Double Blind (11 page)

The words bit into me. So this was the reason behind Clair Saxton's cold armor. As surely as my childhood had molded me, Ice Queen's had molded her. In a strange way that united us. And we'd both lost our fathers at an early age. But childhood experiences ran deep. Because of her past, she could no more change her belief in the chip than I could deny the lingering effects of my mother. No matter what, Clair Saxton would cling to her narrow focus of protecting Cognoscenti, blind to any truth that its hot new product could be seriously defective.

And that made her my enemy.

My spine stiffened. “I'm very sorry for what you went through.” And I was. “Just don't let it color your judgment.”

Before she could reply, I hung up.

I crossed to the counter to put down the phone—

The man's hand reached for the zipper. Pulled it shut around the suitcase. For a moment the hand paused, dragon ring shining in the light.

He took hold of a handle at the left side of the bag. Raised it upright until the suitcase rested on its wheels. I heard the woman's body shift toward the bottom.

The man pulled out the suitcase's long black handle. Rolled it toward a door, painted off-white. I saw his feet in brown shoes, his legs as he drew back the door and propped it open with a stopper. He pulled the suitcase through the door into a garage.

The scene faded.

Every inch of me shook. Even with the scene gone, I could still hear the sound of that woman's body shifting in the suitcase. He was going to take her somewhere. Dump her like trash.

My right hand still held the phone. I dropped it into its base with a clatter. I hovered over the counter, afraid to move, afraid that more scenes would come.

Nothing.

Slowly my lungs filled with air. Dizziness washed over me. I really needed to eat. If I didn't, I'd surely fall over. I made my way to the refrigerator and pulled out a yogurt, some ham slices and cheese. Slumped in a chair at the table, I forced the food down, barely tasting.

I
had
to get this chip out of my brain. Now. I couldn't stand another day of this. Without Cognoscenti, I'd have to find another doctor to do it. Fortunately I had the money, thanks to Ryan's life insurance.

Except—then what? My depression would surge back. The thought nearly drove me to the floor. I couldn't bear that either.

What was I going to do?

Somehow I'd fight the depression. Somehow. At least I knew that enemy. These visions—every time I saw more details of the murder, I understood them less. If they weren't real, how could my brain just keep making them up on its own? And yet—how
could
they be real?

The food had disappeared. I drank a glass of water.

The black suitcase roared back into my mind. At first I tried to shove it away, but the rational side of me snagged on the new clues. The man had pulled that bag into a garage. He'd probably put it in a car and driven it somewhere. Would I see him doing that in some future vision? If I could just see the car's make and license plate . . .

I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. After 3:00 already. I needed to start looking for a new doctor. But how does someone find a brain surgeon? It's not like they're in the phone book. Wouldn't I need some kind of referral just to get an appointment?

Exhaustion hit me, just like that. I didn't have the strength for this search, not now. Instead I went to the couch and lay down. Sleep pulled at me, but I was afraid to drift off. What if someone broke into the apartment? What if the murderer in my visions came here, for me?

More paranoia, Lisa.
And completely illogical. Even if the man was real, he couldn't know that I knew what he'd done. That alone kept me safe.

But if I tried to stop Cognoscenti from putting the Empowerment Chip on the market, and the media got hold of the story—the man may very well find out. What would he do with that knowledge?

From somewhere in my mind, three words surfaced:
Knowledge is memory.

I stilled. Those words—they were important.

Where had I heard them? Or had I been reading it on the computer before Clair Saxton's call?

Knowledge is memory . . .

Shaking off my tiredness I rose from the couch and headed for the computer. The screen saver was on, rolling random photos. Ryan smiled at me, squinting, on a pristine beach in the Bahamas. A honeymoon picture.

My heart crimped.

A push of the mouse, and my husband's face blitzed off. The monitor filled with the article I'd been reading about the instant knowledge chip. My eyes flicked down the paragraphs. There
. “Knowledge is memory . . . Data releases from a chip to create the same memories in the recipient . . .”

Wait . . . what? I read the paragraph again. Then backed up and read it a third time in context. And a fourth. Somewhere along the way its meaning sank in.

It was too late to find a doctor.

I sat back in my chair and stared glassy-eyed at the monitor. No.
No
.

A fifth time I read the passage, begging to find another interpretation. But my fate was there in black and white. Even if I was right, if the chip in my brain did contain data from someone else, removing it wouldn't matter. The knowledge had flowed from that chip across my nerve synapses, becoming an integral part of me. Of my own brain.

The murderer's memories were now
my
memories.

Forever.

Chapter 13

The remaining hours of that afternoon melted
into each other. One minute I hugged myself on the couch. In the next I paced the floor. Twice I found myself back in bed, curled into a fetal position. The new reality sank into me like steel sinking in the ocean. When it hit bottom it dug in deep.

I would never be rid of the terrible memories.

