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  “That was a terrible mistake, and won’t happen again,” Lucius said. He could feel his face flame. Whatever she said next would only make matters worse. He pretended to inspect his watch. “I have time to speak with the professor before my next appointment. But only if I go now.”

  * * *

  The meeting with the professor lasted all of twenty-six minutes. The professor was a slender black woman with an accountant’s directness. “Well, you’ve certainly made improvements in your wardrobe, I’ll give you that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I have a meeting with prospective clients. I do consulting work on the side.” She rose from her desk and pointed to the exit. “Let’s walk.”

  The university campus was laid out in a series of incomplete circles, a gentle maze of buildings and parking areas and tree-lined walks. The professor said, “So you’ve been studying on your own.”

  “Quite a lot, actually.”

  “It would need to be a lot, given the level of work I saw in the past. Tell me, what would your response be to the issue of . . .”

  The questions took them across an interior courtyard and into a newish building that flanked the university entrance. Lucius stumbled in several places, mostly over issues related to changes in financial codes. But his ability with numbers and balance sheets had transferred with him, a feat he was desperately relieved to have confirmed.

  They stopped before a conference room bearing the professor’s name and the current date and time. She inspected him once more, the same intent gaze he had endured from the dean. “Your choice of terms suggests a surprising use of out-of-date texts.”

  “I found them . . . accessible.”

  “Well, you need to bring your knowledge into the twenty-first century. Class begins Friday. In the meantime I want you to work your way through the HBR textbook entitled Finance for Managers. You’ll find it in the college bookstore. Come to my office half an hour before class. I will want to check your progress.”

  “I can do that.”

  She offered him the tight glimmer of a smile. “Do you know, I actually think you can.”

  * * *

  Lucius bought the managerial finance book at the university shop, then left the campus. He used his phone’s remarkable mapping ability to chart his course and set off walking. He was not ready to drive just yet. Besides which, going on foot offered him an opportunity to reacquaint himself with the town he had once known so well. He stopped by a barber’s for a haircut, then entered a branch of Luke’s bank. He wrote out a check for cash and got in line. When the teller was free, he offered up the driver’s license with that sullen man’s photograph, and asked for his balance, and accepted his cash, and thanked the teller. And tried to stifle the feeling that his every act was a profound lie.

  The hospital occupied its own cul-de-sac on the university’s north side. He dreaded returning. But he owed the orderly money. He entered the main lobby and asked the receptionist to page Jorge. As he started toward the chairs by the front windows, a voice called, “Mr. Benoit?”

  Lucius turned and faced a dark-skinned gentleman in a doctor’s white coat. His gorge rose with the shock of recognition. “Yes?”

  The doctor must have seen the revulsion in his gaze. He revealed a remarkable warmth. “Joseph Emeka. I was the ER doctor on duty when you arrived.”

  “I remember.”

  “Do you? How interesting. I had heard from Dr. Barbieri that you have suffered memory loss. I’m glad to learn it was only temporary.”

  Lucius saw no need to correct him. “Thank you.”

  “How are you?”

  “Coping.”

  “You appear to be doing far more than that.” He surveyed Lucius’s appearance with evident approval. “I am glad to see you looking so well.”

  Lucius had always trusted his ability to assess people. And his gut told him that this was a man who genuinely cared. He ventured, “There have been some very hard moments.”

  “I can imagine. What brings you here?”

  “I wanted to thank an orderly for assisting me.”

  Emeka gave him a knowing look. “This wouldn’t be the orderly who supplied you with the phone call, by any chance.”

  “If it was,” Lucius replied, “it would do neither of us any good to admit it.”

  Emeka revealed the most astonishing smile. His entire face became illuminated. “Certainly not. In that case I should probably depart before the gentleman arrives. Do let me know how things progress, will you?”

  CHAPTER 32

  As soon as Asha’s ten o’clock patient departed on Tuesday morning, she set up her Minicam on its tripod. She positioned it behind her chair and to the right, opposite the window. When Luke knocked on her open door, she greeted him with, “Come in, Luke. How are you today?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “Let me just go wash my hands.” When she returned, she found he had pulled over one of the straight-back chairs and was seated directly opposite the desk. Establishing very clear boundaries. As she had expected. She settled in behind the table, opened the laptop, and keyed in the camera. “Would you be comfortable with my recording our sessions?”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “Absolutely not. If you dislike the idea, I will turn it off.”

  “Very well.”

  “Thank you. And one final bit of administrivia.” She passed over a standard form supplied by the university. “I have one of these on record, but I thought given the recent, well . . .”

  “Alterations we have discussed,” Luke supplied.

  “Right. This permits me to discuss your case with others.” She forced herself to add, “I would also like to write it up for an article, but only if you agree.”

  “I see no reason to object.”

  “There is a copy for you as well.” She watched him read and sign the form. “You look very nice today. Are those new clothes?”

  He nodded. “One of the students introduced me to Target. And IKEA. I have been burning through money.”

