by Alan Lee
Ronnie had been prone to tears recently. Her eyes misted and she said, “Look at the perfect boy. He’s so beautiful I could die. I’ll put him to bed.”
She got up and wiped his hands.
Beck dabbed at her mouth and nodded toward Manny. “The Marshals could’ve used a doberman last week. Would save Sinatra a lot of running.”
Ronnie paused.
I paused.
The tabled hushed.
Beck glanced at us, aware she’d said something amiss. Unsure what. She set down her fork.
I cleared my throat. “Would save…who…a lot of running?”
Beck reddened; her hands went to her mouth.
Manny aimed his finger at Beck and dropped his thumb. “Uh oh, Beck. Now I gotta shoot you.”
Manuel Martinez was a US Marshal. But he was also something else. An operative for a domestic black ops team he couldn’t discuss. This was the first specific detail I’d heard. Meant Beck was on the team too.
“Manny,” I said. “Are you, pray, the Sinatra she refers to?”
Manny grinned. “Don’t ask, don’t tell, señor. But if I did have a secret code name? I would be named after one of the greatest Americans ever, that’s for sure.”
Stackhouse was laughing. “Sinatra? Really, babe?”
“Don’t know why you’re laughing. ‘Cept maybe jealousy.”
“Oh gosh.” Beck still looked like a radish. “I should, I should go.”
“Get some moisturizer on the way home. Wash your mouth out with soap. And think about all the ways you disappointed Uncle Sam today, hermanita.”
“Do you outrank Beck?” I asked him.
“No,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Morally.”
Ronnie got Kix free from his chair. “I’m putting this guy to bed. And then, maybe, his father would like to join me upstairs?”
“He would.”
“And bring the bottle of white wine too, please, oh husband of mine.”
“I absolutely love this place,” Stackhouse said, smiling into her glass of red.
Chapter 3
Veronica Summers made a sigh. A sound of sleepy bliss. She turned over in bed and scooted her warm body closer to mine. I didn’t protest. She buried her nose into my chest and made another happy noise when I draped my arm around her, hand at the small of her back. If heaven is real, and I believed that it must, many days would pass thusly.
“I’m not getting tired of this,” she said. Eyes closed.
“Waking up with me?”
“Waking up with my husband.”
“In a state of ethereality.”
“Whatever that means. Should we go on another honeymoon?”
“By all means, though we never went on a first honeymoon.”
“What do you call those three days we spent having wild sex in the Caribbean?”
“I call them empyrean,” I said. “Wanna tell me what you’re worried about? I deduce it involves your nefarious enterprises.”
“Not yet. I’m too happy at the moment,” she said.
“I deduced something else.”
“Oh?”
“Your hair looks tidier now than it did last night, after our matrimonial recreation. And your breath smells minty. And your face is pink from being scrubbed.”
“You private investigators. Can’t you unplug?”
“My powers of detection inform me that you got up early again and freshened yourself in the bathroom.”
She poked me in the ribs. “So?”
“So then you came back to bed, hoping I’d be duped into believing you wake up perfect. And by comparison, it makes me feel shabby.”
“I want to look and feel pretty first thing in the morning. Sue me.”
“I’ll still like you. Even when your hair is a fright.”
“I’d rather not risk it. Besides,” she said. She got up on all fours and slid on top of me. Her chin rested on my chest. “I’m going to seduce you into a quickie before work and my chances are better if I don’t look like Medusa.”
My heart, the immodest romantic, skipped a beat. “But I haven’t freshened up and I look like Erik, the disfigured Phantom of the Opera.”
She smiled, a brilliant battering ram of a thing. “It doesn’t matter what the man looks like. So try to enjoy yourself, Phantom.”
And I did.
My favorite street in Roanoke is Robin Hood, halfway up Mill Mountain. Near Nottingham Road, which is just the most charming thing. Lots of towering oaks and pine, and the road frolics. Or maybe it meanders. Ivy everywhere, the kind thinking itself noble. Each house looks as though a zillionaire gave bags of cash to a different architect and said, “Go nuts, but make it classy.”
Ulysses Steinbeck lived in a sprawling contemporary home set atop a wooded hill. A strong horizontal datum defined the roofline and a large array of picture windows offered the owner views in all directions. Also it was painted green. I parked in his drive behind an older Mercedes A-Class, walked up the brick path, and rang the doorbell.
Rose Bridges pulled open the double doors. She surprised me—she looked like a million bucks. Or at least she looked much more confident and comfortable than in my office. She was barefoot and had slender feet, good arches. Her shirt was pale blue with white stripes and a white collar, cuffed up to the elbows. Dainty golden pendant at her throat. Her hair was up in a bun, but a classy one, and her arms weren’t crossed defensively.
There’s no place like home.
She smiled. “Mr. August. I’m so glad.”
“Me too.”
“You’re very tall, aren’t you.”
“If we played basketball, Rose, I’d probably win.”
She laughed and waved me inside.
Ulysses Steinbeck sat in a study that could’ve been carved from one large block of rich mahogany. The bookshelves towered with tomes, the hardwood floor glinted, the ceiling had exposed rafters, and the windows behind gave a breathtaking view straight up the mountain. Oldies music played from an old fashioned radio in the corner. There was a wrought iron chandelier probably worth more than Kix.
