"Why in the world not?"
"Because every time I see him I just want to tear my clothes off and then tear his clothes off." Jessica frowned. "This sucks."
"Don't be silly," said Lulu. "Being in love shouldn't suck. Being turned on shouldn't suck either. I can't tell you how turned on Kris ... " She stopped abruptly and covered her face with her hands. "Maybe love does suck," she said, her voice muffled.
She dropped her hands in her lap. She looked sad, but wasn't crying. She looked at her friend.
"Have you ever thought about just being a lesbian?"
"No!" yipped Jessica, her eyes wide.
"I'm just kidding," sighed Lulu. "But it might be a lot less stressful."
* * *
Special Agent Jefferson was doing what he called dotting "I"s and crossing "T"s. He was doing an exhaustive review of the report he was going to turn over to the Assistant US Attorney, on the Higginbotham case. It was complicated and he was too busy to be running around trying to find one material witness who wouldn't really make all that much difference to the prosecution of the brothers. It was unfinished business, but it was the kind of unfinished business that could wait. And, just because he wasn't actively searching for Farmingham didn't mean no one else was. Proof of that materialized in his doorway as an intelligence technician stuck her head in his office.
"Hey," she said, shooting him a dazzling smile. Most of the women in the office liked working with Jefferson, because he was eye candy and behaved himself. "There's activity at the Farmingham residence."
He looked up, his eyebrows raised.
"Increase in electric usage," she said. "Consistent with full time occupation. And phone calls-both incoming and outgoing."
"Okay, thanks," said Jefferson. That answered that question. He had come back home, or at least somebody was using his apartment. It was most likely him. He could be located any time now.
Jefferson went back to his line by line review of the report.
* * *
The man Jefferson had been thinking about was pacing the apartment the tech had been talking about. His immediate plans, upon returning to the city, had been accomplished. He had found old bank statements and gone to the bank to deposit the check. He'd explained his situation, and a helpful employee, after verifying his ID, had gone through his account with him. He wasn't hurting for money.
His biggest problem now was the new book. He still didn't know enough about what had happened to him to write the beginning of the book, where the explanation for his loss of memory would be documented. He could make it up, of course, but for some reason he wanted the story to be as close to the truth as possible. He was mildly surprised that no one had come knocking on his door from the law enforcement community. He still hadn't called Mitch, to let him know he'd left Pembroke. And he still hadn't turned himself in yet. Knowing Mitch, he was pretty sure the man would have already figured it out and, since Mitch had already said he'd have to take official action, he was surprised that nothing had happened yet.
He thought about going to a precinct station and just turning himself in. He was intelligent enough, though, to know that unless he could provide enough details about the incident, or unless the incident was somehow well known, they might just think he was a wacko. He'd heard that people confessed to all kinds of things they hadn't done, just to get attention, and that the cops knew that happened. The fact that nobody had broken down his door suggested that it was not well known, or at least that nobody was looking for him very hard.
Another problem was the Kangaroo Pounder book. As he read over what he'd written, he recognized it as his own words. The phrasing was familiar, as was the humor. It was a book based on his life in Australia and, even though he couldn't remember that life, he knew it had been loosely based on fact, too. What he'd written so far was about a legendary aborigine, known as "Budgie Boy," who was reputed to sport a monster penis. He was a little like the Tooth Fairy, from western culture, except that his job was to deflower virgins on the night before their wedding, so that their wedding night would be trauma free. The older women in aboriginal culture swore he was real and passed along "secret" information to young brides about how to prepare for his appearance. The men, on the other hand, often mounted significant barriers to his success, guarding the bride and trying to prevent her despoilment. It was a classic collision between male and female values, in a culture that few people knew anything about, and he had to admit that what he'd written thus far was pretty funny.
The problem was that he had no idea where he had planned on going from where the draft left off. There were notes, but they were mostly notes about scenes involving specific characters. For example, there was one note about having one of the male characters be accused of being Budgie Boy during a B&S ball. The problem was that he couldn't remember what a B&S ball was, or how that would support the plot. Other notes suggested situations to write about, but told him nothing about how he had planned on resolving the story. Was Budgie Boy ever caught or identified? It was obvious, from what he'd written, that the wives in the story thought very highly of the Australian boogey man and the men loathed him. But that didn't help to illuminate what the point of the book was supposed to be. Still, he had the feeling that if he kept at it, his muse, whoever and wherever she was, might slip the information into his head.
If he turned himself in, though, that would never happen.
