I saw Dad begin to cave under her relentless onslaught and let him off the hook. After enlisting an eager Duncan, I assured them I would be fine.
Duncan’s lips on mine pull me out of the darkness. I check the clock on the wall. Almost five-thirty. I’ve managed to put away six hours in dreamland, but there are no dreams, or none that I remember.
“They said you didn’t eat lunch. That’s not good.”
“Then tell Doctor Knight to keep his damn light out of my face. I get nauseated every time he checks my pupils.”
“I will. But not right now. We only have a few minutes before they bring dinner.” Duncan eases onto the bed, then takes me in his arms and finds my lips.
This has been his routine whenever we’ve been alone, but I’m not at all comfortable with it. I have a private room, but when has a room in the hospital ever been private?
I’ve grown used to his kisses, but still freak out when his hand finds its way inside my hospital gown.
Duncan says he loves me and from the look on his face, I believe him. But this is the scary part. I’m supposed to be practically engaged to this man, yet he’s a borderline stranger.
Knight’s voice echoes in my mind. “They did a rape kit on you in Laredo. Standard procedure for female victims these days. It was negative.”
That was a shocker, but the news was a relief, even if I didn’t know just what I was a victim of.
I guess I’ve somehow signaled my reluctance, because Duncan disengages his mouth from mine. “Bad day all the way around?”
“Yeah. Sorry. But I did get some good news today. Doctor Knight’s releasing me on Saturday.”
“It’s about time. I’m surprised he kept you so long.” “Doesn’t seem that long to me, it’s less than two weeks.”
He cuddles me to him. “Seems like two years. We have a lot to make up for.”
I feel safe in Duncan’s arms—as safe as I can be under the circumstances.
“I’m so scared.”
“You’re going to be fine. You just need to rest and take care of yourself for the next few weeks.”
Actually, the timing of what happened is perfect. A job offer from Perkins, Travis was among the messages Duncan picked up off my answering machine followed by a confirming letter. Duncan called them to explain my situation and they’re willing to wait until I get my bearings.
The DA regretfully accepted my resignation with a letter of commendation saying how well I performed my assignments and wishing me the best of luck in my new job.
Frankly, I’m relieved I don’t have to go back to the routine. The thought of handling drug drops and auto thefts is somehow frightening, though I can’t exactly put my finger on the reason.
Duncan kisses my throat. This has always been a trigger for me. I can’t help but respond since I’m only human and I suppose I must love him.
Duncan lets out a soft moan and moves away. “You’re so tempting.”
“Then don’t stop.” I pull him back to me, wanting him to go on, needing to feel connected to something—anything.
“Believe me, I don’t want to stop. But I’d like a better setting.” He gives me a gentle kiss before he slides off the bed. “I have something for you.”
When he fishes in his jacket pocket and pulls out a small black box, my heart thuds. A ring. He’s giving me a ring. Panic blooms full force and my stomach rebels. There goes dinner.
When my stomach begins to heave, I turn away. “Allie, are you all right?”
I hear the love and concern in his voice and this makes it worse. I don’t know how I feel about him. I don’t remember. I can’t accept his ring. Not now.
“Get a nurse. I’m going to be sick.”
Chapter 17
I’VE BEEN HOME ALMOST A WEEK and, though I’m still a little wobbly, the headaches are diminishing.
I still haven’t a clue about the large gap in my memory, nor strangely, am I particularly interested in finding out. My reluctance puzzles me since I’m basically a very curious person.
Susie’s number is written on the pad next to my phone and I have lifted the receiver several times in the last week, but I can’t seem to make the call. The minute my finger touches the pad, I quickly hang up.
Remember what happened to the cat.
Who said that? I try to place the voice. Nothing.
Since I tire easily and find sleep a welcome release, I’ve hardly left my bed except to bathe.
There’s no ring on my finger and no further mention made of it. I think Duncan finally realizes I need more time. Though he’s continued the ritual he began in the hospital, he remains fully clothed with the sheet and bedspread between us.
