Distant Memory (7 page)

“We’re about halfway there,” Nick said. He had not spoken for the last half-hour. “In a few miles we’ll start toward the coast. The road through Fillmore and Santa Paula is narrow and always under construction, but it’s pretty. If you want, I can show you where they filmed a few movies.”

Warmth of recognition filled her. Nick noticed. “Do you like movies?” he asked.

“I think so. I mean, I feel like I do—like it is something I enjoyed doing.” She closed her eyes and tried to remember a movie she had seen, any movie. None came, just the comfortable feeling of familiarity. “I can’t remember ever seeing one, but I know that I have. Surely, I must have.”

“Don’t try to force the memories to return,” Nick advised. “Let them come back on their own. The harder you try, the more difficult it will be to recall anything. At least that’s the way it is with me when I can’t remember where I put my keys.”

“This is more important than keys,” she said harshly. She immediately felt remorse at her words. “I’m sorry. Apparently I’m not a very nice person.”

Nick laughed. “That’s a little extreme, don’t you think? I’m amazed how controlled you’ve been. I don’t think most people would be as calm and reasonable.”

“Reasonable?”

“Exactly,” Nick explained. “You haven’t been overly emotional, you haven’t panicked, and you haven’t dissolved into depression. I’m impressed. I bet you’re a pretty smart cookie.”

“Cookie? Chauvinist.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m a reformed chauvinist. I’m only mildly superior in my attitude.”

A smile crept across Lisa’s sore lips.

“Do you like music?” Nick asked.

Lisa shrugged. “It’s like the movies. I think I do, I just don’t know for sure.”

“I like show tunes,” Nick offered. “That’s not a popular thing to say, but I can’t get enough of them. Ever hear of Andrew Lloyd Webber?”

“No bells are ringing.”

“He writes great stuff.
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
,
Cats
,
The Phantom of the Opera
,
Evita
,
Jesus Christ Superstar
—” Lisa cringed, an action noticed by Nick. “That got a response,” he said.

“I don’t think I like that last one,” she said with a frown.

“Interesting. Very interesting. That means you’ve heard it or, at least, heard of it. That makes sense. You would be about the right age. It was popular in the early seventies.”

It was an odd sensation. At least on a subconscious level, Lisa could recall emotions that were tied to events that were too deeply buried in the debris of her mind to be excavated.
What is it about a musical named
Jesus Christ Superstar
that I find so unappealing?

“Let’s try something else and see what you think.” Nick reached into a small case near his seat and removed a CD and placed it into the player. “This is
Cats
.”

The overture filled the cab with the rich orchestration. Violins blended with horns, percussion, and piano. The music was simple yet emotionally complex. Lisa listened closely, hoping that some series of notes would open the floodgates of recollection. Perhaps she would recognize the songs when the performers began to sing; perhaps she would even know the words. That would be encouraging. It would mean that her memory had not been erased, just sequestered by whatever had happened to her.

As the music played, Lisa watched the scenery pass. Cars of every type passed them, each filled with someone who knew who he was, where he was going, and what his future held. Looking out the windshield, Lisa noticed the dashed white line of the multilane highway. There were a great many more cars on the road now, and the traffic was getting thicker.

A song began to play, “Memory,” and the sweet melodic voice of a woman sang in sad and haunting tones.

The words were insidious: “Has the moon lost her memory?” She was lost. She was alone without even the company of her own memories or the companionship of her own self. No loneliness could be so deep, none so desperate. Lisa’s eyes burned as tears fought their way to
the surface. Turning her head so Nick wouldn’t see, she stared from the lofty perch of the cab at the road that raced beneath her.

As the song droned on, Lisa sank deeper and deeper into depression. The fugue pulled at her like a tentacled monster from the cold gloom of a deep ocean. She felt that she might die right there in the leather chair of the commercial truck as it bounced down the wide ribbon of asphalt. Her heart seemed to be breaking and her soul withering like a petal detached from its flower.

