Amnesia

  “First he left you a present in your veins. Yeah, added a little extra potassium to your blood; a booster shot I guess. Good thing there was a quick thinking doctor close at hand.” Another pause as the fear deepened to horror.

  “Then there was the fun one, where he pistol whipped Dolores, your nurse,” he gestured toward the door, in the vague direction Dolores had headed, “and beat up your armed guard. He really must have missed you.”

  One last pause, as Jack watched the horror in Lenny’s eyes turn to terror, allowing the latter to connect all the dots, revealing a very nasty picture. Beads of cold sweat appeared unbidden on the patient’s brow, his mind working furiously to find a way out of the quandary in which he found himself mired. A hint of a smile appeared on Jack’s face as he delivered the coup de grace.

  “Of course, as you said, you are a big boy, and can handle things yourself, despite having your legs immobilized, and barely able to move your arms. Well, good luck. It was nice to have met you.” He turned, a satisfied look filling his features. “Come on, Bill, let’s leave Mr. Marconi alone, he obviously doesn’t need our help.” He turned to leave, wondering how long it would take Marconi to call him back. He didn’t get far.

  “Hold up a minute,” the man lying in the hospital bed called, the tone in his voice betraying his resignation to the inevitable. He looked down the length of the bed on which he laid, seeing his legs and hips completely immobilized due to multiple fractures; there would be no running away. He was completely vulnerable, he realized, relying wholly on the mercy of those surrounding him. He sighed deeply, and capitulated; the trap was sprung and he was snared. “What do you want? What’s in it for me?”

  “Well, Lenny,” Jack answered, turning back to the bed, “I’m glad you came to your senses. First off, I thought we would have a nice little chat. As for what you get, it’s very simple: you work with me, tell me everything I want to know, I personally guarantee you don’t have to worry about Scardoni sending his regards. Are these terms acceptable to you?”

  “I want immunity from any prosecution.”

  “Fine. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they send your obit back to Philadelphia, make sure the ‘family’ knows.” He half turned away before Lenny caved.

  “Alright, alright. What do you wanna know?” Again his voice dripped with resignation, unaware of the police officer’s bluff about Scardoni and the mob. One thing that Jack was counting on was the innate survival instinct that guided all men, but especially those who chose the ease of criminal activity over honest work.

  “That’s better. Tell me about Drake.”

  “Mannion? He’s dead. If he survived Walters’ orders, he wouldn’t have survived the crash.”

  “Who is Walters?” Jack asked. He glanced over at Bill who was busily taking notes with his good right hand. A flash of gratitude touched his heart knowing that soon this would all be over, and all his friends would finally be safe.

  “Randy Walters. He’s some muscle I hired to take care of some business for Scardoni. He’s dead too. If the plane didn’t take care of him Scardoni would have.” He paused and shook his head as he realized the stupidity of the plan. Suddenly he felt strongly compelled to tell McConnell everything, and hopefully extricate him from the whole thing. Even if it did mean some jail time, it would be worth it to get out from under the weight of the burdens he carried.

  “Scardoni hired me to take care of some unwanted baggage and I contacted Walters and his guys to pull it off. He knew a pilot who knew how to keep his mouth shut. So we took this ‘baggage’ out in the plane, disposed of it, and should have come back to a slick $25k for our trouble.” Again he paused, knowing that his next revelation would incriminate him. Sure enough, Jack asked the correct question.

  “And Drake Mannion was the ‘baggage?’”

  “Yeah. Apparently the guy who hired Scardoni wanted Drake out of the way quietly, with no ties to him. We took him up in a charter plane, intending to toss him into Lake Cascade. We made sure to take his wallet and keys and such so he couldn’t be traced and took him up.”

