by Ross Elder
I’ve been wandering around with Toni this whole time, and I’m pretty sure it is obvious that we were…you know, intimate, in our relationship. Is that upsetting Amanda? Did I ditch her during my state of confusion and not even know it?
“Hey, the nurse, Toni, I…I’m sorry. I feel like something…was…you know? I have lost much of my memory but not all of it. I remember a few…things. I’m sorry.”
“Things? Interesting way of putting it.” She’s laughing and looking at Max. “Look, Morgan,” The emphasis again. What is that about? She’s approaching me. Her right hand is touching my chest affectionately. “We are grownups. Two consenting adults who enjoyed each other’s company from time to time. We weren’t…an item. There is no heartbreak here. It was nothing exclusive, and it wasn’t something either of us needs to feel guilty about.”
“Oh.” Well, that was awfully clinical. Geez. A little hurtful, really. Like, it wasn’t anything special? Wow. Hey, Mrs. Harris, get out of my house! Tramp. “Well, I’m glad it wasn’t something painful. I would feel terrible if I had hurt you and wasn’t even aware of it.” See? I guess I showed her, huh? Her hand is rubbing up and down my chest then comes to rest on the side of my neck. Tiptoes and a soft peck on the cheek confirm her emotional state.
“You two were…?” Max let the words fade away as he wagged his index finger back and forth between us.
“Oh, yeah. We certainly…were.” Amanda is reaching for Max’s hand for an introduction. “A pleasure.”
“Mrs.…uh…Amanda…I have to get back on track. What the hell is going on? What is this place? Why do you have a key? And why do I have keys to two different townhouses? I still haven’t worked it all out.”
“Wow, your memory really has been wiped, huh? I wasn’t sure if it was partly an act you were putting on for the nurse’s benefit.” She seems concerned now.
“Very real. Scary. I’m lost.”
“Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry. Here, I’ll show…wait. Um, is Max, like, in on this? Is it okay to do this in front of him?” She made no attempt to lower her voice or spare Max’s feelings on the matter. It was a business question, and I’m quite sure she was prepared to dismiss Max and send him away if I hesitated even a moment. Max rolled his eyes and looked away, examining the kitchen area.
“Max is an old friend. I’m fairly certain he knows more than I do about all of this at this point.”
“Okay!” She just became bouncy and animated. It’s as though having this secret, this knowledge, gives her some sort of thrill. “Let’s start upstairs, in the bedroom.’
Max pumped his eyebrows up and down a few times in a passable Groucho Marx impersonation. I had to stifle a chuckle. What are we, fourteen years old? Jesus. Amanda witnessed it all.
“Boys! Pay attention. We’re only going over this once.” Holy shit. Flashbacks to the 8th grade.
Amanda is quick and efficient. She is moving, speaking, and gesticulating in what I can only imagine is the same demeanor used when she is trying to sway a potential renter. The tour was relatively quick and sterile. It was all familiar to me. Slowly, I settled into understanding; sort of a ‘feeling’ of understanding. By the time, we entered the third bedroom, I was relaxed. I stayed back a little and let her explain everything to Max while I observed. It felt as though she was trying to sell my townhouse to Max. My townhouse. Mine.
Max and I were guided into the third bedroom, which was still emitting a pale, blue glow. All the computers were still running, still confusing me with their images and scrolling data.
Max was wide-eyed and grinning. “Whoa, dude. This is a pretty nice setup. Looks a lot like your old workstation at the office.”
“It does? Oh, yeah. I guess it does.” A few memories emerged; faded and weak, but there.
Amanda went through the explanation of the computers. From the one displaying a graphic representation of my phone, I can be messaged, called, emailed, or I can send out those same communications. The scheduling program was designed to allow for premade messages to be delivered at specified times. That is useful for creating excuses to leave parties early. I’m sure that wasn’t the original intent, but Amanda explained that I left a client “meet and greet” early one night so I could come home to her. I’m sure that was much more entertaining than cold shrimp and stuffy millionaires, but I have no memory of it.
