F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 (22 page)

 
          
"Now,"
he says to her, the rocking accelerating, the flames somehow magically
receding. Another kiss, and he whispers in her ear.

 
          
"Now!"

 
          
N
ow
!

 
          
The
word is a trigger. You feel as if you're in a dark, locked room with a heavy
wooden door. The room is on fire and you're standing at its center. The word
echoes in that room, and somehow that door clicks open.

 
          
And
water rushes in, a tidal wave that knocks you down but doesn't extinguish the
fire.

 
          
It
pushes you around the room, swirling into a whirlpool that catches you and
spins you, dragging you down.

 
          
Now.

 
          
The
word is stunning in its simplicity, its directness. Not later, not yesterday,
not tomorrow when you can, when it might be convenient. But right here, right
now.

 
          
You
breathe out, and you gasp as waves of pleasure shudder through your body.
You've no control at this moment. There is nothing but the pleasure, intense,
fierce, all-encompassing.

 
          
Your
back is arched, your eyes are shut, your ears are roaring, your teeth are
clenched to keep from screaming. But a little moan struggles free.

 
          
A
chime reaches you as the roaring fades and your muscles relax.

 
          
You
open your eyes and see the Window button blinking. You reach out a shaky hand
and click it. Dr. Siegal drops down.

 
          
"Julie
—
are you all
right?"

 
          
"Yes."
You struggle to clear the hoarseness from your voice. "I'm fine."

 
          
"Then
what
—
?"

 
          
"I'm
exiting the 'scape now."

 
          
You
click the window closed and hit the Exit button. Before the screen fades to
blue you see the bed
—
empty.

 
          
It
looks like a still life, you think.

 
          
You
feel loss, emptiness. You know what just happened to you, and you don't know
how to respond, what to think.

 
          
Sam
is gone.

 
          
Liam
is gone. The bed remains.

 
          
An
empty boat on a dark and empty sea.

 
          
We
don't realize how fragile memories are. Memories decay if they're not accessed
regularly. We've got a finite number of neurons in our brains, so older
memories get shunted around to make space for the constant flow of new ones.

—
Random
notes: Julia Gordon

 
          
Julie
pulled off the headset and quickly glanced around.     ,

 
          
Alone.
Eathan hadn't returned. No one had seen
her.
Thank God.

 
          
She
slumped back in die recliner and closed her eyes, drefl a deep, shuddering
breath. She was weak, she was damp.

 
          
My
God!
My . . . God.'

 
          
So
that's what it's like!

 
          
Now
Julie knew why Sam had always been so hot for the boys. How different her own
attitude
—
hell, her whole life-might
be if she could respond like that.

 
          
She
stared at her sister. Sleeping Beauty was still breathing softly, her cardiac
monitor ticking along at a steady seventy-two beats a minute. No sign that
she'd relived the moment Julie had just experienced.

           
But as Julie's own racing heart
slowed, as her jumbled thoughts reorganized, Sam's pillow talk came back to
her.

 
          
My
uncle's hiding something.

 
          
What
was that supposed to mean? Hiding what?

 
          
A
beep from the monitor made her jump. The camera icon blinked insistently from
the blank screen. Dr. S. wanted to talk.

 
          
Talk
was the last thing she wanted to do right now. She just wanted to close her
eyes and luxuriate in this strange, peaceful feeling.

 
          
Another
beep.

 
          
"Okay,
okay." She found the mouse and clicked the icon. Dr. Siegal's face
appeared.

 
          
"Julie?
Are you there?"

 
          
"Yes,
Dr. S. I'm here."

 
          
"Are
you all right? You quit the memoryscape so abruptly."

 
          
"It
was time to go, don't you think? I mean, that was an intimate moment."

 
          
"You
didn't have
to stay
in that particular node. You could have gone
elsewhere in the memoryscape. Julie ..." His eyes narrowed as if he were
staring at her through the screen. "Is there something you're not telling
me?"

 
          
Thank
God the video ran only one way. She felt the warmth of her flushed cheeks. One
look at her and he'd know.

 
          
But
she had to come up with a plausible answer. Probably the best tack was a little
righteous indignation. She found it easy to sound angry.

 
          
"It
disturbed me
to
see my sister screwing the man who might be responsible
for her present condition. All right? Is that up close and personal enough for
you?"

 
          
"I
—
I'm sorry, Julie," he said. "I didn't mean
—
"

 
          
"I
know you didn't," she said, softly this time. "It's just... can we
talk about this later?"

 
          
"Of
course. I'll be here."

 
          
"Fine.
I'll get back to you."

 
          
She
broke the connection and his face faded. She felt like a
^r
at for
jumping ugly like that, but she couldn't risk a lengthy discussion with him
now. And she couldn't risk too many more sessions in Sam's memoryscape with Dr.
S. looking over her shoulder. Sooner or later he'd put it all together and
realize she was having sensory participation in the 'scape. And then he’d pull
the plug. No question about it.

 
          
Julie
turned off the monitor and called the nurse, who slipped back in with a funereal
air. Julie nodded to the woman and then headed for her own room. She needed a
shower.

 
          
On
the way down the hall she passed Eathan's study.

 
          
She
slowed, the message from the memoryscape reverberating through her. She stopped,
turned back, and stood outside the closed door.

 
          
My
uncle's hiding something. . . . He's hiding lots of things, think. And 1
know just where he's hiding them. There's a
huge
locked wall cabinet in
his study.

