Amnesia

by Rick Simnitt

  “Is Carrie your wife?” Bill called out knowingly.

  “Look,” the man called back, blowing out his breath in a huff, “this is between me and my wife. Why don’t you just get out of here before I lose my patience?”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to help you out here,” Bill soothed. “If you’re Carrie’s husband, then I’m sure she’ll be coming home anytime now. You know women, they just like to talk. Sooner or later they’ll be done and she’ll be on her way. So what about that drink while we wait?”

  “She’ll come home now, or someone will get hurt!” he yelled through the door. “You know I’ll do it too, don’t you!”

  A muffled shout came from inside the apartment which Bill couldn’t make out at his position, but it seemed to infuriate the man. He started banging on the door again, hitting it with the butt of the gun in his hand, and kicking it in time with a string of epithets that escaped his lips. Bill was beginning to get concerned about the stability of the man, and decided to change tactics, praying that he was making the right decision.

  “Hey, there’s no need for all that!” he shouted over the din, succeeding in bringing the man’s focus, and anger, back to him.

  “I told you to stay out of this. It isn’t your affair!”

  “I’m afraid you’re making it my affair. Carrie is an old friend of mine, and I want to make sure she’s safe.” He intentionally changed the amiable tone of voice he had used up to this point into a more commanding forceful tenor. “With you carrying on like this, I can’t be assured she would be safe if she left with you.”

  The man’s answer was icy. “And what are you going to do about it?”

  Time to put his cards on the table. “I’m Officer Bill Lowell, Boise Police Department. If you are Carrie’s husband you must be Paul Price. You and I actually used to be pretty good friends.”

  “Ah yes, good little, naïve, Bill Lowell,” Paul answered. Then he laughed. “My faithful home teacher. You came every month, but you never did see how disobedient my wife was, and how I had to keep her disciplined. So what’s the First Presidency message this month Bill?”

  The implication washed through Bill, chilling him through to the bone. It was true, he had visited every month, and had even spent several evenings together. He and Lacy had invited them over on several occasions for dinner and cards, sometimes staying up all night almost until time for class the next day. They had laughed and joked the entire night. Everyone had enjoyed their times immensely.

  Or had they? He thought back on those nights to a quiet and submissive Carrie, who hardly spoke and rarely laughed. He could even remember Lacy commenting on it once, but he had dismissed it as her being simply withdrawn. Now he wondered how much of her shyness had been beaten into her by her husband. Literally.

  Now that he thought it through it all made sense. She was always cowering behind Paul, almost as if she were hiding, never saying anything without a nod of approval from him. And when she did talk it was always stilted and strained. He had rarely even seen Carrie without her husband present, and could remember that she wouldn’t visit Lacy alone. He could even remember once that he had run into her at the grocery store and she had evaded his salutation, nearly running to get away from him.

  Bill berated his ignorance. He was right there, responsible for her, and he had been completely oblivious. Even after all his training to pick up on this type of behavior and subtle clues he had shrugged them all off. Clues he had completely ignored and misread. Along with his guilt he felt a surge of anger and determination. He may have missed it before, but now he resolved that it would never happen again.

  He set his jaw in determination and reached behind his back and withdrew his gun. If Paul was already beating his wife, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to cause her more harm, especially when he was about to lose her as his favorite whipping boy.

  “I may have been naïve Paul, but I’m also a cop. I will not allow you to harm Carrie, or anyone else. Now put your gun on the floor and kick it past the stairs. I don’t want you to get hurt either.”

  Paul laughed at the comment. “Look Lowell, I know you’re this big Boy Scout, trying to save the world, but you can’t touch me. Carrie is mine, and I’m not leaving here without her.” He paused, then added menacingly, “and don’t forget that I grew up on a farm and got pretty good with this Desert Eagle!” To emphasize his point he grabbed the slide at the top of the gun, just above the grip, and pulled it back with his left hand, ejecting a bullet into the chamber.