“I love the way this artist pours her heart into the music,” Nick was saying, but Lisa continued to stare out the side window. “It’s a great play. I got to see it once in Los Angeles. This is one of my favorite songs. Some think it’s sappy, but I—” He stopped abruptly. “Are you okay? Was it something I said?” He paused. “It’s the song, isn’t it?” Lisa heard him click off the CD player. “I’m an idiot,” he said animatedly. “I’ve heard that song so many times, I no longer hear the words, just the music. I’m sorry if I upset you. I feel horrible.” His words rang with concern.

Lisa dragged a finger under her eyes wiping away tears. “There’s nothing for you to feel bad about. I’m just being emotional. That’s not your fault.”

“Sure it is. It was callous of me not to realize how the song might affect you.”

“You can’t go changing your life for me, Nick. You’ve done enough all ready.”

“Nonsense,” Nick said. “I’ve done very little.” Then with soft but firm words he coaxed, “It will all work out. I promise. Somehow, someway, we’ll get it all figured out. Trust me.”

Trust him
. At the moment, she had no other choice.

T
he high-backed leather chair squeaked in protest as Gregory Moyer leaned back and placed his feet on his custom desk. He rubbed his temples as he spoke into the speakerphone. “I don’t know who your source is, Senator, but I suggest you get a new one.” His words had an edge to them.

“He has never been wrong in the past,” Sen. James Elliot said firmly. Unlike the cheap phones on the market, Moyer’s was state-of-the-art, as befitted the CEO of the country’s largest communications development firm. Senator Elliot sounded as if he were seated across the desk instead of in Washington, D.C.

“He is wrong now. I have told you that there is nothing to worry about, and there isn’t. Are you going to take your man’s word or mine?”

Elliot was slow to reply, and Moyer knew why. The senator owed Moyer a huge debt, one that was counted in millions of dollars of indirect gifts to the man’s campaign fund. Losing badly in the polls four years ago, Elliot had made a personal appeal to Moyer and the CEO had responded quickly and generously. The election was won handily, thanks to the sudden infusion of talent and money—all of it hidden, of course—from Moyer Communications. A score of smaller companies, all indirectly controlled by the strong hand of Moyer, laundered the
money. Election officials suspected nothing. Even if they did, it wouldn’t matter. The money trail was too well concealed, too intricate to follow.

“This isn’t about loyalties, Moyer,” Elliot said in softer tones. “I have the highest level of confidence in you. This is such an important matter, however, that errors can be made if we are not careful.”

“All diligence is being maintained,” Moyer said dryly. “Nothing is going to go wrong. I have everything under control. I always do.”

“And the girl?”

Moyer cringed. Elliot should not be mentioning that over the phone. Although his office was safe from any surveillance, he couldn’t be sure that was true for the senator. At least the man had had the good sense not to use a name. “She’s fine,” Moyer said, hoping that Elliot would catch his unspoken meaning. “I’m sure she will be back with us and doing her job just as before. I’ll tell her that you were asking about her. I’m sure she’ll be honored.”

“Um …,” Elliot began. “I’m glad to hear that. I would hate to hear that anything bad had happened. She’s vital to your good work.”

“That she is,” Moyer said. “That she is. We miss her but hope to see her again soon. In the meantime, relax. There is no problem for you to be concerned with. All goes as planned.”

“I see,” Elliot replied. Moyer could tell that he had gotten the message. “Well, keep me posted.”

“Good day, Senator,” Moyer said, reaching forward and punching the button that would hang up the phone. Lowering his feet, he turned to face the desk that formed a semicircle around him. A quick touch of the keyboard brought the computer monitor, which was capable of being lowered out of sight or raised when needed, to life. A few keystrokes more and the Moyer Communications logo—a blue planet orbiting a communications satellite—was replaced by a live, digital image of Pad 3 at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California. Pointing upward was a sight familiar to most Americans: a Titan 4B rocket. A powerful thrill washed over him as he studied the image. Anyone could
recognize the craft, but only a handful of people knew what was in its payload; fewer still knew its purpose, and he had complete control over them—all but one. Prickly anger arose within him and he clenched his teeth tightly, grinding them as he spoke. “I’ll find you,” he said in a growl. “I’ll find you and you will die. That is a promise.”

