Distant Memory (25 page)

“Yes,” Redding answered. “It’s a must these days, especially in the drug business.”

“I would like to see the tape for this evening.”

“It’s back here,” Redding said as he turned and disappeared into the work area. Hobbs led Tanner past the counter and into the shelf-filled space. At the rear of the room was a small desk with a color monitor and player on it. Next to the desk was a set of metal shelves upon which rested a video recorder. Redding removed the tape from the recorder, inserted a new one, meticulously labeled the one he had just removed, and then placed it in the player. He pushed R
EWIND
and a moment later pushed P
LAY
.

The monitor filled with a wide-angle view of the shop. Unlike the tape from the motel in Mojave, this one was in full color. Hobbs could see people come and go, each moving in a stiff, robotic fashion. Like most video surveillance systems, this one recorded images every second or so, not continually, allowing more time to be placed on each tape.

The store emptied and for a full minute Hobbs, Tanner, the officer, and Redding hovered over the monitor. Redding pointed to the white numbers emblazoned in the bottom right corner of the screen that indicated the time of day the picture had been taken. “Marie said the woman came in a little after eight. We should see her soon.”

As he spoke a pair of bright headlights could be seen shining through the glass wall at the front of the store. “I can’t make out the model of the car,” Hobbs said. “How about you, Tanner?”

He shook his head. “All I see are headlights.”

The door to the store opened and a woman entered. She was wearing the clothes described by the clerk.

“That’s her,” Hobbs said, excitement tingeing his voice. She walked with a slight limp. “She doesn’t look very comfortable.”

“With good reason,” Tanner said, but offered nothing more.

Hobbs watched intently as the woman looked around the store, picked up a few items, paid for them, and then left. “Thank you, Dr. Redding. You and Ms. Kimble have been very helpful. I’ll need to take that tape into evidence. Can you take care of that for me, Officer?” he asked the deputy. The man indicated that he could.

Before leaving the pharmacy, Hobbs thanked Redding and Kimble again. Outside the store, he congratulated the deputy on his discovery. Returning to the car, Hobbs and Tanner discussed the next step.

“Okay, what do we have?” Hobbs asked as he closed the door to the sedan.

“Well,” Tanner answered, “we now know that your suspicion was right. Someone, most likely Blanchard, was injured in whatever happened in his house. Otherwise, he would have been the one to have gone in the store.”

“Probably,” Hobbs agreed. “It didn’t look like she had any wounds that would account for the blood we found in the house. The question now is, Where did they go next?”

“I bet they’re close by,” Tanner said. “If they went through the trouble to buy the things the clerk said they did, then she must be planning to do a little doctoring.”

“Roadside or someplace else?” Hobbs scratched his chin, noting that stubble had erupted on his face, a testimony to the length of his day. By morning he would look like a derelict in a suit.

“There is no way to know,” Tanner said.

“We have the neighbor’s description of the car,” Hobbs said. “How many silver Mitsubishi Gallants can there be in the area?”

“A few maybe, but not many.”

“If they’re on the road, there’s nothing we can do but wait for them to show up somewhere else or be stopped by the APB. These two seem pretty smart. They’ll take action to hide.”

“What would you do if you were in their place?” Tanner asked.

Hobbs thought for a moment. “Assuming the wound is serious but not life threatening, I would find a place to fix up my partner and plan my next step.” He thought some more. “I’d find a motel off the beaten path. I would want to be off the road for a while and travel when there are more vehicles on the highway. Get lost in the crowd. I would also attempt to rent a car, getting rid of the Gallant.”

“Makes sense to me. So we start searching motel parking lots?”

“Yeah. We need a list of motels,” Hobbs said, opening the door to the car. “I’ll be right back. In the meantime, get on the radio and see if we can’t get the sheriff’s department and CHP to start searching motels and parking lots. We can use all the help we can get.”

“Will do.”

Hobbs returned two minutes later with a phone book. “Dr. Redding said we could have this,” he said, shuffling through the pages. “I think we should start outside the community and work our way back in.” Reading addresses from the book and comparing them to a map in the front of the directory, Hobbs quickly made his first choice. “I’m assuming they would go in the opposite direction of the crime scene.”

“We don’t know that these are criminals,” Tanner said. “They may be victims.”

“I understand that, but they’re still human, and human nature says they would move away from the trouble. Here,” he said, pointing to the small map. “There’s a place not too far from here in …” He squinted in the dim illumination offered by the dome light. “In Upper Ojai. There are others in Miner Oaks, Mira Monte, and Ojai proper, but I want to start there.”

“Tallyho then,” Tanner said and buckled his seat belt.

Gregory Moyer was seated behind his desk watching a steady stream of information play across his computer screen. He liked what he saw. The MC2-SDS satellite had deployed perfectly. Its solar panels had extended without a hitch, and its positioning rockets had nudged it into its designated orbit. So many things could go wrong in a satellite launch that it was pure pleasure to see a perfect deployment.

A soft tone filled the room, informing Moyer that someone was calling on his private line. Only half a dozen people had that number, and
only one could be calling now. “Answer,” he said to the automated phone.

Massey’s voice sounded from the speaker. “I’m on a pay phone,” he said without preamble. The message was clear: The line was not secure, and Massey had reason not to use the cell phone.

“It’s good to hear from you,” Moyer said. “I hope your trip goes well.”

