The Forgetting Place (10 page)

T
hat afternoon I went for a run, which I occasionally do over my lunch break. When the weather is nice, I prefer to run outside, listening to my iPod or the familiar, soft bustle of the town moving through its daily routines. My usual route takes me down Macarthur Street, past Marj's Kitchen. I hook a left at the chipped pillars of the city's sagging courthouse, circle the children's playground to the north, then merge with the Kermen A. Woods Trail that runs parallel to the Severn, the path winding through a loose splay of birch and American elm, offering both modest solitude and unfettered views of the river below. I like to feel the impact of my rubber-soled cross-trainers slapping the packed soil. I like to feel the wind on my face with its hollow promise of freedom and the conviction that if I can just generate enough speed I could take to the air and finally rise above it all: this town; the looming presence of Menaker and its inescapable shadow on my life; the maddening, quiet predictability of my own mortality. I run and run, focusing only on the burn of muscle and the rhythmic pull of ribs working in concert with my own quick respirations. I
concentrate only on the path ahead, stretched long and lean above the Severn, my legs pistoning beneath me. There is the mounting tension, the plateau of fatigue rising up from the water to meet me—then the euphoric release, the letting go as the body takes over. I hold on to it for as long as possible before finally coasting downward along its inevitable ebb as the world slides back into focus.

Others use this trail, of course. It's very popular among the locals, and most of the faces I encounter plodding along the path nod to me with familiar recognition. Still, there is something sacred in a run—a patch of time sequestered only for oneself—and it should go without saying that, unless stipulated otherwise, people want to be left alone. Which is why it surprised me on my return trip to hear someone call out my name.

I'd been slowing anyway, at least—coasting the ebb—and turned and let my legs pedal backward a few paces as I waited for the man approaching from behind. He was tall and trim, his brown hair cut short along the sides and back—good-looking in a college-boy sort of way, although I guessed from the slightly weathered look of his face that he was closer to my age than that of the undergraduate peers I'd left behind ten years ago. He wore navy running shorts and a gray T-shirt with the word
ARMY
in black lettering across the front. It went well with the quasi-military look of his haircut, although the crop of hair at the top of his head was long enough to suggest that if he
had
been in the army, he was no longer active duty.

In the wake of the stalking behavior I'd been subjected to recently, I'd be both foolish and naive to say I didn't feel a twinge of unease roll up my spine as he approached, but the portion of the
trail we were now traversing was well traveled, and the disarming smile he offered helped to allay the worst of my fears for the moment.

“I'm sorry, do I know you?” I asked, falling back into a medium-paced jog beside him.

“Special Agent Daryl Linder,” he introduced himself, the name spilling out as effortlessly as if he were reclining in an easy chair, taking in the last of a televised ball game.

“Special agent,” I said, letting the words fall between us with a plop.

“I'm with the FBI,” he said.

I stopped running, looked at him to see if he was joking. He returned my gaze blandly, reached into the back right pocket of his shorts, pulled out a worn leather flip wallet, and showed me the badge and ID to back his claim.

I must've still looked skeptical because he added, “You're welcome to call the local bureau office in Baltimore to verify my identity if you like, Dr. Shields.”

“How do you know my name?” I asked, irritated by the implied intrusion into my privacy.

“I don't mean for this to upset you,” he said, “but my partner and I have had you under surveillance for the past few weeks.” Holding up a hand before I could voice my indignation, he assured me, “Don't worry, you haven't done anything wrong.”

“If I haven't done anything wrong, then why have you had me under surveillance?”

“I wonder,” he said, looking around, “if you'd mind accompanying me back to our office for a few minutes.”

“Why?” I asked.

He smiled, trying to put me at ease. “We can talk more freely there. It's . . . a bit more private.” He waved to a middle-aged man as he passed us heading in the opposite direction.

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, no. Of course not,” he responded. “As I said, you've done nothing wrong.” We were reaching the end of the trail where it merged with the asphalt sidewalk of the neighborhood. The tree cover had thinned considerably and Special Agent Linder took me gently by the upper arm.

“It's best if we're not seen together on the streets.”

“Best for whom?” I asked.

“Best for you,” he said, “and for your patient Jason Edwards.”

I felt my anger rise. “That's confidential information.”

