Amnesia

by Rick Simnitt

  “Are you alright?” she asked.

  “A little tired. Just give me a minute,” he responded.

  “I don’t think we have one,” she replied, looking over his shoulder.

  “I suggest you bank the boat up there under that outcropping of trees,” called a voice off to his left. “You won’t make it much farther.”

  “I don’t think so Marcuse,” he called back, his aching shoulders reaching for the paddle.

  “Thought you might say something silly like that.” He raised the gun and shot three times in quick succession at the front of the canoe, ripping a gaping hole in the front. Quickly they began to sink, and Drake had to paddle hard just to get to shore. Once there they climbed out, intent on running away, but a quick shout reminded them about the gun, stopping the two immediately.

  They had come to rest on a small sandy shore about eight feet wide and three feet deep, bordered by a wide assortment of trees. Marcuse landed right next to them, sending the vacant raft on down the river, then had Drake shove the canoe back out into the river until it promptly sank, leaving no trace that they had ever been there. He motioned them to move beyond the trees, where a small clearing lay, allowing them the privacy he needed.

  Lissa went first into clearing, glancing over her shoulder hoping to see any witnesses, but was disappointed to find no one in sight. Carefully she pushed through the trees, and stepped into the clearing Marcuse had indicated. It was completely surrounded by trees and bushes, with a blackened ring of rocks at one end, the scarring of a midnight campfire. There was a great deal of rubbish around the area, beer cans, broken beer bottles, empty potato chip bags and so forth, evidence of a season full of late night parties. Next to the campfire ring laid a stack of branches, ready for the next outing, possibly tonight. She wondered for a moment if the midnight partiers would find her and Drake’s bodies waiting for them there when they returned.

  Marcuse shoved Drake through the last of the trees, causing him to stumble and fall face first into the sand in front of him, snagging his arm on the tree as he fell, ripping a gaping hole in his shirt and skin. The vicious man then stepped over the fallen man and removed his soaking backpack, placing it at his feet, opening it and checking his supplies inside.

  Lissa glared at her smiling captor, and then stooped down to help Drake up, checking the severity of the bleeding wound, saying nothing. Her eyes flashed with fury not fear as she and Drake stepped into the center of the clearing, watching Marcuse closely. “Why am I not surprised?” she said finally, receiving only a laugh in return.

  Drake looked over at Lissa, then back to Marcuse. “Aren’t you…?” he started.

  Marcuse laughed again. “Who else? Having a good week?”

  Lissa glared back in return, biting off the words she wanted to say, only to hear him laugh again.

  “I don’t understand. Aren’t you that doctor from the hospital…?” Drake started again. This time the laughter was louder, almost uncontrollable.

  “Yes, Drake, this is him,” Lissa responded. “Drake meet the good Doctor Darrion Stanton.”

  Finally Marcuse, whose real name was Darrion Stanton, got himself back under control, and simply said, “Hello little brother.”

  * * *

  Bill glanced over at Officer Roger Putnam, the man set upon by Scardoni while guarding Marconi, and his partner Officer Della Ransen, and nodded to them, receiving the same in return. He then turned to Jack and asked, “Ready boss?”

  “Never more ready,” he responded. The anger had dissipated slightly, especially since his call to Gregg Windham, but was still darkly determined. He stepped up to the door and rang the doorbell of the Stanton mansion, rocking back and forth while waiting for the maid to answer. He didn’t have long to wait.

  “Buenos Dias,” Bill greeted. “Mi nombre es Bill Lowell y éste es Jack McConnell del departamento del policía de Boise,” he introduced. “Tenemos una autorización de la búsqueda,” he explained while holding up a folded piece of paper allowing them access.

  “The owner, he is not here,” Maritza responded. She had nearly finished for the day, and was eager to get on her way. This was a very unwelcome distraction, and one that could possibly cost her a great deal of time and extra work.

  Jack looked over the short Hispanic lady for a moment, noting that she was in her mid-forties, slightly dumpy looking, and obviously rather unhappy. He decided that pacifying her was not something he wanted, or needed, to do right then.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, waiting for Bill to translate.

  “Maritza Maldanado,” she replied, somewhat warily.

  “I assure you that no harm will come to you,” he said, pushing past her, followed by the three other police officers. “Putnam, you and Lowell come with me. We’ll start in the basement. Ransen, you stay with Señora Maldanado. Tell her that we need her help but she has to stay out of our way.” He didn’t wait for Bill to translate before he headed down the hall toward the stairs, the other four trailing him.

  “You speak Spanish?” Roger asked Bill quietly as they traipsed through the long hall.

  “Went to Venezuela on my mission. Comes in handy every now and again.”

  “I bet. I picked up some in East L.A. myself, but mostly only the dirty words.” They laughed quietly, noting the somber mood of the moment.

  They headed down the same stairwell Marcuse had used earlier and entered the large game room. The group looked around taking in the outlay of the room, before Jack called Maritza forward.

  “Where do all of these lead?”

  “Those halls lead to storage rooms,” Bill interpreted for the maid. “That door to the garage, and that one to the furnace room.”

