I surreptitiously watch the crowd closely but don’t see any stray or meaningful glances cast my way. Nothing but people going on about their normal daily lives. Normal. That’s a concept I haven’t understood since I woke up two months back. And if what Delta said is true, that I worked for the CIA, maybe even longer than that.
I round a corner and find myself standing in front of St. Mary’s. Truthfully, I don’t expect to find anything. I had nothing but an ambiguous familiarity with the place yesterday. But if I’m going to recover my memories and figure out what in the hell is going on in my life, I’m going to need to be persistent. I need to keep digging and keep grinding.
So instead of loitering around outside, wishing, hoping, and praying my memories come back to me, I mount the steps and walk into the church.
Chapter Four
St. Mary’s is as beautiful inside as it is outside. The church walls are white with gold trimming, with large windows up high that admit a flood of natural light, and long wooden pews polished to a high glossy shine. The scent of incense is heavy as I walk in and take a seat in one of the pews near the back and look around, studying everything closely in the hope that it sparks some memory in my head.
At this time of morning, there are only about half a dozen people in attendance, scattered amongst the pews. Their heads are bowed in silent prayer, and I hear the low murmur of conversation between a priest and one of his parishioners in a pew near the front. He looks to be comforting a middle-aged woman who is hiding her face in a handkerchief, her body racked with silent sobs.
I lean back and continue to scan the church, looking for some sort of sign that I know this place. Searching for why and how this place, of anywhere, leaped out from my fog of memory. I don’t feel like I was a religious man, so I don’t know why the church would feel familiar, and yet it does. And even stranger is the fact that I find something comforting in that familiarity. Maybe it’s because it’s a church and you’re supposed to feel a certain way, sort of like a placebo effect, but I can’t deny that I feel something like a sense of peace here.
“Well there’s a face I haven’t seen in quite a while.”
Startled, I look up into the face of an older man—a priest, judging by the collar around his neck. I hadn’t heard him approach me, which disturbs me. Out in the field, not being aware of your surroundings is a sure way to get yourself dead real quick. But what disturbs me more than the fact that he’d gotten the drop on me, is what he just said.
“You know me?” I ask.
“Of course I do. I know it’s been a while, but it hasn’t been that long,” he chuckles and taps his head. “And I’ve got a head for faces and names.”
Lucky me. Although—maybe this is actually something of a miracle. If this priest knows me, this is a chance for me to get some answers. I study him closely, but I don’t recognize him. He’s tall and thin, probably in his early sixties if I had to guess. He’s got silver-white hair, cut close to the scalp, blue eyes that sparkle, and faint lines around his eyes and mouth. He’s clean cut and has a grandfatherly look about him. The man just radiates kindness and warmth.
I rack my brain, trying to come up with something, some fragment or scrap of a memory—anything—but I come up empty.
“This is going to sound weird, Father, but what is my name?”
He cocks his head as he looks at me, an expression of concern flitting across his face. His first thought is that he mistook me for somebody else —I can see that in his eyes. But then I see the certainty set in — he knows me and is sure this isn’t a case of mistaken identity.
“Well, your name is Adam,” he says. “Adam Holman.”
Adam Holman. I let the name bounce around in my head a bit, but it means absolutely nothing more than Alec Marsh — the false identity I used on the Blankenship job. I look around for a moment and frown as a million different thoughts ricochet through my mind.
The pew creaks and pops as the priest sits down beside me, his features etched with concern.
“Is everything alright, son?” he asks. “Are you—alright?”
Given the state of my life right now, I’d say that I’m pretty far from alright. I can’t even see alright from where I am at the moment. Alright, may as well exist on another planet.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “But can I ask—how do you know me, Father—?”
A gentle smile touches his lips. “Father Michael DeLong. But everybody just calls me Father Mike,” he tells me. “And to answer your question, you’re a parishioner here, of course. One of my flock.”
“I am?”
I guess I was wrong. I was—I am a church-going man. But given the fact that I just offed a Federal judge—and who knows how many before that—and felt like it was just another day at the office, I’d say that my religion has probably lapsed. I’m not sure the Almighty is gonna give me dispensations since I seem to recall that whole, ‘thou shalt not kill’, being kind of a thing.
“Well, on and off. You sometimes come regularly, and then you stop. For months at a time. You said it was for work,” he explains. “But you always come back. You have for years. Do you really not remember?”
I shake my head. “And what sort of work did I tell you I do?”
“You told me you were in the military,” he replies.
Inwardly, I breathe a sigh of relief. It would be a lot more difficult to come up with a story on the fly if I’d told him I was a shoe salesman. I nod solemnly and tap my head.
“IED. I was in a coma for nine months,” I tell him. “Caused some memory loss.”
To say the least.
“I’m so sorry, Adam,” he replies, genuinely upset. “I—I didn’t know. I wish I had; I could have prayed for you.”
“Appreciate that, Father,” I respond. “When is the last time you saw me?”
