And with a fist he backhanded her in the face. The blow sent her stumbling backward, and her head cracked against the stone edge of the fireplace—the contact passing into Jack’s brain like a hot needle.
Jack heard himself cry out—a sharp, bright cry that sliced the air.
“Shut up, goddamn it.”
But Jack could not shut up. The man turned toward him, his face still out of view, and a terrified Jack scurried back into the bedroom. A moment later the man slammed the door shut.
Jack crawled under his crib, his stuffed mouse pressed against him, the hard wood floor cold against his legs. He could see movement in the light strip. And he could hear movement and the man’s voice. “Oh, shit, Rose! Rose!”
Then a long silence. Jack crawled out from under the crib and padded to the door, his mouse still held against him. There was no lock on the door, and he knew how to open it—just push the metal handle down.
He did, and through the crack he saw the man with the slicker on his head dragging her out the front door, a thin dark trail smearing the floor.
Jack could feel the cold breeze rush into the room. A moment later, the man closed the front door. Thunder cracked overhead and the window flickered blue light.
Jack went to the front door.
“Goddamn you, die.”
Jack opened the big door to see the man hanging over the woman on the ground. In the man’s hand was the meat mallet. In the dark wet the woman was whimpering and her feet were twitching horribly, as if she were trying to walk on air. And the mallet came down and down.
Jack let out a cry. And the man looked up, his hood casting a sharp shadow over his face. Jack ran back to his room and closed the door and climbed back into his crib.
But the door flew open and the man filled the light, his head a large black bullet, the mallet still gripped in his hand.
Jack heard himself crying so loudly that it felt as if pieces of his throat were breaking loose.
And the man just stood there taking in the screams, watching Jack squirming, cowering in the corner of his crib, clutching Mookie to him, the blanket over his head but with just enough of a hole in the folds to see the man who continued to stand there in the doorway staring at him, his terrible head and slanting shoulders—thinking about what he should do about the baby in the crib eyeing him through his blanket.
Jack could hear himself whimper, wishing he could stop, wishing he could just disappear, blink out of existence.
“Won’t remember a thing.”
And then the room lit up in an electric blue light as a crack of thunder shattered the air.
The man closed the door.
He must have cleaned up the mess in the other room, because Jack could smell something—bleach—as he lay there in the dark waiting for the door to burst open again. But it didn’t.
And some time later he heard the outside door bang shut.
JACK HEARD A WARBLING CRY AND snapped his eyes open.
He had slipped to the floor. His throat felt thick and his chest hollow as if he had been sobbing deeply. His mind was raw. He looked around the room.
All was still, and outside a gentle rain pattered against the roof. The fireplace was a bed of glowing coals and burnt log ends. A soft yellow night-light burned in a lamp on the table. The clock on the wall said 3:35.
René was curled up on her couch under an afghan.
Jack must have made sounds as he awoke, because René rolled onto her back and sat up. “You okay?”
He nodded. “I saw his face.”
FOLLOWING THE ANNOUNCEMENT of the FDA’S approval of Memorine, Alzheimer’s organizations, support groups, caregivers, and allied health-care people everywhere celebrated the good news. And so did the White House.
And on this balmy Saturday evening, a huge victory gala was held at the seaside estate of Gavin E. Moy. In the setting sun, the place glowed like a huge and magnificent jewelry box on the Manchester cliffs overlooking Moon Harbor, where Gavin Moy’s boat the
Pillman
Express lay moored in a black-glass sea. Inside, a small regiment of tuxedoed waiters moved throughout the crowd with trays of canapes and champagne.
There must have been two hundred people spread throughout the thirty rooms and out on the patios, but mostly filling the first-floor ballroom, the library, and various parlors. There were executives and scientists from GEM, of course, and medical and health-care folks from all over New England, as well as representatives from different Alzheimer’s organizations, the FDA, the state legislature, Capitol Hill, and, of course, the White House. The president himself could not be there, but he sent a telegram that was read by Gavin Moy over the PA system.
Partway through the evening, Jordan Carr silenced the crowd. The house lights dimmed as monitors positioned around the rooms flickered to life. The videos contained old and new footage of AD success stories, including some of Louis Martinetti, who addressed the camera in a clear and lucid delivery. Louis was then introduced. He was wearing a tuxedo and was flanked by his daughter and wife. He did not give a speech. In fact, he looked overwhelmed, even anxious, mumbling to himself. But through tears of joy, his daughter thanked everybody for making Louis a living miracle.
A thunderous applause arose from the group, many of whom were wiping tears from their own eyes, René included.