The man at the desk watched me behind wire spectacles. He didn’t look like a man with amnesia. He looked like a retired J. Crew model. The man had a cleft—a cleft—in his chin. Not one perfect white hair had he lost. He wore a turtleneck. I saw leather moccasin drivers under the table, ankles crossed. Pale blue eyes.
I paused at the door. His eyes narrowed. Wondering.
“Ulysses, this is Mackenzie August,” said Rose Bridges. “He’s going to sit with you until you’re ready.”
“Very good,” he said.
I sat in the chair opposite.
He had three leather journals in front of him. Genuine leather and sturdy, not the twenty dollar variety. Each was branded with large letters. The first journal read, Who is Who. The second journal, Your History. The third, What is Happening Right Now.
“Mackenzie August,” he said. Polite voice, a little confused. He looked at the three journals. Selected the What is Happening Right Now volume, opened it, and flipped to the most recent page. Heavyweight paper. He ran his finger down the side, skimming his elegant handwriting. Today’s date already took up a page and a half. He made a hmm noise and spoke to himself under his breath. Mumblings. “One moment…one moment,” he said louder for my benefit. “Need to refresh…”
“Sure.”
He frowned over a few paragraphs, flipped back another page. “Ah hah,” he said. “Yes.” His finger kept sliding down the paper. He closed the book then and opened Who Is Who. Flipped to the A’s, and found my name. I couldn’t read what it said. “Okay. I’m up to speed, I think. You know about my condition with short-term memories.”
“I do. I’m impressed with your system to compensate.”
He opened What Is Happening Right Now again and began scribbling under today. “It’s necessary. I was born with an unusually active mind, and then I educated it thoroughly for thirty-five years, and now I
refuse to let it atrophy simply because of anterograde amnesia.”
“How long before your brain resets and you forget me? I know I’m not asking that correctly, but I’m curious if we need to rush."
He smiled like that pleased him. “An excellent question, Mr…August. My mind will not reset. As long as I stay on task and focus on you and this conversation, much of it will appear normal. As soon as we’re finished or I get distracted, this will fade into fog. I cannot transfer the short-term into the long-term. But the immediate is functional.”
Behind him, near the window, three chess sets were set up. I bet he played via snail mail. The only part of this room not dripping with prestige was a whiteboard in the corner covered with schedules and check marks and notes. On the chair next to the chess sets was today’s newspaper, littered with pen scratching.
He noticed my gaze. “I do not trust modern technology. I remember that of myself perfectly well, and I still don’t. Nothing beats pen and paper.”
“The pen is mightier than the stylus?”
“Well phrased.”
“You write all over the newspaper so you’ll remember you read the article.”
“Correct. And the notes jog my memory to some extent. You smell good, Mr. August.” He flipped open Who is Who again and wrote under my name. I noticed he used a fountain pen with a fine gold nib. “That will help me. Olfactory input nudges the mind. Would you mind wearing it if we meet again?”
“It’s Prada. A pretty girl got it for me in Italy.”
He arched an eyebrow.
I shrugged. Tried to look modest. “She says I’m worth it.”
“You look as though you played football. In college?”
“In fact I did. We lost a lot.”
With his pen, he pointed at my head. “Any residual effects? From concussions?”
“Not yet.”
“What do you know about me?”
“Almost nothing,” I said. “Only that you want me to find your dog.”
“Dog,” he said as if I reminded him. “Yes. Let’s begin. Here’s the short version of my history. I was traumatically injured in a car crash. My memory is crystalline up until maybe two months before the crash. Ever since, I live in a fog. Tomorrow, if we meet, it’ll be like our conversation today didn’t happen and I’ll rely on my notes to catch me up.”
“You don’t know the details of your crash?”
“They are forgotten.” He patted the History journal. “I’m positive it’s in here, or in one of the previous volumes I’m sure I preserve, but I don’t want to look. Just the thought causes me emotional distress.”
“You are entirely reliant on your journals? Which means, you are entirely reliant on your thoroughness yesterday.”
“Exactly phrased.” Again he appeared pleased. I’m so smart. He scratched notes as we spoke. “If I write down a lie, it would be disaster. If I quit writing today, tomorrow’s version of myself would suffer. This is one of the facts foremost in my mind that does not fade into the fog. More of an operational memory, which I do not lose—the journaling and the necessity of it.”
“What did you do before the accident?”
“I was a radiologist. Still am. I did not lose my ability to diagnose disease from image studies. I wake up most mornings convinced it’s time for work, though quickly I realize I no longer practice full-time. I see by the board over your shoulder,” he said, pointing at a whiteboard behind me I hadn’t noticed. I twisted to look. “That already this week two hospitals sent pictures my way for a third opinion. But, you understand, I cannot be the primary opinion on any case.” According to the board, today he’d eaten breakfast but not lunch. “Anyway, we digress. As you adroitly noted I’m entirely dependent on my notes, which are produced by me but originate from knowledge and facts I’ve forgotten.”
