More Deaths Than One (31 page)

It took Bob a moment to realize that Kerry
directed the final question at him.

“Probably a bit of both,” he said. “If in
fact The Sweeper did have an unusual talent, he’d feel a need to
nurture that talent, particularly since it would help him survive.
He wouldn’t be able to do that if he was just one of the boys. Nor
would the boys want to have anything to do with him. Being
different, truly dif-ferent, is a failing few people can tolerate
in others.”

Kerry nodded. “I can see that.” She held out
a batch of papers. “Do you want to go through these?”

“Not now. I feel a headache coming on, but
you might as well continue.”

She sorted through the papers in silence for
a few minutes, then let out an excited cry she quickly stifled.

“Here’s Harrison’s interview with Dr.
Brewer.” Her head bobbed as she turned the pages, then she tossed
it on a stack of papers she’d already skimmed. “Nothing new. At
least we know Brewer told us the same story he told Harrison.”

Bob massaged his temples. “That means the
doctor had plenty of time to get the story straight in his mind,
not that he told us the truth.”

Kerry continued to examine the contents of
the valise. When she finished, she frowned at the piles of paper
littering the floor.

“Most of the interviews are with people who
rambled on without saying anything. I don’t understand why Harrison
insisted you have these papers. I thought they would be notes about
the war, but most of this is research into the mind and memory,
nothing so contro-versial that it needed to be locked in a
safe.”

“Harrison had brain cancer. Sometimes
paranoia is a side effect.”

“Even if someone gave the cancer to him?”

“Especially if someone gave it to him.”

***

They sat on a braided rug in front of the
fireplace and ate a picnic supper. A buried memory kept niggling at
Bob as he listened to Kerry speculating about what it must have
been like to be a war cor-respondent, and then all of a sudden he
had it.

“The valise has a false bottom where Harrison
kept extra cash and important papers. That’s why he never left the
case unattended.”

Kerry jumped up. “A false bottom. Of course.”
She brought the valise to Bob and sat back down.

He pulled the tab that opened the hidden
compartment and drew out a fat manila envelope with his name
written on it in wobbly block letters. He handed it to Kerry.

“Are you sure? Don’t you want to read it in
private?”

He shook his head, ignoring the pain. A
feeling of dread crept over him, and he didn’t want to be alone
when Harrison revealed the secret he had died protecting.

Kerry opened the envelope, removed the sheaf
of papers, and read aloud.

“‘Dear Bob. There’s something I haven’t told
you, something you need to know. A couple of months ago we met in
O’Riley’s for a farewell drink before I took off for New York.
After you left, a man slipped into the seat you vacated. He
introduced himself as Ed Keaton, then said Robert Stark walked
pretty good for a gimp. As you can imagine, that caught my
attention.

“‘Keaton proceeded to tell me that you and he
had both been supply clerks in Vietnam, and that one day,
inexplicably, the two of you had been ordered to accompany a truck
convoy. The entire story coincided with what you once told me.
Until the punch line, that is. The Robert Stark he knew got a foot
blown off and a medical discharge. You got your head jostled and a
flight back to Vietnam.

“‘I thought the coincidence remarkable and
kept questioning Keaton. His story never wavered. He said he knew
about the foot because he had found it. He had been in the rear of
the convoy. Unscathed by the explosion, he went running to help. He
stumbled over a boot with your foot still inside, then found you
ten feet away from it.

“‘He said he was hurt that you hadn’t
recognized him, but he admitted that, despite being stationed
together, you two had never been buddies. He also said, somewhat
sheepishly, that he’d changed a lot—lost his hair, gained weight,
grown old. He recognized you immediately. Said you looked the same
except that you were in much better condition than when you were in
the army. He thought it incredible, considering your foot and
all.

“‘I couldn’t get the bizarre coincidence of
two Robert Starks with such similar histories out of my head. When
I arrived in the states, I called a source in the Pentagon—a file
clerk in the records department. I had him check the service
records for both Robert Starks, but he could find only one—the one
belonging to the Robert Stark with the missing foot.

