South Of Hell

Chapter Twenty-one

Louis stood by the bedroom door watching Amy’s face. Joe was sitting next to her on the bed, and although he couldn’t hear Joe’s soft voice, he knew what she was saying: “It wasn’t your mother in the barn, Amy.”

Amy’s expression registered surprise, then settled into something he could read only as deep disappointment.

Louis had expected tears or even resignation, anything but the quiet look of blighted hope that colored Amy’s face. But in the end, he understood it. He had seen the expression before in the faces of those who had lost loved ones. With loss came the relief of grief, but only if there was someone to grieve over. Amy still had not found her mother. The hole in her heart remained.

Still, he was surprised when Amy told Joe that she wanted to go back and see Dr. Sher again. “I need to keep looking for her, and Dr. Sher can help me do that,” Amy said.

It was only after Joe finally agreed to take Amy back to Dr. Sher the next day that Amy went back to bed.

Now, two hours later, Joe was stretched out on the sofa, hand over her forehead, and Louis was sitting close by. There was a bucket of chicken and a bottle of cabernet on the coffee table between them. Louis reached over and poured the last of the wine into Joe’s glass and held it out.

She shook her head, closing her eyes.

“Did you call your sheriff?” Louis asked.

“Detective Bloom called him,” Joe said.

“Is Mike upset at you?”

Joe shook her head. “He’d like me to come home, but he told Bloom whatever I did, he’d back me a hundred percent.”

“He sounds like a good guy.”

Joe nodded slowly.

The room was quiet. It was nearly eleven, and Louis knew Joe was as tired as he was. Still, she had been quieter than usual all evening.

“So, I guess you haven’t changed your mind about running for sheriff this fall,” Louis said. “You’re going to stay in Echo Bay?”

She opened her eyes. “You knew that when I left Florida,” she said. “Nothing has changed.”

He nodded. “Thank you for staying,” he said. “I think Amy likes you a lot.”

Joe didn’t comment.

Louis glanced to the bedroom door, open just enough so they could hear if Amy had a nightmare. But she had been out for hours now. Her need to sleep seemed to have lessened some, and she had not had another episode.

“You want to talk any about Lily?” Joe asked.

“No,” Louis said, not looking at her.

He heard her sigh. Maybe she felt the need to talk about it more than he did, but he couldn’t right now. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. Not to Joe and certainly not to Lily. He wouldn’t know until the day came when he met her.

Louis rose, gathered up the chicken bucket and empty wine bottle, and went to the kitchenette. He tossed the garbage and opened the fridge. There were six Heinekens and two sodas. He grabbed a soda.

“Oh… stop! Stop! God, help me, please! Stop it!”

Amy.

He ran to the bedroom, Joe at his heels. Amy was in the bed, sitting straight up, both hands rigid in front of her face. He grabbed her shoulders before he realized it might scare her even more.

“Amy! Wake up.”

She started thrashing at him, twisting away from him so violently she tangled herself in the blankets. He reached for her again but caught only the sleeve on her pajamas. It ripped as she scrambled from the bed.

“I have to get to the corn!” she said. “I can’t lead them to John. I have to run. Oh, Lord, help me, please!”

Joe tried to catch her, but Amy pushed away from her, stumbling across the bedroom. She was heading right toward the window. It was thick glass, but Louis wasn’t sure she couldn’t put herself through it.

He lunged for her. They both tumbled to the carpet.

“No! No!” Amy cried.

He pinned her wrists and looked to Joe. Amy was crying, bucking against his hold. She wasn’t very strong, and it was easy to hold her down.

Joe dropped to her knees next to them. When Amy felt Joe’s hands on her back, she started to relax. Louis let go of Amy’s wrists, and she drew her arms under her face, weeping.

“I’m going to die,” she whimpered. “I’m going to die.”

“You’re not going to die, Amy,” Joe said, rubbing her back. “I promise you. You’re not going to die.”

Amy was on her side, hands clasped against her chest, eyes closed. She had lapsed into a sudden, comalike sleep, just as she had done at the farmhouse.

Joe sat back on her heels. “Louis, we can’t keep doing this,” she said. “This girl belongs in a hospital.”

“Dr. Sher doesn’t think so,” Louis said.

“Dr. Sher has only seen Amy a couple of times,” Joe said. “And she hasn’t seen one of these attacks. We could be doing her irreparable damage by not having her in a place where she can be watched twenty-fours a day.”

“And medicated so she can’t remember any of this stuff?” he said.

“Maybe she’s not meant to remember,” Joe said. “Maybe there’s nothing to remember that has anything to do with her mother. It’s probably memories of her own abuse. Why force her to relive it?”

“Not remembering makes it worse,” he said. “And you heard her tonight. She wants to remember. She wants to go back and see Dr. Sher again.”

