Читать книгу The Last Daughter - Thomas Mahon - Страница 19

“Oh?”

“Something’s bothering me about my psych class this morning,” said the first daughter. “I had never heard about Fr. Mulcahy until today. Have they settled the lawsuit yet?”

McManus studied her. She figured he was still reeling from the adoption claim. He finally blinked and said, “There is no lawsuit anymore. The plaintiff’s lawyer dropped him as a client, and nobody else has shown any interest in representing him.”

“Why?”

“There are too many holes in his story. First of all, as you well know, there were no witnesses to any of this, nor had anybody ever expressed dissatisfaction with Mulcahy’s work as a priest. Ever. In addition, the man insisted the abuse took place when he was twelve and thirteen-years-old. Archdiocesan and city records show that the church in question wasn’t even built when the alleged abuse took place. In fact, it wouldn’t be built for another five years. Furthermore, the man claimed he spoke to a priest at the parish the moment the memories hit him. Said he spoke to a Father Justin. There is no Father Justin in the entire archdiocese. Not only that, but none of the priests or deacons in the parish say they spoke to him, let alone spoke to him about abuse.” McManus waved his hand. “So, that’s that.”

“Except that poor Father Mulcahy gets his name dragged through the mud post mortem.”

“All because of either a lie or Faulty Memory Syndrome.”

“And that’s what I wanted to ask you about.”

“Faulty Memory?”

McManus explained that although amnesia and repression are well documented in many abuse cases, the unconscious can be a tricky thing. Each and every case of recall involves the victim (or supposed victim) reconstructing events, sometimes after a number of years have elapsed. During reconstruction, many factors and influences come into play. Many of these influences cause distortions of the facts. Additionally, the unconscious is often described as a vast warehouse of stored information, memories, fantasies and nightmares. Sifting through this strange world, to determine what’s real and what’s not, can be a daunting task.

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?”