The Perfect Witness Page 2

He shook his head. “God, no. But it’s refreshing of you to jump to that connection. At least, you’re not still thinking I’m going to sell you to Camano.”

  “I’m not sure that you’re not. You know too much about me.” She defiantly met his eyes. “Or do you? Just what do you know, Mandak?”

  “You want it all? I know that you’re the only child of Antonio Casali and his wife, Gina. Casali was pretty much a scumbag and involved in murder, vice, and longshore racketeering. He was so dirty he managed to climb up to head the New Jersey Mafia. Three weeks ago, he was gunned down in the streets in Trenton.” He paused. “You went to the funeral, but then you disappeared from view. I assumed that it was your mother’s doing to get you away from Camano, who had just taken power. Is that right?”

  She nodded jerkily. “I thought that it was going to be okay. I prayed that she wouldn’t do it.”

  “Do what? Betray you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He was studying her face. “Too late,” he said softly. “You’ve already slipped and told me too much. You’re her daughter. Why would she do that to you, Teresa?”

  “Why should I tell you?” she asked bitterly. “You believe you know it all. But all that stuff you rattled off doesn’t mean anything. Guesswork. Or you could have read it in the newspaper.”

  “Then should I go a step farther? Your parents were far too busy to take care of you. Your father was a mob boss who had ambitions to take over the entire Northeast territory. Your mother liked being married to Casali and acting the queen bee. She had no time to be a mother. You were sent away to boarding school from the time you were six. You didn’t seem to mind. You did extraordinarily well at school. You’re exceptionally bright, and very early on, the teachers found that you had a special talent. You have a photographic memory.”

  She stiffened. She didn’t like where this was going. “No big deal. It’s not common, but photographic memory isn’t really that special.”

  “Special enough. The school principal advised your parents, and they were curious enough to bring you home and show you off for amusement value. Your mother particularly liked to be the center of attention. The glow didn’t last long, and they sent you back to school about six months later.” He grimaced. “I’d bet you were relieved. You liked your books and your teachers and had no desire to be a star.”

  But those months had held their own magic, she wanted to tell him. For the first time, she had felt important to her mother. Her father was always cold and had never paid any attention to her. But her mother had been a beautiful butterfly who fluttered and smiled, and occasionally lingered in Teresa’s world for brief instants. “Are you nuts? I was no star. I told you, a photographic memory isn’t all that rare.”

  “But you were relieved to go back to school?”

  “Maybe.”

  “But it didn’t last long, did it? Two years later, the school expelled you and sent you home. They couldn’t deal with you.” He paused. “Would you like to tell me why?”

  Her hands clenched into fists. She couldn’t breathe. He knew.

  “Shall I tell you?” he asked softly. “It wasn’t the photographic memory. They could have handled that in a student. But that talent had changed, metamorphosed, in those two years. The teachers and students were regarding you as a freak. They felt insecure and afraid of you.”

  Nightmare time. Loneliness. Oh, the aching loneliness. It was all rushing back to her.

  “They were idiots. I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” he said gently. “But even the teachers weren’t prepared for what you were able to do.”

  “I didn’t want to do it. I’d just look at them, and it was there before me.”

  “What?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “What, Teresa?”

  “Why are you asking me? I don’t know who told you. But you know, damn you.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The memories,” she said unevenly. “I could read their memories. Whenever they remembered anything, it was clear as glass to me.”

  “You couldn’t read minds but you could read past thoughts, past actions, memories. Intimidating.”

  “I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t know what was happening to me. At first I thought I was actually reading their minds. But it was blank for me unless they were remembering something. But one was as bad as the other. No one would believe me. They thought I was lying.” She moistened her lips. “But it was worse when they did begin to believe me.”

  “They kicked you out and sent you back to your parents.”

  “I was glad to go. I didn’t think it could get any worse.”

  “But it did.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “My father … was interested. It wasn’t like before when I was just a curiosity. He thought that I might be … He wanted to see if he could use me.”

  “Your mother?”

  “She said I should do whatever my father said. She said this time we had to keep it a big secret just between the two of them and me. She made me go to this fancy Dr. Kramer on Fifth Avenue. He was a psychiatrist. He told my mother and father that he didn’t believe in what the school was telling him, but he’d investigate and let them know.” She said hoarsely, “I hated it. He kept asking me questions. Over and over. He wanted to know how I knew when I was making contact with someone’s memory. I told him that it was like being sucked into a dark tunnel, and I was suddenly just there. He told me to stop making up stories. He’d use big words like ‘hippocampus’ and ‘frontal cortex’. He’d tape wires and stuff on my head. He’d bring in strangers and try to trick me into saying the wrong things about what they were remembering. It went on and on…”

  “But then he found out you weren’t making up the stories.”

  “Yes, all those tests showed that my brain appeared to make contact with the amygdala segment of the brain of anyone with whom I came in close contact. Those are the cells that harbor memory. He told mother that there was evidence of stimulation in both brains. He said that my sensation of being pulled into a tunnel was my mind focusing, making adjustments.”

