F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 (10 page)

 
          
"But
about this boyfriend
—
was he here?"

 
          
"He
came every day
—
many times a day. Banging on
her door so
loudly.
But she had it bolted from the other side and would
not let him in. He was very angry. Many times I picked up the phone to call the
police
—
but he always left."

 
          
"What
was his name?"

 
          
"Jimmy
... she called him Jimmy Walsh."

 
          
"Where
does he liver'

           
Another Gallic shrug. "I do not
know." She swept her arm toward the empty bureau and its scattered
contents. "But even though I have changed the lock, I am sure that he did
this."

 
          
"Then
he could have been in and out without your knowing it?"

 
          
"Of
course. I have six tenants. I can't keep track of all their comings and goings.
But I knew when he was here that final night." She pointed to the new lock
and doorjamb. "He broke the lock,

 
          
Julie
shivered at the violence done to the wood. "He didn't hurt her, did
he?"

 
          
"I
don't know. I don't think so. I heard the crash and was on my way upstairs when
he came racing down shouting that Samantha was sick, unconscious. Already I was
worried about her because she hadn't answered when I last knocked. I went up
and saw that she was lying on the floor before her easel... then 1 called for
an ambulance. As soon as it arrived, her young man fled."

 
          
"Have
you seen him since then?"

 
          
She
shook her head. "No. But I bet he did this, I bet he's been back. I know
it. And I'm going to call the police."

 
          
"Do
you really think that is necessary?" Eathan asked, touching the woman's
shoulder. "I wish you wouldn't."

 
          
Julie
was struck by the request. Why didn't he want the police involved? Then Eathan
shot Julie a look that said, I'll
explain later.

 
          
"No,
I'm sorry," she said, heading out the door onto the landing. "I
cannot have strange men coming into my house."

 
          
As
she started down the stairs, Julie turned to Eathan.

 
          
"Why
not call the police?"

 
          
Eathan
glanced out into the hall, then gently shut the door.

 
          
"Because
... 1 know who this Jimmy Walsh is," he said in a low voice. "And
that's not his name. His real name is Liam O'Donnell and he's wanted by
Scotland Yard."

 
          
"Oh,
great. Can Sam pick them or what. What's he wanted for? Drugs?"

 
          
"1
almost wish."

 
          
Julie
stiffened. "What, then?"

 
          
"Terrorism.
They want him in connection with a number of IRA fire bombings in
London
and
Belfast
. Even now before the
cease-fire they say he's an arsonist."

 
          
"Oh,
God! Did Sam know?"

 
          
He
nodded slowly. "Yes."

 
          
Julie
was shocked speechless for a moment. What on earth had Sam got herself into?

 
          
"That's
why I didn't want the gendarmes called in. If they find out who this fellow is they'll
come asking about Samantha. It could be dangerous for her. She's not protected
here. I think she's got enough trouble at the moment."

 
          
"How
did you find out about him.
⁷
"

 
          
"I
ran into him here on one of my visits. After only a few moments of conversation
I felt sure that he was hiding something. I hired a detective to run a check on
him. I tried to warn Sam...."

 
          
"Ever
the guardian angel."

 
          
He
sighed. "In Samantha's case, somebody has to be."

 
          
"Do
you think this O'Donnell had anything to do with her coma?"

 
          
"I
don't know. From the way Mme. DuPont tells it, it doesn't sound like he had
time to do anything, and there were no marks on Sam's body. But who
knows?"

 
          
Julie
looked around. Sam's studio suddenly had a terribly sinister feel to it...
filled with the presence of whoever did this. Julie tried to shake off the
feeling. She looked around the studio....

 
          
What
had happened here? What had gone on in Sam's life, in her mind, during that
week of seclusion before her coma? What had she been painting when she locked
herself away?

 
          
"What
about all this?" she said, looking at the paintings. "What will
happen to them?"

 
          
"They
stay right here. I've paid the rent in advance till the end of the year and
nothing will be touched. When Sam comes back I want it to look just as she left
it. I want her to be able to resume her life ... her art."

 
          
She
turned and looked at Eathan. "What did we ever do to deserve you?"

 
          
"Don't
be silly," he said, looking uncomfortable. "I'm just doing what your
father would do."

 
          
On
the way out Julie stopped at Mme. DuPont's apartment.

