Amnesia (17 page)

His favorite part had been the Father in Neil Simon’s “Come Blow Your Horn.” The man went around yelling at his thirty plus year old sons that they were bums because they were leaving home to go out on their own. He still chuckled at the lines where he had mentioned the older son putting the bug about moving out into the younger son’s mouth. “In your ear dad” had been the response. “Bug in your ear.”

None of this was helping him know his name, however. Nor were the memories of playing trombone and band trips, or singing tenor and bass in choir. Nothing seemed to say anything about his life, his identity, only about things he had once pretended or performed. Nowhere were clues to be found in any of his recollections, only teases that suggested of help, but offered none.

Yet there was the instance with the CTR ring. CTR—Choose The Right. He could remember having a ring like it when he was growing up. It was a silver ring with a shield emblazoned with the letters CTR on a field of green. He had gotten it when he was baptized at the age of eight into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. It was the only clue to his identity, and he latched onto it with all he had. He knew that the church was an integral part of his life, and he knew without a doubt that he had a testimony of its truthfulness.

Although he couldn’t remember the baptism itself, or any of the other ordinances or activities, he recalled with a sharp clarity receiving a witness that the gospel was indeed the good word of Christ, the plan given to mankind to find happiness in this life and the life to come. He may have always attended church, but it wasn’t until that moment that he really knew for himself that it was Christ’s true church, restored in these latter days.

It had been a particularly hard week, those many years ago, where everything had gone wrong. On Sunday, during Sunday School in the university ward that he attended, he had heard a talk by one of the General Authorities of the church, admonishing that all people everywhere should kneel down and receive a witness for themselves that it was true. It wasn’t the first time he had heard the phrase, but for some reason this time it struck him to the core.  He realized that he had never actually found out for himself. He decided that he would devote the entire week to put it to the test, get his own answer.

He began by reading the Book of Mormon from cover to cover something he had not done through all his years of church or even seminary. Beginning with 1 Nephi he read through Moroni 10, spending every spare moment of his time through the week in study. Throughout the experience he prayed fervently night and morning to know for sure if it was truly the word of God. He followed up on Saturday with a fast, forgoing food and drink for 24 hours, hoping that all his efforts would be pleasing to his Father in Heaven and be counted as worthy to receive the special miracle of knowledge that he sought.

Yet it seemed that the other side of the equation was determined to stop him. Monday was a disaster in school. The test taken the week before was returned with a score of 58, the worst he had ever received. He had studied hard for the test as well and felt betrayed by the outcome. Had he not been so determined to be faithful he would have sunk into a fit of despair, wondering if he really was cut out for college.

Tuesday brought with it another disaster when his beleaguered car decided it had been through enough and quit running. The mechanic said the engine needed replacing as the block was cracked and the heads blown.

Then on Thursday he got the news that he had missed registering a check he had written and had overdrawn his bank account. After the non-sufficient fund fees and the costs from the retailers where his checks had been returned it had cost him nearly a hundred fifty dollars, a veritable fortune to a college student with a part time job.

Yet through it all he had managed to keep focused on his goal, praying all the harder for deliverance from the blows that buffeted his heart. He had continued to pray when he felt betrayed, he continued to study when he felt his faith slipping, and he conducted the perfect fast when he wondered if the prayers were unheard. He decided that even if he didn’t get the answer through all of this he would continue on until he knew one way or the other if it was true. No matter what it took. No matter what was thrown in front of him. He would do everything in his power to prove he was committed to find the Lord’s will.

He wasn’t disappointed. He awoke early Sunday morning and lay for a time in his warm comfortable bed, listening to the sounds of the breaking dawn. There were birds chirping to the accompaniment of a chorus of frogs, filling the air with music and his soul with peace. He felt almost as if he were in a bubble where all the bad things in life were blocked out and only peace and joy allowed in.

He thought back on the week, realizing that through all of the trials he actually felt calm. Like somehow it would all work out despite the difficulties. For the first time he understood the poem “Footsteps in the Sand” feeling that through the strain of the past few days had he not been abandoned, but rather had actually been carried. The promise that this carrying would continue forever was evident in the peace his heart now felt.