“Actually, it's a matter of public record. Jason was adjudicated to your facility.”

I pulled my arm from his light grasp, squaring off with him. “What do you know about him?”

He seemed indifferent to the aggressive tone of my voice. To this six-foot-two federal agent, I posed no physical threat whatsoever. Still, my hackles were up, my first instinct to protect my patient with the ferocity of a mother bear protecting her cub.

Linder let my question linger in the air for a moment before responding. “We know quite a bit, actually. Much more than you do, in fact. We'd like to help, if you'll let us.”

“What could the FBI possibly want with him?”

“It's a bit of a story,” he advised me. “Not one I can tell you here.”

“Well, then, I'll take you back to my office at the hospital.”

“No.” He shook his head. “That's not a good idea. It would put you and Jason in further jeopardy.”

“Are you implying that Menaker's not safe?” I asked.

“I'm
telling
you it's not,” he said, and despite meeting him for the first time today, something in his tone convinced me that he believed this to be true. “It's not safe for either of you there. Not anymore.”

May 19, 2005

J
ason did not consider himself superstitious, only forewarned by events from his earlier life. He told himself that six years had gone by since the event with Michael and Alexandra, that he had reinvented himself and was no longer the fourteen-year-old boy who'd been pursued through the woods by Billy Myers and his band of bullies. And although there was some truth to that, the logic rang false. It was hard to get his heart around it, to feel bolstered by the conviction of those arguments. Because the mistakes and terrors of one's past are never truly forgotten. The best we can hope to do, he realized, is to compensate for them and move onward, so that when the past comes around again we can approach it differently, trying for a better outcome.

Once again, there were three of them, and three is an unstable number. In many ways, Allison reminded him of Alex. She was beautiful, popular, smart—genuinely kind in a way that made people want to be around her. She expressed interest early on, taking the lead in their relationship by assuming certain physical liberties. One night when they'd all gone to a midnight movie,
she reached out in the darkness and took his hand, resting her head on his shoulder. Amir was sitting on the other side of Jason, and never let on that he'd noticed, never mentioned it. But Jason could feel him sliding away, could once again feel the ice cracking and buckling from below, as if he'd never left that frozen pond six years ago.

Part of him wanted to respond to Allison's not-so-subtle advances—not because he was physically attracted to her, but because it would have been so much easier. He could live a normal life, would not have to spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder for Billy Myers or someone like him. She did kiss him once—Allison—at a party toward the end of the semester when they were both a little drunk. He kissed her back, wrapped a hand around her waist and pulled the firmness of her twenty-year-old body against him. He felt . . . nothing. No, check that. It was actually a feeling worse than nothing. He felt like a fraud.

She'd pulled back, looked at him with that sharp, inquisitive way of hers. She didn't appear hurt—more like she was trying to decide if she should be or not. “What is it?” she asked.

He couldn't answer, tried to look away, and in that moment he spotted Amir watching them from the far corner of the crowded room.

She put a finger on his chin and turned his face back to her. “You either don't like girls or you don't like me, Jason. Be fair to both of us and tell me which it is.”

“No,” he replied, not sure what was going to come out of his mouth. “It's just . . .” But his throat tightened and the words wouldn't come. He could feel his face going red—something he hated about himself, that quick blush response that betrayed him every time.

She watched him for a moment, then reached up and placed her palm on the side of his face, and on the other cheek she planted a soft kiss. “You should've told me sooner,” she said, and was gone, twisting her way through the crowd, out the door, and into the night.

He followed her out onto Twenty-Third Street and saw her turn the corner at G. He had to run to catch up, and when he put a hand on her shoulder, she turned quickly, angry now.

“You should've told me,” she said again, her eyes glistening with tears that she refused to wipe away. “I mean”—she looked at him, shaking her head—“we're
friends,
right? You consider me a friend, don't you?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Then you could've told me. You can tell me something like that, you know.”

He nodded.

“Because it hurts like hell to take a chance—to reach out to someone you really like—and be rejected. You know what that's like?”

“Yeah,” he replied, the wind whipping through campus catching his words, trying to pull them away. “I do.”

She was silent for a while, staring at the sidewalk. When she looked back up at him, her face had softened. “You should tell him.”

“Who?”