  “Putnam, you check out the furnace room, Ransen, you and the maid stay here. Bill you come with me.” He headed through the door to the garage.

  “You check out the shop area here, while I check out that room,” he instructed, heading toward the small apartment.

  Jack stepped into the front room of the living quarters and saw immediately what he wanted. Right in the center of the main floor stood an old table with a single chair pulled up to it. Sitting on the table were several blocks wrapped in rice paper, a few assorted chemical jars, and a box filled with a myriad of wires, electronic parts and batteries. A set of plans, a cold soldering iron and multimeter also sat on the table awaiting the owner’s return. Attached to the table was a magnifying lamp—a ring of fluorescent light surrounding a magnifying lens, attached to a moveable arm.

  Jack walked up to the table looking closely at the objects without touching them. The blocks were all marked as military grade C-4 explosives, enough to blow up half a city block. It appeared that one of the bricks had been cut, judging by the ribbons of paper laying in a small heap to one side of the other blocks, into about six pieces. If one of those was used to destroy his car that means Marcuse probably has the other five with him.

  Next he studied the bottles. He had taken a three day long FBI course on bomb making, and thought he recognized the components of making tetryl, the means of detonating the C-4: nitric acid, sulfuric acid, and dimethylaniline. So he had the composition, the detonator, and from the look of the electronic parts in the box, the trigger. The plans must be for constructing the bomb. He pulled out his cell phone to call for the bomb squad. This was a lot bigger than he had expected.

  Just as he was finishing his call for backup he heard Putnam call from the other room. Leaving everything exactly as he found it, he returned to the main room, joined by Bill coming from the other direction.

  “I think I have something,” Roger said as they approached. Della and Maritza joined the others as they followed the African-American officer into the furnace room. He had pulled on a pair of latex gloves they noticed, and had opened the incinerator door. When they got there he reached in and removed the bag from the ashes inside.

  “¡Usted está haciendo un lío todo sobre mi piso!” Maritza cried.

  “Calma d
e la estancia, estará bien,” Bill answered. Then to the others he translated, “She’s asked us not to mess up her floors. I assured her she didn’t need to worry about it.”

  “You bet she doesn’t,” Jack commented. “With what I found in the other room, she’ll never have to worry about him again.”

  “I think this might help as well,” Roger commented. He reached into the bag and pulled out a change of clothes covered with ashes, including a pair of work boots whose soles were completely black.

  “De mod qué causó el lío en mi vestíbulo,” Maritza commented, interpreted by Bill as referring to the footprints covering the hall carpeting.

  “This matches what the suspect was wearing when he left the note on Lissa’s wall,” Jack observed. “I do believe we have our man. And I think I understand why, I just need proof. Bill, ask her where he does his work, like a den or office, something like that. He has to be keeping notes of some sort.”

  “She suggests the library upstairs,” Lowell answered after speaking with the housekeeper for a moment.

  “Take me there,” Jack commanded. “Putnam, as they say on TV, ‘bag and tag’ that stuff and keep looking. Good job!”

  She led them up to the second floor and down the hall to the accursed room. When they got there she said something to Bill, pointing to the table inside the room. He retrieved a pair of Latex gloves, and then opened the drawer. He bent down and studied the false back as Maritza instructed, removed it, and retrieved the cell phone. Holding it up victoriously he showed it off to Jack.

  “Your mystery number, I believe?”

  Jack smiled in return, sifting through the papers on the desk. He too now sported the ubiquitous latex gloves, ensuring he did not disturb any trace evidence on the papers. Seeing nothing he sat in the chair and started opening the drawers, rummaging through them one at a time, and then closing them all. A scowl of deep concentration crossed over his face, knowing his instincts were right, but not finding what he needed.

  He stood up and looked around the room more carefully. He just knew Marcuse would keep a journal of some type, memoirs to his followers as it were. He just didn’t know where to look. There was no computer in the room, so that couldn’t be it. Nor was there a typewriter. No he would have written it in long hand, to preserve the authenticity, and prevent others from stealing his ideas. It had to be here somewhere.

  He paced around the room, looking through all the cabinets and drawers he came across, all to no avail. Completing a full circuit around the room, he found himself gazing out the balcony windows, much the same way Marcuse had earlier that day, not seeing the simple beauty that surrounded them all. Instead all his concentration was focused on finding the final nail to seal the coffin on the depraved miscreant.

  He sighed deeply, shook his head and walked back toward the desk. He noticed the bar directly behind the desk. He stepped up to it and picked up the decanter, pulled out the stopper, and inhaled its fragrance. Cognac, and rather expensive.

  He then picked up an empty glass which had been recently used, and studied it, noting that it had a small chip in the bottom, obviously well used. He grabbed a different glass and studied it with the same intensity, only to find it was in perfect condition. Obviously this man drank alone. He set the glass back in its holder and looked curiously at the design of the rack.

  The woodwork was exceptional and obviously handmade. The odd thing about it, however, was the layout. There were four crystal decanters set in the center of the bar, with a mirror directly behind it, causing it to look more like eight. All but one of these was empty, and appeared just as unused as the glasses.

