Leon leaned forward, stuttering. “No, no… Well, of course, that’s not cool, Mrs. Crowne, I only meant that it’s a real mystery, you know? That’s what’s cool about it. And, no, the software I use is the best, and it’s always worked for me. The algorithms don’t miss. If Anne is anywhere on social media, it would have tossed out a match right away. But it didn’t. No match.”
Constance’s eyes wouldn’t let him go. She was fascinated and impressed that he was undaunted by his failure. “So what do you plan to do now, Leon?”
“I called my uncle. He’s with the CIA. They have these powerful databases that reach back years, even before computers—like all the way to the 1940s and further. I’ve already called him. He said he’d run Anne’s photo. So I sent it to him.”
Constance readjusted herself as she lowered her eyes in thought. She grew guarded and remote.
For the first time since she’d met Constance, Anne saw that she looked worried and concerned, and Constance’s expression and Leon’s failure felt like weights pressing down on her.
When Constance raised her eyes to Leon, he was alert, sitting at attention.
“All right, Leon, speculate for me. How could this be? If you’ve done all your computer searching and didn’t find a match, then why and how could that be?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. At the very least, Anne should have some kind of photo ID, from a college or a passport, or a visa, or a driver’s license, or a security card issued by an employer. Yeah, well, it’s a mystery. And by now, I thought a relative or friend or, I don’t know, a husband or a boyfriend would have shown up.”
Constance glanced at Anne and grew uneasy. She recalled something Dr. Miles had said to her the day after Anne had been admitted, when she lay close to death.
“Something doesn’t seem quite right,” he’d said. “A couple of the nurses told me that the injured woman’s clothes are very retro. They think she must have been acting in a play. The police took a photo of the woman and they’re going to show it around to some of the Broadway directors and actors.”
Constance hadn’t mentioned it to Anne, but maybe she should have. Maybe it would have helped jog her memory. The police had come up empty. None of the actors or directors recognized Anne.
Anne was cold with anxiety while Leon stared into his iPad. She finally asked, “When is your uncle supposed to contact you?”
“I don’t know,” Leon answered. “He said he’d get to it when he could.”
AFTER CONSTANCE SAW LEON OUT, she returned to the living room to find Anne slumped over, her face in her hands, quietly weeping.
“Now, now, Anne,” Constance said, stepping over to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t cry, my dear. It’s going to work out.”
Anne removed her hands from her face. Her eyes were damp, her expression painfully sad. Constance went to the coffee table, drew several tissues from a blue, ornate tissue dispenser and took them to Anne.
While Anne dabbed at her eyes, Constance eased down beside her, composing the question she wanted to ask. She’d have to pose it gently, so as not to startle the fragile young woman.
“Anne…”
Anne stared ahead, her eyes unfocused.
“Does the name Anne still sound familiar to you?”
“Yes…”
“Good. Very good.
Constance softened her voice. “Anne, I want to tell you something I learned from Dr. Miles the day after you were admitted to the Intensive Care Unit.”
Anne sat up, a tissue balled in her hand.
“Dr. Miles told me that when the police spoke to him, well, I should say the detectives, they told the doctor that the dress you were wearing had a label. The label read Bourne & Hollingsworth, Oxford Street.”
Constance studied Anne’s face for some sign of recognition. She saw none, so she continued. “The detectives learned that the department store Bourne & Hollingsworth closed in 1983. The building is currently occupied by the Bourne & Hollingsworth Bar.”
Anne looked to Constance, waiting for further explanation.
“I saw the dress, Anne. Although it was soiled and torn in places, it was a lovely dress. One of the detectives described it as ‘clearly retro.’ By that, he meant its style was from the 1940s, a classic bottle green crepe, with a slim waist and boxy shoulders. I know that because I used the internet to find similar dresses on Google.”
“Google?” Anne asked.
Constance was startled. “You must know what Google is, Anne. At your age, surely you’ve used Google to search for things.”
“No, I don’t know what it is.”
Constance waved a hand of dismissal and pushed ahead. “Okay, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, your shoes were black leather pumps, and the inside label said Bishops Styles of West London. After doing some research online, the detectives learned that the shoe store was bombed into ruins in 1942.”
Anne rose and went to the fireplace, staring into it. “I don’t know, Constance. I don’t know what you’re saying or what you want from me. I don’t know those places. I’ve never heard of them. I must be going insane.”
Constance pushed up and went to her. “Anne… I brought it up because I hoped it might help you remember. Everything can be explained. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason for all of it.”
Anne faced her. “What reason? How can anything be explained when I don’t even seem to exist?”
“Maybe you were an actress, Anne,” Constance said. “That would account for the clothes. Do you have any memory of that?”
Anne shook her head. “No, I don’t remember. I just don’t know. When I was in the hospital, and the police were asking me all those questions and I had no answers, I saw the look in their eyes. They thought I was hiding something, or protecting someone, or they thought I was insane. So, yes, maybe I’m insane. Maybe it’s that simple.”
“You’re not, Anne. You’re not insane.”
Anne moved back to the couch and sat, staring out the windows. “Dr. Weiss said she could try hypnotizing me. If I’m a good candidate, she might be able to take me back to the time before I was found in the park, and I might reveal who I am.”
