The Forgetting Place (12 page)

I
took the following day off, called in sick with a flulike illness. It wasn't far from the truth, either. I'd been up for a good portion of the night, tossing in bed as the scene Linder and Remy had recounted played out in my mind. When I allowed my eyelids to slide closed, the images were like those from a feverish dream: vibrant, manic, and full of too much color. I could see the knife slipping effortlessly between Amir's ribs, his body going first rigid, then heavy and lifeless above an expanding maroon blemish—like a rapidly dividing birthmark—on the hardwood floor. I could see Jason's mouth opening in a silent scream, his fingers digging into the flesh and late-evening stubble of his cheeks, his eyes becoming two dark pebbles sunk deep into his face, the reflection of his partner's crumpled body swimming across their smooth black surfaces. I could also imagine the two other men deliberating over how the situation should be handled, although I had difficulty picturing them in my mind. All I could see clearly was Jason and Amir and the knife protruding like a vestigial appendage from between the man's ribs, and with those images came the conviction that all this could have somehow been prevented.

I awoke to rays of sunlight bleeding through the slatted shades that hung like closely gathered ribs across my bedroom window. I lifted my head from a pillowcase that felt damp with sweat, the fabric creased and bunched from the previous night's struggle. The fitted sheet had freed itself from one of the mattress's corners, and I left it that way as I climbed out of bed and made my way to the bathroom, feeling light-headed, nauseated, and more fatigued than I'd been the night before.

In the bathroom, after I'd urinated, I splashed some cold water on my face and checked my reflection in the mirror. Lingering drops of water congregated at the tip of my nose and along the lower edge of my chin, a few of them letting go as I watched, casting their rotund bodies into the pale blue sink below. My hair was a rat's nest of twisted strands, and dark semicircles puffed out the skin beneath my eyes like small translucent bowls of black broth.

I'd agreed to meet with Agents Linder and Remy again today, this time at the hotel restaurant located in the Westin on Porter Street. We'd decided to meet at 10
A.M
. when it would be mostly empty. There was more to discuss, they'd said, but it had been clear from my reaction the day before that I'd needed time to process. Time seemed to be a concern for them, and there'd been a brief discussion as to whether they could afford waiting the extra day. I'd encouraged them to tell me the rest right then and there, but Linder had shaken his head no. “Tomorrow,” he'd said. “It can wait until then.”

I showered and dressed, popping a few Advil for the headache that tracked me down during the first half hour after rolling out of bed. The invisible viselike hand squeezing my temples relented a bit by the time I left my apartment, but my muscles felt stiff and heavy as I trundled down the sidewalk.

The Westin was once a posh hotel overlooking the Severn River. It serviced clientele from Annapolis and visitors to the Naval Academy who did not wish to stay in the city proper. But traffic into Annapolis had become congested over the years and parking difficult, making the short commute into the state's capital increasingly tedious. When a newer branch of the hotel chain opened up near the Academy, the one in my town became obsolete almost overnight, and although it remained open for business, coming here was like visiting an athlete long past his prime. The building was maintained and serviced out of a lingering need for its facilities. But its floors would never again see the shine they once held, and its carpets endured the stains of time with as much dignity as they could muster against the embarrassing backdrop of their own implacable decay.

The two of them were already occupying a corner table, and I waved away the greeter—a young girl of about twenty-three whose bored eyes never met my face—as I crossed the restaurant to join them. I took a seat and nodded when Linder pointed to a pot of coffee resting on the table, allowing him to fill my cup.

“Sleep well?” Remy inquired.

“What do
you
think?” I asked, and the man shook his head.

“It's a lot to take in,” he said, lifting his own cup to his lips.

The waitress came by to take our orders. Remy asked for a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar, Linder a fruit plate. Feeling like I should order
something,
I requested toast and jam, knowing I'd touch none of it.

We sat there for a minute or two sipping our coffee, Linder making a few forays into small talk that I batted away with single-word answers. Finally, Remy—whose bluntness I'd developed an
appreciation for over the past twenty-four hours—started on what we'd come there to discuss.

“I think you got a pretty good picture yesterday of the circumstances leading up to the arrest of Jason Edwards for second-degree murder.”

I nodded. “I imagine he was never convicted.”

“No,” Remy replied. “A conviction would have meant prison. Jason's defense attorney was able to successfully convince the judge assigned to the case that his client was not guilty by reason of insanity.”

