The Fifth Profession (33 page)

“You bastard!” The man kept chasing him, abruptly throwing the hammer. It whacked against the car door.

Savage stomped the car's accelerator. Tires screeching, the Taurus sped away. In the distance, a siren wailed.

“What
happened?”
Akira asked.

“I just saw a dead man.” Savage reached toward his throat, massaging it, sounding hoarse as if he'd been strangled.

“You're not making sense,” Rachel said

“That's the point.
Nothing
makes sense. Jesus help me. What did they do to us?”

11

“I imagined it might be true, but I never believed it.” Savage drove with fury, passing every car he could, ignoring billboards that cluttered the wooded countryside. “A logical extension of
jamais vu.
A terrifying possibility. So I had to convince myself that my fears were only that—fears, not reality. I had to prove that all my false memories were restricted to the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat and the Harrisburg hospital. But now? Damn it, that man and woman
are
my mother and father. I was
raised
in that house. I saw my mother a
year
ago. She looked exactly the same as that woman. And my father, if he'd lived, would have looked exactly like that man!”

Rachel and Akira stayed silent.

“You don't believe me?” Savage asked. “You think I picked a house at random and simply walked in?”

“No,” Akira said. “I believe you. It's just that …”

“What? You know we saw each other die. You have to believe the rest of it.”

“I think what Akira means,” Rachel said, “is that he doesn't
want
to believe you. What you said last night … I assumed you were overtired, under too much stress. I finally understand. No—more than that—I
feel.
If your memories
have
been completely reconstructed, you don't have anything to depend on. Everything you're sure of is called into doubt.”

“That's why we're going to Little Creek, Virginia,” Savage said. “To find out what
else
I can't be sure of.”

The woodland dwindled, giving way to marshes, then beaches.

At the southern lip of the mouth to Chesapeake Bay, Savage turned west from Route 60 and two miles later reached the Little Creek Naval Amphibious Base.

“My God, it's huge,” Rachel said.

From beyond the base's perimeter, they saw clusters of administration buildings and living quarters, an eighteen-hole golf course, twenty tennis courts, two picnic areas, an indoor recreation center, a marina, an outdoor pool, and a lake with canoes and paddleboats. The impression of the base's size was reinforced by the swarm of personnel and the thirty-two ships in the harbor.

“How many sailors are stationed here?” Rachel asked, amazed.

“Nine thousand. Three thousand dependents live here as well,” Savage said. “But ‘sailors’ is too broad a term. Most of them belong to traditional units. A few, though, are part of special operations. This is the eastern seaboard training area for the Navy SEALs.”

He scanned the base with pride. “It's just the way I remember it.” His voice had a tremor of fear. “I rushed to get here. Now I don't want to …”

He forced himself to step out of the car and approach the guards at the gate. The sun was low in the sky. His heart pounded.

“Yes, sir?” A guard stood rigidly.

“I'd like to see Captain James Macintosh.”

“What reason, sir?”

“We're friends. I haven't seen him in several years. I happened to be in the area. I thought I'd say hello.”

The guard squinted.

“I don't want to enter the base,” Savage said. “I won't breach security. Tell him I'm here. If he doesn't want to see me, fine.”

“What unit, sir?”

Savage's pulse quickened. “He
is
still stationed here?”

“I'm not able to tell you that, sir, unless I know his unit.”

“The SEAL training team.”

Again the guard squinted. “Just a moment, sir.” He entered a building beside the gate. Through an open door, Savage saw him pick up a phone. A minute later, the sentry returned. “Sir, Captain MacIntosh left the base. He's got a twenty-four-hour pass.”

“Did they tell you where he went?”

The guard stood more rigidly. “No, sir.”

“Of course not. Thanks anyhow. I'll try again tomorrow.” Despondent, Savage walked back to the car, explaining to Akira and Rachel.

“I'm in no mood to wait. I think I know where to find him.” Brooding, Savage drove from the base, heading toward Virginia Beach.

12

The Ship-to-Shore Tavern was a block from the sea. Savage smelled salt in the air and heard sea gulls over the beach. At once he smelled cigarette smoke and heard Elvis's version of “Johnny B. Goode” as he left the sunset-tinted street and entered the murky bar with Rachel and Akira.