  He hesitated, noting the look of disgust on McConnell’s face, but pressed forward anyway, eager to get it all out into the open. “We had him right at the door and the stupid kid got away from me. I ended up out the door. Luckily I fell into a tree and survived, but pretty banged up. Apparently something happened to the plane because a few minutes later it went down. I didn’t see the crash, but heard the explosion and saw the light from the flames.”

  “But you survived.” Bill noted, speaking for the first time. He, too, sported a look of disgust at the complete disregard for human life.

  “Just lucky, I guess,” Marconi responded. The ironic tone was not lost on him; he held no allusions that he had any friends here. He was simply cutting his losses, knowing that with them he had options. With Scardoni, there was only one possibility—death.

  “Why did this guy want Drake dead?” Jack asked, bringing the interrogation back to focus. He shared Bill’s feelings, but knew there was nothing to be gained from displays of righteous indignation.

  “Don’t know,” Marconi replied. “I guess he knew somethin’ and we were trying to keep him quiet. That’s the way it usually is.”

  “And you have no idea what that is?” Jack pressed.

  “Nope. Well, there was something said about a book of his, but who cares about some stupid book. Ask Scardoni.”

  Jack ignored the taunt, instead pursuing a different tack. “Who was Scardoni’s boss?”

  “Call’s himself ‘Marcuse’ but I never met him. Don’t know anything about him. Scardoni was the only one that talked to him.”

  “How did he receive his orders?” Jack knew that they had not met, hence the mistaken identity earlier, yet somehow they had to communicate.

  “Cell phone. Marcuse gave him a phone and kept one himself. The number was on autodial, and he was under strict instructions to use it for nothin’ else. There was one time I was trying to get hold of Walters and grabbed that cell. Scardoni pulled his Rambo knife and threatened to take off my fingers for touching it.”

  “Bill….”

  “I’m on it Jack. The car’s down at impound now.”

  Marconi watched the bigger man stand and exit the door. He wore a sling from a shoulder wound, and Lenny wondered for a moment if Scardoni had given it to him. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the pillow, exhausted by the interview. The pain medication was still keeping him sleepy, and his head was still slightly spinning from the trauma.

  Suddenly something clicked in his mind and his eyes flew open and he jerked his head up. The first thing he saw was a slight smile cross McConnell’s lips, reading the recognition for what it was.

  “Yeah, Lenny, that’s right, Scardoni’s dead. I am a man of my word and I did guarantee that he would never bother you again, at least not in this world. Sorry I had to mislead you, but you know what they say, ‘Confession is good for the soul.’”

  Marconi would never admit that he did feel lighter after explaining everything. He closed his eyes and turned his head, feigning anger when instead he felt mostly relief. He was tired. Not only from his injuries, but also from the life he had led.

  He had been walking tightropes his entire life, surrounded by danger; from police, other gangsters, and even from his own family. He wanted out and wondered if turning himself into the police was the answer. Then he wondered if it would have been better if he had gone down in the plane with Walters. Somehow there had to be a way out of this mess. He heard Jack chuckle softly, and refused to look at him when he spoke.

  “Thanks for the help Lenny. I’ll put in a good word for you.” He laughed again out loud, then turned and left the patient alone with his thoughts. He had a criminal to catch and put behind bars.

  For his part, Marconi let his mind wander, thinking about life free from constant threats. He had no delusions of being a good man; he had lived a life devoid of morals, taking what he pleased from whom he
pleased. He blamed no one for his failings but himself, knowing that conscious decisions had led him to this place, not some imagined force or third party. Still he wondered if there truly was redemption for a soul as rebellious as his. He didn’t really know, but deep down, he admitted, he hoped there was, and that there was some way he could put a claim on it. He just didn’t know where to find it.

  He also realized that he was rather drowsy, and allowed himself to drift off to sleep. His last thoughts before sleep overcame him were that he was alive, and with Scardoni dead he might be able to stay that way. And with life, there is always hope.

