Escape the Night (39 page)

“That was what Peter wished to surprise you with, and why I did not wish for you to see him. The time has come for your vacation, many miles from here.”

Nauseated, Phillip imagined Peter Carey, not the cold-eyed replica of Charles, but a boy in a hospital, unconscious and alone, clutching a stuffed toy elephant. Miserably, he asked, “What do you intend to do with him?”

Englehardt shrugged. “It does make sense to kill him, doesn't it?”

“
No!
”

“Don't be sentimental, Phillip—that's always hobbled you from perceiving your true self-interest.” Phillip's gaze held fear and hatred; smiling faintly, Englehardt held out a placating hand. “Even
I
understand irrational attachments. Let's agree, then—if you sign these and leave for Europe, I'll try to persuade Peter that Miss Ciano's interests prevent him from acting on whatever he remembers.”

Silently, he placed his hand on Phillip Carey's shoulder.

Phillip could no longer look at him.

In the pallid light, he stared at the certificates. Englehardt pointed to the signature line. “You'll receive Barth's check for ten million dollars,” he said, “as soon as these are safely in his hands.”

His hand did not move.

Phillip looked away, arm limp at his side. “Two contracts,” Englehardt urged him gently. “For yourself, and as trustee for John Peter Carey.”

Phillip reached into his pocket for a pen. Twice, he wrote his name; Englehardt removed his hand.

“Thank you.” Englehardt took the certificates. Phillip reached out to him, mouth open …

Englehardt smiled down at him. Softly, he asked, “Yes, Phillip?”

Phillip's shoulders slumped. “The photograph.” He almost whispered. “Can I see it again?”

Englehardt froze.

Pale with hurt and anger, he handed Phillip Carey the picture of Noelle.

The faceless man raised his knife.

Peter's head snapped back; the silver blade flashed by him in the darkness of the tunnel. He turned, his scream mingling with Noelle's as the knife stabbed out her eyes.

“Peter!”

“No! Oh, my God, no!”

“Peter!” She kept shaking him. “It's all
right
.”

He opened his eyes. Her hair fell into his face; he felt his sweat. “
Oh my God
…”

“Peter, what was it?”

“Nothing.” Carey fell back onto the pillow; instinctively, he touched her. “Same dream, that's all.”

CHAPTER 13

Pogostin's eyes, dark and perceptive, betrayed his breeziness as self-protection. “All right, Peter Carey,” he began, “I guess Levy told you what my story is.”

“Generally.” Carey felt control slipping from him. “I'd like to hear it from you.”

Pogostin cocked his head; the gesture drew attention to his round-tipped nose and the clownish cast of his face. “A little scared, huh?”

Carey fidgeted; even Pogostin's chocolate-brown shirt and outdated paisley tie irritated his nerves. “That's one way of putting it.”

“Then cheer up—you may be impossible to hypnotize.” He grinned. “Frankly, the tests you just finished predict you'll be a terrible subject.”

Carey leaned forward on the couch. “You don't exactly sugarcoat your work, do you.”

“No charm.” Pogostin gave a disarming shrug. “I put my patients to sleep.”

Carey kept noticing that his eyes never changed with his words. The windowless office—a rectangle with bare walls and floor—was reminding him of an interrogation room. He wondered what Noelle was doing, where she was …

“Of course,” Pogostin went on smilingly, “we can just shoot the shit all morning. I cleared it for you.”

Carey glanced sharply at him. “What did Levy say about me?”

Pogostin shrugged. “That you were a sweet, simple man with a childhood like Christopher Robin's.”

“Do you always joke your way out of corners?”

Pogostin laughed; Carey saw a glint of self-recognition. “According to
my
analyst, yes. You were asking what my rap is. It's simple: under hypnosis you'll re-live the weekend of your parents' death as a six-year-old boy.” Pogostin pointed to a tape recorder next to his chair. “My questions, and everything you say, will be on this tape. Then you wake up.”

“And remember?”

