The Man from Nowhere

by Rachel Lee

  He waved a dismissing hand. “I don’t like it when that gets publicized. Besides, giving something back is required of everyone.”

  “I wish everyone agreed.”

  “People do what they can.”

  “Some of us, anyway. And you must be a pretty likable guy.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because you have partners and friends who want you back. People who have been searching for you, who are worried about you. That probably impressed me most of all.”

  Again he fell silent, taking a trip through his thoughts that she couldn’t follow. “I guess I should give them a call, let them know I’m still breathing.”

  “They’d appreciate that.”

  Another long silence, then, “I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

  She didn’t need him to explain. She could well imagine that touching base with his friends would lead him right back to the places and associations he’d said he was running from. “Would you like me to call for you?”

  That clearly surprised him. “Why should you do that?”

  “Because if someone I cared about had been missing for nearly a year, I’d love to get a call from anyone who could confirm he’s still alive.”

  “Let me think about it.” He started to pull at another piece of his roll with his fork. “The thing is, if you call them, they’ll find out where I am.”

  A prickle of suspicion was quickly washed away in the memory of this man’s tragic story. “Would that be so bad?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if Jerry or Dex came racing to my rescue.”

  “And that’s bad why?”

  “Because,” he said, looking her straight in the eye, “I’m the only one who can rescue me from this nightmare. They’d just come out here and cloud the issues.”

  “Which issues?”

  “All of them.”

  He spoke so emphatically that she pulled back a little.

  “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to bark, but I can promise I don’t bite.”

  She relaxed again and now reached to pull her plate back toward herself. She needed to put something in her mouth if for no other reason than that it would keep her from talking. Maude’s cinnamon rolls were at least the most delicious gags in the world. The first bite almost melted on her tongue, a delicious contrast of spicy cinnamon and brown sugar. Almost in spite of herself, she closed her eyes so nothing else could interfere with the moment of pure enjoyment.

  Maude had apparently decided it was late enough in the morning to add some music to the mix of diners and diner sounds, because Willie Nelson began to sing out of the recently installed speakers.

  She opened her eyes again and found Grant had cocked his head as he listened with a smile. “You like Willie Nelson?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Doesn’t everyone? I used to listen to him a lot when I was working.”

  “Funny, I’d have thought you’d go for some other kind of music.”

  “Why? Because I’m a computer nerd? I like classical, jazz when it’s not too complex, blues, some country, good gospel…oh, all kinds of music, really, as long as it doesn’t sound like a broken cement mixer.”

  She laughed. “That’s a matter of taste, I guess.”

  “Also a matter of synesthesia.”

  “Syne—what?”

  “Synesthesia. Something else for you to look up on Google. Some people hear sounds and see colors. That’s me. I can’t listen to Bach, for example, because the colors I see get too jarring and change too quickly.”

  “That’s amazing!”

  “Studies are beginning to show that a lot of us have various forms of synesthesia. Seeing sounds as color, seeing numbers as colors and number lines as shapes, even occasionally tasting words as if eating something. For some these connections are strong enough to interfere with ordinary life in unpleasant ways. For most of us it’s more of a background thing. And then there are a lot of people who have forms so mild they’re hardly aware of it.”

  “That’s fascinating. I will check it out. But doesn’t that interfere with you working?”

  “Not at all. At least as long as I pick the right music. I can’t work when I’m listening to Bach because too much of my brain gets involved in racing to keep up with the colors. It can leave me feeling exhausted and edgy. In fact, I could say the same about going to a big party. Too many colors from all the voices and background music. But other stuff is just soothing. And I don’t work well in total silence. It’s as if part of my brain needs to be occupied with other things in a way that frees me to think.”

  “I can understand that. I need music when I’m working, too. It’s as if it locks down distractions.”

  “I’ve thought about that sometimes. It seems to me as if the brain insists on multitasking, so people get their best focus going when they induce controlled multitasking by listening to music, or maybe running a TV in the background. Whatever it takes.”

  It struck her then that this man was opening up entire new worlds of thought to her. He definitely came at life with a different perspective. And she liked it.

  Danger! screamed a little voice in her head. She had to watch that. This man might be widowed, but to her way of thinking he was still a married man, the worst kind of married man, because there was no way you could divorce a dead wife you still loved.

  Ugly thought, maybe, but she’d been burned before, badly. Sometimes compassion had to give way to self-defense.

  “So,” she said, clearing her throat, “can you give me an example of what you mean by seeing colors when you hear music?”

  “Sure. Ravel’s ‘Bolero.’ I always see a kind of kaleidoscope of reds and blacks in various shades. I’d call it a visually coherent piece of music.”

  She nodded, trying to imagine it. “Another one?”

  He cocked his head, then named the music coming over the speakers right now. “‘On the Road Again.’ It’s mostly in shades of yellow and browns with a background thread of…hmm…greens. You know, when I concentrate on it, it gets harder to define because the colors are shifting. This song certainly has more colors in it than ‘Bolero.’”