I nodded.
I was adroit. As heck.
“In some ways, it’s like I’m following the whims of a man I never met. I have no choice but to trust that he is honest and good. Which brings us to the reason for your visit. Take a look at this, Mr. August.” He consulted with What is Happening Now, flipped backwards to a page in History, and spun it so I could see. Most pages were taken up with several dozen lines of script. But the bottom half of this page simply read, Find the dog. The dog is the key. Do NOT ignore. “Scanning backwards from today, it appears that every day I write down the page number for this note. Find the dog.”
“What dog?”
“I don’t know. But some inner part of my brain thinks it’s important.”
“How long ago was the original note written?”
He tapped the date with his finger and consulted the white board. “Three years. Not long after the car crash, I believe.”
“Why didn’t you look for the dog then?”
“I…don’t remember.”
“Right.”
He pulled the History journal back and closed it. He kept What is Happening Now open. He scanned more, as one does a jumbled puzzle. “Look here. Two days ago, I wrote that Rose says she’ll help me remember to find the dog again. The phrase again is indicative. It means I tried before but failed.”
“You remember Rose? Every day?”
He smiled and looked up at the doorway, though she wasn’t there. “Rose is a lifesaver. She was my housekeeper before the accident. So yes.” He kept tapping the note about Rose promising to help him remember the dog. “My past self left no further clues. So…I’m trusting him that this is worthwhile. Think of the dog as an itch I need to scratch, but most of the time I don’t pay it much attention. Even so, satisfying the need will bring a measure of peace. But I need an able-bodied and able-minded person to do so. In my notes, you are listed as competent and trustworthy from a source I respect.”
“Okay. I’ll find the dog.”
“Excellent, thank you.”
“What then?”
He shrugged. Almost looked dismayed. “I don’t know.”
“I bet you don’t often get bored.”
“You’re right. The whole day feels like a revelation. Tomorrow will be the same, I imagine.”
“While I look, your job is to determine what to do once I find it.”
He didn’t reply.
“Let me hazard a guess. I have to find the dog without reading through your journals.”
He nodded. “Yes. These are as precious and private to me as are your own inner thoughts and emotions.”
“Except,” I pointed out. “I remember my thoughts and emotions. Whereas you have to worry about secrets you don’t know exist.”
“Precisely. Mr. August, let me congratulate you on your adaptability and perception. I retain a vague frustration with people’s inability to cope or understand my limitations. You work around it naturally.”
“Well,” I said. And shrugged. Brilliance being par for the course.
“Rose will provide you with a check.”
“Are there budgetary limitations?”
“Um,” he said. He placed his hands on the journals. Thought a moment. Glanced at both white boards. Said, “You know, I’m not positive. I used to be rich. I still work. So…I doubt it?”
“I’ll ask her.”
“Perfect,” he said again and he wrote in his journal.
Rose and I drank tea in the gourmet kitchen. I had a kitchen like this, I’d have two Michelin stars by now.
She blew into her china cup, the kind with thin blue designs. “Budgetary limitations, Mr. August? I don’t know how to answer. I keep his checkbook, so… Can you keep it under twenty-five thousand dollars?”
I did not spill my tea. “I can.”
“Good.”
“Tell me about him. I need a place to start.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll try.
“You know him well, I assume.”
She nodded. “I’ve worked for Ulysses seven years, including the three since the crash. First as a housekeeper, then as a caretaker. He’s lived here for maybe fifteen?”
She looked unhappy. “He drove off a short cliff. Late at night, he was exhausted. No other cars involved.”
“Family?”
“He is divorced. Happened around the time of his accident.”
“That have anything to do with the car crash?”
She set down her mug. Didn’t look at me. “I hope not.”
“Where does the ex-wife live?
“Here, in Roanoke. I’ll write down the address.”
“Any children?”
“Yes. A daughter. The great joy of his life. That’s her there.” She indicated a framed photo near the light switches. Blonde girl smiling next to an Audi with a big red bow on it. “Alex is at Virginia Tech. I’ll get you her number.”
“Any idea which dog he wants to find?”
“I have an educated guess. He bought a puppy a month before his accident. That’s the only dog he’s ever been around, as far as I can tell. After the crash, we lost her.”
“Has he previously tried finding it?”
“Yes. It’s difficult to search for long when you can’t remember what you’re looking for. Or why. The police laughed us off. A year ago he hired a different private investigator and, well…”
“You had a bad experience.”
“We did.”
“He took your money and a week later said he’d looked everywhere and couldn’t find anything,” I said.
“Yes. That’s what happened.”
“Which is why you looked nervous in my office.”
“I did?”
“Who was he?”
She told me. I knew the guy—a clown. I said, “Understandable. This time will be different, Rose.”
She looked like she wanted to be relieved, like she wanted to believe me. “That’s what we heard.”
“Would Ulysses remember about the dog if it wasn’t for the journal?”
“I think so. It nags at him, vaguely. He doesn’t remember details, but ideas and…themes get lodged. And recently, he’s waking up preoccupied with something and when he looks at his notes he remembers that it’s the dog. And then remember it again later in the day. I know that’s weird.”