“‘My source told me a flag attached to the
file demanded that ISI be notified immediately if anyone requested
the records. He’d never heard of ISI, but he assumed it was one of
the super-secret intelligence agencies, and he wanted nothing more
to do with the file. He did say he had taken a quick look at it and
saw nothing of note. Even the injury was not uncommon.

“‘I tried to tell you this when I got back to
Thailand, but I didn’t know how, and then I had to leave on my book
tour. After we said goodbye, I turned back, determined to tell you
what I had discovered. Looking into your clear, calm eyes, however,
I could not find it in me to mess with your serenity.

“‘I’ve spent the entire plane trip working on
this letter. Now, if something happens to me before I can find the
proper time to tell you what I discovered, at least you will know
what I know. The problem is, I don’t know what it means. Maybe
nothing. In that case, I can tear up this letter and we can have a
good laugh.’”

***

The memory of Harrison was so strong, Bob
could feel a disturbance in the air, as if the writer were actually
in the room with him and Kerry. He remembered how agitated Harrison
had been the last time they’d been together. He opened his mouth to
tell his friend not to worry, that it was okay, then he snapped it
shut. It was not okay. Harrison was dead, possibly because of
him.

Kerry took a long drink of water. “Do you
want me to keep going?”

Bob closed his eyes against a stab of pain.
Maybe it would be better not to know what the rest of the letter
said. Finally, he opened his eyes and nodded for her to continue.
If these were Harrison’s last words, the least he could do was
listen to them.

Chapter 28

Kerry hesitated a moment as if waiting for
Bob to change his mind, then read aloud once more.

“‘As you can see, I haven’t torn up this
letter. During the course of my research into The Sweeper, I found
out that a doctor named Jeremy Rutledge might have treated him. I
went to see Rutledge at the Rosewood Research Institute in Boston
and, to my surprise, the doctor agreed to talk to me.

“‘Forgive me if I ramble, but I’m having
trouble concentrating. I woke with the flu this morning, and
besides all the usual symptoms, including a splitting headache, I
am so weak it feels as if my bones are dissolving. When I’m
finished writing, I’ll go to bed and stay there until I get
better.

“‘Although I have every intention of telling
you this in person when I return to Bangkok, I still feel compelled
to write it. If I don’t get well, it’s the only way you’ll have of
learning the truth, but of course I’ll get well.

“‘I’m rambling again, aren’t I?’”

Kerry looked at Bob, her eyes reflecting the
horror he felt. “My God, he’s writing this while he’s dying, isn’t
he?”

Bob put his arms around his middle and rocked
himself, trying to still a sudden nausea. He felt as if he should
be doing something to help his friend, but nothing he could do
would change the fact that Harrison had already died.

Kerry began to read again. Her eyes were
bright with unshed tears, and her voice shook.

“‘Rutledge told me about a soldier who had
been brought to his attention, one so mentally exhausted he was
catatonic. Rutledge felt sure the soldier continuously relived a
traumatic experience. The doctor decided to help the soldier by
getting rid of the memory of that experience.

“‘There is a chance the soldier would have
recovered on his own, but Rutledge didn’t want to wait. He had
heard that the soldier had a tremendous gift, a supernatural
ability to blend into his environment, rendering him practically
invisible. Rutledge saw the soldier as his ticket to fame and
fortune, but as long as the man remained non-responsive, the doctor
could not study him.

“‘To make a long story short, when Rutledge
zapped the neurons to sever the soldier’s connection with his
terrible memories, the laser pulsed, destroying the links to his
entire memory bank.’”

Kerry’s voice still shook as she continued to
read, but Bob could tell that anger had displaced the sorrow.

“‘As often happens with amnesiacs, the
soldier remembered how to speak and to read, but he could not
access his past, his sense of self, everything that made him
unique.

“‘Rutledge found him as non-responsive with
no memories as he had been with too many. To rectify the situation,
the doctor decided to give him a new memory.

