by Lee Boschen
"You already have,” she said.
He wondered how she could know just the right thing to say to make him feel ten feet tall. He drew a deep breath. Then he noticed that she still had her pistol in her hand. “Don't you think you could put that away now?"
She shook her head. “Be just like him to double back thinking we'll have let our guard down. That's why I turned out the lights.” She turned to Miko. “But he can't get too close without you knowing it, can he, girl?"
Good God, Richard thought. This is the legacy Alex Wright has given her. She sits in a darkened house waiting for him to come and try to kill her. That, and a closet full of clothes she can only dream of wearing. His eyes filled with tears, partly compassion, partly rage at Wright. He scrubbed his tears away on his shirt sleeve.
"Your shooting back must have come as a real shock to him, eh?"
"Yes. I only hope I nicked him, so—"
"Nicked him? I remember your saying that you'd like to shoot him in his black heart. And you were right. That's what he deserves."
She paused to draw a deep breath. “Yes. But if he left bloodstains in the car for the police to analyze, that'll be enough. He doesn't believe in DNA printing, but the courts do."
"Will they catch him?"
She shook her head. “No, and that's the bad part. They probably won't.” She gave a weary shrug. “Here's the way it's really going to go. He'll toss the gun off a bridge into Big Eagle Creek. Sure, they'll find his car. Maybe on the street, maybe in a ditch somewhere, but it won't matter because it'll turn out to have been stolen. He'll explain that he was in this very busy bar, having a few drinks to relax on a Saturday night, and of course he had no idea someone was stealing his car to come out here and shoot at us. When the police check, they'll discover that the bar was so busy that no one will remember his having been there. But what'll you bet that there'll be a cocktail waitress who'll swear he's been there for at least an hour. For that she'll be very well paid. And he'll walk."
They were quiet for a moment, then she said, “I didn't know he was going to be shooting at us. I guess you know we could both be lying dead on the front porch."
He laughed mirthlessly. “As a matter of fact, I had thought—” He stopped, started again. “Listen,” he said, “I'm glad we kissed each other before this happened, because it doesn't seem proper to me to call a woman ‘honey’ if I haven't kissed her. But since we have kissed each other, and quite properly if I do say so myself, would you mind if I call you honey?"
Her face grew soft, and he saw her swallow hard. “No, I wouldn't mind at all."
"I'm sorry to have brought this on you, honey."
"You didn't bring it on me, darling. May I call you darling?"
"Please,” he said. “Please do."
"Alex Wright brought it on me. But no more. I'm ready to go with your plan now."
"My plan? You mean, poke the lion with a sharp stick?"
"Yes."
He nodded. “Yeah. We don't seem to have a whole lot of choice any more, do we? So, how do we go about getting hold of him to start?"
"We won't have to do anything. He'll call. He always has after he's done something he wants me to know about."
"I want to be the one to talk to him. I think the message will be more effective coming from another man. He won't like that, will he?"
She shook her head. “No, he won't.” She was quiet for an instant. “Tell him you've got his woman—that he doesn't matter any longer. That will hit Alex where he'll hurt most, his vanity."
She gave him a little lopsided grin. “Besides, it's true.” Standing, she took him by the hand, pulling him to his feet. “Come on, I want you to hold me while I think how nice it is to be alive."
Leslie relished the feel of his arms, strong around her. She felt the heat of his body, and she remembered the string of kisses down her back. Her voice was muffled against his throat. “You know,” she said, “I haven't even known you twenty-four hours, and it's all settled in my mind.” She drew back and looked at him. “Should I be telling you that?"
He nodded, smiling. “Yes, you should. But I know what you mean. If we admit our feelings to each other, we become vulnerable, don't we? We can hurt each other with a word or a glance that we'd ignore from a stranger. So should I hide my feelings from you? You, of all the people in the world? I don't think so."
He sighed deeply. “I suppose it really isn't fair that we've had so little time to adjust to each other, but, like it or not, we've been bumped and shouldered into the fast lane. We've seen and done things together that most people never see or do in a lifetime, and we've got more ahead of us. Only twenty-four hours. My God, I feel like I've known you forever."
