For Want of a Memory

by Robert Lubrican

  "I'm sorry." He felt like he had hurt her.

  "I'm very disappointed in you," she said. If she'd been thinking more clearly, she might have phrased that differently. She might have said she was sad that she hadn't been able to participate in finding out what his memories meant ... that the partnership they'd started might have been strengthened by the teamwork of working through a problem together.

  To Kris, her attitude meant that her love for him had diminished. He had brought her pain, even though he had tried not to. He felt like a failure.

  "I can't believe they found your manuscript," said Lulu, changing the subject. She was excited about learning something about the man she loved by reading something he'd written before he'd lost his memory. "I'm going to go get the hair dryer and see if we can save it."

  Kris felt conflicted. She was more interested in a wet pile of paper than trying to work through this problem. At the same time, he was interested in seeing what his mind had created before his life had been turned upside down. At last he had the chance to find out what kind of things he usually wrote about.

  Lulu approached most things with a single mindedness that was born of the desire to do something well, and as efficiently as possible. For that reason, her attention was on each page as it was peeled off the pile, dried with the hair dryer, and then read. It would have been better to just dry all the pages, and then read them in order, because the stop and go process robbed the pages that were fully written of some of their impact. But she was impatient to explore and so she did it that way.

  From Kris' viewpoint, the words on the paper were just that ... words. He had a hard time claiming ownership of them because, even as he read them, they seemed flat and unfamiliar.

  As a result, the gap between them widened even more as the pages were processed. Neither of them wanted that gap to widen, but neither recognized what was actually happening. All they felt was the vaguely uncomfortable rift between them, a rift that wasn't actually meant to be there, but which had been created through imperfect communication of what each was feeling.

  That lingering dissatisfaction with the way things were going, and the errors each had made that night, had one more huge impact on the relationship. The manuscript was a draft and unfinished. All the thought and editing that would eventually go into it had not yet been done. Kris, who knew he had written it, was disappointed. Lulu, unaware that her involvement in the romance novel had biased her towards it, and because the page drying marathon had left her tired, simply said, "You've done lots better work."

  Lulu expected him to kiss her good night, as a display of his repentance for not confiding in her.

  Kris expected Lulu to kiss him good night, as a display of the fact that, despite the obvious flaws in his personality, she forgave him.

  In the end, that good night kiss didn't happen, because neither felt positive enough about the situation to initiate it.

  It was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  When Kris left, he felt like the world was closing in on him and he had nowhere to turn for sanctuary. He believed Lulu was disgusted with him because he was a bad person. Mitch was going to continue investigating, find out that he'd committed a crime and probably arrest him. Even if he could find a way to patch things up with Lulu, his life would still be down the crapper, sooner or later. Eventually ... he was going to have to pay the piper, and he didn't need his memory to tell him how difficult it would be to carry on a relationship if he was in jail.

  He imagined what it would be like. He'd be at the Early Girl, eating pancakes with hash browns and flirting with Lulu, while other people in town looked on and wondered what was really going on between them. Mitch would come in, draw his gun and shout for Kris to get down on the floor, or something like that, and then drag him out in handcuffs. Or, worse, it would happen at Lulu's house ... with Ambrose looking on.

  Tears spilled down his cheeks as he blinked rapidly, trying to keep his vision clear as he drove through the streets of the little town that had somehow become home for him. It wasn't fair. While he couldn't remember his previous life, he somehow knew that what he'd stumbled into in Pembroke was better than anything he'd ever had before. Now that he had carved a niche for himself, it was all going to come undone.

  It was as he thought of these things, on his way home, that emotion overrode common sense.

  He decided to just get it over with. He decided to pack up, that very night, and go back to New York City. He'd find his apartment, find his publisher, and sell the book he'd written, if that was possible. He'd probably have to use that money for a lawyer, but he'd turn himself in, like Mitch had talked about. Mitch had said that might help a little bit. That he didn't know exactly where to turn himself in was a minor issue, as far as he was concerned. It must have happened in the city, so any NYPD station house would do.

  He knew he should tell Lulu what he was going to do, but he couldn't face her. She was already disappointed in him. It was better to just make a clean break. When he got to the city, he'd call Mitch and tell him he was going to turn himself in and that he just needed to wrap up a few things first.

  Packing was easy. He hadn't bought much since arriving in Pembroke. What people had donated to him would be left behind, so they could reclaim it, or somebody else could use it. A piece of his forwarded mail provided the address of his apartment. The rental was paid for for another two months, but he'd just forfeit that. He could mail the key back to Rudy, along with an explanation. He didn't know what to do about the radio station. He'd think of something when he got back home.

