by Alan Lee
He paused, struck with epiphany. “Beck, you moisturize at night, si?”
Beck was on loan to Roanoke from the NSA. A computer wiz. Stupefied by his question, she paused, lowering into the corner reading chair. “Moisturize?”
“You work hard, señorita, chasing bad guys. Well, kinda. Gotta protect the skin.”
“Like…with a cream?”
“Ay dios mio.”
“Manny, babe, maybe let me talk with the girl about this,” Stackhouse said. “Just because you’re pretty doesn’t mean you’re a woman.”
He lowered the bottle of beer, the suction producing a soft pop. “What do you use?”
“Olay Advanced,” said Stackhouse.
“That’s for the day, mamí.”
“I use it at night.”
“Because we’re still cave people?”
“What do you use?”
“Verso Night Cream.”
“Verso?” Stackhouse sat up a little straighter. “You’re joking. That’s a hundred dollars a bottle.”
“Look at this face. Find a wrinkle.”
Beck offered, “I have some Burt’s Bees stuff, I think, I could use.”
“Burt’s Bees? That’s a toy for children, Beck! What, Mormons hate their complexion? You wanna look like Mack at his age?”
“Um,” I said.
Stackhouse grinned. “What else, Manny? You and Agent Beck going to get breast implants?”
With his free hand, Manny pounded his chest. “Feel these pecs, señorita sheriff. Nothing but American muscle and testosterone and questionable supplements. But, Beck what bra size are you?”
Kix gasped.
“Good hell,” said my father and he rubbed at his eyes. “How soon is dinner ready, son?”
“Not soon enough, that’s for damn sure.”
Stackhouse closed her eyes again. “I love this house and the people in it. Truly. I’d be a wreck without it.”
Half an hour later we set the long table situated between the kitchen and the living room. Lasagna and garlic bread and caesar salad, wines and beers. Water for Beck. Juice for everyone under two.
Before we sat down, Veronica Summers entered. She arrives in a room the way Victoria Secret angels enter a runway—with verve and elegance and the wow factor. She didn’t glow, but kinda. Today she wore a form-fitting khaki and black jacket combo, and black heels with red soles (which I’m told is important). She is tall, elegant but with feminine muscularity.
A month married to her and I still found things to admire. Yesterday it was a certain laugh she reserved solely for Kix. This morning I admired the curve of her jawline, especially as it curled under her ears. Her jaw looked stronger and more sinewy than most. I’d looked it up—she had great superficial masseter muscles, creamy skin tight across. I had yet to share this impossibly romantic compliment with her.
“Look at you people.” She laid down her coat and bag. She smiled and we all corrected our posture. “So beautiful. Honestly, TLC needs to know about this house and the men who live here and the foolish women who totter after them.”
I held up a flute of sparkling wine. “Freshly poured.”
She took it, making sure her fingers brushed mine. “You read my mind. And the dishes are already washed? Should you and I run upstairs before dinner? Because…I’m ready.”
“If you insist.”
“No,” said Stackhouse. “Sit, gorgeous. I’m starving. Be in love on your own time.”
Ronnie went around the table kissing cheeks, including Beck’s, who always got a little quiet around her. I knew the feeling.
I said grace. Not everyone shared my convictions about a personal and benevolent higher power, but they all felt grateful for our blessings. Which, I thought, hurt their case.
We ate.
Ronnie was worried. I’d learned the signs. This wasn’t a major worry because no lines violated her forehead, but she had a far-off look. A small worry then.
I asked.
She said, “Not a big deal. We’ll talk sometime when the lovely Sheriff can’t eavesdrop.”
Ah. That mean, trouble in the underworld. She remained an active player. Now I was worried. But intrepidly so.
Ronnie asked after my day. I told her I’d been hired to talk with a guy who had amnesia about a lost dog.
“A dog,” she said. And smiled again. I remained calm. “That’s charming. What kind?”
“He can’t remember. Nor can he remember why he wants it, because he hates dogs.”
“Who could hate a dog? I had several growing up. Strays from the pound. My father wouldn’t buy me a designer puppy.”
“I always wanted one,” I said.
“And never had one?” Ronnie loosed a scowl upon Timothy August. “No dogs? What was wrong with your parents?”
“Awful people,” said Timothy. “Hated dog hair. Still do.”
“What about a breed that doesn’t shed? Like a Doberman?” asked Stackhouse. “I love a good Doberman. Bite the ass off a felon.”
“Yes, but who’d clean up the feces?”
“Kix,” I said.
Kix did not reply. Unbeknownst to us he’d fallen asleep in his chair. Head down and to the side, deep breaths making his forehead bob. His fingers still on his tray, gripping lasagna.
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.
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 m
eans, 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 thor
oughness 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 imagine 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.”