  * * *

  They called him “Mouse.” Ever since Ernest Dall had first dressed as the small rodent in his kindergarten class play, he had been handed the moniker, despite his adamant resistance. Of course the fact that he had protruding ears, a long slender nose, and a small thin physique only added to the overall impression of the small creature.

  Unfortunately, as is common with all nicknames, over his forty-two years of life he grew to resemble the animal even his family had come to call him. He had grown a wispy mustache, giving the impression of whiskers, and kept his hair pulled straight back, lying limp around his small head, accentuating his beady eyes. He even spoke with a high, squeaky voice, and scurried rather than walked.

  Yet unlike his greasy appearance, his heart was good, watching over his small flock of apartment dwellers like a loving shepherd. He knew each tenant by name, and could recognize each vehicle they used for transportation. He could even pick out the faces of the more frequent visitors and friends. He kept watch from afar, as a careful parent watches over their young.

  Of course he knew they were unimpressed by him, several to the point of avoidance. But he didn’t really care. He heard the whispered comments, the unfeeling remarks about his appearance, but allowed them, knowing that much of what they said was true. It never even occurred to him that he should be offended by such talk—it was simply the way things were.

  Then one day a remarkable woman walked into the manager’s office responding to an advertisement he had placed in the Idaho Statesman newspaper about a vacancy. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; about five foot six with light brown hair, an ever-present smile, and a personality that warmed his heart from their first words.

  He had simply sat staring at her as she came through the door, his mouth agape at her beauty. She said something to him, but his mind was blank, scrambling to find coherency in the presence of such loveliness. A moment passed before his synapses began firing again, and he mumbled something unintelligible, trying to break through the trance she had put him under. Somehow he had made it through the required interview and paperwork, but he was forever smitten with her.

  Several times since that embarrassing day he had attempted to engage her in meaningful conversation, proof that he did have a mind after all. But she had resisted, as had everyone else in his life. He didn’t blame her. He knew how others viewed him. Still, he wished she would at least call him “Ernest,” something no one else had done since he was five.

  He took it upon himself to keep a closer watch on her, but from a distance, to ensure her safety. Perhaps as an older brother would. It was a fairly easy task, as she had few visitors outside of the monthly visit from the church people. Except of course that one guy she obviously didn’t like.

  Then came the fateful day when her car had been trashed. It had been a very long day for him and he had gone to bed exhausted. Instead of waking every couple of hours as he usually did, he didn’t wake until he heard the crashing of glass and banging of a metal on metal. He awoke with a start and flew toward the commotion, arriving just in time to see some guy hopping out of a nearby dumpster and start running through the trees toward the main road.

  His first impulse was to run after the man, chase him down and find out what was going on. Fortunately his head overrode the instinct and he instead ran back to his apartment to call the police. He knew that he had let the man go, and had cursed himself for his cowardice. Shame swept through him even now as he thought of that decision and the vow he made just afterward that he would never back away again. It never occurred to him that he had done the right thing. All he knew was that his “little sister” had been assaulted, and he had done nothing about it.

  Tonight he stood in the same place as he had that morning. It was incredible how much had happened, how many things had changed since that day. There were people coming and going in the apartment, an impromptu emergency medical visit, a shooting, and now a fire. All surrounding the woman he had grown so fond of. He shook his head, feeling a deep sense of remorse on her behalf. She had seen so much—too much.

  Of course he had not just stood idly by while it all happened. He bought a cell phone and had used it to contact the police, specifically Jack McConnell, several times now. Most especially on the day that evil man had set fire to the apartment, her home. He had it in his pocket even now, the autodial ready to connect with the police captain “anytime, day or night” as Jack had said.

  Dall looked up at the late afternoon sky, still bright and hazy in the late summer season. Sweat dampened his back under the perennial long, thin black covering he wore year round. He thought momentarily of abandoning his vigil in favor of a cool drink in his cool living room. It had been another sweltering day, the temperature in triple digits, forcing people into their air-conditioned homes, leaving the apartment complex virtually devoid of life, save the sporadic moments when tenants would leave their cool homes to hop quickly into cooling cars. Through it all, he had stood quietly, watching, taking everything in.

