Distant Memory (8 page)

Strong-arm robbery was sufficiently lucrative to keep him housed and fed. There was money to be made and excitement to be had. By the time he was twenty, however, McCullers knew that he did what he did not for money alone but also for the thrill. Strong-arm robbery led to home burglary and then to office burglary, which required new skills to deal with locks and alarm systems. His activities also put him in touch with other criminals, including some who were willing to hire a young and upcoming man. McCullers accepted the jobs, but he neither made attachments nor revealed much about himself. He learned tricks that - could be learned no other place except prison, and he was determined not to go to that school.

On his twenty-first birthday, McCullers killed his first man, an elderly security guard who had stumbled upon him in the act of a commercial burglary. Assuming the guard was armed, McCullers shot him in the chest with a .25-caliber pistol. The guard had crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap, a crimson circle of blood puddling around him. McCullers had waited for the guilt, waited for the wave of nausea to sweep over him. Neither came. McCullers finished his work and left, being smart enough to toss the gun down a nearby storm drain.

Killing came easy to him, and it was far more profitable than simple
theft. And more people than he had ever imagined were quick to hire a man without a conscience to clean up the “difficulties” in their lives. Of all the things he did, he enjoyed killing the most. Some killings were direct and simple; others required planning, patience, and genius. His genius was what prompted Massey to hire him in the first place.

“I asked you a question,” McCullers was saying. He stepped forward and put his face close to Massey’s. His breath was sickeningly sweet. He poked Massey sharply with his index finger. Astonishment registered in McCullers’s eyes. He had assumed that the portly man was a soft, flabby desk jockey who would get winded walking up a single flight of stairs. McCullers was learning that Massey’s dark gray suit concealed a stone-hard body.

Massey smiled, conveying a very clear message: He, too, had secrets.

“Just stay out of my way,” McCullers snapped. Massey recognized the hint of weakness in his voice, the chink in his armor. “Why don’t you get whatever you need from your truck and let’s go. Every second we stand here is another opportunity for her to put more distance between us.”

“I know that,” McCullers said bitterly.

Another sigh escaped Massey’s lips. He was not going to enjoy his time with Carson McCullers.

“Feeling better?” Nick asked as he raised his cup of soda and sipped from the straw. Before him lay the paper that had once wrapped three tacos and the cardboard that had contained a healthy helping of nachos. In front of Lisa was a half-eaten burrito.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

“Well, you should feel better,” Nick said with a broad, teasing smile. “After all, I have taken you to two of the finest restaurants in the state.”

“McDonald’s for breakfast and Taco Bell for lunch?”

“Absolutely. This should prove to you my gentlemanly nature and superior tastes.”

Despite the pall of depression that threatened to envelop her, Lisa smiled. “I am honored to have accompanied you.”

“Ah,” Nick said jovially. “You do have a sense of humor. It suits you well.”

“Thanks,” she replied. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure. Fire away.” He took another sip of soda.

“You don’t strike me as the truck-driver type,” she said. “You seem too … refined.”

Nick erupted with laughter. “Why thank you, Lisa. It’s been a long time since anyone called me refined.”

“You know what I mean,” she said defensively.

“I do. I’m not laughing at you. Your comment just caught me off guard. I thank you for the compliment.”

“See, that’s what I mean. I expect truck drivers to be rough and uneducated. You seem just the opposite.”

“Thanks again,” Nick said. “People drive trucks for different reasons. Some like the travel, some like handling a big machine, some like the freedom. I like the solitude.”

“Solitude?”

“Some people can get up each morning and drive to an office or cubicle, put in their eight hours, then go home. That’s not for me. I’m not the office type. I’d go crazy just sitting and looking at four walls. Driving lets me move from place to place, meet interesting people, and I don’t have to answer to an employer. At least in my case, I’m my own boss. I can think what I want, eat when I want, listen to whatever music I want. What could be better than that? Besides, I do more than drive a truck.”

“Oh,” Lisa said with curiosity. “Are you an artist? An impressionist, maybe?”

“I know nothing about art,” Nick said. “I own four other trucks. It’s
not a big fleet by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s a start. I hire others to drive them. Especially for the long hauls. The cross-country stuff doesn’t leave me enough time for the paperwork. I suppose I could hire a secretary, and she could e-mail whatever I need to wherever I am.”

Something stirred in Lisa, an uncomfortable sense. She furrowed her brow.

“What?” Nick asked. “Did I say something wrong?”

Lisa shook her head. She had no idea how to answer. Something he said had triggered a response in her, but what? Secretary? Cross-country driving? E-mail? The thought of e-mail was disturbing.

“Talk to me, Lisa. Speaking your thoughts may help.”

“Your comments about e-mail made me feel uneasy. I don’t know why. Why would e-mail make anyone uneasy?”

“That is curious.” Nick scratched his chin in thought. “Maybe someone sent you some disturbing messages. Maybe even threats. Does that seem possible?”

“I’m so mixed up, anything and everything seems possible.”

“Okay, don’t try to force it, that will just bury the memories deeper.”

“How do you know that?” Lisa said sharply. “You’re a truck driver, not a medical doctor.”

Nick held his hands up as if surrendering. “Okay, okay. Don’t bite my head off. I just know that the harder I try to recall something, the more difficult it is for me to remember. But if I just relax and let the thoughts come, I do much better.”

“I’m sorry,” Lisa said. She felt sick about snapping at Nick. “That’s twice I’ve snapped at you. Now I’m certain the real me is not a very nice person.”