When his eyes adjusted, Savage saw tables crowded with young, trim men looking unaccustomed to civilian clothes, talking and drinking energetically. Glassed-in cases along the walls held models of aircraft carriers, battleships, destroyers, submarines, minesweepers, landing vessels, and patrol boats. There were models of the
Merrimac
and the
Monitor,
the first armored American gunships to engage in combat, ironically against each other, during the War Between the States.

“The man who owns this place is a former SEAL,” Savage said, guiding Rachel and Akira past an arm-wrestling competition toward a narrow open space at the crowded bar. “After he retired, he couldn't let go of the team, so he started the Ship-to-Shore Tavern. A lot of Navy personnel, especially SEALs, come in here.”

A bartender walked over. He was in his fifties, had a brush cut, was built like a football player, and wore a short-sleeved white shirt, similar to Navy issue, that showed a tattoo of a seal on his right forearm. “What'll it be, folks?”

“Seltzer water.”

Rachel and Akira ordered the same.

The bartender shrugged.

“Harold, do you remember me?” Savage asked.

“Can't say I do.” The bartender concentrated. “Should I?”

“I used to come here often, when I was on leave.”

“A lot of sailors pass through. How long has it been since—?”

“October, nineteen eighty-three.”

“No offense. Over the years everybody looks the same. My memory's not what it used to be.”

“I know what you mean.”

The bartender squinted at Akira and went for the seltzer water.

“It doesn't prove anything that he doesn't remember me,” Savage said. “But it must mean
something
that I remember him, that I knew about this bar.”

Rachel looked uncertain.

“Just like I knew where my mother lived?” Savage asked. “Is that what you're thinking?”

She didn't have a chance to answer. The bartender came back with their drinks. “That's three seventy-five.”

Savage gave him a five. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

“Does Captain MacIntosh still come in here?”

“Mac? Sure, I see him a couple times a month.”

“Did he come in here this evening?”

“Not that I know of. If he did, one of the waitresses must have served him.” The bartender squinted at Akira again and walked toward the cash register.

“I don't think he likes Japanese,” Akira said.

“Or maybe no Japanese has ever been in here. He's not the only one staring at you,” Rachel said.

“I noticed.”

“Maybe
you're
the attraction,” Savage told Rachel. “If you were by yourself, a hundred sailors would be asking to buy you a drink.”

“I don't know whether that's a compliment or a threat.” Rachel's eyes crinkled.

“Tell us about this Captain MacIntosh,” Akira said.

“I served with him in the SEALs. After Grenada, I resigned. He was promoted and put on the training team.” Savage shook his head. “We were close. I remember him vividly. Training together. Shipping into combat together. Coming here, drinking, raising hell together. He
can't
be another false memory. … In fact”—Savage's shoulders cramped—”there he is.”

A well-built sandy-haired man in his middle thirties came into the tavern. He was tall, with tanned, chiseled features, dressed in sneakers, jeans, and a denim shirt, the three top buttons of which were open, revealing light-brown chest hair. He wore a diver's watch.

As he waved toward a group of men at a table, grinned, and walked toward them, Savage pushed away from the bar and veered through the crowd to intercept him. “Mac!”

The man paused, turning in puzzlement, trying to determine the source of the voice.

“Mac,” Savage said and reached him. “How are you?”

Mac stared, his expression impossible to read.

Savage quelled his unease, struggling to flash his best good-buddy smile. “What's the matter? After everything we've been through, don't you remember me?”

“Remember you?” Mac kept staring, his forehead deeply furrowed.

No! Savage thought. Not again! He felt as if he plummeted, dizzy, stomach hollow, arms and legs numb.

Mac pursed his lips, turning to walk away.

Savage dodged in front of him. “Wait.
Please.
You really don't …?”

“I told you I was good for the money. Damn it, here's your twenty bucks. Stop hounding me. Get out of here.”

Savage frowned at the money shoved into his hand. His mind reeled. “But …”

Mac started to walk away again.

“You didn't owe me …” Stunned, Savage followed him. “What's this all about?”

Mac stopped, leaning close, his voice a tense whisper. “That's a damned good question. What are you doing here? Have you gone nuts, Doyle? You know we're not supposed to be seen together.”