“Hey, where did you get this program?” Max is staring down at the laptop with all the scrolling links and windows that pop up and then fade from view.
“I…uh…” Something prevented me from formulating an answer.
“He stole it.” What the fuck, Amanda?
“Stole…dammit! I thought it looked familiar. You’re going to get us all arrested, dude. Seriously.” Max is laughing a little, but I think his concern is legitimate.
“Well, remind me not to involve you in any future crimes, Mrs. Harris! Loose lips, and all that.” Amanda pinched the skin at my right triceps. Yikes, that hurt. She’s smiling and has a strange, maniacal look in her eyes. “Ow.”
“You had no problem telling me about it so I assume you have no problem telling Max.”
Oh, my God, I did. I totally stole that program from my old department at the CIA. Wait, I was involved in its development, though. Yes. Yes, it is coming back to me slowly. Link analysis, pre-programmed queries triggered by keywords identified within online posts, social media, news, op-ed pieces. It was confusing at the moment, but I think it makes sense. Input queries and target websites. The program extracts critical pieces and looks for mimics or even similarities located on other websites and social media. It keeps working as long as it finds “linked” articles and generates a report of how any individual websites are propagating the same information. I get it. It is trying to locate the originating source of the data and identify offspring websites that may be covertly owned by the originator.
Max is clicking the mouse on that program, examining it. He seems fascinated. “Hey, you knew this photo was a fake? I saw this thing friggin everywhere over the last couple of years.”
“Well, it isn’t necessarily fake. It is a photograph, it just isn’t of the people it claims to be. They modified it. Just enough to create a resemblance.” Wow. That came spilling out without me even having to think about it. That’s important. I remembered something naturally, without having to force it, or being triggered by something. Now I’m smiling like a dumb kid.
“There’s a whole file on that Upton guy.” Max is still clicking on things.
“A lot of his stuff is coming straight from SVR connected outlets.” The SVR, or, Sluzhba vneshney razvedki, is the successor of the old Soviet Union’s First Chief Directorate of the KGB. The wall may have fallen in 1989, and the Soviet Union may have dissolved in 1991, but the Russian Active Measures machine barely even slowed down. “They are more active today than they ever were back during the cold war. The internet is to blame for much of it, really. Access is just too easy now. They can spread information, disinformation, and propaganda at a rate no one would have imagined thirty years ago. The web is like the gift that keeps on giving, as far as the SVR is concerned.”
“There you are.” Amanda quickly embraced me. It was genuine and affectionate. And, well, it gave me a tickling feeling in the pit of my stomach. “That’s the man I know.” She takes a deep breath. Her little hands are on her cheeks. I’m not sure if she is a little teary-eyed. “Okay, this way!” Now she’s off, bidding us follow. Max was slow to stop what he was doing, but I hear his footfalls a few paces behind.
We are in the master bedroom. Amanda is beside the bed near the nightstand. She is pointing toward the black box on the small table.
“Do that.”
“Do what?” I am not sure what she’s trying to say.
“Open it! Open that safe.” She doesn’t move. She’s still pointing. I am half expecting her to start tapping her foot on the floor impatiently.
My thumb against the small, glass plate causes the LED atop the box to ch
ange color from red to green. There is a quick succession of beeps, three of them, and the front of the box slams open, obviously spring-loaded. A rubber stopper on the trapdoor prevents a small handle from crashing into the tabletop. I bend down and peer into the dark recesses of the box. Something is there. I feel like I know what it might be, but I’m unsure. I turn on the small lamp for a better look. It’s the grip of a handgun. I own a gun. I own a gun, and I’m apparently a very safe gun owner concerned about access by unauthorized persons.
Yes! I’m a gun owner. I…actually, I really like firearms. It’s all there in my mind, somewhere in the forest of images and potentially false memories. Guns. Shooting. Target practice. Tactical training rotations. Handguns. Rifles. A shotgun. Boom, boom, boom. Failure drill – two to the chest and one to the face. Jesus, I know this stuff! Holy shit. There’s more. I straighten and look toward the closet door. It’s a walk-in closet, large, perhaps eight feet deep. I’m fascinated and walk toward it.