He rose, after thanking the Lord on his knees, and readied himself for his Sunday meetings, as well as preparing for the meal to break his fast that afternoon. He put on some uplifting music, the group “Skye” from some place in Idaho, to chase dark thoughts away and fill his tiny studio apartment with the spirit. He felt more prepared than ever before to go to church to worship his God.

The opening hymn that memorable Sacrament meeting was “I Know That My Redeemer Lives,” the words echoing in his heart the feelings of Job, who declared that he would believe long after his mortal life was over that his redeemer would be there to lift him up. The spirit rose within him as he began to realize that he did in fact know that his Redeemer really was alive and mindful of his needs. Joy infused him and he felt emotions rising to the surface, bringing tears to his eyes.

The sacrament hymn gave him further witness, as he sang “He Died, The Great Redeemer Died.” The description of the great atonement pierced his heart bringing both pain, as he realized the depth of his part in Christ’s suffering, and joy as he realized that it was done in love, to save him from his imperfections. The familiar words brought on new meaning in his present emotional state as he listened again to how angels wept at the shedding of His innocent blood; yet there was no regret on the Savior’s part, only hope that all would come unto him and be saved.

Then came the stream of testimonies, each one echoing the last, as testimony of the vision and mission of Christ were born anew, reminding all of the greatness of Christ’s love and the gospel he proclaimed, in both word and deed.

Concluding the all too short meeting was the beautiful hymn penned by Bruce R. McConkie, “I Believe in Christ.”  It reverberated in his soul, awakening the spirit that he had carefully tended all week. Tears came to his already damp eyes as the miracle he had been seeking filled his heart and mind. He knew of a certainty that Jesus Christ really was his redeemer, the savior of all mankind. He knew that the gospel He had caused to be restored was alive and available to all, brought back through the willing heart and actions of the Prophet Joseph Smith. Testimony was strengthened and certified of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon that he had so recently read, and he realized that the spirit had been witnessing this to him over the entire time he had been reading it. The spirit bore witness to his soul, which pierced the deepest recesses of his heart; he had found the answer for himself. Joy welled up inside him, as much from gratitude as from the knowledge he now possessed. He knew it was true!

He felt like standing and shouting from the rooftops that it was true, wishing that every soul on earth could feel the way he now felt. He determined then that he wanted more than anything to go out and declare this feeling to all the world, hoping that by so doing he may be the instrument in helping someone, even if only one, find the same witness and joy that he now felt. He could understand now why so many people went out to proclaim the gospel. It was not to convert the world to Mormonism, but to share this wonderful gift of happiness with those who so desperately needed to find it. He determined that he would do the same. That was the moment he decided to go on a mission.

He stopped dead in his tracks nearly causing a nurse to bump into him. He had gone on a mission! He hadn’t remembered that until just now. He stared off into space, seeing nothing, just basking in his newfound realization. He couldn’t remember where he went, only that he did in fact go and returned with honor. It brought great satisfaction to know he had done so, and with it came a renewed peace to his heart to know that his Father in Heaven was still watching over him.

After a few moments, he began his walk again, but more languorously, enjoying the spirit that the recent realization brought. He felt he could sleep now, and perhaps dream memories that would aid in his recovery. He was hopeful that he would be released from the hospital in the morning and he now looked forward to it with eagerness, rather than the trepidation that he had felt up to now. Perhaps he would even see that kind doctor again.

He was startled to realize that he missed her, despite only speaking with her for relatively few minutes. He still felt that he knew her, as if she were a friend from the past, spirit recognizing spirit. It was almost the same as the vague memories that he had been reliving, but much more distant. It was as if they had known each other from some past life. He shook his head at himself, smiling at the thought, but realizing how cliché it sounded. But he also knew, though hidden deep in his heart, he wanted to share more of his future with her.