  Bill froze, his heart pounding, his senses sharpened. He could hear the soft chirping of crickets surrounding the apartment building, harmonized by the croaking of some frogs. A slight breeze brushed against his cheek where a nervous bead of perspiration streaked down from his brow. He could smell the lingering aroma of charcoal from someone’s barbeque dinner earlier in the evening, and could even smell the odor emanating from his own sweating body. He could also make out the ragged breath of his old friend standing above him on the landing, the sure sign that fear and adrenaline, along with a healthy dose of rage, was in control of his body.

  In a flash Bill saw Paul wouldn’t back down now; the only way this would end would be to incapacitate him, either by pinning him to the ground and restraining him, or by injuring him to the point he could not defend himself. Either way, Bill needed help. He could only hope it would be quick enough.

  He reached down into his left pant pocket and retrieved his cell phone. Utilizing only his left hand, leaving his right hand free to control his weapon, he dialed 911, and then set the phone down on the stair below him. He couldn’t risk having Paul hear him calling in back up, and knew that by leaving the line open Dispatch would locate his signal and send in the cavalry. The only question was how to keep Paul distracted, and himself safe, until they arrived.

  Slowly he worked himself up the steps, pressing his back hard against the wood siding. He couldn’t see what Paul was doing, and knew Paul had the dual advantage of height and cover of the corner. If his opponent chose the wrong moment to step around that corner, the stairwell would open immediately to his left and down, exposing Bill entirely. It was a tenuous position that he must change.

  He glanced up to see what was overhead, and saw nothing but the bare wood ceiling several feet above him. No help there. Off to the left there was a storage locker, but he could see from here that the padlock was on and secure. Besides that it was just opposite Paul and he would have to cross right in front of him to reach the closet. Straight ahead, across the landing, there was an open railing, then the drop to the ground below. And of course to the right was Paul, still banging on the single door, cursing and yelling for Carrie to join him.

  Suddenly Paul went quiet. Bill froze. Something was happening in the apartment but Bill couldn’t tell what it was. He took a long step up, crossing three steps, to pull himself closer to find out what was going on. Then he heard the jangle of the chain and deadbolts opening. What he heard next pushed his heart into his throat, and he found it difficult to breathe.

  “Hello Paul.” It was Carrie, speaking calmly and slowly to her estranged husband.

  “It’s about time!” Paul yelled, followed by a loud slap and a stifled scream of pain. “You never did listen to me. Now you will pay for it!”

  There was another muffled hit and cry. Bill’s anger was pulsing through his veins. It was all he could do to restrain himself from jumping around the corner guns blazing. Yet his paramount concern was Carrie’s safety. A few hits were preferable to a piercing bullet. He gained the last step then cautiously peaked around the corner to take stock of the scene. What he saw was as bad as he had imagined.

  Paul stood facing the doorway, eyes wild and hair disheveled. He had spittle trailing down his chin from the sides of his mouth, much like a mad dog. It was obvious he hadn’t bathed or shaved for several days. His soiled clothing stood evidence that he had not changed for some time. In his right hand he held a glistening Mark XIX Desert Eagle .357 m
agnum pistol, his knuckles white from his enraged hold on the grip.

  In front of him stood Carrie, looking tiny and vulnerable yet determined. She had a trickle of blood seeping from an open tear on her lip, the product of a backhanded slap. She also had red eyes, proof of recent weeping. Yet there was an aura of calm surrounding her, although it was also obvious she was very frightened.

  The open door behind her lighted the scene in an almost eerie way, the reflection lighting Paul’s face in such a way as to give him the appearance of a vampire, his pale complexion deathly white, the drool the remains of his victim’s blood.

  Yet that same radiance backlit Carrie giving her the appearance of an angel, wrapped in a halo of glory. Bill felt his heart reach out for the second time this week, yearning to protect a slight girl from an evil attacker. He knew he had to do something, but he didn’t know what. Unfortunately, Paul forced the issue for him.

  Paul reached up and grabbed hold of her hair and ripped her head back, producing another cry of pain in the small woman. He took the gun and pressed the barrel under her chin hard enough to break the skin.

