Shadow of the Storm

by Candle Sutton

  I set the license aside and look at the next item.

  Another license? Weirder still, it has the same woman on it, but a different name. Stormy Jones.

  What the heck?

  I flip past it to another license. Emily Vanderbilt. Same picture.

  This can’t be happening.

  Another license. Annalisa Simon. Still the same brown-haired woman.

  I look up, finding my own eyes in the rearview mirror. A thin trail of blood traces my jaw, my hair hangs around my face in scraggly clumps, and mascara pools under my eyes in raccoonish circles, but it’s definitely me.

  I’m the woman in all of those pictures.

  So why don’t any of the names sound familiar? More importantly, why don’t I recognize my own face?

  I dig through the rest of the wallet, but there are no other IDs inside. I do find four social security cards, each with a different number and names that correspond to the licenses. Nothing else.

  What is going on?

  A comparison of the licenses reveals some similarities. All say that I’m five foot nine, a hundred and twenty five pounds, with blue eyes and no corrective lenses; all of which sounds accurate. However each license lists a different address and birthdate. All the birthdates are within a year of each other, which would place me in my early thirties.

  Granite settles in my stomach. The bells from a thousand cathedrals echo throughout my head.

  People are trying to kill me, I’m headed to the airport, I don’t know my own name, and I have four different identities in hand, any one of which could be me. Or maybe none of them. What if they’re all fakes? They certainly can’t all be real, can they?

  Pieces of the puzzle click into place.

  Gut instinct had me refuse to go to the hospital or police station, both of which would have been logical choices for someone in trouble. That, combined with four fake IDs and violent people chasing me all add up to one thing.

  I’m involved in something I shouldn’t be. Something illegal.

  It’s the only option, right?

  I mean, seriously, what law-abiding citizen carries a bunch of fake IDs with them?

  Which means it might’ve even been the police that were after me. Except that those men were trying to kill me. The police wouldn’t do that.

  I glance at the meter as it edges toward thirty dollars.

  Do I even have any cash? There wasn’t any in the wallet, nor was there a credit card.

  How am I going to pay for this cab ride?

  I reach for the duffel bag.

  The zipper scrapes open.

  A small gasp escapes before I can stop it. It’s cash. Rows and rows of it.

  Hundred dollar bills stare back at me. The paper strap around each bundle says ten thousand dollars and there are at least five stacks of bundles.

  I dig down. Three rows.

  There’s probably one hundred fifty thousand dollars in this bag!

  What am I doing with that kind of cash? More importantly, is it even mine? Is this why those men were after me? To get this money?

  At least I won’t have to worry about how to pay the cab fare.

  The vehicle slows and turns right. I glance up in time to see an airplane lift into the sky.

  We’re here? Already?

  I stuff my clutch inside the duffel bag and slip on my shoes.

  “Okay. Charleston International Airport, as requested.” The cabbie shifts into park and turns to look at me. “Sure I can’t take you to a hospital or the police instead?”

  This time I do manage a smile. Probably doesn’t look genuine, but it’s the best I can do. “I’m sure. Thanks.”

  The meter says I owe him about thirty-five dollars.

  I give him a hundred. He’ll need the extra to clean up the mess I’ve made of his car.

  Pain jolts through my foot as I step out of the vehicle. I think there might be glass in my sole.

  Okay, first order of business is to find a restroom and see the extent of the damage.

  I walk with as much grace as a hobbling woman in stilettos can manage, which isn’t much.

  A blast of air conditioning hits me in the face as I enter through a double set of doors that whooshes open in front of me. Glancing around, I spot a sign for restrooms off to my left and head that direction.

  The restrooms are empty. Thank goodness.

  I set the bag between my feet and assess the stranger in the mirror.

  Yikes.

  No wonder the cabbie wanted to take me to a hospital or the cops. I look one step away from death.

  On my left temple, dried blood surrounds a knot the size of my eye. Purple underscores my jaw, which I’m sure will be nicely bruised come tomorrow. I think the black around my eyes is from my makeup, not bruises, but I won’t know for sure until I wash it off.

  My gaze shifts down my body.

  Scrapes crusted with blood mar my right shoulder. The lace ringing the scooped neck of my black dress is ripped in several places. As is the lace overlay on the skirt that hits a few inches above my knees. The nylons covering my legs are striped with more runs than I care to count.

  The bathroom is empty, except for me. I strip off the nylons and toss them in the trash.

  Sitting on the counter, I bend my leg around to examine the bottom of my foot. A nasty looking gash oozes blood. I manage to twist my foot around to the sink and gingerly wash it. The soap burns enough to bring tears to my eyes.

  The wound has opened back up and is bleeding pretty badly, but it doesn’t look like there’s anything embedded in it.

  I guess that’s something.

  But I am definitely not going to be able to move around like this.

  There should be a first aid station of some sort here, right? Maybe I can drop in and get bandaged up.

  I grab some paper towels and dry off my foot, then wrap a strip of toilet paper around the foot to stem the bleeding. The shoes help hold the makeshift bandage in place.

  Okay, now to clean up the rest of me.

