Amnesia

by Rick Simnitt

  He reached the intersection at Morris Hill cemetery, than turned quickly to the right. He checked his mirrors to ensure Scardoni was still following, and then sped his way toward Rose Hill. There he turned right, heading for his final destination at Orchard.

  At the corner of Franklin and Orchard sits Franklin Elementary, a small school with an even smaller parking lot. There aren’t many attendees, so the size fits it well. The building sits back away from the road, and has several large leafy trees surrounding it. On the Orchard side, where the parking lot resides, there is also a long vacant lot, presumably for the expansion of the school. During this time of the summer, however, school is not in session, so no children are in the vicinity. It is for this deserted black top that Jack headed.

  As he approached the school, Jack searched for the car he hoped was waiting for them, and spied it snuggled up to the white washed wall of the elderly school, lights off, looking completely innocuous and vacant. He knew differently, but was certain Scardoni did not.

  He pulled the bruised and broken Pontiac Grand Am into the lot with the Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme mere yards behind him. He braked the car hard, resulting in a final collision from his pursuer, hard enough to deploy the airbag—something he hadn’t considered.

  The airbag hampering his egress, he struggled to open the door and escape the demolished vehicle. The bag slowly deflated, much too slowly with the crazed man approaching him from behind. He pulled his Boy Scout pocketknife out of his right pocket and pierced the balloon-like plastic that held him captive. Mere seconds had passed, but he had run out of time.

  Scardoni pushed the Glock hard against McConnell’s forehead, just as the latter wrenched open the driver-side door. Jack froze immediately, knowing that any move could spook the other, costing him his life.

  “Throw the gun out,” Scardoni demanded. Jack reached down and unsnapped the holster freeing the.38 Special, the twin to Bill Lowell’s. Slowly he removed the gun with his pointer finger and thumb, and tossed it out of the vehicle. To his dismay Scardoni kicked the gun hard, and it flew across the parking lot, nearly to the front door of the school.

  “Now, get out, easily. That’s right, nice and slow, just like in the movies. Okay, come over here away from the car.”

  Jack moved several feet from the wrecked vehicles and turned to face them and the road, their backs to the school. He glanced over to the revolver sitting several yards away, and quickly determined that there was no way he could reach it in time.

  Scardoni came up to him and patted him down with his left hand. The Glock pressed into McConnell’s back or head the entire time. Satisfied that there were no other weapons, save the Boy Scout knife which he pocketed, he stood back and again started barking out orders.

  “Now put your hands behind your head, interlocking the fingers. That’s what cops always say,” he laughed at his little joke, then immediately got serious again. “Now on your knees.”

  Jack did as commanded, wondering how Scardoni had possibly known he was a police officer, and what he wanted with him. Why had he chased him and kept hitting him for that matter?

  “Well, well, we finally meet,” Scardoni started after Jack was in the desired position. “I wondered what our meeting would be like. Ever since that first phone call so many weeks ago.”

  He stopped, savoring the moment, leaving McConnell utterly confused. What phone calls? They had never spoken before. “What are talking about, Rudy?”

  “Ah, Mr. Arrogant is now Mr. Innocent. You know, I vowed to kill you that first time you called me ‘Rudolph’ like some freaky reindeer. Do you remember that Marcuse?”

  Marcuse? Jack thought. Who the devil is Marcuse? Of course it made sense now that Scardoni had him confused with someone else, but who was the other man? The ringleader? Perhaps he could get the information he needed after all!

  “Yeah,” Jack started, playing the game as Scardoni wanted it. “I was angry. Don’t you remember why?”

  “Look, Lenny was a good man. Well, a good employee. At least he took care of that other matter for you.” The edge to his voice deepened, “at least he won’t ever talk about the plane again, like you wanted.”

  “True enough,” Jack lied. Lenny Marconi was alive and recuperating as they spoke. But what was that about a plane? What was the plan? “Of course the rest died with him. Did he ever say anything?”

  “Nah, I was too quick for that,” Scardoni answered. Then almost to himself he added, “I only wish he would have died in the crash along with the others.”