“I doubt that,” Nick said softly. “I imagine you are a wonderful person. Losing your memory doesn’t change who you are, it just changes what you can recall. And I like what I’ve seen of your personality.”

Warmth ran up her cheeks as she began to blush. “I hope you’re right.”

“I’m sure of it.” He reached forward and touched her arm. The caress was gentle, warm, and unassuming. It felt good. A second later, as if checking himself, he removed his hand. “Well, it’s time we got back on the road. We can’t spend our lives eating Mexican food.”

“I can think of worse things,” Lisa said.

Nick rose and said, “I’ll be back in a minute. I need to use the little trucker’s room.”

Lisa chuckled. “Okay.” She watched Nick work his way through the crowded dining area and down the hall that led to the rest rooms. Turning her attention to the window, she watched as cars drove by and pedestrians strolled along the concrete sidewalk. Nick had called the town Fillmore, and it looked like a sleepy bedroom community with a four-lane highway through the middle of it. Oak trees lined the street. There was a certain charm to the neighborhood, and some of the buildings looked like throwbacks to the early fifties.

A structure across the street caught her eye. Its dilapidated condition struck her. Then something visceral moved her. The building was an old, whitewashed clapboard church with a towering steeple. Even from her position in the restaurant she could see that the building had been unused for years. It was a token of a different time, a monument to a different era.

A scene began to play across her mind: Women dressed in bright, flowery dresses, white gloves, and broad-brimmed hats stood outside the church door; men in suits chatted with each other; children scampered across the lot in a playful game of chase. In the doorway stood a tall, gray-haired minister, dressed in a long black robe. He was holding a Bible and talking to a young couple. It was a happy scene, a peaceful portrait that beckoned to her. Emptiness welled up within her, a longing to be in that place at that time and surrounded by those happy - people.

Massive waves of sorrow washed over her. Missing. Her past was all gone, having disappeared in an event she couldn’t remember for a reason she couldn’t recall. In her mind’s eye the minister looked up, across the street, and through the window where she sat. He smiled and raised a friendly hand.

Lisa started for the door.

L
isa didn’t know how she had got to the other side of the street from the Taco Bell, but she had somehow crossed the busy avenue without being hit. She was vaguely aware of a car horn and shouted insults. She stood on an ancient, fractured macadam parking lot where thick-stalked weeds had pushed their way through the cracks in the pavement. It had been years since any vehicle filled with worshipers had parked here.

The building in front of her was in a similar condition of disrepair. Paint peeled from the wood siding, dust covered the stained-glass windows, and spiders had built elaborate webs at the base of the building and around the windows and doors. A series of five wooden steps bridged the distance between the lot and the floor of the church building. Lisa took them carefully, listening as they offered squeaky protestations. To her relief, they held her weight.

A pair of doors at the top of the stairs had been carved with the image of a cross. Carelessly nailed to them was the sign: C
ONDEMNED
. U
NSAFE
. N
O
T
RESPASSING
. Lisa was unable to turn and leave. The song “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing” began to play in her head. It was as if she could hear the long-missing congregation singing inside. She closed her eyes and listened: “…  tune my heart to sing thy grace! Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.”

Looking down, Lisa saw a tarnished bronze doorknob. She touched
it and turned the knob. Locked. She turned it again, as hard as she - could, but the lock held. Then she pushed, and the door rattled on its hinges, giving a little. She pushed again, this time harder, and the door sprang open, the tongue of the lock tearing through the rotting wood of the jamb. An eerie squeal erupted from the rusted hinges and echoed through the empty narthex. Inside the small entry was a wooden slat floor covered in undisturbed dust. A piece of yellowed paper lay in the dirt. A cockroach ran across it, and Lisa shivered. Old posters for Sunday school and mission offerings hung on the walls. A modest chandelier danced in the new breeze that flowed through the open doors. Opposite her was another pair of double doors, but unlike the entrance doors, they had no lock.

Lisa pushed past the doors and into the worship hall. It seemed familiar, yet she was certain that she had never laid eyes on it before. Maybe any church might have seemed familiar.

Closing her eyes, she tried to summon distant wisps of memory. But the only emotions that answered her call were diaphanous. Nevertheless, she felt a free-floating peace associated with the church.

The more she tried to connect the abstract sensations, the more nebulous they became. The greater the effort she expended, the keener her failure. A new sadness filled her, a concoction of despair, frustration, and anger. She felt weak, and her battered body reminded her of her injuries. Seizing the side of one of the old oak pews, Lisa steadied herself and took several deep breaths. Dust and detritus of years of gradual decay filled the air.

Lisa sat down, ignoring the thick coat of dust. Once there had been a purpose in her life, a reason for doing whatever it was that she used to do. She knew that instinctively. What she didn’t know were the particulars.

Imagination began to take over. As she tried to calm her raging spirit, she heard the sounds of people. With her eyes closed, she could imagine them sitting around her: children fidgeting in their seats; women fanning themselves with paper fans; men, uncomfortable in coats and
ties, facing forward, listening to the gray-haired minister standing in the pulpit. She could almost hear the organ begin to play a sweet, melodious hymn. What a wonderful illusion, what a magnificent vision—peaceful, honest, open, welcoming. Her anxiety began to recede like an ebbing tide, and the darkness that had covered her began to flee, giving way to an inexplicable light. She wanted to stay in the pew; she wanted to forever embrace the newfound warmth.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice startled Lisa, and she jumped to her feet with a gasp. Nick’s concern was etched deeply in his face. “You frightened me,” she said.

“I could say the same thing. When I came back from the rest room, you had disappeared. I was afraid that something had happened to you. Luckily one of the workers had seen you walk out and cross the street.”