by Joanna Wayne
“No. It was originally—back when McCord’s dad was still alive. Now it serves as offices and a guard house. Security is state-of-the-art at the Altamira. You sign away everything but your first-born child just to gain the privilege of stepping inside the gate.”
“Are we going to the house?”
“We won’t have time this afternoon, not if we want to get to the crime scene before dark. It’s a good twenty minutes from this gate to the senator’s home.”
She watched Clint lower the window on his side of the truck. The scents of early winter and the crispness of the air added a surreal quality to the whole maddening situation. Darlene shifted to the back of her seat. “I don’t remember any of this, Sheriff. Let’s just drive out to the area where you found me and the senator’s truck.”
He twisted the key in the ignition. “Okay, but it might help if you set the scene in your mind. Apparently you drove here Monday afternoon from the airport in San Antonio, visited for a few minutes with McCord’s cook, Mary, and then got into his truck with him.”
“What brought you to that conclusion?”
“You rented a car at the airport and drove it to the Altamira. The car is still there. Mary says that you had tea with her on the dining porch before you left the house with McCord.”
He revved his engine and backed toward the road. “We’re going to follow the same route you and McCord likely took when you left the Altamira and drove out Glenn Road.”
“But why didn’t we just talk at the ranch under the protection of his ‘state-of-the-art’ security?”
“You’ll have to be the one to tell us that, since McCord’s chosen not to.”
“When and if I remember.”
Before Clint could turn onto the highway, a creamcolored Cadillac pulled in behind him, blocking him in. A tall, attractive man, middle-aged with silvery hair, emerged from behind the wheel and walked toward them.
“Have you had any word on the whereabouts of the senator?” he asked, resting his hands on the driver’s side door of Clint’s truck.
“No, and we won’t until he decides he wants us to.”
The man stooped so that he could get a better look at Darlene. “I was sure sorry to hear you got hurt in that fray the other night, Darlene. I’ve told the senator a hundred times, he should be more careful now that he’s a celebrity. Being a potential presidential candidate gets a man a whole lot more attention than just being a senator.”
“I’m sure he’ll listen next time,” she said.
Both the silver-haired man and Clint laughed at her optimism.
“You definitely have amnesia if you’ve forgotten how stubborn McCord is,” the man countered.
She sat quietly while the two men talked. She liked the older man’s easy manner and the way he wasn’t afraid to say the word amnesia. Half the hospital staff talked around it as if saying the word was paramount to condemning her to a deadly disease. Still, it was awkward meeting someone she apparently knew, and yet not having a clue who he was.
But then, she didn’t even have a clue who she was. Her concept of herself depended solely on how others perceived her.
She wrapped her arms about her chest, fighting off a chilling shiver in spite of the warmth of Clint’s truck. In a few minutes, she’d be in the same isolated spot where Clint had found her the other night, cold and bleeding and wandering aimlessly.
Would the memories come crashing back? And if they did, would she learn facts about herself and the senator that her mind was refusing to face?
She closed her eyes. No matter what secrets lay hidden in her brain, it would be far better to know the truth than to continue living in this void.
Clint finished talking, and the man he called Thornton went back to his car. Seconds later they were back on the highway headed farther away from the town of Vaquero and the hospital.
“Was that a relative of McCord’s you were talking to?”
“No, that was Thornton Roberts, the head of ranch security.”
“The man in charge of the high-tech operations?”
“You got it. The man hired to keep the media from hounding McCord and his family and ranch crew night and day. Sorry I didn’t introduce you. I forgot that you wouldn’t remember him.”
“It’s okay. I was just surprised he knew about my amnesia.”
“Everyone knows about your amnesia. Welcome back to small-town America.” He took his eyes from the road to glance in her direction. “You’re not having second thoughts about returning to the scene of the attack, are you?”
“Second, third and fourth,” she answered truthfully. “But I don’t intend to back out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Good.” He slowed and turned left onto a narrow, dirt road. “Because this is Glenn Road, and we’ll know in a few minutes if our little experiment is going to work.”
Chapter Four
The sun was flirting with the horizon, painting the Texas sky in shimmering shades of burnt orange and pale yellow, but the gentle glow of the sun didn’t lessen the sense of foreboding as Darlene pushed open her passenger door and stepped into the long, wispy grass.
As much as she longed to remember everything that had happened in this deserted spot on Monday night, she wasn’t sure she was ready to discover her role in the events. If she’d been on duty, it would have made a little more sense. But as it was, she couldn’t imagine what had bought her and the senator out here to talk.
The possibility that she had been used to set up McCord nagged her conscience, even though Clint seemed to think she was too much the FBI agent to ever let that happen. So, did he think she and the senator had been involved in a romantic tryst? A sexual affair that would cause McCord trouble if it were picked up by the media?
She walked away from the truck and stopped near a scraggly cedar, grappling with memories that wouldn’t materialize. She never heard Clint get out of the truck, but she sensed him at her elbow and heard the reassuring rhythm of his breathing just behind her ear.