  Today, Luke wore a white button-down shirt, pleated navy trousers, and dark loafers. He sat erect, watchful, reserved. She wrote down the word “aware.”

  Everything that Luke Benoit had not been in their previous consultations.

  She asked, “How was your meeting with the dean yesterday?”

  “Meetings. Plural. They went fine.”

  “Who else did you see?”

  “A Professor Russell. She is teaching a summer class in advanced business finance. I needed to convince her that I could handle the work.” He crossed his legs. “May I ask a question?”

  “Of course. You can ask—”

  “How is it that I am twenty-two years of age, and am still a junior at this university?”

  “You still don’t remember?”

  “Virtually nothing.”

  “You are currently in your third administrative leave.”

  “You arranged these?”

  “Just this one. Another was granted when your parents had their accident. The other was requested by one of your previous therapists.”

  “How many therapists has . . . have I had?”

  “I am the fourth.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “Is . . . Luke, I don’t understand your question.”

  “Switching around like . . . Never mind.” The exchange seemed to age him. He shook his head, said quietly, “That poor kid.”

  Asha made rapid notes. The responses formed almost a textbook DID, or dissociative identity disorder. Amnesia of his other existence. Complete disconnect between personalities. Except for . . .

  Asha asked, “Do you mind if I call you Luke?”

  He seemed surprised by the question. “It is my name.”

  Asha made another note. This was a serious breach of standard DID behavior. In virtually every case study she knew about, the patient became tense and angry when addressed by the name of one of their other personalities. “It’s just, we
ll, you claim that your previous name was . . .”

  “I don’t claim it. My name was Lucius. Then. Not now.”

  “Then, as in, before you died.”

  “Correct.” He glanced at the camera. “Is that why you wanted to record this session? Should I repeat my story for the world?”

  “Would you mind doing so?”

  “No. Not really.” He proceeded to give a shortened version of the story he had last told her on Dino’s porch. Asha studied him as he spoke. The calmness, the self-possession, the intensity, were all utterly at odds with other case studies. This change in personality went far beyond anything she had found in her research.

  The most recent conversation with her grandmother rose unbidden. The thought that Luke Benoit might actually be telling the truth was utterly unwelcome. And yet . . . Asha experienced a split of her own. For one brief instant she faced the prospect of rejecting her entire professional training. And seeing Luke as Lucius. As a man, a new individual, seated there before her.

  Then she realized what Luke had just said, and the world snapped back into focus. “Say that again.”

  “I’ve spoken with your grandmother by phone. The night before last I had an attack. I needed a friend.”

  The news was not as jarring as Asha might have expected. Her grandmother had always been as irritating as she was wise. Sonya did what Sonya thought best, and paid no attention to what others desired or the world expected. Asha responded as calmly as she could. “If you needed help, why didn’t you call me?”

  His expression hardened. “Why are you recording this session? Why are we not discussing the incredible nature of my return? Because you don’t believe me.”

  To that, she had no response except, “Tell me about the attack.”

  Even here she found a distinct separation between the patient she had been treating previously and the man seated before her. Luke’s description was . . .

  The word she sought was “clinical.” Luke Benoit talked like he was describing physical symptoms to a doctor.

  Asha said, “You need to go back on your meds.”

  “Sonya said the same thing. You cannot possibly understand how hard it is for me to accept that. Even so . . .” He opened his briefcase, pulled out a Target bag, and upended it on the desk. He showed genuine distaste at the fourteen containers that rolled about. “These are all the medicines I found in his . . . that is, my bathroom cabinet. I would ask that you please show me which I should take, and what the minimum dose might be.”

  “Luke . . . you need to understand, all of these are impacted by whatever other substances you swallow or smoke or what-ever.”

  The grimness aged him once more. “My student workers located his . . . What was the word they used?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t . . .”

  “‘Stash.’ I threw it all out. I told you. I will not be using any such things ever again.” He waved an angry hand at the plastic bottles. “Just give me one. Please. In case of another attack.”

  She began sorting through the bottles, aware of the camera, aware also that Dino would insist upon using this as an opportunity to get him back on a daily regimen. “All of these work better if you use them regularly.”

  “I would rather deal with the next attack on my own than take daily doses.” He crossed his arms. “I have begun eating vegetarian. And something else, vegan. Yes. Perhaps that will be enough.”

  She accepted defeat, and pushed one container toward him. “Two of these at the first sign of distress. And if that is not enough, take one of these.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Will you at least keep these others, just in case you change your mind?”

  He started to argue, then shifted. Asha actually saw it happen. Luke said, “On one condition.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your grandmother has invited me to church.”

  “She what?”

  “Next Sunday. But only if you grant me permission. Asha, I thought your grandmother was Muslim.”

  Asha reached over and cut off the recorder. “Sonya is . . .”

  “Unique,” Luke offered. “A very special lady.”

  Kooky was what Asha had been thinking. Her actions from time to time were nothing less than bizarre. Asha knew she would call her grandmother as soon as Luke left. Just as she knew Sonya would do whatever she thought best, regardless of what Asha thought or said.

