The Great Forgetting (18 page)

“Would you please point out the designated route? I'm afraid I'm not very good at directions.”

“I really have to be going,” Jack heard himself say.

“Well. You're a busy man, I'm sure. Lots of people to talk to.”

“Just back the way you came. Three streets. Take care.” Jack started jogging back toward Sam's house.

“Toodles,” he heard the man in the Panama hat say as he fled.

When he turned around, the strange car was gone.

3
    Walking into Nostalgia later that afternoon felt like reading a story for the second time. Sam had queued up Gordon Lightfoot on the iPod dock. She was even in the same position as she was the day before, leaning behind the register, reading that book. Like the rest of the world, Sam didn't know that she was reliving Thursday all over again.

“Empty house,” said Jack, testing it, feeling numb, feeling crazy. He felt sick. Hollow. He didn't want to play this game. His mind filled with the vertigo of that feeling you can say only in French. That
déjà
vu
.

“Hey, buddy, you okay?” she asked.

He sat down and pushed the crazies out of his mind the best he could. “Sorry,” he said. “I'm kind of in my head today.”

“You want a beer? I got some in a cooler.”

He nodded and she disappeared behind the curtain. He could hear her rummaging in the icebox back there.

“Are you going to start making hats out of aluminum foil?” she yelled.

“No.” But, he wondered, if Cole asked him to, would he? If one of those creepy men in the Panama hats was standing outside this shop and he had to make a hat out of aluminum foil and wear it on his head to keep the thing from reading his mind, would he even hesitate?

“Earth to Jack.” She set the beer down in front of him.

It was unfair that this was happening now, when they were finally together again. “Should I really be trying to find Tony?” he asked finally.

Sam tucked a stray strand of hair behind her left ear and sighed. “The divorce, Jack. Mark's murder? All these things are chasing us. I feel like I'm drowning in it. If you can find him, we can move on.” After a second, she added, “And he should answer for what he did, goddamn it.”

“If I bring him back, they'll arrest him. For the ten grand that disappeared from Haven at least. And maybe Mark's murder.”

“Probably. But he won't stay long. They'll have to send him to a mental hospital. And living out the rest of his life in a psych ward sure beats living in whatever homeless shelter he's hiding in now, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You really think you can find him?”

“I think I'm very close.”

“Good,” she said. “But if it comes down to a choice … like, if it's between you going crazy, too, or us never finding Tony again, it's okay that we never find him.”

Too late
, he thought, but he reached out and touched her hand.

4
    The next morning, which, as much as he could figure, was the second Friday of that week, Jack drove to Haven to pick up the boy.

Cole was waiting under the portico with Dr. Quick. He had a denim backpack slung over his shoulder and he was dressed in new khakis and a polo. He looked out of place this far from any city, a prep school kid lighting out for the territories. Imogen loved the idea of her son venturing out of the hospital, she'd told Jack on the phone. She had absolutely no memory of the bizarre conversation she'd had with Cole the day before.

“Three o'clock?” said Quick, leaning into the passenger window after Cole climbed in.

Jack nodded. “Earlier, maybe,” he said.

She waved as they pulled away. Cole reached over and turned off the radio.

“Worried about a test of the Emergency Alert System?” asked Jack.

He shook his head. “Nah. Besides, the EAS works whether you have your radio tuned to a station or not. Radio waves go through the air, you know. There's no escaping it. I just don't like Nickelback.”

“What's in the bag?”

“Clothes. Hair gel. Toothbrush. Flashlight. Some other shit.”

“Why? We're just going to Mantua and back.”

Cole smiled and looked out the window.

“Do you know something I don't?” asked Jack.

“We're not coming back.”

“You want to bet?”

“Sure.”

“Five bucks.”

“Make it twenty.”

Jack shook the kid's hand.

5
    Jack was anxious and sweaty by the time he parked in the visitors' lot at St. Mary's Assisted Living Home in Mantua. Since the attack, he'd done well to push the memory of that night out of his mind. The Captain had always been a tough man to love. Gruff. A man who told you he loved you by how hard he squeezed your shoulder. On some level Jack knew that he should not blame his father for trying to kill him. But he wasn't sure he could forgive him, either.

