McCarty fell silent. He was still for so long that Logan began to fear he’d changed his mind. Then he sat up in his chair and pointed. “Do you see that rock formation, there, beyond the Japanese garden?”
Logan looked in the indicated direction. He saw a large black boulder with a smooth top, surrounded by a few smaller ones, rising out of the lush emerald grass. They lay in the late afternoon shadow of the West Wing.
“I used to sit out there and think, after lunch, on warm days. It was quiet, peaceful. I’d stare out at the sea, think about what I had or had not accomplished that morning, collect my thoughts in preparation for the afternoon.”
Logan nodded. He was careful not to take out his digital recorder or worn leather notebook.
“My work is important to me, Dr. Logan. During the day, I’m totally absorbed in it. I’m not the kind to daydream or procrastinate. But one day, I found myself staring out at the sea. Just staring. I don’t know exactly how long it went on. Then I started rather abruptly. ‘Spacing out,’ for want of a better term, just wasn’t the kind of thing I did. But I shrugged it off. And then, the next day — the very next — it happened again. Except this time, I was aware of it. I simply could not take my gaze off the ocean. It was as if everything around me went dim and still. It must have lasted at least ten minutes.”
“When was this, exactly?”
“Maybe six weeks ago. A Tuesday. I ascribed it to lack of sleep, preoccupation. I was doing some rather difficult analytical work at the time. Anyway, I didn’t go back to the rock for a few days. But then, at the end of the week, I did.” McCarty went silent again, looking off in the direction of the rocks. “It was a Friday. I’d missed the place. And this time…this time…” He swallowed. “It happened again. Only it was worse. Much worse. I didn’t just want to stare at the ocean. I wanted to walk down to it. Walk down to the sea, walk into the sea, and keep on walking…I stood up. It was a terrible feeling. I knew what I was doing, I didn’t want to do it, but I could not help myself. It was like a strange compulsion.” Beads of sweat were springing up on McCarty’s forehead, and he brushed them away with the back of a hand. “And there was a voice, too. A voice in my head — that was not my own.”
“What did it say?”
“It said: ‘Yes. Yes. Go. Go, now.’ ”
McCarty drew in a shuddering breath. “I took a step toward the sea. Then another. And then — I don’t know how I managed — I was able to master it. Not completely, but enough. I turned and dashed my hand against the rock. More than once.” He raised one hand, displaying knuckles still bandaged. “The pain helped. And then I…I yelled. I yelled to keep the voice out of my head, make it go away.”
He lapsed into silence once again for several minutes before going on. “And then it was gone. Just like that. The whispering voice. That horrible need to drown myself. It was as if some iron will that had taken over my mind and my body was suddenly exorcised. I’ve never felt anything like it in my entire life. It was dreadful. Dreadful. I took a deep breath. Then I looked over and saw two people in the Japanese garden, staring at me.”
Logan nodded. That was how the incident had become known: McCarty was observed beating his hand against the rock and yelling at the top of his lungs. He suddenly had an unpleasant thought. “Incidents” with five people at Lux had been reported. He’d talked with three of those so far, including McCarty. Only one had actually spoken to the Lux doctor about it; the others had been seen by witnesses. How many others, he wondered, might have experienced something strange, but had not been overseen, or had not chosen to report the incident?
“And that was it?” he said aloud.
“That was it.”
“There were no further recurrences? No voices, no compulsions, no feeling of being possessed against your will?”
“No. Nothing. But I’ve never been back there.” McCarty nodded in the direction of the rocks. “And I never will.”
“Plenty of other nice places around Lux for a postprandial meditation.”
“That’s true.” McCarty turned toward Logan, fixing him once again with his gaze. “There’s something else you should know. I also have a medical degree. In fact, I practiced medicine for half a dozen years before going back for a doctorate in linguistics. I graduated from Johns Hopkins Medical School with the highest marks in my class. I did my residency at one of the busiest hospitals on the East Coast, on the surgical track. To call it a brutal experience is putting it mildly. Of the fifteen residents that started with me my first year, six dropped out. Another four switched hospitals. Another committed suicide. Another fell asleep at the wheel, exhausted, and died going off a bridge. Only three of us made it through. And do you know what? During all four years of residency, the only time my pulse went over sixty was when I was using a treadmill in the gym. I’m a tough, hardheaded son of a bitch, Dr. Logan. I don’t get stressed; I get focused. And I don’t scare easily. Remember to mentally clip that factoid to the story I just told you.”
“I will.”
“Are we done?”
“We’re done.” Logan looked around again. “Mind if I sit here awhile, take in the scenery?”
“As long as you don’t talk.”
“And ruin such a pleasant view?” Logan settled back in his deck chair. “I wouldn’t think of it.”
19
Logan liked the Blue Lobster the moment he stepped into the bar. It was pleasantly dark, beer fragrant, and unpretentious. Unlike many of the fussy, trendy restaurants in town, its bill of fare — scrawled in chalk on a blackboard hanging over the bar — consisted of only four dishes: fish and chips, cheeseburgers, lobster rolls, and clam chowder. The establishment was situated on the second floor of the Newport Commercial Fisherman’s Cooperative. It was just six o’clock, and through the west-facing windows, fishing boats could be seen chuffing up to the wharves, ready to unload the day’s catch.
As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Logan saw the person he’d come here to meet: a slender woman in her early thirties, with long brunette hair, dark eyes, and a heart-shaped face. She was sitting at one of the heavily scarred wooden tables overlooking the wall of windows. She stood up as he approached, smiling a little shyly, or perhaps — Logan thought — with chagrin.
Pamela Flood. She had called not an hour before, using the cell number on the card he’d given her, apologized for her curtness that morning, and asked whether she could buy him a drink.
They shook hands and sat down. A barmaid came over, with a weathered face and arms muscular enough to have spent a decade or two before the mast. “What’ll it be?” she asked him.
Logan glanced over at what Ms. Flood was drinking. “Another Sam Adams, please.”
“You got it.” And the woman walked off into the gloom.
“Thanks for coming,” Pamela Flood said. The smile had not left her face.
“Thanks for inviting me, Ms. Flood.”
“Please. Call me Pam. And I want to apologize again for the way I practically threw you out this morning.”
“It’s all right. I’ve been thrown out of better places.” And they both laughed.
His beer arrived and Logan raised the glass. “So architecture runs in the family.”
“My great-grandfather and grandfather were architects. My father was a lawyer.”
“Don’t tell me — the family pariah.”
“Something like that.” She laughed again. “I was building houses out of Legos at age two. Spent my entire childhood growing up around building plans and plats and construction sites. It never entered my head to do anything else.” She took a sip of her beer. “Look. Almost as soon as you left this morning, I began feeling like a complete idiot. And then a few minutes later I realized where I’d seen your face before — on the cover of People magazine — and felt even worse. So I thought the very least I could do was buy you a drink, tell you why I acted the way I did, and find out what it was you came to see me about.”