Forget Me Not

by Lee Boschen

  "Wait till Coleen hears about you,” she whispered. Her daughter had noticed the two of them eyeing each other, and tonight, again, she'd asked her mother why she didn't just talk to him. How could she explain to Coleen about Alex? So she shook her head and tried not to look at the stranger again. But then, when she got up to leave the Prince George restaurant, and their eyes met...

  She wondered if he was married. She had checked, of course, weeks ago. He didn't wear a wedding ring. Of course, lots of married men didn't wear rings, or took them off when they went trolling. But when she'd looked tonight there wasn't any indentation, nor a giveaway pale stripe around his finger. So, was he married? And why did it matter so much?

  She heaved a deep sigh. Why had she bothered to check? She knew men were off limits to her. Alex had certainly made that clear enough.

  Still, her stranger was an attractive man. Effortlessly, her mind's eye saw through the blanket and foil, her memory filling in the details. Big—tall and well-proportioned in the classic male vee, wide at the shoulders and narrow at the hips. His muscles flowed the length of him as smoothly as water pours from a pitcher. She grimaced at the thought that his hips were probably smaller than hers.

  Not that he was all that handsome, exactly, but she found his appearance pleasing. She always had. He seemed ... likable. When their eyes had met, dozens of times over the weeks, she hadn't always been the one who looked away. But this evening at the Prince George restaurant had been different. He wanted to approach her. She knew it. The look on his face when they'd stared into each others’ eyes had warmed her to her very core. What would she have done if he'd taken those few steps toward her?

  Her gaze played across his strong features, the firm jaw, the noble nose ... surely he wasn't born with his nose hooked like that. Alex would never have tolerated that; he'd have had it put straight again.

  She tugged the heavy stocking cap down over the man's forehead, adjusting it so that it covered his ears. She had almost gotten sick at the sight of his bloody head wounds, and she wanted to clean away the blood that had run down his face and clotted thickly in his dark hair. But that could wait.

  "Who are you?” she murmured. “Why did someone do this to you? Who was it?” He'd been beaten. In her practice she saw enough to know what had happened. But why?

  Questions, questions, and only he knew the answers. Sighing, she finished her coffee and turned down the lights, then wrapped up in a thick wool blanket and curled up on the chaise longue across the living room from the sofa.

  Twice during the night she got up to check on him. The second time she slipped her hand under the foil to lay her hand on his skin. Smooth and warm. “Ah,” she murmured contentedly. She felt across his chest for his heartbeat. Strong and regular. Kneeling beside him, her hand on the smooth warmth of his skin, the feel of him made her sigh with pleasure.

  Once again she faced the question, should she take him to the hospital? Could she? She tapped pursed lips as she considered the logistics. First, try to start her car, which would balk as long as the temperature hovered in the low teens. Then, somehow, she would have to lug his dead weight out to her car without aggravating his head injuries. She threw up her hands. No way. They would have to come and get him. She lifted the phone to call the hospital. Still no dial tone. Frustrated, she shook the mute instrument angrily, finally dropping it back on its cradle. “This proves it,” she grumbled. “I should have bought a cell phone years ago."

  She gazed down at him. “No trip to the hospital for you tonight,” she murmured. “Perhaps in the morning, after you've had a chance to recover."

  * * * *

  The red Mercedes drifted along the dark suburban street, finally stopping well away from street lights. The short, fat man in the back seat whined petulantly. “Why didn't you stop earlier? I damn near froze to death back here."

  The driver, a big, powerfully built man, got out of the car. “Stop your complaining,” he rasped. “Get out. We have to get away from here. We can't afford to be seen anywhere near this car."

  The short man reached for his cellular phone. “What the hell, I'll call a cab and we—"

  "Idiot!” The other man snatched the phone from his hand. “Christ, Fazz, what are you thinking? We can't call a cab. What if the driver happened to recognize you?"

  "Or you. Just as likely."

  "Maybe,” the big man conceded. “But it's not my picture the driver would have seen in the Star-News."

  "Then I'd have to kill him.” Fazz smiled. “Or her."