“Your sister was here a few days ago,” the nurse said as Jack signed in. Of course Jean had been here. She was quick to forgive those who needed her.

“Are you his grandson?”

“No,” said Cole. “Just a friend.”

“Well, I'm sure he appreciates the company. It'd be really nice if Qi could visit, too. He's always asking for her.”

“Doubtful,” said Jack, and left it at that.

They walked a long hall to a room among a dozen others. A red square was pinned to the back of the door below the name W. Felter—a code for nurses that the patient inside could be violent, a TacMar for the infirm. Jack shivered. Cole must have sensed something, because the boy actually put a friendly hand on his arm. He opened the door.

The Captain sat in a recliner facing the wall, where shadows from the window danced about in ever-changing patterns. He was perched forward, drool collecting in a dark circle on his corduroys. The room was stifling hot, but his father was dressed in a long-sleeved flannel shirt buttoned to the top. Gray stubble like steel wool around his blond mustache. His arms, once thick as anacondas, were dead milk snakes. Cole stepped in after Jack and closed the door.

At the sound of the latch catching, the Captain bobbed his head in their direction. The boy stepped forward and kneeled beside the old man. Cole stared with fascination and reached out, as if he were about to touch Walter's mouth, but pulled his hand back at the last moment. The Captain did not move.

“Alzheimer's?” asked Cole.

“No. But dementia of some kind.”

“Jack, I don't know if whatever I have works like this. I can make a person remember things if the memories still exist, but I don't know what dementia does to the mind. Doesn't Alzheimer's destroy the cells that store our memories?”

“Then there's no way to prove what you told me. That I need you to safeguard my memories.”

“After what happened the other day, you're going to doubt anything I said?”

“I think something is going on,” said Jack. “That your father knew something the rest of us don't. But am I sure all of the pieces fit together the way you say? No. And I'm still just looking for Tony here, remember? I get the feeling you want me to do something more.”

“I want you to save the world.”

Jack rolled his eyes.

“The box…”

Jack turned at the sound of his father's voice. The Captain was staring back, eyes suddenly lucid and afraid.

“Jack!” said the Captain. “Jesus, Jack. The box under my bed. You have to get it out of the house!”

Jack jumped as the cell phone in his pants pocket vibrated against his leg like a trapped bumblebee. It was Jean. He ignored it. “Do you know where you are?” he asked his father.

The Captain looked around. “I dunno. Is this St. Mary's? Yes? Good. That's fine. But you have to get the box, Jack. Right now.”

The cell phone went off again. Jean again. He flipped it open. “What?” he barked at her.

“Jack, where are you?” She was in tears.

“I'm with the Captain. What is it? Is it Paige?”

“No. Jack, get out of there.”

“Why?”

“The police are here. They went through Dad's war stuff. There was a knife in a box under his bed. It matches the knife that killed Mark.”

“What?”

“That detective left about a minute ago. He thinks you did it. I think he's coming to St. Mary's for you right now.”

Jack didn't say anything. He found he couldn't form a single coherent thought.

Jean's voice came back. “Did you have anything to do with it, Jack?”

“What? No. Of course I didn't.”

“What about the Captain?”

Jack held the receiver to his chest and, in a harsh whisper, asked, “Dad, did you kill Mark Brooks?”

“Of course I did!” the Captain yelled.

“Jean, I have to go,” he said.

“Get out of there!”

He hung up. Cole, he saw, had pushed himself against the door, trying to become invisible in the midst of such turmoil.

Here he was again, faced with another impossible choice: let the detective arrest them or flee. His life, that life of teaching, that quiet, simple, sometimes wonderful life was over.

The boy really was special. That much he knew. The Captain was back. Cole had brought him back. He could see that now. Did it not stand to reason that Cole was right about everything else? Was it finally safe to believe?