They were silent for a while, remembering.
"I ought to feel scared at what we're going to do,” she said, “but actually I feel relieved. Before, I always felt like that statue of Atlas, the one where he's supporting the weight of the world on his shoulders. Now you're sharing that weight with me, and I feel almost giddy with joy having you, you of all possible men, share it with me.” Her eyes welled with tears. “And I'm not going to hide that joy from you, no matter how vulnerable it makes me."
His face was unhappy. “Aw, come on, Leslie, don't cry. It tears me up to see you cry."
"You better get used to it, mister, because that's part of the package. I haven't let myself cry, or be happy, or be in love—” Her eyes flicked to his as she realized what she had said, then she went on. “But that's all going to change. When I helped you across the road, I crossed a bridge. From the dark into the light. This thing with Alex, it's going to end soon. One way or another. But regardless, I'm never going back across that bridge."
* * * *
The sheriff's crew came and questioned and measured and photographed, and dug from the living room wall the bullet that had shattered the window. They didn't ask about why Richard happened to be there, nor why he wore his stocking cap in the house, and neither Leslie nor Richard saw any need to explain. Finally, the crew went away and left them in peace.
Leslie dug out an old blanket and Richard covered the shattered window. They left Miko on sentry duty while they went upstairs to bed. He left her at her door. He didn't want to, and she could tell, but all he said was, “We must go looking for my memory. I have to know who I am, Leslie. My number one priority. That's your mission too, remember. Think of a way to find out who I am."
"Yes, sir."
His kiss was little more than a dry peck, but it warmed her from one end to the other and she went happily to bed.
But not to sleep. Her mind was a tumble of new emotions. She got out of bed finally and tiptoed across the hall to sit on the edge of his bed. Looking down at him as he slept, she thought how crazy all this was. He'd come into her life as helpless to defend himself as a baby, and he'd taken over without lifting his hand. The thought of sharing her life with him made her shiver inside.
"You kiss me and I become a wanton,” she whispered. She felt her cheeks burn in the dark room. “I do,” she murmured. “You touch me and I want more.” He'd told her she was forever responsible for him, and she didn't even know who he was. She shook her head in wonder at what had happened in so short a time. Could love come so quickly? Sighing, she bent and kissed him. “Sleep well, my darling."
She returned to her bed for more restless tossing until, finally, the idea she had been searching for came to her. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she switched on the lamp on the bedside table and pulled a tablet and a pencil from the table drawer. “High school yearbooks,” she wrote. Placing the tablet back on the table, she switched off the light and lay back in bed, pulling the fluffy duvet close under her chin. Her mission accomplished, she fell asleep almost instantly.
* * * *
Red-faced with fury, Alex Wright strode around his bedroom, shouting. “You bitch, shooting at me like that. You ruined my car. You could have hit me.” He looked in one of the mirrors in the room, aghast at the heretic thoug
ht, and his hand rose to lovingly touch his face. She could have hit me.
But she'll pay, he thought, finally calming. Oh, yes, she'll pay. Whore. That brat of hers wasn't his. That DNA crap hadn't fooled him. Meriwether had faked it somehow. But now it was his turn.
My turn. He toyed with that thought. Finally, he changed his mind again—no point in hurrying now. Find out who the guy was. Play a little cat and mouse—that would be fun. As long as he didn't string it out too long.
One fine day, soon, when he was ready...
He walked into the bathroom and opened a case containing seven matching straight razors. He opened one and watched the light reflect from the polished steel for a moment, then slowly drew the back of the blade across his throat. He smiled. “My turn."
Chapter Eight
"High school yearbooks?” Richard asked. “How do you figure they'll help?"
He was rumpled from having to wear the same clothes again. She'd have to do something about that, Leslie thought. She had loaned him a razor so he could shave and he looked pretty good to her, hunched over his morning coffee, staring at her quizzically across the kitchen table.
