Kiss

by Ted Dekker

  The theater was located on the second floor of the Dobie Mall. The movie house was a strange little place that boasted a gourmet concessions stand—Wayne bought a mocha for himself and an herbal tea for Shauna—and four small screens in themed theaters. Their flick was showing in the Gothic Gargoyle room. Shauna couldn’t fathom the possibility that she had ever actually enjoyed such a place.

  For the sake of her memory, however, she tried. But so far, as at the Barton Springs pool, the location did nothing to tap her past experiences here.

  “You’re quiet tonight,” he said as they took seats on the end of the strange diagonal aisle that cut through the room. There was no stadium seating in this place. Apparently the tall people were expected to be polite and sit in back.

  “Just thinking.” The grotesque gargoyle murals on the walls distracted her. She sipped her tea, which scalded the cut on her tongue, still tender from her fall at the hospital earlier in the week. “I’ve been having more weird dreams.”

  “Daydreams?”

  “I wouldn’t call them that.”

  “Tell me: you have some unfulfilled fantasy to play football?”

  Dr. Harding’s reassurances freed her to get this off her chest. “Yeah, and to fight in Iraq, too, it seems.”

  He cocked his head. “I haven’t heard this one. You take a nap at home?”

  “No, when I passed out at the park. And it’s a winner too. I was dreaming of being someone else again. I don’t think it was you this time—wrong name—but the voice sounded like you. You’ve got to quit getting into my head like this, okay?”

  “So you were me. Or maybe not me. In Iraq.”

  “Yeah. Planning to go AWOL.”

  He laughed at that, a short, tight-lipped laugh. “A deserter, huh?” Then he took a swig of mocha.

  “Some friend of . . . this person’s had died, I think. Jones? Johnson? I—oh forget this—they called him Marshall. Marshall was upset about it. I got the impression it was some kind of last straw.”

  Wayne leaned forward, elbows on knees, cup between both hands, eyes still on her.

  “What’s waterboarding?” she asked.

  Wayne’s cheek twitched, and he looked away. “Torture,” he murmured. She almost couldn’t hear him. “Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

  “You’ve experienced it?”

  “Only once, in training. With trainers I trusted. They cover your face, pour water up your nose. It’s like drowning on dry land.”

  “It doesn’t sound that awful—I mean, compared to other forms I’ve heard of.”

  He opened his mouth and then closed it again, looked at her with the speechlessness of someone who had no adequate words for his experience or her ignorance. Once again, she wished she had thought before she had spoken.

  “It’s slow-motion suffocation,” he finally said. “A controlled execution.”

  She looked away, mortified, and tried to bring the conversation back to her vision. But there wasn’t much else to tell. “Someone tried to talk Marshall out of leaving. But he was committed.”

  “And that’s it?” The theater lights dimmed.

  “Pretty much.”

  Wayne took another drink and leaned back in his chair. “Your mind does take ideas and run with them,” she thought she heard him say as the lights went out and the screen lit up.

  He downed the rest of his hot mocha like it was a shot of whiskey.

  Shauna looked at her watch for the first time thirty minutes into the movie. Her tea had become cool enough to drink, and the story line failed to engage her. Wayne was jiggling his thumb on his thigh, a tapping kind of fidget. But his eyes were glued to the screen.

  She tried to tune in to the film, but her ears kept returning to Wayne’s vibrating thumb.

  A few moments later he leaned toward her ear and whispered, “Be right back,” then slipped out. She heard his empty paper cup drop into the waste-basket next to the door as he went by.

  When “right back” turned into five minutes, Shauna started to wonder if Wayne was okay. Bad milk in the mocha, maybe? Or maybe he was bored, too, trying to be polite about it without actually having to suffer through any more celluloid. If that was the case, she should say she felt the same way.

  No need to waste both money and hours.

  She grabbed her purse, her half-empty cup of tea, and went out.

  There was no sign of Wayne in the small lobby or near the bathrooms. She checked the tables where several people hung out waiting for the midnight showing of whatever the classic movie of the week was. Not there. She contemplated whether it would be uncouth to wait for him by the bathrooms, but then thought she heard his voice out on the mall.

  She poked her head out, saw him standing a few feet off, back to the theater, talking on his cell. She felt slightly guilty for having commanded so much of his time today. Other people needed him. Obviously. His phone was pinched between his right shoulder and his ear while he fished in his pockets for something.

  Shauna decided to wait.

  The mall stores were closed now, and the night crawlers had moved on to their favorite clubs or whatever it was they did on weekend nights these days. A security guard cruised by. Though Wayne wasn’t talking loudly, she had no trouble hearing his voice.

  “I can’t explain it . . . Of course I haven’t. Never. I’m not—no.”

  He straightened his head and gripped the phone in his right hand, his back still to Shauna.

  “So we’ve got some kind of Twilight Zone thing going on here, whatever . . . I can’t remember exactly, maybe . . . Who was in charge of cleaning out her loft?”

  Her loft?

  “Well let’s hope they didn’t botch it. Either she’s been lying through her teeth this entire time or your guys failed to—don’t feed me that line!”

