The front desk was manned by a friendly Hispanic woman with a nice smile who greeted Lindsey by name. As she signed them in, Alans eye wandered down a wide corridor, where, through open double doors, he could see several of the residents of the facility sitting in wheelchairs, shawl-draped shoulders hunched, gazing blankly at a flickering television screen, frail ghosts of the people theyd once been. He flashed briefly on the two old people in their blood-soaked bed, and knew a moment of not empathy, exactly, but knowledge, at least. Maybe even understanding.
Lindsey beckoned, and he followed her through the lobby, through double glass doors that opened automatically before them, out into spacious grounds, expanses of lawn shaded by huge pines and landscaped with lots of palm trees and bird-of-paradise, bougainvillea and lily-of-the-Nile. Roses and other flowers still bloomed in well-groomed beds, even this late in the fall. Wide pathways of smooth asphalt-again, for the accommodation of wheels and walkers and shuffling feet-wound through the gardens, connecting areas both sunny and shady where benches and tables offered opportunities for rest and reflection.
Yeah, a nice-enough place, he supposed, but it gave him the willies, anyway.
He wondered how much a place like this must cost. Plenty, he was sure. Lindsey had assured him her dad could afford it. Hed been a banker-vice president of something or other-before hed retired, and had made wise investments, most of which had survived the economic meltdown. Hed also had the foresight to purchase long-term-care insurance, for both himself and his wife, because, Lindsey said, hed told her he didnt want them to ever be a burden on her.
Shed said that with a fierce kind of pride, Alan had noted, as if being a good financial planner was proof positive a man couldnt possibly also be a cold-blooded killer.
Mom lives in the assisted living section, Lindsey explained as they navigated the curving, branching pathways at a brisk pace. She has her own apartment-for now. Later, she can be moved into the main building where she would have more supervision and care.
She knocked on the heavy wooden door of a single-story Spanish-style bungalow that appeared to be divided into several small apartments, then called out, Mom? Its Lindsey. She waited a moment, then took a key out of her pocket and threw an explanation over her shoulder as she unlocked the door. Being able to lock her door makes her feel safe. I have a key and the staff has one, of course.
But not your dad, Alan said.
She shook her head, and her voice was low and breathless. Hes not allowed to visit her at all. Can you imagine? Shes been married to him for over forty years, and wont even let him come and see her.
She opened the door and stepped into the apartment, calling again, Mom? Where are you? Its me, Lindsey
Behind her in the doorway, Alan paused. Through the tiny living room and an open sliding glass door, he could see a woman in an enclosed patio garden area, surrounded by pots filled with flowering plants. Hearing Lindseys greeting, she turned, wiping a gloved hand holding a trowel across her forehead. Her face broke into a smile.
She opened the door and stepped into the apartment, calling again, Mom? Where are you? Its me, Lindsey
Behind her in the doorway, Alan paused. Through the tiny living room and an open sliding glass door, he could see a woman in an enclosed patio garden area, surrounded by pots filled with flowering plants. Hearing Lindseys greeting, she turned, wiping a gloved hand holding a trowel across her forehead. Her face broke into a smile.
Oh, Lindsey, what a nice surprise. Did you bring me pansies? Oh- She had started toward her daughter, then caught sight of Alan and hesitated. A look of uncertainty crossed her face-briefly. Then the smile returned, but more polite now-even determined-than pleased. Oh-I see youve brought a friend. She came in, pulling off her gloves.
Do I know you? she asked as she extended a hand to Alan, and her smile grew apologetic. Forgive me-I forgetthings, you know.
No, maam, we havent met. Alan found that he had softened his voice and was holding her hand gently, the way he would if he were dealing with a victim of violent crime. Im Alan. Alan Cameron.
He wasnt sure what hed expected. Someone older, for sure. He knew, given her daughters age, that she had to be in her upper sixties, maybe even early seventies-which wasnt all that old nowadays, he reminded himself. It was probably the Alzheimers association that had him envisioning someone lost-looking, gray-haired and fragile, like the ghosts hed glimpsed in the recreation room off the front lobby.
Susan Merrill looked far from fragile, though she did have quite a bit of gray in her dark hair, which was thick and shoulder-length, like Lindseys, but worn in a style reminiscent of another era-a pageboy, he thought it was called. Not exactly up-to-date, but on her it looked right. She was tall, slender and fit-looking, with skin that showed some sun damage-testimony to the fact that she belonged to a generation that had grown up believing a deep tan was a sign of health. Her eyes were fringed with the same dark lashes that made her daughters so arresting, but their color was hazel, a mix of green and gold that changed with the light.
