“Not a bad sketch,” Padilla said. “A little more detail would be helpful, but it’s good.”
“Bruno said it looks a lot like her, only—and these are his words, not mine—you can’t see her rack in the drawing, which is too bad because he thought it was nice. Not too big, but just right, in his opinion.”
“You sure he wasn’t describing a girl from one of his skin magazines?”
“I know you’re joking, but I actually looked at those magazines he left behind to see if any of the women in them matched his description of the girl he saw, just in case he got confused.”
“You should have asked for my help with that,” Padilla said.
“You can have them when the case is over.”
“Fair enough. And what did you learn from looking at the girlie mags?”
“That I need to go on a diet,” Hunnsaker said. “Also, that none of the women had short red hair. So assuming his description is accurate, it narrows things down a bit for us.”
“Did you get these sketches to the papers in time for the morning editions?”
“I did. Just barely. And the local news stations will show them periodically throughout the day.”
“Well,” Padilla said, “we’ll see if Bruno’s description does us any good. Hopefully someone who isn’t a crackpot calls in.”
“Bruno already did us good. We know this woman exists now. She was there. Maybe she’s a witness, maybe the shooter. Either way, I bet you dinner at DeSouza’s,” she said, naming the current trendiest and most expensive restaurant in town, “when we find her, we close this case.”
Caitlin was quiet at breakfast. Josh thought she still looked tired, though she should have gotten a good seven hours of sleep. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to have suffered one of her nightmares, at least not that he felt in the night. Still, she was picking at her scrambled eggs without enthusiasm. Bix had made them, and Josh had to admit that they were pretty good. It was the Tabasco sauce, Bix said. Josh didn’t care. There was no way he’d ever make eggs that way for Caitlin, so he didn’t give a damn how they were prepared. He couldn’t help but remember yesterday morning, when he had made a terrible omelet for Caitlin. Despite his feelings about Bix and his eggs, he ate . . . though he tried not to enjoy the food despite how good it was.
The three of them sat at Bix’s kitchen table, each eating while apparently lost in his or her own thoughts. Josh saw Bix sneak a glance at Caitlin, but she didn’t look up from her plate. Finally, Josh spoke. “There’s something I wanted to talk about last night, but you were too tired, Caitlin.”
Caitlin and Bix looked at him.
“At dinner, while you guys were trying to see if Caitlin remembered anything or anyone in the restaurant, I was looking around the web some more.”
“Yeah?” Bix said with his mouth full of Tabasco-covered egg. “What’d you learn?”
“I think I know what Caitlin experienced.”
“I thought it was amnesia,” Bix said.
“It is,” Josh said. “It was, I mean. Sort of. It’s more than that, though.”
“Was?” Caitlin said. “I can’t remember anything, so aren’t I still suffering from amnesia?”
With his tablet on the table next to his plate in case he needed it for reference, Josh said, “I’m pretty sure you experienced something called a fugue state, or at least that’s one name for it. Or was, anyway. It’s also called a dissociative fugue. The terminology seems to change now and then. Actually, I think the current proper technical terminology is ‘dissociative state with dissociative fugue.’ ”
“Damn, Josh, who cares what it’s called?” Bix asked. “Just tell us what it is.” He shoveled another load of eggs into his mouth.
“According to what I found, it seems that Caitlin suffered from generalized amnesia—”
“Generalized?” Caitlin asked.
“That means it was amnesia relating to identity or life history,” Josh said, “not for specific events, which would be considered localized or selective amnesia.”
“Okay,” Bix said. “She suffered from amnesia. I think we knew that.”
“There’s more,” Josh said. “With this specific thing, this dissociative fugue, the person not only loses her memory and her knowledge of herself, but she might travel to a new place and set up an entirely new identity somewhere.”
“Sounds familiar,” Bix said.
“That’s a real thing?” Caitlin asked, and Josh thought he almost heard relief in her voice, as if despite suffering through such an unusual and frustrating experience, she was happy to know that she wasn’t just plain crazy.
“It is,” Josh replied. “In fact, what differentiates a diagnosis of a fugue state or dissociative fugue or whatever from more common amnesia is the fact that the person traveled or wandered off. Now, this isn’t a common occurrence by any stretch, and verified cases of it are rare, but it has definitely happened. It can last as short as a few hours, where people just pick up without warning and wander off for part of a day, but it can also last for days, months, or in the rarest cases, it could be years before they somehow remember who they used to be.”
“So they suddenly just walk out of their lives,” Caitlin began, “move somewhere new, and then . . . reinvent themselves there?”
He nodded. “And while they are in their new identities, they are fully functioning. They establish new relationships”—Josh couldn’t help but steal a glance at Bix—“make new friends, get jobs, whatever.”
“Then they just . . . wake up?”
“I’m not sure. No one seems to know exactly what makes them come out of a fugue state. It could be . . .”
“What?” Caitlin asked.
