Blank Slate

by Snow, Tiffany

  “Who are you?” Clarissa asked, sitting up.

  The man stopped his progress toward her, a brief flash of confusion crossing his face. “Is that any way to greet me, Clarissa? Especially when you’ve led me on a merry chase around this godforsaken wilderness.”

  “What do you want?” She couldn’t imagine it was anything good, not with her luck.

  “I know we’ve worked together in the past,” the man said, “but you and I both know that loyalties in this business are fluid.” He smiled as he loomed over her. “So please don’t take this personally.”

  * * *

  Erik headed for the motel lobby, wishing he had a bottle of bourbon nearby. He needed something to ease the tension. His body was like a guitar string pulled too tight; any moment he might snap.

  His conscience wouldn’t leave him alone. He was becoming more and more convinced she was telling the truth about losing her memory. There was little reason for her to lie at this point. They’d go easier on her if she testified than if she tried to sell them some cockamamie story about having amnesia. Surely she knew that. She was far from stupid.

  It was ridiculous for him to worry about her. He knew better than anyone what she was capable of. It wasn’t as though she was innocent.

  Erik pushed open the door to the lobby. No one stood behind the desk. He hit the bell that sat on the counter and waited. Still nothing.

  That sense of something not being right stirred in his gut.

  “Hello? Anyone here?” he called out, meandering behind the desk and nearly tripping over the body on the floor.

  Crouching down, Erik saw the skater-dude desk clerk had been knocked out. Not dead. That was good. A robbery?

  A shadow on the floor alerted him a split second before the bat came swinging his way. Leaping to the side, Erik went for his gun but had no time to pull it before the attacker swung again. Erik ducked; the bat smashed a hole in the drywall. Scrambling to his feet, he backed away.

  The guy was big, his head shaved, and a tattoo curved from his neck and disappeared under the tight black T-shirt he wore.

  “Now stand still, little Fed,” the man said with a smirk, a thick Irish accent coloring his words. “Just wanna rough you up a bit.”

  “I’d rather you not,” Erik replied, eyeing the bat.

  “I have me orders.”

  The guy swung, and Erik ducked again, then tackled his midsection. They grappled, and Erik swung his fist, connecting a hit to his jaw. Grabbing the bat, Erik yanked it out of his grip, shoving it forward again to nail the guy in the nuts. The man went down to his knees, groaning in pain. Erik landed another hit to his jaw, and the attacker fell over, unconscious.

  Erik gasped for breath, his knuckles aching as he scrambled to make sense of what was going on. This guy had been sent to rough him up, not kill him. Why?

  Clarissa.

  Erik tossed the bat and pulled out his gun, flicking off the safety. Going to the door, he peeked outside, aware there might be an ambush waiting for him on the other side of the door. If he was unconscious or dead, he couldn’t help Clarissa, and he had no doubt she was their target.

  Seeing no one, Erik stepped outside, his gaze scanning the near-empty parking lot.

  It was dark now. The fluorescent lights overhanging the walk to the motel’s rooms glowed, though one or two had the telltale flicker of a bulb nearing the end of its life. Only a few cars passed on the nearby two-lane highway. The buzzing from the motel’s neon sign could easily be heard.

  Erik quickly eased by the rooms, his gaze steady on the room he’d rented for himself and Clarissa, number sixteen. His blood pounded in his veins. He was an easy target out here under the lights, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  A television played in number seven, the canned laughter of the audience loud in the night as Erik passed by, a sense of foreboding creeping over him. He’d left Clarissa cuffed to the bed, alone, with nothing to defend herself with and no one to guard her.

  Suddenly the door to number sixteen opened and a man stepped out.

  “Freeze! FBI!” Langston yelled, aiming his weapon.

  The man turned and smiled. A chill went through Erik. The face was familiar.

  A car pulled up to the curb and the man got in. Erik fired a warning shot, then had to duck behind a nearby car as they fired back. When he popped back up, the car was speeding away and out of range.

  Jumping to his feet, Erik ran to the motel door and pushed it open, terrified at the thought of what he was going to find.