“A little better now,” Massey remarked carefully. Moyer knew that the message he received would be just as cryptic as last time. Most such messages would have been done through encrypted e-mail. Sophisticated 128-bit encryption systems made it impossible for anyone to read such messages. He chastised himself for not having included a laptop computer equipped with such a program in with the other equipment he had provided for Massey. That would have made things much easier. But then hindsight was always 20-20.

“I’m sure you’re eager to return home,” Moyer said.

“I am. I was wondering if I shouldn’t bring some company.”

“Company?” Moyer hated the sound of that. Massey had concerns about following the plan. That meant he had learned something new.

“Yes, there’s a nice couple with some interesting ideas. I’d hate for us to miss out on a good story. The gentleman tells a good tale.”

“I see,” Moyer said. So the man may know something important, something damaging. He had to make a decision quickly. “He likes to tell stories then?”

“I think so. I’m not sure whom he has shared his talent with.”

“I see. My schedule won’t allow for any more visits. You know how intense it is around here. Perhaps you should just learn as many tales as you can, then say good-bye. You can share them with me when you return.”

“I understand fully.” Massey hung up.

Moyer leaned back in his chair and wondered if he hadn’t just made a big mistake. Killing the two was the most efficient course of action.
Still, Massey was right. It was important to know whom they had spoken to and what they had said. But since Nick Blanchard was untraceable, an amazing feat in the present age of technology, he had to be more than just an average guy. Bringing him back to Moyer Communications was too big a risk. No, Massey would have to learn what he could and then finish the job. If some new problem arose, they would have to deal with it then.

Knowing. It was all about knowing everything that went on. That was what Moyer Communications was about: knowing everything. He returned his attention to the screen before him. The new satellite was working perfectly. On the monitor was the mansion of the African politician. He zoomed in on a window. The optics were incredible, beyond even his educated belief.

A broad smile crossed his face, and he placed a call to a phone in Khartoum, Sudan. The country had been at war with itself for nearly two decades. Nearly two million of its inhabitants had been killed. Racked by political strife, abrogated constitutional rights, and famine, it was not a nice place to visit. It was a dark place in the bright sun that no longer understood the meaning of tolerance.

“Greetings, my friend,” Moyer said. “The system is up. Go to the window and wave.”

“I can find them with this?” the heavily accented voice asked. “It is as you said? I will see them with this?”

“It is what you have paid for,” Moyer said. “No one will be able to hide. But hurry. Your time is limited, and others need my help too.”

Moyer hung up unceremoniously.

T
he Bible lay on the table before Lisa. She was spot reading, flipping pages and taking in the odd verse here and there. Each passage she read felt like a long-lost friend. She sampled Matthew, Mark, and the other Gospels, glanced at the letters of Paul and Peter, never settling on one particular book in the New Testament. She scanned portions of Romans, then the Corinthian letters, and then returned to Romans. Something there touched her, so she began to read from the beginning. Her eyes skimmed across the page, drinking in each word. Each chapter brought new recollection of its truth, a truth she felt she had accepted sometime in the past.

She paused at chapter 8. Selected verses seemed to radiate with the warmth of recognition. Her stomach turned again, but not from fear or uncertainty as it had done so many other times that day, but from excitement. Something rang true.

She read, “There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus,” and that brought a smile to her face. In verse 9, a phrase made her stop: “But ye are not in the flesh, but in the Spirit, if so be that the Spirit of God dwell in you.” Lisa blinked several times as if trying to clear her blurry mind’s eye.
If the Spirit dwells in me, then surely He must know who I am
, Lisa thought. There was peace and thrilling excitement in that realization. God knew who she was, even if her
memory failed her. She was not alone—not alone at all. More important, she had never been alone.

Reading with more earnestness than before, Lisa devoured the next few verses, then stopped on: “For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.”
Sufferings of the present time
, she thought. The phrase carried a sense of the temporary with it. “There will be glory later,” Lisa said under her breath.

Again she let her eyes travel down the page, her mind absorbing each word as a sponge capturing water. Her heart skipped a beat, and then pounded in her chest. The words that had seemed so familiar when Nick uttered them were right before her eyes. Not his words. His were merely similar enough to fan an ember of memory. Before her now was the concrete reality of the vague recollection. “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.”

The piercing icy chill of fear had several times that day permeated - every cell of her body. But now, reading those words, she felt an opposite effect. Warmth, like golden spring sunlight, covered her. No … The warmth came from
within
, not from without. A tear of joy dropped from her eye, and she took a deep breath. The air seemed sweeter.

Of all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, this was the only truly positive, comforting, encouraging event. Nick had been wonderful in his support, but he had been unable to ease her fears or to quell her storm of confusion. The Bible’s words came as a balm to her wounded soul. She was not alone. She had never been alone. God was with her, and the verse promised that the last page of her life had yet to be written. Things, good things, could come out of her trials. It was a truth she desperately needed to know.

Lisa read the words repeatedly, and each time she felt a little stronger, a little surer, and a little more confident about the future.

The incident at the church in Fillmore now made sense. She had
been attracted to it, because church was a familiar place. Although she had never laid eyes on that dilapidated, run-down structure before, it still represented something dear and precious to her. She was a Christian, and relearning that truth bolstered her spirits dramatically. Fear was giving way to courage; anxiety was surrendering to peace.

Lisa knew full well that her problems were not over. Her memory was still gone, and she was in a motel room with a wounded man she had known for less than a day. Her car had been pushed off the road with her in it, and someone had tried to kill her less than an hour before.