Constance nodded. “Yes, she shared that with me yesterday on the phone. Then you’ve decided to try it… today? When she comes?”
“Yes. I’m desperate. I’ll do whatever I need to do. I can’t live like this. I feel lost and helpless and useless. Just before I fall asleep, and just before I awaken, I see faces and hear sounds, terrible sounds, and it all seems so close and yet so very far away.”
Anne held her head in her hands. “I have to remember. I have to, or I’m going to shatter into pieces.”
CHAPTER 6
“I never make house calls,” Dr. Miles said, smiling, as he shrugged out of his overcoat and handed it to the middle-aged, West Indian maid, Clarisse. A handsome man, he was dressed in gray slacks, a blue shirt and royal blue sport coat. His hair was combed to one side and parted low, a new stylish look. With his dimples and intoxicating hazel eyes, he could have easily played the part of any doctor in any soap opera, and the women viewers would have adored him.
Constance took his arm and led him slowly through the marble foyer, down a short hallway, toward the living room.
“I suspect, Jon, that your primary interest for being here is not medical, but romantic.”
“Though we’re good friends, I’ll not answer that, Constance. I’ll simply ask, how is the patient?”
Constance stopped, frowning, lowering her voice. “Physically she’s much better, even remarkably better… I’m calling her Anne, and that is with an E, or so she told me. She said that name sounds familiar to her.”
“Just Anne? Nothing more?”
“No, nothing more.”
“Is she waiting?”
“She’s in her room, resting. I said I’d let her know when you and Dr. Weiss arrive. Let’s go into the living room and have a glass of wine. There’s a dry white Burgundy chil
ling in the wine bucket.”
Minutes later, Jon Miles stood by the tall windows, swirling his glass of wine, watching snow flurries flit by as Constance paced behind the sofa, sipping at her wine, filling him in on what had occurred that morning.
Dr. Miles turned to Constance with a perplexed expression. “Well, Anne couldn’t have just dropped in from out of thin air,” he said. “How could there be no image match? That seems nearly impossible in this day and age. Did she respond when you told her about the dress and shoes?”
Constance shrugged a shoulder. “No… Nothing. And she’s never heard of Google, so there has to be some amnesia going on. Isn’t that clear enough?”
“We did all the imaging tests—including an MRI and a CT scan—to check for brain damage or abnormalities,” Jon said. “There was nothing. Her blood tests came out fine, and an electroencephalogram didn’t find any presence of seizure activity.”
Constance looked around searching for things to say; for things that might explain the oddities of Anne’s predicament. “Anne said something so poignant to me earlier. She said, ‘I feel like a badly functioning marionette.’”
Dr. Miles sighed. “Perhaps Helena will have some luck with hypnosis. Is Anne limping?”
“Not much. She said the pain has diminished, and she’s very anxious to let her hair grow. She said she always wore it long, down on her shoulders.”
Dr. Miles lifted an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting detail to recall.”
Constance grinned, knowingly. “Jon, please… Women always remember hairstyles and makeup.”
“I’m anxious to see her.”
“I’m going to be blunt, Jon. Do you plan to ask her out?”
“Of course,” and before Constance could respond, he raised a hand in a placating manner. “I’m not going to continue as her doctor, so there won’t be any doctor/patient issue. I’m recommending Dr. Lambert.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Her. Dr. Sharon Lambert. She’s good. You’ll like her.”
“How old is she?”
“In her forties. More importantly, I think Anne will like her. I told Dr. Lambert I’d arrange an appointment whenever you and Anne are ready.”
There was speculation in the tilt of Constance’s head. “I don’t know about this.”
“Look, Constance, I’m divorced with no children and I haven’t been out on a date in, oh, let’s see now, three months. And frankly, I like Anne. I’d like to get to know her better, and maybe I can help her remember details of her life.”
Constance brushed his comments aside. “Just be sure to tell this Dr. Lambert that I don’t want Anne going through a lot of therapy or taking so many drugs that she gets lost and we never find her again.”
“I understand. I’ll tell her. Better yet, you can tell her when you meet.”
Just then Clarisse appeared, escorting Dr. Helena Weiss into the living room.
“There you are,” Constance said, starting toward the doctor. “I’m so glad you could come. Would you like a glass of white Burgundy?”
Dr. Weiss entered the room, brisk and businesslike, toting a black leather shoulder bag, dressed in a casual gray suit, white blouse and black pumps. She was slightly flushed, had a pensive mouth, and seemed mildly irritated.
“No, thank you, Constance. I’ve been trapped in traffic inside an awful smelling taxi, with a driver who spoke little English, not that that stopped his incessant chatter and, if that wasn’t enough, the pitiful man had a terminal case of bad breath.”
“Well, then, you must have a glass of wine.”
Dr. Weiss waved her off. “No, I have to be clear-headed while I work.”
Dr. Weiss gave her regards to Dr. Miles, then glanced about. “Now, where is the patient?”
“She’s resting in her room. I’ll go get her,” Constance said, striding across the living room toward the back rooms. She stopped and turned. “Oh, I wanted to tell you. She remembers her first name. It’s Anne.”
