Flashback
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Flashback

4.8 7
by Gary Braver
     
 

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If you could relive your childhood, would you? What if you had no choice?

On the thirty-fifth anniversary of his parents' mysterious drowning, Jack Koryan returns to his family beach cottage. During a swim, Jack is attacked by a school of rare jellyfish whose toxic stings put him in a coma for three years.

When he awakens, he finds that the jellyfish toxin has

Overview

If you could relive your childhood, would you? What if you had no choice?

On the thirty-fifth anniversary of his parents' mysterious drowning, Jack Koryan returns to his family beach cottage. During a swim, Jack is attacked by a school of rare jellyfish whose toxic stings put him in a coma for three years.

When he awakens, he finds that the jellyfish toxin has left him with an extraordinary memory that impresses his doctors. This discovery is complicated by flashbacks: some, pleasant childhood vignettes, others, confusing flashes of violence that leave him quaking in horror.

Jack wonders if he's losing his mind, but that fear is dispelled by Rene Ballard, a pharmacologist working on the world's first cure for Alzheimer's Disease. She wants to test Jack because the basis of the drug is the very jellyfish toxin that sent Jack into a coma. And, while several test patients have miraculously regained functionality, others are also experiencing dangerous flashback seizures.

Ballard's revelation sets Jack on a quest to discover what is happening to him. He and Rene uncover a sinister pattern of lies and deceit that has left behind a trail of bodies, and several elderly patients stuck in a past that they cannot emerge from—or don't want to.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
So many dreams--it's hard to pick out the right one," reads the epigraph from E.B. White for Braver's exceptional medical thriller, a timely story about how the human brain deals with memory, the current possibilities of developing a drug that cures Alzheimer's disease, and how the search for such a drug leads to greed and murder. On a trip back to Cape Cod on the anniversary of his mother's death by drowning, Jack Koryan, a prep school teacher turned restaurant owner, is stung by a school of rare jellyfish, whose toxins send him into a three-year coma. Haunted by dreams and memories that may or may not be real, Jack wakes to discover that he's of great interest to pharmacologist Rene Ballard, who's testing those same toxins on Alzheimer's victims with extraordinarily successful results--though some have also committed acts of inexplicible violence. A strong plotter, Braver writes clear, clean prose that heightens the suspense. Under his expert guidance, Koryan and Ballard explore a scientific mystery that is touching and believable. With this latest book, Braver (Gray Matter) marks himself as a worthy successor to Robin Cook, Michael Crichton and Tess Gerritsen. Agent, Susan Crawford. (Oct.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Man gets stung by rare jellyfish, then sucked into a pharmaceutical conspiracy-ah, modern medicine. This medical thriller involving the search for an Alzheimer's cure opens with Jack Koryan, who goes for a swim and ends up getting attacked by a mass of jellyfish whose venom leaves him in a coma. At the same time, pharmacologist Rene Ballard comes across an odd incident involving one of the rest homes under her supervision: A 70-year-old Alzheimer's patient suddenly gains the steadiness of mind to escape, only to go berserk in a pharmacy and stab an employee to death, thinking he was a tormentor from her childhood. Rene finds out that the woman was actually part of a clinical trial for Memorine, a new drug that appears to have the ability to cure people of Alzheimer's. The only problem is that the company running the trial is doing everything it can to keep details of its experiments secret, since one of the side effects of Memorine is that, though patients regain their memory, they often get stuck in flashbacks and nightmarish episodes from their past that result in complete dementia. As happens in such books, the company pushing Memorine will go to any length to keep these side effects secret. Braver (Gray Matter, 2002, etc.) has written an efficient thriller, but he too slavishly follows the conventions of the genre for there to be any real suspense. The science involved is often fascinating, but the characters seem like they could have come from abybody's work. Another promising premise scuttled by the need for manufactured thrills.
From the Publisher
"Flashback is one of the best medical science thrillers I have ever read. With an amazing attention to detail Gary Braver has woven together a story that is as timely as it is gripping and as telling as it is touching. This one's a page turner with a point."—Michael Connelly, New York Times bestselling author of The Narrows

"Flashback grabs you by the throat, and the heart, from the first page to the last. The superb writing carries you away into a world of inexplicable acts perpetrated by our common man. Chilling!"—Ridley Pearson, New York Times bestselling author of The Body of David Hayes

"A knockout. Braver has written a brilliant cautionary tale. At once chilling and heartening, Flashback is thriller fiction at its best."