“I found you just over there.” He pointed in the direction of a slender pine tree. “You stepped out of the brush and slumped to the ground, holding your head.”
A chill chased through Darlene, and she hugged her arms about her waist. Clint wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “I have a jacket in the truck.”
“No. It’s not the temperature.”
His arm tightened about her. “Is it memories?”
She rocked against him, suddenly weak, her insides jumpy. “More of a feeling than a distinct memory.”
“Okay, slow and easy. Don’t force it. Just let it happen.”
He tugged her around to face him. She tilted her head and looked into his eyes. The intensity of his gaze was almost frightening, so invasive that she felt he could see clear through to her soul.
“What are you feeling?” he asked.
“Fear. I remember fear.” The frigid chill fastened its icy fingers around her heart. “And blood. Lots of blood.” She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images only grew more vivid. She strained to see through the crimson fog that filled her mind, but it was too thick. It was blinding her, the fear stealing her breath away, the same way it had done the other night in her hospital room.
Clint pulled her to him, held her tightly against his chest. “You’re okay. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
His voice was hoarse, but his strength wrapped around her the way his arms had. She clung to him, burying her face in the smooth fabric of his shirt. And as if by a wave of a mystical wand, nothing seemed quite as frightening as it had moments before.
“What else do you remember?” Clint urged. “Who was here with you? What happened to McCord?”
“I don’t know.” She sucked in a steadying gulp of air, the force of it burning her lungs. “I remember my head aching. I remember being afraid. But the only face I see is yours. Standing over me, pulling on me.”
“That was when I found you here. But it was all over by then. Think. Try
to focus. What happened before I got here?”
Frustration filled her, so thick she could taste its bitterness. Clint needed her memories. They both did.
“Can you remember who attacked you?”
“Nothing.” She spit the painful word out of her mouth. “I remember nothing.”
He reached for her hand, but she stalked away, angry with him and even angrier with herself for wanting what she couldn’t give. Her gaze circled the area, desperate to see something that might make the cold haze in her brain take form. When that didn’t work, she started pacing back and forth, stopping to look at every bush, every rock, every mound of earth.
Clint kept his distance, but she felt the heat of his stare as he watched her every movement, almost willing her to break down the memory barriers that were holding her captive. As badly as he wanted to know what happened here Monday night, she was sure she wanted it a hundred times more.
To him, it was an investigation. To her, it was the sum of her life up until the moment she’d stumbled into him three nights ago.
“McCord’s truck was parked just over there,” Clint said, breaking the silence when she stopped to lean against the trunk of an oak tree.
She scrutinized the spot he’d pointed out. “I suppose you’ve had the vehicle checked for evidence.”
“It’s still being checked. So far, the only fingerprints have belonged to McCord, you, or people who worked for him.”
“You can’t rule out the people who work for the senator.”
“I haven’t ruled out anyone.”
“Including me.”
“No—” he took her hand in his “—excluding you,” he said. He dropped her hand, and placed his on the tree just behind her head. “You didn’t do anything wrong in all of this. So, if that’s one of your worries, you can check it off your list.”
Darlene tried to pinpoint the crazy sense of familiarity that had washed over her at his touch, but she couldn’t. “You can’t be sure of anything about me,” she said finally. “You said so yourself. Six years is a long time. A person can change.”
“Not that much,” he said, then added, “It’s getting late, and I promised not to tire you. Are you ready to go back to the hospital?”
“I don’t give up that easily.” She turned her back to him and headed up a rocky incline. Surely, there had to be something out here to jog her memory. She topped a small hill and scanned the area below her. Grass, bushes, another barb wire fence in the distance—
And a glimpse of color peeking out from a leafy bush. Blue plaid. She closed her eyes, and the fabric took shape in her mind. A shirt. Splattered in blood. She froze, determined not to let the haze block out the images before she could make sense of them.
Perhaps someone had been wearing that shirt the other night. If she tried hard enough, she should be able to picture the man who wore it. But even the image of the shirt faded in and out, like a video losing its feed. She closed-her eyes tightly, praying for the events of the other night to release their hold on her. To let the memories she’d buried fight their way to the surface.
Blood. Evil. Secrets.
One minute she was lost in her thoughts, the next the illusions were shattered by the crack of a rifle. Instinct and training took over where reasoning failed. Screaming a warning to Clint, she dived for cover.
CLINT JERKED TO ATTENTION as the sound of Darlene’s scream mingled with the explosion of rifle fire. Racing at breakneck speed, he topped the small hill where he’d last seen her. His fear mounted. There was nowhere for her to go, but she was gone.
“Darlene!” His voice echoed around him, mocking him. He should never have left her alone, should never have let her out of his sight—not here where the attack had occurred. His finger rolled across the cold metal trigger of his pistol.
“Darlene!” He didn’t try to keep the panic from his voice. Scanning the area, he searched for any sign of movement, listened for any noise that might tell him where she was. Moments ago she’d been in his arms, holding on to him. Now she had disappeared into thin air.
“Clint.”