“Oh, well…” his voice trails off, and he strokes his chin, obviously thinking back. “I’d say it’s been a little over a year or so.”
I don’t know what sort of spiritual flogging I’d receive for lying to a priest, but I’d rather not chance it. My world is so screwed up as it is, I think I’ll stick to the truth as closely as I can. This man knows me and is the first real source of information outside of the Tower I’ve found. He could possibly be a gold mine of intel. I just need to figure out how to tap it.
“Father, is there somewhere we can talk?” I ask.
Chapter Five
“I have to say, I’m disappointed in the VA for putting you out before you’re fully healed,” Father Mike frowns and clicks his tongue. “It’s unconscionable. After all you sacrificed for this country. Shameful. It’s truly shameful.”
He sets a cup of coffee down in front of me, then turns back to his Keurig and quickly brews up a cup of his own. I push down a heavy wave of guilt for misleading Father Mike. Hey, maybe I’m Catholic after all. But there’s not much else I can do. Not if I want the information he has. I take a sip of the coffee and shrug.
“Physically, I’m fine. I checked all the boxes,” I tell him. “And I’m doing some aftercare, of course. But brain injuries are tricky. My memories might come back in time. They might not.”
Father Mike’s office is small, and although it’s crammed with books and a variety of exotic knick-knacks cluttering nearly every surface, it is immaculate. The aroma of pipe smoke is light but present, and not entirely unpleasant. Several narrow windows near the ceiling filter in sunlight diffused by dirt, leaving an old, warm glow.
The old priest drops down into his chair on the other side of his desk and starts to dress his coffee. I take a look around his office. The walls are loaded with photos of Father Mike in various places around the world—Africa, Asia, America, the Middle East. In all of the photos, he’s standing with what I assume are locals to the area. Kids mostly.
“Doing the Lord’s work has taken me all around the world,” he starts wistfully. “When I was younger and better able to handle the rigors of travel, of course.”
&
nbsp; I smile. “Doing Uncle Sam’s work has taken me to some terrible places around the world,” I reply with a chuckle. “Though, for a vastly different reason than yours, obviously.”
His returned smile is wry. He nods his head as if he understands. I’m flying by the seat of my pants right now and making up a story as I go along. But it seems reasonable to think that since I told him I was in the military that I’ve been to foreign countries.
“Unfortunately, I believe that’s true,” he sighs. “War is a terrible thing.”
I nod in agreement then look up at Father Mike. There’s an ease I feel around him. The same sort of comfort and familiarity I felt upstairs in the church. I take it with a grain of salt though, reminding myself of the possible placebo effect of the place and the man’s collar.
“You said I came here for years,” I say. “Did you and I talk—before?”
Father Mike nods. “Of course. When you were in town, we spoke often. You sometimes—struggled—with the nature of your work,” he replies. “I like to believe you were able to take some solace in those talks we shared.”
So I unburdened myself to a priest. Makes sense, I guess. Talking to a priest would be a lot less risky than talking to a shrink—no notes to steal, no computers to hack, no way to lift my thoughts and personal information from their files. I didn’t think I was the sort, but if I was going to unburden myself to anybody, it would probably be a priest.
“Can you tell me what I talked to you about? I mean specifically,” I ask. “Knowing might help me recover some of my other memories.”
I have no idea if that’s true, but at this point, it’s all I have to go on. Father Mike is accommodating, and we spend the next couple of hours talking. He fills me in on everything I shared with him over the years, and as I listen, it sounds like he’s talking about another person entirely. Somebody I don’t recognize in the least.
It’s interesting to know that once upon a time, I did struggle with the fact that I was a killer. That I took lives. I don’t know if it’s time that’s eroded my conscience or the accident that stole my memories that did it, but when I recall assassinating Judge Blankenship and his security team, I remember not feeling anything at all. I pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation or the slightest twinge of regret afterward.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Father Mike offers.
“I was just thinking that I don’t know what to think about any of this,” I reply with a soft laugh. “It sounds like you’re talking about a complete stranger.”
A rueful smile touches the priest’s lips. “I can’t imagine how—disconcerting—it must be to have all your memories stripped from you.”
I laugh. “Yeah, it sucks.”
What sucks more, though, is having somebody dangle bits of your memories in front of you like a carrot that must be earned.
“So you said an IED is what caused your memory loss,” he says. “Where were you when it happened? If you don’t mind my asking, of course.”
You’ve been burned. You need to get out of there. Now! Go!
The dream—the memory—immediately pops into my mind. I have to suppress a shudder. I’m almost certain that was the event that led to my coma and my memories being sucked clean out of me. The problem though is, I don’t know where it happened. I remember seeing some kind of fair or carnival in that brief flash of memory, but it’s not enough to tell me where it was.
Clearing my throat, I settle back in my seat, frowning as I try to think about how to answer the question. Like I said, I don’t like the idea of lying to a priest. I don’t know if I believe in God, or fate, or whatever, but I don’t want to roll the dice. Given all the killing and death I’m responsible for, adding to my already substantial mountain of karmic debt seems like a very bad idea.