  The bed where she’d been lying was empty, the handcuffs nowhere in sight. The bedside lamp had been knocked to the floor, its light now casting strange shadows around the room. But there was no sign of Clarissa. Had they taken her?

  “Clarissa!” he called, hurrying into the room. He glanced in the closet and shoved open the bathroom door…and felt his breath leave his lungs in a rush.

  She was in the tub, facedown in the water, her arms cuffed behind her back. Her red hair floated in the water like a crimson halo. She was very still.

  “Jesus Christ,” Erik blurted, reaching into the ice-cold water and pulling her out. He gently laid her flat on the bathroom floor on top of the torn shower curtain. Water was everywhere. It looked like she’d put up a fight, what little she could with her hands cuffed.

  She wasn’t breathing.

  Bending over her, Erik began CPR. He prayed to whatever god would listen as he worked. Erik had done this. He had left her alone when he should have known better, had known there were people looking to kill her.

  “C’mon,” he muttered. “You’re tougher than this.”

  Her lips were frigid against his as he breathed air into her lungs in a sick parody of a kiss. Suddenly she began to cough, water pouring from her mouth and nose. Erik turned her on her side, digging for the key to the handcuffs and yanking them off her. He tossed them aside as she continued to cough and retch. Then she began to shiver in earnest.

  The wet clothes had to go. As quickly as he could, Erik stripped off her sodden shirt, grabbed a handful of towels, and wrapped them around her. She’d curled into a ball now on the wet floor, and she was breathing, thank God. He pulled the wet, shivering mass onto his lap, cradling her in his arms as he leaned back against the wall.

  “Shh, it’s all right. You’re safe now,” he said, as soothingly as possible. Erik combed his fingers through her hair, her head tucked against his chest.

  “He said it was a message,” she rasped.

  “What kind of message?”

  “Solomon wants what I took, and if I say anything to the cops, he’ll kill me.”

  She lifted her head, and Erik saw a livid red mark around her neck where she’d been choked into unconsciousness. Her lip was split and swollen, her cheek bruised. They’d hit her, and she hadn’t even had her hands free to defend herself.

  Erik’s fists clenched with rage, and he struggled to keep it under control. All he wanted to do was to go after the bastard and kill him with his bare hands.

  “Why did you let them do this to you?” he asked, as evenly as he could. “Why didn’t you just give it to him?”

  When Clarissa looked at him, the despair and hopelessness in her eyes was like a punch in the gut. God, how could he have been such an idiot? If she was faking the amnesia, no way in hell would she have let that guy do this to her. She would’ve given up what she’d taken. Clarissa was a survivor. You didn’t get to where she was without a strong instinct for survival.

  “I believe you,” he said. Her eyes were limpid pools, sucking him in. Erik’s hand brushed her cheek, the chilled skin soft to the touch. “I’m sorry I didn’t before, and I’m damn sorry I left you alone.”

  Relief filled her gaze, and she ducked her head, resting against him again.

  “It’s about time,” she mumbled.

  Erik smiled humorlessly. That sounded more like her, and she was right. It was about damn time he believed her amnesia. Now, what was he going to do a
bout it?

  * * *

  They didn’t stay in that motel. As soon as Clarissa had stopped shaking, he gave her a shirt of his to wear with her jeans. Once she was dressed, they hit the road. Although he went back to the lobby for the thug he’d knocked out, Erik wasn’t surprised to find him gone.

  It was late when they finally arrived on the outskirts of Denver. Erik found another hotel, one that was quite a bit nicer than the previous one, and checked them in. After settling Clarissa into bed, where she promptly fell into an exhausted sleep, he stepped outside and called Clarke, who answered on the third ring. Erik quickly explained what had happened.

  “Did you get a good look at the guy?” Clarke asked.

  “Yes, sir. I know I’ve seen him before. I just need to look through the Interpol database.”

  “You can do that tomorrow once you’re back. Make that your first priority.”

  “Sir,” Erik said hesitantly, “I don’t know if handing her over to the marshals for transport is the best idea. She has amnesia, has nearly been killed twice, and is obviously a high-value witness.”