He reached his room and sat down weakly on the bed. He was exhausted. His body was not yet fully recovered from his ordeal, and further weakened by the energy expelled trying to dig out his memory. He glanced up at the clock on the wall and saw that it was 2:38 AM. He realized that he had better get some sleep if he were to convince the doctor to release him later on in the morning. He felt that now he could sleep, his troubled mind quieted by the spirit reminding him that all would be okay.

He lay back, closing his eyes, feeling the fatigue that saturated his body. He let his mind wander, allowing it to go wherever it wanted, as opposed to the directed searching he had forced throughout the past two days. His last thought before being claimed by sleep was of the beautiful angel that had brought him out of the desert of despair. Lissa Brandon had been the name she had given him. Someday, he told himself, I’m going to make her my bride, just as we once promised, so many ages ago.

Scardoni took another swig of Wild Turkey whiskey, draining the last drop from the bottom, and tossed the empty jug into the back seat. It bounced once on the cushion and dropped to the floor with a rattle of clinking glass as it joined three others just like it. The alcohol muddled his brain, driving off the pain from his wounded arm, but unable to rid him of the furious thoughts that roiled and collided, intensifying his anger into a deep rage.

He glanced at the watch on his wrist noting the time as 4:17 AM. He was physically exhausted as well as drunk, his mind burning with passion and alcohol. After the girl had stabbed him he had sat there staring at the wound, wondering if he would die, his mind too dim to recognize the wound as relatively harmless. He always thought he would die this way, with a knife or bullet ripping apart his organs, destroying the order that kept him alive. In fact he could almost remember a voice teaching him that if he lived by violence he would die violently. Some silly religious mumbo-jumbo, he had thought at the time, but he had come to realize most of the time it was true and he knew it would be true of him.

He searched his fogged memory for the origin of the voice and finally focused on the face of a worried older lady—his mother. She had been religious, he now remembered, and had tried to teach him lessons from the bible. But he had been angry, too angry to listen. He refused to turn the other cheek, refusing to risk another knife in the face as the one that had left him scarred. He had no time for honoring a father that had used his mother for a quick thrill then abandoned her when she had become pregnant. He would never love an enemy. Enemies were meant to be destroyed. And he was the Destroyer.

Yet it was not the enemy that he had destroyed, he realized in a momentary glimpse of clarity, it was his own soul that had been ruined. He knew that his mother had warned him of that too, but had decided that it wasn’t important. His anger cried out for revenge, his heart teemed with the lust for blood. It was unfortunate but inevitable that it would someday consume him. It really didn’t matter, he decided, what was done was done. The only thing he could do now was satiate that desire to inflict more pain on others. That passion he could feed with relish. He had fed it many, many times.

He picked the up the cell phone sitting in the seat beside him and punched the speed-dial number he had entered weeks earlier when the whole thing began. He threw it back down before pushing the send button, not yet ready to contact Marcuse. Somewhere in the back of his benumbed mind he knew he had tell his client of the escape, but he abhorred talking to the man, and decided to put off the report until later.

He seethed at the reminder of the hated couple that had slipped through his hands. He would kill them. He would hunt them down and destroy them, just like he had been forced to execute Lenny.

He hadn’t wanted to kill Lenny. Not because he had qualms about killing someone, he had killed before without giving it a second thought. Nor was it because he had been particularly fond of Lenny, he had never cared much for anyone. It was just that Lenny had been reliable, someone he could predict and use without needing to be supervised.

Not like that oaf Walters that Lenny had brought into the scene. Good riddance to that buffoon. He wished now that he had followed his instincts and found his own help. But Lenny had convinced him that they needed Walters and his crew, that he had the connections for the plane and pilots. He recognized that he would have gotten rid of them anyway if the crash hadn’t done the job for him. He just wished Lenny had gone the same way so he wouldn’t have had to do it himself.

Too late for that now though, he told himself. Now it was time to take care of those two that got away. He would enjoy eliminating them. Then maybe he wouldn’t have to admit his failure to Marcuse after all. It didn’t matter anyway; he would have to take care of Marcuse as well.

