Distant Memory (10 page)

“You can quit anytime you want.”

“No, I can’t. And I wouldn’t if I could. Mr. Moyer has given me a mission. I will fulfill it.”

“The loyal servant,” McCullers said with disdain. “A worker bee mindlessly doing as he’s told. You’re no different than that kid in the lobby.”

“You have no loyalties?” Massey asked. If McCullers’s jabs angered him, it didn’t show. McCullers found that unsettling.

“Sure I do. I’m loyal to myself. That’s all I’ve ever been loyal to.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Backing out of the stall, McCullers directed the car to the street and turned south on Highway 58. Two blocks later, he was at the intersection that split 58, which ran to the east, and Highway 14, which ran south toward Lancaster and Palmdale. He went south.

“Do you have any idea where you’re going?”

“I’m going to find my target and this Nick Blanchard. I owe them both a little visit.”

“How do you know they didn’t go east?” Massey asked.

“I don’t.”

“So you’re guessing.”

“It’s more than a guess, Massey; it’s instinct. My instincts are never wrong.”

Massey let loose a little laugh. “Never?”

“That’s right. My life is special. Things tend to go my way. I’ve learned to trust my instincts. That’s why I’m still alive.”

“Did your instincts tell you that your truck would be flipping end over end last night?”

McCullers turned a hard face toward the man in the passenger seat. Much more talk from him and he would kill him and enjoy the process. That would cost him the sizable fee that Moyer had agreed to pay, but McCullers had limits. Massey was pushing those limits to the breaking point.

“My instincts made me look up just in time to save my life. Anyone else—say you, for example—would have died in the wreck. As you can see, I’m still on the job. A little battered, but greatly motivated.”

“Your instincts tell you she went south,” Massey said. “You had better be right, or we’ll be wasting time that we can never get back.”

“You can always go home.”

“I think I’ll stay awhile longer. Mr. Moyer is very interested in seeing that your work gets carried out as promised.”

“Whatever,” McCullers said, accelerating. “Why don’t you get on that fancy phone of yours and see if you can’t get someone to run that plate and name. If he’s a truck driver, he must have a base. At least that will give us some place to look. And keep an eye out for a new, white tractor-trailer rig.”

“There must be a thousand trucks that fit that description.”

“Only one with that license plate.”

Massey sighed, pulled a cell phone from his coat pocket, and dialed his administrative assistant. Moyer Communications had ways of getting private information.

T
he Joshua trees and scrub brush of the high desert had yielded to the manicured lawns, concrete-block walls, and industrial and mercantile sections of Valencia, which had in turn given way to the oak trees of Fillmore and Santa Paula. Now the large truck motored north up Highway 101. To Lisa’s left was the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean, which glimmered in the bright sunlight like a sequined blanket. To her right were hills of green dotted with expensive homes that overlooked the freeway and the wide expanse of ocean. In a few hours, she had left behind the starkness of the desert to be surrounded by verdant hills and azure water.

“I never get used to it,” Nick said.

Lisa snapped her head around to face him. “I’m sorry?” she said, uncertain of his meaning.

“The ocean,” he answered. “No matter how many times I see it, it still captures my attention.”

“It’s beautiful. Serene.”

“I grew up by the ocean. I’m convinced that the worst day by the ocean is better than the best day anywhere else. That may be an exaggeration, but not much of one.”

“Did you grow up around here?”

“Oceanside,” Nick said, his eyes fixed on the traffic before him. “My father was an officer in the Marine Corps. We spent a lot of years
on different bases around the country, but my early high school years were spent in Oceanside. After my father retired, he took a civil-service job and moved us to a place just south of Santa Barbara. That’s where we’re heading now.”

“We’re going to your father’s house? I thought you said that you worked out of your home.”

Nick smiled. “Well, at least your immediate memory seems to be intact. You’re right. I did say that. The house belongs to me now. Well, it belongs to my sister and me. But she’s seldom there.”

“I don’t understand.” Lisa was struggling to make everything fit. Understanding was crucial to her sanity. Every fact was a peg of reality that reminded her that all she had lost was a hunk of her memory, not her senses. She was still lucid, still thoughtful, still able to reason.

“My father passed away about five years ago. My mother died two years later. There’s just my sister and me, so everything was willed to us, including the house.”

“You live with your sister?” Lisa said, then quickly added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

Nick laughed. “No problem. My sister and I own the house together. But she lives on the East Coast and works for a large corporation there. She’s a vice president or something like that. She comes out to California two or three times a year. She keeps a few things in the house, but other than that, I have the run of the place.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I think you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will, but I feel like I’m imposing.”

“Not at all. You’re good company.” He paused as he changed lanes to pass a slow-moving car. “Traffic gets kind of squirrelly around here. At least it’s moving nicely.” Once the maneuver was completed, he asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Lisa said. “My brain seems to be clearing.”

“You’re starting to remember things?” he asked with interest.

She frowned. “No, but my thinking seems less … fuzzy.”

“Your memory will come back in time.”

“I hope you’re right.” The dark sense of doubt surfaced again. Her emotions were a churning pot of depression, fear, and perplexity.

“I’m sure that I am,” Nick said reassuringly. His voice was smooth, easy, the kind that kindled trust, the kind that was familiar with laughter. She liked the sound of it. “Do you know what kind of car you were driving?”

“No. Why?”

“I was wondering if a small memory might trigger a larger one. I mean, if you could remember the kind of car you drove, then other things might fall in place.”

“I don’t recall my car. I don’t even recall ever having driven. My oldest memory is the motel.”

“Had I known that was going to be the case, I would have searched for a nicer place. Motels like that are best forgotten.”