—Robert B. Parker on Flashback

"Flashback combines an irresistible premise with the medical intrigue of Robin Cook and the scientific plausibility of Michael Crichton—a powerful, gripping, and moving tale with a beating heart."

—Joseph Finder, author of Paranoia

Flashback’s compelling, fact-based medical thriller resonates with the clear pure notes of reality and positively blurs the line between reality and imagination. Braver has created a fictional world you are dying to believe in.”—Lewis Perdue, New York Times bestselling author of Perfect Killer"Gary Braver does it again. Another taut, suspenseful medical thriller from the new master of the genre. Strong characters, a powerful plot . . . you won’t want to put the book down until you’re done.”—William Martin, author of Back Bay and Harvard Yard

New York Times bestselling author of The Narrows - Michael Connelly
"Flashback is one of the best medical science thrillers I have ever read. This one's a page turner with a point.
Ridley Pearson
"Flashback grabs you by the throat, and the heart, from the first page to the last. Chilling!"
Robert B. Parker
"A knockout. Braver has written a brilliant cautionary tale. At once chilling and heartening, Flashback is thriller fiction at its best."
author of Paranoia - Joseph Finder
"Flashback combines an irresistible premise with the medical intrigue of Robin Cook and the scientific plausibility of Michael Crichton.
New York Times bestselling author of Perfect Killer - Lewis Perdue
"Braver has created a fictional world you are dying to believe in.
author of Back Bay and Harvard Yard - William Martin
"Strong characters, a powerful plot . . . you won't want to put the book down until you're done.
New York Times bestselling author of The Narrows Michael Connelly
"Flashback is one of the best medical science thrillers I have ever read. This one's a page turner with a point."
New York Times bestselling author of The Body of D Ridley Pearson
"Flashback grabs you by the throat, and the heart, from the first page to the last. Chilling!"
author of Paranoia Joseph Finder
"Flashback combines an irresistible premise with the medical intrigue of Robin Cook and the scientific plausibility of Michael Crichton."
New York Times bestselling author of Perfect Kille Lewis Perdue
"Braver has created a fictional world you are dying to believe in."
author of Back Bay and Harvard Yard William Martin
"Strong characters, a powerful plot . . . you won't want to put the book down until you're done."

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780765348531
Publisher:
Tom Doherty Associates
Publication date:
10/30/2007
Edition description:
Reprint
Pages:
480
Product dimensions:
4.25(w) x 6.75(h) x 1.30(d)

Related Subjects

Read an Excerpt

Flashback


By Gary Braver

Tom Doherty Associates

Copyright © 2005 Gary Braver
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-6866-9


CHAPTER 1

Homer's Island, Massachusetts


FROM HIS PERCH ON SKULL ROCK, they looked like pale eggs sunny-side up moving just beneath the water's surface. Some kind of jellyfish. Half a dozen, pulsating vigorously through the black surf like muscular parachutes.

Odd. Jack Koryan had spent several summers of his childhood out here and could remember only a few occasions seeing jellyfish in the cove, most of them washed ashore by the night tide-dinner-plate-sized slime bombs with frilly aprons and long fat tentacles. But these creatures were small round globs, translucent jelly bells with nothing visible in trail.

Maybe some tropical species that the warm water brought in, he thought.

Jack watched them pump by in formation, driven by primitive urgings and warm eddies. Somewhere he had read that jellyfish were ninety-five percent water — creatures with no brains, bones, or blood. What enabled them to react to the world around them was a network of nerves. What a lousy fate, Jack thought — to relate to the world only through nerve endings: a life devoid of thought, passion, or memory.

The cool, moist air had picked up, ruffling the water's surface. The tide was coming in, and soon the rock would be covered.

Skull Rock.