How had everything gone so wrong? He had been in perfect control, the two he nabbed were tied up and safe, the other guy was dead, no longer a threat. Even that pretty doctor was shaping up the way he had wanted, and Marcuse was paying him well for it. But somehow he had lost his grip on it all. He chose to blame it all on the girl that he had wanted to satisfy himself with, and the blubbering wimp that had chosen the absolute wrong time to get heroic.

He reached over into the glove compartment and pulled out the bundle he had stowed there when he first took the car a month earlier while passing through Oregon. He pulled the layers of cloth off revealing a Glock 31 .357 caliber pistol. He picked up the weapon, and enclosed the synthetic grip in his right hand. He squeezed the grip several times, adjusting it to his hand, a slight smile appearing on his lips. He was going to regain control no matter what it took.

He pressed the magazine release with his left hand and pulled the clip out of the handle. He inspected the 125 grain jacketed hollow point bullets ensuring that it was full and ready to fire. He replaced the holder slapping it in to lock it into place and injected a bullet into the chamber. He was prepared for his prey now; it was time for the game to begin.

He grinned, grateful to be back in his own element. He felt a wave of excitement surge through him, adrenaline mixing with the alcohol suppressing whatever inhibitions he may have once felt. He even knew where to begin. They would both be pretty messed up right now, and they would go straight to the hospital. He’d start at St. Luke’s emergency room.

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The yellow corvette was racing down the road, the wind whipping at their hair through the open T-top. The trees flew by, blurred by their speed, the yellow dashes in the middle of the road appearing more like a continuous line. Lissa leaned her head back, closing her eyes, and breathed in the fresh air, enjoying the thrill of the ride, and the companionship that she shared.

She turned her head and looked first at the handsome man sitting beside her in the driver’s seat, then reached out her hand to take his, intertwining their fingers, longing for the physical contact. She couldn’t quite make out the strong features on his face from this angle, but she didn’t care as long as he was there, with her and for her.

She glanced down at the speedometer, curious, and was amazed to see the line nearly horizontal, leaning all the way to the right, the point hovering somewhere between 140 and 150. She felt a small stir of concern at the speed, but quickly suppressed it, secure in the protection of the man beside her.

She suddenly felt a rare surge of fun childishness, undid her safety belt, turned in her seat so she was kneeling, and reached over to the man’s head with both hands. She leaned in, closed her eyes, and kissed him, gently at first, then more passionately. Finally she broke off the kiss, breathless from excitement, and pulled her head back to look into his eyes. She found herself staring into the smirking face of Darrion Stanton.

“I told you that you wanted me,” he sneered. “It was only a matter of time before you saw things my way.”

Stricken, she turned back around, the ecstasy of a moment ago turned to confusion, her heart unable to make sense of the moment. She looked back over at him, and saw him throw his head back laughing; not a joyous noise, but a malicious sound, emphasizing her acquiescence. Her mind reeled, trying to understand what was happening. How could this have possibly happened?

She looked back out the windshield and noticed that they were no longer on the picturesque two way country lane surrounded by trees wearing their autumn leaves of yellow, orange, and red. Instead they were in downtown Boise, surrounded by loud engines and angry stares. The heat shimmered off the asphalt, searing the air that she breathed.

In the distance she could hear the beeping of a backing truck, which stood out from the other sounds of the traffic, and realized that it was growing louder. She turned in her seat trying to locate the origin, but couldn’t quite zero in on it. She looked back at Darrion’s face, noting the end of his laughter, and instead found a look filled with lust and nastiness. For the first time she began to feel afraid.

She reached out to open her door to leave, but found it was locked. She searched in vain for the release, beginning to pant from the adrenaline her near panic caused; still the door wouldn’t budge.

All the while the beeping was getting louder. She looked out her window, now recognizing that the noise was coming from this direction. Her blood ran chill as she saw the large dump truck backing quickly toward her door. Uncertain what to do she sat paralyzed, feeling trapped. Just then the driver of the dump truck stuck his head out the window, looking straight at her. To her horror she recognized the long scar on the left side of the mocking face, the look of murderous hatred causing a tangible hurt in her stomach.