           
"Madame?" she said as the
woman opened the door. "Which painting was my sister's last? You said that
you saw her working on a big canvas."

 
          
"Ah
yes, but I do not know," she said. "The easel was empty when I found
her."

 
          
So
what is consciousness, after all? How does that three-and' a-half-pound lump of
gray cheese inside our skulls produce a mind? The philosophical debate gets
politicized, but scientifi' colly, we're closing in on the nuts and bolts of
the process. And it does appear to be a process rather than a state. The latest
work from Llinds and others points to a 40 cps binding wave moving front to
back across the cortex
—
one pass every 0.025 seconds
—
that links up all the areas of the cortex and conveys their
information to the thalamus.

 
          
—
Random notes: Julia Gordon

1

 
          
 As
soon as she got back to the inn, Julie placed a call to
New York
. It was a little after
eight there now. They should all be hard at work. She was glad to hear Dr.
Siegal's voice.

 
          
"Yes,
yes. The proposal and protocol are coming along fine, just as you laid them
out. Now, tell me about your sister."

 
          
He
was sympathetic and as baffled as everyone else after she filled him in on the
medical details of Sam's condition.

 
          
"I
don't understand. You're sure there's no toxin?" he said.

           
"They ran a complete toxicology
screen
—
all negative."

 
          
"Julie,
no toxicology screen is complete. They can't possibly screen for everything.
They screen for the usual."

 
          
"But
even if there is some unknown toxin at work, if it's potent enough to put her
in a coma, wouldn't it affect the EEG?"

 
          
"Not
necessarily. The EEG registers cortical activity. So what if your sister has
been exposed to a toxin that affects sub-cortical activity?"

 
          
"I
hadn't thought of that. Is there such a thing?"

 
          
"What
do I know from toxins? Nothing. But I do know from unconscious. And with an
unusual case like your sister's, maybe we should go back to basics and ask
ourselves, What is consciousness? Neurologically speaking, of course. We're not
interested in epistemology at the moment, so maybe I should rephrase: What does
the brain require to be conscious?"

 
          
"A
functioning cortex, of course," Julie said. "And the arousal
mechanisms of the reticular activating system ..."

 
          
"And
communication
between the cortex and the RAS."

 
          
Julie
considered that. The reticular activating system wasn't an anatomically
discrete organ; it was a functional unit spread out through the upper brain
stem. So there was no single connection.

 
          
She
said, "So what if Sam's cortex and RAS aren't communicating
—
no anatomical lesion, just a functional block between the
two? What sort of clinical picture would you have?"

 
          
"You'd
have an unarousable, unresponsive person with a completely normal neurological
exam."

 
          
"Right!
Which describes Sam perfectly," Julie said. They were onto something. She
could feel excitement beginning to percolate through her. "How do we
confirm it?"

 
          
"I
haven't the foggiest," Dr. Siegal said. "It's a hypothetical
condition. If you had some history, someone who was with her before she passed
into unconsciousness ..."

 
          
"No
good. She locked herself in her room."

 
          
"Then
I'm afraid you'll have to wait until she wakes up to ask her."

 
          
"No
one's sure she
will
wake up. She . . ."

 
          
Julie's
voice trailed off as an idea burst in her brain with the force of a bomb.

 
          
"Julie?"
Dr. Siegal said. "Are you still
—
?"

           
"Ask her!" she cried.
"God, I'll
ask
Samantha!"

 
          
"That's
the spirit. She should come around soon and
—
"

 
          
"No-no.
In her memoryscape. I can go into her memoryscape and find out what happened
during that lost week."

 
          
She
couldn't remember being this excited in years. It was so obvious, and so
simple. All she had to do was
—

 
          
"No."
Dr. Siegal's voice was firm, almost angry. "Absolutely not. I'm sorry. I
won't allow it."

 
          
Julie
felt as if someone had dashed ice water in her face.

 
          
"Why
on earth not? We only use it on unconscious subjects. Sam is unconscious with a
vengeance. This will be an actual clinical application of the technology. This
could be a huge breakthrough."

 
          
"No.
We're not ready for that. I'd have strong reservations even if she weren't your
sister."

 
          
"What
does being my sister have to do with it?'

 
          
"You've
heard the maxim that a doctor shouldn't treat a member of his own family? Well,
that holds doubly true here."

 
          
"I'm
not a physician and I wouldn't be treating her."