  On either side of the decanters were the glasses, ten on each side, made into a triangle, four creating a base, then three, and so on, with a single glass on top. Of these, only the top right glass appeared to be used, and was missing from the holder; ostensibly the one sitting next to the decanter.

  However the glasses appeared to be sitting more on what appeared to be wings that would unlock and fold in, creating a box that could be slid in and concealed, with the top sliding down in front. On this “lid” there were several book spines carefully attached to give the appearance that the bar was really just another section of books, hiding the alcohol completely.

  Impressed with the exquisite design and workmanship, Jack closed the wings of the box, pulled the lid out and down, and slid the box back in place. He noted the smooth, silent movement of the heavy box on its glides, and wondered whom the carpenter was that could create such a masterpiece. He pulled the box back out, the bar reappearing, and locked the wings back in place, inadvertently knocking the right wing against the shelving, the box not completely extended.

  He quickly pulled the box back out, and then took a close examination of the side of the wing, to see if he had nicked or marred the wood in any way. As he did so, he noticed that the wood facing on the outside of the wing was knocked askew, and nearly panicked fearing he had destroyed the beautiful piece of art.

  But then he took a closer look, and found that the piece was actually removable, the ends sliding snugly into a set of grooves at the top and bottom. He slid the facing out slowly, and found a set of handwritten pages underneath. Pulling them out he replaced the facing, and put the papers on the desk. He then examined the other side and pulled out another stack of papers, in all about a hundred and fifty sheets, writing on both sides.

  He placed the two stacks together in the center of the huge oak desk, and stared at the title of the piece, not yet understanding the significance. It simply said “My Struggle.” Just then his cell phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. He answered it glumly, and then looked up at Bill, fear creeping into his eyes. He spoke for several minutes with the man on the other end, then thanked him and hung up.

  “Della, you stay here with Maritza and call for backup, the bomb squad, forensics, FBI, and anyone else you can think of, just don’t touch anything. Bill, we have to go now. Marcuse is hot on Drake and Lissa’s tail down at the river, and they need our help!”

  CHAPTER 16

  The word “brother” echoed in Drake’s reeling mind, searching desperately for some context to connect the disparate ideas of Marcuse and any relation. It must be a ruse to catch them off guard, to tease their tortured minds, to hurt them deeply. Unfortunately he wished these things in vain.

  Slowly a small memory came to his mind, a reenactment of a painful scene that seemed so very long ago, yet it was in reality only a matter of months. He had been doing some research for his Family History Sunday School class, he began relating to Lissa, and had pulled out a box full of his mother’s important papers. He found something quite disturbing, and had run to her, praying that it was all a mistake, yet knowing it wasn’t.

  “I found this in an old box in the attic,” he accused, thrusting the document in her face. She took it, scanned its contents, and handed it back to him.

  “Yes, you knew I was married once. That’s where you came from.” She responded simply, her shoulders slumping slightly at the memory.

  “But you didn’t tell me it was in Idaho, and you especially didn’t tell me it wasn’t in the temple. I always thought we were sealed together as a family!”

  She sighed, put down the needlecraft project she was doing for an upcoming Enrichment Night, took off her glasses reserved for close work, and looked him steadily in the eye.

  “No, I didn’t get married in the temple, and no, he wasn’t even a member of the church. I met him while I was in college at what was Ricks, now BYU Idaho. We fell in love and got married. It was all very romantic, the son of a wealthy family, a bit of a bad-boy in the charming sort of way. Of course your grandparents weren’t very happy about it, but I did it anyway. They were right, incidentally.”

  “But all those lectures about temple marriage, and eternal family, that was all a lie?”

  “You keep a civil tongue in your head or this conversation is over!” she snapped.

  “I’m sorry, it’s just t
hat—that….”

  “I know it’s come as a bit of a shock,” she forgave him. “And no, none of it is a lie. I learned the hard way just how right temple marriage is, or should be anyway, so I have taught you hoping you wouldn’t make the same mistakes I had.”

  She leaned over to the other side of the couch where he was sitting and took his hand. “I thought love was the most important thing, and I decided that I was in love. So I married him, assuming he would someday change and we would be sealed.” She paused, the pain evident on her face.

  “In a way I’ve never really forgiven myself for that, even after all these years. I know how important it is to be sealed as a family, and I have faith that someday we will. But it couldn’t have been, nor will it ever be to that man. I have regretted that decision my entire life, especially for what it means to you.

  “I have done all I can do for you, in this area. I have taught you the correct principles of the gospel, especially eternal families, so you won’t make the same mistakes I have. Then I’ve left the rest up to our Heavenly Father.”

  Mollified by her words, but still resentful for the supposed slight, he glumly said, “You should have told me, and let me make up my own mind about it, rather than lie to me.”

  “Perhaps I should have,” she responded, a thoughtful look crossing her face, “but the fact is I didn’t. If you want to be angry with me about it, that’s your decision. However I feel right about it and I believe my Father in Heaven agrees. If you feel the need to second-guess the two of us, that’s up to you.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” he responded, shamed by her words. “For all I know he’s out there now, wondering what ever happened to me. I’d like to find out who he is. Maybe we could get together, do stuff, you know, like a father and son.”