False Memory Part 54

Counseling himself to have patience, the doctor engaged in ten minutes of excruciatingly boring conversation regarding the huge box-office receipts pouring in from the actor's current megahit, giving the subject something something to remember from this visit. When finally he left Room 246, he knew far more than he cared to know about typical attendance patterns at mall theaters in the greater Chicago area. to remember from this visit. When finally he left Room 246, he knew far more than he cared to know about typical attendance patterns at mall theaters in the greater Chicago area.

The famous actor. He bites democracy's nose. And the millions cheer.

Not great but much better. Work on that one.

[image]

With January wind bl.u.s.tering outside and fields of electronic crickets humming inside, Dusty activated Skeet with the name Dr. Yen Lo. Dr. Yen Lo.

The kid sat up a little straighter at the table, his pale face becoming so expressionless that Dusty only now realized how subtly anguished it had been before. This observation sharpened the ever-present sorrow that he felt over the fact that his brother had been robbed, so young, of a full and purposeful life.

When they went through the haiku and Skeet's three responses, Fig Newton said, "Exactly," as if he knew about such psychological control mechanisms.

Minutes ago, in a hurried consultation in Fig's library-a small bedroom filled with books about UFOs, alien abductions, spontaneous human combustion, cross-dimensional beings, and the Bermuda Triangle-Dusty had outlined for Martie the effects he hoped to achieve with Skeet. What he proposed seemed fraught with risk to Skeet's already fragile psychological condition, and he worried that he would do more damage than good. To his surprise, Martie at once embraced his plan. He trusted her common sense more than he trusted the sun to rise in the east, so with her endors.e.m.e.nt, he was prepared to take the awful responsibility for the consequences of his plan.

Now, with Skeet accessed and his eyes jiggling as they had jiggled at New Life Clinic, Dusty said, "Tell me if you can hear my voice, Skeet."

"I can hear your voice."

"Skeet...when I give you instructions, will you obey them?"

"Will I obey them?"

Reminding himself of everything he had learned in their previous session at the clinic, Dusty rephrased the question as a statement: "Skeet, you will obey all instructions that I give you. Confirm or deny that this is true."

"I confirm."

"I am Dr. Yen Lo, Skeet."

"Yes."

"And I am the clear cascades."

"Yes."

"In the past, I have given you many instructions."

"The blue pine needles," Skeet said.

"That's right. Now, Skeet, in a little while, I am going to snap my fingers. When that happens, you will fall into a restful sleep. Confirm or deny that you understand me so far."

"Confirm."

"And then I will snap my fingers a second time. On that second snap of my fingers, you will wake up, will become entirely conscious, but you will also also forget forever all of my previous instructions to you. My control over you will come to an end. I-Dr. Yen Lo, the clear cascades-will never again be able to access you. Skeet, tell me whether or not you understand what I've said." forget forever all of my previous instructions to you. My control over you will come to an end. I-Dr. Yen Lo, the clear cascades-will never again be able to access you. Skeet, tell me whether or not you understand what I've said."

"I understand."

Dusty sought Martie's rea.s.surance.

She nodded.

Not privy to their plan, Fig leaned forward over the table, rapt, his prune juice forgotten.

"Although you will forget all my previous instructions, Skeet, you will remember every word of what I am going to tell you now, and you will believe it, and you will act upon it for the rest of your life. Tell me whether you do or do not understand what I've just said."

"I do."

"Skeet, you will never again use illegal drugs. You will have no desire to use them. The only drugs you will use are those that may be prescribed for you by physicians in time of illness."

"I understand."

"Skeet, from this moment forward, you will understand that you are basically a good man, no more or less flawed than other people. The negative things your father has said about you over all these years, the judgments your mother has pa.s.sed on you, the criticisms that Derek Lampton has leveled against you-none of those things will affect you, hurt you, or limit you ever again."

"I understand."

Across the table, tears shone in Martie's eyes.

Dusty had to pause and take a deep breath before continuing. "Skeet, you will look back into your childhood and find that time when you believed in the future, when you were full of dreams and hopes. You will believe in the future again. You will believe in yourself. You will have hope, Skeet, and you will never, never again lose hope."

"I understand."

Skeet staring into infinity. Fig riveted. Good Valet watching somberly. Martie blotting her eyes on the sleeve of her blouse.

Dusty put thumb to middle finger.

Hesitated. Thinking of all the things that might go wrong, and wondering about the unintended consequences of good intentions.

Snap.

Skeet's eyes slipped shut, and he slumped in his chair, sound asleep. His chin came to rest on his chest.

Overwhelmed by the responsibility that he'd just a.s.sumed, Dusty got up from the table, stood indecisively for a moment, and then went into the kitchen. At the sink, he twisted the COLD COLD faucet, cupped his hands under the flow, and repeatedly splashed his face with water. faucet, cupped his hands under the flow, and repeatedly splashed his face with water.