“‘He searched the hospital for someone who
looked like his patient and found a couple of men who were also
average-looking with an average build. He chose a man from Denver,
but he didn’t mention if it was a coincidence, or if he wanted
someone ISI could easily keep an eye on.

“‘Did I tell you about ISI? I don’t remember.
They’re a multi-national corporation based in Broom-field, Colorado
that funded a private hospital in the Philippines during the
Vietnam War where all sorts of mind control experiments were done,
and they fund Rutledge’s research institute in Boston.

“‘The doctor had the man from Denver
transferred to the psychiatric ward and proceeded to borrow the
man’s memory.’” Kerry stopped and stared at Bob. “My God, he’s
talking about you, isn’t he? You’re the man from Denver. That must
mean the other Robert Stark is The Sweeper.”

Pain exploded behind Bob’s eyes. He put his
hands on his head to keep the top from blowing off.

Kerry gave him a concerned look. “Maybe you
should go to bed. We can finish this another time.”

“Keep reading,” he said. The words came out
sounding like a croak.

“Where was I?”

The rattling of the papers and the crackling
of the fire hammered in Bob’s ears, but her voice soothed him.

“‘Under drug-induced hypnosis, the man poured
out everything he could remember about his life, even the most
trivial things, like the mole on his fourth grade teacher’s chin.
After weeks of such sessions, after hundreds of hours of
recordings, Rutledge sent the ringer home, but kept the ringer’s
wallet containing all of his ID and a picture of his college
girlfriend.’” Kerry stopped. “That’s not right. You still have your
wallet.”

She looked at Bob as if waiting for an
expla-nation, but he found no words.

“It happened a long time ago. Maybe Rutledge
got confused,” she said, then continued reading. “‘The tapes were
almost perfect for his project, but Rutledge felt the need to make
a few minor changes. First, he erased all mention of the other
man’s missing foot. Then, to explain the massive scarring on his
patient’s chest, he turned an insignificant childhood hunting
accident into a major event. Next, to take away any desire for his
patient to return to his supposed home, he created a memory of the
mother’s death. He also forged a Dear John letter from the
girlfriend and stuck it in the wallet.

“‘He kept the man in a drug-induced hypnotic
state for weeks, maybe months, playing those tapes over and over
and over again while showing him pictures of Denver and snapshots
of his new family. One of ISI’s operatives had stolen the ringer’s
family album for this very purpose.

“‘I keep calling the other man a ringer, but
he wasn’t really. The two men bore a superficial resemblance to
each other. Plastic surgery enhanced the likeness.

“‘When Rutledge felt certain his patient’s
new memories would hold, he woke him and told him he’d been
unconscious for five days with a minor head trauma, though in
reality he had been unconscious for many months.

“‘And so a new Robert Stark was born.’”

Kerry put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Bob.
That’s even worse than having your memory stolen. Do you remember
any of it?”

“I remember I’m Robert Stark, I’m from
Denver, and I have both my feet.”

She paced the scuffed wooden floor. “How
could they do something like that to you? How could they think they
had the right?”

She stopped, bent down, and peered into his
face. “You can’t remember anything beyond Robert Stark?”

He gazed back at her. His legs were crossed,
and his hands lay palms up on his thighs. He felt no trace of a
headache.

She jerked herself erect. “How can you sit
there like nothing happened?”

“Nothing has happened,” he answered calmly.
“I’m the same person I was a minute ago.”

The floorboards squeaked as she resumed her
pacing. “They stole your life from you.”

“Perhaps they gave me life.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember me telling you about the little
girl who was catatonic because she couldn’t face the memories of
her abuse? Rutledge thought he could save her by removing those
memories. Maybe he did for The Sweeper what he couldn’t do for
her.”

Kerry’s voice rose. “Are you defending
him?”

He rubbed his chest and felt the scar tissue
through the thin material of his shirt. “All I’m saying is that
memories cause their own torment. The worst thing about a bad
experience often is not the experience itself, but the endless loop
of memories that come after.”

“I feel like going to Boston and smashing
that doctor’s arrogant face, and you’re talking philosophy?”