“All or part or nothing. But the tape preserves what your conscious memory still blocks. One iron rule: I don't Mau-Mau your sensibilities by playing back the tape.” Pogostin smiled again. “Even
I've
got more finesse than to stage that kind of horror show.”

“So what do you do with it?”

“We use it to ask you questions over the coming weeks and months, gradually serving up such pieces of your trauma as the psyche can digest, until your memory returns.” The smile flashed. “Foreplay's another good analogy.”

It struck Carey that Pogostin's quips, like his clothes, served to divert his patients from their fears. “All right,” he interrupted. “Would
you
do this?”

Pogostin nodded briskly. “In a second.”

“Why?”

“It's the kindest way to drain a wound.
Your
wound has been festering for years; you pay for it in everything you do.” Pogostin leaned forward. “You're a control freak, Peter; it sticks out all over you, even if it weren't bristling at me from those tests. You try taking charge of everything, even your own emotions—which is funny, considering that you're defending what was lost twenty-three years ago, when your memory wasn't looking. You've
lost
control, pal—your dreams show that.” He spread his hands in mock accommodation. “Of course, we can debate free will for a while—I wouldn't want you to feel coerced.”

Carey gave his first, uneasy smile. “How long will it take?”

“Patience. An entire weekend is a major chunk of repression: you're making me slog through a lot of inane, boring material to get to the meat.” The smile returned. “But then, I'm good—say an hour and a half.”

Carey exhaled: in his mind, without knowing why, he said goodbye to Charles Carey. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “All right.”

“Great.”

In the tension between Pogostin's smile and his eyes, Carey saw Noelle. “What do I do?”

“Oh, just lie back and relax for a while—remember, this may never happen. I'll be thinking of how to get into it …”

Lying back, Carey realized how tired he was. He checked his watch: 9:45.

“Actually, I might do better telling you some of
my
inane, boring childhood experiences.”

Casually, Pogostin moved to a chair near the head of the couch.

“Not that my childhood's atypical …”

Last night he had hardly slept.

“In fact, it's all bullshit about how charming kids are …”

He had held her as if she would disappear.

“My Vietnam vets are much more interesting:
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm
was Right-to-Life propaganda.”

Carey tried closing his eyes.

“They're boring little shits, as I was telling my two-year-old daughter just last night, at bedtime …”

Blood gushed from her eyes
…

“
My
bedtime. You still with me?”

Fear crawled on Carey's skin.

“Peter?”

He was afraid to remember.

“Don't flake out, now.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You'd better count with me.”

The tunnel was dark
…

“One … two … three …”

He had lost control of time.

“Eleven …”

Dewey
…

“Thirty-four …”

Desperately, Carey struggled to open his eyes. They were heavy.

“Sixty-five …”

Greenwich
.

“Sixty-eight …”

Carey did not wish to go there. He tried to protest.

“Sixty-nine …”

The tape clicked on.

“Peter?”

As night fell, awesome and enormous, Phillip Carey trotted down the stairs, to greet them.

“Where is he?” Phillip demanded.

Peter's assistant squinted at her desk calendar. “He had an appointment outside the office at nine.”

“It's eleven-thirty.” Phillip's voice rose. “What's keeping him?”

“I really don't know …”

“You damned well
do
know.”

Her eyes widened. “Really, Mr. Carey—this isn't like him. Something must have come up.”

Phillip felt the irrational rush which had brought him here evaporate in fear: what had Peter remembered?

“Do you wish to wait here?”

“I'll call,” Phillip snapped at her, and then turned quickly and left for home.

Carey jumped up, sweating.

He did not know where he was. A hand pushed against his chest.

“Hang on, man.”

His eyes focused. He recognized the room, then the voice. His hair and clothes were damp, disheveled; there was bile in his mouth. “What happened to me?” he started, then moaned, “Oh God, what did I tell you?”

“The usual boring stuff.”

Pogostin looked white; a pasted-on smile made his eyes seem frightened. Carey's head snapped up. “The accident?”

“Among other things.”

Carey stood. “I need to know.”