“Well, like I said, no one knows for sure, but there are theories. It could be seeing something small, something that reminds them enough of their former life. Or . . . well, some experts think that a traumatic event of some kind could snap a person out of a dissociative fugue, especially if it somehow relates to whatever put them in that state in the first place.”
“Like what?”
Josh shrugged. “I don’t know. Something pretty big, I’d guess.”
“And that’s what causes a fugue state?” she asked. “A traumatic event?”
“Well, remember, the condition is rare, so there aren’t a lot of cases to go by. But that seems to be one of the main causes.”
Caitlin chewed on that for a moment. Josh waited. Finally, she said, “I don’t remember anything traumatic happening to me before I . . . went away. You said we had an argument and then . . . you said I left the house, right? You didn’t know where I was, so you called our friends.”
“That’s right, hon,” Josh said.
“So maybe something happened to me after I left. Something traumatic.”
“Maybe,” he said. That has to be the case, he thought. She’d been completely lucid when she walked out after their argument, so it had to be something that happened to her after she left.
“I sure as heck don’t remember anything like that,” Caitlin said.
“From what I read, you might never remember it, if that’s what happened. Or it could come back to you one day, either all at once or a little at a time.”
“So I might remember? Heck, if it was bad enough to screw with my head like it did, do I even want to remember that part? I’d like to remember what happened after that, though. Will I?”
Josh could understand Caitlin wanting to fill in the huge gap in her memory—anyone would want that—but he had to admit that, selfishly, he wouldn’t mind if her time with Bix was lost to her forever. And it probably would be, to be honest.
“From what I read, hon,” Josh said, “you’re unlikely to remember that. You should remember almost everything about your life before your fugue state, except maybe whatever triggered it—though that could come back to you, too—but what happened over the past seven months . . . it will probably be like those days never happened for you.”
“They h
appened,” Bix said firmly.
“I’m not saying they didn’t,” Josh said. “I’m just saying that it’s like the memories of those days are in a box she might never unlock. At least that’s how a psychologist described it in one of the articles I read.”
“But she remembered how to play pool,” Bix replied. “You said she didn’t know how before. But I taught her and she remembered.”
Caitlin suddenly looked hopeful.
Josh shrugged. “Muscle memory, maybe. All I know is what I’ve read, what the experts say, what has been the experience in the reported cases so far. And everything I’ve read indicates that she’s probably not going to remember anything about this place.”
Bix looked over at Caitlin, who was looking down at the table now. He nodded, stood, and took his plate to the sink. Then he busied himself with clearing the table, scraping food scraps into the trash, and washing their dishes. While he did that, Josh looked at Caitlin. She was staring out a window at the next-door neighbor’s weed-choked backyard.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Maybe I won’t remember anything or . . . anyone here. But I still need to know what I did. Even if I don’t remember things, they still happened. There’s a man who’s dead and I might have killed him. If so, I need to know why. And even if I didn’t do that, I still want to know what I did here, what I was doing all that time, what I did when I wasn’t around Bix . . . even if I’ll never remember it, I want to know. I want to fill in the blanks. No, I need to.”
“And I’ll do everything I can to help you do that, hon,” Josh said.
Bix turned off the water, finished drying a plate, and said, “I will, too.”
“Really?” Caitlin said, turning his way. “I thought maybe . . .”
“You need my help,” Bix said. “You have no idea where to go or who to talk to in this town. You don’t know where you’ve been or anything you’ve done. I don’t know everything you did, either, but I know some of it. And I’ll help you as much as I can.”
Josh actually found himself grateful to hear that. He loved Caitlin and wanted her whole again, and if Bix could help with that, Josh wouldn’t stand in the way. Besides, he had to admit that he felt just a tiny bit sorry for Bix. Sure, the guy had taken up with Caitlin, but he hadn’t known that she was someone else’s wife, not for certain, anyway. And the poor bastard was obviously in love with her. One day they were headed to the altar, the next she was married to another man. Josh couldn’t help but pity the guy a little.
Then Bix said, “Hell, Katie, maybe spending more time with me will make you realize how terrific I am and you’ll change your mind about heading back to New Hampshire with good old Josh here when this is all over.”
Then the sonofabitch smiled and threw Josh a wink, and Josh no longer felt sorry for him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHOPS POURED THE PANCAKE BATTER into the shape of a big letter J, which he knew his daughter would recognize. She loved when he made Juliacakes for her. Chops wasn’t a cook by any stretch of the imagination, but he also wasn’t an idiot, so he was more than capable of mixing together ingredients in a just-add-water pancake mix. He watched tiny bubbles form and pop on the surface of the pancake and knew when to flip it over. A minute later he slid the J-cake onto a plate, poured a little syrup beside it, and slid the plate in front of his daughter. She clapped her hands and said the letter J with delight in her voice, then picked up the pancake, dipped it in the syrup, and started eating.
“Really good, Daddy,” she said.
