Amnesia (34 page)

Then came the fateful day when her car had been trashed. It had been a very long day for him and he had gone to bed exhausted. Instead of waking every couple of hours as he usually did, he didn’t wake until he heard the crashing of glass and banging of a metal on metal. He awoke with a start and flew toward the commotion, arriving just in time to see some guy hopping out of a nearby dumpster and start running through the trees toward the main road.

His first impulse was to run after the man, chase him down and find out what was going on. Fortunately his head overrode the instinct and he instead ran back to his apartment to call the police. He knew that he had let the man go, and had cursed himself for his cowardice. Shame swept through him even now as he thought of that decision and the vow he made just afterward that he would never back away again. It never occurred to him that he had done the right thing. All he knew was that his “little sister” had been assaulted, and he had done nothing about it.

Tonight he stood in the same place as he had that morning. It was incredible how much had happened, how many things had changed since that day. There were people coming and going in the apartment, an impromptu emergency medical visit, a shooting, and now a fire. All surrounding the woman he had grown so fond of. He shook his head, feeling a deep sense of remorse on her behalf. She had seen so much—too much.

Of course he had not just stood idly by while it all happened. He bought a cell phone and had used it to contact the police, specifically Jack McConnell, several times now. Most especially on the day that evil man had set fire to the apartment, her home. He had it in his pocket even now, the autodial ready to connect with the police captain “anytime, day or night” as Jack had said.

Dall looked up at the late afternoon sky, still bright and hazy in the late summer season. Sweat dampened his back under the perennial long, thin black covering he wore year round. He thought momentarily of abandoning his vigil in favor of a cool drink in his cool living room. It had been another sweltering day, the temperature in triple digits, forcing people into their air-conditioned homes, leaving the apartment complex virtually devoid of life, save the sporadic moments when tenants would leave their cool homes to hop quickly into cooling cars. Through it all, he had stood quietly, watching, taking everything in.

He took in a deep breath, taking in the scent of thousands of lazy plants, flowers, and shrubs. Even trees lent their perfume to the heat, giving a heady feeling to the air shimmering with waves of rising heat. He loved this place, surrounded with the bounties of the season, nestled against the base of Table Rock Hill just across the Boise River. In his mind there was no better place on earth.

He sighed, realizing that he was accomplishing nothing standing here blending with the scenery. He was the perfect spy, so often overlooked, essentially invisible in any surrounding, as if human eyes avoided him to the point that they could not see him. He had always hated that about himself, but had grown to accept it as his lot. This week, however, he saw this trait as a gift, a special ability that allowed him to actively participate in protecting his self-appointed wards, the eyes and ears of the police where evil cared not look.

He started to turn, headed back to his silent and lonely dwelling, when his eye caught a glimpse of movement in the ashes and stubble that used to be Lissa’s apartment. He turned back, confused at why he had missed the intruder when he had been watching specifically for such; hadn’t even seen or heard his car.

Curiously he moved closer to the rubble, staying out of sight, but keeping a keen eye on the man digging through the ruins, as if searching for something. Abruptly, as if sensing someone watching, the man stood, scanning the area for witnesses. He then abandoned whatever he had been looking for, and ran down the stairs and into the trees.

Now Dall understood. The interloper had parked in another section of the complex, ostensibly to hide his activities from curious passers-by, and had slipped through the gardens to get to the apartment. Obviously this was a man avoiding attention, which made Dall all the more interested in what he wanted.

He started to jog to catch up with the larger, more athletic man, but couldn’t catch him before he had jumped into his car and flew out of the complex into the street. He cursed his unfit body. He hadn’t even gotten a glimpse of the vehicle. He headed back to the apartment to see if he could find what the man had been looking for.

He climbed the steps slowly, peering at the ground, seeing nothing that would be of interest of anyone. He got to the top, still searching, but still saw nothing. He stepped into the ashes, and even walked through a bit, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He shrugged, turned and started to leave, and then saw what he was meant to find. He pulled out his cell phone and hit autodial, asking for Captain McConnell. He was going to want to see this.

The man had not been searching for anything; he had simply left a message. Dall had missed it at first because had been searching the ground. As he brought his head up he saw written across the wall, “You should have stayed dead. Marcuse.”

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*

Marcuse raced down River Run toward Parkcenter, desperate to escape the confines of the apartment complex. He turned right, headed toward the connector, fire raging in his breast, his mind a sea of molten lava. An infinitesimal part of his psyche worried about how upset he had become, but the rest of him welcomed the anger. It was thrilling and intoxicating to feel this way. He reveled in it to the point of inventing causes for his wrath.

