Jorja would have been unable to sleep even if Marcie had been perfectly still and quiet. Worry induced insomnia even more effectively than a dozen cups of coffee. Since she was awake anyway, she listened attentively to her daughter's every dreamy utterance, hoping that she would hear something that would help her understand or that would assist the doctor in arriving at his diagnosis. It was after two o'clock in the morning when Marcie mumbled something different from what she had mumbled before, something that had nothing to do with doctors and nurses and big sharp needles. With a flurry of violent kicks, the girl flopped from her stomach onto her back,
gasped, and went rigid, perfectly still. “The moon, moon, the moon,” she said, in a voice that was filled with both amazement and fear, "the moon," a voice of such chilling whispery urgency that Jorja knew it was not just meaningless sleeptalk. "The moon, moon, oooooonnn .
Chicago, Illinois.
Brendan Cronin, priest on probation, slept warmly under a blanket and patchwork quilt, smiling at something in a dream. The winter wind sighed through the giant pine tree outside, fluted and soughed in the caves, and moaned at his window, exerting itself in evenly spaced gusts as if nature were ventilating the night with a huge mechanical bellows that faithfully produced eight exhalations to the minute. Even lost in his dream, Brendan must have been aware of the wind's slow pulse, for when he began to talk in his sleep, the words issued from him in a sympathetic rhythm: "The moon . . . the moon . . . the moon . . . the moon.........
Laguna Beach, California.
“The moon! The moon!”
Dominick Corvaisis was awakened by his own fearful shouting and by a burning pain in his right wrist. He was on his hands and knees in the darkness beside his bed, wrenching frantically at something that had a grip on his arm. He continued to struggle for a few seconds until the mists of sleep cleared, whereupon he realized that he was being held by nothing more sinister than the rope with which he had tethered himself.
Breathing raggedly, heart pounding, he fumbled for the lamp switch and winced as the sudden light stung his eyes. A quick look at the restraining rope showed that in his sleep (and in the dark) he had completely untied one of the four tightly drawn knots and partially unraveled a second before losing patience for the task. Then, in the panic that always accompanied his sleepwalking, he evidently had begun to pull and tug and twist against the belaying line as if he were a dumb animal protesting a leash, painfully abrading his right wrist.
Dom got off the floor and, pushing aside the tangled blankets, sat on the edge of the bed.
He knew he had been dreaming, though he could not recall anything about the dream. However, he was pretty sure that it was not the nightmare he had endured on other occasions during the past month, for that one had had nothing to do with the moon. This was another dream, equally terrifying but in a different way.
His shouts, which had been partly responsible for waking him, had been so importunate, so haunted, so frightfilled that he could even now summon them in memory as clearly as he had first heard them: "The moon! The moon!" He shuddered and raised his hands to his throbbing head.
The moon. What did it mean?
Boston, Massachusetts.
Ginger sat straight up in bed with a shrill cry.
Lavinia, the Hannabys'housekeeper, said, "Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. Weiss. Didn't mean to scare you. You were having a nightmare."
“Nightmare?” Ginger had no recollection of a dream.
“Oh, yes,” Lavinia said, "and a really bad one from the sound of it. I was passing in the hall when I heard you crying out. I almost came in right away, until I realized you must be dreaming. I hesitated then, but you went on and on, shouting it over and over again, until I thought I'd better wake you."
Blinking, Ginger said, “Shouting? What was I shouting?”
“Over and over again,” the housekeeper said."
“The moon, the moon, the moon.” You sounded so frightened."
“I don't remember.”
“The moon,' ” Lavinia assured her, "
"the moon,' over and over again, in such a voice that I halfthought someone was killing you."
Days of Discovery Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fearnot absence of fear.
_MARK TWAIN
Is there some -meaning to this life?
What purpose lies behind the strife?
Whence do we come, where are we bound?
These cold questions echo and resound through each day, each lonely night. We long to find the splendid light that will cast a revelatory beam upon the meaning of the human dream.
-THE BOOK OF COUNTED SORROWS
A friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of Nature.
-RALPH WALDO EMERSON
December 26-January 11
1.
