South Of Hell

the feeling that her memory — or whatever this was — was over.

Dr. Sher awakened Amy and told her to rest. Then she motioned Louis and Joe from the room. Once in the foyer, she closed the French doors to the living room and took several deep breaths. She was watching Amy through the doors.

Louis glanced at Joe. Her face was white, and she was holding her arms over her chest like she was cold.

“All right,” Louis said quietly. “What the hell was that all about?”

It was a while before Dr. Sher turned to face them. When she did, her pale blue eyes took a moment to focus. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Those weren’t memories of her mother’s death,” Joe said.

“No, they weren’t. At least, not all of them,” Dr. Sher said.

“She had one of her episodes last night,” Joe said. “It’s like a nightmare, but she’s awake. She mentioned the name John last night, too. And she said she was dying. Not her mother, Dr. Sher. She said she was dying.”

Dr. Sher looked at Amy again. And this time, when she looked back, first to Louis and then to Joe, her clinical mask had slipped back into place.

“I think Amy believes she was the black woman whose bones were found in the barn,” she said.

“Jesus,” Joe whispered. She took a step away, walking in a small circle in the foyer.

“What, she’s mentally ill?” Louis said.

“I-” Dr. Sher hesitated. “I don’t believe she is.”

Joe turned back. “Then what is causing this?”

Dr. Sher took a second to gather her thoughts. “Memory is a complicated process,” she said. “But research tells us that the qualities of a memory do not always provide a reliable way to determine accuracy. For example, a vivid and detailed memory may be based on inaccurate reconstruction of facts. Or even on self-created impressions that appear actually to have occurred.”

Joe was listening intently.

“Also,” Dr. Sher went on, “memory is a reconstructed phenomenon, and so it can often be strongly influenced by various biases such as social expectation, emotions, the implied beliefs of others, inappropriate-”

“Doctor,” Louis interrupted, “help us out here.”

Dr. Sher gave him a small smile. “Sorry.” She glanced back at Amy before she went on. “I’ll try to keep this simple,” she said. “Some doctors believe that childhood abuse can cause repressed memories. Later, these memories can resurface on their own or with help.”

“But why does Amy think she’s a dead black woman?” Joe pressed.

“People think memory is just a matter of recall, but it is also about how the brain reconstructs that memory,” Dr. Sher said.

Joe was shaking her head.

“Let me give you an example,” Dr. Sher said. “A child might have a memory of standing on a street looking into a scary alley. As an adult, he might falsely remember the alley as containing a dead body, when in fact the child saw only a homeless man sleeping in an alley.”

“So, you’re saying Amy is mixing real memories of the farm with things from her imagination?” Louis asked.

Dr. Sher nodded. “It’s called confabulation. Put simply, it is the mixing or confusion of true memories with irrelevant associations or bizarre ideas. And no matter how strange or untrue, these ideas can be held with the firmest of convictions.”

Louis had to ask the question again. “Is she mentally ill, Doctor?”

“Confabulation is a function of brain chemistry, and it is associated with patients who have suffered brain damage or lesions,” Dr. Sher said. “We’d have to do some tests…” Her voice trailed off.

Louis was watching Joe, knowing she was seeing Owen Brandt backhand Margi and thinking about what horrors Amy might have suffered at the farmhouse. Things she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, remember, because maybe, unlike the made-up memories of some dead black woman, the real memories were too close to home.

“This still doesn’t explain everything,” Louis said.

“What do you mean?” Dr. Sher asked.

“Like why she can sing in French,” Joe said.

“Or how she knew where those bones were buried,” Louis said.

“No, I guess it doesn’t,” Dr. Sher said softly.

They fell quiet. Louis was looking at Amy. And Amy was just sitting there on the settee, looking back at them. Through the wavy old glass of the French doors, Amy was just a soft-focus pink blur.

“Okay,” Dr. Sher said softly. “There’s one other thing I need you to consider.”

They both turned to her.

“Before I retired, I was head of research here at the university. I’ve written many papers on various disorders and conditions. I can’t believe I am going to say what I am about to say.”

“What?” Louis asked.

“If one believes in repressed memory — and that is a big if, as far as I am concerned…” Dr. Sher hesitated again. “Hell’s bells, I might as well just say this and get it out in the open.”

She blew out a hard breath that lifted the red curls from her forehead. “Have either of you ever heard of past-life regression?” she asked.

Louis looked at Joe, who shrugged. “Reincarnation?” Louis asked.

“Well, that would be part of it, yes.”

“Good God,” Louis said. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Louis,” Joe said softly.

“It’s all right,” Dr. Sher said, holding up a hand. “Look, I’m as skeptical as you. But there is some work being done in this field. There’s a doctor in Miami who’s written some remarkable papers-”

“A doctor?” Louis said.

“Yes, he’s the head of psychiatry at Mount Sinai, a professor at the University of Miami Medical School. He was treating a patient with routine therapies, and during a hypnosis session, she-”

Louis held up his hands. “I don’t mean to be rude, Dr. Sher, but you just said a minute ago that Amy could be mentally ill. If that is the case, we need to know, because time is running out, for her and for us on this case. If we don’t have hard evidence, there’s nothing we can really do.”

Dr. Sher held Louis’s eyes for a moment. “Hard evidence,” she said softly. Then she looked to Joe. “I think I’ll see how Amy is doing,” she said.

She went back into the living room, closing the French doors behind her. Louis watched her go to the settee and sit down next to Amy.

He turned to Joe. “You’re awfully quiet.”

She looked at the floor.

“Don’t tell me you’re buying into this past-life crap, Joe.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“I can’t believe what I am hearing,” Louis said.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a cop, Joe.”

“I don’t need you to remind me of that,” Joe said quickly. “I just think we have to keep an open mind.”

“Well, if you keep your mind too open, your brains fall out,” Louis said.

Her eyes shot back to him. “And what the hell does that mean?”

“It means that this can be explained,” he said. “There’s a reason she knew where those bones were, and I’m going to find it.”

Chapter Twenty-two