His pacing continued as Lulu crept into his mind again. She was there a lot. Every woman he met or even saw on the street got compared to her. They were flat ... dull by comparison. He recognized beauty and intelligence in the women he saw, but that wasn't enough. It made him wonder about his amnesia. If he'd taken up with a troll like Lola, before the accident, his standards must have been a lot lower than they were now. He didn't think that just losing one's memory would make him more discriminating in his tastes for female companionship. That meant that Lulu was simply a cut above the rest.
On top of that, he couldn't help but compare the noise, clutter and stink of the city to the simple beauty and pace of Pembroke, where no one was ever in a hurry and everyone took the time to smile. People had given him clothing and even a car in Pembroke ... had helped a stranger down on his luck. He hadn't seen anything even remotely like that in New York.
* * *
Danny Southerby stepped into Jefferson's office without knocking. He had a folder in his hand, and dropped it on Jefferson's desk, away from the papers the agent was reading.
"Report on Farmingham's car," he said. "It's definitely the one that took out Moe Higginbotham. We even found some threads of his clothing caught in the broken headlight. Positive ID. Ballistics matched the bullet in the radio to the pistol, too. This Farmingham person is the one the governor and his wife have been looking for."
"Excellent," said Jefferson, looking up with a tired smile.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"How come this guy didn't step forward?"
"Another bullet grazed him in the head," said Jefferson. "Lost his memory, or at least most of it, according to the locals where he turned up. I'm told he remembered part of the incident, but not where or when it happened. And, who knows? Maybe he remembered it all and thought he was in big trouble."
"Is he?" asked the lab supervisor. "I mean he did hit and run."
"What do you think would have happened to Mrs. Custer if they'd gotten away with her?" asked Jefferson.
The lab man frowned. "Bad news," he said.
"I don't think Farmingham is in any trouble for disrupting things and stopping that bad news. It's not even worth filing charges." He grinned. "Even if he got convicted, the governor would just pardon him anyway."
Southerby smiled. "Yeah, well, we're done, unless you need anything else."
"I'm good," said Jefferson. "The case is good. It's nice to be on a case that will actually make the world a better place, you know?"
"Later," said Southerby and left.
Chapter Thirty-two
Kris stopped pacing and just looked around the apartment. It didn't feel like home. He wondered if it ever had. There were personal objects scattered around. Some of them held meaning, but there were others that were just things. He hadn't missed them when he was gone. He'd missed knowing things about himself, but he hadn't missed any of his "stuff." He hadn't missed any people either.
He was missing people now, though. Missing Lulu and Ambrose was a given, but he also missed Jessica, Hank, and even Mitch. He missed seeing the men in the Early Girl putting their heads together, and dollar bills changing hands, as they made silly wagers on what might happen in the diner. He missed the peace and quiet of the radio station, where he could think clearly, without distraction. He missed the woods, even though he'd never paid that much attention to them when they were all around him.
He missed everything, he realized, about Pembroke, Connecticut.
He didn't think about it as an impulse. He didn't think of himself as an impulsive person. But he found himself throwing things into a suitcase. Clothes to last him a while ... the new laptop he'd bought to replace the one ruined by the river water ... the ladybug phone and the stuffed frog riding the little wooden motorcycle ... a handful of personal records, so he'd have addresses of businesses that would send him bills. It occurred to him that he hadn't even had the post office stop forwarding his mail to Pembroke. There'd be a pile of stuff waiting for him there. The rental was paid up for another month and a few days, and Rudy might let him extend that anyway. He could come back for more of his stuff later. It was only a few hours' drive.
* * *
Jefferson rubbed his eyes. He needed some eye drops, but didn't have any. He decided this was a good time to call Farmingham and tie up that loose end. He picked up the phone and dialed.
* * *
Kris closed and locked the door, carrying the last of the things he was taking with him down to the car, including the phone that, had it still been plugged in, would have been ringing. He had hooked up an old answering machine in it's place. He left the building, got in his car, and headed for I-95.
* * *
After five rings, an answering machine picked up.
"This is you know who and I'm not you know where, so leave a you know what."
Jefferson hung up. He didn't leave messages.
* * *
"I don't understand!" said Chantal loudly. "You said you found him, but now you say you've lost him again?"
Jefferson wanted to groan. He'd called Harper, throwing the man a bone (and keeping the bureau out of it) by telling him that Farmingham was the man who had saved Chantal's life, and that he was free to reap the benefits of communicating that to the governor and his wife. He'd figured he'd be able to find Farmingham and interview him before Harper moved on things. Then Jefferson's boss, the Special Agent in Charge, had insisted that the bureau get its fair share of the credit and ordered Jefferson to be there when Harper delivered the good news.
Unfortunately, he'd done that before they'd found out from intel that signs of life in Farmingham's apartment had returned to zero.