“How did he manage to do that? If Jason had no prior psychiatric history . . .”

“Suffice it to say that the agency was able to utilize its resources and to exert its considerable influence over that matter. We're talking about the CIA here. A single conversation is all it would've taken.”

“Why Menaker? Why not some other facility?”

“He wasn't sent to Menaker initially,” Remy replied. “Jason was arrested in May of 2010. It takes time to move through the court system. Even for cases where defendants are found not guilty by reason of insanity—I believe you use the acronym NGI?” he asked, and I nodded, although in Maryland the legal term was “not criminally responsible by reason of insanity.” “Even for those defendants, the process takes time.”

“Generally, a defendant would receive two independent psychiatric evaluations,” I said.

“Right. And the courts move slowly—too many criminal cases being ground through the mill. You know?”

“Yeah.”

“So he was out on bond awaiting a decision for almost a year,”
Remy said. “He wasn't finally remanded to a state psychiatric hospital until April of 2011. Initially, he was sent to Eastern State Hospital in Williamsburg, Virginia. And he stayed there for four years before being transferred to Menaker.”

“Why was he transferred?”

Linder's face became somber. “The CIA took a loss.”

“A loss—what do you mean?”

“Two of their agents were murdered. One of them was the undercover agent who'd infiltrated Al-Termir. The other was an operative who'd worked his way into the ranks of a similar extremist group based out of Los Angeles. Both of them were executed on the same day, and the most likely explanation was that the identity of the men had been leaked to the groups by someone within the CIA itself.”

“Jesus,” I said, and Linder nodded.

“During the Cold War, we'd become accustomed to the idea of spies within our midst siphoning military and state intelligence to our enemies. But the war on terror is a different type of battleground, isn't it? The stakes seem less global, more personal. The enemy is invisible, can't be negotiated with, and has nothing to lose. The attacks come from within and can happen at any moment. And a mole inside the CIA releasing information to these ultraviolent factions . . .” He trailed off, and the only sound came from the light traffic along Porter Street just outside.

“The agency took what precautions it could,” Remy said. “Agents who'd investigated either of the two groups were strongly cautioned and often reassigned, and any likely civilian targets were offered protective custody. Your patient Jason Edwards was transferred to Menaker immediately. No chart, no paper trail—just moved.”

The table fell silent for a full minute as they allowed me time to adjust to the reality of the situation. It was ironic in a way. After treating Jason as my patient for the past few weeks, I'd developed the distinct sense that we were making progress. We were uncovering things, I thought, strengthening our therapeutic relationship. But now they were telling me that Jason Edwards was not a patient at all. He was a boarder, a tenant, and to him Menaker was nothing more than a place of refuge—a cage to keep him safe from an extremist group that would do him harm if it could.

“Why tell me any of this?” I asked. “Most of this information, I would imagine, is confidential.”

Neither of the men said anything. A moment later our breakfasts appeared on the table and they busied themselves with their food. For something to do, I poured myself another cup of coffee.

“Do you wonder,” Agent Linder finally responded, “why the FBI is involved in this? Since it's mostly a CIA matter.”

I shrugged. “Cases of domestic terrorism, you said, are FBI jurisdiction.”

“But nothing happened,” he reminded me. “There
was
no bombing, at least nothing linked to Amir Massoud. Agent Edwards's confrontation with Amir aborted any event that might have otherwise occurred.”

I touched the tips of my fingers to my right temple, feeling the return of my earlier headache.

“We're here,” Linder went on, “because Jason's sister came to the FBI for assistance. She'd lost trust in the agency and the people she was working under. She didn't know who else to turn to. But that's not why she came to us.”

“No?”

“No,” Remy said. “She came to us because she was afraid.”

“For Jason?” I asked.

He nodded. “And for herself.”

“A week and a half ago,” Linder advised me, “someone deleted the report of the incident from her office computer's hard drive and external backup system. Her supervisor—a man who'd been stationed in the D.C. area for most of his career—was reassigned to a foreign field office. On her first trip to Menaker, Jason's sister was tailed and had to abandon the visit. Last weekend, someone gained entrance to her house while she was at work.”

“The place wasn't ransacked,” Remy told me. “There was no forcible entry. But she could tell that several items around her desk and cabinets were disturbed, as if someone was looking for something. They'd also successfully logged in to her home computer—which was password protected, by the way.”