Mom, Lindsey said, this is Detective Cameron. Hes a policeman.
Susan Merrill gave a faint gasp and jerked her hand back. She looked at her daughter, a brief, startled glance, but Alan thought he saw hope flare in her eyes when they came back to him, just before they changed again and grew shuttered and wary.
Well, my goodness, isnt that nice, she said, with a new vagueness that Alan thought didnt quite ring true. She turned back toward the patio door, the gloves clutched in her hand fluttering with apparent agitation. Lindsey, did you bring me pansies? You said you would bring me pansies. Her voice was thin and high, like a childs.
I brought you pansies yesterday. Lindsey threw Alan a helpless look and went after her mother. Mom, I told-
Well, I used them all. Now, the voice was clipped, impatient. You can see-there, and there and there. And I need some more-for these pots, here, you see? I need-
Ill bring you some more pansies, Lindsey said wearily. She gently removed the gloves and trowel from her mothers hands and laid them on a wrought-iron patio table, then guided her into a matching chair. Mom, I told Detective Cameron about your dreams. He wants-
Susans sharp bark of laughter interrupted her. She thinks theyre dreams, she said angrily to Alan. Theyre not dreams. Theyre memories. Memories, Detective. I still have some, you know. She looked away, swallowing repeatedly, hands moving restlessly on the wrought-iron tabletop, and after a moment came a whispered, I can remember.
Alan sat in the other chair and leaned toward her, hands clasped loosely between his knees. What do you remember, Susan? he asked softly.
She threw him a look full of fear and distrust and shook her head.
Lindsey gave an exasperated hiss and opened her purse. She took out a small framed photograph, plunked it down on the tabletop in front of her mother, then crouched down beside her chair. Tell him, Mom. Tell him who this is.
A look of loathing darkened Susans face. With jerky, uncoordinated movements, she turned the photograph face down on the table and pushed it away from her. I know who you think it is, she said bitterly. And then, to Alan, She thinks Im crazy. But Im not. That man-the man in that picture-is the man who killed my husband. And me.
Tried to kill you, Mama, Lindsey said, as she settled into a more comfortable position on the patio pavers.
Whatever. Susan waved that off as if it were a detail of no importance. He shot me, Detective. I saw his face, as clearly as I see yours. Then she hesitated, looking less sure. Exceptit was dark. I think. Yes-Im certain it was dark-nighttime. But there was light on his face. I saw that face. And then he shot me. And- She broke off, her face contorted with fear.
Tell me what you remember, Alan prompted, keeping his voice low so it wouldnt jar her precarious emotional state. He put his hand over hers, quieting their restless movement. Its all rightyoure safe here.
Watching the way those forbidding features seemed to soften when he spoke to her mother, Lindsey felt a peculiar fluttering sensation inside her chest. How gentle he is. So patient with her.
But, she reminded herself, he probably had plenty of practice in dealing with emotionally traumatized people. Just part of his job. A skill hes perfected. His game face. Her eyes burned, and she tore them away from him and focused instead on a pot filled with blue and yellow pansies.
Her mother glanced down at her with tear-filled eyes, then raised them once more to Alan. I wish I could remember more. I try, butjust that. He shot me, and thendarkness. Cold. I remember being cold, and alone, and floating. She looked up, face alight with triumph. Yes! I remember floating. Cold, dark, aloneand floating. I thinkI must have died. Dont you think so, Detective? Isnt that what death feels like?
Her eyes searched the detectives austere features as if he must know the answer to that question, to one of humankinds greatest mysteries, and Lindsey fought back a sob. Tears were streaming down her mothers cheeks unchecked, as if she wasnt even aware she was crying. Lindseys fingers wanted desperately to wipe the tears away. Her arms ached to gather her mother close and rock her like the child she was slowly but surely becoming. She forced herself to stay silent, to sit hunched and still at her mothers feet.
What do you remember about the time before you were shot? Alan asked.
I used to dream Her mothers voice was musical, with no trace of the tears, and for a moment it seemed she must not have heard the softly spoken question. I had dreamsnightmaresthats what Richard said they were. Just a bad dream, Susie, go back to sleep. Thats what hed say, and so I did. And then She jerked upright. One day, I realized it wasnt a dream. I was remembering. Onlyit was like I was remembering a different life. Her eyes were wide and bewildered. A life that wasnt mine. I had a different name, a husband-oh, I can see his face so clearly. But I cant remember his name. Or mine. I cant remember my name. And now at last a sob came, shaking her slender body like a buffeting wind.