He whirled toward the sound of the shaky voice. Darlene was on the ground, crawling from behind a cluster of thorny branches. Safe, except for a few scratches on her arms and chin. Relief left him weak but still wary. “What happened?”
“I heared a gunshot.”
He helped her to her feet. “I forget you’ve become a city woman. I should have warned you it was deer season. We’re overrun with hunters this time of year.”
“Hunters, probably not even near here, and I dived for cover. One more example of my amnesia-produced paranoia.” She brushed at the front of her jeans and picked a nettle from the denim.
“More likely the result of your training.” He trailed a finger across her cheek, wiping loose strands of hair away and tucking them behind her ear. “We law-enforcement types never take gunfire lightly.”
“You didn’t scream and jump for cover. Besides, I don’t even remember being in law enforcement. But...” She hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Say whatever you’re thinking, Darlene. This isn’t the time for holding back.”
“I know. But this sounds hokey, even to me.” She put her fingers to her temples and shook her head slowly, as if to clear away cobwebs. “I noticed that scrap of material caught in the bush just beyond that rocky area.” She pointed downhill, toward a cluster of scrubby bushes and a glimpse of light blue fabric.
“For a few seconds, my mind went crazy on me. I saw someone wearing a blue-plaid shirt, one splattered with blood.” She drew her bottom lip into her mouth.
Clint made his way to the scrap of fabric she’d pointed out and pulled it free. It was the end of a ripped sleeve, the cuff still intact.
He turned to find Darlene a few steps behind him. “Not nearly as hokey as you think. I stopped by McCord’s place Monday afternoon. He was wearing a blue-plaid shirt. I’d say your memory is fighting to pull free.”
Groaning, she touched the fabric with the tip of her finger. “Senator McCord’s blood on my clothes. The shirt he was wearing ripped to shreds.” She looked away from Clint and stared into nothingness. “Are you sure he’s all right, Clint? Are you sure he’s not dead?”
“I told you. He called the Sheriff’s Office and talked to Randy.”
“His voice could be faked. There’s equipment that can do that, make the voice imagery so precise, it’s impossible to tell the difference over the telephone.” There it was again—facts she knew without a clue as to when or where she’d learned them. Like the images, they seemed to come from nowhere.
“We don’t have a body, Darlene. Just a torn shirt.”
“And McCord’s blood on my shirt.”
He took her hand and was amazed at how cold it was. “Don’t jump to any conclusions. McCord is tough as nails. Believe me. He didn’t get the Congressional Medal of Honor for lying down and letting trouble gallop over him.”
Something moved behind them. Without stopping to think, Clint moved in front of Darlene and cleared his holster with the pistol in one quick movement. A crow swooped down from a tree and strutted in front of him. He waited to make sure the crow had been the guilty party before sliding the gun back into the holster.
“You’re quick,” Darlene said, eyeing the pistol. “I pity the criminal unlucky enough to have to go up against you.”
“I like to be prepared.”
“That, or you aren’t convinced the earlier shot was just a hunter.”
“Your FBI mind is showing again.”
“At least you seem to think I still have a mind. You might be a majority of one. Dr. Bennigan appears to believe I’m lost in Loonyville. A paranoid amnesiac, if there is such a diagnosis. What worries me the most is that I’m beginning to agree with him.”
“Don’t. And don’t let the doc get to you. Occasionally he’s short on tact, but he’s top-notch. Caring too. We’re lucky to have him in Vaquero. Small towns like ours
have trouble luring and keeping good doctors.”
“A small friendly town where everybody knows everybody else.” She rubbed at a scratch on her hand. “So what do you really think provoked the attack on McCord and me, Clint? You have to have a clue. You said you had been to his ranch Monday afternoon. You must be friends with the senator.”
“Friends? I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s just say we live in the same county.”
“Do you think he was mixed up in something shady? You hinted as much earlier.”
“I have no idea what went on here Monday night, except that someone came after you with what looks like the sharp end of a big rock, and the senator who was with you ran and took cover instead of staying around to see that you were safe. Now he’s avoiding questioning.”
“Not acts to inspire trust,” she said, her eyes reflecting the confusion that had to be weighing her down.
Clint had no trouble empathizing. He was confused—and his memory was intact. “Until I find out what happened,” he said, “I don’t trust anyone. You shouldn’t either.”
“Not even you?” she questioned, her slim, lithe body inching closer to his, her face upturned so that she could read his expression when he answered.
Old doubts settled like lead in his chest. She should trust him least of all, but not for the reasons she was thinking. He managed what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “You can depend on me to keep you safe if the man who attacked you comes back to finish what he started.”
“Are you sure my attacker was a man?”
“The evidence points that way. There were two sets of footprints other than yours found here at the scene of the attack. The other two sets appeared to be men’s. Likely McCord’s and the attacker’s. Of course, it is possible that the footprints belonged to a woman.”
“Going on the assumption that it is a man, if he had wanted me dead, he could have killed me the other night.”
“Not necessarily. He had McCord to handle. By the time he chased after him, you must have had time to get away.”