She gazed out the window and studied the cars, hoping that one would seem familiar. Maybe Nick was right; one memory could launch an avalanche of others. She had nothing to lose. She looked at the passing autos, studying each one, visualizing herself behind the wheel. An old Ford van followed a Cadillac, which was followed by a shiny black Mercedes. Pickup trucks, Volkswagens, commercial vehicles, sports cars, luxury autos made up an endless parade, and none looked familiar. “There are so many cars,” Lisa said. “What are the odds that the kind of car I was driving will pass us?”

“Who knows? I suppose the odds are pretty good. If nothing else, you’re exercising your brain, jogging your memory. It can’t hurt to try.”

“You didn’t see my car when you picked me up?” she asked, her eyes still following each car she saw.

“No. Like I said before, I found you walking along the side of the road in a daze. I have no idea where your car is … or was.”

“Was?”

“I’m sure the CHP have found it. That’s why I wanted you to go to the police. Technically, you’ve left the scene of an accident. They won’t like that.”

Dread flowed through her like an icy stream. The mention of the police unnerved her, and she had no idea why. She wondered if she were a criminal. Why else would she feel such apprehension?

A pearl-colored Lexus sedan rolled by and caught Lisa’s attention. Suddenly her mind was filled with strobelike flashes of memory. Visions of the car’s interior flooded her consciousness: walnut wood trim, leather seats, leather-wrapped steering wheel. Her heart pounded, and she caught her breath.

“What?” Nick said with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“The car,” she said pointing. “I know that car … or a car like it.”

“The Lexus?” Nick said. He whistled in admiration. “SC 300. Nice piece of work. You have good taste. Those things go for more than fifty thousand.”

Lisa nodded. “Fifty-eight thousand.”

“You remember the price? What else do you remember?”

Closing her eyes, Lisa tried to organize the bits of memory that had splashed on her mind like raindrops on a windshield. “Gold,” she said. “My car was gold. Leather seats. Music. I remember music.” Bits and pieces of a tune drifted into her thoughts. “Beethoven. I think it was Beethoven.” Bright lights. Impact. Crunching metal. Spinning, spinning. Blackness. The car was in the air, then on its side, in the air again, rolling, rolling. Pain. Fear. Scorching terror. Silence. Glass everywhere. Fire in her ribs, stabbing in her chest. Powder, fine and gray, filling the front seat. The steering wheel collapsing upon its column, a white airbag hanging flaccidly in her lap.

“Lisa …”

She was still alive. The pain meant she was alive, but for how long? Would he come back? Would he make sure that the job was done? Run. Move. Hide.

“Lisa!”

It was Nick’s voice, strong, concerned. Lisa snapped her eyes open. It was day, not night. She wasn’t in the desert, sitting in a mutilated car; she was in the cab of a Mack truck on Highway 101. Her heart had gone from thundering to tripping, fluttering in fright. Her breathing was ragged and harsh. Hot tears steamed down her cheeks.

“Are you back with me, Lisa?” Nick asked. “Are you all right?”

She wiped the tears from her face and took a deep breath. “I’m … I’m okay, I think.”

“Wow,” Nick said with obvious relief. “You scared me there. One moment we’re talking about cars, the next you’re trembling like someone cut a hole in the ice and dropped you in.”

“Then why am I sweating?”

Nick shook his head. “I take it you remembered something. Want to talk about it?”

What was there to talk about? She still knew nothing. “I was reliving the accident. I still don’t remember anything except being pushed off the road.”

“Pushed? You were pushed?”

“Yes, I think so. I remember headlights and a bump from behind. The next thing I knew …” She took another ragged breath. “The next thing I knew, my car was flying through the air.”

“Did you pull in front of someone? Is that how the accident happened?”

Accident
was no longer the right term. Of one thing Lisa was now certain: What had happened to her was no accident. Someone intentionally ran her off the road. “Someone tried to kill me,” Lisa said softly. The words seemed to stick in her throat.

Nick fell silent, gazing out the window into the distance. He seemed disturbed. “Do you know what you’re saying? That’s a strong accusation. Are you sure that it wasn’t an unintentional collision? I spend a lot of time on the road. I see them all the time.”

Turning her head, Lisa gave Nick a hard look. “I was there. I may not be a professional truck driver, but I know when someone rams my car.” Her words were even yet heavy with barely controlled anger.

“Okay, okay,” Nick protested. “I’m just trying to get a feel for things.”

Closing her eyes, Lisa said, “I’m sorry. I’ve snapped at you again. It’s becoming a habit.”

“No, you’re right. You were there and I wasn’t. I shouldn’t be questioning your judgment. But that does put a new twist on things, doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s good that you came with me. After all, if what you say is true, the killer is still out there.”

Lisa felt sick.

Bill Hobbs drew a circle on the yellow legal pad in front of him. It was one of many such circles he had drawn in the last half-hour. Doodling was therapy for him, a way of allowing his mind to free-associate miscellaneous bits of facts that, for the moment, seemed unrelated.

He knew that the uninitiated might see him and think that he was just daydreaming, wasting time and the taxpayer’s money, but no one in the Kern County sheriff’s office in Bakersfield thought that. Hobbs’s record was impeccable. The only fault to be found in his personnel jacket was his profound hesitancy to take vacations. He was a bachelor who loved his job, and it was not uncommon for him to continue working on his own time.

The phone on his desk rang, startling him from his thoughts. He quickly answered it. It was the third call for him since he had returned from Mojave. The first was about the VIN and license plate number. Even though the CHP officer had told him that both numbers were
phonies, he had run the numbers himself. He didn’t doubt Tanner’s work, but there was little else he could do at the moment. He had compared the number on the dash with the one in the engine compartment. They matched. He then ran a check on the number itself. Nothing. Not only was there no match, there was no such number recorded anywhere. Calling for a wants-and-warrants check on the license plate was just as futile.