"He was living in his apartment three days ago," said Jefferson. "I was wrapping up your case, getting it ready for the US Attorney, and thought his interview could wait. By the time we got there, he'd left. We thought he'd returned to New York for good."
"But you never talked to him," said Chantal, her voice low. "Let's just recap here, gentlemen," she said heavily. Harper wanted to sigh along with Jefferson. "This man was shot while disrupting the kidnapping. He was then involved in a terrible accident, obviously the result of the gunshot wound, and suffered amnesia, because he saved my life, and you never thought it was important enough to speak with him about that."
"We were trying to solve the case!" insisted Jefferson.
"An idiot could have solved the case!" she barked. "The case was already solved when the high and mighty FBI swooped down and took it away from the men who serve my husband's constituents!" She held up one sculptured nail as Jefferson took a breath, to keep him from speaking. "I fully understand that your work, and that of Detective Harper here, uncovered the fact that these despicable animals killed two helpless children. I appreciate that fact and heartily applaud it. I'm even willing to concede that the three animals had no keeper and may have acted alone. But the fact remains that a man who suffered on my behalf doesn't even know he's a fucking hero! She ended up screaming, then almost collapsed into the arms of her husband, who clucked at her and looked accusingly at the two lawmen.
"We'll find him," said Jefferson faintly.
The supermodel raised her face from her husband's shoulder just long enough to scream "You'd better!"
* * *
Kris took his time driving, really paying attention to the scenery for the first time. There were still patches of snow all over the place, but the hint of spring was on the land. He hadn't realized how strung out he was until he got sleepy and pulled into a rest area to get out and walk around a little. He wasn't in a hurry, now that he was on his way, and the stop at the rest area turned into a nap that lasted long enough that it was dark when he woke up. He felt relaxed and at peace for the first time in a long time.
Driving into Pembroke was both less and more than he'd thought it would be. It was less, because everything looked exactly the same. It was almost as if he'd never left. It was more, because he found his heart pounding. It was almost ten, which meant Lulu would be getting ready for work and taking Ambrose to the sitter's. He wasn't sure how she'd react when she saw him again, but he was pretty sure that while she was intent on getting to work wasn't a good time to find out. He also thought about trying to find Mitch, but didn't know where to look, except for the police station. Now that he'd had time to think about how good his life in Pembroke might someday be, he wasn't so anxious to see the inside of a police station again, especially if he'd get locked up as soon as he walked in.
As he drove through town, he thought about the things he hadn't followed through on while he'd been in New York. He felt guilty that he hadn't followed through on his plan to tell Mitch that he'd left town and to turn himself in. He wanted to believe he'd failed to do those things because of everything that had happened to him. The alternative was that he was just indecisive. On the other hand, he was glad that he'd neglected to mail the key to the rental back to Rudy Chastain, because now he needed that key.
He drove straight to the rental. He acted just like he always had, parking in the driveway and turning lights on. He was pretty sure he'd burned his bridges with the radio station, so he didn't go there. Instead, he took his clothes in, opened up his laptop, and began writing.
Four hours later, he was nodding off again. He hadn't realized how much the stress had taken out of him. The only alarm he had was his watch, so he set it and lay down on the bed. He knew it was his imagination, but the sheets lulu had bought him smelled like her, somehow.
The watch beeped and did, in fact, wake him up. He got up, brushed his teeth, stared into the mirror for a minute or two, and then went to the Early Girl. He had to face her, sooner or later.
* * *
The early birds had begun to filter in, and Lulu sighed as she realized her shift was almost over. It had been a slow night and slow nights weren't so good for her any more. She had time to think about Kris. And she had time to berate herself for trusting another man and feel sorry for herself. That always made her a little testy and, since she still thought about Kris a lot, she was testy a lot. Hank hadn't spoken more than ten or fifteen words to her all night.
Not that she just moped around, doing nothing. She completed her tasks, as usual. Her waitressing wasn't affected by it, other than the fact that she was a little less patient with the flirters. Oddly, she didn't take out her feelings about Kris on them. It wasn't their fault and she knew that.
It was just that life had returned to what it had been before Kris. She hadn't realized how drab that had been when she'd been living t
hat life. Now, though, she did.
"Bathroom," she announced to Hank as she went toward the door.
"Remember to wash your hands," droned Hank, who always said that, because he thought it made a positive impression on the customers.
* * *
Kris saw her moving inside the diner as he parked. He drew a deep breath. His hands were shaking just a little. He forced himself to get out of the car and go into the diner. The smells made him feel like he was home, but he was still tense. He looked around, but she had vanished.
"Well I'll be," said Hank, staring at him.
"Hi Hank," said Kris.
For Want of a Memory Page 37