  Grimacing in disgust, the big man growled, “God, haven't you had enough killing? Come on, get out. We've got to get moving. We're just asking for trouble staying around his car."

  "You mean we're goin’ to walk?"

  "To your car. It's only a mile or so from here."

  "Me? Walk a mile?” Fazz shook his head, his jowls quivering. “I'll freeze. I'm already chilled to the bone. If you'd watched where you were goin’ instead of watchin’ me, you wouldn't have hit that damned pole. Busted glass flyin’ everywhere, wind screechin’ in."

  The big man turned and started walking away. “I still don't know why you didn't just shoot the poor bastard instead of—made me sick to my stomach to watch you pistol-whipping him,” he muttered.

  "He had it coming,” Fazz snapped as he clambered out of the car. “Him and his damn camera. If he hadn't—"

  "Yeah, yeah. But at least we'd know he's dead. Out in the country like that, nobody would have heard a shot. Or why not use your knife? It sure didn't bother you to use it on the woman. Either way, we'd know he's dead. This way—"

  "Will you leave off your bitchin'? He's dead. By now he's probably frozen stiff as a board.” “Probably."

  "You'll hear about it on TV tomorrow afternoon."

  "I'd better."

  Panting as he hurried along beside his longer-legged companion, Fazz peered up. “Oh? You'd better? Or what? The department give you a raise, did they? You don't want any more of those nice, fat envelopes every week?"

  "Envelopes be damned! Don't you get it? He could put us on Death Row at Michigan City. That what you want?"

  Fazz stopped dead. “Listen, asshole, I'm tired of your mouth. He's dead. You got that? He's dead."

  "All right,” the big man snapped. “Let's say he's dead. And the other two are dead. You think that puts an end to it? Well, think again. Not only are the pictures still missing, but we don't have the film either. And with everybody dead, how are we going to find it?"

  He grabbed his partner by his coat lapels and pulled him close to glare at him. “Doesn't it bother you to know it's sitting out there somewhere, ticking away like a time bomb? Tell me, Fazz, how are we going to find the film?” He shook the little man like a terrier shakes a rat. “Tell me, you kill-happy bastard. Where's the goddam film?"

  Chapter Three

  The screeching sound woke the man and he stared wildly, his muscles tightening, until he finally identified the shrill whistle of a boiling tea kettle. From the sharp bite of pain when he moved his head, he knew he had been hurt. Then, in a rush, the memories came—the ditch, the woman, the incredible effort to cross the road. He started to tense up again, and his head began to pound. Finally, realizing that he was safe, he lay still, his eyes closed, consciously relaxing.

  The pain ebbed.

  After a moment, gingerly raising his head, he could see that he lay on a long sofa, and that he fit there quite comfortably. That was unusual. Ordinarily he had to crook his neck or bend his knees to fit himself onto a sofa.

  His gaze roamed the long room. An old house, he decided, seeing the old-fashioned high ceiling. At one end of the room, stairs angled up to another floor. Drapes framed large windows lit with the dim light of early winter morning. Across from him, a wide arch opened into a dining room. But instead of a table and chairs, he saw a large desk centered under a low-hanging Tiffany lamp. Stacks of files covered the desk. A glowing computer screen illuminated the face of the woman who sat at th
e desk, chin on hand, gazing in rapt attention at the screen.

  As he watched, the raucous screech of the tea kettle finally broke the woman's concentration. She looked up from her work, then got up and walked around the desk, stepping over more files piled on the floor, and left the dining room through a doorway he couldn't see. The tea kettle wailed into silence. In a moment the woman came back, carrying a steaming cup. When she sat down and took a sip, he heard her sigh with pleasure. She leaned back, clearly taking a break from her work, and held the cup with both hands as if to warm them.

  An attractive woman, she drew his gaze like a magnet. Casually dressed, she wore stretch pants, the kind with stirrups to keep them from riding up. They were black, he thought. Or maybe dark gray. Tucked into the pants, she wore a man's white dress shirt, no larger than it had to be, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hair, a shining dark brown under the Tiffany lamp, was tied back in a pony tail which reached down between her shoulder blades.