Chops figured she mostly tasted the syrup, but he acknowledged her compliment by ruffling her hair. He poured apple juice into a sippy cup and put it beside her plate. Then his cell phone rang, as he’d known it would soon.
“It’s six thirty in the morning here in California,” he said by way of a greeting. He listened for a moment. “I know. He didn’t call me back, either . . . Yeah, I hear you . . . I’ll fly out there like I promised. And when I find him shacking up with some girl or coming down off of some shit, I’ll kick his ass.”
“Bad words, Daddy,” Julia said.
“Sorry, pumpkin,” he said to her.
Chops heard footsteps upstairs and poured batter onto the griddle for two more pancakes, this time opting for the traditional circular shape.
Into the phone, he said, “Listen, I gotta go. Just relax, will you? This isn’t the first time he hasn’t called you for a day, is it? . . . Oh, well, I’m sure he’s fine. I’ll come back there and track him down.”
He dropped two slices of bread into the toaster—he knew how to make toast, too—and poured a glass of orange juice for Rachel.
“Relax, I’ll be there when I can. There’s something I have to do this morning, then I’ll get on a plane . . . No, it can’t wait. I’ll call you when I find him.”
He disconnected the call and stuffed his phone into his pocket as his wife shuffled into the kitchen in her pajamas and slippers.
“I knew I smelled pancakes,” she said.
“They’re Juliacakes,” Julia said with her mouth full of pancake.
“I stand corrected,” Rachel said. “You’re up early again today,” she said to Chops.
“Something came up.”
“Oh?”
He slid the pancakes onto her plate, added the toast from the toaster, and set the meal down in front of Rachel. He sat across from her.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he said. “I really hate to miss the circus tonight, but I have to fly back to Massachusetts today. There’s something I have to take care of, and it can’t wait.”
Caitlin stood in front of the mirror in Bix’s bathroom, her hair wet, a towel wrapped around her, tucked into itself above her chest so it wouldn’t fall. She still wasn’t used to seeing that slightly thinner face framed by short red hair staring back at her. She scrutinized her reflection. She smiled, just to test it out. It wasn’t a bad look on her, actually. Not the appearance she was used to, the one she’d had for the first twenty-seven years of her life, but she had to admit that she was pulling it off pretty well.
Without thinking, she opened the left-hand drawer of the vanity and found a big comb and a hairbrush, along with various cosmetics. She paused. There were four drawers in the vanity, two on either side, and she’d found the one she was looking for on the first try. Could she have somehow remembered it? More likely, it was a lucky guess. The upper left-hand drawer was the same one in which she kept her hairbrush at home, so that was probably why she instinctively tried it first. It may have even been the reason she had chosen to keep her things in the same drawer here at Bix’s place. She probably remembered it subconsciously. Still . . . maybe she had actually remembered it, despite Josh saying that she might never recover her memories from the last seven months. How had he said it at breakfast? It’s like that period of time is in a box she might never unlock.
Something struck her, a flash of . . . well, something, but she couldn’t immediately put her finger on what it was. She frowned as she took her hairbrush from the drawer and started dragging it through her wet hair. Something had flitted through her mind but disappeared before she got a good look at it. What was it she had almost seen?
Then she had it. Josh had said her time here in Smithfield was like a box she might never unlock.
A box.
She left the bathroom and walked into Bix’s room without knocking, pushing open the door that had been ajar. Bix was bare-chested and buttoning a pair of faded jeans. Caitlin couldn’t help but notice a bit of chiseling of the muscles of his chest, abdomen, and arms. He wasn’t buffed or ripped—terms Josh’s friends used. Nor would Caitlin describe his physique the way romance authors did in their novels—which Caitlin didn’t read often but which she had to admit she skimmed from time to time—using phrases like “steely contours,” “titillatingly muscled,” or “smoothly rippled.” No, Caitlin simply thought it was precisely the kind of body she’d want if she were a man—not ostentatiously muscular but lean and solid and,
yes, chiseled in the right places.
He smiled at her. After a moment, she blurted, “Sorry. Should have knocked.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bix said. “Want me to hold your towel for you?”
She laughed in spite of herself. “Thanks, but I’ve got it.”
“Caitlin?” It was Josh’s voice, coming from behind her. He must have heard her leave the bathroom.
“Hey, there,” she said, turning.
“Am I interrupting?” Josh asked.
“Well, if you must know . . .” Bix said.
“Of course not,” Caitlin said quickly.
Josh looked over at Bix. “You out of clean shirts? Need to borrow one?”
“Not sure yours would fit, Josh, but thanks.”
“Would you please put a shirt on, Bix?” Caitlin asked.
“Says the girl wearing nothing but a towel,” Bix said, smiling, as he lifted a folded T-shirt from the bed and slipped into it. “Now, does everyone feel—”
“Caitlin, what the hell is that?” Josh said suddenly.
“What?”
“On your hip.”
The Prettiest One: A Thriller Page 12