Martie came to him. "It'll be all right, baby."

The water might have concealed his tears, but he couldn't hide the emotion that wrenched his voice. "What if somehow I've screwed him up worse than he was?"

"You haven't," she said with conviction.

He shook his head. "You can't know. The mind is so delicate. One of the big things wrong with this world is...so many people want to screw with other people's minds, and they cause so much damage. damage. So much damage. You can't know about this, neither of us can." So much damage. You can't know about this, neither of us can."

"I can know," she insisted gently, putting one hand to his damp face. "Because what you just did in there was done out of pure love, pure perfect love for your brother, and nothing bad can ever come of that."

"Yeah. And the road to h.e.l.l is paved with good intentions."

"So is the road to Heaven, don't you think?"

Shuddering, swallowing a hard lump in his throat, he put an even deeper fear into words: "I'm afraid of what might happen if it works...but even more afraid that it won't work. How crazy is that? What if I snap my fingers, and who wakes up is the old Skeet, still full of self-loathing, still confused, still the poor sweet feeb? This is his last chance, and I want so much to believe it's going to work, but what if I snap my fingers, and it turns out his last chance was no chance at all? What then, Martie?"

The strength in her voice lifted him, as always she lifted him: "Then at least you tried."

Dusty looked toward the dining area, at the back of Skeet's head, his hair rumpled and uncombed. The scrawny neck, the frail shoulders.

"Come on," Martie said softly. "Give him a new life."

Dusty turned off the running water.

He tore a few paper towels from a roll and blotted his face.

He wadded the towels and dropped them in the trash can.

He rubbed his hands together, as if he might be able to ma.s.sage the tremors out of them.

Clickety-click, claws on linoleum: Inquisitive Valet padded into the kitchen. Dusty stroked the dog's golden head. claws on linoleum: Inquisitive Valet padded into the kitchen. Dusty stroked the dog's golden head.

Finally he followed Martie back to the dinette table, and they sat once more with Fig and Skeet.

Thumb to middle finger again.

Come the magic now, good or bad, hope or despair, joy or misery, meaning or emptiness, life or death: snap. snap.

Skeet opened his eyes, raised his head, sat up straighter in his chair, looked around at those a.s.sembled, and said, "Well, when do we start?"

He had no memory of the session.

"Typical," Fig p.r.o.nounced, nodding his head vigorously.

"Skeet?" Dusty said.

The kid turned to him.

Taking a deep breath, then speaking the name as an exhalation, Dusty said, "Dr. Yen Lo."

Skeet c.o.c.ked his head. "Huh?"

"Dr. Yen Lo."

Martie gave it a try: "Dr. Yen Lo."

And then Fig: "Dr. Yen Lo."

Skeet surveyed the expectant faces around him, including that of the dog, who had stood up with his forepaws on the table. "What is this, a riddle, a quiz or something? Was this Lo some guy in history? I was never any good at history."

"Well," said Fig.

"Clear cascades," Dusty said.

Baffled, Skeet said, "Sounds like a dish-was.h.i.+ng soap."

At least the first part of the plan had worked. Skeet was no longer programmed, no longer controllable.

Only the pa.s.sage of time would prove, however, whether or not Dusty's second goal had also been achieved: Skeet's liberation from his tortured past.

Dusty pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. To Skeet, he said, "Get up."

"Huh?"

"Come on, bro, get up."

Letting the clinic blanket slip off his shoulders, the kid rose from the chair. He looked like a stick-and-straw scarecrow wearing a fat man's pajamas.

Dusty put his arms around his brother and held him very tight, very tight, and when at last he could speak, he said, "Before we go, I'll give you some money for vanilla Yoo-hoo, okay?"

62.

The wheel of luck was turning. Two seats on United, out of John Wayne International Airport, to Santa Fe by way of Denver, were available on an early-morning flight. Using a credit card, Dusty secured the tickets from the phone in Fig Newton's kitchen.

"Gun?" Fig asked, a few minutes later, as Dusty and Martie were at the front door, preparing to leave brother and dog in his care.

"What about it?" Dusty asked.

"Need one?"

"No."

"Think you will," Fig disagreed.

"Please tell me you don't have an a.r.s.enal big enough to start a war," Martie said, clearly wondering if Foster Newton was something more troubling than a mere eccentric.

"Don't," Fig a.s.sured her.

"Anyway, I've got this," Dusty said, drawing the customized .45 Colt Commander from his jacket.

"Flying, aren't you?" Fig said.

"I'm not going to try to carry it on the plane. I'll pack it in one of our suitcases."

"Might get random scanned," Fig warned.