The Van Alen Legacy

The Venators had scanned the mind-memories of everyone at the hotel who was there the night the little girl had disappeared—every guest, every staff member, from security guards to the chambermaids—with no luck. The Llewellyns had been too traumatized to be of much help. Which was understandable, but still useless. No one knew anything, no one remembered anything. Except for the guy sitting in front of them now.

“You told us you saw something. That you saw this man when you stepped outside for a cigarette that night,” Kingsley said. “This man does not exist. You lied to us.”

“But I don’t smoke,” Frat Boy protested. “I don’t remember this at all. What is this? Who are you?” In the bar, Mimi could see that he was starting to stir. They didn’t have much time.

“Why did you lie to us? Answer the question!” Kingsley barked.

For months they had tracked down every man who had stayed in the hotel who fit the description Frat Boy had given them. They had chased down marketing executives, businessmen on holiday, tourists and locals. But nothing of significance had turned up. After the better part of a year, they began to wonder if they were chasing a ghost, a phantom, a mirage. The whole team was frustrated and on edge. Just yesterday the Conclave had ordered them to give up the mission and return to New York. Jordan was gone, case closed. But Kingsley decided they needed to pay their witness another visit.

“Let me rephrase this: who told you to lie to us?” Kingsley asked.

“Nobody . . . I don’t know what you want me to say . . . I don’t remember that night. I don’t even remember you guys. Who are you? What are you doing in my mom’s kitchen?”

“Why were you in Rio?” Ted Lennox asked mildly, playing good cop.

“A buddy of mine was getting married. . . .” he slurred. “We were there for the bachelor party.”

“You went all the way to Rio for a bachelor party? You?” Mimi scoffed, peering through to the real world, looking down at his prone form sprawled on the table. The guy looked like the farthest he ever traveled was the corner 7-Eleven.

“Hey, I lived in New York not too long ago. I was a banker. We always went away whenever anyone got married. Thailand. Vegas. Punta Cana. But then I lost my job and had to move back in with my parents. Don’t be a hater now.”

“Laid off ?” Sam Lennox asked.

“No . . . just . . . I don’t remember things that well anymore. I took a leave of absence and haven’t gone back. Something wrong up here,” he said, knocking on the side of his skull with a worried look on his face.

Come to think of it, something about the witness did seem odd. Mimi remembered Frat Boy differently. The guy they had questioned a year ago had been much more articulate and alert, much cockier. She had found it strange that they had tracked him down in the boondocks. She had assumed anyone who stayed at such a fancy hotel also came from a fancy place.

“He’s not lying,” Sam said. “Look at his prefrontal cortex. It’s clear.”

“He doesn’t remember that night,” Ted agreed.

“Bring it up again,” Kingsley said. “This doesn’t make sense.”

Mimi pulled up the memory for a second time. The four of them watched it intently. It was the same: the tall man, the bundle, the cigarette. But Sam was right—his prefrontal cortex showed the guy wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t remember it.

“Oh, dear lord. How could we have missed this? Look at this. Force! Lennox! Look!” Kingsley said, magnifying the edge of the picture.

Then she saw what Kingsley saw: a slight tear on the border of the guy’s memory. It was like a seam that had been repaired. It was so fine, and so well done, you would never even notice it. Whoever had done this was good. You needed to be majorly advanced in the glom to pull this off . A false memory expertly weaved into a real one. Enough to have fooled a team of Venators for the better part of a year. Imprinting false memories on Red Bloods was very dangerous. It could mess people up: turn them into raving lunatics, unable to distinguish fact from fiction. Or turn a big-city banker into a slacker who lived with his parents.

“Let him go,” Kingsley said wearily.

Mimi nodded. She released her hold on his mind, and the four of them stepped back into the real world. Their witness was slumped over the table, snoring.

This was no suspect.

This was a victim.





SIX

Bliss


Every day since that morning on the mountaintop in the middle of Corcovado—the hunchbacked mountain—Bliss had to ask herself three important questions.

Who am I? Where am I? What happened to me?

She’d started the practice one day not too long ago when she’d woken up to find she couldn’t remember why she was so sad. Then the next day, she couldn’t remember whether or not she was an only child. But what really scared her was the day she’d looked in the mirror and thought she saw a stranger. She had no clue who the girl with the red hair was.

And that’s when she got the idea to ask herself the three questions every morning.