"I'll have to have those clothes,” she said. “Where you're going today, you'll need to look sharp. You're going to be meeting some very important people."
"What I'm getting at is, if I knew where my high school yearbooks were, I'd know where I lived and we could go straight there."
"I'll put the washables in the washer, and press your jacket and trousers. You'll have to shine your own shoes. I don't do shoes."
"Leslie..."
"Today we're going to two places. First we're going to the Prince George restaurant in Indianapolis. There's a good chance they'll know you, and that'll save a lot of time in learning who you are."
"Prince George. You've mentioned that place before. Why do you think they'll know me?"
Leslie sighed. “Because you went there every Friday for the dinner special."
"I did?"
"Yes, and I know because I went there too. The Prince George has an early-diner special to fill in the empty spot between five and seven o'clock. The place is nearly empty, the service is good, and the special is a real bargain. That's why I went there. But, anyway, what I'm getting at is that they might—"
"Did I see you there?"
Leslie nodded. “Every Friday."
He looked pensively at her. “I wonder ... You suppose it's possible that's why I went there? To see you?"
She smiled. “Sometimes I did wonder.” Remembering how they'd stared at each other, she felt her face warm. “But, anyway, they might know your name from your credit card."
Richard grinned. “Ah-h, yes. Sure. And that's about as low profile as we can get. We can just ask to see the copy from ... was I there last Friday?"
Leslie nodded. And I thought—did I hope—you were going to approach me.
He sat tapping a finger on the table. “Gone. All gone from my memory. How could I forget you?” He sighed deeply. “You said we were going two places?"
How could I forget you? Leslie let the warm feeling wash over her. He knows just the right thing to say to make me feel good. “We're going to bring Coleen home from my mom's place in Indianapolis. Then, my backup plan—if we strike out at the Prince George—tomorrow, while Coleen's in school, we're going to visit every high school in Indianapolis, looking in copies of their yearbooks for a Richard who graduated ... hm-m, when? How old do you suppose you are?"
"Oh. Look in their yearbooks. Ah-h, yes. Now, that's really neat, Leslie. And low profile too—who'd ever look for us in a high school? And surely I'll be in a yearbook somewhere.” He looked at her admiringly. “Where do you come up with these ideas, anyway?"
She couldn't help it, she preened. “It's that sharp legal mind."
"How old do I look?"
She stared at him. Just right, she thought, that's how old you look. She started thinking other things, too, remembering the long, naked length of him, and vividly recalling the awesome effect of his kiss on her body. Something of her thoughts must have appeared in her look, because he stirred restlessly. “Oh,” she hazarded a guess, “mid-thirties, I suppose."
"So,” he said, “if I graduated at age seventeen, and I'm thirty five now—"
"Whoa. Wait a minute. Seventeen? Would you have graduated at seventeen? That seems pretty young."
"Yes, and just barely seventeen at that. I was a sophomore in college on my eighteenth birthday."
"How do you know that,” she asked sharply.
He stared at her, tensing at her tone, finally relaxing. “I don't know."
She grimaced. “Okay, we'll have to go with it. So let's say you're thirty five now ... we need to go back eighteen years."
"Plus or minus a year,” Richard said, “just in case."
"All right, we need to look at yearbooks for seventeen, eighteen and nineteen years ago. I just wish you could remember which high school you graduated from."
"Oh, Lord,” he said, struck by a sudden thought, “what if I didn't graduate from an Indianapolis high school?"
She rolled her eyes. “Richard, please, let's not borrow more trouble. Back to the business at hand, can I have those clothes now?"
"What was that you said about Coleen?"
Leslie sighed. “She's in Indianapolis. She and her grandmother went to see a Disney film Friday night, and mom asked me if she could stay over. But since she has to be in school here Monday morning..."
He began nodding. “We have to go get her today,” he finished. He got up and stood staring out of the kitchen window.
Leslie watched him for a moment. “Something about that worries you?"
