Amnesia (9 page)

Now in position, Peter glanced into Beverley’s eyes and saw the fear there, although he couldn’t be certain if it was fear for herself at what was happening, or fear for him at what he intended. Either way, that brief look filled his heart with anger washing away all the fear and pain that he had endured. If he died trying, so be it. He was not going to let this man have his way with this woman. He bent his knees, leaned his shoulder’s slightly forward, took aim and threw himself at the attacker with every ounce of weight and power he could muster, praying that it would be enough.

The collision jarred his shoulder painfully, dislocating it from the socket, his head also banging into the wall. Pain spread through him and for a moment he couldn’t
breathe
. He landed face down, on top of his inspiration, struggling to refill his depleted lungs as the wind was knocked out of him. For a moment his entire focus was to inhale, but somewhere inside he realized it wasn’t over yet. Already the other man was regaining his feet.

*
             
             
             
*
             
             
*

Scardoni, already leaning toward his target thoroughly engrossed in his wicked plans, was caught completely off guard and so was unprepared for the assault. He felt the weight of the body collide into him, shoving him head first into the wall to the left of his intended victim. The crumbling sheetrock gave in easily to the oncoming ram, creating a large hole swallowing Rudy’s head. The entire structure seemed to shake, threatening to bring the whole house down on them, but somehow it miraculously remained vertical.

The would-be rapist was momentarily stunned by the impact and laid motionless for a moment, trying to clear his throbbing head. His back ached and shoulders hurt, but unlike the crippling effect on the boy, he welcomed the pain as a longtime companion that offered him an edge. The craving he had felt seconds earlier had transformed instantaneously to hate and anger, fuelled by the ache in his concussed head and body. The release he now sought was to inflict as much suffering as possible on what had hurt him. He finally pulled himself free of the sheetrock, looking for his assailant, fire burning through his head and eyes. He started to rise but nausea and dizziness forced him back down, gasping in much needed oxygen.

Then again he stood, this time more slowly, looking down at the girl and the overweight boyfriend. Hatred seethed inside of him as he put the pieces together, recognizing what had happened. A very small part of him was thankful for being broken out of his stupor, realizing that it probably had saved his life, but so much more of him hated the man at his feet for stealing the prize that rightfully belonged to him.

Viciously he kicked the bound man in the ribs, shoving him off of the girl and rolling him over onto his back. He heard the muffled moan escaping around the rag tied into the horizontal man’s mouth and felt rejuvenated. He may have missed out on what the girl had to offer, but this was nearly as fulfilling.

He stepped over the woman’s legs, completely unaware of the exposed skin showing through the rip he had caused and headed toward the new target. He kicked him in the side again, letting his anger feed power into the hit. Again he heard the groan of pain, prompting him to kick again even harder. This time he felt the ribs give and decided it was too easy to kill the man this way. Instead he knelt over him, doubled up his sinewy fist and delivered a debilitating punch. The defenseless man jerked as the hit pushed his head over, pounding it into the tattered floor, completely unable to respond to the assault.

Scardoni went wild trying to punish the captive. Again and again he delivered crushing blows, completely oblivious to all but his palpable anger. Finally he realized that the limp form had lost consciousness in the beating. Frustrated, he dropped him back to the floor. He slowly stood, the emotions draining from him, and realized that the anger-filled energy had also depleted him; he decided that he needed a smoke. Delivering one last cruel kick, he stomped from the room into the hall and out to the front room. Seconds later the front door opened and closed announcing his departure.

*
             
             
*
             
             
*

Several minutes later a pain-wracked Peter Frindle emerged back into consciousness, wishing momentarily that he could somehow escape back into the oblivion. Agonizingly he turned his swollen face back to the angelic face that had so inspired him. Their eyes met and he saw the pools of tears that she had shed for his plight, and somehow he felt more alive than he had felt since this had all begun. He felt triumphant beyond his pain at the realization that he had indeed saved her, at least this time, from a fate no one should ever endure. He decided that he was indeed a man worthy of the girl he adored.

He coughed painfully through his gag and nearly passed out again from the pain in his chest, but finally the bout ended and he turned back to his angel, trying to convey his love for her through his blackened eyes. Her eyes glistened through the dampness, and he realized that she cared for him as well, further bolstering his self-esteem. Then the look changed to one of hope as she drew her legs up, the shredded pant leg dropping off the one, until her knees nearly touched her chest. Then she nodded toward the floor, trying to tell him something.

At first he thought she was saying something about her pant leg, perhaps expressing mute gratitude, but then realized that her insistence was for something else, something under the draped fabric. He looked down to see what she was thinking about and saw nothing through his blurry eyes but the jogging outfit. He glanced back up to her, confusion written in his eyes painfully shaking his head that he didn’t understand.

She simply nodded more aggressively at the floor, communicating that he needed to see what was hidden there, so he again searched the area under her legs. At last he saw it, understanding dawning through his agony, and he felt the same hope that he had seen gleam in her eyes. Under the material that had been cut away, he saw the dull glint of the very sharp hunting knife.

*
             
             
*
             
             
*

The rumble of the idling Malibu jet boat was barely
discernible
at the opposite end of the towrope. Sitting in the water while holding the wooden handle vertically at his life-jacketed chest, Bill Lowell looked past the Connelly water-skis, feeling the thrill of excitement he felt every time he strapped on the ski’s, anticipating the wet and wild ride ahead. He had his knees bent up to his chest as well, the skis perpendicular to the water as he readied himself for the sharp tug coming.