It looked just as it had forever — a domed granite boulder rearing out of the surf about fifty yards offshore, it's crown whitened by generations of barnacles, the base maned with sea grass, a necklace of shiny black mussels hugging the high-tide line like exotic pearls. When they were kids, he and his cousin George would fill a pail with the mollusks for his Aunt Nancy's Armenian dishes or bouillabaisse.

It had been fifteen years since Jack had last swum out to the rock. Back then he'd spend hours there with his cousin and other summer kids. At low tide they'd pack as many as ten wriggling bodies on the crown, holding their perch by little more than the worn barnacles under their feet. He could almost hear the yowls of laughter as they lost balance or got elbowed off. First man in is a rotten skate.

Behind him a sea like liquid iron rolled off to the dark rain-sagged clouds swelling down from the north. Someplace out there Jack's mother had died — August 20, 1975. She had paddled out to her small sailboat, moored just beyond Skull Rock — probably within fifty yards of where he was now standing. It must have been a nor'easter since the tender had washed up a half mile down the beach with lifejackets still in it. Her body was never recovered.

Today was the thirtieth anniversary of her death. Every few years he'd come out in quiet commemoration. He was not even two years old at the time she died. His Aunt Nancy and Uncle Kirk had raised him as their own.

Below, more jellyfish floated by — a skewed phalanx of them. Translucent bodies with intersecting purple rings at the centers just below the surface.

This was a special place, a caretaker's cottage to Vita Nova, the large Sherman estate on the cliff above. His mother, Rose, had rented it decades ago for vacations, attracted to the unusually warm water, the results of complicated weather phenomena involving El Niño. Periodically, eddies from the Gulf Stream would bring into the area creatures from the tropics — sunfish, hawks-bill turtles, bonito, and smaller creatures that fascinated his mother. According to Aunt Nancy, Rose had a half-mystical yearning for the sea and would spend hours walking the beaches collecting odd critters. But Jack had no memory of her — only scraps of information from his aunt, who had died thirteen years ago. His father perished in a plane crash when Jack was only six months old. So he had no memory of him, either.

But Jack did remember getting stung once by a big orange lion's mane jelly in shallow water. It had felt like a hot lash across his calf. As he choked back tears, Aunt Nancy calmly walked him into the house and flooded his skin with vinegar. "Never rub," she had said, "that only makes it worse." Then with the dull edge of a knife she had scraped off a small scrap of tentacle. An old Armenian remedy — something she learned from his mother, she had said. He wondered if that was true.

On shore, in the dimming light, Jack could make out his clothes where he had left them to swim out and, just up the beach, the dark silhouette of the cottage. The sandy beach that rimmed Buck's Cove was completely empty, although lights burned in the Sherman mansion above. It was a private island, but on summer weekends the cove would draw boaters to its pristine beauty. Tonight the place was empty of life.

Lightning lit up the horizon. The storm would break soon.

From the rock the lightless cottage brooded in the shadows of the shore, yet it was a place incandescent with memories. After his mother had died, the Shermans continued to rent the place to his family for a summer week or two. He could still recall how he and his cousin charged down the sand and plunged into the water, inured to the chill that stopped adults dead at the knees.

From out of the gloom a seagull sliced low to catch something in the water then shot up with a squawk at the last second as if spooked. It came to rest on shore near Jack's clothes, still protesting.

Jack felt a jab to his chest. Under the flashing sky, the half-dozen jellyfish had turned into a school. He looked at the water behind him.

"Jesus Christ!"

Not a school. He was standing in the middle of a damn jellyfish bloom. Hundreds of them were bobbing en masse by the rock. The cove was infested with them.

In the dimming light he could make out his clothes on shore, the legholes of his jeans beckoning him to slip back in and pull them up. They looked a mile away.

Where the hell did they come from?

What if these were stingers?

But aren't there a hundred different jellyfish species, and only a handful that sting?

He thought about putting his foot in to test. That would be fine if he got no reaction. But if he got stung, then what? Wait out the storm so lightning could turn him into a charcoal briquette? Besides, in an hour, the rock would be underwater, and jellies would be streaming over his feet. Jesus!