  “They’re trained to handle just that, Agent,” Clarke replied. “She won’t escape. And I’m sure she’ll have a miraculous recovery once she talks to her lawyer. They’ll be waiting for you at Centennial Airport at oh nine hundred. Don’t be late.”

  “Sir,” Erik tried again, “O’Connell is a flight risk. She knows no one except myself—”

  “You have your orders,” Clarke interrupted. “I expect to see you tomorrow afternoon in my office.”

  “Yes, sir.” Clarke hung up before Erik even got the words out.

  Now what?

  Erik didn’t see that he had any choice. He was going to have to turn her over to the marshals.

  Erik returned to the hotel room, being careful not to wake Clarissa. Sitting on the edge of the other bed, he braced his elbows on his knees. He watched her sleep while he thought, trying to come up with a solution.

  She looked different now than when he’d first laid eyes on her. Erik knew she hadn’t changed; his perception of her had. Before, he’d only seen a criminal, wanted by the FBI for her ties to a ruthless mobster.

  Now, he saw a woman who was scared and alone, the only thing standing between her and death being whatever she had taken from Solomon. Obviously, she’d known he was going to kill her and had taken measures to give herself leverage to exchange for her life. The only twist now being…she couldn’t remember it.

  * * *

  Clarissa woke to the smell of cinnamon and coffee. Cracking open her eyes, she saw a steaming Styrofoam cup inches from her nose on the bedside table. Next to it was a paper plate topped with a huge cinnamon roll dripping icing.

  “Thought you might be hungry,” Langston said, sitting down on the bed across from her and taking a sip from his own cup.

  “I am, thanks,” Clarissa said, then wished she hadn’t. Her voice sounded two packs a day and her throat felt like sandpaper.

  She sat up and reached for the coffee, surprised to see he’d remembered how she took it. The hot liquid felt good on her throat.

  “What time is it?” she asked, taking a bite of the cinnamon roll. It was gooey and practically melted in her mouth. Her stomach growled appreciatively.

  “A little after seven,” Langston replied. “We need to leave soon. We’re meeting the marshal at nine to fly you to DC. He texted me earlier with the hangar number.”

  Clarissa suddenly lost her appetite. Langston was going to hand her over to the Feds. If she was in their custody, she had no hope of doing anything that might bring her memory back.

  “If I’m in custody, I can’t get what he wants,” she said. “If I can’t get what he wants, he’s going to kill me.”

  Langston’s face was grim. “You’ll be safe, Clarissa. They’ll put you in protective custody.”

  “For how long?” she asked. “Once they realize I don’t know anything, which they’ll chalk up to obstruction or label me an accessory, they’ll charge me.” Her gaze was unflinching as she looked at Langston. “You know he’ll get me.”

  Langston cursed harshly, standing and walking away. He tossed his cup in the trash, his back still to her, his hands resting on his hips.

  “Help me, Langston,” Clarissa said. “If I can just have some time, I’m sure my memory will come back. I swear, once it does, I’ll testify against Solomon.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Please. I have no one else—”

  “I can’t, Clarissa!” he said, his voice loud in the room. Langston turned back to her and met her gaze. “I just can’t. Don’t ask me to. If I were to help you, I’d lose everything I’ve worked for.”

  Clarissa swallowed and was the first to look away. She couldn’t blame him; not really. It was against everything he believed in to help a criminal like her. She had asked for the impossible. Like it or not, scared or not, she was on her own.

  She gave a jerky nod. “Fine. Just give me a few minutes, and we can leave.”

  An hour later, they were pulling into Centennial Airport. The drive there had been nearly silent, both of them lost in their thoughts. Erik navigated to the specified hangar and parked.

  Clarissa got out, and he took her elbow. They were met by a man with a US Marshals badge who stood about Erik’s height, wore a cowboy hat, and sported a moustache. He shook hands with Erik.

  “Randy Stiver,” he introduced himself. He glanced at Clarissa. “This the prisoner, I’m guessing?”