Joe sat back against the wall, staring at Amy. “I don’t know if we’re doing the right thing here,” she whispered. “She scares me. This whole thing scares me.”

Amy was resting on the red settee, eyes closed. Louis and Joe were seated near the piano, far enough away not to be a distraction but close enough to hear. Amy had asked that Louis be allowed to sit in this time. It had surprised him, but ever since he had given her the locket, she didn’t seem to mind him being around. In fact, this morning, on the way to the Bronco, she’d whispered to him that he shouldn’t tell Joe about the necklace because she would take it away from her.

He hadn’t told Joe about the locket. Nor had he given voice to the question that had been in his head since the trip to the medical examiner: Why had Amy put her own hair into the locket?

The click of the tape recorder drew his attention back to Dr. Sher. The room was quiet and warm. He and Joe waited in silence while the doctor again took Amy back to her nightmare, telling her there was nothing to be afraid of and that she was safe.

“Tell me where you are,” Dr. Sher said.

“I don’t know,” Amy said.

“Look down at yourself,” Dr. Sher said. “Look at your clothes and shoes. What do they look like?”

“I’m wearing a blue dress,” Amy said. “And black leather lace-up shoes. They don’t fit me right, and they’re heavy and hard to run in.”

“Are you running now?”

“No,” Amy said. “But I’m afraid. I hear the horses coming. I see a white horse pulling a black carriage. I hear the men. The fire is in their hands.”

Louis caught Joe’s eye and mouthed the word Carriage? She just shook her head.

“Are there other people with you, Amy?” Dr. Sher said.

“He is there… and his wife.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. They’re watching.”

“What do they look like?” Dr. Sher asked.

“He has eyeglasses and a long black coat, heavy to keep the cold away. She wearing a long yellow dress, and her hair is black and piled up on her head.”

Louis glanced at Joe. She was leaning forward, elbows on her knees, mesmerized by Amy’s narrative.

“I’m running,” Amy said. “I’m running through the corn. It’s cold, so cold. My chest hurts.”

“Why are you running?”

“They’re chasing me,” Amy said. “I hear the horse’s hooves on the dirt. They’re close, very close. But I can’t go to the cellar. John is there, and I can’t let them find John. So I run to the corn.”

Amy’s breathing became labored.

“What is it, Amy?”

“They found me. They found me in the corn. They’re dragging me back, back to the barn. No!”

“Calm down, Amy,” Dr. Sher said. “You’re safe. Just tell me what you see.”

“He has a whip.”

“Who? The man with the eyeglasses?”

“No, one of the others,” she said. “The fire… I can feel it on my skin.”

“Is the barn on fire?”

“No, no,” Amy said impatiently. “Torches! They scare me, but I can’t move. I can’t move. I am naked now. They have taken my clothes. I’m so cold.”

“Slow down,” Dr. Sher said. “Relax.”

Amy’s voice suddenly deepened, became almost unrecognizable. “Stand back,” she said. “You stand back, Amos. You let us do what we need to do.”

“Who is speaking, Amy?”

Amy let out a low moan. “The ropes… they are pulling me up on the hook. The whip… it hurts. It rips and rips. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”

“Amy, pull yourself away from the pain, and get past the whipping,” Dr. Sher said. “Look down now. Where are you?”

For the next few seconds, Amy was quiet. Dr. Sher glanced up, meeting Louis’s eyes. She seemed as mystified as he was.

“I’m lying on the ground,” Amy said softly. “I’m freezing but warm with my own blood.”

Dr. Sher placed her hand gently over Amy’s.

“I hear digging,” Amy whispered. “They are digging a grave. It is my grave.”

Louis heard Joe pull in a quick breath.

Then, suddenly, Amy went limp. She fell quiet again. It was the second or third time she had, but Louis got the feeling that her memory — or whatever this was — was over.

Dr. Sher awakened Amy and told her to rest. Then she motioned Louis and Joe from the room. Once in the foyer, she closed the French doors to the living room and took several deep breaths. She was watching Amy through the doors.

Louis glanced at Joe. Her face was white, and she was holding her arms over her chest like she was cold.

“All right,” Louis said quietly. “What the hell was that all about?”

It was a while before Dr. Sher turned to face them. When she did, her pale blue eyes took a moment to focus. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Those weren’t memories of her mother’s death,” Joe said.

“No, they weren’t. At least, not all of them,” Dr. Sher said.

“She had one of her episodes last night,” Joe said. “It’s like a nightmare, but she’s awake. She mentioned the name John last night, too. And she said she was dying. Not her mother, Dr. Sher. She said she was dying.”

Dr. Sher looked at Amy again. And this time, when she looked back, first to Louis and then to Joe, her clinical mask had slipped back into place.

“I think Amy believes she was the black woman whose bones were found in the barn,” she said.

“Jesus,” Joe whispered. She took a step away, walking in a small circle in the foyer.

“What, she’s mentally ill?” Louis said.

