Caitlin said, “So none of us can trust memory retrieval from the unconscious?”
The agent shrugged. “That depends. I come from the school of corroboration. If you believe a repressed memory has just surfaced after years, try to find facts or witnesses to support the memory.”
“What about hypnosis?”
“Be careful,” warned the agent. “Careless and incompetent psychoanalysts have botched many hypnotic sessions, leading their clients to believe they were abused, led prior lives or were even abducted by aliens, for crying out loud.” McManus frowned. “Are you insinuating that a repressed memory caused you to feel faint in class today?”
“When someone experiences memory retrieval from the unconscious,” she said, ignoring his question, “how does it come up? Are the thoughts, like, fragmented? Can the memory bubble up in a live streaming mode? You know what I mean? Like a video?”
“That’s possible. Everyone’s experience is different, I suppose.” He searched her face. “Did you have one of these episodes in class today?”
The first daughter picked up the strip of paper that had been sitting on the sofa next to her. “I didn’t eat anything this morning.”
“You’re gonna stick with that story?”
“I didn’t eat anything this morning,” she repeated, handing the strip of paper to the agent. “What do you make of this?”
McManus glanced at the paper, then sat back. “These are entertainment allusions.”
“What?”
He regarded the paper once again. “I am no one is a reference to a movie.”
“Which movie?”
“The Exorcist.”
“Are you sure?”
“The priest asks the entity inhabiting the girl’s body to identify itself, and the demon replies, I am no one.” He cleared his throat and, again, glanced at the piece of paper. “Wandering child so lost, so helpless is a line from The Phantom of the Opera. I’m not sure which act, but it’s the one from the graveyard. And Vader— that’s self-explanatory.” He handed back the paper and regarded her. “I’m confused.”
“What’s your interpretation of Phantom? The relationship between the girl and the phantom, I mean?”
The agent shook his head. “Miss Prescott, you are all over the place here. I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster.”
“I’m sorry. Just try to stay with me. I’m really pressed for time.”
McManus thought for a moment. “The phantom terrorizes the opera, of course. During this time, he becomes fascinated with Christine. She’s beautiful, she’s talented. He shadows her every move. He speaks to her. He assists her. Then, one day, he takes her to his labyrinth, his lair.”
“Is the phantom’s fascination with Christine sexual?”
“I’ve heard that theorized, but I think his connection to Christine is more emotional than anything else.”
She exhaled and nodded. That’s what she had hoped to hear.
He frowned. “You look relieved somehow.”
“It’s nothing.” Caitlin picked up the two envelopes she’d sealed earlier. “I need you to do me a favor.” She handed one of the envelopes to McManus, along with a pen. “Terrence Prescott.”
McManus simply stared down at the envelope and pen. She knew she’d better bring closure to this meeting; he looked like he was running out of patience.
“Terrance Prescott is my late uncle, my father’s younger brother.” She fed the agent her uncle’s date of death, and asked him to write that information on the envelope. “Official cause of death was ruled a heart attack. His obit said he died in his St. Cloud home.”
McManus finished scribbling and glanced up. “What do you want me to do with this?”
“I need you to do some snooping for me.” She pointed to the envelope in the agent’s hand. “I don’t believe that information is correct, and I need you to find out the real circumstances surrounding Uncle Terry’s death.”
“You’re saying this was a cover-up?”
“Exactly.”
She watched McManus chew over the request. “And what’s inside the envelope?”
“My guess as to what really happened to him.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“When we first walked in here, I jotted down the details I believe surrounded my uncle’s death. I want you to find out what happened to him, and then, and only then, open the envelope and read what I’ve written.”
“To see if your version jives with the real cause of death?”
She nodded, handing him the second envelope.
“Another uncle of yours?”
“My sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Ponder.”
“I’m afraid to ask,” he said, scribbling down the name.
“She quit in the middle of the school year. It was a real sudden thing.”
The agent nodded. “What was the official reason given by the district?”
“A host of illnesses.”
“I see. Same thing as the uncle: dig up the circumstances of Mrs. Ponder’s sudden departure, then open your envelope?”
The first daughter stood and stretched. She moved to the door, and grabbed the handle. “How soon can you get me this information?”
Chapter 17 Oklahoma City 5:21 PM Central Standard Time
The 757 touched down at Oklahoma City’s Will Rogers Airport and taxied to the Delta-Southwest concourse, easing to a stop at gate C-6. The assassin exited, carrying a simple black case. He found the National Rental Counter and stood in line.
He quickly surveyed his immediate surroundings: the traffic buzzing outside the terminal, the police barking orders to loitering drivers and the weary passengers dragging bags through the automatic doors. To his far left, just outside the door to an airport security check-room, an FBI Most Wanted poster partially covered a patch of torn drywall. An intense, very serious face stared at passers-by—a composite sketched a dozen years ago in Oklahoma City homicide. The caption read:
MAESTRO: ASSASSIN. ACTUAL NAME OR WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN. RESPONSIBLE FOR AT LEAST 20 MURDERS NATIONWIDE. ARMED. EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.
Actually, he had no concerns. The sketch was far off the mark. In fact, he found the attempt rather comical. Very odd place for such a poster, he thought. Then again, this was Oklahoma City and many in law enforcement were convinced the assassin maintained strong ties to the state, which, of course, he did. Couple that with his two local hits in the past five years. Maybe the poster belonged in the airport after all.
“Ugly son of a bitch,” announced a voice directly behind him.
The assassin turned to find a short, stocky man gawking up at him. He nodded, then eyed the poster.
“I can’t argue with you there.”
“They all have those high cheek bones, you know? And those big-ass, creepy eyes. Hope they catch the mother and fry him.”
He nodded. “I think