“My friend who just died.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out the obituary from the
Jack stared at the photo of Dr. Nicholas Mavros. “He came to visit me at Greendale.”
“He did?”
Jack felt a hole open up in his gut.
“He came to ask about my mother.” Jack stared at the obit photograph, then pulled up his briefcase and rifled through the papers until he found the photograph he had discovered in the old albums boxed in the cellar of his rented house. “Son of a bitch.” He turned the photograph so Rene could see it.
“That’s Nick,” she said.
Shot in front of an auto parts store, the photo was of a younger, leaner Nick Mavros with long, black, shoulder-length hair, smiling at the camera, his arm around the shoulder of Jack’s mother, who grinned happily, her head tilted toward Nick Mavros. They both wore white lab smocks. And they looked so together.
“They must have been in the same research group as grad students.”
Jack’s eyes were stuck on the image of Mavros. “He asked me twice if I remembered her.”
But they already knew that from Dr. Heller’s tests days earlier. Then Jack thought of something and fingered through the packet of articles until he found what he was looking for:
“He even wrote about it with her,” he said and showed her the abstract.
Sarkisian N. A., Mavros N. T., et, al. 1971. Neurotoxic activity on the sensory nerves from toxin of the deadly Solakandji tropical jellyfish
“My God, I found the abstract for this same article, except I didn’t know she was your mother.” Then she picked up another article and scanned the pages. “Listen. ‘Proteinaceous toxin from the nematocysts of C.
“Translating as what?”
“That they were moving down the pipeline toward Memorine.” She looked at the other articles and abstracts he had printed up. “Nick’s name appears only on this one, but she’s on all these. The last with her name on it is from March 1975.”
“Because she died in August that same year.” Jack was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “He was testing me.”
“Testing you?”
Jack could still see the shift in the man’s face. “I think he wanted to know how far back I could remember. Like early childhood. Like the night she disappeared.”
Rene’s eyes seemed to veil over. “Jack, what are you trying to tell me?”
“That he may have known something about her disappearance. That he may have been the visitor to the cottage that night. That maybe he’s the figure in those flashbacks. That maybe he killed her.”
Rene’s head recoiled as if Jack had punched her. “That’s outrageous.” Her voice was scathing. “Nick was a wonderful and compassionate man.” Suddenly her face began to crumble. “How dare you say such things? He just died, for God’s sake.”
“He knew her and never said anything. He never said, ‘I remember your mother.’”
“Maybe he didn’t know she was your mother. You have a different name.”
“Then why did he ask her maiden name? Heller had already established that. He wasn’t there to check for brain damage. He wanted to hear it from me. Son of a bitch! I had a weird feeling about him the moment he showed up. He probably wanted to know if I remembered him from that night.”
“Why would he want to kill her?”
“I don’t know. I know nothing about him and practically nothing about her, except that they knew each other. And he wanted to know if I remembered her. You put it together.”
“That’s absolutely insane.”
“Then tell me why he was pussyfooting around, why he didn’t say he had been friends with her.” And he held up the photo.
“I don’t know why. But he’s dead, and I don’t want to hear his name slandered, okay?” Her eyes blazed at him through her tears. She looked down at the photograph. “Besides, it’s been thirty years, for God’s sake. There’s no way to know what happened that night.”
“Yes, there is.”
For a moment she stared blankly at him.
“It could take me back to that night.”
“Christ! We’ve already been through this. I’m not stealing any Memorine. Period.”
He expected that, of course. And she was probably right. The stuff can’t be fine-tuned. It’s unpredictable in its effects. It may not even work. But as he sat there under her angry glare, it crossed his mind that deep down where the sun didn’t shine maybe Rene didn’t want him to remember what he saw that night—and who was under that rain slicker.
“This is the last I’m going to say about it, but I think you’re stuck on a foolish and sick idea just to satisfy some neurotic obsession.”
Jack said nothing, just nodded as the syllables seeped in one by one. “Maybe so.” Then he looked out at the sea, and into the reflective light of the sun, feeling possibilities dance before his eyes.
“By the way,” he said as they got up to leave. “What kind of a car did Nick Mavros drive?”
“Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Some kind of SUV … I think a Ford.”
“What color?”
“Black.”
80
JACK HAD NOT BEEN BACK TO Greendale for nearly two months. So when he showed up that Wednesday morning, he was welcomed like a famous alumnus returning to campus. Aides and administrative staff flocked around him and in tears Marcy Falco threw her arms around him. Jack had been one of her “witchcraft” successes.
“I just wanted to stop in to say hello and thank you for all you did for me.” He had brought a large bouquet of flowers for the ward and a five-pound box of chocolate for Marcy. He said that he wanted to see how some of the residents were doing. He had heard that a few were progressing well in the trials.
Marcy took him upstairs to the ward, where it was morning rounds, and patients were getting their meds.
“How’s Joe McNamara?”
“Up to his own tricks,” Marcy said. “He won’t take his meds. Connie’s coming along now.” She led him into Joe’s room, where Joe was sitting up in his bed. He had apparently slipped and injured his hip.