  Lulu kept popping into his head. He could picture her easily, walking up and down the aisle of the diner, a coffee pot in one hand, and a smile on her face. He told himself over and over that it would be less painful for both of them if he just drove away.

  So that's what he did.

  * * *

  It was two in the morning when he finally found his address. It had taken so long mostly because of the people there had been to ask for directions. Most of them were either high, drunk, or didn't look like the kind of person who would entertain a request for directions with much humor.

  One of the keys Mitch had given him fit and he walked into what should have been the comfortable feeling of home.

  Except that it wasn't.

  He spent half an hour just looking around, trying to remember something, but nothing came to him. He found the stuffed frog riding the motorcycle and examined it. Next to it was what looked like a big plastic, red and black lady bug. When he picked that up, he discovered it was a telephone.

  He almost dropped it as the memory of it came back into his mind, like a rushing wind. His sister's face popped into his mind. Her name, June, popped in with it and so did the face and name of Tanya, her daughter. He had a niece! And she had sent him this phone for his birthday! He even remembered how hard he'd laughed when he'd opened the package it came in.

  He looked around eagerly now, hoping to remember more things, but nothing came of it. His frustration level rose, because that one memory was all he could get back. He was disappointed that, with so many possible triggers all around him, nothing was happening.

  His desk yielded an address book. Lola Henderson was the only one on the H page. Most of the pages were blank. He wasn't sleepy, and he had only a few plans, so he picked up the phone and dialed her number.

  It rang a dozen times before an obviously sleepy female voice came on the line.

  "Hello? It's two fucking thirty. This had better be some kind of emergency," she said.

  "Hi. This is Kris."

  There were exactly seven seconds of silence, then he had to hold the phone four inches away from his ear to keep from being deafened. She sounded mad and excited all at the same time. When she finally wound down he interrupted her.

  "I was in an accident. I lost my memory. That's why I didn't call. So maybe it won't sound so strange if I ask you who my publisher is." />
  "Where are you?" she asked.

  "I'm in my apartment."

  "Don't go anywhere! I'll be right over!" she screamed.

  "No!" he said. "I just got here. I drove all night and I'm completely wasted." He wasn't sure why he was lying to her, but he didn't feel up to actually meeting this woman yet. "I have to turn in a manuscript in the morning, but I need some sleep first. I just need to know where to go. That's one of the things I lost." It occurred to him that his memories of being less than enthused with Lola might be suspect, so he threw her a bone. "I remembered you, but I couldn't remember how to contact you. I would have called a lot sooner, Lola, but I couldn't."

  She argued with him, insisting that she should come over. She offered to sit and watch him sleep. He finally got her to agree to wait until morning, when she could come get him and take him to the publishing house. She said she knew where it was and knew people there.

  When he was finally able to hang up, he booted up his computer and stared at the password field. Nothing came to him at first. He closed eyes and a mottled picture of a dingo/dog appeared in his mind. He grinned, opened his eyes, and entered "gypdog" in the password box. Then he explored for a while.

  There were some interesting ideas in documents that were mostly just outlines. There was also a complete copy of the manuscript that Lulu had worked so hard to save. Finally, because he was so keyed up, he began to write the story that he'd fronted to Mitch ... the story of what had happened to him. There were large gaps that he knew he'd have to fill in, but he just put notes in those places, and wrote about the people he'd met and the things he'd done. He wasn't sure what the plot was going to be yet. If reality wasn't good enough, he'd just make something up.

  Besides, writing helped the hurt at having lost the best woman he'd ever met.

  * * *

  Mitch decided to skip breakfast at the Early Girl. He ate a peanut butter sandwich on his way to work. It took him over an hour, working the phone to get Harper's number, but he wouldn't talk with anybody else. He remembered the debacle of trying to do anything with the NYPD when whoever was on the other end of the phone line didn't know you. His relief at hearing the man's voice finally come on the phone was palpable.

  "Hey," he said when Harper answered the phone. "I need a favor if you have time."

  "Maybe," said Harper, carefully.

  "Farmingham remembered something from his past, and it's kind of weird, but I had to check it out."

  "Okay," said Harper.

  "He remembers running somebody down with his car and being shot at. He left the scene."

  "You're shitting me."

  "Not at all," said Mitch. "He said there was a crowd of people around. Since he's from New York City, I thought maybe he'd hit a cop or something. Have you had any incidents like that ... where somebody ran down a cop?"

  "I can't remember anything like that happening," said Jim. "I'd remember that, I think. I can put in a call to traffic if you want me to."

  "Please," said Mitch. "I'd appreciate it. It's probably nothing. At first I thought it might be something from a long time ago, and it was just a memory that popped up. You know, like something from his juvy years. But then we got his car out of the river and it had damage consistent with the kind of accident he described and a couple of bullet holes in it. It might have happened while he was on his way up here."