  He seemed aware that his volume was climbing and dialed it down low. Shauna strained to hear.

  “I know what I know. I’m giving it to you straight. I’ve been with her almost a week. She’s not going to be spoon-fed.”

  A sweat broke out on Shauna’s palms.

  “It’s not too late to make sure she never remembers.”

  Shauna turned away from Wayne as if she might find some explanation behind her for the fear that hit then.

  “Of course you don’t like it. But it’s less risk.”

  There was some misunderstanding, some gross misinterpretation of the words that would explain this conversation away.

  “No. He hasn’t contacted her, but someone’s onto her. I’ll keep a closer eye on her, see what I can figure out. I’ve got to get back in. I’ll call you . . .”

  She did not hear the rest. She bolted back into the theater, under the watchful eyes of gargoyles. She set her cup of tea on the floor by her seat, shaking so badly that she knocked it over. She fumbled through her purse for a tissue to blot up the mess, then bent over and dabbed at the tea. The tissue came apart in her hands.

  A shadow blocked the tiny safety lights in the floor.

  “Spill?” Wayne whispered.

  She stuffed the soggy shreds into the empty cup and nodded, tried to compose herself. “Everything okay?” If she had misunderstood—surely she had misunderstood—he would explain this new fear away.

  “Upset stomach,” was all he said, and he settled back into the chair to watch the film.

  11

  Shauna lay awake in her bedroom at the guesthouse, watching the digital clock tick off numbers through two o’clock, then three.

  Who had Wayne been talking to? She contemplated trying to get hold of his phone but got only as far as opening her bedroom door onto the silent living room before deciding that was an idiot’s idea. She eased her door shut, released the knob, and climbed back into bed.

  She pulled the blanket up to her chin.

  When Shauna was a kindergartener, her mother taught her a ditty to say in the nights when bad dreams frightened her. How did it go? It had not come to mind for many, many years, so when Shau
na found herself saying it aloud, the rhyme surprised her.

  God is with me. Jesus is here. The Spirit is greater than my fear.

  Tonight, though, the words did not comfort her. Instead, she was pricked with sadness for having forgotten what is was like to have such childlike, simple faith in a good God. Was that something she could ever reclaim for herself?

  Her thoughts turned to the blond reporter in the smoky rain jacket.

  An eyewitness puts a second passenger in the car with you.

  Who was his eyewitness? And who could the passenger be?

  She needed to find this Smith. How could a person track down a freelancer named Smith with no more information than that?

  Shauna wondered where her laptop was. She needed to do some online investigation.

  Newspaper archives search.

  Accident report request.

  Neither of which might turn up anything that Wayne hadn’t already told her.

  Was Wayne her protector or a trickster?

  She didn’t know. She had honestly believed he cared about her.

  He did care about her. She was overreacting again. In fact, she was certain there was an explanation for his conversation that would embarrass her gross interpretation.

  It’s not too late to make sure she never remembers.

  Shauna sprang up in her bed like a bear trap, breathless. Her phone was beeping. She looked at the clock. Six thirty-two. She must have dozed.

  She grabbed up her phone. New text message. As far as she knew, only Wayne and Uncle Trent had this number. Wayne was in the next room, and Trent didn’t see the point of texting when a person could talk. Who then?

  From: Unknown

  > U R surrounded by liars

  Shauna slapped the phone shut.

  Was it a threat or a warning?

  Either she’s been lying through her teeth, or your guys failed.

  She put a hand on her night table to balance her rise from the bed. Pill bottle number four fell off and rattled when it hit the floor—her heart jumped at the sound—then rolled to rest under the frame. She recalled a part of her very first conversation with Dr. Carver:

  The drugs erase memories?

  No, they work by suppressing the intensity of the emotions associated with your memory.

  Shauna got down on her hands and knees and groped for the bottle, still clutching the phone in her other hand. How was it, then, that her days had been filled with intense emotions and no clear memories at all? Why was her head filled with visions of delusional . . . whatever Dr. Harding had called them, rather than with reality?

  And now fear.

  When she had the bottle in hand, Shauna stared at the number four. She didn’t even know what this was. She unscrewed the cap and examined the tab-let, a little round orange thing that looked as harmless as an ibuprofen.

  Was Dr. Carver a liar too?

  Shauna took a gamble. She tipped her morning dosage of pills into her hand and flushed them down the toilet.

  What was she not supposed to remember?

  She flipped her phone back open and tried to reply to the text.

  > What do you mean?

  Unknown recipient. Undeliverable.

  Her hands shook.

  Was someone trying to hurt her?

  Wayne?

  Really, now. If Wayne wanted to hurt her, he’d had no shortage of opportunities.

  Was Wayne her bodyguard?

  It’s not too late to make sure . . .

  Nothing was making any sense.

  At six forty-five Shauna went into the kitchen, where Khai was preparing tea. Khai, who implied that Wayne was of questionable character. Or was it Khai that Shauna needed to be mindful of?

  “Do you know who packed up my loft?” Shauna asked without a greeting.

  “Yes.”

  Shauna had been so certain Khai would deny knowing that it took an extra second for the affirmative to register.