At the moment his fury was directed toward that mousy apartment manager for nearly catching him at leaving the message for Drake. It was sheer coincidence that he had caught a glimpse of the greasy man, the plainly obvious intentions of the rodent to identify him. A wave of rage coursed through him again at the memory, and he irrationally decided to rid the world of the disgusting creature.

He reached down under his seat and removed the 9mm Beretta from the holster hidden there and gripped the handle tightly, imagining the look on the other’s face as he stared down the barrel. An evil grin crossed his face as he envisioned the look of terror, almost hearing the whining plea of mercy, yet finishing the deed in a wonderful explosion of gunpowder and blood.

Yet he knew he was denied such pleasures. He cursed and shoved the gun back into its place, experiencing anew the passions of hatred and anger. The hazy afternoon seemed slightly skewed to him as he raged, taking on a slight hint of red as he allowed his emotions to carry his thoughts. The shimmering waves of heat added a peculiar shudder to everything, as if he were seeing things out of focus.

His other senses, however, hummed like a tightly strung guitar string. Above the roar of the mighty engine pushing his huge Hummer, he could hear his ragged breathing, the faint whir of the air-conditioner, and even the sound of his clothing moving against his heaving chest. The aroma of the cooled air assailed his nostrils, and he could detect the smell of the leather seats, and even his own body odor and the deodorant vainly attempting to keep it at bay. Even the ashes covering his hands and shoes lent their scent to the panoply that assaulted him.

His skin, too, seemed to have enhanced sensation. The ash between his hand and the steering wheel was like the princess and the pea, the granules digging into his flesh, a stark reminder of his recent activities. A slow trickle of sweat crawled its way down his back, and another down his forehead, leaving the impression of vermin traveling across his body, sending an involuntary shudder through him. The feeling only exacerbated his anger.

He traveled up Parkcenter, whipped down Broadway, and then traversed the connector before reaching the interstate I84. He headed west toward Kuna, where his vast estate sat hidden between that town and Meridian completely secluded by trees and woodlands. There he would be safe to think through his plan again.

It was the perfect plan, he reminded himself, the perfect way to avenge the wrongs committed against him. He had put the first of three phases into action—wreaking terror against his opponents. The brick through the windshield was a bit cliché he knew, but it did the trick to start their fear.

The message in ashes was also a bit childish, but it was a good medium to let them know what he was after. Certainly they would use their two cop friends to try to shield them, but he was smarter than they. Those two were merely pawns to be avoided, or even used as the game progressed. Of course he hadn’t planned on that moronic Dall catching him, which could certainly cost him a great deal. He couldn’t afford to be identified just yet, that would come in time.

What he couldn’t figure out was why Drake hadn’t been playing the game too. There had been plenty of time for him to contact the authorities and have the full force of the government breathing down his neck. Yet he hadn’t. Not a single hint. Unless that too was part of the game. Probably trying to get him to let down his guard and create an opening for them to pounce. That would make sense. But it wouldn’t work. Drake would be removed from this earth long before that happened.

Anger pulsed through him again, and he sought a release, to inflict harm—no—pain, on someone else. He stomped on the accelerator of the large vehicle, weaving through the late afternoon traffic, looking for an excuse to wield it against someone or something to relieve the pent up energy of his emotions. Nothing big was needed, just an excuse, and there would be plenty of those on the freeway at this time of day.

Up ahead he saw his victim—an old slow Kia Rio holding everything up. Such a tiny car causing such a nasty snarl. Not for long though. He pulled up right behind it until his H2 was right on the Rio’s tail, cutting off an older maroon Subaru in the process. He gunned the engine, nearly hitting the car, but backed off just before the impact.

He couldn’t see the people in the Kia, but knew their hearts were racing, unaware of his intentions, panic setting in as their rearview mirror reflected nothing more than the grill of the monster behind them. As expected, the driver of the smaller car sped up dramatically. The game was afoot.

Marcuse glanced at his speedometer and noticed that it was approaching seventy-five—soon the Kia would soon hit its maximum speed. His Hummer however, with its more powerful engine, wasn’t even close to its limit. He pushed the accelerator harder.