  "This guy gets more interesting every day," said Harper. "I'll run both his names through the system and see what pops up."

  "Shit! I almost forgot! I have another name for him now," said Mitch.

  "Another one? Like two wasn't enough?" Harper laughed. "What's this new alias?"

  "It isn't an alias, really. It was on a manuscript in the briefcase we found with the car. He turns out to be an author, just like he said. Writes under the name Ron Stevens. I've actually read one of his books."

  "Small world," said Harper. "Okay, I'll check all his names. Give me a day or two."

  "No problem. I really appreciate this," said Mitch. "It may turn out to be nothing. I kind of doubt he ran over a cop anyway. The bullet holes in his car look like they're from a forty-five and practically nobody in law enforcement carries a forty-five these days. See you later."

  Mitch hung up and decided to go through the recovered car. It would still be wet and muddy, but maybe the bullet that had penetrated the trunk was still in there somewhere.

  * * *

  Harper hung up the phone and reached for the department phone book. He was leafing through the pages looking for a contact in the traffic division, when the information in the last couple of sentences Mitch had spoken finally sank in.

  Forty-five. Farmingham/Phillips/Stevens had hit a man, who had shot at him with a forty-five.

  The hairs stood up on the back of Harper's neck and a chill ran through him. It wasn't possible. Life just didn't work this way.

  In a frenzy of movement he searched through the files on his desk, pushing six or seven aside. It was still there! The file on the Henderson woman was still there, waiting for him to write a final report. He opened it, searching for the information about when Farmingham had gone "missing." Her statement had the last date she'd seen him in it.

  It was two days before the Custer kidnapping attempt.

  He read further. He was sometimes accused of being overly thorough, but once again he was glad he got extra details. He'd gone on to ask her the last time she'd talked to him.

  That was the night before the Custer incident. The day the Higginbothams reared their ugly heads was the first day she hadn't been able to reach her boyfriend.

  He went to the part of the file where the victim statement should be, then remembered he hadn't transcribed Farmingham's deposition yet. He cursed. He found the tape and plugged it into the tape recorder on his desk. He put on the headphones.

  It took ten minutes, but he finally found it. The information was actually provided by the voice of Mitch Connel, who wasn't identified in the beginning of the tape. That was a minor problem ... no problem at all, really, since the case wasn't going anywhere, but he was thankful that Mitch had spoken up when he'd asked Farmingham what date he'd arrived in Pembroke.

  He'd been brought to the hospital around midnight ... the same day the Higginbothams tried to kidnap Governor Custer's wife. The same day Moe Higginbotham had been run down and had fired a forty-five at the car that had hit him, as the mystery driver sped off.

  Harper spent a quarter of a minute berating himself for not having connected the dates before this. It was insane, but it all fit. They hadn't been able to find the car, because Farmingham had driven it to Connecticut and into a river! Whether he'd pretended to have amnesia to avoid getting caught for leaving the scene, or the gunshot wound to his head ... or the accident itself, for that matter ... had caused real amnesia didn't really matter. He'd told Mitch about it and now Mitch had told him.

  It seemed like an incredible series of coincidences, but Harper didn't care. He couldn't do anything about it himself, and he couldn't call Connel back. He'd been told in no uncertain terms that any information that came in on the case was to go directly to the FBI. If he pursued it, he'd get his ass handed to him.

  He dialed Jefferson's number.

  "Hey," he said as calmly as he could into the phone. "This is Harper. You're not going to believe this."

  * * *

  Lola showed up at his apartment at six-thirty, hours before the publishing house would be open. She was almost frantic, speaking loudly as she told him all the things she'd had to do because he was so inconsiderate as to leave town without telling her first. She reminded him of how simple things would have been if he'd been forthcoming with her. She tried to get him to apologize for withholding other information from her too ... that he was a best-selling author.

  He tried to explain that he couldn't remember anything from his past and didn't know why he hadn't told her he was much more of an author than she said he'd represented himself to be.

  In an
almost astonishing change, she turned from a harpy into a woman possessed, as she tried to get him naked and into bed. He resisted, both because he couldn't remember her as a lover and because his initial memory of her ... of being less than enthusiastic about her ... had been reinforced by her opening tirade. Other resistance was there, too, even though the woman responsible for it wasn't with them. He couldn't very well tell Lola that she couldn't possibly compete with Lulu. In the mood she was in, she might actually try to hurt him.

  Finally, he lied and said that the doctor had forbidden him to get "excited" because of his head wound.

  She looked at his forehead, where he pointed, as if it was the first time she realized he'd been shot.