  Plane crash, Jack mused. He must be talking about the crash up at Lake Cascade. Something must have gone wrong which caused the crash, which meant that there was another leg to this scheme. There was Beverley Windham and Peter Frindle, Lenny Marconi and the plane crash, and then Lissa Brandon. So they all surrounded this Marcuse guy and not Lissa. He gave a mental sigh of relief. He didn’t want Lissa to be the lynchpin.

  “So now what? What do you plan to do with me and the others?” It was a guess, but he figured Scardoni was also responsible for the kidnapping of Beverley and Peter, under the direction of Marcuse of course, and would want to get back at them.

  “Brandon’s dead now,” Scardoni sneered. “So won’t be running to you, playing your silly mind games. And I’ll get those bratty kids. As for you, your time is up.” He pushed the Glock into the back of McConnell’s head with so much pressure that he caused him to bow down.

  “You always thought you were so smart, Marcuse, insulting me, pretending to be so powerful. I may not be some genius, but I have street smarts. That’s why you needed me. You, this powerful god, needing Rudy Scardoni. Seems that you’re pretty puny to me. And I bet you’ll die just like the rest.”

  Jack felt the pressure on the gun changing and knew the man was squeezing the trigger. He had to do something or his Nancy would become a widow and his little Kate fatherless. No! he decided. I won’t let you do that to my family!

  He threw himself hard to the right and rolled out of the way of the plinking of bullets hitting the ground. Pieces of rock exploded into the air flying at him, stinging his body. With his hands now free he pushed himself up and headed toward his discarded weapon several yards away.

  He heard the explosions of triggered gunpowder behind him as he raced toward the steps of the school, zigzagging along to throw off Scardoni’s aim. He heard Scardoni yelling at him as well, and knew the man was trying to cut him off, to reach the Smith and Wesson first.

  He poured all his strength into that short distance, focusing solely on reaching the gun first. Unfortunately, his focus was too concentrated and he missed the tree root coming up out of the pavement. He tripped and went down hard, throwing his arms out in front of him to brace against the impact.

  His right hand landed first and crumpled as he heard the bones in his arm snap with the force of impact. Pain shot through his body and he instinctively jerked his arm up toward him, sending him rolling, away from the gun.

  He struggled for air as his body reacted to the pain shooting from his mangled arm. Panic set in fiercely as he realized he was completely at the mercy of the madman holding a gun on him.

  Scardoni laughed loudly as he realized what had happened, a deep, mirthless, crazed laugh that chilled Jack to the bone. McConnell had been so certain that the plan would work, yet here he was, agony engulfing his body, moments away from giving up his life. He had allowed this evil being to roam free to terrorize his friends, and who knew what else.

  Jack felt a slow tear trickling down his cheek, not from the pain in his arm, but from the pain in his heart from failing his friends and the citizens who counted on him. He hadn’t been a particularly religious man, but he had tried hard to be a good man. Now he wondered if he had missed out on something important. All those little digs that Bill, and his father before him, had delivered. Was there something to all their religious talk, of the church where they belonged? He wished now that he had listened closer to what they had said about eternity
and forever families. Now it was too late.

  Scardoni walked over to Jack and stood above him, carefully aiming his pistol. He slowly squeezed the trigger, the bullet purposefully hitting the pavement to the left of McConnell’s head, spraying the side of his face with rocks turned shrapnel, embedding them in his skin. “Let’s see your big brain talk you out of this one, Marcuse.”

  He carefully aimed again and took another shot, this time to the right of McConnell’s head. “I disposed of Drake for you. I kidnapped the Windham girl and her wimpy boyfriend. I set up your doctor friend. I even took care of Lenny at your bidding.

  “And you know what? All of a sudden things started making sense to me. All these monsters are because of you. You set them on me, burning me, scratching me, always yelling so loud that I can’t hear my own thinking. But I know how to take care of it.” He shot the ground above Jack’s head, again pelting him with tiny, stinging pebbles.