More video presentations and testimonials followed. Also, a television commercial for Memorine that would begin airing on all major networks and cable on Monday. The spot was mostly visuals, with swelling background music, as happy and focused elderly folks played in grassy green yards with
grandchildren, pushed them on swings, sat around dinner tables. And the only words were those of the unseen narrator: “Alzheimer’s: At last a cure. Ask your doctor about the Memorine solution.” And at the bottom of the screen the name GEM Tech and its sparkling diamond logo.
Following the video, Gavin Moy gave a brief speech in which he thanked all those scientists, researchers, physicians, nurses, and others for their dedication and determination to bring to an end the scourge of Alzheimer’s disease.
After the cheering, people formed a line to congratulate Gavin.
WITH A BRIEFCASE IN HAND Jack waited patiently behind people he didn’t know, in front of people he didn’t know. Somewhere in the crowd René was talking to the Martinettis. She had told him about Louis and how he had become a very special patient of hers and how his successful comeback from dementia had been like a redemption for her—a final exorcizing of her own guilt and of those tormenting memories of her father as he faded away. Louis’s recovery was a kind of recovery for her too.
When his turn came, Jack took Gavin Moy’s hand.
“Hi,” Moy said, his large, smiling, tanned face taking focus on Jack.
“Meds Gama.”
Jack’s voice was barely audible over the din of the crowd.
“Beg pardon?” Moy said, cocking his head toward Jack.
Jack repeated the words. “
Meds Gama
.”
Moy’s expression ruffled. “Nice to meet you,” he muttered, and tried to pull his hand away.
But Jack did not release Moy’s hand. Nor did he release the grip of his stare.
“Meds Gama,
also known as
Meds Garmir,
also known as Big Red.”
Moy looked at him, startled. “Sorry, but I don’t believe I know you.” The others in Moy’s entourage were beginning to take notice.
“I think you might have an idea.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Jack Koryan. Son of Rose Najarian, also known as Rose Sarkisian.”
Something passed over Moy’s face as he held Jack’s glare, then he turned to the others. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and tortured his face into a smile.
When a bystander offered to accompany him, Moy said he’d be fine. He looked back to see René suddenly tailing Jack. He raised a cautionary finger at her. “I think you can stay here.” And she fell back. Jack did not like the threatening gesture, but he said nothing and nodded for her to fall behind.
Moy continued to smile as he cut his way through the crowd, making
terse comments to people, a big strained Happy Face preceding him as Jack followed him out of the ballroom and into the hallway.
Jack expected Moy to turn on him when they were alone, but he said nothing and led him down a corridor, then up some back stairs and through two rooms and doors and into a corner room overlooking the harbor. Moy’s home office was furnished with bookshelves, a robust marble table, and a large desk in the windowed corner. Moy moved behind the desk and sat in the big black leather mitt of a chair. He folded his hands and leaned across the desk glowering at Jack. “Okay, what’s this all about?”
On the walls behind him were photos of Moy and other people on his boat posing with fish. Others showed him in hunting outfits with dead deer. Also on a table were trophies for pistol marksmanship. “It’s about the death of Rose Sarkisian.”
Moy stared at him impassively and said nothing—a withering ploy he probably used to bring his employees to their knees. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“You don’t recognize the name?”
“No.”
“Think hard. Rose Sarkisian.” And Jack enunciated the syllables with deliberate clarity.
“Look, I’ve met thousands of people in my travels over the years.”
“She was my mother.”
“So, good for you.”
“You killed her.”
Moy’s face froze for a moment. Then he leaned forward menacingly. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are coming in here making such claims, but I’ve heard enough.” His hand moved toward the telephone.
Jack pulled out a photograph of Rose and Nick and slid it across the table.
“That’s Rose Sarkisian and Nick Mavros taken about thirty years ago. I did some research. They’re standing in front of Junior Dee’s Auto Parts store, which used to be where Kendall Square is now, behind MIT It’s where you had your lab down below.”
Jack watched Moy intently, but there was nothing in his face that betrayed him—not a flicker of his eye or a microtwitch of his facial muscles.
“So I knew her.”
“And you were at the cottage the night she died.”
“What cottage? What night?”
“Homer’s Island, August 20, 1975, Vita Nova.”
“I don’t know what you’re friggin’ talking about.”
Jack pulled out of his tuxedo jacket a photocopy of the story of Rose Sarkisian’s disappearance.
Moy glanced at it. “You know nothing,” he said. He picked up the phone. “You’ve got ten seconds to get out of here or I’m calling the police.”
“You murdered her. I was there. You came in. You had a fight and pushed her. She fell backward and hit her head and went unconscious. But that didn’t satisfy you, so you smashed her on the skull, then dragged her outside to finish her off with a kitchen meat mallet that she used to make dinner for you. Then you came back in and cleaned up the mess with bleach. Then you left to dump her body in the water.”
