He cracked his eyes. Sarah stood over him, a white Starbucks cup in hand.

She offered him the coffee. “Here, hope you like lattes. I picked up two of their breakfast sandwiches too.” She was dressed with her hair brushed, looking great. Then again, he couldn’t imagine a situation where she wouldn’t look good. Last night’s shower fantasy flashed through his mind.

He pushed up and knuckled both eyes before accepting the cup. He took a sip, “Wonderful,” then set it on the bedside table. “Let me go rinse off my face.” His bladder also needed attention.

H
E STUDIED HIMSELF in the bathroom and was surprised to see a face looking more refreshed than last night. On the counter was a hairbrush, toothbrush, a travel tube of toothpaste, and a blue disposable razor. Sarah had been busy, picking up more than just breakfast. How thoughtful.

He exited the bathroom to find breakfast waiting on the small coffee table. Paper plates, each with a breakfast sandwich, and the grande latte. He sat down. “Looks great.”

She picked up her sandwich. “Where do we start this morning?”

We start
. He looked at her a moment. “I know we discussed this last night, but I need to ask again. You sure you want to stay involved in this? So far, no one knows about you. Soon as they do, you’re an accomplice.”

She set down her sandwich. “I know. And I thought about that again last night. My decision hasn’t changed.”

Her help would be crucial, but the risk concerned him. “You understand the risks?”

“Tom!”

Words of gratitude seemed trivial. He’d think of some way to thank her if they got out of this mess.

“Okay then. First thing we need to do is run up to Everett—Sisters of Mercy, or whatever it’s called,” he said, with a dismissive wave, “and find out if Baker’s telling the truth.”

She’d picked up her sandwich again. “I still don’t quite see what exactly that’ll accomplish.”

“It’s nothing more than a hunch.” The first bite of sandwich made him realize how hungry he was.

Sarah asked, “Help me out here. Let’s say we find that Bobbie really
did
deliver Jordan. What does that tell us?”

He pointed to his mouth then held up that finger. A moment later, “In that case, we know the birth really happened and those are truly her memories. But that’s the thing. I don’t believe it really did happen. At least, not to her. Do you?”

“I don’t either. Okay, so say we discover she didn’t deliver Jordan. Then what? Where’s that leave us?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. But validating what’s real and what’s not is the first logical the step in figuring this mess out. So far we’ve rejected Bobbie’s story based on her husband’s denial it happened. We never checked to see who’s right.”

She took another bite, thinking about what he’s just said. Then, “I still don’t get why we’re so concerned about Bobbie’s story. Aren’t we looking for evidence to prove you’re innocent? Didn’t we decide our best way to do so was to show Wyse is trying to cover up something?”

Before falling asleep, McCarthy had debated whether to tell her his suspicions or wait until he had more information. He’d hesitated because what he had to say would sound implausible. On the other hand, she deserved to know.

“This is going to sound totally off the wall, so bear with me. If Bobbie’s memories are real and she
did
deliver a baby boy, we have nothing and will have to look elsewhere. But if that memory isn’t really something she experienced, we need to find out how she got it. We know Wyse treated her for PTSD. How do we know his treatment isn’t somehow responsible for her having the memory?”

She thought about that. “What could that possibly be? Hypnosis?”

“I’m not sure, but I intend to find out. Meaning, the place to start is the medical records.” Back where this all started.

She nodded slowly. “Makes sense. Sort of.” She studied the sandwich in her hand, then curled up the edge of the top bun and inspected the egg. Apparently satisfied with it, she put it back together and prepared to take a bite. “How soon before you want to take off?”

“Soon as we finish breakfast.”

S
IKES’S CELL RANG. The display showed Wyse’s office number. “Sikes.” He was still working on his latte.

“It’s Wyse. Got a couple thoughts about McCarthy.”

“I’m listening.”

“He saw two of my patients for a second opinion. It occurred to me he might try to contact them.”

What was he missing here? “Not sure I see the relevance?”

“I don’t have time to explain. But there’s a good chance McCarthy might try to contact them in person. I suggest you check it out.”

Sikes considered how best that might be done. “Since they know you and not me, wouldn’t we be more likely to get a straight answer if you contact them instead of me?”