  “But not enough to bother you.”

  “No.”

  “Wow. You really have a different way of looking at the world.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “But wouldn’t you have to in order to perform research?”

  “I suppose I could use that excuse. I am what I am. But enough about me. Who are you, Trish Devlin?”

  The question surprised her, even though it was a fair one. And it caused her to think. How did she think of herself? What did she see of herself reflected in others, like her friends?

  “That’s a hard question to answer,” she said finally. “I don’t think of myself in those terms.”

  “Then how do you think of yourself?”

  “I’m a CPA. I have a pretty good job and I’m chief accountant at the semiconductor plant here. I own—well, the bank owns—my own home, that cute little house you’ve been staring at. I have friends, some I’ve known my entire life. I lived in Boston for a few years where I worked for a large accounting firm, and then spent about six months in Dallas at corporate headquarters where they trained me for my current position.” She gave a little shrug. “It’s been a pretty ordinary life so far.” With one glaring exception, which was probably pretty ordinary, too, no matter how painful.

  “You sound job-oriented.”

  “I guess mostly I am. Is there something wrong with that?”

  “I’d be the last person to suggest any such thing. Until…last year, I was pretty job-oriented, too. Any hobbies?”

  “I’m a pretty avid reader, I love hiking and I actually look forward to winter because I love to cross-country ski.”

  “If it snows before I go home, maybe I’ll give cross-country a try.”

  “Wouldn’t that be painful?”

  “Pr
obably. There’s very little that isn’t right now. If I let it stop me, I’d be in a padded cell.”

  She nodded, not quite sure how to respond. The usual phrases that sprang to mind didn’t seem very useful. And somehow she suspected that he didn’t want to hear I’m sorry. So she switched tack again. “You seem pretty certain you’ll be going home soon.”

  He closed his eyes a moment. “Yeah. I think that’s in the near future. I can’t run forever. Not that it’s done me much good.”

  Another reason to push down her awakening interest. He’d be leaving. A sigh almost escaped her, because she was a normal woman, despite her past stupidity, and she would have liked to once again be in love. To know those wonderful, heady moments, the indescribable elation and joy. Nothing else in life could ever compare.

  In fact, she was getting to the point where she would have liked to have a fling, something emotionally unthreatening, something to give her days the promise of excitement and pleasure around the next corner.

  Heck, she thought in a moment of uncharacteristic sourness, she was becoming utterly drab. Boring.

  “Penny?” he said.

  She understood the reference immediately. “More like a quarter these days. But sorry, I’ll just keep these thoughts to myself.”

  He leaned back a little, his dark eyes reflecting something kind. “I know that sort of thing all too well. How about we blow this joint and take a little walk in the cold? I need to move before I get too stiff.”

  “Won’t the cold make it worse?”

  “Not as much as the sitting.”

  He insisted on paying the bill and she didn’t argue. Now that she knew who he was, it would be ungracious. Surely her mother had raised her better than that. They put their carryout boxes in her car and began to head up the street toward the courthouse square. Like many old county seats, the town had been built around the square, the old brick building with its pillars and dome fronted by a couple of acres of park with paths and benches and the requisite metal statue. An old-timer with a gun. Settler? Civil War vet? No one seemed to know for sure, and no one really cared.

  She pointed at it. “See that statue? It’s been painted many times over the years by the graduating senior class. Vandalism? Of course. But fun? Oh, yeah. The sheriff seldom makes a serious attempt to find the pranksters and cleaning the statue had become a standard part of the town’s budget. We wonder every spring which color it’s going to be. I even hear there are bets riding on it.”

  He chuckled. “I like that. Most places would probably get upset about it.”

  They crossed the street, then stepped onto the sidewalk that ran around the edge of the entire square.

  “When this place was a frontier town,” she remarked, “the park was used for grazing.”

  “Like the Commons in Boston.”

  She smiled at him. “The same, only smaller. But we were a much smaller town back then. You could number the families in the dozens at most.”

  He limped along beside her, but didn’t seem to want her to slow her pace any. “Go on. Nobody’s bothered to share the history with me in any of the places I’ve been.”

  “Maybe not everyone cares or knows. Anyway, the founders were people who had come west on the Oregon Trail, then stopped shortly after they got to Fort Laramie. Apparently, they saw something attractive in all the grasslands.”

  “Seems to have worked so far.”

  “So far. Good times and bad times. We even had a brief gold-mining rush up there in the mountains. The ruins of their little town and their mines are still up there, but dangerous to visit. The mines collapse sometimes, and the buildings themselves are on the verge of coming down, too.”

  “But people go, anyway.”

  “How did you know?”

  He actually laughed, a very nice sound. “Something about human nature, I guess.”

  “Well, I’ve gone up there myself. I guess most folks around here have at one time or another. It’s like a different world. The park service has roped off the areas they know to be dangerous, and there are lots of warning signs.”

  “Just more temptation.”