  A big woman, tall, trim, everything in proportion. Where she was supposed to be little—her waist, her wrists, her ankles—she was. And nicely broad where a woman is supposed to be broad. Under the white shirt she was just right where it's all right for a woman to be large. All smooth, soft curves. A lot of woman.

  He liked her face too. Her mouth was wide, but it fit her. Her lips were pleasantly full. Not voluptuous. Her nose, he observed, was straight and sharp without any cute little upturn at the end. She had a slight widow's peak, and beneath it her eyes were a light color he couldn't make out.

  He liked everything about her.

  He turned to lie on his side, and a crackling sound attracted her attention. She sat her cup on the desk and came to stand smiling over him. “Ah-h, you don't know how glad I am to see you awake. How do you feel?"

  He sat up. Too quickly. He gasped as the pain in his head hammered him, and he leaned forward, his face in his hands, as everything shaded into gray, then steadied back to full color. Carefully, he raised his head, catching a look of sympathy on the woman's face. Looking away, down at himself, he discovered that he had been neatly wrapped in foil, tucked in snugly all around, then a sheet, and finally a blanket. When he moved, the noise of the aluminum foil made him raise his eyes to hers. “Foil? What's...?"

  She grinned. She had a charming lopsided little grin, and it made him feel better to see it. “Left over from the Thanksgiving turkey,” she said. “It was to help you come back from hypothermia. The foil helps prevent heat loss and reflects your own body heat back where it can warm you gradually.” She grinned. “At least, that's what they told us in our first-aid courses. And it worked. Your body was cold as ice."

  "Hypothermia,” he murmured. “What I remember is ... God, I was cold.” He sighed deeply. “How did I get here? Last I remember—” He spread his hands. “Everything faded out."

  "You almost made it through the doorway. I pulled you in the rest of the way and tried to call for an ambulance. No luck. The phone was dead, so I stripped off your wet clothes and manhandled you onto the couch. Wrapped you up, and...” She shrugged. “This morning I went out to see why the phone didn't work. I thought maybe the squirrels had chewed the line open again, but it turns out that somebody knocked over the telephone pole. When I saw it this morning, I remembered seeing it on the ground last night, but I was—there you were, all bloody and hurt, and shivering with cold, and I ... it didn't register."

  She was babbling, she knew, something to cover the way her breath had caught in her throat when her gaze met the brilliant blue of his eyes. She sat abruptly, close to him on the couch, and reached out to gather the loose foil and wad it into a ball. Her heart thudded almost painfully in her chest. She changed the subject.

  "Do you know what happened to you? I mean, I can see that you've been hit on the head. I didn't see any injuries on the rest of you, so it—” She thought of the long, naked length of him under his blanket, and she could feel her face warm. “Uh, so it doesn't look like an accident. Do you know how you came to be in the ditch in front of my house?"

  It didn't take him long to remember that. “It was dark. Hard to see anything. But I can remember noises. Motor noises. I have an impression—not a clear memory, mind you—that I was thrown out of a car by the guy who did this.” He pointed to his head.

  Leslie frowned. “Thrown out of a car. Hit on the head and just tossed out, like trash, into a ditch full of ice water. You could have drowned.” The color drained from her face. “Or frozen to death. If I hadn't found you when I did ... It was so close.” She drew a deep breath. “Who do you think would have done a thing like that to you?"

  He was quiet for a long time. Finally, “I don't know."

  She grimaced. “Okay, if not who, then why? Why should

  anyone...?"

  He was silent, mulling over her question. “I don't know. It's like looking into a dark closet in a dark room. I can't see anything."

  She sighed. “How do you feel?"

  He closed his eyes. “Okay, I guess, considering."

  "Your head?"

  He grimaced. “Sore."

  "Not nauseous? No double or blurry vision?"

  "No. Thank you."

  She grinned. “More first aid course. I had to check the pupils of your eyes with a flashlight too."

  Yes. That must have been the bright light during the long darkness. He nodded as he recalled that little bit of memory.