Boston, Massachusetts
Between December 27 and January 5, Dr. Ginger Weiss went to Pablo Jackson's Back Bay apartment six times. On six of those visits he used hypnotic therapy to probe cautiously and patiently at the Azrael Block that sealed off a portion of her memory.
To the old magician, she grew more beautiful each time she arrived at his doormore intelligent, charming, and appealingly toughminded, too. Pablo saw in her the kind of woman he would have wanted as a daughter. Ginger had stirred in him protective fatherly feelings that he had never known before.
He told her nearly everything he had learned from Alexander Christophson at the Hergensheimers' Christmas party. She resisted the idea that her memory block had not developed naturally but had been implanted by persons unknown. "Too bizarre. Things like that don't happen to ordinary people like me. I'm just afarmishteh from Brooklyn, not someone who gets involved in international intrigue."
The only thing about his conversation with Alex Christophson that he did not tell her was that the retired espionage officer had warned against becoming involved with her. If Ginger knew Alex had been deeply disturbed, she might decide that the situation was too dangerous to justify Pablo's involvement. Out of concern for her and out of a selfish desire to be part of her life, he withheld that information.
At their first meeting on December 27, prior to the session of hypnosis, he prepared a lunch of quiche and salad. As they ate, Ginger said, "But, I've never been around a sensitive military installation, never been involved in any defense research, never associated with anyone who could conceivably be part of a spy ring. It's ludicrous!"
"If you stumbled on some dangerous bit of knowledge, it wasn't in a high security area. It was someplace you had every right to be . . . except you just happened to be there at the wrong time."
"But listen, Pablo, if they brainwashed me, that would've taken time. They'd have had to hold me in custody somewhere. Right?"
“I imagine it would take a few days.”
“So you can't be right,” she said. "Of course, I realize that while they were forcing me to forget the thing I'd accidentally seen, they'd also repress the memory of the place where they held me for the brainwashing. But there'd be a blank spot in my past somewhere, an empty time when I couldn't remember where I'd been or what I'd done."
"Not at all. They'd implant a set of false recollections to cover the missing days, and you'd never know the difference."
“Good God! Really? They could do that?”
“One thing I hope to do is locate those false memories,” Pablo explained as he finished his quiche. "It'll take a long time, slowly regressing you back through your life week by week, but when I find the phony memories, I'll recognize them tout de suite because they won't have the detail, the substance, of genuine memories. Mere stage sets, you see. If we find two or three days of tissuethin memories, we'll have pinpointed the origin of your problem because those will be the dates when you were in the hands of these people . . . whoever they may be."
“Yes, yes, I see,” she said, suddenly excited. "The first day of the mushy memories will be the day that I saw something I shouldn't have seen. And the last day will be the day they finished brainwashing me. It's terribly difficult to believe. . . . But if someone really did implant this memory block, and if all my symptomsthe fuguesare a result of those repressed memories struggling to the surface, then my problem isn't really psychological. There's a chance I could practice medicine again. All I've got to do is dig out the memories, bring them into the light, and then the pressure will be relieved."
Pablo took her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Yes, I believe there's real hope. But it's not going to be easy. Every time I probe at the block, I risk plunging you into a coma . . . or worse. I intend to be ohsocareful, but the risk remains."
The first two sessions of deep hypnosis were conducted in armchairs by the huge bay window, one on December 27, one on Sunday the 29th, each lasting four hours. Pablo regresse'd her day by day through the previous nine months but found no obviously artificial memories.
Also on Sunday, Ginger suggested he question her about Dominick Corvaisis, the novelist whose picture affected her in such a peculiar manner. When Pablo hypnotized her and established that he was speaking to the inner Ginger, to her deep subconscious self, he asked if she had ever met Corvaisis, and after a brief hesitation she said, “Yes.” Pablo pursued the point cautiously and diligently, but he could get almost nothing more out of her. At last a thin vapor of memory escaped her: “He threw salt in my face.”
“Corvaisis threw salt on you?” Puzzled, Pablo asked, “Why?”
“Can't . . . quite . . . remember.”
“Where did this happen?”
Her frown deepened, and when he continued to pursue the subject, she withdrew, sinking into that frightening comatose state. He quickly retreated before she had spiraled down as deep as she had done before. He assured her that he would ask no further questions about Corvaisis if only she would return, and gradually she responded to that promise.