She gave him a thin incredulous smile. A bus passed by along G Street, and she waited until it had turned the corner, until she didn't have to compete with the growl of its diesel engine. “Who do you think?”

He said nothing.

“He likes you, Jason. But he's scared too.”

“You sure about that?”

“No,” she replied, glancing past him for a moment before adding, “Guess you'll have to ask him.”

He turned, and there was Amir crossing the street in the direction of his dormitory: head down, shoulders hunched, hands jammed into his pockets. Jason turned back to Allison, but she was walking away, the soles of her sneakers soundless against the concrete.

So he jogged to catch up—not to the beautiful girl who'd uncovered him in the flat, empty space of a kiss—but in the direction of his own fear and uncertainty. He caught up to Amir near the Episcopal church, asked him to take a walk with him. Opening that part of himself was like stepping into Michael's arms in the foyer of his house six years ago. He said what needed to be said, readied himself for the crack of a fist against his temple—not painful, really; just . . . shaming. And when that didn't come—when it was only a light touch against the skin of his forearm and the words
Okay, then
—he allowed himself to see that things could be different, that no imprisonment lasts forever, and that hiding is only a prelude to showing yourself once again.

A
s much as Marj's Kitchen is a hot spot for locals in the evenings, during the afternoon, when people are at work, it typically boasts all the activity of an abandoned nuclear test site. I honestly don't know why she keeps the place open for lunch, except maybe for the same reason my mother keeps my childhood bedroom ready and waiting for me although I haven't lived in that house for sixteen years.

That being said, I do occasionally stop by the place on my lunch break to chat it up with the town's matriarch. Marj is easy that way: she listens like the stuff coming out of my mouth really matters. Despite my professional affiliations, I've never been under the care of a psychiatrist myself, but the random hours I spend at Marj's carry with them the general
feel
of psychotherapy, although without the usual insurance copay.

I'd agreed to meet Special Agent Linder and his partner here because I figured it would offer me a certain home field advantage and because, statistically speaking, we were likely to have the place to ourselves. Daryl Linder and his shorter, somewhat stouter colleague, Special Agent Aaron Remy, placed their orders
and sipped their beverages as I tried to adjust to the day's surreal turn of events. To Marj, I'd introduced the two of them as fellow psychiatrists—Dr. Linder and Dr. Remy, the two of them exchanging almost comical glances—who'd come to tour Menaker in the interest of joining our clinical staff. Marj gave me a quizzical look, but she agreed with my assertion that Menaker had an excellent reputation in this region (she said it with a straight face, as if she would know about such things) and added that no one had ever gotten food poisoning at
her
restaurant—a claim, she sadly confided, that could not be made by any of the other so-called dining establishments in the area. She left us to ponder that, humming softly to herself, while she retrieved our orders of chicken casserole.

“So,” Agent Remy began. He picked up his fork, inspected it, then scowled and wiped at it with his napkin. “Let's start with what you know about Jason Edwards, and we can go from there.”

I shook my head. “I can't divulge any patient information. You know that.”

“The fact is,” Linder interjected, “you don't have much to divulge. He came to your facility with no paperwork, is that correct?”

I looked at them, knowing I could give them nothing without a court subpoena, and even then . . .

“During his medical intake,” Remy said, “I assume you weren't provided with the courtesy of any prior psychiatric diagnoses? A list of any medical conditions or allergies Mr. Edwards may have? His prior medications?” He paused, turned to his partner, and held up his fork. “Does this look clean to you?”

Linder smiled behind the back of his hand.

Remy put down the utensil and focused his eyes on me from across the table. “Have you even
seen
a copy of the court order remanding your patient to a long-term psychiatric facility?” he asked. “Surely, you've seen that.”

“There's been a delay in his paperwork,” I replied, but the excuse sounded pathetic, even in my own ears. It didn't matter that I'd pointed this out to Wagner for weeks. When push came to shove,
I
was Jason's physician and the responsibility—and liability for such an egregious break from hospital policy—still rested squarely on my shoulders.

“A delay,” Remy echoed, letting the words fall onto the table for all three of us to consider. “A man is held against his will at a state psychiatric hospital with no legal documentation to support such a confinement, and the best you can offer me is that there's been a delay in his paperwork?”

