The Ghost of Blackwood Lane Read online

  “This isn’t a game, John,” Frank said, his voice tense. “I can try to suppress the boy’s memory of his girlfriend, but even that makes me very uncomfortable, and it’s unlikely to last long. I will not suppress his grief of Gloria—grief is healthy and something we all need to deal with. And I will not rob him of any memories of his mother, no matter how painful they are. They’re all that he has left of her. I won’t take them away.”

  John was looking at him, the cigarette forgotten. Blue smoke drifted up between them. After a moment, John turned to look at his son, and Frank grabbed John’s jaw, meeting his eyes. “He has to grieve over her—she deserves nothing less. Agreed?”

  John nodded slowly, and Frank let go of his jaw, straightening his jacket before sitting back down in front of the boy. He noticed that the boy’s eyes were open now. Chris was staring at a patch of reflected light on the ceiling, a patch of bright whiteness crisscrossed with thick, black bars.

  The eyes coming open on their own like that—Frank was sure that the boy’s eyes had been closed before he stood up to confront John O’Toole. It was a sure sign that the hypnotic state was weakening.

  Frank needed to get this finished and get out, and quickly.

  “Chris, you might want to close your eyes and relax and think about the room.” At this point, suggestions would probably be more effective than outright commands.

  “Yes,” the boy said, and just as Frank was about to continue, he spoke again. “Yes, I can see the room. There are bright bands of dark and light on the ceiling. And I smell smoke, cigarette smoke.”

  The boy was incorporating reality into his dream-room; it was another sign that the hypnotic state wasn’t as deep as Frank would have liked.

  “Okay, Chris. Now, we need to talk about something else. You’re relaxing in this room, noticing the calming and soothing things around you, and you’re completely comfortable talking about Judy, Judy Nelson. Do you want to talk about her?”

  “Yes. She is very nice, and very pretty, and I want to marry her. I like to talk about her.”

  Frank glanced at John, but John was looking out the window.

  “She’s a great person, Chris. Wonderful, in fact. But she’s in danger, isn’t she?”

  Chris nodded, seeming to grow restless. “Yes. She knows me, and people who know my family are in danger. The Lucianos want to kill us.”

  “That’s right, Chris. And you don’t want that to happen to Judy, do you?” This was dangerous—Frank was treading a very thin line. If the boy got too upset, he could suddenly emerge from the hypnotic state.

  “No. I don’t want anything to happen to her. I love her, even if my father doesn’t want me to be with her. I just wish I hadn’t called her—it caused a lot of trouble.”

  Frank shook his head. There was too much of a connection here, too much to gloss over. He had gone into this planning to suppress the boy’s attachment to Judy, but that wouldn’t work. If he saw the girl, his memories would come back as soon as she confronted him.

  No, it would have to be all or nothing.

  He had to make the boy forget all about Judy Nelson. Every feeling, every memory, everything about her down to the smallest remembrance of her smell and her voice. For her sake, and for the sake of Chris and John.

  “Chris, is there a closet or a chest in the room?”

  “Yes. There’s a large cabinet against one wall. It’s decorated with lots of gold and frilly stuff, and there are big mirrors on the doors. I can see myself in the doors.”

  Frank wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean—usually, the patients saw mirrors of some sort in their dream rooms. Frank didn’t have time to explore the meaning.

  “Good, Chris. I want you to go to that cabinet and open it.” He waited for a few moments. “Is there a lot of room inside?”

  “Yes. It’s very big. There are shelves, some made of glass.”

  “Good. Now, you know that Judy’s in danger, and you’d do anything to protect her, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.” His response was immediate.

  “Okay, to protect her, you need to conjure up all of your memories of her. Every thought, every action or scrap of emotion you have about her. Can you collect every single memory?”

  It took a few long moments, and in that time the boy’s hands rose up off the soft leather of the couch and crossed on his chest again, and the muscles in his neck and arms stood out strongly. His feet moved on their own.