  “It’s like my mutter, my mother, always said, ‘you live violent, you die violent.’ Funny how I remember my mutter all of a sudden now. It’s like I had amnesia or something, and finally remember everything she taught me. As she would say now ‘Bis wir wieder mein liebes treffen,’ meaning ‘until we meet again, my dear.’ Good-bye Mr. Marcuse, or whatever your name is. See you in fegefeuer, in purgatory!”

  The report of the gunfire rang in McConnell’s ears and he waited for the burning pain of the bullet piercing his body. He wondered momentarily what death would be like. Instead, he was hit by the heavy weight of Scardoni’s large frame crashing into him, jarring his already agonizing arm. His head reeled with pain, his consciousness threatening to leave him, relieving him of his intense suffering.

  He struggled to remain conscious, to sort out what had happened, and then spied the form approaching him. As the shadow took on shape he suddenly remembered the darkened Volt parked next to the building. Relief flooded his body as he recognized the bandaged form of the life he had saved just last night. Tears again sprang to his eyes, tears of gratitude and thanksgiving.

  “Thank-you, Bill. Thank-you.”

  * * *

  “Slow down Beverley, you aren’t making any sense!” Peter Frindle was much improved now, able to communicate and feed himself, but his body still needed bed rest. Although it was ordered that he begin to walk around a little, the exercise was still limited and required a nurse’s accompaniment.

  “Sorry, Peter, I’m just so grateful to Jack and Bill. They’ve been through so much, and it was for us, well, for me.” Beverley’s enthusiasm dampened as she remembered that this had all started with her kidnapping. She wondered if all of it could have been avoided if she had somehow done things differently.

  She glanced across the bed to Carrie for support, the fear and apprehension threatening to resurface. The smile on her friend’s face shored her up, and she banished the thoughts to the back of her mind. She wouldn’t allow her fears to control her again.

  Carrie, recognizing Beverley’s concern, lent voice to her support by adding, “You can’t take all the credit. After all, it was my former husband that very nearly killed Bill. And me too.” Her eyes softened, as did her voice as she thought of Officer Lowell.

  “Would you both please back up and tell me what’s going on,” pleaded an exasperated Peter Frindle.

  “You start, Carrie,” Beverley suggested, “tell him about Paul.”

  She sighed, not really wanting to relive those moments, but eager to help her friends understand. “Well, as you already know, Paul was very controlling and manipulative. But worse, he was very abusive. At first it was only mental abuse, always berating me, telling me that I wasn’t good enough, that I was holding him down from his greatness. It wasn’t much of a step to add punishment in those areas he deemed me unworthy, and he started to hit. In fact he used to literally take his belt to me when I wasn’t behaving as he thought I should.”

  “Oh Carrie,” Beverley moaned, empathizing with her friend’s pain. “What did you do that was so wrong?”

  “Oh, lots of things. The first time he did that was when I stayed out too late with my maid-of-honor one night. We had gone to a movie and missed the planned showing so waited until the later show. I got home a little after midnight and he decided to make sure I never did it again. He took his belt to me until I was bruised. He always wanted to be intimate afterwards, telling me that he was trying to ‘make-up for our little fight.’ Personally I think beating me got him excited.”

  “Why didn’t you just leave,” asked an incredulous Peter. “I just don’t understand why you, or anyone, would stay in a relationship like that.”

  “You have to realize that Paul was very charismatic, and that he worked on me for quite a while before he did that. By the time that happened he had groomed me to receive it. I actually believed all the things he told me.

  “You also have to understand how frightened I was of heading out on my own. I actually decided to leave him when he broke my arm. He was trying to help me understand that writing letters without his permission wasn’t acceptable, but by then he had me so convinced that I couldn’t survive without him that I decided I had to stay. I had no self-confidence or self-esteem, and honestly believed him when he told me I needed him.

  “I was also frightened of what he would do to me if he caught up with me, what sort of ‘punishment’ he would inflict. As it turned out I was right about that.”