Pogostin thrust his palm between them. “Sit down.”

“I need …” Carey looked around wildly. “Where's the tape?” He grasped Pogostin's shirt. “Give it to me.”

“Sit down.” Pogostin's voice was tight. “I told you I can't work that way. I'm not some Nazi.”

“Noelle …” Carey stopped himself: almost whispering, he repeated, “I need to know …”

“You will—in time. You were a child, Peter, and this experience was as intense for you as war is to some farm boy. I'll confer with Levy as soon as possible, and we'll start to get this off your back.”

Carey let go his shirt. He sat, rigid. “How bad is it?”

“To
me?
” Pogostin managed a second smile. “I've heard worse.”

“My father's face—was it burning?”

“Trust me, Peter.” Still smiling, Pogostin looked more frightened yet. “After all, I'm a total stranger.”

Martin turned up the stereo.

“Look,” the new voice—young, urbane, perhaps Jewish—was sounding urgent. “You'd better hear it yourself. I don't know the cast of characters.”

“Please,” Levy said. “Can he remember?”

“Oh he
remembers
, poor bastard—just not consciously.” Now the voice conveyed tension, anger. “Just listen to the goddamned tape. I don't know the man, there's something I'm not getting. I think it's serious.”

“But I've got hospital rounds, and tonight I have to give a speech.” Levy's voice rose. “Tell me now …”

“You sound like Carey.”

“He's
my
patient.”

“I just can't characterize this. Look, I'll send it over by messenger as soon as I can get one here. You can play it first thing tomorrow, and then tell
me
.”

“Have you a reliable service?”

“Just tell me who they should leave it with. It's the last thing I'd tell Peter, but I don't want this tape kicking around here—the other night some creep broke in …”

“My receptionist,” Levy answered hastily. “She can lock it in my desk.”

Touching his revolver, Martin smiled.

Carey sat at his desk, rubbing his temples with the fingers of both hands, and then dialed the familiar number. “Phil?”

“Peter?” There was silence. Softly, his uncle asked, “Are you all right?”

“You wanted to talk.”

“It'll keep.” His uncle's voice sounded reedy. “You know I don't like the telephone.”

“Where were you yesterday? I needed to see you.”

“I had to step out.”

“To see Barth? Have you sold the firm, Phil? Is that it?”

There was no answer; Carey's grip tightened on the telephone. “Dammit …”

“All right, Peter.” His uncle's voice wavered. “I'm going on vacation. That's what I came to tell you.”

“I thought you were sick.”

“I am, quite—I need to get away.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing I wish you to be concerned with. Please, Peter, just take care of Noelle.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because I never was so lucky, and I wish you to be—in spite of yourself.” Phillip's tone grew taut. “Don't come looking for me—I'll be out this afternoon, seeing to my plans.” His voice gave out abruptly.

“Phil?”

“Goodbye, Peter.” Phillip Carey hung up.

Blindly, in his confusion, Carey called Noelle.

“Photography.”

“Noelle Ciano,” Carey snapped.

“Peter? It's me.”

Carey slumped in his chair. “Thank God.”

A lean young Puerto Rican with a mustache and visored cap knocked on the door to Pogostin's office and began speaking in a sibilant, breakneck cadence: “Sir—your lady tells me you have a package to give personally …”

“Yes.” Quickly, Pogostin added, “You have identification, of course.”

“Of course.” The youth flipped open his wallet.

“Good.” Pogostin scanned the card, certifying the young man as a bonded messenger, then walked to his desk and presented him with a neatly wrapped box. Levy's address was printed on two sides. “Can you read this?” Pogostin demanded, then mentally cursed himself.

The youth stiffened with offended pride. “Yessir.”

“Some people have trouble with my writing.” Pogostin shrugged, smiling. “My teachers hated me.”

“Sure.” The youth nodded. “Okay, no problem—I can make it out.”

“Great. It's to go to Miss Lavin, no one else.” Reaching into his wallet, Pogostin threw in an extra five dollars, wondering if he should. “That part's quite important.”