  “I told you Carrie,” he hissed, “you belong to me. If I can’t trust you to behave like a good girl, you will force me to take a drastic step. So what is it, are you going to behave or not?”

  In a calm, resigned voice Carrie answered with some difficulty, due to the Desert Eagle shoved into her skin. “I would rather die than live with you Paul. You’ve beaten me for three years, belittled me, and abused me. And I believed every word you said. I thought that I just had to do things better, that it was all my fault. And through it all I loved you.

  “But no more. I won’t do it again!” Her voice rose in anger as she spoke, a crescendo building to a yell. “Go ahead. Pull the trigger. You’ve already killed my spirit so many times that I don’t want to live like that anymore anyway!”

  The fire in her eyes was awe inspiring considering the situation. She was nearly a foot shorter than he, a man that was obviously beyond rational thought, and had a gun shoved into her chin. Yet she stood there defiant before her tormenter, taking back her control, despite the cost. But that price was too high. Bill would allow no more.

  “Put the gun down now Paul!”

  The man turned to look at Bill in a confused daze, as if in slow motion. At first he just stood there staring at Bill, then looked back down at the girl. Suddenly he broke into a deranged laughter.

  Bill watched in horror at the finger slowly tightening around the trigger, gently squeezing the apparatus, and in extension Carrie’s life. He raised his own gun to the level of his eyes, and sighted down the barrel, holding the weapon in a double handed grip. He could feel the sweat dripping down his forehead and stinging his eyes.

  “Drop the weapon now, Paul. Don’t make me shoot.” It was a bluff. He was restrained from firing that close to an innocent bystander, but he hoped Paul didn’t know it.

  “Or what,” was the jeering response from his opponent. “You wouldn’t dare shoot at me, you might hit her!” Despite the bravado, however, Bill could see his finger backing off the trigger. But he also saw the rest of his body tensed.

  “I said drop your weapon,” Bill demanded forcefully. He stood motionless just a few yards from his target, and knew from photos and lectures what damage his bullet would do. Yet he had never shot a man, and didn’t want to start now with his old friend.

  “Oh, I see,” Paul spoke almost amiably, “she came up here for you. You two set this up, didn’t you? Now I understand what’s really going on. You wanted her for yourself, and got her to leave me so you could be together. That’s what this is all about.” He looked over at Bill, hatred showing blood red in his eyes.

  “Sorry, pal, you can’t have her. She’s mine, Lowell. I will do with her what I like. You can understand that can’t you? I heard you killed your own wife.”

  The boldness of the accusation delivered Bill a stinging blow, causing him to waver slightly in his stance. For a split second the .38 Special strayed, just enough to allow an opening. Paul turned his gun toward his old home teacher and squeezed the trigger, the semi-automatic spitting out burning death.

  The first shot went wide, tearing a hole through the storage room door, embedding the bullet deep into the wood wall behind. Carrie screamed at the deafening roar of the exploding gun powder, and dropped to the floor out of harm’s way. Bill brought his gun back on target, knowing that it was either his life or Paul’s. He didn’t even think about the consequences as he squeezed his own trigger.

  Bill’s shot was wild and hit high on the wall above and behind the door. He dove away from the danger, back toward the storage closet, and rolled back to his feet. He pulled the gun up again as another roar sounded and a plunk sounded behind him. Splinters exploded from the eroding wood, raining pin-pricks of pain on his exposed neck. Instinctively he pulled his head down and fired off another round at his attacker.

  Paul screamed in pain as the bullet tore through the flesh of his left arm. It passed completely through the arm leaving little damage. Searing pain raced to his already fevered mind and he randomly fired at Bill.

  Recognizing the hail of bullets for what it was, Bill blindly fired a couple of rounds to throw Paul off, and then shifted to evade the deadly assault. He decided to head for the cover of the stairwell—bullets can’t go around corners. He was too slow.