Sometimes he falls asleep beside me, exhausted from the complicated case he’s trying with a dicey witness he’s afraid will sour on him any minute. I feel a twinge of guilt because he doesn’t need the added strain of trying to care for me.
This afternoon I went to see Dr. Knight, who assured me I would soon regain my full strength, then cautioned me not to push myself. I kept waiting for him to ask about the memory loss but he must have forgotten. I was relieved when he didn’t because I had no intention of bringing it up.
I took a cab to and from his office and collapsed on my bed as soon as I got back. I must have fallen asleep because it’s almost eight and twilight when I hear Duncan in the kitchen, and do a little primping before I hurry to join him.
He’s layering something in a casserole, hands engaged, so I circle his waist with my arms. “Hi.”
His voice resonates through his back. “You’re finally up.” “And hungry.”
“Music to my ears. It’s lasagna. How does that sound?” “Magical. Shall I do a salad?”
“Sure.”
We stand hip to hip, sharing a glass of Chianti, not saying anything. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know we’ve done this before and for the first time since coming out of whatever I suffered after my concussion, I feel a genuine rush of love for this man.
I push the romaine aside, pull him to me, and plant a nice long kiss on his mouth. This turns into an even longer engagement and he responds by guiding me out of my small kitchen, past the minute dining table set for two and to the couch.
I finally find a second between kisses to say, “Will the lasagna keep?”
“Who cares?”
Somehow, I know Duncan will be a generous lover. When we make it to my bed, he says he wants us to take some time to become reacquainted, but what begins as gentle exploration, ignites and rapidly propels forward.
Afterwards, we sit at the dining room table—Duncan in his red plaid boxers, I in my black teddy—and wash down the lasagna and salad with the rest of the Chianti.
We try to clean up, but can’t keep our hands off each other. Leaving the lasagna pan to soak, we barely make it to the bed.
Now, after a delicious reprise of our pre-dinner encounter, Duncan sleeps beside me. He has a gentle snore, but it’s enough to keep me awake—that and the three-carat square-cut diamond on my ring finger.
I hold up my hand to catch the reflection of the bathroom night-light. It’s a beautiful ring and Duncan’s endearing plight will be forever engraved in my memory.
I have been well-fed, well-bedded, and have just become engaged to a wonderful man. Why then am I bleeding tears?
Chapter 18
MY BEIGE WOOL SUIT is the perfect foil against the chill of the early November morning. Not only is the suit perfect, but my life is about as perfect as it can get. There’s a bounce to my step as I make my way along the path from the parking lot to the vinecovered brick building that houses Perkins, Travis, Attorneys-at-Law.
I love my new job. The firm is small but powerful, driven by Richard Perkins and Will Travis, who are renowned for their expertise in corporate “roll-ups” and real estate coups.
I’ve been here three months, arriving just in time to be well vetted, then chosen as lead attorney in the Dixon-Renchen negotiations.
“P&T,” as they are fondly referred to by associates and staff, let me call the plays from the beginning and I took to it like the proverbial duck. Now, I’m sitting in my very own office, basking in my first major success.
Duncan and I reserved a church and a reception hall for late March and put in a bid on a home in the old Tanglewood area of the city. It’s a remodel with three bedrooms, two and a half baths, and a wonderful kitchen—an absolute requirement for Duncan.
Though we are still in our separate apartments, we haven’t spent a day apart since he slipped the ring on my finger, and we would be married now, if there still weren’t those large holes in my past.
Sad to say, absolutely nothing has happened in the memory department. Knight now believes these mental lapses are hysteria-driven and is insisting I get therapy. I have been able to put this off due to my vital part in the Dixon-Renchen deal. But he’s threatening action soon.
The phone interrupts my glow. “Allie Armington.”
Avery Dixon’s voice purrs in my ear. “My favorite lawyer. Do we have a deal?”