  Luke drew her back by saying, “I would very much like to do this.” He swept a hand over the cluster of containers. “Give me your okay, and I will hold on to all these.”

  “Will you take them?”

  “I’m sorry. No.”

  “Luke, these were prescribed for your own good. They form a daily regimen that stabilizes your mood swings—”

  “And obliterates my mental capacities. Again, no.”

  “Then I am afraid I cannot agree.”

  “Very well.” He smiled. “The first lesson of a good negotiator is to enter into any new deal with a clear knowledge of how far you will go.”

  “Is that what we are doing?”

  “Absolutely.” He swept the other twelve bottles back into the plastic bag and handed them over. “Throw these away for me, will you?”

  Asha stared at the bag, but what she really saw was the coming argument with her grandmother. No matter what she said, no matter how powerful the reasons Asha had to forbid this meeting, her grandmother would go ahead and do precisely what she wanted.

  Asha sighed defeat. “I agree to your visit. On one condition.”

  CHAPTER 33

  The idea came to Lucius while he was seated in the attorney’s waiting room. Sol Feinnes and his associates occupied a suite of offices in a new building meant to look old. The exterior resembled an oversized Spanish mission, and was located between the Old Town and the courthouse. Lucius gave his name to the guard by the entry and was directed to the fourth floor, where the receptionist apologized with professional smoothness that the attorney was running behind schedule.

  The waiting area was a fine-enough place for reflection, done in the pastel colors of an early sunrise, with comfortable chairs and nice prints and a collection of interesting magazines and fresh coffee in a corner alcove. The receptionist was busy with her work, and people came and went, and nobody seemed overly interested in just another young man there to take the lawyer’s time. So Lucius poured himself a mug and seated himself and extracted the Sunday newspaper advertisement from his briefcase. He marveled at the power and wealth this four-page spread represented. The list of dealerships ran down the entire side of the first page, twenty-three in all. Lucius recognized several, of course, but the majority of them were in locations he had never even visited.

  Lucius traced his way down the list to the final name. As had happened the previous day, just reading the address caused his breath to lock in his throat.

  When he had recovered somewhat, Lucius took a careful look around the reception area. Four men and two women were hunched over spreadsheets. The receptionist was talking quietly into her headset. Lucius did not want to stand up just then. He was uncertain whether his legs could support him.

  He took his phone from the briefcase and punched in the number below the address. He could feel his hand tremble as he listened to the rings.

  “Quarterfield Classics.”

  “Yes. I’d like to speak to someone about a restoration.”

  “Hold, please. I’ll put you through to our service department.”

  As he waited, Lucius tried to tell himself that he was just another client. Just another caller. Just another . . .

  “Service.”

  “Hi. I have a Jaguar Mark Ten that needs, well, quite a lot.”

  “Do you, now?” The man’s voice brightened considerably. “Which year?”

  “Sixty-nine.”

  “What’s the mileage?”

  “Three thousand seven hundred.”

  “Say again.”

  “Thirty-seven hundred.
It’s been under wraps for decades by the looks of things.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I . . . inherited it. Yesterday was the first time I ever saw the car. It hasn’t been driven in so long the tires have frayed.”

  “So you can’t drive the car to us. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Right. The battery’s dead. And all the rubber fittings will need replacing.”

  “But otherwise . . .”

  “The car is in absolutely pristine condition.”

  “Where are you located . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  He caught himself in the act of saying “Lucius Quarterfield.” The realization should not have hurt like it did. “Luke Benoit.”

  “I’m Mike Alderson, assistant chief of this madhouse. Where are you located, Mr. Benoit?”

  “San Luis Obispo.” Luke gave his address.

  “Let me have a look at our book. Okay, we could have a truck down your way tomorrow, say around eleven? Matter of fact, I might drive the rig myself.”

  * * *

  Lucius imagined some people would find the private office of Sol Feinnes to be a severe and forbidding place. But for him it had the opposite effect. Unlike the reception area, here everything was very functional. A few plaques and degrees on the walls, a credenza with a couple of potted plants, a desk, a sideboard, shelves. A spartan sofa set and coffee table in the corner. And boxes of legal documents and pending cases. Lucius felt very much at home. Sol Feinnes had no time for trifles. And neither did Lucius.

  Feinnes listened to Lucius run through the same overview as he had given the dean. How Graham Avery had deflected Benoit’s feeble attempts to learn what his firm was doing with the family’s estate. Sol Feinnes then asked, “You have the correspondence with you?”

  “Seven months and counting,” Lucius confirmed, and passed over the file he had prepared the previous evening. “I have also made a time line of the exchanges.”

  “You’ve tried phoning?”

  “Several times.” At least he hoped that was true. “It changed nothing.”

  Feinnes swiftly scanned the letters. “The written documentation is revealing enough. Avery and three junior partners have all responded at one point or another.” He shut the file and set it on his desk. “They are stonewalling.”