“What?”

“Get out.”

“But …”

Mac's voice was barely audible. “In the alley. Fifteen minutes.”

As Savage blinked, Mac continued toward his friends at a corner table.

“The guy lends me twenty bucks, then thinks I won't pay him. That's what I get for playing cards with civilians,” Savage heard Mac tell his friends.

The din of the tavern abruptly seemed louder, the smoke filled air more unbreathable. Savage felt trapped, constricted, smothered. Chest cramping, he glanced toward Rachel and Akira, gesturing for them to meet him outside.

Dusk had turned to darkness. On the noisy, crowded street, Savage shook his head, so astonished he could hardly speak. “He called me Doyle.”

Rachel studied him. “Then he
does
remember you?”

“No, you don't understand,” Savage said. “My real name isn't Doyle. Why would he—? Jesus, did they steal my name and teach me another?” His temples throbbed. “Who the hell
am
I?”

13

The alley was rimmed by a clutter of boxes, garbage cans, and a Dumpster bin. Halfway along, a dim bulb above a door on the right fought to dispel the gloom.

“The tavern's rear exit,” Savage said. With Rachel and Akira, he stood on a quiet side street, surveying his destination. “I must have been here before if I know that.”

“Unless …”

Savage realized what Akira meant to say. “Another false memory?
Something
has to be real. Mac did recognize me. I'm sure of it,
even if he called me by a name I don't remember having.”
Savage inhaled. “Fifteen minutes, he said. It'll soon be time. I want
answers.”

Savage entered the alley.

“Wait,” Akira said.

Savage glanced back, nervous. “What's wrong?”

“I can't let you meet him alone.”

“But Rachel …”

“Yes. She can't stay here unprotected,” Akira said. “But if she comes with me down the alley, if there's trouble, she'll get in the way. Since New York, when you decided to bring her with us, I knew this moment would come. I can't be your backup and at the same time guard her.”

“When
I
decided? You agreed with me.”

“Reluctantly.”

“I promised I wouldn't make trouble,” Rachel said. “Go with him, Akira. I'll be safe here.”

“No. As long as you're with us, we're responsible for you,” Akira said.

“My husband can't know where I am. I'll be fine.”

“At the moment, it's not your husband I'm worried about. Whatever's happening to us, if this meeting becomes what you Americans call sour …”

Even in the night, Savage could see Rachel's eyes flash.

“I'm as concerned about Savage's safety as you are,” she said. “More than my own. If it bothers you to leave me here, we'll
both
go with him. There isn't another alternative.”

“I'm afraid she's right,” Savage said.

“If there's trouble?” Akira said.

“I stay out of the way. I hide,” Rachel said.

“And if we're separated?”

“We need a prearranged rendezvous. For starters, where we parked the car. If we can't reach it, I'll get a room in a Holiday Inn in this area. I know the pseudonyms on your credit cards. You know mine: Susan Porter. We phone the other Holiday Inns till we make contact. If—after two days—we fail to make contact, we know it's a worst-case scenario. We give up and proceed on our own.”

“Not bad,” Savage said.

Akira raised his eyebrows in reluctant respect.

“I had good teachers,” Rachel said. “Your fifteen minutes are almost up,” she told Savage. “Any moment, your friend'll come through that door.”

Savage glanced toward Akira, waiting for his reaction.

Akira squinted. “Very well.” He sighed and stayed close to Rachel as he followed Savage down the alley. “Here,” he told Rachel. “We hide in this alcove.”

Savage proceeded toward the tavern's rear exit.

14

The door came open, filling the alley with the sounds of loud conversations and the Everly Brothers’ “Bye Bye Love.” From where Savage stood at the rim of the faint bulb's illumination, he saw Mac appear and scan the alley. Behind Mac, a narrow corridor led toward the tavern's main section. A door labeled MEN'S ROOM was on the corridor's left.

Mac finished scanning the alley, stared at Savage, and stepped out, shutting the door, muffling the voices and music.

“The guys I'm with think I'm taking a leak. I can't stay away long. What
is
this, Doyle? For Christ's sake, why did you show up here? If anybody recognized you …”