Clearly, Ginger had at one time met Corvaisis. And her encounter with him was associated with the memories of which she had been robbed.
In the next two sessionsMonday the 30th and Wednesday, the first day of the New YearPablo regressed Ginger yet another eight months, to the end of July, two summers ago, without discovering any tissuethin memories that would indicate the work of mindcontrol specialists.
Then on Thursday, January 2, Ginger asked him to question her about her previous night's unremembered dream. For the fourth time since Christmas, she had cried out in her sleep-“The moon!”-with such insistence that she woke others in Baywatch. "I think the dream's about the place and time that's been stolen from me. Put me in a trance, and maybe we'll learn something."
But when hypnotized and returned to last night's dream, she refused to answer questions and drifted into a deeper sleep than a mere hypnotic trance. He had pulled the Azrael Trigger once more, which was positive proof that her dreams involved those forbidden memories.
On Friday they did not meet. Pablo needed the day to read further about memory blocks of all kinds and to think about how best to proceed.
In addition, he had recorded all five postChristmas sessions, so he sat at the reproduction Sheraton desk in his booklined study and listened to portions of those tapes for hours. He was searching for a single word or a change in Ginger's voice that might make a particular answer seem more important on rehearing than it had seemed at the time.
He found nothing startling, though he noticed that, during hypnotic regression, a subtle note of anxiety had entered her voice when their backward journey through time had reached August 31 of the year before last. It was nothing dramatic that would have caught his attention at the time the recordings were made. But by telescoping all the sessions into one afternoon, using the fastforward control to skip from day to day, he saw the pattern of steadily building anxiety, and he suspected they were getting close to the event now hidden behind the Azrael Block.
Therefore, during their sixth postChristmas session on Saturday, January 4, Pablo was not surprised when the breakthrough came. As usual, Ginger was sitting in one of the armchairs by the bay window, beyond which a fine snow was falling. Her silverblond hair glowed with spectral light. As he regressed her back through July of the previous year, her brows knitted, and her voice became whispery and tense, and Pablo knew she was drawing closer to the moment of her forgotten ordeal.
Since they were going backward in time, he had already taken her through her busy months as a surgical resident at Memorial Hospital, back to the moment when she first reported to George Hannaby for duty on Monday, July 30,
more than seventeen months ago. Her memories remained sharp and richly detailed as Pablo conveyed her into Sunday, July 29, when she still had been settling into her new apartment. July 28, 27, 26, 25, 24 ... through those days she had been unpacking and shopping for furniture ... all the way back to July 21, 20, 19. . . . On July 18, the moving van arrived with her household goods, which she had shipped from Palo Alto, California, where she had lived the previous two years while taking an advanced course of study in vascular surgery. Farther back .. .
On July 17, she arrived in Boston by car and booked a room overnight at the Holiday Inn Government Center, as close to Beacon Hill as possible, not yet able to stay at her new apartment because she had no bed there.
“By car? You drove crosscountry from Stanford?”
"It was the first vacation I ever really had. I like to drive, and it was a chance to see a little of the country," Ginger said, but in such an ominous voice that she might have been talking about a journey through hell rather than a transcontinental holiday.
So Pablo began to regress her through the days of her journey, back across the midwestern heartland, around the northernmost horn of the Rocky Mountains, through Utah, into Nevada, until they came to Tuesday morning, July 10. She had stayed the previous night at a motel, and when he asked for the name of it, a shudder passed through her.
“TTranquility.”
“Tranquility Motel? Where is this place? Describe it, too.”
On the arms of her chair, her hands curled into fists. "Thirty miles west of Elko, on Interstate 80." Haltingly, reluctantly, she described the twentyunit Tranquility Motel and Grille. Something about the place terrified her. Every muscle in her body went rigid.
Pablo said, "So you stayed the night of July ninth at the motel. That was a Monday. All right, so now it's Monday, July ninth. You're just arriving at the motel. You haven't stayed there yet; you're just driving up to it. . . . What time of the day is it?"
She did not answer, and her tremors grew more pronounced, and when he asked again, she said, “I didn't arrive on Monday. FFriday.”