The Rio driver also forced his gas pedal down, pushing his motor to its limit, the engine whining in protest as it gave its all to escape the juggernaut behind it. Finally the Hummer backed off and the harried driver let off the gas. The intense throbbing of his heart slowed as he searched for an exit from the freeway, and the terror he was going through. His relief was much too premature.

Marcuse laughed maliciously as he approached the leading car again, forced it into greater speeds, and then backed off again. He did this twice more before he tired of the game and decided to end it. He pulled into the left lane cutting off a passing car, and pulled back in, right in front of the Kia. He slammed his brakes hard, leaving smoke and the acrid smell of burning rubber in his wake. The owner of the Rio slammed his brakes as well, but the momentum of his car was too much for the short distance. The driver swerved sharply to the right to avoid a fatal collision.

The smaller car rode the shoulder past the nearly stopped Hummer, fighting for control as the tires groped for traction half on the pavement, half on the sun-dried weeds fronting the highway. The back-end of the car whipped around, smashing into a mile maker, bending it into a frightening shape before rebounding from the impact, sending the tail toward the Hummer.

Again the driver tore at the wheel, steering into the skid, toward the beast that had caused the crisis. He almost had things under control before he realized the Hummer was swerving back into his path. The smaller car had no choice but head for the roadside ditch, escaping the vehicle at its left, but leaving the road for the softer dirt and weeds that bordered it.

The tires dug into the loam and sank deep, slowing the car dramatically. The sudden stopping in the front of the car pulled the rear wheels into the air, the car balancing on its nose at an unseemly angle, then slammed jarringly back hard onto the ground. The confused and much shaken owners of the small car sat motionless for a moment, wondering what had just happened and what could possibly have prompted their adversary to take such action.

Slowly they extricated themselves from the car and sat numbly on the blistering ground next to it, wondering what to do now. Luckily the driver of the Subaru, having witnessed it all, pulled over to make sure they were all right and to call the police.

Marcuse sped away from the accident, laughing maniacally as he watched the older couple plop onto the ground. He felt much better now, seeing that he still held the upper hand, and knew again that he was in control. It was time to implement phase two.

Lissa Brandon navigated the rented Saturn slowly through the maze of streets toward her apartment. Or rather, what used to be her apartment. She hadn’t been back here since Wednesday night after that awful shootout.

She pulled onto the lane opening up into the parking area and noted several police cruisers in the area as she parked in her appointed place. She was oblivious to the beauty of the twilight, the fading light muting the angles and imperfections so obvious in the garish light of day. The flowers were softer, blending together into a panoramic field of color, contrasting the cold stone buildings they bordered. Shrubbery lost the bristly appearance, taking on a smooth, rounded look, buffering the straight angles behind. Even the trees standing sentinel over the entire grounds were altered—silent monuments reaching out their limbs as if trying to embrace those who took up residence within.

The sun had set by the time Lissa and her newfound love exited the vehicle, though the light sky still provided enough illumination for the pair to move unfettered by darkness. Lissa looked up from the rear of the car toward the landing above, now teeming with investigators and various other police personnel. The last time she was here, merely two days ago, it was a similar scene, only the circumstances were so very different.

It was from the same spot she now occupied that she had stood, watching a madman she had never before seen waving an instrument of death in the air. She had watched Bill as he slipped up the stairs intent on disarming the foe that threatened her friends. Horror had gripped her chest as she impotently watched her front door open, Carrie confronting the evildoer, only to be overpowered in his malevolent clutches.

She had stood immobilized with fear as she heard a gunshot, which was quickly answered by a second, then a third, then many, many more. She had watched as Bill crumpled to the floor, clutching in agony at his side closest to her. She stood transfixed as the sinister man across from him chortled, then moved menacingly toward her fallen friend, as if guided by the instrument of death he wielded. Her chest tightened as she followed the movement of the gun slowly approaching the man she was beginning to feel affection for, until it stopped against his forehead, removing all possibility of escape.

Her head was screaming at her to do something, yet her body refused to respond as she viewed the happenings, confused by the unreality of what she saw. It was like an awful, hideous enactment she would see in a theme park or on a television program. Yet the players were her friends, the props real, and the stakes so very costly. Irony portrayed in its perfect form—happenings that were so real her mind couldn’t accept it, convincing her it was simply illusion. Until the last shot rang out.

She, just like all those on the second floor above her, believed that Bill was now dead, the victim of a heinous murder by a deranged and evil man. The thought ripped her mind out of its disorientation and sent a burst of action to her legs. She raced toward the stairs, bounding up them unconcerned for her own safety from the man toting the gun. She rounded the first flight, and sprang up the second, only to view the scene from the opposite perspective. It was somehow all wrong, and yet somehow all right.

