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It was that blessed part of the year when the leaves
have just begun turning various shades of gold, with an occasional
maple showing her rubies. Yet the weather was warm enough to
be able to walk around in shirtsleeves. Yesterday, as was their
custom on Sundays, Peter and Anne had taken a long walk to and
around Mount Royal Park. They luxuriated in the still warm, though
no longer scorching, sun and reminisced about their early days,
when a walk on the Mountain was their only chance to be alone.
"I'll never forget how Fluffy went after those boys who
were chasing the squirrels who were chasing the peanuts the boys
threw. I couldn't stop laughing," Anne confessed, a distant
smile reaching back many years. Fluffy was her dog when she was
a girl. He'd died more than fifteen years ago, but she always
remembered him when she and Peter walked, arm in arm, along the
narrow trails.
"Why should you? According to Diana you taught him to
act as your judge and executioner," Peter said accusingly.
Diana was Anne's mother. She and Michael, Anne's dad, lived
quietly in the Laurentians. They'd both wanted to escape the
huff and bustle of city life. At the time, it had all worked
out very nicely. Peter had sold the condo he and Anne had downtown,
for some years, in the Floralie de la Montagne. The money
had been used to pay cash for a lakeside cottage in St. Marguerite.
Peter with Anne, at the time pregnant with their second child,
moved into Anne's parents' house, which was begging to be loved
as it had been by Anne's mother and father. For a while, Gabriel,
the majordomo and pretty much major of just about everything
else, then in his late sixties, stayed with them in Westmount.
Recently, he'd moved to the country to look after Diana and Michael.
Apparently, he remained as useful as he had always been. Now
and then he drove to Montreal, just to see Miss Anne. The fact
that Anne's children had left home almost a year ago did not
stop him from according her the youthful title. Peter and Anne
both thought that Gabriel's age had its privileges. He must have
been eighty if he was a day, although they both strongly suspected
that Gabriel was not affected by the march of time at all. Over
the years, Gabriel hadn't changed a bit.
"He'd never have hurt anyone!" Anne raised her voice
in mock exasperation. "I told you a thousand times. Never,"
she repeated firmly. Fluffy truly was the only friend she trusted
in her youth.
As a matter of fact, there had been 'stories' Peter had heard
from Anne's mother. Just stories, Diana insisted, from the very
distant past. Something about local animals being subjected to
harsh treatment. Nothing had ever been proven. In fact, Diana
wasn't even sure Fluffy had been around at the time. Peter knew
with utter certainty that the Anne he held and cherished would
never allow anyone to hurt anyone else in her presence. Over
the years, Peter had learned that Anne's presence meant a great
deal to a great many people. In a great many ways. In fact, Anne's
presence affected people in ways that were nothing short of miraculous.
"Of course not, dear." He pulled her arm closer
to his side. "Of course he wouldn't."
Fluffy wasand his memory must remainsacred.
A little like a Hindu cow.
Anne smiled but there was a vestige of a hurt expression on
her lips. She didn't know that that gentle pout she assumed following
such inconsequential spats drove him wild. Anne also didn't know
that when she left him behind on her frequent trips, Peter missed
her lips the most.
He wished she could give up her missions. Once and for all.
Each time she left, even for a short time, he worried about her.
How could he not worry?
She went to places a grown man wouldn't venture alone. Especially
not at night.
"But they need me," Anne would say simply, as if
this justified risking her life.
Last week, on Friday, Peter had been notified by the Administration
of the Montreal Neurological Institute that yet another delegation
from the Great Republic down south was coming to visit his Department.
Over the years, there had been many such delegations from various
American universities. Harvard, Johns Hopkins, Stanmore, UCLA,
all had their representatives living in Montreal. But this was
the first time that a personal emissary of John Linker, the VP
himself, was heading a delegation. Peter usually steered as far
away from politics as he could, but it was common knowledge,
even in Canada, who held the reins in Washington. Linkerthe
power behind the throne. The President was the spokesman. The
front man. Peter had no idea what they wanted.
Once Peter had taken over as the Head of the Neurosurgery
Department, he had achieved positive results in memory control.
Within a year the Department of Experimental Sonic Neurosurgery
at the MNI became known throughout the world. Well, at least
the neurosurgical world.
It was becoming fairly certain that particular ultrasonic vibrations
affected people's memory cells. More often than not, the effect
was temporary. In the early days, Peter experimented with sound
to erase traumatic memories in women and some children who suffered
from acute psychosis brought on by abuse. That part did not bear
particularly good results, because he found that while he could
bring about general temporary amnesia, he could not get at specific
memories.
It was an all or nothing proposition.
The promising part and the part that had kept the funding coming
was that when the memory had returned, there were certain aspects
of the traumatic experience which had been relegated to the deep
recesses of the mind, so much so that they no longer immediately
affected the patient. It was regarded as a tremendous step forward
in treatment of certain types of psychoses. A ten-minute treatment
bore results similar to five to ten years on a psychiatrist's
couch. No mean achievement for a research scientist still in
his forties.
"Dr. Brown, I presume?"
The man facing Dr. Peter Brown, the Director of the Department
of Experimental Sonic Neurosurgery, or simply DESN, did not look
like any of Peter's previous visitors. Einstein, Peter thought,
Albert Einstein's doppelganger. Or it could just be that other
Albert? Albert Schweitzer, who in a single lifetime managed to
achieve fame as a philosopher, missionary, physician, scientist,
humanitarian, theologian and a skilled organist. Peter somehow
doubted his visitor would prove a good missionary. He looked
too... scattered. Humanitarian? Scientist? Possibly. But if the
latter, then that would draw him closer to Albert Einstein. Or
perhaps....
Peter nodded his head, acknowledging the complex image before
him. Whoever managed to arrange each hair on his visitor's head
to point in an entirely different direction had done a marvelous
job. "Dr. Einst..." he bit his lip.
"My name is Finer. Doctor Fred Finer," the man said,
handing Peter his card.
The little rectangle of slick cardboard looked impressive.
Frederick Finer, Ph.D., Special Assistant to the Vice President
of the United States of America. The address that followed was
short and equally as impressive. PENTAGON, United States Department
of Defense. No street number, no telephone. Not even e-mail.
"Won't you sit down, Doctor?" Peter pointed to a
chair in front of his desk. He'd inherited Dr. Brent's office
when he retired. John Brent had run the Institute for years from
this relatively small office. The new Director of the MNI chose
to oversee the considerably larger Institute from an equally
larger office located in the new wing of the Montreal Neurological
Institute and Hospital. The MNIH as it was known throughout the
world.
"Fred. You are a doctor. I am Fred. I don't heal people,"
the short man replied. He was a good six inches shorter than
Peter.
"I don't succeed too often either. I rather try to create
conditions in which the patient cures himself. Or herself, of
course." There was something contradictory about the man.
His smile said one thing, his eyes another. For some reason Peter
doubted that Fred Finer had great interest in healing people.
(cont. in the
book)
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