He found himself shambling along the side of an interstate. Traffic was rushing up behind him stirring up big gusts of wind that blew through his tattered clothes and tousled his short, straw-colored hair.
Where was he? He was suddenly disconcerted as though he were in a dream that he couldn’t awaken from. He exhaled heavily and felt an ache at his left temple. He attempted to bring up his left hand to the point of the pain, but for a time his arm wouldn’t respond. It scared him so when it finally did move, he began to anxiously inspect it for injuries. Right away he spotted a long cut from the inside of his elbow to his wrist. It didn’t look deep, though, and there was no blood. That was good. Just a superficial wound. He looked further for any more cuts or bruises. The rest of his arm looked okay.
But what of this brief paralysis? What had caused it? He placed his arm straight out in front of him and began to slowly twist it one way then another. There was no pain, nor stiffness, nor numbness. He flexed and extended it. The movements were smooth and easy. There was no indication of the paralysis that had struck him only moments ago.
Evidently, he wasn’t a doctor, because the only explanation he could come up with was that he must have pinched a nerve somehow.
He wondered about the rest of him.
He reached up and touched his face. He flinched. The area near his left temple was tender to the touch. He moved his hand gently about the rest of his face. The left side of his face and his jaw were also sore.
What happened to him? Was it a car accident? That seemed very plausible. That would certainly explain his injuries and his disoriented state.
Disoriented. No, that wasn’t a strong enough word. This was full-blown amnesia. No doubt about it. For the first time, it really hit him that he had virtually no memory at all. He couldn’t remember his name, who his parents were, who his friends were, or even how he made his living. All the ordinary things that he should be able to pull forth with the least bit of effort he couldn’t. If these memories still survived they were buried far too deep for him to retrieve. At least, for now.
Why was he walking down the side of the interstate? Where had he been going? If he had been in an accident perhaps, he had been going for help. But that didn’t make any sense. There were plenty of vehicles passing by on the road. He should have been able to flag one down. And, surely, someone seeing the accident would have called the police.
Maybe he had been in shock from this accident and had started absently strolling from the scene as though he were sleepwalking. That was possible.
He turned and looked back. The expressway was fairly straight, and his vision extended for several miles before the road began to dip out of sight. For as far as he could see both sides of the highway were void of any wrecked or disabled vehicle. He was somewhat disappointed. He almost hoped to see some vehicle lying on its top or side still smoking from where it had skipped and flipped. Something like that would certainly explain his condition.
It could be that he had walked further from the accident than his eyes could see. In fact, he might have been walking for hours. There was no way he could tell.
For a couple of minutes, he stood frozen with indecision feeling as though he were in the midst of a vast desert with nothing before him but a sea of white sand that ran on forever. There seemed to be no distinction between one direction and the other.
Finally, he began to move again. This time in the direction he had been walking away from. He had to see if there were anything beyond the hill that would help explain what had happened to him, and maybe in the process jog his memory.
He trudged along the shoulder of the highway against traffic. He looked about hoping to see something vaguely familiar. Anything. Something quickly popped into his mind. A face. But it was too quick. It was gone before he could put substance or meaning to it. Like a ghost seen out of the corner of one’s eyes. He tried to force it to come back, but it wouldn’t.
He was only halfway to the crest of the interstate when he spotted a police car in the distance approaching him. It moved from the fast lane to the slow lane. When it was almost upon him it slowed quickly and eased over onto the shoulder. At once the blue lights began to flash. The car rolled to a stop about five yards in front of him.
He halted suddenly. For a moment he considered turning around and bolting. He wasn’t sure why. A knot settled in his stomach. A feeling washed over him that this was no good. That something wasn’t right. But that was crazy. This could very well be what he needed. The policeman might have some answers for him as to what happened to him. If not, he would certainly drive him to the hospital where he could be checked out.
A large, muscular policeman pushed out of his car and stood beside it. His hand rested close to the holstered gun on his right side. He looked as though he were ready to draw the pistol at the faintest hint of aggression.
“Excuse me, sir,” the policeman began in a deep, clarion voice. He sounded as tough as he looked. “I need to ask you a few questions. Would you mind stepping over here to the front of the car.”
Once again, the thought of whipping around and bolting came up. This time he immediately pushed it away. He had only one real choice.
He began to move slowly forward.
The policeman watched him with keen eyes as if expecting him to resist. “That’s far enough,” he said, when he was only a few feet away.
“Where you headed?”
“Uh … not sure.”
“That so?” He didn’t sound as if he believed him.
“Yeah, well you see, I don’t …”
“Ever been to the Golden Ladle restaurant?” the policeman interrupted.
“Golden Ladle? I … don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I mean… I can’t remember.”
The cop canted his head slightly. “And why can’t you remember? I’m talking recent now. Like about two hours ago.”
“I can’t remember,” he repeated. “I can’t remember anything.”
