into the water.
For a long moment he watched the water smooth over itself as the moon rode the ripples.
He was sweating yet chilled by the time he returned to the house. Because his mind was still on high alert, he got himself a beer and went to the porch and sat in the dark, his insides trembling as if he were sitting in wet clothes. He took a sip—always the best part—but it was not satisfying. He tried to distract himself with the bright electric sounds of the cicadas, a hoot owl, the moon whitewashing the yard grass. None of that worked.
As he gazed into the dark corner of the yard where he had dug the hole, the pieces came together with such clarified horror that a squeal rose up from three decades of merciful sleep.
A man.
He could not see his face or morph together the body from the shadowy flashcard form, but it was a man. And something had happened and he had pushed her or she had fallen, and she was on the floor by the fireplace … then he was bending down over her muttering …
Then a towel across her head to absorb the muffle the sound—
And blood …
Dark clothes, bending over, legs straddling her as she lay groaning, twitching horribly on the floor by the stone fireplace.
Her feet moving, as if trying to catch traction on the air. Groaning. The arm raised, hammer arching upward, coming down and down and cracking the bone.
The bright red spot spreading across a towel and puddling onto the floor.
Looks this way, thinks twice: Do him, too—the kid in the crib?
Charges over … the big shadow face.
And all goes black.
70
“TELL ME ABOUT THE JELLYFISH DRUG.”
“What about it?”
“You said it had something to do with enhancing memory.”
It was the following morning, and Jack and Rene Ballard were sitting in a booth at the Grafton Street Pub and Grille in Harvard Square. The luncheon crowd had left, and it was three hours before the dinner menu kicked in. Jack had surprised her with his call, reminding her of her offer to help if he had any problems.
Rene looked very stylish in jeans and a black silk top and red paisley scarf, her shiny chocolate hair framing her face like a feathered wreath. Her face was smooth and well designed. Her nose was thin and sharp, her cheekbone high, her mouth full and expressive. Her eyes were perfect orbs of reef-blue water. It was a beautiful and intelligent face, and Jack took pleasure in it. “It reverses the damaging effects of the plaque that builds up in the brain of Alzheimer’s victims.”
“And it restores memory.”
“In patients with the disease, yes.”
“Short-term and long-term?”
“Yes. May I ask why you’re asking all this?”
“In a moment. But just tell me approximately how far back, the recall.” He could feel something pass through her mind as she considered the question.
“In some cases very far.”
“Even early childhood?”
Rene’s eyes were calm but guarded. “Yes. But why do you want to know?”
But he disregarded the question. “And if they go off it, what happens?”
“The process is reversed. The plaque returns. But …”
“What about in non-Alzheimer’s patients? Any signs of plaque or dementia from taking the stuff?”
“No. Now, why are you asking me all this?”
“Because I think I witnessed the murder of my mother.”
“that?”
“I was very young at the time, but I’m almost certain somebody killed her in my presence. And I’m just remembering it by way of memory-related nightmares and flashbacks.”
“Flashbacks?”
“Yeah. Sometimes when I’m awake I have these spells. Just scraps, like a filmstrip with lots of frames missing.” And he described some of the episodes. But as disturbing as they were, he felt relief in getting them out, in telling her—and it was not just like lancing a psychic boil. For some reason he wanted her to know. He wanted Rene Ballard to know about him.
At the moment, she seemed transfixed. “Go ahead.”
“I think it was at the cottage on Homer’s Island the night she disappeared,” he continued. “And I think she knew whoever it was, because I don’t sense immediate hostility as with a stranger. I think there was a fight, because I remember shouting and commotion. The next thing, I’m looking outside and the man is smashing her skull with a hammer—actually, a meat mallet, I think.
“My sense is that the killer was desperate to finish her off, because I keep seeing him hanging over her and hammering away.”
Rene studied him suspiciously. “Do you have any idea who he was?”
“I couldn’t see his face—just a vague dark shape with a pointed hat or something covering his head. Maybe a rain slicker. I couldn’t make it out. But I have a strong feeling it was somebody she knew. Besides, a storm was brewing so there wouldn’t have been strangers boating up, and the only other male in the area was a frail old guy in the mansion who couldn’t have made it down the stairs.”
“And you’re certain you’re recalling something you’d experienced, not just a recurring dream.”
“I know the difference between a dream and these spells. It’s like I’m reliving a very bad thing in flashes, but I can’t get the whole footage.”
Silence fell between them as the sounds of the restaurant filled the gap. Rene took a sip of her drink. “What’s the connection with Homer’s Island?”
“I’m not sure of the exact details, but Thaddeus Sherman let her stay in the caretaker’s cottage.” And he explained what Olivia Sherman Flanders had told him. “The official story is that she got swept off her boat while trying to secure it.”
“And you don’t believe that.”
“No.”
“But someone she knew entered the cottage that night, had a fight with her, then killed her with … a meat mallet, you’re saying.”
“It’s my grassy knoll.”
He knew how absurd it all sounded—trying to piece together evidence of a thirty-year-old murder when there was no physical evidence and no body, where the only witness was a two-year-old baby and suspicion was rooted in bad flashes following emergence from a coma. Not exactly a hard-and-fast case.
Even on the off chance that his mother was murdered, Jack had no idea how to mount an investigation. Most island residents from back then were probably dead or in parts unknown. Even if he had money to hire the best private investigator in town, there was virtually nothing to go on. And he had neither the energy nor the resources to play Sam Spade.
“What I’m having problems with is how old you were at the time. Memory consolidation doesn’t start until a child is three or four years old.”
“You don’t remember things from very early in life?”
“Not that early. And what little I do remember is mostly fictionalized.”
“Fictionalized?”
