86

I left a second voice mail with Masterson, then called Dr. Gillespie back to tell him about my mother’s article. He suggested that the two of us meet before getting together with Mace James. Maybe my mom’s death wasn’t just a random result of a breaking and entering gone bad. Gillespie believed it was all too coincidental. Caleb Tate used deep-trance hypnosis on his clients, my mother had been researching it, and then she just happened to be murdered by a man defended by Caleb Tate. Neither of us could put the pieces completely together, but we both knew that we were onto something.

Gillespie wanted to meet at my house so he could take me through the events from the night my mother died. For twelve years, I had tried to avoid thinking about that night. I had blocked out the images of my mother lying on the floor dead and my father covered in blood. But now, Gillespie wanted me to relive the trauma to see if there was something lodged in my subconscious that might help us unlock this puzzle.

He showed up at five thirty, and even Justice seemed to understand how somber the night had become. He didn’t greet Gillespie with his usual tail-wagging, jumping-around, let’s-play-tug-of-war approach. Instead, he stayed next to me as if sensing my dread at what we were about to do.

Dr. Gillespie greeted me with a warm hug and told me that he understood how difficult this would be. I thanked him for coming on a Saturday. He said that he had been in the clubhouse when I first called, sharing a few drinks with his trash-talking buddies after a miserable day on the links. “I needed an excuse to leave,” he said graciously. “I owe you one.”

He said he had been thinking about our call and was convinced that my mother’s death was not an accident. He proposed that we look through her old files, focus on anything having to do with hypnosis, and see what we could find. We both believed that Caleb Tate was somehow behind all this.

“Do you still have those records?” he asked.

I told him I thought they were in the attic someplace. It might take an hour to find them and several more to go through them. We agreed it could wait until tomorrow. For tonight, the important thing was to see if there was anything lodged in my memory about the events of my mom’s death, anything I had previously overlooked.

“Is this one of those focus-on-the-swinging-watch type things?” I asked.

Gillespie smiled. “You can do that with your local gypsies. I prefer to talk over a cup of coffee.”

I fixed some coffee for Dr. Gillespie and a glass of water for me. We settled into the chairs in the family room, and he started with the questions. Where was I the night my mom died? How long had I been out? Did I have anything to drink? What was the weather like? Could I remember anything about the food I ate?

“The food I ate?” I asked.

“We need to engage all the senses from that night. Re-create as much as we can before I start asking questions about when you came home and found your mom and dad. You’re going to have to work with me, Jamie. We’ve got to walk through this whole series of events and keep it uninterrupted, if possible.”

I took a deep breath. “I’ll do the best I can.”

“Maybe we should put Justice out back,” Gillespie suggested. “That way, when we re-create you walking into the house, he won’t disturb your train of thought.”

I did as Gillespie suggested, and we talked for several more minutes in the family room. He helped me remember the emotions from that time in my life, and I recalled as many details as I could about the party I went to that night. Then we went outside and got in his car. He backed out of the driveway and drove around the cul-de-sac before pulling back in.

“Let’s go in the house exactly the way you did that night with Chris. I’m just going to follow along, and I want you to describe what you see and what you feel at every step. I may ask some short questions but only to prod you along.”

We came in through the garage, and I had a sense of foreboding. “I think Chris was actually ahead of me,” I said. “I think I was kind of sulking because he had come to get me.”

Gillespie took a step ahead and opened the door that led from the garage into the laundry room. I followed him past the washer and dryer and into the family room. The family room opened to the kitchen eating area, where my mom was killed.

“I didn’t really know anything was wrong until we got right here and I saw them,” I said, pointing. “There.” Chills ran up my spine, and I started shaking a little. “That’s where they were. I think I stopped here. My hand over my mouth.”

I closed my eyes again and wanted to scream just at the thought of it.

“How were they lying?” Gillespie asked. He had stepped off to the side of the kitchen area.

“My mom was on the floor in an awkward position. Not too far from the table. Her head was back and her mouth was open. She had been shot in the head. But what I really noticed was my dad. He was right over here.”

I moved to where my dad had been and knelt down. “His shirt was covered in blood, darker here next to his rib cage where he had been shot. Chris started yelling things. I don’t remember what. But it was like ‘Call 911! Get a cold washcloth! Hurry up!’”

As I described the events, I felt my blood pumping faster, and I started to get a little dizzy. I walked over to the sink, where I had gone that night to grab the washcloth. “It was so stupid—Chris telling me to get a washcloth. My parents were both lying there dead.”

The night was coming back now in all its gory detail. “Chris put his ear next to my mother’s mouth and checked her pulse. I ran over and knelt down next to my dad.”

As I talked, I acted it out again, kneeling on the carpet next to where my father had been.

“I tilted his head back and started CPR,” I said. “His eyes were open a little, and it felt like he was breathing, but I didn’t know for sure, and I was just crazy with adrenaline. Chris kind of pushed me aside and told me to press the washcloth against the wound. Chris started doing CPR. and I can’t even remember. . . . I think the washcloth didn’t seem big enough, so I ripped off my shirt and pressed that into my dad’s side. My hands were covered with blood all the way up my wrists.”

I sat down and stopped for a moment. I had to take a break. I saw Justice sitting at the back door and Gillespie standing next to the island in the middle of the kitchen. But the room had become a blur. I was losing focus. I tilted my head back and took a few deep breaths.

“Was the back door open or closed?” Gillespie asked.

I held up my hand. “No more questions for a second,” I said. The words came out a little garbled. I couldn’t think about this right now.

“Did Chris act surprised? Did he scream when he saw the bodies?”

I couldn’t deal with Gillespie’s questions anymore. The room was spinning and getting darker. I lay down on my side. Justice started barking on the porch, clawing at the door.

“Do you remember anybody looking in from the back porch? Do you remember any noises upstairs? Do you remember . . . ?”

The questions no longer concerned me, mere static that merged into the barks from the porch, my whole thought process spinning out of control. It felt like I was falling into a deep well and couldn’t reach the end of the darkness. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. Anything to make the room stop spinning. Anything to calm the noises in my head.

I sensed that perhaps Gillespie was kneeling over me now, his face inches away. So close that I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Can you hear me?”

I tried to respond, but nothing came out.

“Good night, Jamie,” Gillespie said.

The room stopped spinning, peace overwhelmed me, and the darkness took control.