The cop peered at the young man, quietly assessing him. What he saw was a man in his early twenties, somewhere around one hundred eighty pounds, standing close to six feet. He had a slight muscular build. His face was somewhat soft but spotted with scratches and a bruise at the base of his left jaw. His clothes were a bit rumpled and torn. His shirt was a dark blue, almost black, but a darker stain was spread across his midsection.
“Turn around please and place your hands behind your back.” The tone in his voice was suddenly more serious.
“What?”
“Turn around.” His voice rose slightly.
He didn’t like it. He knew what would come next but saw no viable way out of it. Obediently, he turned and placed his hands at his lower back.
The policeman walked over and snapped the handcuffs around his wrists. “Got any weapons on you? Any needles or such that might stick me.”
“I don’t think so.” At once he realized that he knew nothing about what was on his person, or even what kind of clothes he was wearing. He had been so badly disoriented that he hadn’t even noticed what he had on.
The policeman patted him down. The front pockets were empty. There were no keys, nor change. That seemed rather odd. In fact, the only thing on him was a wallet in his left back pocket. He slipped it out.
The wallet, made of brown, imitation leather, was rather plain and inexpensive. It was also pristine. There were no wear marks on it whatsoever. A light sheen and a stiffness in the material made it obvious that it was fairly new. Inside the wallet was a driver’s license, but no pictures or other documents. In the bill compartment were five crisp, twenty dollar bills. All new.
The policeman was silent a few moments trying to comprehend what he was seeing. He examined the driver’s license more closely. It appeared authentic. There was a state seal, and the picture matched the face.
“It says here that your name is Stone Wilson. Sound familiar?”
“Stone Wilson,” he repeated. He strugg
led to make the name mean something, to make some kind of mental connection. But there was none. “No. I’m afraid not.”
The cop nodded and closed the wallet.
“What are those stains on your shirt?” the cop asked. Several dark stains were splashed across the front of his shirt.
Stone looked down at his shirt. “I… I don’t know.”
“Any chance it could be blood?”
“I … don’t think so. It doesn’t appear that I have any substantial lacerations.”
The cop nodded again. “Mr. Wilson,” he said, “I need you to have a seat in the back of my car while I check out a few things.”
He suddenly felt apprehensive. “What for?”
“I’ll explain shortly.” He gently, but firmly grasped Stone just above his elbow and led him over to the car. He opened the door and Stone slid in. The cop fastened the seat belt around him.
After the cop settled into the driver’s seat, he tapped into the car’s computer searching for any outstanding warrants on a Stone Wilson.
Stone sat rigidly in the back seat running the name Stone Wilson through his mind, but still coming up with nothing. He felt just as lost as he did before he knew his name.
He wondered why he had been put into the seat belt. Was it a security thing or had the cop planned on taking him somewhere even before he knew if he had any outstanding warrants?
The cop turned to face him. “No warrants,” he said.
Stone was relieved. At least he wouldn’t have to spend this confused time sitting in some jail cell.
“Can I get these cuffs off, then?”
“Maybe in a few minutes. Right now, we need to take a little trip down to the Golden Ladle.”
“What for?”
A couple of hours ago there was a big brawl there. Between three men I understand. Really tore up the place. Two of the men are dead. One got away. According to accounts, you fit the description of the one who got away. We got some witnesses there that I hope can verify if it was you or not.”
Stone started to object, but since he had no memory, other than that of the last few minutes, he didn’t know if he had been involved or not.
“If you’re not recognized as the surviving fighter then we’ll ride over to the local hospital to see if we can get you some help.”
He watched the landscape slide by him out the side window. It all seemed so surreal to him. He half expected to suddenly wake up and find himself in his own bed, with all his memories solidly intact. But as the minutes passed, he realized that it wasn’t going to happen.
He leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes, at once acquiescing to all the things that were happening to him. He was tired of contending with all the unanswered questions in his mind. He tried to shut everything out, as though none of it mattered.
For a few fleeting minutes, he relaxed. Then it all burst apart. Images bounded into his head shattering his fragile peace.
He was fighting. Two men were coming at him from different directions. Somehow, he was fending them off. He was hitting one man in the face with his fist, then instantly kicking another across the room.
At once he was on the other side of the place. A restaurant, or bar, or both, he wasn’t sure. He was diving across a table, barely escaping a flying chair.
He came back at them with all the strength and skill that he could muster. Fighting as he had done many times before.
“Step out of the car, son,” the cop said, suddenly fragmenting the images that had inundated his mind.
Stone slipped warily out of the car (the cop had already released his safety belt without him realizing it). He looked about to see where he was.
“No,” he said softly, but loud enough for the policeman to hear him. He was back at the Golden Ladle.
“What did you …” the cop started.
Stone suddenly leaped into the air like a seasoned acrobat. He swung his hands around his raised legs to the front of him and landed on his feet. He jerked his wrists outward in one fluid motion and easily snapped the chain that held the cuffs together as if it were made of papier-mache’.