He estimated the black expanse separating him from shore. His best high-tide time was one minute twenty seconds. But that was when he was eighteen years old. He was thirty-two, and at best he could reach shore in two minutes. Two little minutes, but the thought of swimming through water thick with jellies was repulsive. And if they were stingers, the trip could be nasty.

But they're no bigger than a baseball and probably eat minnows.

True, but doesn't their venom paralyze their prey like that?

But you're not a minnow.

No, but a hundred hits could balance the books.

Sweet Jesus!

The sky lit up in a sickly green, then a high-metal crash exploded the air. With the incoming tide and the onshore wind, he could possibly make it in maybe a hundred adrenaline-driven seconds.

(His mind lit up with Aunt Nancy grinning on shore with a stopwatch. Three, two, one. Go! George was two years older, but Jack was the better swimmer.)

One hundred measly seconds.

The water was dark, but the jellies seemed to occupy the upper foot of surf. Jack could dive deep and swim half the distance just above the bottom, then he'd only have to stroke maybe another twenty feet to the shallows and go the rest of the way on foot.

He tried to tell himself that they were just harmless blobs whose mucus coating would slip by his body — that it would be like swimming through a tide of silicone gel bags.

Don't think, just get your ass to shore. Three ... two ... one.

The sky exploded again, strobe-lighting the cove. His heart almost stopped: The water was flecked with jellies all the way out. He uttered a silent prayer, filled his lungs, and dived into the water.

But he was wrong. These jellies had three-foot-long invisible tentacles.

And they were stingers.

Jack kicked his way for maybe thirty feet, then shot to the surface.

In those first microseconds of awareness as he sucked for air, Jack could not determine the epicenter of the pain. The tentacles had slashed his arms, back, and legs and made a repulsive mucus mat of his head.

"Don't rub."

He brushed the things out of his hair, their spaghetti strands cutting across his face and ears. He screamed so loud that his throat nearly shattered. He was on fire, as if he had been caught in a hotwire mesh.

"Don't rub. Don't rub."

In the chatter of lightning, he could make out a woman looking like Aunt Nancy waving to him from shore.

But it was too late, his hand was ablaze with poison. And his shoulders and back felt as if he'd been gashed with machetes. Jack had never known that pain could be so exquisite. He gasped in more air, closed his eyes, and kicked to get under the creatures. Pumping blindly, he could feel the blobs ripple by his face, cross-slashing his body.

He shot to the surface sucking for air, his mind screaming against the horror, fighting to focus on making it to shore no matter what, before the toxins began paralyzing his muscles.

On shore the woman had disappeared, and in her place a large white seabird pecked at his clothes.

Somewhere thunder crashed, but Jack did not register it. He did not register anything but the pain flashing across his body. It was like swimming through eddies of molten lava.

With a porpoise kick he shot ahead.

He was halfway there. On the hill above, the Sherman mansion glowed against the black sky. Even if he could find the voice to scream, it wouldn't reach that far. And he could not summon the air. So he concentrated on pumping his legs and arms and keeping his face out of the water.

Your eyes. Close your eyes! his mind screamed.

Don't want to go blind. Can take the skin burns, but, God, you don't want to lose your eyes.

He pressed them shut. A tangle of tentacles made a partial noose under his right ear, searing his skin.

"Never rub."

But in reflex he swiped them off, making it all the worse because that smeared the toxins into his ear and across his jaw and lips. God! The stuff was in his mouth, burning his tongue and throat as if he had swallowed hot water. He scraped his fingers on his bathing suit to remove the slime.

"NEVER RUB!"

Now both hands were on fire, like the rest of his body. And in that slender margin of sanity, he knew that his shoulders, back, and legs would be crosshatched with blistering welts — and that if he got out of this alive, he'd be a mess.

In the flickering light he made out the shore and the bird watching him. Maybe forty feet. He was in five feet of water. But he couldn't wade in. So he pressed shut his eyes and kicked furiously, trailing his hands because they were useless balls of agony. He did all he could to keep his face up. But his eyes were beginning to burn. God, don't let me go blind. Please.