I studied the table in front of me, unable to meet their eyes. I didn't like the way this interview was going. The two of them were supposed to be providing
me
with information, not levying an interrogation regarding aspects over which I had little control. “Should I have a lawyer present for this meeting, gentlemen?” I asked.

“No, you don't need a lawyer,” Remy responded. “I'm just trying to demonstrate how people can be pushed to do things they don't feel comfortable with. We know you raised a stink about this with Dr. Wagner when Jason arrived.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “How do you know that?”

Linder leaned forward, resting his muscular forearms on the table. “Dr. Shields—”

“Lise,” I interrupted him. “Please, call me Lise.”

“Okay, Lise.” He took a breath. “You imagine Menaker to be
a confidential environment in which you and your patients can interact.”

“Something like that,” I said.

“It's not,” he told me flatly. “Since the arrival of Jason Edwards, that confidentiality has been compromised. For the time being, you should assume that everything you do, any conversations you have at that facility, are being monitored.”

“How?” I asked, not wanting to believe him.

“As we've already established,” Remy reminded me, “with the proper motivation even good people can be pushed to do things they wouldn't ordinarily do. You've been treating this patient—holding him at Menaker—without proper consent from either the patient or the state. You've been doing this because you think it's the right thing to do, not because you're confused about the legal requirements of court-mandated psychiatric institutionalization, correct?”

“I don't feel like I've had much of a choice.” I was angry and embarrassed, feeling as though I'd been tricked, but having no idea by whom or for what possible reason.

“Exactly,” Remy replied. “You don't feel like you've had much of a choice. And neither do any of the other reluctant participants at Menaker. But they play along because someone has figured out how to access the right pressure points, no?”

I looked at Linder, and he gave me a sympathetic smile. “The people pulling the strings here are very good at what they do. Believe me, neither you nor the rest of the staff at Menaker ever stood a chance.”

“So who's pulling the strings?”

The two agents looked at each other, gauging how best to proceed.

“During your sessions, did Jason mention his sister?” Remy asked.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Again, I really can't divulge—”

“Doesn't matter. I withdraw the question,” Remy said. “I will stop asking and simply tell you how it is. But I'm going to preface this by warning you that some of what we're about to tell you may sound somewhat . . .”

“Implausible,” Linder finished for him.

“Right,” Remy agreed. “Implausible is a good word. But I want you to understand, Dr. Sh—I want you to understand, Lise, that implausible is quite different from impossible.
That's
the thing to keep in mind here.”

“Okay.” I nodded. “I'm all ears.”

Marj appeared suddenly through the kitchen doorway, sauntered to the table—still humming—and set the communal meal in front of us. “You'll enjoy this very much,” she commented.

“Thank you,” Linder said, smiling warmly—the expression one of his specialties, it seemed.

“I'll be in the back,” Marj advised me. “Give me a holler if you need anything.”

I assured her that we would, and she shuffled away, leaving us to our lunch.

“I should've asked for another fork,” Remy lamented when she was gone. Agent Linder reached to his left, snatched up the instrument, and replaced it with his own. “Happy?” he asked.

Remy shrugged.

“Trust me,” Linder said, turning to me. “We've been working together for six years now.” He gave his partner a sideways slant of the eyes. “He's never happy.”

I said nothing. Remy forked a piece of chicken into his mouth without letting it cool—a rookie mistake. He winced and reached for his soda.

“You were going to tell me about Jason's sister,” I prodded.

“Jason Edwards grew up in Columbia, Maryland—not too far from here,” Linder began. “He had one sibling, a sister, who completed high school a year early, attended college at Johns Hopkins, graduating summa cum laude with a dual major in biochemistry and international studies, and was recruited directly into the Central Intelligence Agency at the age of twenty-one. The details of her career with the agency are classified, but we do know she served as a staff operations officer for the National Clandestine Service's counterterrorism division from 2005 through 2008.”

“If the details of her career are classified, how do you—”

“The FBI works closely with the CIA's counterterrorism division regarding matters of domestic terrorism—that is, terrorist acts occurring on U.S. soil,” Remy explained. “The bureau coordinated several operations and investigations with Ms. Edwards over that time period. From what we've gathered, her reputation was a good one.”

“What does this have to do with Jason?” I asked.