“What a mess,” McCullers said bitterly. He was staring at what used to be his Dodge Ram pickup. The once new truck was now twisted and bent at awkward angles, its windows broken. The metal skin was a mass of dents and folds. Scratches ran deep into the metal. “Do you know how much this truck cost me? I added five thousand dollars worth of personal improvements.”

Raymond Massey nodded in sympathy. He had taken the Moyer Communications private jet to the Bakersfield Municipal Airport and then rented a car. Thirty minutes later he was standing at the bedside of McCullers, who was already dressed. He had been dismissed by the hospital staff and was eager to leave. Massey had watched him carefully as they walked down the hall of the small hospital, into the lobby, and out to the rented sedan. McCullers moved stiffly but made no complaints. Massey watched the man, not out of concern for McCullers’s health, but out of concern for McCullers’s ability to complete the job for which he had been hired. If the determined, angry look in his eye was any indicator, he was well capable of doing the work.

From the hospital, Massey had driven south along Highway 99 to Highway 58 east. Sixty minutes later he and McCullers had pulled into the small desert town of Mojave and found the impound yard where the Dodge pickup had been towed.

“From the looks of it, you’re lucky to be alive,” Massey said, meaning every word. It seemed unimaginable that McCullers was not as battered and broken as the truck.

“I don’t believe in luck,” McCullers said flatly. “I’m alive because I’ve trained myself to survive. That … and I have yet to fulfill my destiny.”

“Destiny?” Massey was astonished. The man was a hired criminal and assassin, not a humanitarian.

“You think I have no destiny?” McCullers asked harshly. “You think I’m some kind of thug? Fair enough. I’ve done the work of a thug, but I’ve done much more. At least I don’t sit at some desk waiting for the lead dog to bark. I’m my own man.”

“Really?” Massey said, annoyed at McCullers’s arrogance. “You would do well to listen when Mr. Moyer, as you say, barks. He is very powerful.”

“Moyer doesn’t scare me,” McCullers snapped as he walked around to the front of the truck. The radiator bled green fluid on the ground from its fractured grill. He bent over and studied the damage. He sighed loudly. “This is hopeless. It’s a total loss.”

“Moyer doesn’t scare you?” Massey laughed. “Then you are a fool.”

Slowly McCullers straightened and faced him. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. Anyone who underestimates Mr. Moyer is a fool. That includes you.” Massey watched as McCullers tightened his jaw.

“I would be careful if I were you, Mr. Massey. I will finish my job because I’m a professional, but I don’t have to put up with the likes of you.”

“Actually, you do,” the company man replied coldly. “I am your new partner.”

“I told you on the way down here, I don’t work with a partner,” McCullers snapped. “I never have, and I never will. You got that?”

With a sigh, Massey walked toward the hired killer. Most men would have been frightened out of their skins if they knew what he knew about McCullers. He had been a streetwise orphan, bounced from foster home to foster home until finally he was institutionalized in an orphanage. Having never experienced love, having been deprived of any
nurturing, he had grown cold and heartless. He started small, stealing change from other children, but he soon graduated to bigger things. He stole his first car at the age of fourteen and was arrested for battery when he was sixteen. While other boys his age were dreaming of their first date and driving their own car, McCullers fantasized about money and power.

The road to crime was not easy. He took his share of beatings, including one that left him lying close to death in a gutter in downtown Los Angeles. The drug dealer who, with the help of three “associates,” had pummeled McCullers had taught him important lessons: Trust no one, suspect everyone, make no attachments. So his life of crime had been solitary. No partners meant he could never be betrayed.