  He took in a deep breath, taking in the scent of thousands of lazy plants, flowers, and shrubs. Even trees lent their perfume to the heat, giving a heady feeling to the air shimmering with waves of rising heat. He loved this place, surrounded with the bounties of the season, nestled against the base of Table Rock Hill just across the Boise River. In his mind there was no better place on earth.

  He sighed, realizing that he was accomplishing nothing standing here blending with the scenery. He was the perfect spy, so often overlooked, essentially invisible in any surrounding, as if human eyes avoided him to the point that they could not see him. He had always hated that about himself, but had grown to accept it as his lot. This week, however, he saw this trait as a gift, a special ability that allowed him to actively participate in protecting his self-appointed wards, the eyes and ears of the police where evil cared not look.

  He started to turn, headed back to his silent and lonely dwelling, when his eye caught a glimpse of movement in the ashes and stubble that used to be Lissa’s apartment. He turned back, confused at why he had missed the intruder when he had been watching specifically for such; hadn’t even seen or heard his car.

  Curiously he moved closer to the rubble, staying out of sight, but keeping a keen eye on the man digging through the ruins, as if searching for something. Abruptly, as if sensing someone watching, the man stood, scanning the area for witnesses. He then abandoned whatever he had been looking for, and ran down the stairs and into the trees.

  Now Dall understood. The interloper had parked in another section of the complex, ostensibly to hide his activities from curious passers-by, and had slipped through the gardens to get to the apartment. Obviously this was a man avoiding attention, which made Dall all the more interested in what he wanted.

  He started to jog to catch up with the larger, more athletic man, but couldn’t catch him before he had jumped into his car and flew out of the complex into the street. He cursed his unfit body. He hadn’t even gotten a glimpse of the vehicle. He headed back to the apartment to see if he could find what the man had been looking for.

  He climbed the steps slowly, peering at the ground, seeing nothing that would be of interest of anyone. He got to the top, still searching, but still saw nothing. He stepped into the ashes, and even walked through a bit, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He shrugged, turned and started to leave
, and then saw what he was meant to find. He pulled out his cell phone and hit autodial, asking for Captain McConnell. He was going to want to see this.

  The man had not been searching for anything; he had simply left a message. Dall had missed it at first because had been searching the ground. As he brought his head up he saw written across the wall, “You should have stayed dead. Marcuse.”

  * * *

  Marcuse raced down River Run toward Parkcenter, desperate to escape the confines of the apartment complex. He turned right, headed toward the connector, fire raging in his breast, his mind a sea of molten lava. An infinitesimal part of his psyche worried about how upset he had become, but the rest of him welcomed the anger. It was thrilling and intoxicating to feel this way. He reveled in it to the point of inventing causes for his wrath.

  At the moment his fury was directed toward that mousy apartment manager for nearly catching him at leaving the message for Drake. It was sheer coincidence that he had caught a glimpse of the greasy man, the plainly obvious intentions of the rodent to identify him. A wave of rage coursed through him again at the memory, and he irrationally decided to rid the world of the disgusting creature.

  He reached down under his seat and removed the 9mm Beretta from the holster hidden there and gripped the handle tightly, imagining the look on the other’s face as he stared down the barrel. An evil grin crossed his face as he envisioned the look of terror, almost hearing the whining plea of mercy, yet finishing the deed in a wonderful explosion of gunpowder and blood.

  Yet he knew he was denied such pleasures. He cursed and shoved the gun back into its place, experiencing anew the passions of hatred and anger. The hazy afternoon seemed slightly skewed to him as he raged, taking on a slight hint of red as he allowed his emotions to carry his thoughts. The shimmering waves of heat added a peculiar shudder to everything, as if he were seeing things out of focus.