“I-” Dr. Sher hesitated. “I don’t believe she is.”

Joe turned back. “Then what is causing this?”

Dr. Sher took a second to gather her thoughts. “Memory is a complicated process,” she said. “But research tells us that the qualities of a memory do not always provide a reliable way to determine accuracy. For example, a vivid and detailed memory may be based on inaccurate reconstruction of facts. Or even on self-created impressions that appear actually to have occurred.”

Joe was listening intently.

“Also,” Dr. Sher went on, “memory is a reconstructed phenomenon, and so it can often be strongly influenced by various biases such as social expectation, emotions, the implied beliefs of others, inappropriate-”

“Doctor,” Louis interrupted, “help us out here.”

Dr. Sher gave him a small smile. “Sorry.” She glanced back at Amy before she went on. “I’ll try to keep this simple,” she said. “Some doctors believe that childhood abuse can cause repressed memories. Later, these memories can resurface on their own or with help.”

“But why does Amy think she’s a dead black woman?” Joe pressed.

“People think memory is just a matter of recall, but it is also about how the brain reconstructs that memory,” Dr. Sher said.

Joe was shaking her head.

“Let me give you an example,” Dr. Sher said. “A child might have a memory of standing on a street looking into a scary alley. As an adult, he might falsely remember the alley as containing a dead body, when in fact the child saw only a homeless man sleeping in an alley.”

“So, you’re saying Amy is mixing real memories of the farm with things from her imagination?” Louis asked.

Dr. Sher nodded. “It’s called confabulation. Put simply, it is the mixing or confusion of true memories with irrelevant associations or bizarre ideas. And no matter how strange or untrue, these ideas can be held with the firmest of convictions.”

Louis had to ask the question again. “Is she mentally ill, Doctor?”

“Confabulation is a function of brain chemistry, and it is associated with patients who have suffered brain damage or lesions,” Dr. Sher said. “We’d have to do some tests…” Her voice trailed off.

Louis was watching Joe, knowing she was seeing Owen Brandt backhand Margi and thinking about what horrors Amy might have suffered at the farmhouse. Things she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, remember, because maybe, unlike the made-up memories of some dead black woman, the real memories were too close to home.

“This still doesn’t explain everything,” Louis said.

“What do you mean?” Dr. Sher asked.

“Like why she can sing in French,” Joe said.

“Or how she knew where those bones were buried,” Louis said.

“No, I guess it doesn’t,” Dr. Sher said softly.

They fell quiet. Louis was looking at Amy. And Amy was just sitting there on the settee, looking back at them. Through the wavy old glass of the French doors, Amy was just a soft-focus pink blur.

“Okay,” Dr. Sher said softly. “There’s one other thing I need you to consider.”

They both turned to her.

“Before I retired, I was head of research here at the university. I’ve written many papers on various disorders and conditions. I can’t believe I am going to say what I am about to say.”

“What?” Louis asked.

“If one believes in repressed memory — and that is a big if, as far as I am concerned…” Dr. Sher hesitated again. “Hell’s bells, I might as well just say this and get it out in the open.”

She blew out a hard breath that lifted the red curls from her forehead. “Have either of you ever heard of past-life regression?” she asked.

Louis looked at Joe, who shrugged. “Reincarnation?” Louis asked.

“Well, that would be part of it, yes.”

“Good God,” Louis said. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Louis,” Joe said softly.

“It’s all right,” Dr. Sher said, holding up a hand. “Look, I’m as skeptical as you. But there is some work being done in this field. There’s a doctor in Miami who’s written some remarkable papers-”

“A doctor?” Louis said.

“Yes, he’s the head of psychiatry at Mount Sinai, a professor at the University of Miami Medical School. He was treating a patient with routine therapies, and during a hypnosis session, she-”

Louis held up his hands. “I don’t mean to be rude, Dr. Sher, but you just said a minute ago that Amy could be mentally ill. If that is the case, we need to know, because time is running out, for her and for us on this case. If we don’t have hard evidence, there’s nothing we can really do.”

Dr. Sher held Louis’s eyes for a moment. “Hard evidence,” she said softly. Then she looked to Joe. “I think I’ll see how Amy is doing,” she said.

She went back into the living room, closing the French doors behind her. Louis watched her go to the settee and sit down next to Amy.

He turned to Joe. “You’re awfully quiet.”

She looked at the floor.

“Don’t tell me you’re buying into this past-life crap, Joe.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“I can’t believe what I am hearing,” Louis said.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a cop, Joe.”

“I don’t need you to remind me of that,” Joe said quickly. “I just think we have to keep an open mind.”

“Well, if you keep your mind too open, your brains fall out,” Louis said.

Her eyes shot back to him. “And what the hell does that mean?”

“It means that this can be explained,” he said. “There’s a reason she knew where those bones were, and I’m going to find it.”