The Art of Forgetting by Peter Palmieri Read Free Book Online

He felt his ears grow hot.
                  “None of the other mice we injected have ever had a problem.”
                  “True, but…”
                  Lloyd faced Kaz. “Kaz, let’s not tell anyone about this.”
                  Kaz’s eyes widened.
                  “We’ll follow the study protocol,” Lloyd said, “but no one needs to know about this until we’ve determined the cause of death.”
                  “Okay, boss.” Kaz pulled a plastic bag from a drawer, cradled the tiny carcass in the palm of his hand, muttered something in Russian and gently placed the mouse in the bag.
                   
                  Chapter 3
     
                  R esidents of Hinsdale, Illinois are quick to correct the unenlightened visitor who inadvertently commits the faux pas of referring to their village as a suburb of Chicago. Twenty miles west of the loop, just past the confines of Cook County, Hinsdale boasts a distinct identity with its own quaint downtown area of pristine buildings, many recognized as historical architectural landmarks. Even the topography is disparate with respect to its larger neighbor, with wooded rolling hills in place of the endless flat expanse.
                  Lloyd decided to avoid the expressways so he could ride his Ducati down Wolf road through the forest preserves which were already teeming with pasty-thighed joggers and stroller-pushing couples reveling in the unseasonably warm weather. He headed west on Ogden Avenue, then turned south on York Road which brought him into the heart of the village. Turning left on an avenue whose trees came together in a shady canopy, he rode past large brick farmhouses and mini-Victorians before reaching the part of town where the hills swell higher, the woods grow thicker and the roads bend in wide, lazy curves, leaving behind the grid-like perfection of the northern neighborhoods in search of a higher esthetic element. Here the houses were larger – a few plantation homes, the occasional prairie-style and the inevitable gaudy, newly constructed maisons. Faux châteaux , Lloyd called them. Homes of corporate lawyers, stock traders and interventional cardiologists with more money than taste. 
                  The road curved and narrowed then dipped under a wood-beamed railroad trestle bridge before rising again and twisting to the right. Lloyd slowed, checking the numbers on the mailboxes of the sparse houses before pulling into a driveway. Spalding’s house was a squat two-story building covered in tan wooden planks: a study in minimalist elegance which would have seemed less out of place had it been erected on the outskirts of Stockholm than in the American Midwest.
                  Lloyd rang the doorbell. He heard the muffled sound of a deep voice followed by footsteps. The door was opened by a woman with shortly cropped white hair and sparkling eyes. She wore a ruffled blouse over a long house-skirt. A heavy jade necklace hung around her neck dipping on her bosom.
                  “Mrs. Spalding?  I’m Dr. Copeland.”
                  “I know. Please do come in”
                  The entryway opened onto a large living area with a built-in unstained white pine bookshelf which dominated an entire wall, littered with hundreds of volumes. Cecil Spalding sat on a padded bar stool, paintbrush in hand, in front of an easel holding a half-painted canvas.
                  “Well hello,” Spalding said. “Nice to see you.”
                  Lloyd recognized this as a fairly typical greeting in sufferers of amnesia – vague enough that it would not betray a lack of recognition nor feign a false intimacy.
                  “Hello Mr. Spalding.”
                  “Cecil, this is Dr. Copeland. He’s from the university.