“Copies of the agreement are being couriered to you for your final signature. Renchen’s already signed, sealed, and delivered.”
“That’s my girl.”
Despite Dixon’s politically incorrect referral, I enthusiastically blot up his exclamations of praise. The negotiations have been tricky, impeded by the two major egos involved, but thanks to my insight and a soft touch, I have landed my client a really sweet contract.
We chat a few moments then an incoming call ends our conversation with my promise to meet him for a celebratory drink the following evening. I depress the hook and let the phone ring a few times before I alight from my cloud.
“Armington.”
“Alice Armington?” The voice is not familiar, but decidedly Texan. “Speaking.”
“This is Raymond T. Gibbs of Jaynes and Gibbs in Laredo. I’m calling about the estate of Paul Carpenter.”
Paul’s estate? Paul dead? I break into his monotone. “Are you saying that Paul Carpenter is dead?”
“Oh, yes, for quite some time. Lessee here.” Silence as pages shuffle. “Mister Carpenter was found dead at a remote site on his ranch, Friday, May fourth.”
The moan comes from the depths of my soul as Paul’s face etched in terror, slides into place. I am standing above him, hand jammed in my vest pocket, clutching my Beretta, while I stare into his pleading eyes.
The sudden pounding in my ears is accompanied by a blinding ache at the base of my skull that is so debilitating, I can barely hold the phone.
His voice threads weakly through the commotion in my brain. “Miss Armington?”
“Yes, I’m listening. Go on.”
“Well, there’s very little left of Mister Carpenter’s estate. Seems the drug runners have all but cleaned out his ranch. Happening all over the counties bordering the Rio Grande. Those hombres got cojones bigger’n Dallas.” There’s a pause followed by, “Excuse my language, ma’am. It’s just that I get so danged mad when I think about how helpless we are against these dogs. Now, where was I?” A long sigh is accompanied by more shuffling paper. “The reason we’re contacting you, Miss Armington, is about a brown envelope addressed to you that was found in Mister Carpenter’s safe deposit box at the bank. As a matter of fact, the envelope was the only thing in the box. Sorry it’s taken so long, but we had a heckuva time tracking you down.”
I want out of the conversation. The pain of those last moments with Paul are too grim to handle. “Just send the envelope to...”
“Well, I would have done that already, ma’am, but the envelope comes with explicit instructions that it is only to be opened by you in the presence of witnesses and if you are unable or incapable of opening said envelope, it is to be destroyed while still sealed.”
I’m sitting in the dark when Duncan comes in humming something from Brigadoon. When he switches on the dining room light, I see the sacks in his arms indicating a feast is in store, but my stomach turns at the thought.
He doesn’t notice me until I rise, then he looks at my face and lowers the sacks to the table to take me in his arms.
I don’t know how long we stand there, but I finally get myself together enough to say, “Paul Carpenter is dead. A heroin overdose.”
I relate as much of Gibbs’s speech as I can remember, then wait for Duncan to spout some sort of miracle solution.
“And you remember you were there?”
“I must have been there, Duncan. I remember the look on Paul’s face. Pure terror. He was tied up. I think I went to find him.” I search the ceiling, hoping to jar another memory loose, but nothing comes.
“The date of his death and the date you were found couldn’t be that coincidental...” His voice trails. “Do you think you might have walked in on something you weren’t supposed to see?” Here comes my old friend panic. The headache is back despite the powerful analgesic I took only an hour before. It’s the third dose since I got the news of Paul’s death.
“Why can’t I remember?” I’m wailing now, shaking uncontrollably inside Duncan’s embrace, afraid if he releases me, I’ll spin out of control.
Chapter 19
DR. DAVID SOLOMON SITS STARING AT ME, balding head pitched slightly forward. He’s combed as much of his hair as he can to cover the baldness. Besides the fact that it looks silly, to my mind that makes him vain. I hate that in a man and it’s even worse for a shrink.