The door is open, and I can feel Amanda behind me. Close behind me. Max must be there too because I can sense it. Something about the changes in the sound of the room. Strange.
At the back of the closet, there is a hanger bar populated by various shirts, jackets, and suits. Without thinking, I approach the bar and place my hands between two suit jackets, one black, the other a navy blue. I push them apart to reveal a sliding door, also locked with a biometric sensor. Thumb to glass, there is a beep and a click. I slide the door open. More guns. Lovely, wonderful guns. Two AR15-style rifles, one full-size, similar to an M16A4, the other a short-barreled rifle, something that would require special tax stamps. The barrel length is around ten inches and is capped with a Gemtech suppressor that adds another six inches to its length.
A bolt-action rifle in .300 WM is in the left-most standing rack. A Mossberg 12-gauge pump is in the right-most. Four additional handguns sit at the bottom of the weapons rack, angled upward, held in place by ceramic pegs penetrating the barrels. The rack is relatively rough; sanded wood with felt strips in the places where the weapons touched the rack. I made this. I built this into the closet myself. I’m no carpenter, but it is utilitarian. Someone else installed the door and lock, though. I can’t remember who. Now I’m worried about their trustworthiness. I will do what I can to remember who it was so that small anxiety can be relieved. I wouldn’t have used someone I didn’t know and trust. I don’t think so, anyway.
“Sweet,” Max says, almost a whisper.
I turn quickly and lock eyes with Amanda. “Why? Why the two townhouses?”
“One for you…that would be this one, and one for meetings with people you don’t know. You know, like that nurse girl. You set all of this up when you rented the place. You wanted a place all to yourself and another place where you could meet clients and receive mail. As far as everyone knows, you live in the other one. When they come looking for you, they come to that one. Your mail goes to that address. This one is like a…I don’t know. A private thing?” She is backing away from the closet door now, wandering back into the bedroom. “This one isn’t even in your name. It is listed under mine.”
“They should be separated more. This is kind of close and risky.” Suddenly I understand personal security concerns.
“They were the only two available at the time. That’s why the other is so… plain. You were hoping another would come available so you didn’t bother even decorating. Not attractive, by the way.”
Chapter Sixteen
September 16, 2016
0530 hours
I’m sitting at my desk in the third bedroom watching the windows and data flow across the screen. Earlier, I reviewed the large stack of mail Amanda delivered yesterday. She held my mail while I was in the hospital. Bank statements clearly indicate large deposits from various clients, I assume, for whom I performed various research tasks. Nothing in the last month, or so. There was a final notice for the cable bill in my real townhouse. I was able to remember my passwords and user IDs so that I could electronically pay that. Several other bills are automatically deducted from my checking account. There’s a limit on withdrawals from that account, presumably in case someone steals my information and tries to finance a trip to the Bahamas. Smart move. A lot of the mail was meaningless to me, or junk mail. I get a lot of catalogs from outdoor-type stores. There were several requests for donations from the NRA because, in their words, a vote for Hillary is a death sentence for my gun rights. I’m a life member. I didn’t donate.
I am a man concerned with my personal safety and security. This paranoia may be a result of my employment with the government. When you know how things happen, and why, you tend to become that way. So many things occur daily around the world, and most of the residents of this planet remain completely unaware of them. Secret wars, covert operations, clandestine meetings, spies, assassins, terrorists, even cabals of wealthy and powerful people playing puppet-master to various world leaders. The world is a shit-show, and it’s spinning out of control. They say information is power and I believe that phrase has never been truer. But, much of the information spreading around the globe is fake.
My name is Morgan McClellan. I am a former employee of the CIA. I am a consultant – a researcher, investigator, and analyst. I’m very good at it. I now believe someone tried to murder me. I believe I was interrogated in an attempt to extract some piece of information. I’m certain the interrogators had no intention of allowing me to live after retrieving said information. Somehow, I escaped or was released. I do not know. I now believe the bodies found in that abandoned home are directly connected to what happened to me.