  “Okay, Chris, now I want you to take all of your memories and all of your emotions about Judy and put them into the cabinet. They’ll all fit, and if there are shelves inside the cabinet, you can set some of those memories on them. She’s in danger, and putting your memories of her inside the cabinet will protect her. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Frank could see the boy’s hands moving around slightly, twitching as if he were arranging delicate items. After a moment, the boy seemed to relax, and his feet stopped shaking.

  “Okay. Are all of your memories of Judy in the cabinet? Everything you’ve thought about her, every dream you’ve told her about, all the memories you’ve shared?”

  “Yes,” the boy said, his voice low and quiet. Frank didn’t know what that meant, other than the boy’s conscious mind might be fighting the suppression of memories. He’d never heard of anyone trying to suppress all the memories of a person, and he had no idea if it would work. Selected memories could be suppressed or at least isolated in protective layers, but trying to completely forget someone, someone you were close to—was it possible?

  “Okay, Chris. To protect Judy, you must forget her. All of your memories of her are inside the cabinet, and if you close the doors, you’ll no longer remember her. You must close the door and lock it. We’ll make a key, so that later, when she’s no longer in danger, you’ll be able to open that cabinet and remember everything about her. Do you understand?”

  A long moment passed, and the boy didn’t answer.

  “Chris, do you understand?”

  The room was silent. The father, sitting on one of the couches, leaned forward.

  Finally, Chris nodded slowly. “Yes, Uncle. But I don’t want to forget her. I love her.”

  God, this was going to be trouble. Even unconsciously, he was fighting the exclusion process. There would be trouble down the line when the wall started to weaken. What would happen if he saw the girl? He’d have no memory of her, but she, of course, would remember him. Best to make sure they never met.

  “Chris, I know this is difficult for you, but you have to forget her. And after the danger is passed, we’ll meet again and release those memories. Do you want to think up a few words that will be the key?”

  “Yes. I want the key to be ‘the pearl is in the river.’”

  Clever, Frank thought.

  “Why did you choose that particular phrase, Chris?”

  “I saw it in a movie last night,” Chris answered.

  That wouldn’t do at all—God forbid the kid saw that movie next week on late-night TV and all his memories came flooding back at once. It could cause a mental break.

  “That’s a good phrase, Chris, but let me come up with one for you, okay?”

  Dr. Martin glanced around the room, his eyes finding one of his favorite paintings, an ocean scene with a lighthouse and a boat in the distance. He’d always wondered how those folks in the boat felt, seeing the lighthouse and knowing they’d soon be rescued.

  “Okay, Chris—I’ve got a phrase for you. The key should be, ‘the faded lighthouse caused a wonderful fire.’ Okay?” Frank couldn’t imagine any conversation in which that particular phrase might come up.

  “Now, I need you to close the doors of the cabinet, and in so doing, forget everything you know about Judy. Can you do that?”

  The boy was quiet for a long moment.

  “Chris, have you closed the cabinet?”

  “Yes,” the boy answered, his eyes open again and staring at the ceiling. And in the bright reflection of th
e dark and light pattern painted on the ceiling of his office, Frank saw a single tear form in the corner of one of the boy’s eyes and fall down his cheek.

  Frank heard a loud sigh behind him. He turned and saw that John O’Toole was smiling and lighting another cigarette, but the cool look Frank gave him removed the smile.

  “Okay, Chris. Do you have any memories of a person named Judy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about her,” Frank said.

  “Judy is the lady at the Fairview Heights Library, near the mall,” Chris said. “She is an old lady, and sometimes she smells like freshly baked bread.”

  Good. “Do you remember anyone else named Judy in your life, like a friend or schoolmate?”

  “No.”

  Frank glanced at John one more time, giving him a final chance to back out, but John wouldn’t even make eye contact.

  Frank nodded and then started with the second thing they needed to accomplish before bringing the boy out of the hypnotic state. They had agreed to try this only if the first part had gone well. It involved finding a second cabinet in the imaginary room, a larger one this time, that could be unlocked using the same mental key.

