The Memory Painter

Ten o’clock on a Friday night was too late to be knocking on Finn’s door, but Linz didn’t care. She rang the doorbell repeatedly and kept rapping with the brass knocker until the door finally opened. It was Finn who answered, dressed in a robe and dark-tinted eyeglasses.

Her words barreled out at once. “Finn, Conrad has him. I didn’t know where else to go. Michael—Bryan’s missing. He has him. He—Conrad—he locked the door. It’s happening all over again. I barely got you out.” She gripped her head in agony and sank to her knees. “Oh God. I’m going crazy. What have we done?” Her body began to shiver.

Finn knelt beside her and took her pulse. “How long have you been taking it?” Linz couldn’t stop trembling. He held her arms and asked again, “Linz. How long has it been?”

“Today. Four doses.” She realized how she must look to him and started to stand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here.”

Like a hurt animal she turned to leave. But instead, Finn guided her inside to his study. When he spoke, his voice was soothing. “You’re adjusting. Trying to assimilate another lifetime with your own—perhaps several. It’s incredibly difficult to do. We asked ourselves the same questions.”

He sat her on the couch and wrapped a blanket around her. The fireplace was lit, and the room felt warm and safe.

Linz gazed at the flames and shuddered. When she spoke, her words were quiet. “How do I live with what’s in my mind?”

Finn studied her a long time, as if weighing a decision. He went to his desk and returned with photographs. “This would have been Diana’s last memory.”

Linz gasped when she saw them. They were photographs of the lab after the accident, identical to her vision.

Finn hesitated. “I never thought I would be given a chance to thank you for pulling me from the fire,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Linz looked at him, remembering how he had been before the accident … such a beautiful man. She couldn’t begin to imagine his devastation.

They sat together in silence. Tears ran down Linz’s cheeks. “I’ve been fighting my heart. I’ve been fighting my heart my entire life—keeping it dead so I wouldn’t recognize the truth. How can I face him?” She couldn’t even bring herself to call Conrad her father anymore. “I’m his daughter, but Diana’s memories are mine now. And I’m imagining the worst for Bryan. I know he has him.”

Finn squeezed her hand. “We’ll find him. Think—where would Conrad take him? Someplace safe, where no one would ask questions.”

Linz shook her head. She had no idea.

Finn kept pressing her, “What hospitals and research centers does Medicor work closely with?”

Linz answered easily. “Medicor owns St. Mary’s, Forest Green, and Park Plaza.”

“Medicor owns Forest Green Psychiatric Center?” Finn asked, sounding alarmed.

“It was one of the first facilities he acquired. Why?” Then it hit her. “Our test patients. They were all from there.”

Finn brooded. “It’s also one of the only facilities that perform psychosurgery and other experimental studies.”

“If he’s there…” Linz tried not to panic. “How do we even find out?”

Finn tapped his fingers on the desk. Linz remembered the gesture well.

“Assuming he is,” she said, “I can’t just waltz in and sign him out. I’m not a physician.”

“Then we need to find one.”

Something clicked in Linz’s mind—Bryan’s file. “His mother.” Finn gave her a questioning look and she explained, “Conrad had Bryan investigated. I remember reading that his mother is a psychiatrist, a very prominent one. She even does psychiatric screenings for the Boston Police on high-profile cases.”

“Then she could help,” Finn said. “But what will you tell her?”

*

Linz drove Finn’s Navigator to Bryan’s parents’ house. The GPS system instructed her to turn right and indicated that the car was almost at its destination. Luckily, Linz had remembered the address from the file. She remembered everything from it.

She turned into a charming residential neighborhood called Newton Highlands, and her thoughts returned to her most immediate problem—what in the world she was going to say to Bryan’s mother. No one went knocking on doors in the middle of the night asking people if they could help rescue their son from a mental institution. Especially on a street where every family probably had two perfect children who made lemonade stands in the summer. It was hard to even visualize Bryan growing up here.

The brass plated number on the antique mailbox signaled that she’d found the right address. As she pulled up in front of an immaculate 1920s Colonial with clapboard siding, she noticed the glow of a light upstairs. At least they were still awake. Still not quite sure what to say, Linz got out of the car and went to the front door. She rang the doorbell twice.