“Nothing, at first,” Remy answered. “Jason Edwards lived a much more conventional life than his sister. Following high school, he attended George Washington University in D.C., where he met Amir Massoud, a civil engineering major who took an interest in student-led political activism. Mr. Massoud was born to Lebanese parents. His father was a diplomat who worked at the Lebanese embassy in Northwest D.C. He and his wife were living in the United States at the time their son was born. Amir grew up in the District, attended public high
school there, and received an academic scholarship to G.W. He and Jason met during their sophomore year, developed a romantic relationship, and became involved in the university's LGBT chapter. They took up residence together a year later and graduated in 2007, moving to Silver Spring, Maryland. Amir went on to pursue a graduate degree at the University of Maryland, while Jason worked as a freelance journalist.”

“A promising start,” I commented.

Linder laced his fingers in front of him on the table. “How familiar are you with the 2006 Lebanon War?”

“I don't recall specifics,” I admitted.

“Well, here are the basics,” Remy chimed in. “On July 12, 2006, a group of Hezbollah militants fired rockets at several Israeli border towns and ambushed a cluster of soldiers patrolling the Israeli side of the border. Israel launched a ground invasion and countered with airstrikes on Lebanese civilian infrastructure targets, including the international airport in Beirut. Hezbollah responded by launching additional missiles into Israel. A cease-fire was brokered by mid-August, but not before the conflict killed some twelve hundred Lebanese citizens and more than a hundred fifty Israelis.

“The usual polarities came into play. Hezbollah received support from Iran and several other Middle Eastern countries, while the United States backed Israel's right to self-defense. More generally, however, the fighting was met with widespread international protests, and there was particular outrage over Israel's targeting of civilian sites.”

“What was somewhat surprising,” Linder said, “was that the United States was quick to fulfill requests from Israel for military
weaponry in the form of satellite and laser-guided bombs that were later used on Lebanese civilian targets. In fact, the Bush administration rejected calls for a cease-fire during the early days of the conflict.

“Many Lebanese Americans were angered by the U.S.'s willingness to support the apparent targeting of Lebanese civilians. There were protest demonstrations in Washington, although small and not highly publicized. But the military conflict ended relatively quickly—the thirty-four-day war, they called it—and, for most people, life returned to normal.”

“But not for Amir Massoud,” I said, hazarding a guess.

“No,” Remy responded. “Because his mother, who'd returned to Lebanon several years before, was among the civilian casualties.”

Linder shook his head. “The loss of a loved one is never easy,” he said. “But the loss of a loved one at the hands of a government that you've adopted as your own . . .”

“Such motivations are the building blocks of revenge,” Remy observed. He lifted his cup toward his lips, but paused to regard me before taking a sip. “You think something like that is easily forgiven, Dr. Shields?”

“No,” I answered, allowing my gaze to fall to the table. From the back of the restaurant, I could hear the clink of silverware being unloaded from the dishwasher.

“Planning an act of revenge on the U.S. government and its people takes time, intelligence, coordination, and patience,” Linder said. “The big things—bombings and the like—often require funding and support, and for that Amir Massoud turned to a small terrorist cell here in the United States who call themselves Al-Termir.”

“I wouldn't imagine they'd be too thrilled with his sexual orientation,” I noted. “Isn't homosexuality a capital offense in many Arab nations?”

“Technically,” Remy advised me, “he wouldn't have been considered Arab. Amir was born in the United States and was a U.S. citizen. He wasn't even Muslim. But even if he was, he'd expressed hostility toward the United States and a willingness to act on it. He would have been seen as an ally to be exploited for a greater good.”

“So he made contact with this organization,” I said, “and then?”

“And then he waited,” Linder replied, “and planned.”

Remy shifted in his seat. “During that time, Amir graduated from G.W. and pursued graduate training in civil engineering, which means he understood how to design and build large structures, but also knew the critical points in which—with the right impetus—they would fail. The goals of a domestic terrorist attack are to maximize casualties, to make the rescue of survivors difficult, and to make some sort of political statement. He lived close to D.C., and selecting any public or government target would have fulfilled the third objective. Satisfying the first two objectives, however, are a little more difficult. People move from place to place, which makes timing tricky. Large events bring lots of people together, but security is tight and rescue personnel are nearby. Duffel bags and backpacks are checked at the gates, and getting something—an explosive device, for example—into position and then getting out of there before the thing goes off poses certain technical challenges.