As he kicked, he could feel jellies slip over his skin, the hot-poisoned strands streaming across his torso.

At maybe another twenty feet, he snapped open his eyes to see the waves crash on shore just a few body lengths ahead. Acid tears flooding his vision, but he could still make out the pile of clothes. And he locked his eyes on his shirt and pants which that bird picked at like some carrion vulture.

With every scintilla of muscular will he had left, Jack Koryan kicked.

Suddenly the burning began to fade.

Thank you, sweet God.

It was miraculous. His arms and legs were rapidly cooling. Maybe the toxins had worked their evil and were being neutralized by his body's natural defenses. Or maybe he had somehow adjusted.

He tried to stand up to wade in, but he could not feel his feet touch ground. Nor could not even right himself up. He tried to continue swimming, but his legs did not obey the command.

God in heaven! His body was going numb, as if his blood were hardening wax.

He was maybe fifteen feet from shore, but he could not move. He was paralyzed in a dead man's float, bobbing in the surf, staring at his running shoes and clothes, just this side of the finish line, some dumb seabird gawking at him, its milky eye flicking in the lightning.

Then coming down the sands from the cottage was that woman beckoning him with open arms. She was Aunt Nancy and she wasn't Aunt Nancy.

My mind. My mind is going. The last delusions of a dying man.

He looked at the bird and felt a fog fill the sacs of his brain like a miasma.

The bird let out a long harsh cry.

This is my death.

In the surf, just a few feet from home. Three ... two ... one.

Those were Jack Koryan's last thoughts before his brain went black.

CHAPTER 2

BETH KORYAN WAS IN A DEEP sleep when the phone rang. Through the murk, the cable box clock read 12:22. Jack's side of the bed was cold, so she rolled across it to catch the phone, thinking that he had probably stopped off at Vince's to rehash out the menu for next month's opening of Yesterdays, Jack's dream restaurant that had sent them into huge debt.

Even though she and Jack didn't have children, Beth could still hear her mother's words about no good telephone call after midnight: "Pray it's a wrong number." Maybe there were problems with the water taxi; or maybe his car had broken down again and he needed to be picked up someplace. Just what she'd want to do at this hour — jump out of a warm bed and drive off. She'd warned him that the car might not make it to New Bedford and back, but no! He had to go out to that damn island — a little trip down Memory Lane.

Jack was strong-willed and fiercely independent, but he had nostalgic hankerings that could squelch his better judgment — like announcing his resignation from Carleton Prep's English Department to open a place that served eclectic old-world cuisine — thus the name, Yesterdays.

Jack liked teaching and was popular, but he could not see himself committed for life — and after ten years he was growing weary of the budget cutbacks and increased class sizes to the point that education was losing out. So in a carpe diem mind-set, he decided to follow an old passion. From his Aunt Nancy he had developed a talent for cooking. And his old friend Vince Hammond had agreed to be his partner. The risks were high, of course, and in spite of Beth's protests, Jack had broken the bank. But that was Jack: a can-do will propelled by mulish single-mindedness.

She was still furry with sleep as she caught the phone on the fourth ring. "Mrs. Koryan?"

"Yes?"

"Is Jack Koryan your husband?" and the man named their address.

A spike jabbed her chest. "Yes."

"This is Dr. Omar Rouhana. I'm an ED physician at the Cape Cod Medical Center in Barnstable. Your husband is here. There's been an accident and he's seriously ill."

"What?" Beth was now fully awake. ED. What's ED? Emergency Department? "What happened?"

"We think it's very important for you to come down to the hospital.

Is someone with you — someone who can bring you in?"

"Is he alive? Is he alive?"

"Yes, he's alive, ma'am, but it's important for you to be here, and we'll explain the details when you arrive. Do you have children?"

"What? No. Will you please tell me what happened? Was it a car accident?" There was a long pause during which Beth could hear her own breath come in sharp gasps.

"You husband was brought in by a Coast Guard rescue squad. He was found on a beach on Homer's Island. What we'd like you to do is to come in so we can talk about this further. Can you get a ride?"