But it’s not like I have much of a choice if I want answers. I can’t tell him the truth—partly because I don’t know it, partly because I can’t reveal the existence of the Tower. Hopefully, a little white lie—or ten—will be insignificant compared to my pile of other sins.
“Afghanistan,” I finally say. “We were on night patrol and never saw it.”
Father Mike shakes his head. “It’s a story that’s all too common these days,” he frowns. “I am so sorry for what you’ve endured.”
I give him a grim smile and a nod of thanks, still feeling uneasy about the lie. Maybe I’m superstitious that way. Father Mike’s expression is filled with genuine compassion. As I sit there staring at the tops of my shoes, the next question—the obvious question I should’ve thought of earlier—pops into my mind.
“Father, have you ever seen me come in with a woman and a boy?” I ask. “She’s a brunette, and he’s probably four or five maybe?”
Father Mike frowns and scratches his chin again, thinking back through time. Hopefully, he’s as good with names and faces as he claims. He purses his lips and turns to me.
“No, I never saw you with anybody, actually,” he says. “Why do you ask? Are you missing—”
I shake my head. “False memories. The doctors said I might get them from time to time,” I explain it away quickly.
“Well that makes a bad situation even worse.”
I nod and get to my feet. Aside from some interesting anecdotes and some insight into my character, I don’t think I’m going to learn anything useful here.
“Appreciate your time, Father,” I say.
He nods and gives me a warm smile. “I hope this means we’ll be seeing more of you around here,” he replies. “Maybe together, we can cobble together some of your memories.”
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be in town,” I tell him.
“Of course,” he responds. “But if you’re around—”
“Thank you, Father.”
I open the door to his office, but before I step into the hallway, an idea strikes me. I turn back to the priest.
“Father, you don’t happen to know where I live—lived, do you?”
Chapter Six
I walk the short path from the driveway to the steps that lead up to the porch of the house. It’s a neat red brick two-story bungalow with white trim. Three large windows adorn the front of the house and an American flag waves in the light breeze. The neighborhood is quiet and upper-middle class, the yards all neatly trimmed, and everything is kept up well. It’s the perfect family neighborhood.
I double check the address Father Mike gave me and confirm the house in front of me is the address I gave him. It is, but the house itself doesn’t trigger any memories in me. But that doesn’t mean much right now.
There are no cars in the driveway, so I casually climb the three steps and look around the porch, searching for a place I might stash a spare key without being too obvious about it. Nothing sticks out to me, so I slip out the set of picks I’d picked up earlier and make quick work of the door. My skill with a lock pick surprises even me. I take it as another example of the training that’s been ingrained in me.
Pushing the door open, I let it swing inward and step over the threshold. The keypad for an alarm system begins to chirp loudly, counting down the seconds until it sends an automated distress message to the police if I don’t key in the correct code.
Ten… nine… eight… seven…
“Shit,” I mutter.
I look closely at the alarm box and see that below the keypad is a biometric scanner. Frowning and wary, I press my thumb to the pad, and it scans my print. I’ll find out soon enough whether this actually is my house or not. A moment later, the chirping stops, and the lights on the keypad glow green. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and close the door behind me.
“Hello?” I call out, just to be sure there’s nobody else inside.
When I get no reply, I move deeper into the house. It’s clean and furnished nicely, the house filled with the typical trappings of an average family—the large flatscreen on the wall, art that’s tasteful but not ostentatious, furniture that’s nice but not too expensive
, and the like. All of the lamps and televisions I find are on timers, turning on and off at set times. Apparently, I was trying to create the illusion that somebody is living here.
As I finish taking a tour of the place and clearing all the rooms—upstairs as well as the basement—I see the same thing. Everything is nice but not overly nice. Certainly nothing that’s memorable, which I find telling. What sets the red flags waving in my head though, is the utter lack of anything personal. No diplomas on the walls. No family photos. No pile of mail on the counter or little touches of personality. No books out of place from the bookshelf or crumpled grocery lists in the trash can or half-finished projects in the garage or half-eaten leftovers in the fridge. Nothing at all that points to who is living in the house. If I was married with a child, as the Tower would have me believe, I certainly never brought them to this place.
The entire place feels sterile. Like it’s a show home and everything staged in it are set pieces. The house is kept up and seems to be cleaned regularly. It almost seems like there is somebody living here, but every instinct I have is telling me this is a safe house. A relic of the past and a hideaway from my former life as a spook.
Armed with that piece of information, I once again search the house top to bottom. I find what I’m looking for in the basement.
“Bingo.”
Behind a false wall, I find a safe equipped with a biometric lock just like the one under the house alarm keypad. I lay my hand on the scanner, and a moment later, the lock chirps and disengages. I open up the safe and find several bundles of cash along with a large manila envelope. I pull the envelope out and carry it over to a desk in the corner of the basement. Flipping on the lamp, I tip the envelope over and spill the contents out on the surface of the desk.
Web of Lies Page 2
