Central Park by Guillaume Musso (ebook reader macos .TXT) 📕

“What about that Seymour guy?”

“I think he’s gay. Why?”

“No reason.”

Gabriel hung up and slid the cell phone into the bundle he’d made with his trench coat, then pushed this as deeply as possible into the biggest bird feeder he could find.

Back in the clearing, he saw with relief that Alice had not moved.

There, he dealt with the final details. He took the claim ticket for his briefcase and pushed it into the small pocket of Alice’s jeans. Then he leaned over her forearm and, very gently, played with the push button of the man’s watch she was wearing, changing the date to exactly one week before. On the face of the Patek, the perpetual calendar now said that today was Tuesday, October 8, instead of October 15.

Last, he slipped one of the handcuff bracelets around Alice’s right wrist and fastened the other one to his own left wrist.

Now they were inseparable. Chained together for better or worse.

He threw the key to the handcuffs as far as he could into the undergrowth.

Then he curled up on the bench, closed his eyes, and leaned softly against the young woman.

The weight of his body seemed to pull Alice from the depths of sleep.

It was eight a.m.

The adventure could begin.

26The Mirrors

I OPEN MY EYES.

I recognize the room—white, antiseptic, timeless. Tile floor, immaculate walls, a wardrobe, and a small wooden desk. Wide window blinds filter the slanting light. A décor more in keeping with the comfort of a hotel than the asceticism of a hospital.

I know exactly where I am: Room 6 in Sebago Hospital, near Portland, Maine. And I know why I am here.

I sit up against the pillow. I feel as if I am in a sensory no-man’s-land, like a dead star extinguished a long time ago. Little by little, however, I regain full awareness. My body is rested, my mind relieved of a great weight, as if I have just emerged from a long, nightmarish journey that has taken me through the palaces of Night, Dreams, and Sleep, has seen me fight Cerberus and defeat the Furies.

I stand up and walk, barefoot, to the sliding glass door. I open it, and the blast of icy air that blows through the room revives me. The view below me is breathtaking. Surrounded by a steeply sloping pine forest, Sebago Lake is a cobalt mirror that stretches out for miles like an azure jewel. There is a huge rock in the shape of a castle and a wooden dock extending over the water.

“Hello, Ms. Schafer.”

Surprised, I turn around. Sitting in a corner of the room, an Asian-American nurse has been watching me silently for several minutes without my noticing.

“I hope you are feeling well. Dr. Keyne is waiting for you near the lake.”

“Dr. Keyne?”

“He asked me to tell you he was there as soon as you woke up.” She walks to the window and points to a spot in the distance. I squint and see Gabriel, hands inside the open hood of the Shelby. He waves, signals me to join him. Inside the closet, I find the suitcase I brought with me. I put on a pair of jeans, a sweater, a jacket, and shoes, and I exit through the sliding glass door.

I walk toward him, mesmerized by the deep blue surface of the lake.

Everything is clear in my mind now. My memories are neatly ordered in the filing cabinet of my brain. Clouseau’s alarming diagnosis, Seymour’s mentioning Sebago Hospital, his efforts to have me admitted here, my flight to the United States, my first days in the clinic, the cerebral stimulator implanted in my chest and the panic attack that followed, my forceful denial of the disease, my escape from the hospital, my fight with the security guard, my running away to New York, falling asleep on that bench in Central Park…

And then the bizarre encounter with that strange guy, Gabriel Keyne, who accompanied me on the winding path of that crazy day. A treasure hunt during which my deepest terrors rose to the surface: The specter of Erik Vaughn, the loss of my baby, the trauma of Paul’s death, my doubts about the loyalty of my father and Seymour. And my continuing refusal to accept the state of my health, to the extent that I persuaded myself that I was waking up on the morning of October 8 when it was actually one week later.

“Hello, Alice. I hope you’ve slept well,” Keyne says, closing the hood of the car.

He is wearing cargo pants, a wide leather belt, a ribbed-knit sweater. His beard is thick, his hair a mess, his eyes dark-ringed and shining. The grease marks on his cheeks make him look more like a mechanic than a doctor.

I say nothing. He tries to start a conversation.

“I’m sorry about the syringe I stuck in your neck. But sedating you was the only way to get you to sleep.”

He grabs the cigarette tucked behind his ear and lights it with an old Zippo lighter. I now know that this man is not Vaughn. But who is he? As if reading my thoughts, he holds out a hand shiny with oil and grease.

“Gabriel Keyne, psychiatrist,” he says, introducing himself formally.

I refuse to shake his hand. “Jazz pianist, magician, FBI special agent, psychiatrist…you really are a chameleon.”

He gives a sort of embarrassed grimace. “I understand why you’re mad at me, Alice, and I’m sorry to have deceived you. But this time, I swear I’m telling you the truth.”

As often happens, the cop inside me gets the upper hand and I bombard him with questions. I discover that it was his former partner Thomas Krieg, the clinic director, who asked him to find me in New York and bring me here.

“But why did you claim to be a pianist? Why Dublin? Why the handcuffs, the cloakroom ticket, and the numbers on my hand? What the hell was all that about?”

He exhales a long plume of smoke. “It was all part of a script