Dean Koontz - False Memory

"What’re you talking about?”

“Jack Benny played him once in a really old movie. Remember? We watched it together.”

“I don’t remember much. You’re the one with the photographic memory.”

“Eidetic. Not photographic. Eidetic and audile memory.”

“See? I can’t even remember what it's called. You remember what you had for dinner five years ago. I don’t remember yesterday.”

“It’s just a trick thing, eidetic memory. Useless, anyway.”

The first fat drops of rain spattered across the top of the house.

Dusty didn’t have to look down to see the dead lichen being transformed into a thin film of slime, because he could smell it, a subtle but singular musty odor, and he could smell the wet clay tiles, too.

A daunting image flickered through his mind: He and Skeet were sliding off the roof then tumbling wildly, Skeet landing on the mattresses without sustaining a single cut or bruise, but Dusty overshooting and fracturing his spine on the cobblestones.

“Billy Crystal,” Skeet said.

“What — you mean Death? The angel of death looked like Billy Crystal?”

“Something wrong with that?”

“For God’s sake, Skeet, you can’t trust some wise-ass, maudlin, shtick-spouting Billy Crystal angel of death!”

“I liked him,” Skeet said, and he ran for the edge.

As though the great guns of battleships were providing cover fire for invading troops, hard hollow explosions echoed along the south-facing beaches. Enormous waves slammed onto the shore, and bullets of water, skimmed off the breakers by a growing wind, rattled inland through the low dunes and sparse stalks of grass.

Martie Rhodes hurried along the Balboa Peninsula boardwalk, which was a wide concrete promenade with ocean-facing houses on one side and deep beaches on the other. She hoped the rain would hold off for half an hour.

Susan Jagger’s narrow, three-story house was sandwiched between similar structures. The weather-silvered, cedar-shingle siding and the white shutters vaguely suggested a house on Cape Cod, although the pinched lot did not allow for a full expression of that style of architecture.

The house, like its neighbors, had no front yard, no raised porch, only a shallow patio with a few potted plants. This one was paved with bricks and set behind a white picket fence. The gate in the fence was unlocked, and the hinges creaked.

Susan had once lived on the first and second floors with her husband, Eric, who had used the third floor — complete with its own bath and kitchen — as a home office. They were currently separated. Eric had moved out a year ago, and Susan had moved up, renting the lower two floors to a quiet retired couple whose only vice seemed to be two martinis each before dinner, and whose only pets were four parakeets.

A steep exterior set of stairs led along the side of the house to the third story. As Martie climbed to the small covered landing, shrieking seagulls wheeled in from the Pacific and passed overhead, crossing the peninsula, flying toward the harbor, where they would ride out the storm in sheltered roosts.

Martie knocked, but then unlocked the door without waiting for a response. Susan was usually hesitant to welcome a visitor, reluctant to be confronted with a glimpse of the outside world; so Martie had been given a key almost a year previously.

Steeling herself for the ordeal ahead, she stepped into the kitchen, which was revealed by a single light over the sink. The blinds were tightly shut, and lush swags of shadows hung like deep-purple bunting.

The room was not redolent of spices or lingering cooking odors. Instead, the air was laced with the faint but astringent scents of disinfectant, scouring powder, and floor wax.

“It’s me,” Martie called, but Susan didn’t answer.

The only illumination in the dining room came from behind the doors of a small breakfront, in which antique majolica china gleamed on glass shelves. Here, the air smelled of furniture polish.

If all the lights had been ablaze, the apartment would have proved to be spotless, cleaner than a surgery. Susan Jagger had a lot of time to fill.

Judging by the mélange of odors in the living room, the carpet had been shampooed recently, the furniture polished, the upholstery dry-cleaned in place, and fresh citrus-scented potpourri had been placed in two small, ventilated, red-ceramic jars on the end tables.

The expansive windows, which framed an exhilarating ocean view, were covered by pleated shades. The shades were for the most part concealed by heavy drapes.

Until four months ago, Susan had been able at least to look out at the world with wistful longing, even though for sixteen months she had been terrified of venturing into it and had left her home only with someone upon whom she could lean for emotional support. Now merely the sight of a vast open space, with no walls or sheltering roof, could trigger a phobic reaction.

All the lamps glowed, and the spacious living room was brightly lighted. Yet because of the shrouded windows and the unnatural hush, the atmosphere felt funereal.

Shoulders slumped, head hung, Susan waited in an armchair. In a black skirt and black sweater, she had the wardrobe and the posture of a mourner. Judging by her appearance, the paperback book in her hands should have been the Bible, but it was a mystery novel.

“Did the butler do it?” Martie asked, sitting on the edge of the sofa.

Without looking up, Susan said, “No. The nun.”

“Poison?”

Still focused on the paperback, Susan said, “Two with an ax. One with a hammer. One with a wire garrote. One with an acetylene torch. And two with a nail gun.”

“Wow, a nun who’s a serial killer.”

“You can hide a lot of weapons under a habit.”

“Mystery novels have changed since we read them in junior high.”

“Not always for the better,” Susan said, closing the book.

They had been best friends since they were ten: eighteen years of sharing more than mystery novels — hopes, fears, happiness, sorrow, laughter, tears, gossip, adolescent enthusiasms, hard-won insights. During the past sixteen months, since the inexplicable onset of Susan’s agoraphobia, they had shared more pain than pleasure.

“I should have called you,” Susan said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go to the session today.”

This was ritual, and Martie played her part: “Of course, you can, Susan. And you will.”

Putting the paperback aside, shaking her head, Susan said, “No, I’ll call Dr. Ahriman and tell him I’m just too ill. I’m coming down with a cold, maybe the flu.”

“You don’t sound congested.”

Susan grimaced. “It’s more a stomach flu.”

“Where’s your thermometer? We’d better take your temperature.”

“Oh, Martie, just look at me. I look like hell. Pasty-faced and red-eyed and my hair like straw. I can’t go out like this.”

“Get real, Sooz. You look like you always look.”

“I’m a mess.”

“Julia Roberts, Sandra Bullock, Cameron Diaz — they’d all kill to look as good as you, even when you’re sick as a dog and projectile vomiting, which you aren’t.”

“I’m a freak.”

“Oh, yeah, right, you’re the Elephant Woman. We’ll have to put a sack over your head and warn away small children.”

If beauty had been a burden, Susan would have been crushed flat. Ash-blond, green-eyed, petite, with exquisitely sculptured features, with skin as flawless as that of a peach on a tree in Eden, she had turned more heads than a coven of chiropractors.

“I’m bursting out of this skirt. I’m gross.”

“A virtual blimp,” Martie said sarcastically. “A dirigible. A giant balloon of a woman.”