There must have been two hundred people spread throughout the thirty rooms and out on the patios, but mostly filling the first-floor ballroom, the library, and various parlors. There were executives and scientists from GEM, of course, and medical and health-care folks from all over New England, as well as representatives from different Alzheimer’s organizations, the FDA, the state legislature, Capitol Hill, and, of course, the White House. The president himself could not be there, but he sent a telegram that was read by Gavin Moy over the PA system.
Partway through the evening, Jordan Carr silenced the crowd. The house lights dimmed as monitors positioned around the rooms flickered to life. The videos contained old and new footage of AD success stories, including some of Louis Martinetti, who addressed the camera in a clear and lucid delivery. Louis was then introduced. He was wearing a tuxedo and was flanked by his daughter and wife. He did not give a speech. In fact, he looked overwhelmed, even anxious, mumbling to himself. But through tears of joy, his daughter thanked everybody for making Louis a living miracle.
A thunderous applause arose from the group, many of whom were wiping tears from their own eyes, René included.
More video presentations and testimonials followed. Also, a television commercial for Memorine that would begin airing on all major networks and cable on Monday. The spot was mostly visuals, with swelling background music, as happy and focused elderly folks played in grassy green yards with grandchildren, pushed them on swings, sat around dinner tables. And the only words were those of the unseen narrator: “Alzheimer’s: At last a cure. Ask your doctor about the Memorine solution.” And at the bottom of the screen the name GEM Tech and its sparkling diamond logo.
Following the video, Gavin Moy gave a brief speech in which he thanked all those scientists, researchers, physicians, nurses, and others for their dedication and determination to bring to an end the scourge of Alzheimer’s disease.
After the cheering, people formed a line to congratulate Gavin.
WITH A BRIEFCASE IN HAND Jack waited patiently behind people he didn’t know, in front of people he didn’t know. Somewhere in the crowd René was talking to the Martinettis. She had told him about Louis and how he had become a very special patient of hers and how his successful comeback from dementia had been like a redemption for her—a final exorcizing of her own guilt and of those tormenting memories of her father as he faded away. Louis’s recovery was a kind of recovery for her too.
When his turn came, Jack took Gavin Moy’s hand.
“Hi,” Moy said, his large, smiling, tanned face taking focus on Jack.
“Meds Gama.” Jack’s voice was barely audible over the din of the crowd.
“Beg pardon?” Moy said, cocking his head toward Jack.
Jack repeated the words. “Meds Gama.”
Moy’s expression ruffled. “Nice to meet you,” he muttered, and tried to pull his hand away.
But Jack did not release Moy’s hand. Nor did he release the grip of his stare. “Meds Gama, also known as Meds Garmir, also known as Big Red.”
Moy looked at him, startled. “Sorry, but I don’t believe I know you.” The others in Moy’s entourage were beginning to take notice.
“I think you might have an idea.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Jack Koryan. Son of Rose Najarian, also known as Rose Sarkisian.”
Something passed over Moy’s face as he held Jack’s glare, then he turned to the others. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and tortured his face into a smile.
When a bystander offered to accompany him, Moy said he’d be fine. He looked back to see René suddenly tailing Jack. He raised a cautionary finger at her. “I think you can stay here.” And she fell back. Jack did not like the threatening gesture, but he said nothing and nodded for her to fall behind.
Moy continued to smile as he cut his way through the crowd, making terse comments to people, a big strained Happy Face preceding him as Jack followed him out of the ballroom and into the hallway.
Jack expected Moy to turn on him when they were alone, but he said nothing and led him down a corridor, then up some back stairs and through two rooms and doors and into a corner room overlooking the harbor. Moy’s home office was furnished with bookshelves, a robust marble table, and a large desk in the windowed corner. Moy moved behind the desk and sat in the big black leather mitt of a chair. He folded his hands and leaned across the desk glowering at Jack. “Okay, what’s this all about?”
On the walls behind him were photos of Moy and other people on his boat posing with fish. Others showed him in hunting outfits with dead deer. Also on a table were trophies for pistol marksmanship. “It’s about the death of Rose Sarkisian.”
Moy stared at him impassively and said nothing—a withering ploy he probably used to bring his employees to their knees. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“You don’t recognize the name?”
“No.”
“Think hard. Rose Sarkisian.” And Jack enunciated the syllables with deliberate clarity.
“Look, I’ve met thousands of people in my travels over the years.”
“She was my mother.”
“So, good for you.”
“You killed her.”
Moy’s face froze for a moment. Then he leaned forward menacingly. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are coming in here making such claims, but I’ve heard enough.” His hand moved toward the telephone.
Jack pulled out a photograph of Rose and Nick and slid it across the table.
“That’s Rose Sarkisian and Nick Mavros taken about thirty years ago. I did some research. They’re standing in front of Junior Dee’s Auto Parts store, which used to be where Kendall Square is now, behind MIT It’s where you had your lab down below.”
Jack watched Moy intently, but there was nothing in his face that betrayed him—not a flicker of his eye or a microtwitch of his facial muscles.
“So I knew her.”
“And you were at the cottage the night she died.”
“What cottage? What night?”
“Homer’s Island, August 20, 1975, Vita Nova.”
“I don’t know what you’re friggin’ talking about.”
Jack pulled out of his tuxedo jacket a photocopy of the story of Rose Sarkisian’s disappearance.
Moy glanced at it. “You know nothing,” he said. He picked up the phone. “You’ve got ten seconds to get out of here or I’m calling the police.”
“You murdered her. I was there. You came in. You had a fight and pushed her. She fell backward and hit her head and went unconscious. But that didn’t satisfy you, so you smashed her on the skull, then dragged her outside to finish her off with a kitchen meat mallet that she used to make dinner for you. Then you came back in and cleaned up the mess with bleach. Then you left to dump her body in the water.”
Moy looked at Jack as if he were an alien. His eyes were intense and his mouth in a twisted rictus. He looked positively stunned. “How?” That was all he could say.
“How do I know?” Jack pulled out a single blue tablet and slid it in front of him. “The Memorine solution.”
Moy stared at the pill for a telescoped moment.
And in Jack’s head he heard that voice: “Die, goddamn you, die.”
Moy raised his face again. He settled into his chair and stared at Jack for several seconds. “So, I knew your mother,” he said, as if in a trance. His body seemed almost to deflate into the confession.
And the sound of the words sent a cold flush through Jack. His hand reflexively slid up the front of his jacket to the lump under his arm.
“But no pill will conjure up the truth.”