“You’re right. Hadn’t thought of it that way. I’ll call.”

Sikes figured that wasn’t very likely to yield anything, but at this point a weak lead was better than no lead at all. He had to hand it to Wyse for trying to help like this. “Let me know immediately, one way or another.”

Sikes disconnected and returned to his computer. He was using the store’s Wi-Fi system to search deeper into McCarthy’s life and had just stumbled upon his sailboat. Using Google maps, he located the marina and estimated it would be a thirty-minute drive from here. So fucking obvious. Why hadn’t he thought to check this possibility sooner? He packed up the computer and headed back to the car, latte in hand.

A
S SARAH DROVE, McCarthy rehashed Bobbie Baker’s story, wracking his memory for bits of information and flaws in his logic. How could Baker remember so many vivid details of an event everyone claimed never happened? At least not to her. Okay, so maybe she’d internalized someone else’s memories. Most likely a girlfriend’s. Unless a person was an accomplished liar or very good actor, secondhand stories didn’t include so many convincing emotions. When Bobbie recounted Jordan’s birth, she spoke with such genuine feeling that it was impossible to believe she was fabricating the story. Yet her family insisted she’d never been pregnant. Same thing with her memories of having to identify her murdered brother’s body at the medical examiner’s office.

What if she had been admitted to Sisters of Mercy and no one knew about it? Problem was, if the date of Jordan’s birth was accurate, she was married to Trent. How would that work? Her husband didn’t seem like the kind of guy who wouldn’t notice his wife’s pregnancy. And if she really had delivered a baby, why would he deny it? He thought about Anne. Could she have hidden a full-term pregnancy from him? Hardly. And what happened to Jordan? Adopted? Just too many unanswered questions.

He wasn’t alone in his impression. Sarah agreed that Bobbie didn’t come across as a pathologic liar, and Sarah struck him as an excellent judge of character. On the other hand, doctors were programmed to believe their patients.

Unless of course, Bobbie was lying and had internalized up all those perfect little details from friends describing their own deliveries. Spin the same lie often enough and you end up believing it. Hell, with all the trauma-induced gaps in her own memory, Bobbie might not realize the difference. Made you wonder.

If his suspicion was correct—that the memories were the result of Wyse’s treatment of her PTSD—how could that possibly happen? Posthypnotic suggestion was the only thing that came to mind. But this brought on the question of why he would implant such memories?

The same argument applied to Charlie Russell. It just didn’t make sense.

I
T TURNED OUT neither McCarthy nor Sarah had actually set foot in Everett, only passed by on Interstate 5 a couple times. So, before leaving the hotel she’d Googled Sisters of Mercy on her cell phone, found the webpage, and played navigator. He knew only a few facts about the city. It was in the “convergence zone”—an unfortunate area north of Seattle where weather forces collide to produce even more rain than in the city.

Sarah exited I-5 onto Broadway and headed downtown. They passed two main streets before reaching a tired-looking Catholic hospital of red bricks. She pulled into a newer three-story parking garage and set the parking brake. “Want me to go with you or stay here?”

“Let’s go together. Might look more convincing.”

As a disguise, McCarthy slipped on dark glasses and a Mariners cap he’d picked up in the hotel gift shop. Now wished he’d selected clothes more befitting a doctor. Then again, on Saturday of a three-day weekend most doctors would dress down.

“This is the best I can do.”

Sarah nodded approval and unclipped her seatbelt.

B
EING UNFAMILIAR WITH the building, McCarthy passed up a side entrance for the front door above which a weatherbeaten Jesus stared down on visitors, his outstretched arms streaked with years of sunbaked pigeon shit. Although the red brick exterior had been refurbished at some time in the recent past the building still projected a tired institutional aura. The halls were dog-eared and worn also.

A lobby wall displayed a Western European–looking Jesus Christ with a glowing heart in cupped hands. For McCarthy it brought back sepia-toned memories of Jesuit prep school: sweaty gym clothes, macaroni and cheese, the smell of a rotting orange one locker over. An information desk was manned by a withered, white-haired woman with the masked face of early stage Parkinson’s disease.

She asked, “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for the medical records department.”

She pointed a tremoring, arthritic finger. “End of that hall, third door on the left. Can’t miss it.”