 
          
What
could Eathan be hiding? Or, more likely, what could Sam have
imagined
Eathan
was hiding? He'd always kept hi study locked when they were children, and that
had provided a great source of mystery and intrigue. But as they grew older
that need for privacy, to protect one's valuables, became perfectly
understandable to Julie. Especially with someone like Sam foraging through the
house in perpetual search of material for her endless stream of collages. A
rare first edition could end up cut into a hundred pieces, adorning a crazy
quilt
a
scrap paper, ticket stubs, and photos cut into fragments.

 
          
Many
a time Julie had opened one of her magazines
—
Astronomy
had always
been one of Sam's favorite sources
—
to
find photos of nebulae or distant galaxies ripped out. She'd run to Sam's room
to find them glued to a board amid a meaningless
—
to
Julie at least
—
hodgepodge of other scraps
of paper.

 
          
But
now, with the manor all to himself, was there any reason for Eathan to keep his
study locked?

 
          
She
reached out and turned die handle. The door opened.

 
          
I
guess not.

 
          
She
stepped inside. Not the first time she'd been in here. She and Sam had charged
in on occasions when Eathan was working at his desk, sneaked in on other
occasions when he'd forgotten to lock the door. But they'd never been able to
stay long. Eathan always appeared to scoot them away gently.

 
          
Oak-paneled
walls between the bookshelves, heavy green drapes on the windows overlooking
the front gardens, dark green carpet matching the drapes; a huge oak parson's
desk gleamed in the light from the windows. All very staid, very solid, very
British, very beautiful.

 
          
But
overwhelming all else in the room was the imposing bulk of the massive oak
cabinet that dominated the north wall.

 
          
Julie
felt herself drawn to the cabinet. She fought it, moving instead to the
bookshelves. A set of half a dozen tall paper spines stood out among the first
editions. She pulled one out:
The journal of Neurochemistry.
She checked
the date: 1968. All six were from the late 1960s. Odd. She quick-scanned the
contents page and came to an abrupt halt at the name of one of the
contributors: Nathan Gordon, Ph.D.

 
          
Dad.

 
          
Good
God
—
research articles by her
father. Her heart pounded. She hadn't known he'd published. She wanted to sit
down and read these. Now. But how could she? She wasn't even supposed to be in
here.

 
          
Later.
She'd find a way to pop in while Eathan was here and "find" them.

 
          
After
she replaced the journals in their spot, her feet seemed to move her toward the
wall cabinet of their own accord. And then she was standing before it, gazing
up at its towering height, staring at the intricate grainy swirls within the
glossy surfaces of the massive pair of doors that guarded its contents from the
outside world. The two handles were antique brass, but there was nothing
antique about the sturdy Medeco lock plate that stared at her from above the right
handle.

 
          
She
reached out and tugged on one of the handles. She'd never seen the inside
before.

 
          
Locked.
Still locked. No one in the house but Eathan, the cook, and the maid ... and
still locked.

 
          
My
uncle's hiding something.

 
          
Julie
turned and started for the door. Eathan's business was just that: Eathan's
business. If he wanted to keep his cabinet locked
—

 
          
The
desk. The huge oak desk caught her eye. If he didn't carry the cabinet key on
him, where would be the logical place to leave it?

 
          
She
veered toward the desk but passed it without slowing. instead she went to the
windows and stared out at the front gardens. Eathan wasn't back from the
airport yet.

           
He's. . . I'm here. . . . There's
time. . . .

 
          
Abruptly
she turned and approached the desk. She couldn’t allow herself to think too much
about this, because there was nothing rational about what she was doing. This
was a blatant invasion of privacy.

 
          
But
then she seemed to be making a habit of that lately, didn't she? She needed to
eliminate Sam's paranoid idea.

 
          
Eathan
always told them to go out and do what they had tc do to get what they wanted.
Well, she was following his advice

 
          
She
started with the top middle drawer and found no need to go further. A brass key
with MEDECO stamped across its bow lay in the pencil tray.

 
          
Julie
chewed her lip. She shouldn't do this. It wasn't right. II only she hadn't
heard Sam say that.

 
          
She
turned away and stepped back to the window, almost hoping she'd see Eathan's
car approaching. But no, the driveway was empty.

 
          
That
did it.

 
          
She
snatched up the key and hurried over to the cabinet The key wobbled in her
fingers as she shoved it into the lock and turned. She hesitated before pulling
the doors open. What if they were alarmed?

 
          
Don't
be ridiculous.

 
          
She
yanked on the handles and swung the doors open a few! inches. No sirens, no
bells and whistles, just a puff of cool ail redolent of musty old paper. She
threw them wide.

 
          
And
staggered back.

 
          
In
a space almost like a small room, bigger, deeper than she'd imagined, half a
dozen file cabinets sat in a neat row, the handles of their drawers arching
toward her. But what she saw around them made Julie feel as if her entire life
were flashing before her.

 
          
To
her left the inside of the wall cabinet was decorated with the oversized
scholastic awards or certificates of merit she'd won as a child
—
and she'd won plenty
—
along
with prizes and ribbons for research papers and science projects; even some of
the old science projects themselves, carefully wrapped in plastic and settled
on shelves. The right side was devoted to Sam, a dazzling array of old
paintings and collages, from childhood through high school, even some of her
surviving papier-mache sculptures.