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Back The Desert of Glass Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. BY MICHAEL C. GRUMLEY
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. EPILOGUE
  82. II
  83. III
  84. IV

Music memory was all he had left, shown to be one of the few memory centers still unaffected by Alzheimer’s—at least until the very end.

The human memory system was a complex process of coding, storing and retrieving information.  But while everyday memories dealt with information, music memory had continued to show that music recall was more than information.

It was an experience.

Experiences spread across a far greater synaptic plane and remained partially independent from other memory systems, allowing large swaths of music to remain intact even as different brain anatomy and cognitive functions were significantly impaired.

And Leonard Townsend was a believer.  He’d seen firsthand the influence music had on his wife, allowing him occasional glimpses into the woman he married so many years ago.   Sometimes these glimpses even allowed her to see him.

After the fourth song, one of those glimpses appeared—increasingly infrequent and fleeting, but still there.  When California Dreamin’ began to play, her beautiful brown eyes seemed to sharpen and briefly focus, seeing him once again.

“Do you still have that old Dodge Dart?” she asked.

Townsend instantly softened, almost to tears.  “We sold it to put me through college.”

She nodded, grinning.  “I loved that car.”

Two hours later, after playing the entire list, he watched as his wife’s eyes grew tired.  Without a word, he stood and took her hand, helping her frail frame up and onto her bed, where he settled on the edge beside her.

“Sweetheart, it may be a few days before I can come back to see you.”

Her eyes fluttered closed.  “Okay.”

“I have to go on a trip.”

She nodded softly.  “I love to travel.”

Townsend raised a hand and gently stroked her cheek.  “I know you do.”

21

21

“See the enclosed.  This is all I can provide without calling attention.  Please do not contact me again.”

Mona Baraka stared at her computer screen, finally able to read the handwritten letter in the binder.  It was unintelligible not just from the poor penmanship, but from being written in a different language called Punjabi, which was spoken thousands of miles away primarily in India and Pakistan by Sikhs.

This left Mona to wonder if the different language had been intentional.  Below the original faded text was a name written by another hand—possibly by the older Hamed, including what looked to be the person’s name.

Harpreet Ahuja.

But if the person had sent something to Hamed, wouldn’t they have had to communicate before that in a shared language? And yet, Harpreet still chose to write the letter in Punjabi.  Were they intentionally trying to obscure their identities?  If they were, why would Hamed, or someone else, later write his name right on the letter?