  “Clarissa O’Connell,” Erik clarified. “She’s to be delivered to the Hoover Building in DC. They’ll remand her into custody from there.”

  “There’s been a slight change in plan,” Stiver said. “The private jet we had booked had some mechanical difficulties, so we’re going commercial.”

  “That’s not a problem,” Erik said, more relieved than he wanted to examine. “I’m flying to DC. I’ll just take her with me.”

  “No can do, Agent,” Stiver said, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his back pocket. “You know the law. She’ll be waiting for you in Washington.” Stiver turned Clarissa around, handcuffing her wrists behind her back.

  Clarissa’s gaze stayed locked on Erik’s while she was cuffed, until he was forced to look away. The accusation in her eyes made guilt roil inside his belly.

  “Do you have her personal effects?” Stiver asked.

  “Um, yeah, just a second,” Erik replied, hastily turning away as Stiver put Clarissa in the front seat of a nearby sedan. Erik had taken several steps toward the SUV to get the two black duffels containing Clarissa’s things when a thought occurred to him.

  “Wait,” he said, swiveling to stare at Stiver, who stood waiting. “I never said she had anything with her.”

  “It was just a routine question, son,” Stiver replied easily.

  Something was off. Erik’s gut was telling him something very different than his head was saying. He studied the marshal for a moment, trying to figure out what was bothering him. Then he saw it.

  US Marshals carried Glocks, not Sigs.

  Erik reached for his gun an instant too late. Stiver had drawn and fired. Erik dived for the SUV as Stiver threw himself into the sedan and took off, Clarissa locked inside with him.

  EPISODE FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Clarissa was thrown against the door as the marshal gunned the car out of the lot. Her shoulder hit hard, and she winced. She twisted in her seat, relieved to see Langston getting up off the ground through the rear window. When she’d heard the gunshot, her heart had lodged in her throat.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” she demanded of the man who called himself Stiver. If he was a federal marshal, she’d eat dirt.

  He shot her a look before glancing in the rearview mirror. “I’m to bring you in, just not to the Feds.”

  “Did Solomon send you?”

  “Solomon ain’t the only one after you, sweetheart.”

  The words sent a chill up Clarissa’s spine. Wh
oever she’d been before, it obviously hadn’t been a cashier at the Gap. My, what a dangerous life she’d led.

  The scenery sped by as Stiver took her farther from the airport. Clarissa eyed the door. Stiver hadn’t buckled her in, so she could try to make a leap for it, but at this speed and with her arms pinned behind her, chances were she would not come out of it unscathed.

  When trees began to thicken outside the windows, the calm Clarissa had forced began to waver. Nothing good ever came from an abductor taking someone into the woods.

  Stiver cursed, his eyes on the rearview mirror. He twisted in his seat to look, then turned back only to speed up even more.

  “What?” Clarissa asked, turning to look as well.

  “That Fed is following us.”

  Stiver was right. She could see Langston. Hope leapt as Clarissa saw his SUV barreling down the road after them. He was coming for her.

  Clarissa lost sight of Langston as Stiver rounded a bend and she was again thrown against the door. Stiver spun the car around, skidding to a stop on the side of the deserted road. He pulled his gun from its holster.

  “Time to end the Fed.”

  Panic raced through Clarissa. Reaching behind her, she yanked on the handle, and the door popped open.

  “Don’t even try it,” Stiver growled, leaping across the seat and jerking her back inside before Clarissa could get out. He grabbed the seat belt and started to buckle her in.

  Clarissa seized her chance. She didn’t think; she just moved. If she did nothing, Erik might be killed.

  That wasn’t an option.

  She slammed her forehead down, cracking Stiver on the bridge of his nose. He yelped in pain as blood spurted. Before he could recover, Clarissa twisted, swiveling in her seat and wrapping a leg around Stiver.

  His gun came up, and Clarissa kicked it out of his hand with her other foot. Stiver’s balance was precarious as he lunged for the gun, but Clarissa brought her knee up hard, hitting him on the chin and clamping his mouth shut. Stiver yelled again as blood trickled from his mouth.