Memories and experiences—that's who we
are
. I thought of Jason Bourne in
The Bourne Identity.
He had no memories, and was utterly lost. Imagine if his brain had been filled with false memories. He'd have become someone entirely different. Yes, that was only fiction. But what I'd read online proved the science was real.

Here I was, remembering details of a murder. No matter what I did, they would haunt me for the rest of my life. How could I carry these horrible pictures in my head
for the rest of my life
?

That evening I tried to eat some soup. Mostly I just cried into the bowl. My head throbbed, and my body shook with chills. Wild thoughts of fleeing halfway across the world ran through my mind. Anything to make myself forget.

But how do you run away from your own brain?

In the evening Sherry called. The minute I saw her ID, guilt washed over me. I'd never phoned her back.

“Okay, Lisa.” Her voice was firm. “The kids are in bed, and I can talk without being interrupted. And I
have
to know what's going on with you.”

Of course she did. She was my best friend. Must have been worried sick all day. “I'm so sorry I didn't call. I just . . . so much has happened, and I didn't know how to deal with it. I want to tell you. I
need
you to help me. I just don't know what to
do
.”

“What's going on? Is the chip working or not?

“Yes. But I keep seeing a murder.”

“What?”

“A murder. Some man kills a woman. Strangles, then stabs her. He zips her body in a suitcase and takes it out to his garage. So far that's all I know. But I'm willing to bet more will come.”

Silence splayed out, my best friend's shock simmering over the line. I could only let her stew in it.

“I'm coming over. Be there in ten minutes.” Sherry hung up.

I set the phone down and dropped my head in my hands. “God, please help me.” I poured out prayers, knowing God heard them. And He needed to do something. Just when I thought I was getting a new life—

The suitcase wheeled across the garage floor.

I jerked up, then went still, waiting.

The man rolled it toward the back of a black SUV. It had gold rims on the tires.

My eyes closed. The car!

He halted to open the hatchback. The door swung wide on perfectly oiled hinges—

A loud knock sounded at my door.

The scene scampered away.

No, no, come back.
For once, details rather than fear crowded my head. Had I seen the make of the car?

A second knock. Had I been praying that long? Sherry had gotten here fast.

Sweat popped out on my skin. I swiped at my forehead and pushed up from the chair. Somehow I had to find the energy to explain all this to her.

My legs felt like lead as I approached the door. A third knock came, harder. “All right, all right.” Hand on the knob, I checked through the peephole.

And saw my mother.

Chapter 14

I pulled open the door and stared at my mother. She
looked back in horror, her gaze drifting from my face to the bandage on my head. Before I could stop it my hand lifted to the stitches.

“Lisa, what happened to you?”

She was dressed in tan slacks, a gold knit top, and brown jacket. Looking so put together and perfect. A chic purse hung from one shoulder, a leather laptop case from the other. Next to her sat a black suitcase. I cringed at the sight of it.

“What are you doing here?”

She eyed me a moment longer, then reached for the handle of her suitcase. “Is that any way to greet your mother?” With a flick of her hand she motioned me to move back. Robot-like, I obeyed. She wheeled her bag into the apartment. I closed the door.

We looked at each other some more. Any remaining energy I'd had drained out my feet.

She straightened her back. “I came to take care of you. And clearly you need it.”

Not from you.

At my telling silence Mom's mouth opened, then closed. She glanced past the living room. “As I remember, you have an extra bedroom.”

She'd stayed with me when she came for Ryan's funeral. “Yes. The computer's in there.”

She gave me a look.

“And a bed, too, I mean.”

A corner of her mouth lifted. “Good. I'll just put my things in there. First on the right?”

I nodded.

I watched her go. When she returned I still stood there.

She put her hands on her hips. “Looks to me like you should get off your feet.”

No kidding. A heart attack about now wouldn't surprise me. I headed for the couch.

The minute I sat something clicked inside me. Why was I acting like this just because she'd shown up? I wasn't the scared child I'd once been, trembling in my mother's presence for fear of the next cutting remark. It was high time I got over that.

My mother took a seat in Ryan's armchair and looked me over. For a split second some emotion—reticence? fright?—flicked across her face.

Or had I imagined that?

“Lisa, what happened to you?” Her voice softened. “Please don't tell me you were attacked a second time.”

There it was again, in her tone. My mother was actually afraid for me.

It took a moment to gather myself. “Nothing like that.” I rubbed my palm over the couch cushion. “I . . . had a medical procedure, and I'm still recovering.”

“What kind of—”

Another knock at the door. Mom's head swiveled toward it. “You expecting someone?”

“Sherry.”

“Oh.” A terse response that dripped with the memory of their last caustic exchange at Ryan's funeral. “You should have told me she was coming.”

That comment deserved no response.

I walked to the door on wooden legs. Oh, man. My mother was enough, but with Sherry in the room? I opened the door with trepidation. “Hi, Sherry. Guess what? Mom's here.”

Sherry's chin dipped. She gave me a look through the tops of her eyeballs.