  “Apparently. Anyway, historically speaking, the lodes ran out fast. Placer mining lasted longer, and from time to time someone will camp up there to pan in the creek. Occasionally someone finds a bit of gold, but there’s never enough to make it more than a fun vacation.”

  “I think we’ve pretty much found all the worthwhile gold deposits.”

  “That would be my guess.” They reached the square and began to walk around it, first passing the sheriff’s office in its corner storefront across from the square.

  “Are your founding families still around?”

  “Gage Dalton’s wife is descended from one, the original Conard family. I think others left over the years. Life here was never easy, and for people who came here in the first place looking for greener pastures, well…it would be my guess some thought another place might be greener.”

  “I’d agree with your guess. Imagine the kind of people willing to pack up their lives and move into the unknown, with all its dangers, to try to find something better.”

  “I think that attitude still infects a lot of us.”

  “Maybe it’s genetic. Who knows.” He paused, looking up at the courthouse, then to the businesses that framed the square on the other side of the street. “There’s something almost New England about this place.”

  “I don’t think that was an accident.”

  “I don’t think so, either. But you’ve got your share of ugly sprawl around the edges.”

  “Oh, yeah. And more since the semiconductor plant came to town. We’ve actually grown a little bit, which I guess is good considering we were shrinking for a long time. Kids tend to stay now, and we’ll probably get a junior college in the next couple of years.”

  He resumed his limping walk around the square. “You were fortunate to get the plant. Most of that work is going overseas these days.”

  “Not this kind of work.”

  He paused again and looked down at her. “I see. That kind of work. On stuff that can’t be legally exported.”

  “Basically.”

  “I’ll be honest with you. I’m of two minds on that.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I’m a researcher. I’ve had papers pulled prepublication on national security grounds. And I got annoyed because knowledge grows faster when you can share it. When you box it off by itself and limit it to only a handful of minds, you can hold back progress.”

  “I guess I can see that. So what’s your other mind on this?”

  He half smiled. “It keeps jobs here. And God knows, I’ve seen enough people hurt by companies that are looking for cheaper labor in other parts of the world.”

  She nodded. “That’s absolutely true.”

  “So,” he said, resuming the walk, “I can see both sides of the issue. And I guess if preventing technology from being exported without a license keeps jobs here, then I have to approve of it. I didn’t move my company to Dubai, after all. Everything I needed was right here, and I was willing to pay fairly for it.”

  “How many employees do you have?”

  “Three hundred the last time I counted. Cozy, actually.”

  “Is everyone in research?”

  “Naw. We had projects in other areas, nuts and bolts stuff. The place where the rubber meets the road.” He glanced at her almost impishly. “Just because I was living in an ivory tower most of the time didn’t mean that’s all we did.”

  If she wasn’t careful, she was really going to like this guy. And considering the strength of the physical attraction she had felt earlier, that was no good. Not if he was leaving soon.

  Almost as if he read her abrupt change in mood, he started limping faster, back toward her car. “Can I cadge a ride back to the motel?” he asked. “I need to rest this hip.”

  “Sure. Want me to bring the car over here?”

  “I can make it.”
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br />   Or maybe, she thought after she dropped him off, he’d sensed the same growing attraction she had.

  And maybe he was running from it just as fast as she was.

  Chapter 5

  He was going to have to tell her.

  Grant lay on the bed in his motel room and stared at the ceiling, waiting for the grinding and throbbing pain in his hip to ease up a bit. He took nothing for pain anymore except over-the-counter stuff, which gave him minimal relief, but didn’t cloud his mind the way a prescription medicine would have. Nor did they raise the specter of addiction.

  Although sometimes he wondered why he even cared about that. Life, until just lately, had become something to be endured, not something to be enjoyed. He hadn’t cared whether he lived or died.

  But something was changing. He could feel it inside. Good or bad, he didn’t know, but on some level he’d always known the time would come when he would move on emotionally. He just didn’t know if he was ready to yet.

  Besides, there was a far more important issue: Trish Devlin.

  God, how was he going to tell her? She probably already thought he was crazy, with his talk about synesthesia. Until recently, even science had thought synesthetes were merely nut jobs. Why had he even brought that up?

  But he knew why. He needed her to know him, so she wouldn’t just totally dismiss him when he told her what was happening. Because he was going to have to tell her. And in order to get her to understand, he was going to have to revisit the tragedy that had put him on the road in the first place.

  He closed his eyes against the sting of tears that invariably still welled up when he thought of his family. The day-long crying jags were gone, as were the mindless rages, but tears still came.

  He swore and tried to roll onto his side without unleashing another dagger of pain. He succeeded, and with a sigh of relief opened his eyes again. The lone tear that had managed to escape dripped onto his pillow.

  Nothing interesting to look at, not even the framed Western-themed prints that posed as art on the walls. This was where his journey had brought him: a fleabag motel on the outskirts of a town that seemed to live on the edge of world. Certainly on the edge of any reality he had ever really known.