Dr. Weiss arched an eyebrow. “Well, that’s a start. Yes. That’s a very good start. I can use that in hypnosis.”
Ten minutes later, Constance returned with Anne, who entered the room and then paused when she noticed Dr. Miles smiling at her and Dr. Weiss studying her.
To Dr. Weiss, Anne appeared tired, her face registering a weary sense of dread. Dr. Weiss took a few steps toward her. “I’m so happy to see you up and around and looking better. Constance tells me you’ve remembered your first name. So, I should say, it’s good to see you again, Anne.”
Anne nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Weiss.”
Dr. Weiss turned to Constance. “Now, where can Anne and I go to have our session?”
Constance tried to contain her excitement as she gestured toward the hallway. “Follow me to the den. It was Charles’ favorite room, and it’s comfortable and private.”
As the ladies started toward the den, Dr. Miles spoke up, and the women paused.
“Anne…”
Anne turned, constrained by apprehension.
“I’d like to talk to you after your session with Dr. Weiss,” Jon said.
Constance’s mouth twitched. Dr. Weiss was impatient.
“Yes… Of course, Dr. Miles.”
“Assuming that she’s up to it,” Constance cautioned.
Jon’s mouth tightened. “Of course. That goes without saying.”
“Well, let’s get to it,” Dr. Weiss said, now leading the way, even though she wasn’t sure where the room was.
With a grand gesture, Constance opened the double wooden doors which led to the spacious den. Decorated in a modern style, it had an elegant, glass-topped coffee table with a lavish bouquet of fresh flowers in the center. Dark gray area rugs with abstract designs covered much of the polished wood floors. Resting on them were a black leather sofa and matching chairs. Soft gray drapes were drawn against the natural light, and subdued track lighting washed the room. A wide, wall-mounted TV covered one wall, and sleek white bookshelves ran the length of another side of the room. Its hardback and leather-bound books were encased in glass. The white marble fireplace was banked low. Opposite the bookshelves, the door to a private bathroom was open, revealing emerald tiles and a mirrored wall.
Constance stood by, as Dr. Weiss pointed to the sofa.
“Please make yourself comfortable, Anne, while I take out the recorder and my supplies.”
“A recorder?” Anne asked.
“Yes. I’ll use it for my analysis. I’ll be happy to make a copy for you, if you’d like.”
Anne’s eyes focused on the digital recorder. “It’s small, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it has exceptionally good fidelity. Please sit down, Anne,” Dr. Weiss said, and then she moved her attention to Constance. “You may go now, Constance. Thank you.”
Folding her hands, Constance reluctantly left the room, shutting the door behind her. She lingered in the hallway, feeling curiosity and concern arise in equal measures. She’d grown very attached to Anne. She wanted to protect her, spoil her, and love her as she could no longer love her dead daughter, Ashley, whose violent death remained an open wound in her soul.
Constance dared a smile. To feel needed, to feel real love coursing again through her veins, was like a soothing drug. These were feelings she’d hungered for and been without for too long, feelings she might never have again.
I will keep Anne in my life, no matter where she comes from or who she turns out to be, Constance thought. Anne needed all the help, protection and love Constance could give her.
She leaned back against the door, desperate to know what was going on inside that room. Would Anne emerge from the session, beaming with tentative joy as the first hints of her identity became known? If that happened, then what would come next? Constance felt a twist of anguish. Anne might leave.
Constance’s heart beat all the faster. Of course she would leave, and Constance would be happy for her, wouldn’t she?
Constance stood upright, blink
ing. If it was inevitable for Anne to leave, then as long as she was living with Constance, she wanted her all to herself. Only she could provide the safety and emotional protection she required. The last thing Constance needed was for Jon Miles, with his silly infatuation, to insinuate himself into their lives, especially now, when Anne was so very vulnerable. That was out of the question.
WHEN CONSTANCE RETURNED to the living room, Jon noted her darkened mood. Hers was the expression of someone who had just discovered a torment that she’d had no idea was inside her.
“Is everything all right, Constance?”
She didn’t look up. “I think you should go, Jon.”
Jon cocked an ear. “Excuse me, did you say, go?”
“Yes. This is not the time for romance. You’ll just confuse her.”
“Can I at least wait to see what Dr. Weiss discovers?”
Constance lifted her frosty eyes on him. “I think you should go.”
Jon gave her a long moment of consideration. “All right, Constance, if you think it’s best.”
As he was leaving the room, he said. “Will you let me know if Anne remembers anything?”
Constance didn’t look at him. “That depends.”
Dr. Miles ran a hand along his jaw. “Constance, I am going to ask Anne out. I think it will be good for her. You can’t lock her away.”
Constance didn’t look at him.
When he was gone, she lowered herself down on the sofa and turned her head toward the den, thrusting her mind back to the first time she’d seen Anne, looking so scared and helpless. Constance struggled to tamp down her emotions, even as an image of Ashley appeared, then slowly melted away.
CHAPTER 7
“Gently close your eyes, Anne, and relax,” Dr. Weiss said.
Time Stranger Page 3