  “That tunnel signal interests me,” Mandak said. “It may indicate you’re struggling for control.”

  “Control? Are you crazy? I have no control. I just have to accept. My mother was excited. But she told me that I wasn’t to go back to see Dr. Kramer. He wanted to write an article for some medical journal, and that was making my father angry. He didn’t want anyone to know about what I could do.”

  “Exit Dr. Kramer. What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. My mother said that he was going to Europe to study for some degree.”

  “How convenient.”

  Though she had accepted what her mother said at the time, that’s what Teresa had thought in the years that followed. People who displeased her father often just went away never to be seen again. “I was glad at the time. I hated going to his office.”

  “But you hated more what happened when your father and mother believed his report.”

  “Yes,” she said jerkily.

  “And what did your father make you do?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. She didn’t know why she had already told him as much as she had. Secrets … Her mother had told her that she mustn’t tell anyone, that it was a secret. But she was alone now, and this man might have saved her life. And just telling someone about those years made her feel less vulnerable.

  “They’d sit me down in the library with my father and whoever he chose to bring home with him,” she said haltingly. “Sometimes it was one of his men, sometimes a politician, sometimes it was someone from another mob. He’d ignore me, but he’d laugh and joke with them. I guess that they thought it was a little weird to have me there, but maybe they felt safer and more at ease having a kid in the room. After they’d left, I had to tell my father what memories had surfaced in their minds during the visit.” She closed her eyes. “So ugly. Mean and
cruel and ugly. Memories are never anything like what’s on the surface. They’re almost always selfish, and the reasons why anyone does something are usually based on what they remember as being good or pleasant for them in the past. But often what those men thought pleasant was cruel and bloody and—” Her eyes opened, and she stopped as those memories began to come alive for her again. “Sometimes I wanted to throw up. I begged my father not to make me do it. He wouldn’t listen. My mother said that it was my duty and that I mustn’t say anything that might upset him.”

  “Did it continue until he was killed?”

  “No.” She drew a shaky breath. “Until about six months ago. I knew what my father was by that time. At first, I was numb and scared and just did what he told me to do. Then I began to wonder what effect my telling my father about those memories was having on those people he had me read. One night Ned Jokman came to see my father. He had worked with him for years. His memories were … bad. Death. Cheating. Bribes … After I gave my father the report, he seemed angry. He stormed out of the house. I followed him. He went to the guesthouse, where Jokman was staying. My father’s men dragged Jokman out into the woods and made him kneel.” She shuddered. “My father shot him in the head.”

  Blood and bits of skull and brains flying everywhere.

  “I screamed. I kept on screaming. My father hit me and hit me again. I deserved it. It was my fault.” She swallowed. “My fault. My fault.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Don’t tell me that,” she said fiercely. “I told my father what Jokman remembered doing, and he dragged him out into the woods and killed him. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t told him. It wouldn’t have happened if I’d shut away those memories and blocked them.”

  His eyes narrowed on her face. “Can you do that?”

  She was silent. “Sometimes.”

  “Not often.”

  “But I can pretend,” she said quickly. “I can make people think I’m not able to do it any longer.”

  “Is that how you kept your father from forcing you to tap into anyone’s memories after he killed Jokman?”

  She was silent.

  “It would be the only way to do it,” he said. “He wouldn’t give up such a prize advantage, and he obviously didn’t give a damn about you. Did he make it rough on you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  The regular beatings with the belt. The ropes. Isolation, verbal and physical abuse.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

  “Your mother didn’t interfere?”

  He didn’t understand about Gina. Nothing bad ever touched her. Beautiful butterflies never interfered in anything ugly. But she had come to Teresa after every punishment and held her in her arms and dried her tears.

  “I know, baby,” Gina had whispered as she held her close and stroked her hair. “I grew up with beatings, too. You just have to do whatever you have to do to survive. Give him what he wants, if you can. Just remember that I’m always here for you.”

  “Teresa?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You fooled him?”

  “I had to make him believe me,” she said jerkily. “I couldn’t do what he wanted any longer. It helped that I couldn’t stop crying for days after it happened. He thought maybe I was going crazy.”

  “Yes, I can see how that would help convince the son of a bitch,” Mandak said harshly. “A raving maniac wouldn’t be of much use to him.” He was silent. “Did you try to get away from him?”

  “Once. He caught me and locked me up. Then, two weeks later, he was killed, and I thought that I’d be free.”

  “But you weren’t free. It’s difficult keeping a secret as valuable and intriguing as your father was trying to do. Just the fact that you, a child, were present at certain crucial meetings was unusual. There had to be leaks. Camano knew about you and wanted to take over the action.” He paused. “Or to get rid of you before you could read some of his own memories that might prove fatal for him.”

  “No!” she said sharply. “That wouldn’t happen. I’m never going to do that again.”

  “But you can’t help yourself, can you? You wouldn’t do it intentionally, but if you leave yourself open, don’t the memories come flooding?”