  "I owe you,” he said. “And I thank you."

  She didn't pretend it was nothing. They both knew he had been well on his way to dying out there leaning against the downed telephone pole. She smiled.

  She has a nice smile, he thought. This close he could see some past unhappiness written on her face—she looked like a woman who'd had her full share of trouble, but had managed to end up on her feet. And he could also see the color of her eyes—light golden brown. Beautiful, and they combined with her smile to hit him like a shot of bourbon on an empty stomach. He licked suddenly dry lips as he realized what an attractive woman she was.

  "Actually, it's Miko you owe,” she said.

  "Uh...” He pulled himself back into the conversation. “Miko?"

  She pointed to a large, mostly black dog curled up in the corner, its head on its paws, watching him.

  "Oh, a Siberian husky,” he said. “Magnificent animals."

  She turned to talk to the dog. “You hear that, Miko, the man thinks you're magnificent.” She turned back to him. “She came and got me when she heard you out there. You wouldn't believe the trouble I had getting you in here."

  He stared at Miko. She must be the enormous animal he had seen last night. How different things had appeared when he looked at them from his hands and knees. “Thank you, Miko."

  Miko got up and padded over to where he sat, sniffing him carefully. He felt very friendly toward Miko, and perhaps she sensed it. He'd always been partial to Siberian huskies, and maybe she could tell that too. He held up a hand with his palm toward her, and after another careful sniff she licked it. He put his arms around her neck and hugged her, relishing the feel of her thick, soft fur. She licked his ear and it tickled. He pulled away, pleased with her, and she sat down, then curled up at his feet. They were friends.

  "Last night,” he said, “when I first saw you, I wondered if I was dreaming all the things that were happening to me. I realized I wasn't when I smelled your perfume. What is it?"

  She blushed, a rosy pink that swept across her face and neck, and descended into the shadows in the vee of her shirt. She lifted a hand to twist at a shirt button. “It's, uh ... Tea Rose. Do you like it?"

  "Very much. You're wearing it now, aren't you? You should always wear it. That way, even in a darkened room, I'd know it was you."

  Leslie stared at him, nonplused by the tremor she had felt at his words. Shaking her head slightly she moved the conversation onto more secure ground. “Who are you? I hope you don't mind—I went through your pockets, but they were empty."

 
; "Empty?” He raised a hand to touch his head. “Well, that explains this, doesn't it? I must have been robbed. That has to be it. I mean, nobody goes around with their pockets empty. Sure, I was hit on the head and robbed. Anyway, my name is, uh...” He stopped. “I'm—"

  He couldn't say his name. It seemed as though it was just out of reach in his mind, and if he tried a little harder he'd be able to say it. He concentrated, but his name didn't come. He swallowed, suddenly dry-mouthed with fear. And he tried again. “I'm...” He strained to say the familiar words, his name, but he couldn't. “I don't know ... what my name is.” He stared at her, breathless with sudden panic that attacked out of proportion at his inability to do such a simple thing. His heart began to pound, every beat a hurtful throb in his head.

  "Easy. Easy,” she soothed. “It's all right."

  Suddenly icy cold, he shivered, curling up and pulling the blanket close around him.

  "Not to worry,” she told him. “Something else they told us in class. ‘Don't expect the trauma victim to be normal for a while. They may not know what happened to them. They may not even know who they are. But it's usually only temporary.’”

  He looked up at her. “Only temporary. How long do you suppose—” He had a desperate idea. “How about trying some men's names on me. Maybe one of them will spark, um..."

  "Harry. Bob. No? Okay, Robert. William, or Bill? Jack? Tom? Gene? Chuck? Uh, how

  about—"

  "Nah.” He shook his head. “It could have been any of those, and I wouldn't know it."

  "How about Lester? Wouldn't that be something? Les and Les."

  He glanced at her, seeing her smile fade. She stiffened and leaned back, away from him. Her movement was very small, but it clearly announced her withdrawal, and he wondered why.

  "Well,” she said, “I mean...” Then, sharply, she asked, “What's your office phone number?"