  “Why do you want to know?” Khai asked.

  The real reason behind her question only revealed itself then—because Wayne wanted to know.

  “I can’t find my laptop. I need it.”

  Khai scooped loose-leaf jasmine tea into a ceramic filter and set the core into the center of the teapot. Then she lifted the hot kettle off the stove and poured boiling water over the leaves.

  “I’m pretty sure Mrs. McAllister confiscated that.”

  Confiscated? “Patrice went through my things?”

  “I helped her.”

  “Helped who what?” Wayne stood in the kitchen’s door frame, stretching and eyeing the teapot. “That smells great, Khai.”

  Khai covered the teapot with a cozy and carried it to the table. “Shauna’s wondering who packed her things.”

  “The senator hired a company for that, didn’t he?” Wayne said.

  Shauna frowned. If he knew already, why had he asked—?

  “Two movers did the heavy work,” Khai said.

  Wayne crossed his arms and sat on one of the wooden chairs. “There you go,” he said to Shauna. “Are you looking for something?”

  “I was . . . I’m looking . . . my laptop. I want to request a copy of the accident report,” she said. “Online.”

  “I’ll call Joe Delaney and get it from him,” Wayne said. “That’s what attorneys are for.”

  Shauna turned on her heel and left the room, overwhelmed by a fresh kind of confusion. She didn’t know which questions to ask anymore, or whom she could trust for true answers.

  “Shauna?” she heard Wayne call. But she couldn’t answer.

  After an hour waiting for a return phone call from Mr. Delaney, Shauna asked Wayne to please get her out of the house again.

  “Let’s go to my loft. It might trigger something,” she said, pacing the living room.

  Wayne sat on the Morris chair before answering, taking care not to lean against the adjustable back, which was missing its cushion and needed its supportive pole repaired. He seemed to be evaluating her agitation, which only made her more nervous. “I’m pretty sure someone else is living there now. We can’t just walk in.”

  “You’re right. You’re right.”

  She tinkered with the idea of driving out to the accident site, then dis-missed it when the prospect turned her stomach to lead. Soon, she would go. When she was ready.

  But today she would try to focus on memory aids that were outside of her own mind. Something concrete, tangible. Something that would perhaps hold out more promise than yesterday’s dead ends and terrifying revelations. She needed the accident report, and she didn’t want to wait on some busy lawyer to get it to her.

  “Let’s go to the sheriff ’s records office,” Shauna said.

  “I’m sure the attorney will call us back.”

  “By Monday, maybe. My trial is weeks away. I’m not even on his radar yet.”

  “You’re Landon McAllister’s daughter. Of course you’re on his radar.”

  “Then why hasn’t he called back?”

  Wayne shook his head and stood to get his jacket. “Keys are in the truck.”

  As she followed him out, she did consider that she might need to find her own transportation now. If Wayne could not be trusted, she might need to be mobile. She would ask Khai to find out where Rudy’s car and its keys were. Maybe she could use that for a while, get out on her own if it became necessary.

  Wayne drove to the security gate at the front of the property, and a plain-clothed officer stepped out of the shack, signaling Wayne and Shauna to stop. On the opposite side of the little building, Shauna saw an elderly black man sitting in the driver’s seat of a shiny blue Lincoln. His pure white hair nearly brushed the top of the interior. His kind face captured her attention. He lifted his fingers off the steering wheel in a courteous wave to her and nodded.

  Something about the easy movement of his long fingers made her think about shaking his hand. She imagined it would be warm and gentle, and that he would put her at ease with a crinkle-eyed
smile.

  Wayne rolled down his window to talk to the guard.

  “This here’s a Dr. Jeremy Ayers,” the man said, referring to a small note-pad. “Says you’re a patient of his, Ms. McAllister? Was hoping to see you. We don’t have his name in any of our records, though.”

  She had another doctor?

  “Does she have an appointment with him?” Wayne asked, tilting his head for a better view.

  “No, sir.”

  “I don’t recognize him,” Shauna said, though she wished she did.

  “He’s not someone you might have seen before the accident?”

  Shauna shrugged. “Maybe he could call—”

  “Shauna’s got a qualified team already,” Wayne said to the guard without looking at her. She frowned at the back of his head.

  Dr. Ayers had opened the Lincoln’s door and placed a foot on the paved drive.

  Wayne started rolling up his window. “Get his plate number, would you? In case this becomes a problem?”

  The guard nodded, and Wayne pulled through the gates before the doctor fully exited the car.

  “Why did you do that? He might have been able to tell me something.”

  “Look, Shauna, your amnesia isn’t exactly classified information. You don’t need complete strangers dropping in with lies about how they’re your long-lost friends.”

  “He hardly seemed the type.”

  “The type is all kinds, Ms. McAllister. Your father might be the United States’ president in less than a month.”

  Shauna sighed and resigned herself—for the time being—to Wayne’s over-protective behavior. He did have a point. Later she would see if Dr. Ayers’s phone number was listed.

  “I’m not sure the report is going to tell you anything new,” Wayne had said as they pulled out of West Lake.

  “Maybe it won’t.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “You worried about the drug thing?”