  “Okay, now let’s move on. Your name is Chris, right? Chris O’Toole?”

  “Yes,” the boy answered quietly.

  “Okay, let’s look in the room for another cabinet, a different one altogether. And let’s gather up your memories and thoughts about your name....”

  This second task didn’t take as long, surprisingly. Dr. Martin thought it would be easier to erase memories of a particular individual from a person’s mind than to change their identity, but that didn’t prove to be the case. The procedure was over faster than he had thought possible.

  “Okay, you’re still in your comfortable room, but it’s time to leave and start back up the stairs. As you pass from the room, you remember it clearly, and you’ll be much more open to the suggestion of returning to it in the future. Do you see the stairs?”

  “Yes,” the boy answered quietly.

  “Begin climbing the stairs, and with each step you take, you’ll climb toward wakefulness. And with each step, you’ll repeat your name by saying, ‘my name is Gary, Gary Foreman.’ Each step brings you closer to wakefulness, and at the top step, you’ll awaken, feeling refreshed and happy and not remembering anything that we’ve talked about.”

  The boy was quiet for a couple of moments, and then he began speaking.

  “My name is...Gary Foreman.”

  He repeated the name several more times, and then his eyes fluttered and he was awake, aware of himself and his surroundings. The boy sat up and looked around the room, seeing his father and smiling at him. “Wow. Did I fall asleep or something?” he asked good-naturedly.

  His father spoke up. “Yeah, Chr...Gary. You fell asleep while your uncle and I were talking. Are you feeling okay?”

  Gary nodded. “Yeah, I feel great.”

  Agent Sims stepped over and helped the boy to his feet. The other agents moved to the door, stepping out into the hallway, guns drawn.

  Frank stepped over to John O’Toole and began speaking rapidly in low tones.

  “Look, John,” Frank said, serious. “I don’t know how long it will hold. He might never remember her, or he might see a picture of a girl on TV tomorrow that reminds him of her, and the memories will all come back at once. If that happens, he could have a psychotic break. Seriously, he could have permanent psychological damage.”

  John nodded, and Frank continued. “After you testify and the heat is off, you must come back here and let me release those memories, or it could damage him for life. And, needless to say, he and the girl can have no contact until I release those memories. Got it?”

  John nodded, obviously anxious to leave. “Yeah, Frank. As soon as the heat is off, I’ll bring him back. And that phrase about the lighthouse, I’ll make sure not to say it,” he said, smiling.

  “This isn’t a game, John,” Frank said, scowling. “Those are his memories, and he has a right to them. Suppressing them isn’t fair to him or the girl. As soon as it’s safe, those memories need to come out. And write down that phrase, just in case. But keep it in a safe place, somewhere where he won’t find it.”

  The boy’s father nodded again, shook John’s hand, and turned and left, followed by the boy and Agent Sims.

  After they were gone, Frank sat at his desk, thinking about what had happened. If this weren’t a police case, it would make a fascinating paper on exclusionary hypnotherapy. It would be interesting to see how long the mental block lasted—of course, it would need to be removed as soon as possible, but it was still interesting from a clinical perspective. Impulsively, Dr. Frank Martin asked his secretary to cancel his patient load for the rest of the day and left his office to go home and relax.

  And he felt like he should write everything down, everything that had just happened, just in case.

  Chapter 2

  The prosecuting attorney spoke to the witness.

  “And how did you feel about this?”

  John O’Toole looked up from the wooden box next to the judge and eyed the prosecuting attorney. It all came down to this. If Gloria had died for anything, this was it.

  John cleared his throat and tried not to look at his son.

  “Well, I knew that these monies had come from an illegal source, and I felt for the first time that I had absolute proof of Mr. Luciano’s illegal activities.”

  There was a murmur in the courtroom. As usual, the defense attorney objected, and the lawyers and judge carried out a short sidebar. John tried to avoid looking at anyone.

  The jurors quieted. The prosecutor’s office had been building up to John’s three days on the stand, and several times he had been mentioned as their “star witness.”