“Fuck!” Jack shouted. “Fuck!”

“What do you want to do?” asked Cole.

“We run,” he said. “And we take him with us.”

 

TWO

ESCAPE CLAUSE

1
    At exactly 9:00 a.m. Paige ran into the living room, where Jean was sorting through family photographs, and exclaimed, “Holy shit, holy shit!”

“Paige!” Jean yelled. “Jesus! Don't fuckin' swear!”

“There are a hundred police in our driveway.”

Jean ran to the picture window. The drive was full of cop cars. A dozen, at least, snaking onto SR 14 and back along the berm to the Moores' place, lights flashing. She watched, a protective hand on her daughter's head, as twenty men with guns scrambled out of their vehicles and rushed toward her front door.

“Mom,” whispered Paige. “What did you
do
?”

Jean forced herself to move. She walked to the door and opened it as the lead cop, a fat man with a rough crew cut, stepped onto her porch, a batch of folded blue papers in his hand. Jean remembered this one: Captain Marlon Hoover. He was the detective who'd come around asking questions after Tony disappeared.

“What the hell is going on?” she asked.

“We're here to search the house, Jean. Step aside.”

“You got a warrant or something?”

He handed her the papers and nudged her to the side with his shoulder. She pulled Paige out of the way, stepping onto the porch as two more cops barreled in. A female officer Jean didn't recognize stood beside her, hands on her belt. The rest of the cops scurried in, one by one, like a swarm of cockroaches.

“Mom? What's happening,” asked Paige. She looked like she might cry.

“It's okay,” said Jean, kneeling to her eye level. She wanted to cry, too. But she swallowed her frustration and fear and tried on a smile for her girl. “They just made a mistake. Don't worry.”

“We're not bad guys,” Paige said to the female cop standing beside her. The woman looked away.

Jean watched police officers tip over books and flip through the picture albums for contraband. Sheriff's deputies opened cabinets and checked under rugs. After a few minutes, Marlon stepped outside.

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Jack, goddamn it. Don't get smart with me.”

“Why do you want Jack?” Her eyes were starting to leak. Her fingers shook as she dug into her back pocket and fished out a Winston Light.

“Don't smoke in my face,” he barked.

“This is my house, so fuck you.” She lit the cigarette and sucked the smoke into her waiting lungs. Paige squeezed her hand in a protective way.

“Where is he?” Marlon asked again.

“Why do you care?”

“Cut the crap. He and your old man killed that little girl's father. Don't you give a shit?”

Jean choked, puffs of white smoke shooting out her nose like a choo-choo train. “You're fucking crazy. Jack wouldn't kill a fly.”

“Bullshit, Jean. I've got two witnesses saw him assault Mark while you were detoxing out at Haven. I've got video. If Jack didn't kill him, who did?”

“Tony ran away, didn't he?” she said. “You think he disappeared the same time Mark did and it's just a big fucking coincidence?”

“So tell me this. Why was Jack at Pymatuning last week? A ranger spotted him lurking around the reservoir. Know what else we found up there? Mark's car. It was abandoned at the reservoir three years ago. So if Jack didn't have a hand in the murder, explain that one to me.”

Jean laughed in his face. “You're crazy!”

He snatched her wrist in his thick right hand and squeezed. “Say it again. Call me crazy again, you dumb bitch!”

“Marlon,” the female cop said.

“We got something!” A young detective appeared in the doorway. “We got something.”

Marlon released Jean and dashed upstairs. She followed right behind, scooping up Paige as she went. The Captain's room was at the end of the hall, untouched for at least six months, ever since he'd been confined to the hospital bed downstairs. It was dusty and the room still held his musk. Forty framed photographs of Jean's mother rested on the top of a low wooden dresser. A detective kneeled beside the bed, hands on a black cardboard box he'd pulled from underneath.

“Give it,” said Marlon.

The detective handed it over. Marlon lifted the lid. Inside was the Captain's old uniform, neatly folded, along with twenty piastres, a postcard from Nha Trang, and a marine's Ka-Bar.