  As I wipe off the grime and blood, my thoughts drift to what’s next.

  I’m at the airport. Do I really intend to fly out?

  The cabbie was right about one thing. It does seem pretty extreme.

  Then again, there are people trying to kill me. Extreme is a relative thing at the moment.

  How hard will it be for those men to find me if I stay? I don’t know how big this city is, how well connected those men are, or what resources they have available to them – although if the one hundred fifty thousand dollars in my possession are any indication, they might have more resources than I care to know about.

  Someone walks into the bathroom and I jump. My heart batters my ribs and my lungs squeeze.

  The woman barely glances at me before going into a stall.

  I inhale deeply and hold the air for a second before forcing it out.

  I have to run.

  Maybe my memory will come back soon or maybe it won’t. Either way, getting as far away as possible feels like the safest option.

  Maybe the only option.

  It’s not like I don’t have the cash to go wherever I want.

  Although I don’t like the idea of spending it. I don’t know if it’s mine or if I’ll have to pay it back. I don’t even know if I have the resources available to pay it back.

  But based upon what I just lived through, those guys would rather exact payment in blood anyway.

  I’ll spend only what I have to. No more.

  Okay, finish cleaning up, find a first aid station, buy a ticket, and maybe a fresh change of clothes.

  My heart settles at the plan.

  I know it’s only an illusion, but it feels like I have some semblance of control.

  But tonight has proven how fragile my control is. Until I remember more, I will run far and fast to keep my tenuous grip on it.

  Because one thing is certain. Failure means death.

  Three

  Maria. Stormy. Emily. Ann
alisa.

  I study the four driver’s licenses in front of me. One of them has to be the real me. Maybe if I look at them long enough I’ll figure out which one.

  Maria’s license is from Georgia. Stormy is from New York. Emily is from Delaware. Annalisa is from Florida.

  And my ticket proves that I flew out of Charleston, South Carolina.

  None of this makes any sense.

  I study the addresses, but not one of them sparks any memories. Shouldn’t something sound familiar?

  The truth is like a rock in my stomach.

  I’m no closer to regaining my memory now than I was when I landed here in Reno last night.

  Or was it this morning? Time has become as ambiguous as my memory.

  At least my surroundings are nice. I probably spent more than I should’ve on this room, but after everything that’s happened, I wanted the comfort.

  And I got it.

  Down topped king-sized bed that I literally sink into, a Jacuzzi tub, and a full array of shopping and dining options on the main and second floors.

  Not to mention the casino, of course.

  Although I have no intention of spending any time down there.

  Too many security cameras. The risk of being discovered is much too great.

  But if I avoid the casino, I should be nothing more than a passing speck on the security feed.

  The best thing about this place is that there are clothing boutiques downstairs where I can pick up some new clothes.

  Something other than a sweatshirt with “Charleston” emblazoned across the chest. The yoga pants and flip-flops I’m wearing aren’t much better, but at least they’re clean and in good shape, unlike the black dress that’s crumpled in the duffel bag.

  I’ve learned one thing from all this. Airports are a terrible place to buy clothes.

  My gaze drifts across the licenses again. Still nothing.

  Okay, forget those things for now.

  What about my mother’s name? Or face? Everyone remembers their mother, right?

  A fleeting image of a dark-haired woman flickers through my mind, but I don’t know for sure that it’s even her. It could be nothing more than a projection of the stranger I see looking back in the mirror.

  The image is crowded out by memories of the man who attacked me last night. Why is last night so clear and everything else so fuzzy?

  Maybe he’ll spark something. I close my eyes and let him invade.

  Flattened nose. Hollowed cheeks. Broad forehead.

  Something nags at the back of my memory, but I can’t quite retrieve it. Not any more than I can remember why he might want me dead.

  Maybe I should’ve let him kill me.

  What’s the point of living if you can’t remember who you are? I fought so hard to save an empty life.

  I open my eyes to see the room swirled with colors.

  Blinking sends wet trails down my cheeks.

  I swipe my hands across my face. It’s all so pointless.

  Pointless or not, for now it’s all I have.

  I still haven’t taken the time to properly clean myself up. Maybe a shower will clear my head. Or a soak. Yeah. That sounds really good.

  After double-checking that all the locks on the hotel room door are secured, I head for the bathroom and lock myself inside. Two plush, white robes are folded on the towel rack next to the Jacuzzi.

  As the tub fills, I pick up one and finger the soft fabric.

  Definitely worth the splurge.

  As long as I don’t have to pay it back. If only I could remember whose money it is. Or where it came from.

  Or anything. I’d settle for any memories that extend beyond the last twelve hours.

  How can everything from these last few hours be so clear but nothing before them? Waking up in the car. The coarse feeling of the carpet beneath my cheek. The sound of the men’s voices as they talk about killing me. The escape. The cab ride. The flight. Checking into this hotel. Paying three hundred and eighty nine dollars and forty four cents for two nights.

  It’s all so clear. Every last memory.

  But everything before that is a black hole.

  What if I never remember? What if this is the best it gets?

  Can I live like this?