Lucky Peak Reservoir was still a little chilly, but the hot day had taken its toll on the group both in and on the water. The boat was the perfect size for the group, holding five passengers in
its
built in five seats, and the lake was clear and calm. A light breeze blew down through the canyon across the water lowering the temperature nicely, keeping everyone comfortable and happy. It was the perfect day with the perfect companions, intoxicating even without the alcohol so many boaters insisted upon these days.

This was Bill’s first time behind the boat today, having waited patiently as everyone else got their turn, and now he was primed for the ride. He raised his right hand, signaling his childhood friend Curt that he was ready, and then tightly gripped the rope again. Curt Meyers sitting in the right hand seat raised his arm as well, indicating he had seen the cue, then faced front and pushed the throttle forward, gunning the eight cylinder inboard motor.

The cord jerked on Bill’s large arms and he tightened this biceps and shoulders to compensate. Pushing his feet and the attached skis in front of him he felt his back rising into the air. Keeping his knees bent and leaning slightly away from the boat, he quickly picked up speed and the odd chase began. He dipped the left edge of the skis into the water, angling out away from the wake to the left, feeling freedom he hadn’t felt in months. Angling back to the right, he crossed over the swirling water kicked up by the boat’s propeller, bouncing lightly over the white caps, and then headed out to the right. Now it was time for some fun.

Pushing his legs out in front of him and pulling back on the rope, he lowered himself until he was nearly horizontal to the water, creating a huge spray of water, completely covering himself. Then he let the water pull his legs back, almost until he was straight, and then jumped into the air. The effect was spectacular as he raised kite
-
like into the air, allowing his feet to trail behind him giving the appearance of flying. He then pulled his knees back to his chest, almost making it back into the squatting position, but catching the front toe of his right ski in the water, jerking it off.

He almost lost his balance, but landed instead on the left ski. He pushed his right foot into the back strap, altering his style to slalom skiing. He heard the cheers from his compatriots in front of him and grinned widely, realizing how much he missed the sport. Time for a few more tricks.

He again braced himself, traveling back and forth across the wake and again jumped into the air, this time swinging his feet sharply to the left twisting his torso completely around, switching hands on the rope, then landing gracefully in the water. A complete and perfect 360. Then he did a simple jump in the air, pulling his legs into the perfect splits.

Each time he pulled one of the stunts he could hear the crowd cheering and he felt at peace with the moment, as if the entire universe had come together in perfect harmony for a single heartbeat. Yet it wasn’t the cheers of his friends that pleased him, it was his restored self-assurance that gave him his tranquility. However, it was also taxing on a body not used to such acrobatics, despite the athletic football player physique he sported.

Realizing that he was tiring he successfully jumped the wake one last time, trying to catch air and succeeding, and then released the rope allowing inertia to pull him forward while gravity pulled him slowly into the water.

Curt pulled the boat around, picked up the discarded ski, and then cut the engine just as it reached the downed man. “We’re gonna take a swim Show-Off,” he good-naturedly bantered. “And it is your turn to watch the boat.”

Handing up the second ski Bill voiced his affirmation of the idea and pulled himself onto the tail platform. He traded places with Curt at the wheel and guided the boat upriver docking at their favorite landing. As Curt, his girlfriend Shirley and his roommate Roger squealed as they hit the chill water, Bill turned to the remaining girl and for the second time this day faced Carrie Price, the cashier he had ran into at Albertson’s that morning.

“Would you mind helping me unload this stuff?” he asked, grabbing the cooler sitting between the two front seats. She nodded her agreement and he handed her a box of food. Together they headed inland to a secluded cove, noting the discomfort of having nothing in common to talk about. Finally, after a second trip to the boat for more supplies, lighting the charcoal and laying out blankets, Bill broke the silence, trying for the obvious.

“So you came with Shirley. How do you know her?”

“She’s my sister. Haywood is my maiden name, Price is my married one.”

Again he noticed the cloud that enshrouded her lovely face when she spoke of her marriage. The protecting police officer in him wanted to pry out all the details, but the introverted mourner part simply wanted to close down—it was her problem after all. But the somber silence was unbearable for such a blissful afternoon.

“So, what brings you back to Boise? Miss the cool days?” He chuckled clumsily at the attempted joke but immediately regretted the question when the cloud around her face became distinctly darker.

“As I said this morning, my husband and I are having…difficulties. I thought a little time away would be good. Shirley was good enough to let me stay with her in her studio for
a while
until I can find a place of my own. Actually, if you hear of a place, could you let me know? Preferably an apartment with a roommate as Albertson’s isn’t known for making their cashiers rich.” She chuckled lightly, trying to keep the mood upbeat.

“I remember Paul,” Bill continued, still unsure what to make of the conversation. “He was a good Elder’s Quorum President. A little strict, but that’s exactly what is needed with most Elders.” He paused, and then added, mostly out of politeness, “One of the most spiritual men I know.”

She let out a gasp, the look of intense anger on her face nearly cowing the unsuspecting man. He knew then that something was definitely amiss, but was almost fearful of finding out what. Yet that last comment took away the option, as Carrie’s emotions broke and the flood let loose.

“I’m so glad you have a spiritual crystal ball to tell you exactly how righteous everyone is,” she began icily. He tried to interrupt, apologize for whatever he had said, but she ran right over the top of him.

“You know, some people have hidden issues and secret sins that no one else knows about. Things that are horrific and frightening, but that no one else will ever see. I lived with Paul for three years and could tell you things about this “spiritual” man that would make you vomit. You can’t just start assuming you know everything about people, just because you see them at church every Sunday!”