 
          
"The
bond is too intimate. She's your sister. You'll be entering a memoryscape in
which you are a participant. You're
in
there, Julie. Have you thought of
that?'

 
          
"Well,
no ..."

 
          
Truthfully,
Julie hadn't. It was a disturbing thought.

 
          
"You'll
be running into yourself, not necessarily as you were, but as your sister
perceived you. Since you tell me you two had a stormy relationship, that might
not be too pleasant."

 
          
"I
can handle it."

 
          
"Knowing
you, I'd say you probably can. But there's another factor that concerns me even
more."

 
          
"What's
that?"

 
          
"The
genetic factor. You did tell me she's your identical twin?"

 
          
"Yes."

 
          
"So
you share not only a history, but an identical set of genes as well. That's an
unpredictable and possibly dangerous combinmore."

 
          
"I
don't see that."

 
          
"Think
about it, Julie. The memoryscape software works by interfacing your brain waves
with the subject's. So far the computer has had no difficulty differentiating
between experimenter and subject. But it's never been challenged with a pair
of identical twins. What if your brain-wave patterns are so similar that it
can't separate them? What if you leave some of yourself with Sam and take some
of her back with you?"

 
          
"Don't
tell me you really think that's possible. It sounds too far-fetched."

 
          
"So
does the memoryscape program. But it works, doesn't it? I can't imagine it
tangling brain waves under normal circumstances, but with identical twins ...
I don't know. The results could be merely inconvenient, or they could be
devastating
—
to both of you."

 
          
Julie
suppressed a shudder. The possibility was unsettling, but it was no more than
that
—
a possibility. And a remote
one at that. She wasn't going to let it stop her.

 
          
"It's
a moot point anyway," Dr. Siegal was saying. "You don't have access
to sufficient computer power there, and you don't have the software or the
hardware."

 
          
"What
about the Internet? I could access the mainframe that way."

 
          
"Uh-uh.
Not enough bandwidth."

 
          
"All
right, then we'll use the satellite link
—
same
as we did when we demoed the memoryscape for the NSF down in D.C."

 
          
"Forget
it, Julie. You're not going in there. I'm not allowing it."

 
          
Anger
flared in her. "Just a goddamn minute here. I'm part of this project too.
Don't I have any say?" She caught herself.

 
          
Dr.
Siegal paused. "Of course you do. But I'm still the head of the project
and I won't risk my number one researcher
—
my
number one
brain,
about whom I happen to care very much, by the way
—
in such a dangerous and reckless experiment."

 
          
"It's
not reckless. This means a lot to me, Mordecai."

 
          
Silence
on the other end. She never called him by his first name
—
never even thought of him by his first name.

 
          
"A
lot to me," she continued. "More than you can imagine."

 
          
She
had to do this. Julie knew she wouldn't be able to rest until she'd seen Sam's
memoryscape.

 
          
"Maybe
we can find somebody else to go in. . . ."

 
          
"There
is
nobody else. I'm the best and you know it."

 
          
"That's
why I won't risk you."

           
Julie fumed silently for a moment.
Finally ...

 
          
"Then
I resign."

 
          
She
heard him gasp. "You don't mean that!"

 
          
Maybe
I do and maybe I don't, she thought. This wasn't a good time to be offering an
ultimatum. She was tired, hungry, angry, and frustrated enough to hurl the phone
through the window.

 
          
But
now that she'd said it, she wasn't backing down. She only prayed he wouldn't
call her on it.

 
          
"I
do," she said. "If my wishes
—
my
needs
—
mean so little, then there's
no point in my continuing with the project. You told me to come over here, get
back in touch with my family, get
involved,
and that's what I'm doing. I
am
involved. And here I have the knowledge and the experience to perhaps
save my sister's life, or at least her consciousness, and you're turning your
back on me."

 
          
"I'm
not turning my back!"

 
          
"That's
how 1 see it. And look, I'm not going to beg. I've presented my case. You have
my number. If you change your mind, let me know. Otherwise, good-bye, Dr.
Siegal."

 
          
"Julie!"

 
          
She
hung up.

 
          
And
felt weak.

 
          
I've
got to be crazy!

 
          
The
memoryscape project was the most important thing in her life. She'd poured
everything she had
—
her brain, her heart, her
soul,
dammit
—
into it, and now she was
risking it all on a whim.