  A bullet from the Desert Eagle found its mark, hitting Bill high in the chest, spinning him around with the strength born of the closeness of the shot. Pain exploded through him as he felt the jerk in his body. He unconsciously took a step away from his aggressor and lost his balance. He fell heavily to the floor, a new surge of pain rushing to his brain. He struggled against losing consciousness as the pain pulled at him, and tried to aim again at his opponent. He heard the laughter as he tried to right himself, the burning in his chest making it hard to breathe.

  “I guess you were hoping that I would just let you take Carrie. You see what happens when you don’t keep her in line. She never did figure it out. Not even when she ended up with that broken arm. But now she will learn.” He walked over to Bill, kicked his gun out of his hand and cocked his own.

  “It’s too bad really. I liked you Bill. But you can’t mess around with another man’s wife. According to the bible the price of adultery is stoning. Well your stone is a .357 Magnum bullet.” He squatted down, placed the barrel against Bill’s forehead.

  “Don’t worry,” Paul almost whispered, “Carrie will be joining you soon.”

  A shot rang out. Another soul wended its way to heaven.

  * * *

  Lissa paced the office floor in front of the aged desk, and the even more aged receptionist, fuming over the morning’s revelations. She felt like breaking something or hitting someone. Perhaps the man sitting behind the closed door guarded by the surly secretary.

  “You may as will sit down Doctor,” the aide spoke, obviously unsettled by the palpable anger seething from Lissa. “He said he was not to be disturbed, especially by disgruntled employees.”

  “And you can tell him that I will stay here until he sees me!” Lissa retorted hotly.

  Too many things had gone wrong this morning, especially after the things which had happened last night. She was not about to be put off.

  She decided to take things into her own hands, since the Hospital Administrator was cowering behind his rather severe assistant. She strode up to his door, neatly side stepping the incredulous woman at the desk, and barged in.

  Before her sat a short, portly man dwarfed behind a huge though immaculate desk, poring over a stack of printouts. The office was fastidiously clean and organized, not a thing out of place, from the perfectly straight paintings adorning three walls, to the small bookshelf whose books were all the exact same size, arranged alphabetically by author. Even the two wing back chairs were precisely placed equidistant from the desk in exact symmetry.

  This man was obviously rather compulsive, which furthe
r emboldened Lissa. It seemed so incongruous that his life could be so obviously well-ordered when hers was so chaotic. She charged right up to the desk, ignoring the indignant cries of the secretary who had followed her into the inner office.

  “Ah, Doctor Brandon,” he intoned smoothly, “what a pleasant surprise.” He calmly took his glasses off, folded them, and placed them carefully in the exact center of the papers he had been reading.

  “I tried to stop her Mr. Lavant,” insisted the older woman. “I’ll call security immediately!” She reached for the phone sitting in front of her supervisor, only to have him push her hand gently away.

  “That won’t be necessary Agnes. It appears that Doctor Brandon has something to say, and I doubt anything would stop her at this point,” he clarified resignedly. Lissa could tell that he was clearly not surprised, nor was he too concerned. He obviously knew something she didn’t.

  “That will be all Agnes. If I need you, I’ll buzz,” he dismissed the gawking woman, and then turned to Lissa. “Won’t you sit down? Let’s see if we can all be civilized. That’s better. Would you like something to drink? No? Well then, what’s on your mind?”

  Lissa’s anger wouldn’t be so easily mollified. “I think you know what’s on my mind. It appears that my medical license has been suspended, as have been my privileges at both St. Alphonsus and here at St. Luke’s. I’d like to know what’s going on!”

  “Yes, I thought that might be what spurred our little visit. Well, as you know, the state controls your license, not me. You will need to take this up with them.”

  “I already have!” she countered. “They told me that the request originated in this office. I would like to know why!”

  “Please stop shouting Doctor. I would hate to cut our conversation short, but I insist that you remain civil. Yes, I made a phone call, but not even I can control the Idaho State Board of Medicine. I simply made them aware of certain, shall we say, incidents that have been brought to my attention.”