Moy looked at Jack as if he were an alien. His eyes were intense and his mouth in a twisted rictus. He looked positively stunned. “How?” That was all he could say.
“How do I know?” Jack pulled out a single blue tablet and slid it in front of him. “The Memorine solution.”
Moy stared at the pill for a telescoped moment.
And in Jack’s head he heard that voice: “
Die, goddamn you, die.”
Moy raised his face again. He settled into his chair and stared at Jack for several seconds. “So, I knew your mother,” he said, as if in a trance. His body seemed almost to deflate into the confession.
And the sound of the words sent a cold flush through Jack. His hand reflexively slid up the front of his jacket to the lump under his arm.
“But no pill will conjure up the truth.”
“And what’s that?”
“She tried to blackmail me.” Moy stopped and waved his hand in the air. “I’ve said enough.” He straightened up in his chair. “I want you out of here. You’ve got nothing on me.”
“Except my memory.”
“Get out of here before I call security.” And he picked up the desk phone.
“She discovered the toxin, and you ran off with her patent.”
“Bullshit.”
Jack reached into his briefcase and pulled out the downloaded stack of articles and abstracts. “Her name is all over these, until you killed her and appropriated her discovery.”
Moy looked at the pile as Jack fanned out the collection.
“She was on the ground floor of your wonder drug.”
“And what do you think you can prove by these, huh? You going to take me to court after thirty years?”
“It’s evidence of a motive for murder. I saw it all, but you didn’t think I’d remember. I was too young—just a toddler. But it all came back because of your magic jellyfish. Pretty funny, huh? What goes around comes around.”
Moy’s face was bright red. “She fell and hit her head … We had a fight, and she fell and hit her head.”
“And you finished her off with a hammer because you feared she’d report you—report that she was the one who discovered the toxin and saw the potential benefits and demanded equal billing with you.” Jack pulled one of the articles from the pile. “She was the one who determined how the stuff stimulated the adrenal medulla to activate the brain’s beta-receptors on neurons that receive noradrenaline, resulting in an enhanced emotional memory. It’s all in here—her experiments with mice. She’s the one who should be celebrated down there, not you, you son of a bitch. You killed her.
You killed her.”
Moy’s face looked as if it would explode. “Yeah, I killed her and she deserved it. You happy now? I killed her. She tried to extort money from me. And it wasn’t because of the goddamn science. It was because of you.
You!”
Jack’s breath caught in his throat.
“I was married, and just starting all this, up to my ass in debts, and she was threatening to destroy everything. She wanted me to leave my wife and marry her. And when I said that wasn’t going to happen, she started threatening to sue for child support.”
“Child support?”
“Yeah, child support. You.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Don’t.” Moy started around the desk toward him.
“This is pure bullshit.”
Moy pointed to his face and pressed toward Jack. “Yeah, then look at these eyes and look in a mirror.”
Jack stared at Moy’s eyes, and a sensation slithered through his body that left him thinking how the universe had just shifted on its axes.
“The fuck’s going on?”
A voice behind them.
Jack turned, and a thick, short man in a tuxedo entered. Behind him was another, taller man.
The Mr. Fixit guy from Greendale—the guy who came to repair the blinds. Theo.
Behind him was some physician Jack had met outside. A Dr. Jordan Carr. And Mr. Fixit was holding a shiny silver pistol on Jack.
JACK HAD BEEN GONE FOR OVER twenty minutes, and René was beginning to worry.
As she looked around the crowd, she spotted Louis Martinetti. He had slipped away from her and his daughter and wife, who were now talking to some FDA officials. They were laughing over something. Meanwhile, René tracked Louis moving through the crowd toward the rear of the hall and corridor leading to the staircase to the executive offices.
She excused herself from the people she was with, saying she was going to find a rest room. She scanned the crowd, but Louis had disappeared.
CORPORAL LOUIS MARTINETTI SLID BEHIND a tall bush growing out of a pot. The entire headquarters staff was assembled. It was like a Who’s Who of the North Korean General Command. Operation Buster. The big payoff.
He surveyed the crowd—most of them officers of the 23rd Brigade, a few regulars standing guard, ready for some grunt command. He didn’t know how much time had passed as he remained staked out—ten minutes, twenty, an hour. But suddenly his body clenched.
Corporal Martinetti raised his field glasses and adjusted the sights. And his heart leapt up. Colonel Chop Chop had stepped out from the masses. And he was heading for private consultation with Blackhawk.
“THE REAL QUESTION IS: WHAT DO I do with you now?” Moy said. “You are my son.”
“A mere technicality.”