  Tears distort the room in front of me. No. I can’t live like this, because this kind of life is no life at all.

  I’m scared of everything that moves. Every noise. Every shadow.

  I have to remember. I’ve fought too hard to get here.

  Blinking, I notice that the tub is almost full. I twist the knobs by the faucet, turn on the jets, and ease into the hot, bubbling water.

  The jets pelt the gashes on my body and the water stings the wounds.

  It makes me cry harder, but there’s comfort in the pain. It’s proof that I’m alive.

  For the first time since all this started, I don’t try to stop the tears.

  After all I’ve survived the last few hours, I deserve a little self-pity, don’t I?

  I relax back against the molded seat and let the tears flow. They run across my face, trail down my neck, and mingle with the water bubbling over my shoulders.

  My breath comes in short sobs. I can feel my body shaking, and not just from the force of the jets.

  I hurt. Everywhere.

  And I’m tired. So tired.

  Maybe I could just fall asleep right here. I’d slide under the water and I wouldn’t have to worry about who I am or why people want me dead. I could take care of that last detail for them.

  No.

  I don’t know why I want to live, but I do.

  I will figure this out. One way or another. This memory loss is temporary.

  Until then, I have a place to stay, cash to sustain me, and obviously at least some street smarts.

  The tears dry up.

  I reach for the complimentary soaps and hair products on the edge of the tub and clean myself up. It feels good to get the blood and grime rinsed off.

  As I towel off, I take an inventory of my injuries.

  Scrapes on both knees and one shoulder. Possibly from that fall in the alley. A knot and a gash on my head. Bruising along the jawline. More bruises on my legs and around my midsection.

  It’s like I went through a war.

  I guess in many ways, I did. And somehow, I survived it.

  I don’t have a brush or comb, so I run my fingers through my damp hair to try to get the tangles out.

  Wrapping myself in one of the robes, I head straight for bed.

  Maybe things will be clearer after some sleep.

  Somehow, I doubt it.

  ᴂ ᴂ ᴂ ᴂ ᴂ

  It’s amazing the difference being clean and getting a few hours of sleep can have on your perspective. While my memory is as questionable as ever, I’m ready to do what I can to figure things out.

  I’m even a little bit hungry.

  My room has a small safe which is barely big enough to hold the cash from the duffel bag. I put most of it in the safe and close it, keeping only about two thousand dollars out.

  I stuff the cash in the clutch – which is way too fancy for the sweatshirt, yoga pants, and flip-flops – and ride the elevator to the main level. Bypassing the casino, I head for the shops. They’re all high end and I spend more than I should on two pairs of pants, six shirts, some socks, undergarments, a sweater, and a pair of sneakers, but at least now I have something decent to wear.

  Next I find a little shop that sells toiletries and pick up some of the basics. The lady working there even does my makeup without commenting on the bruises on my face.

  Yes, things are definitely looking up.

  After a quick trip up to my room to drop off my purchases and change, I ride the elevator back to the main floor and stop at the concierge’s desk to see about someplace to grab dinner.

  “Aah, mademoiselle. How may I help you?”

  His voice is pleasant, but the French accent strikes me as fake. Not that I’m some great
expert, but it’s a gut feeling and right now, those feelings are about all I’ve got.

  “I’m looking for a good place to have dinner.”

  “Of course! We have several excellent options right here. There’s–”

  I tune him out as he prattles on. Yes, I’m sure there are good options inside the casino, but if they’re anything like the rest of this place, they’ll come complete with inflated prices.

  Besides, it might be good to get out and see the surrounding area some.

  When he pauses for air, I break in. “Actually, I was thinking of going out somewhere. Any recommendations for something nearby? Maybe something on the casual side of things?”

  The smile never falters. “Oui, Oui. I understand. May I recommend the Midnight Lounge? They have a variety of food choices and live music.”

  Might be interesting. “Sounds good. How do I get there?”

  He provides directions that sound fairly simple and I thank him before heading for the door.

  I push through the revolving doors into the early evening air. The chill shoots straight through my newly-purchased sweater. A light rain mists my face, but it’s not a pleasant mist. It’s so cold out here that the rain isn’t even liquid, it’s ice.

  I never thought rain could actually sting, but this one does.

  Maybe I should just eat at one of the restaurants in here.

  My feet keep moving in spite of the thought.

  I need to be careful about spending the money. If it’s not mine and I have to pay it back, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life working off the debt.

  More importantly, I may need it if I have to run again.

  How long does one hundred fifty thousand dollars last, anyway? It should last quite a while, but who knows how long it’ll take my memories to return. What if it takes weeks? Or months? In spite of my recent spending spree, I need to be conservative, just in case.

  So finding a cheaper restaurant is critical. Because I can’t keep blowing through money like I have today.

  The concierge said that it was only about two blocks away. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes to get there.

  Although in this cold, a few minutes might feel like an hour.

  The directions lead me away from the strip.

  The next block looks like a cheaper version of the strip, but when I go one block further, the neighborhood settles into a commercial district like one you’d find in any other city. Office buildings, a few standard hotels, and some food places line the block.