For an instant the cop was stunned. And in that briefest moment, Stone brought his hands up to the man’s chest and shoved. The cop left his feet, flying through the air several yards before landing solidly on his back, the air whooshing out of his mouth like a busted balloon.
Stone quickly reached inside the police car and retrieved his wallet from off the front seat. He turned sharply, pelted the short length of a parking lot, over two lanes of an access road, then dodged and dashed across four lanes of highway quickly disappearing into the thickness of woods.
Chapter 2
Detective Walter Jackson parked his unmarked police cruiser at one end of the Golden Ladle restaurant parking lot. He drank the last of his coffee and set the empty Styrofoam cup in the car’s cup holder.
He had been here before. A couple of times in fact. It was a nice place. The atmosphere was good. The food exceptional. It was too bad his visit was purely business and not pleasure. He swung the door open wide and squeezed his corpulent frame—all six feet one, two hundred ninety pounds of it—out of the car. He was a bit embarrassed by his effort. He was the heaviest he had ever been. With the big belly that sagged over his belt he sometimes felt like a giant duck. He would often tell himself that he lacked the willpower to lose the weight, but that was not the entire truth. A lot of it was that he just didn’t care enough. Losing the weight would not likely make him happy.
He straightened up and swung the door shut. When he turned to head toward the restaurant, he spotted a local cop car pulling up to the opposite side of the wide building. It stopped in the grass at the side and front of the restaurant because the parking lot was filled, most of the spaces with city police cars. The car was nearly fifty yards from Walter.
Because the driver’s side of the cop car was not facing him Walter only saw the top half of the policeman as he exited his car. A moment later a young male appeared from the back seat. From the way he stood, Walter guessed that he must be in handcuffs.
Because it happened so quickly what happened next stopped Walter cold. The prisoner suddenly jumped into the air, and in one continuous movement swung his arms underneath him. When he landed on his feet his hands came up quickly and shoved the policeman. The policeman flew backward and disappeared from Walter’s sight. In an instant, the young man spun around and dashed in the direction of the interstate.
Two policemen were coming out of the front door of the restaurant about the time that Stone was rushing away from the officer. At first, they didn’t understand what they were seeing. For all they knew they were just watching some whacked-out guy racing toward the interstate trusting God and luck that he would make it to the other side.
It took Walter a moment to find his voice. He half expected the cop behind the police car to suddenly stand up and start yelling. Or, at least, for the two cops coming out of the restaurant to realize what was going on. But neither happened.
“Hey!” Walter yelled, “stop that guy!” He pointed toward the interstate.
The two policemen stopped and looked at Walter, confused, not immediately recognizing him as a city detective, nor understanding what he was trying to say.
“Stop him!” came a loud voice from the policemen’s right side. The men turned. “Don’t let him get away!” The cop who had driven Stone to the restaurant had risen to his feet. He too was pointing toward the four-lane beyond the access road.
The two policemen stared across the access road and the expressway beyond at the man beginning to disappear into the shadows of the woods. Then, almost in unison, they understood. They dashed around to their patrol car parked at the front. At the same time, the cop who had been shoved down by Stone ran staggering to the paved parking lot and to the police car as it backed up. They stopped long enough for him to slide into the back seat.
Walter watched as the police car took off, sirens blaring, blue lights flashing. D
riving over the interstate would save them a few seconds, and be safer than footing it, but the woods in that area were extensive. It was doubtful that the runner would be caught any time soon.
Walter made his way to the double doors of the restaurant. A policeman standing on the other side of the doors saw him and swung one of the doors open wide.
“How ya doin’ today, mister Jackson?” the policeman said. The man was tall and angular. His red hair was cut close to his head and his thin red mustache looked as though it had been painted on. When he spoke, his voice was deep and laced with a thick southern accent.
“Fine, Art,” Walter answered. “How’s married life?”
Art laughed. It was like a small rumble. “Well, let me put it to ya this way, if the chief would’ve given me more than three days off for my honeymoon, I’d probably be dead by now. Happy, but dead.” He laughed again, rumbling once more.
Walter laughed and patted Art on the shoulder. “Take it in moderation, now. We can’t afford to lose you.”
“I’ll try.” He smiled wryly.
Walter walked away feeling rather good about himself. For the most part, he was well-liked by those he worked around. It made his work much more tolerable when he was faced with the seedier part of humanity.
Walter gazed about the large dining area. It was in shambles. Many of the wooden tables and chairs were lying in pieces across the floor like dry, broken bones. Shattered plates, broken glassware, silverware, and mixtures of food and drink littered and stained a wide expanse of the white, imported floor tile. At the front of the restaurant the long, plate glass window was a web of sinuous cracks.
In the midst of the destruction, a man in blue smocks was kneeling beside one of the two bodies sprawled across the floor. Both bodies were male. One was lying on his back; his eyes open as though staring at a mark on the ceiling. The other body, only about six feet away, was face down in a puddle of his own blood.
The Nexus Page 2