She slowed her step, struggling for understanding as she saw a very alive, but astonished Bill, and the stationary form of the stranger lying next to him. Moving mechanically, she approached the still form first, her doctor’s instincts telling her his wounds were the more severe. She could see the small hole on the right side of his head where a bullet had entered a moment ago, and instantly realized the wound was fatal. She bent, pressed two fingers of her right hand against the normally pulsating carotid artery to the side of his neck, and verified there was no movement. She repositioned her hand to ensure she had found the correct spot, and again felt nothing. He was dead.

Then she moved over to Bill and ripped off his shirt, only to find a black vest underneath. She quickly undid it, gingerly pulled it off, and then removed the undershirt, revealing a badly bruised
chest underneath them. She
gingerly felt around the contusion checking for further injuries, lost as to what was going on. The Kevlar vest had stopped the bullet between the clavicle and the scapula, amazingly missing each, not even breaking them from the force. It did hit the area the deltoideus and subclavius muscles, damaging them internally. It would hurt quite a bit, and he would have a hard time using those muscles, but he would be fine.

“He’ll be okay,” she called over her shoulder, “but needs treatment. The other one is dead. Call an ambulance.”

“Already did,” spoke a male voice just behind her. Terror flooded her again as she whirled, followed by a wave of relief as she recognized the man who had hosted her dinner earlier. She realized that she had seen Jack only minutes earlier, but it felt like weeks so much had changed.

He smiled at her reaction, understanding it quite clearly. “I followed the two of you when you raced off. Just call it instinct or some such. Glad I did too.” He paused, looking down at the discharged weapon in his own hand, and sighed heavily. “Mostly glad anyway.”

Lissa forced herself back to reality, wondering if her life would ever be normal again. She smiled over at Robbie, took his hand, and together they walked back over to the stairs she had raced up less than forty-eight hours earlier. She had not been back here since. Jack had declared it a crime scene, convincing them all that they must find other arrangements. They had decided that Robbie would stay at Bill’s apartment, as they had already figured, and the girls would all go back to Jack’s where Nancy could watch over them. No one could have known then just how inspired that decision had been.

“Quite a mess, isn’t it?” Jack asked as they rounded the corner, viewing for the first time the charred remains that used to be her apartment. “Poetic justice in a way, after all that has happened here.”

Lissa stood speechless, gaping at the blackened scene. She had been told of the fire, but nothing could have prepared her for the dark void that stood before her. The front wall had huge holes ripped through it where the firemen had chopped out sections enabling them to reach the blaze beyond. The ceiling and roof were nearly non-existent and the floor beneath was a huge mass of ash and barely recognizable shapes of belongings and furniture. Each wall was badly burned, or at least covered with soot from the rising smoke. Some of the interior walls were missing completely, devoured by the ravenous flame. If she hadn’t known this was the place she had called home only hours earlier, she would never even have recognized it.

However, what was most disturbing was the smell. She had expected the pleasant aroma of wood smoke, like a campfire or fireplace. That scent was there, but mostly what she took in was the rancid odor of burnt plastic, chemicals and furniture, a nauseating mix that threatened to overwhelm her. She fought the urge to turn and walk away from the mess, never to return. She probably would have, but knew Jack had brought her here for a reason.

Jack let her take her time, understanding the shock she was experiencing. It had been a week of continuous nasty shocks, and he was astonished that she had come through it so well. Yet she seemed more at peace with herself and her situation than when he had first met her scarcely a week earlier. There was a part of him that wondered about the origin of this inner strength, and suspected it came from her deep religious convictions. Whatever the source, it continued to amaze, even inspire him.

Lissa and Robbie walked carefully through the ruins, hand in hand, stepping around and through the scattered debris, skirting the bigger obstacles, but unable to avoid covering their shoes and pant legs with ash and soot. Lissa fought off tears as she barely recognized the charred remains of her few possessions. The apartment had been furnished with beds, living room pieces, and appliances, but the home was also filled with personal items garnered through the years.

She stooped and picked up what was once a picture frame, the glass now shattered. It had once held the only picture of her, her mother, and her father she owned. Now it was bubbled and burned, completely unrecognizable. She allowed the tears to flow freely, and almost reverently placed the frame back on top of the rubble, just to have the pile collapse beneath it, creating a cloud of ash which devoured the once prized possession. She turned and buried her face in Robbie’s shoulder, her grief accentuated by heart-wrenching sobs.