  Ginovese Luciano, John’s former boss and the man on trial, stared at him, his eyes blazing and fingers tapping. He sat with two of his lawyers—the third was at the judge’s bench, arguing again over the inclusion of testimony from Luciano’s former accountant.

  Chris O’Toole— his new name being Gary, though nobody else knew it—sat behind the prosecutor’s table with his uncle, Dr. Martin. John looked at them and thought how strange it was to not see Gloria sitting there with them. The police had said she’d died almost instantly, but knowing that didn’t really help. And strangely, the attempt to get him to pull his testimony had actually strengthened his resolve to bring the Lucianos down. If he backed out now, her death would mean nothing.

  Judy Nelson was in the courtroom too, and that was bad. Frank would need to keep her away from Chris—that is, Gary—at least for a while. He’d noticed an engagement ring on her finger, too—that certainly complicated things. Chris—Gary—hadn’t said anything about that.

  But this was too important to jeopardize. She would get over Chris, someday. And Chris—Gary—would not remember her at all, at least in the short term. If this all blew over, in a year or two they could be reunited, if things worked out. Or maybe just a clean break—

  The sidebar ended, and Judge Tackett gave the jury a short set of instructions, reminding them that the witness was an employee of the defendant’s and would be privy to intimate knowledge of the man’s business dealings. Any questions about the veracity of his testimony would be addressed in the cross-examination.

  The prosecutor continued. “And what did you do then, Mr. O’Toole?”

  John glanced at the jurors, making eye contact with a few of them as the prosecutors had coached him to do. “I checked back through some of the books and began to discover other discrepancies. And when I could no longer explain them all away as simple accounting errors by other people in Mr. Luciano’s employ, I went to him and asked him about the ‘irregularities.’”

  “And what was his answer?”

  One of Luciano’s lawyers stood quickly. “I object, your honor. This is all hearsay.”

  The judge shook his head. “Mr. Jones, you should know that a witne
ss’s testimony cannot be hearsay unless he heard it from someone else and is repeating facts he cannot verify.”

  “Yes, your honor—but he is repeating something someone else said.”

  “Mr. Jones, he is repeating what the defendant told him. Objection overruled, and don’t interrupt again unless your objections can be reasonably argued or I’ll hold you in contempt.”

  The lawyer sat down, glancing at Luciano. Even from the little John knew about courtroom procedure, the objection seemed flimsy. Maybe the guy was trying to impress Luciano by making as many objections as possible. Maybe Luciano had told his lawyers they’d be taking a dirt nap if he were convicted.

  “Continue,” the judge said to the prosecutor, who nodded and turned to John.

  “Mr. O’Toole, what did Mr. Luciano say?”

  “I explained the problem, which totaled almost six hundred thousand dollars in income that could not be accounted for by his normal business practices. I had suspicions about illegal activities, so I expected—”

  “Objection, your honor,” the lead defense attorney, Jones, said again, standing. “Obviously, the witness is giving his opinion based on hearsay from other people.”

  The prosecutor stepped over to address the judge. “Your honor, the witness says he had suspicions about his employer—he did not say where those suspicions were based. It is not hearsay unless he recounted suspicious knowledge related to him by others.”

  The judge pondered for a moment and then addressed the witness. “Mr. O’Toole, just stick to your actions and conversations—your suspicions may have driven your actions, but they can’t be defended until you have proof of any alleged activities.”

  John nodded, continuing. “I asked my employer about the money, and he laughed at me.”

  The prosecutor seemed surprised, his eyes wide as he played to the jury. “Mr. Luciano laughed at you?”

  “Yes. He laughed and said ‘I wondered how long it would take you.’ Well, I wasn’t sure what he was talking about,” John said, glancing at the judge. “I told him that there was a lot of money in several of his accounts that I couldn’t trace to a legitimate source of income, and then he asked me to sit in one of the chairs in his office. Mr. Luciano came around the desk and sat on one corner of it and lit up a cigar.”