“A professional job,” Linder remarked.

I frowned. “What did she think they were looking for?”

“Copies of the incident report, maybe,” Remy said, “or information regarding Jason's new location.”

I looked down at my uneaten toast. “Right now, she's his only ally.”

“Except for you,” Remy said. He finished the last of his oatmeal, placed the spoon in the bowl, and wiped at the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

“They should put him into protective custody,” I said. “He'd be safer there than at Menaker.”

“I don't know if that's true,” Linder replied. “Right now, he's hiding in plain sight. Sometimes that's the last place people look.”

“But at the moment the agency has other concerns,” Remy advised me, “because they've lost another one.”

“Another agent?” I asked, and he nodded, rubbing the right side of his face with the meaty palm of his hand. He looked weary and a little beaten, like a boxer whose years in the ring have finally caught up with him.

“Jason's sister,” he said, his dark eyes meeting mine from across the table. “She disappeared three days ago.”

T
he remainder of the day was spent moving from one activity to the next, driven by the need to occupy myself with something purposeful but finding nothing to quell my inner restlessness. I wandered the streets for a while, taking in the fastidious bustle of the town's businesses and patrons, but found the noise and commotion agitating. Eventually, I made my way to the outskirts of the town and the entrance to the jogging path along which I'd met Agent Linder.
Where I'd been tracked down by Agent Linder,
I corrected myself. My running shoes were at home, so I chose to walk instead, turning my face to catch the irregular breeze. Linder had recommended I stay away from the trail for the time being, since the location was somewhat isolated, but I refused to be cowed by a predicament that was no fault of my own. “Am I to be afraid now?” I'd asked him at the hotel. “Am I to behave like a frightened rabbit in my own neighborhood?”

“I'm just suggesting that you take precautions,” he said, “until we have a better idea of how this is going to unfold.”

I replayed his words, considering their implications. They'd filled me in on what they knew. From here on out, we were all sprinting in the dark.

“A few nights ago,” I said, “someone followed me home from Marj's Kitchen. Was that one of you?”

Linder and Remy looked at each other, and the expression that passed between them did nothing to reassure me. “That was earlier this week?” Remy asked.

I nodded. “Monday night,” I said, and I told them about the man who'd followed me to my apartment, who'd stood there on the sidewalk looking up at me. Linder shook his head. “This is what I'm talking about, Lise. We don't know
who
that was, but it wasn't either of us. And until we have a better picture of what's going on here—”

“
And when will that be?
” I demanded.

The two of them just looked at me from across the table.

“Until that time,” I said, placing my coffee cup on the table with a bang, “I'm supposed to . . . to do
what
?”

“Sit tight,” Remy said. “Keep a low profile. Don't do anything to attract attention. Continue treating Jason in the same manner as before.”

“They'll get the information out of her,” I told them. “It won't be long until they know where he is.”

“We shouldn't jump to conclusions,” Linder replied. “We don't know what happened to Agent Edwards. She may have gone into hiding.” He slid a cell phone and small charger across the table. “Keep this on you. It has our numbers programmed into its contacts, plus a GPS so we'll know where you are. We'd like you to be our eyes and ears inside Menaker, to keep us advised of any unusual developments.”

“Like what?” I asked.

Linder shrugged. “You know that facility, the people there. We don't.”

“You'll know if something's about to go down,” Remy said, “and if or when that time comes . . .”

“You call us,” Linder finished.

“And you'll be there?” I asked. “If I need you?”

They both looked back at me, their faces solemn and protective.

“We're not going anywhere,” Remy said. “You call one of the two numbers on that phone, and we'll come running.”

“We're staying local,” Linder advised me. “If you call, we can be anywhere in this town in less than five minutes.”

Less than five minutes,
I thought, looking out over the Severn River. In my pants pocket I ran a fingertip over the phone's hard plastic casing, then pulled it out, familiarizing myself with its buttons and small touch screen.
Less than five minutes,
they had told me.
You call . . . and we'll come running
. There was some reassurance in that, but it felt false—a feather to cling to as I plummeted from a cliff. If the men who'd taken Jason's sister decided to come for him—or for me—then five minutes later there would be nothing left but the empty space where we'd once stood. There would be no finding us.
That
was the truth. And phone or no phone, there was nothing Linder or Remy could do to stop it.