“Lissa,” Jack spoke softly, loathe to interrupt the tender moment, yet knowing it was imperative to move on. “I need you to see the message.”

She nodded mutely and he led them through the rubble to the back bedroom, the one in which she had chosen to sleep. There on one blackened wall was the hateful note, created by rubbing the soot off the surface, revealing the dingy white beneath. The three stared transfixed at the words, struggling to find meaning beyond the obvious threat.

“You should have stayed dead?” finally voiced Robbie. “What is he talking about?”

“The only person that died and came back to life is Marconi,” answered Jack carefully, an idea beginning to form in his mind. “Unless….”

“Jack! There you are!” The three turned at the interruption, and watched as a tired and dirty, yet obviously excited Bill Lowell picked his way through the debris to the small group. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. He was right! Can you believe it? The man was actually right this time. It’s incredible!”

“Slow down, Bill!” cried Jack. “What are you talking about?”

“Scardoni and Marcuse! I have it right here!” he held out an old Motorola flip phone in answer, pride and excitement beaming in his rugged face.

“What about them, Bill?” asked a frightened Lissa, the dim twilight accentuating the wetness of her face. He turned to her, and immediately stopped short as he recognized the trail of tears on her cheeks, and the implication of his news mixing with the sight of the burned apartment. He continued on, however empathy and concern buffered his enthusiasm.

“We met with Lenny Marconi in the hospital,” he explained, “and he told us about a cell phone that Scardoni used to communicate with Marcuse.” He paused, unsure of how much he needed to explain. “You are aware of Scardoni?”

“What about him?” Robbie piped in. “We know he’s the one behind the kidnapping and terrorizing Lissa.”

“He’s dead,” Jack answered brusquely. “Bill shot him this morning, just before he added me to his list of murders.”

“We searched his car for the cell phone,” Bill rushed on, seeing the shock registering on the couple, “and here it is!”

“Good job, Officer,” Jack responded approvingly. “Where was it?”

“Let’s just say I have a better understanding of why people complain about impound,” he replied. “I must have gone through the whole warehouse a dozen times with the operator before we finally found that they mistakenly took the car to a junkyard. Then it took about an hour of phone calls to find out it was at the one up here on Garden Street. After that I went through the car from top to bottom about six times before the owner remembered that he had found the cell phone at the site and absently stuck it in his pocket. It’s been a wonderful day.”

“I bet!” responded Robbie, beginning to catch the enthusiasm. “So have you tried it out yet?”

“Nope. Thought I’d leave that for the Captain here!” The excitement had returned to his voice, and he handed the phone expectantly to Jack.

Jack took the proffered piece and examined it closely. He tilted it round, shook it slightly, checking for any marks, anything he could do to find some form of identification. Finding none, he looked up into the expectant faces surrounding him, and shook his head.

“Should leave this up to the boys in the lab you know.” He watched in bemused satisfaction as the countenances fell in unison. He chuckled softly, then turned it back over and looked down at the keypad. “Of course making one phone call shouldn’t hurt.”

He pressed the send key, automatically redialing the last number called. The LCD screen flashed the characters
“MEM 1” then the number “208958
9098” then “CONNECTING.” Jack held the phone to his ear, his lips twitching with the hint of a smile, and then turned to a frown. “No answer and no voicemail box.”

He hit the end key then searched for any preset numbers in the memory. He found only the one. He pulled out his own phone, dialed a number, and waited only the briefest of moments for the answer.

“This is Captain McConnell. I need you to run a number for me.” He paused a mo
ment before continuing. “208-958
-9098. Does it register in the database? Really? How can they do that? Please do. And let me know as soon as possible. Thanks.” He hung up and faced the three friends opposite him.

“Looks like it’s a cell phone, but the number’s been scrubbed.”

“Scrubbed?” asked Lissa.

“Erased,” Jack explained. “People lose cell phones, have them stolen, whatever, and need new phones, usually with new numbers. When the wireless companies do this, they wipe out the old information, set up a new account with a new phone and new number. In essence, the old account no longer exists, and the customer gets pegged with the new account. Follow?”

“Sure,” answered Robbie, “so the customer only gets one bill, even though there are two separate numbers and accounts.”

“Exactly. But what happens to the old phone?”