That detective…shit, I can’t remember his name again…came by for another visit yesterday. I was able to fill him in on some details Max, and I had fleshed out over the previous day. He said it was helpful, but he needed more. He would keep digging. He also thinks the dead bodies are related. He even indicated that he may suspect I was responsible for them, not the victim of them. I don’t like that guy. He’s kind of a dick. I’m not a murderer. I’m not a criminal, whacking rooms full of innocent bystanders. Am I? No. Can’t be. I’m too kind hearted, which is evidenced by my inability to stop worrying about potential hurt feelings between Amanda and me. And, well, I think I still have a thing for her.
Max, who previously made every attempt to rattle my memory, has backed off somewhat. He’s easier on me. He thinks things are coming back to me at regular intervals and there’s no need to be “shocked” back into remembering. He’s staying in town for a few more days just to keep an eye on me.
Amanda is awfully…touchy feely. She is a very expressive woman, and she is not afraid to touch people. Very personable, alluring, and, in many ways, seductive. And, I like it.
I have a crushing headache, currently. Toni is supposed to come back to the other townhouse this morning to bring some new medications to help me sleep and help manage these headaches. We haven’t made love since Max arrived. She seems to be worried about me, and she is giving me space. She thinks the time with Max will help me remember. I miss her, even though it has only been a day, or so. More than anyone, she has been there for me. She essentially saved me, both from myself and my condition. She gave me something, someone, upon whom to focus when my mind was whirling around like a hurricane filled with sharp objects and dark forces. And, uh, you know, sex. Very therapeutic.
In the night, I used the weapons cleaning kit in the closet to prep the bedside pistol. Disassembled, wiped it down, re-oiled, and reassembled. It was already clean, having been cleaned after the last time it was fired. It’s a CZ P-07 with a threaded, suppressor-ready barrel, and raised sights to accommodate their use over the suppressor. The suppressor is in the closet rack because the pistol won’t fit into the nightstand safe with it attached. It feels good in my hand. The other pistols in the closet include a 1911, a Glock, a .357 snub-nosed revolver, and a Sig Sauer. Plenty of ammo. A couple hundred rounds for each pistol. I didn’t count the rifle ammo, but it appears to be a
respectable amount.
The pounding in my head is distracting me. God, it’s horrible. The ringing in my ears comes and goes now. It seems to precede the headaches. There is a constant ring in my right ear, but it now seems I can ignore it for a time. It elevates when I get frustrated, or upset, and the headache either makes it worse or just causes me to take more notice of it.
I need to go back to the other townhouse before Toni arrives. I want to take the CZ with me, but I don’t. I don’t want to frighten her with a sudden appearance of weapons in the hands of a man she knows is suffering from some serious psychological damage. Crazy men with guns probably aren't considered attractive to most women. Some, perhaps. Maybe down in Georgia, or somewhere. Louisiana. I leave the pistol in its safe and walk over. I have a sense that things aren’t right, but I can’t identify what. Something, somewhere, is out of place.
A car door. I turn. Shit, it’s Toni. She’s early. Did she see me leave the other house? No. I don’t think so.
“Well, good morning! You’re up early.” She’s wearing scrubs. I wonder if she worked a night shift at the hospital. She’s carrying a small backpack. Probably a change of clothes.
“Yeah, uh, I…went for a walk. I’ve been up for a while. My head is pounding, and I can’t think straight. The walk didn’t help.”
“Awe. Okay, let’s get you inside and see what we can do about that.”
The backpack was dropped on one of the dinner table chairs and she immediately goes to work making coffee. She asks if I am hungry and I say yes. Oatmeal it is, with raisins. She gives me two small pills to take with my coffee, and I pop them in my mouth. They are bitter. I have no idea what they are. The oatmeal is satisfying. Filling. There is a warmth growing within me, a product of warm food in my stomach and whatever these pills might be doing.