He’s been waiting some time for me to answer his last dumb question, but I want out of here so badly I can taste it. It’s the third session in ten days and so far nothing has happened except for the usual panic attacks, followed by jackhammer headaches.
“Who are they?” he asks again.
I try to stanch my rising anger. He’s been brow-beating me for almost an hour with zero results and I’m sick of his smooth, reasonable voice. “I heard you the first time, Doctor. If I knew who they were, I’d tell you.”
He smiles and spreads his hands. “Don’t shoot. I’m a friend.” Those words and his gesture are disturbing. I’ve seen and heard the same somewhere in one of those holes.
He lunges forward in expectation. “Have we hit a chord?”
I repeat the words to myself as I open my hands. I can see his hands. Almost hear his voice. I’m angry about something and it’s hot. We’re outside, under trees, leaning against...? A fence? No... no... a car. I stretch for the memory but it’s gone.
“A man said almost the same words—opened his hands like that. I can’t see his face, but I know we’re outside and talking about something that has made me angry.”
“Very good, Miss Armington.” Solomon makes a few notes in my thin file, then stands and extends his hand. “How about Friday?”
I’m standing, too. If Knight weren’t so high on this man, I’d be out of here in a minute and never come back. “Do you really think this is doing any good?”
Solomon smiles. “Well, so far we know Paul Carpenter was probably at the same site where you were attacked. And since you keep referring to ‘they’ and ‘them’ this indicates to me there are others involved. Notably, another man besides Carpenter that you seem to know well.”
“So?”
“My guess is you were so traumatized, you’re repressing the events from January through April. We know you made two trips to Uvalde. One at the end of January, then one at the end of April when your friend Reena was murdered. There is something interrelated in those trips. Perhaps something happened during your first trip that triggered events on your second visit.” His smile widens as he rubs his hands together. “Quite a little puzzle, isn’t it?”
He’s so damned pleased with himself, I want to punch him in the puss or mess up his careful “do.” Anything to wipe that smug look off his face. Instead, I smile and nod. “Quite.”
Duncan rises as I exit Solomon’s inner sanctum. He sees the look on my face and leads me through the door without speaking. We are halfway from Solomon’s offic
e to Bammel Lane when I finally say, “We made a little headway.”
“Want to talk about it?” His voice is almost too soft. This has been as hard on him as it has on me. It’s almost as if he wants the past to stay buried. Not that I blame him.
Gibbs, the Laredo attorney, has called a couple of times to ask my pleasure, but I’m too scared and torn to make a decision. I can’t make up my mind whether to accept the envelope or just blow it off and let them destroy the document.
I hate myself for feeling this way. Scared of my shadow. Jumping when the phone rings. It’s not my modus. When I mentioned this to Solomon, he gave me little help. “You’ll face this when you’re ready.” But the question remains: Will I ever be ready?
Once I’m settled on the couch, Duncan shoves a tumbler of Scotch into my hand, then sits beside me.
After I go through the small breakthroughs and Solomon’s trauma theory, Duncan says, “I did a little checking right after you were flown in from Laredo.”
That’s a surprise. “Really?”
“Don’t get excited. I was politely stiffed all the way around. The ER in Laredo found you on a gurney outside the entrance. They sometimes leave them there after a transfer has been completed, especially if they’re busy—and they were.
“Then I called the Uvalde Police. Never heard of you.” “Did you try to phone the Dardens?”
“I made two or three calls. Kids took messages, none returned.”
My pulse begins to race. I know there’s something I should remember about the Dardens.
“Don’t you think it’s strange that your friend Susie hasn’t called you? She has to know Paul is dead.”
Duncan has asked the question I’ve been afraid to ask myself. But then, I haven’t called Susie either.
“I don’t understand why she hasn’t called to see if you’re okay? You were in Uvalde for three days. Certainly, you must have seen her.”
“I’m sure I did.” I put down the drink, no longer interested in it.
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