"Yes, frankly. Don't you think she might be better off at her grandmother's till this business with Wright—oh, hell, he's her..."
Leslie nodded as his voice trailed off. “That's right. He's her father."
Richard's question was hesitant. “Didn't you tell me that he claimed she wasn't his?"
"Yes."
"Do you think he really believes that?"
"Yes."
Richard frowned, reluctant to accept that. “But surely you must know what that means. There isn't any feeling of ... there's no love.” His words burst from him. “What the hell, Leslie, she's in the same danger as you. If we bring her here, you're increasing the risk from ... my God, from her own father."
Leslie shook her head. “No, not as much as when she's separated from me. With us apart he could take her, and then use her as a hostage to make me come to him on his own terms. And we'd both be lost. Together, perhaps one of us could save the other."
Richard had a sudden vision of Leslie trading shots with Alex Wright, perhaps dying in a struggle to save Coleen. He felt his heart begin to race as his anger flared.
"It was never like this before,” Leslie continued. “Sure, the threat's always been there, but I could hide it, work hard enough not to think about it. Now it's out in the open—Coleen, you, maybe even mom, everyone I love, at risk."
Had she really said that, she thought. Love? Her eyes fled from his, seeking safety in the corners of the room. Love. She'd known him one day. One day, and in that day he'd turned her life upside down, the danger was greater than it had ever been, and she knew nothing of him. He could be married and have a house full of children. But it didn't matter, she realized. None of it mattered. He knew. She'd already admitted loving—her thoughts were broken when he spoke.
"There's no way you're going to be able to live with that for very long, wondering if today's the day when Alex decides..."
"No,” she said, “not without you here to help carry the load."
He walked to where she sat and took her hands, urging her to her feet and putting his arms around her. “Where else?” he murmured finally. “Where else would I be?” He was quiet for a moment. “So I get to meet Coleen and your mother today."
She leaned back to look at him carefully. “Scared?"
"No, not exactly,
but they're important people to you. That makes them important to me too.” He looked down at his rumpled clothing. “I'd like to make a good impression. Do you think we could do something to neaten these up a bit?"
"Yes, of course.” She grinned. “Now why do you suppose I didn't think of that?"
* * * *
The Prince George restaurant was busy with pre-Sunday Brunch bustle, but Leslie finally managed to corner the manager. “We're very busy right now,” he said. “Can't it wait?"
Leslie shook her head. “A couple of questions,” she said. “Two minutes and we're gone."
The manager nodded. “All right. What do you want to know?"
"Do you know me?” Richard asked.
Another nod. “Of course. You're a regular here. Every Friday evening.” The manager glanced at Leslie. “And so are you."
"What is my name?” Richard asked.
"Your name?” The manager looked closely at Richard. “You don't know your name?"
Richard threw up his hands. “Well, yes and no. I know my first name, but not my last. I was in an accident, and I've lost my memory. Post traumatic amnesia, the doctor says. So we came here hoping to find out who I am."
"I'm sorry,” the manager said. “I don't know your name. Only that you come here every Friday evening."
"That's all right,” Richard said. “I didn't really expect you to know me. What I'd like to do is to go through the charge card slips for last Friday, looking for a man named Richard something."
"That wouldn't do you any good.” The manager looked at Leslie. “It would work with you, yes—” His gaze flicked back to Richard. “But not you. You never use a credit card."
"What?"
The manager shook his head. “Normally, we don't keep a lot of change. We don't need it, because most people pay with credit cards. In any one evening I could probably count on the fingers of one hand ... But not you. Every Friday it's the same thing. You come in for the special; fourteen fifty. And you pay with a fifty-dollar bill, and take a lot of our change. Every Friday."
* * * *
A tall, dark-haired woman, Leslie's mother, June Carson, had a little more energy than she could handle. Part of her had to be moving all the time. A foot jiggling, fingers tapping restlessly on the arm of her chair, she listened to their story about the attack on Richard. Her green eyes probed Richard's when she heard of his memory loss, and they opened wide when Leslie told her of their being shot at last night.