They were stonewalling her, refusing to give details. She did all she could to control herself. "Is he conscious? Can you please tell me if he's conscious?"

"Well, I think it's best —"

"Goddammit! Is he conscious?"

"No." Then after a dreadful pause, the doctor added, "Would you be coming from Carleton, Massachusetts?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's about ninety miles away. Can somebody drive you, or would you like us to call the local police to bring you in?"

God! Was it that bad? She did not want to spend the next two hours riding in the back of a police car with a perfect stranger. Nor did she want to bother Vince or other friends. "I can drive myself."


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Flashback by Gary Braver. Copyright © 2005 Gary Braver. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

What People are saying about this

Robert B. Parker
A knockout. Braver has written a brilliant cautionary tale. At once chilling and heartening, Flashback is thriller fiction at its best.

Meet the Author

Gary Braver is the award-winning author of six critically acclaimed thrillers including Elixir, Gray Matter, and Flashback, which was recipient of the 2006 Massachusetts Honor Book Award for Fiction—a first for a thriller—and which in a starred review Publishers Weekly called “an exceptional medical thriller.” His novels have been translated into five languages, and three have been optioned for movies.

Under his own name, Gary Goshgarian, he is an award-winning professor of English at Northeastern University where he teaches courses in Modern Bestsellers, Science Fiction, Horror Fiction, and Fiction Writing. He has taught fiction-writing workshops through out the United States and Europe for over twenty years. He is the author of five college writing textbooks.

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Flashback 4.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 7 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Guest More than 1 year ago
Professor Braver has used the issues of human neurochemistry, Alzheimer's disease, pharmaceutical company profit-taking, medical ethics, professional turf battles, and human nature to weave a remarkably believable human story. The author's extensive research and creativity make FLASHBACK a simultaneously entertaining, informative, challenging, engaging read. Please do not start reading FLASHBACK in the evening knowing that the next day is a work day!
Guest More than 1 year ago
Again, this author has done his homework... his knowledge of marine biology and medicine weave a complex and fascinating tapestry which keeps twisting and turning. Excellent reading!
Guest More than 1 year ago
Professor Gary Goshgarian, writing as Gary Braver, has created a tremendous work for lovers of the medical thriller. It is apparent that the author conducted detailed research prior to embarking on this project. It is noteworthy that despite Gary's expertise in English, he writes like a seasoned medical researcher. Furthermore, with an aging population and the distinct potential of suffering an onslaught from the devastating Alzheimer's disease, this theme is strikingly relevant. Braver keeps the reader mesmerized through the juxtaposition of two stories that eventually merge into an unpredictable, dynamic climax. For those who enjoy the likes of Michael Crichton and Robin Cook, Braver rivals their literary skills in 'Flashback.' Read it you won't be disappointed!
harstan More than 1 year ago
Thirty years ago his mother died when he was not quite two so restaurant owner Jack Koryan¿s aunt and uncle raised him. Still he commemorates his mom every few years by swimming off Homer¿s Island, Massachusetts where she drowned on the anniversary of her death. However, this time while swimming, Jack is stung by a bloom of jellyfish and falls into a coma though he has dreams....................... Three years later Jack awakens with an extraordinarily enhanced memory and to find research pharmacologist Rene Ballard wanting to test his reactions to the toxins that she feels will prove beneficial in combating Alzheimer's victims. However that incredible recall includes pleasant obscure childhood memories and seemingly repressed incidents of violence that frightens Jack. Rene informs him that her tests on people with Alzheimer¿s have had mixed results with folks recovering what they lost and more, but some individuals have reacted violently. Both wonder what is happening to him and others, but neither is prepared for what they will learn.......................... The key to this strong medical thriller is the high degree of believability that something sinister is happening to Alzheimer¿s victims beyond just the devastation of the disease. The author pulls off this sense of authenticity through his brave lead couple who seems like genuine individuals, he being a soul struggling to regain control of his and she as a dedicated scientist. Gary Braver provides a fantastic tale worthy of award nominations as one of the sub-genre¿s best tales, if not the top medical thriller, so far this year.............. Harriet Klausner