  “Oh, how awful for you!” Beverley lamented. “How did you even survive?”

  “Actually,” cut in Peter, “the bigger question is what finally got you out of there?”

  “Well, to answer the first question,” Carrie responded, “I mostly relied on my testimony of the gospel, and leaned on the arm of the Lord. He helped me through so many dark hours…I can’t even imagine what it would have been like without His help. Eventually I believe it was through His strength that I finally escaped.

  “As for how that all happened, well…” she hesitated, emotions rising to the surface, bringing with it tears of anguish. “To make a long story short, I got pregnant and Paul wasn’t happy about it. He completely went berserk, smashing things, yelling at me that it was my fault and that it was going to destroy him. Then he started on me…beat me up pretty bad, and I…I lost the baby. After that I didn’t care what happened to me, where I would end up, or if he were to find me and kill me. As it turns out, I guess that wasn’t that far-fetched after all.

  “Which brings us to where Bill came in. He nearly died protecting me.” She was already crying, relating the story. Yet her face took on a new glow as her thoughts turned to her rescuer. The look was not lost on Beverley and Peter, who exchanged a knowing glance as Carrie composed herself.

  “Well,” Carrie continued, “you know the rest. Bill got shot in the shoulder, but his protective armor absorbed the majority of the impact.”

  “Protective armor?” queried Peter. “I thought it was his day off.”

  “It was,” Carrie answered. “We asked him about that before the ambulance got there. Apparently when he got dressed that afternoon he felt impressed to put it on. He was so used to wearing it as part of his uniform he even forgot he was wearing it. Of course that wouldn’t have stopped that second bullet if Jack hadn’t stopped it.”

  “Second bullet?” Peter asked.

  “Yeah, Paul had his gun right against his forehead. I could even see his finger tightening around the trigger.” Carrie shuddered involuntarily as she related the scene, still badly shaken by the event. It would take quite some time for the effects to fade.

  “Anyhow, just before he took the shot, Jack McConnell showed up. Apparently he saw Lissa and Bill race off from his place and felt like he should follow them. Lucky thing he did. Just before Paul killed Bill, Jack shot Paul. He saved both of our lives. Paul would have turned the gun on me as soon as he was done with Bill.”

  “Have you noticed how many ‘impressions’ are flying around here,” Beverley pointed out, changing the subject to relieve
the emotions building in Carrie.

  “Doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Peter responded. “When we turn our will over to the Lord, and do what he asks, He will watch out for us.”

  “Hang on a minute Peter,” Beverley interrupted. “Are you saying that everything that we went through, that Carrie went through, was because we hadn’t turned our will to God? That doesn’t sound like the merciful caring God the missionaries taught us about.”

  “It’s not like that…” Peter started, but was quickly cut off by Carrie.

  “Let me answer that one. There were times I felt the same way. ‘Why didn’t He help me?’ ‘What did I do to deserve this?’ ‘Am I just unworthy of His succor?’ and such. But I think I have another possibility. First, there’s the question of timing and faith. If the Lord had reached down and fixed everything right off the bat, there would be no need to have faith in Him. I had to trust in Him while enduring the trial, to prove I really had faith, not just an expectation of divine intervention.

  “Secondly, there is the whole agency thing, allowing others to make mistakes, even at the expense of some innocent people. It doesn’t seem fair, but if you think about it, how can you punish the wicked if they don’t get a chance to commit their crimes. Of course those crimes are often pretty atrocious. My little trial is insignificant compared to a lot of stuff going on out there.

  “It’s kind of like the story in the Book of Mormon where all the faithful people, including the women and children, were thrown into the fire pits and burned to death. Alma and Amulek had to stand by and watch. If it were me I would have sent down lightening before the first person got tossed into the first pit. But then would I have been justified or just a murderer? Is it right to punish someone for what they intend to do, or should you allow them the opportunity to prove how nasty they really are?”

  “But Carrie,” Beverley argued, “that just isn’t right. Look at you and Paul. You went through years of pain, and may never completely recover. You shouldn’t have to pay the price.”