  Her eyes widened in shock. “How do you know that?”

  “Don’t they?”

  Panic was suddenly racing through her. Why was she even talking to him? Why had the answers to his questions tumbled out helter-skelter? Perhaps because he had already seemed to know so much already. But those facts could have been learned by diligent research.

  But not the way the memories worked. That was what was scaring her to death. There wasn’t any way he could know how that worked. No one could know how people’s memories flowed gently to her at times and at others came and went like wind and thunder. Or how impossible it was to stop them when they wanted to be heard.

  “I’ve frightened you.” His gaze was searching her face. “You’re such a tough kid, I keep forgetting that I’m supposed to deal gently with you. It’s not my modus operandi.”

  “You didn’t frighten me.” Then she said hoarsely, “Yes, you did. You know too much. Things you shouldn’t know. But it’s nothing I can’t get over. I just have to find out if it’s going to hurt me.”

  “It might. But not right away. You’ll have a chance to recover and develop good defenses. That’s all I can promise you.”

  “Are you being honest with me?”

  He smiled faintly. “Yes. Can’t you tell? Why don’t you see what kind of horrendous memories I’m storing away? It might help.”

  “I told you that I won’t do that again. It’s not what—” But she could feel the familiar darkness of the tunnel pulling her, his memories flowing toward her, overwhelming her.

  And she could feel herself reaching out, searching …

  Nothing.

  Blank.

  Reflecting like a mirrored golden wall.

  She was stunned.

  “You’ve never run across a block?”

  “You can do that?”

  “Yes, and so can you if you let me help you. Accept it. Isn’t it really a relief not to be able to read me?”

  Relief? It was weird and terrifying. There was nothing comforting about this blankness. It was like looking at the edge of a machete that could turn and cut in a heartbeat. “Who are you? You said you weren’t the police.”

  “And I’m not. That doesn’t mean that I can’t offer you a certain amount of protection.” He opened a bottle of water and handed it to her. “And that I may eventually be able to give you a gift that you’ll find priceless.”

  “What gift?” she asked warily.

  “You have a talent that’s wild and erratic. I can teach you to block and control. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” he asked softly. “I can give that to you, Teresa.”

  “I don’t want to control it. I want to get rid of it.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not one of the options.”

  “Then just let me go, and I’ll work it out for myself.” She took a drink of water, then asked, “Why can’t I read your memories?”

  “Control and blocking. Which makes me stronger than you. You’ve been surrounded by people who have made you a victim. Aren’t you tempted to make sure it doesn’t happen again?”

  “All I want is to get away from here and stay alive.”

  “That’s part of the package.”

  “It is?” She was trying to think, trying to work it out. “You know what’s happening in my head. Or at least some of it. Is it because you’re a freak like me?”

  “You’re not a freak. You’re very special.” He shook his head. “People call me special, too, but I don’t possess your gift. You’re not unique, but your ability is very rare. I don’t share it.”

  “Be grateful,” she said bitterly.

  “Oh, I am. I have enough on my plate without that. But it’s not as if I couldn’t deal w
ith it. It’s a tricky path, and you’ve just been dealing with the wrong guides.” He smiled. “For instance, I’m a guide without equal.”

  “You think well of yourself.”

  He nodded. “Confidence is a valuable weapon.”

  “But even if you aren’t like me, that doesn’t mean you’re not a freak. Special is only a pretty word for it. People use you, and when they’re through with you, they push you away because you’re different.”

  “Then you learn to wear a mask and push back when it becomes necessary.”

  “Like you pushed back tonight? You killed those men.”

  “It was necessary. If they’d caught you, they would probably have killed you. Wouldn’t you have fought back?” He stared her in the eye. “Didn’t you intend to kill if you had to do it?”

  “That’s different.”

  He chuckled. “It’s always different in the first person.”

  “But you had no reason to do it. You had no quarrel with them. You could have walked away.”

  “No, I couldn’t have walked away.” He paused. “And I had a very good reason.”

  “What?”

  “I had to pay in advance for services rendered.”

  “What services?”

  “Future services.”

  “What future—” She stopped as he shook his head. “Services. That means you want to use me, too.”

  “I won’t deny it,” he said quietly. “But you’ll find I always pay for what I want. But you’re not ready for me to offer you a deal yet. We’ll discuss it later.”

  He was being annoyingly deceptive. She changed the subject. “How do you know what goes on in my head? Are you some kind of slimy egotist like Dr. Kramer?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Stop doing that.” She wanted to hit him. She was brimming with frustration. “I want to know who you are and what you have to do with me.”

  “I’m sure you do, but that’s not an option, either. You’ll find out in time, but you need that time. You’re only sixteen, Teresa.”

  “You say you want to help me, but that’s not true, is it? You’re like everyone else. You said you wanted to use me.”

  “Yes, I do.” He reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “In the end, we all use each other. I’ll take what I want from you. But I’m giving you a chance to grow and strengthen and fight me. I consider that very generous. Don’t you?”