But who was the victim? Who was he really? All she knew for certain was that her sister had traveled a thousand miles to kill him—and that he was, by all accounts, a dying old man with a fondness for sunsets. How had the headline described him? As “a prominent longtime resident.”

Or… no. That wasn’t it. Not quite.

She went back to the first story, and saw at a glance that the headline had a comma in it. “Sniper Victim Was Prominent, Longtime Resident.” Which is to say, he was prominent, and a longtime resident. Not just some old guy that everyone knew.

Okay, she thought, turning back to the computer. How prominent? Why prominent?

Shaw and Duran sat across from one another in the staff cafeteria at Columbia Presbyterian, ignoring the clatter of trays and silverware, the to-and-fro of nurses and physicians all around them. Cutouts of cardboard turkeys decorated the walls. It was Thanksgiving.

Shaw wore a puzzled expression as he looked at Duran over a bowl of Pritikin noodle soup. Finally, the doctor crossed his arms in front of his chest, and confessed, “I’m not sure how to proceed.” He paused. “What I’m getting is an increased, rather than a decreased, tendency toward dissociation.”

“Really?” Duran asked. In the wake of the operation, he felt peculiarly alert—as if he’d been seeing the world through beige-tinted eyeglasses, and living under sedation.

Now, that feeling was gone. And while the thrill of well-being had begun to fade, his clarity of mind had not. Everything seemed bigger and brighter, the colors more intense, the sounds louder and more precise.

Shaw pressed his fingers together, as if in prayer. Then he leaned forward, and confided, “I’d like to try sodium pentathol.”

Duran looked surprised. “Truth serum?”

Shaw shrugged. “A small dose. I don’t know what else to do, though I suppose we could always just… wait. As it is, I’m not getting anywhere. You’re blocking.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t get in. You’re like a black box. Every time I try to explore your past, I come up against a wall. And I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why.”

“And you think sodium pentathol—”

“Will help? Yes, I do.”

Duran thought about it. “How can you be sure that what you’re seeing is ‘resistance,’ rather than organic damage?”

“Because we’ve done our homework,” Shaw told him. “There’s no evidence of brain damage—none at all. What we’re dealing with is a pathological aversion.”

“To… ?”

“Your identity.”

Duran sipped his soup, and thought it over. Then he leaned forward, and said, “So what you’re saying is, I’ve got the psychiatric equivalent of an autoimmune disease.”

Shaw blinked. Laughed. “Exactly. But that’s not the only thing that’s bothering me.” He paused. “You’re becoming depressed.” Before Duran could deny the diagnosis, the psychiatrist hurried on. “Now, depression isn’t all that unusual after surgery, but in your case, it’s a little deeper than I’d expect.”

Duran shook his head. “I don’t see it. On the contrary, I feel so alive.”

“I know. I can see it in your face. But then it goes, and… “ He hesitated. “You lose affect. I’ll be honest with you,” Shaw went on. “I’m worried that you may be manifesting a rapid-cycle, bipolar state.”

Duran frowned. “And if I am?”

Shaw ran his hand back through his hair. “Well, we can back off, and wait for the lab report, but… I’m concerned about your treatment in the long run.”

“Why?” Duran asked.

“Well, we haven’t really talked about your living situation, but you can’t go back to being a therapist—you’re not qualified.”

“As far as we know.”

The psychiatrist smiled. “Touché! ‘As far as we know.’ But what, then? Are you independently wealthy?”

Duran thought about it. “My parents died suddenly. There was some insurance.”

“These parents—you mean Mr. and Mrs. Duran?”

“I guess.”

“Huh.” Shaw frowned. “But you do have some money. You weren’t relying on your two clients to keep body and soul together. Because if you were, your rates must have been even higher than mine.”

Duran responded with a weak smile. “I don’t remember worrying about money. I suppose I could call my bank…”

Shaw nodded, and cleared his throat. “And, uhh… what about Adrienne?”

Duran was puzzled by the question. “What about her?”

“You obviously like each other. I was wondering about your relationship.”

A frown from Duran. “She’s the plaintiff. I’m the defendant.”

Shaw smiled. “She says she’s dropped the suit.”

“I guess.”

“Then… perhaps you could stay with her for a while?”

It was Duran’s turn to smile. “I don’t think so,” he told him.

Shaw looked disappointed.

“There are some things… I don’t think Adrienne has talked to you about them, but… the two of us are… kind of in transit…”

“‘In transit’…”

“Yeah. For the foreseeable future.”

Shaw digested this for a moment, then excused himself, and went to the cafeteria line. Returning with a fresh pot of tea, he sat down, and said, “Why don’t we try the pentathol this afternoon? Actually—no. It’s Thanksgiving. My wife would kill me. We’ll save it for tomorrow. Anyway, I’ve got some sailing tapes—”

“Some what?”

“Audio tapes—Sounds of the Sea. Very relaxing. Water lapping against hull, lines rattling, sails snapping, fog horns—the whole nine yards—except you’ll be in a trance. So I guess you could call it ‘the whole ten yards.’”

Shaw was attempting to be funny, but the idea made Duran uncomfortable. Lines rattling. Sails snapping. “Where’d you get something like that?” he asked.

“What?”

“The sounds.”

“New Age Audio. Sixty-third and Lexington.” The psychiatrist swung his head to the side, sipped his tea and grinned. “Am I resourceful, or what?”

It was the jackets that triggered the memories—which was strange, because they never wore the jackets when they sailed. As Shaw had promised, Duran was immersed in the sounds of the ocean, the splash, and rush of water. With his eyes closed and the tape playing, he’d been racing with his friends, adjusting the rudder, falling off a little, judging the optimum heel and reach as they headed for the marker buoy. They were all wearing their jackets and, yet, as everyone knew, they never wore their jackets aboard.

“What ‘jackets’ are you talking about?” Shaw asked.

“Team jackets… not what you wear in competition. They’re what you wear before and after. And around campus.”

They’d already tried to see the campus through Duran’s eyes, to get him to describe its physical layout, the students, buildings, and professors, the names of the buildings, landmarks and statues. But Duran continued to block these efforts, forcing Shaw to focus on the seemingly inconsequential. Insignia printed on pencils and notebooks, area codes, and zipcodes, athletic gear—

And jackets.

“What color are they?”

“Black and white.”

“Black and white. That’s unusual. Are you sure? Are you sure you’re not recalling a photograph? Maybe they’re dark blue.”

“No they’re black. Ink black. White lettering.”

“Tell me about them.”

But Duran was growing more and more uncomfortable. He wanted to shift position, but he couldn’t. To say that his aversion to recalling his past made him freeze was not metaphorical. It was the way his fear manifested itself. He actually felt frozen, both cold and immobile, as if he were encased in ice, his metabolism slowing. Afraid to move, afraid to jar anything loose. But why? A logical sector of his mind was still weighing in on his reactions and it disapproved of his discomfort. How could he be afraid of thinking about jackets? How could jackets be threatening?