She turned back to her left, intent to find a get away, but again found herself looking into the wicked face of Darrion, advancing on her, his intentions all too clear. There was no escaping in that direction. The beeping sound was boring through her mind. A quick glance to the right confirmed the imminent crash. The truck was mere yards away.

She pushed herself back into the seat, irrationally hoping to distance herself from the inevitable crash. If only the beeping would stop. It was driving her mad! She looked to her left, to see Darrion’s face closing in fast. Then she turned back to the right, expecting the hit at any moment. Panic raced through her unbidden now, the fear too much. She could no longer hold it back. It erupted from her in a terrified scream….

She sat straight up in her bed, her sheets drenched in perspiration, her breath coming quickly and raggedly in her chest, her heart thumping wildly. She consciously fought to regain control of her physical body, telling herself it was only a dream, that she was safe in her own bed.

Once her heart was beating normally and her breathing more relaxed, she realized she could still hear the beeping that had pervaded her dreams. She looked over to the night stand at her left, and discovered the beeping was coming from her pager. In a rush she remembered it was her turn to be on call. She picked up the device and stopped the interminable sound, then read the message displayed on its face, recognizing the phone number of St. Luke’s emergency room.

Letting out a sigh, she turned on the touch lamp lighting up the room, and then retrieved the telephone handset lying on the table. She quickly dialed the number, noting the time on her alarm clock as 5:12, only a quarter of an hour before the alarm was scheduled to sound anyway. She reached over and turned it off, no point now she was already awake, just as the operator answered her call.

“This is Doctor Brandon, I was just paged?”

“Yes, Doctor,” the voice replied, “you have a patient that was just brought into the emergency department and you are needed. Please hold while I transfer your call.”

She waited through a series of clicks, wondering which of her patients it could be. She was afraid it was either Tracey Randall, her oncology patient, or Gretta Schownwitz her asthma patient. She didn’t have long to wait to find out.

“ER.”

“This is Doctor Brandon.”

“Yes doctor, Billy Jensen has just been brought into emergency with a severe case of pneumonia. Doctor Ramier has contacted PICU to have him admitted, but wanted us to contact you first, thought you may want to admit him yourself.”

“Yes, yes of course,” she agreed, “I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Do you have any antibiotics on board?”

“50 mg fluoroquinolone TID IV. Also on 2 liters O2, to help with his breathing.”

“Great. I’ll be right there.”

She hung up the phone and quickly dressed, grabbed her keys and was almost out the door before she remembered the girl in the other bedroom. She went in to check on her and found her sleeping deeply, but looking much better after getting some rest. She couldn’t leave her alone however, and stood looking at her for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Suddenly inspired she called Shirley, the redhead from the night before.  She quickly dialed the number they left last night despite the early hour.

“Shirley? Sorry to wake you but this is Lissa Brandon. You were over here last night?”

“Yes, of course. Is there something wrong with Beverley or Peter?” the voice on the other end of the line responded worriedly.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Lissa assured, “I just have to go into the hospital. I just wondered, well, hoped really, that you wouldn’t mind coming over and keeping an eye on Beverley for me. She’s doing better, but I don’t want her left alone, especially when she wakes up and doesn’t know where she is.”

“Oh no. I would love to, really, but I can’t. I have to run my dad down to the airport to catch a flight to Houston.” The dejection was evident in her voice. There was a short pause, before the answer came.

“Wait, maybe Carrie can.” Excitement could be heard again in her voice at the thought. “She has today off and I don’t think she’d mind. Hold on just a minute while I ask her.”

Lissa sent a silent prayer skyward in gratitude for the young woman’s attitude, amazed at the depth of concern Shirley felt for the hurt girl. She also berated herself for her earlier distrust, refusing to admit it was jealousy more than judgment that had spawned the feeling.