Amnesia

by Rick Simnitt

  Horror crossed the sweet woman’s face at the remark. “Drake, you don’t know the man. He’s dangerous, and I promise, you don’t want to ever meet him.”

  “How can you say that, he’s my father, isn’t he?” he countered.

  She sat back into the sofa cushion, a look of fear in her eyes. She weighed the options in her mind as to what to say to her son, and decided he needed to know the whole story.

  “It wasn’t long after our marriage,” she began, looking older and more haggard than he had ever seen her before, “that I started to see your father as he truly was on the inside. We lived in a huge house, he was a rather well-off and soon to be a prominent physician, and we had everything money could buy. There were several expensive cars, pricey vacations, and even servants waiting on us hand and foot. It was every girl’s dream. At least at first.

  “Your father was very wealthy, handsome, charming, and somewhat mysterious, all the makings of a perfect romance. But he was also very controlling and demanding. He kept late hours, always had me watched, and started meeting with some rather unsavory gentlemen at the house. I started to feel neglected. Then one night I confronted him, demanding that he pay me the attention a wife was due.

  “He flew into a rage, listing off all the material possessions he had provided, how he was extremely busy, and how ungrateful I was to make such demands. I countered by saying that it was all meaningless without his companionship, and that I’d give it all up in a heartbeat if we could just be together. It was absolutely the worst thing I could have said. For the first time since I had met him he turned violent.”

  “He hit you?” Drake interrupted incredulously.

  “No, not then. He just started throwing things around the room, smashing everything he could get his hands on. Then he stomped out of the room and went back to his precious library, where he spent nearly every minute of every day. However, after that he tightened his reigns on me, so that I couldn’t even breathe without a report getting back to him.

  “Of course, as most men will, he would come back periodically, offer some expensive bauble and insincere apology, and then we’d kiss and make up. But then he’d be back in the library before I woke the next day and I might not see him for days at a time. Then came the day I told him I was pregnant.

  “He was ecstatic! He ran out and started buying all sorts of baby things, you know, clothes, furniture, toys, and we turned one of the rooms into a nursery with everything a baby and toddler would need. Those months were perhaps the happiest of our marriage.” She broke off her narrative for a moment, a smile crossing her lips as she relived the memories. But the moment was short-lived. A look of deep aching crossed her face as she picked the story back up.

  “The day my little boy was born was the worst day of my life. I only had a few minutes alone with my baby before some doctor I had never seen before came in and ripped him out of my arms. I laid there in the hospital bed completely dumfounded, and started buzzing and yelling for the nurse. Instead my husband walked in and announced that I would not be seeing ‘his’ son anymore, that my job was completed. Then he turned and walked out, leaving me distraught and sobbing.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks as she told of the moment, spurring a deep melancholy within Drake. He’d never heard the heart-wrenching story before, and was beginning to regret bringing the whole thing up. Still he felt he had a right to know. He just wondered how much worse it might get before it got better. His mother began again, verifying that there was indeed much more sorrow.

  “For days I wailed, cursing the evil man, praying for relief. I begged and pleaded for him to relent, but his resolve only seemed to strengthen with each request. Finally, a few weeks later, I decided that I had put up with enough, and would see my child no matter what the cost.

  “I put together a plan to get past the security, and plotted how I would get my child back. I went to breakfast down in the kitchen this one day, something that had become a regular practice. I was rather lonely you see, and there was always someone down there. Anyway, I took out a prescription bottle that I had been given during the pregnancy, and secretly filled it with aspirin. I took it back upstairs, followed by my ‘bodyguard’ and went to my desk in the bedroom.

  “I wrote out some nonsense lines on a piece of paper, stuck it in an envelope, and handed it to him, asking him to give to my husband. Then I took the bottle out, dumped the majority of the contents into my mouth, and went over and lay down on the bed. It didn’t take long for the oaf to put two and two together and run out the door yelling for help.

  “I got up, spit out the medicine in the adjoining bathroom, and then ran carefully down the hall to the nursery, skirting everyone I saw. Somehow I made it all the way to the nursery unseen. As quietly as I could I stepped into the room, and walked up to the crib.

  “The tiny form that I saw was the most beautiful sight I could imagine. A soft face surrounded by wisps of curly blonde hair, and lovely blue eyes that I could have fallen into. He was just lying there staring into the air like babies do, perfectly content with the world. It broke my heart so see how well he had gotten along without me. I was grateful he was okay, but I decided he would never have to go without a mommy again.

  “I picked him up ever so gently and held him to my chest as tightly as I felt I could, then grabbed the diaper bag sitting next to the crib, and turned, ready to leave my home and husband for good. To my horror, there stood your father right behind me, fire flashing in his eyes, fury burning just beneath the surface.

  “Apparently he had heard the guards yelling and had guessed at the truth, coming straight to the nursery. He gently took the baby from my arms, handed it to a nurse he had hired as a nanny, and dismissed them all. Then he forced me to the ground, beat me mercilessly, and forced his will upon me. The next thing I remember was waking up back in my room covered with blood, and feeling pain like I had never felt before. That was the last time I saw either your father or my baby boy again.”

  Absorbed in the story it took Drake a moment to realize what she had just said. His mother simply sat watching him, waiting for him to catch on to her subtle hint. Finally it made it through. “The last time you saw your baby boy? Isn’t right now the last time you saw your ‘baby boy?’”

  “No,” she answered wearily, “the last time I saw your big brother. Sometime after that incident I found I was pregnant again, and ran away, not willing to give another child to that man. I came back here to your grandparents, begged for forgiveness, and like the prodigal son they took me back in with open arms. Your father has no idea that you even exist, and I plan on keeping it that way. Forever.”

  * * *

  “Nice story, Drake,” Darrion cut in to his brother’s recitation. “‘Cruel, overbearing lecher takes advantage of innocent, naive Mormon girl.’ Fits right in with Father’s description of our mother: neurotic, infantile, self-absorbed, self-righteous do-gooder that got what she wanted out of the marriage, and ran away when she didn’t get her way.”

  Drake felt his ire building at the words, but knew his brother was simply baiting him. Instead he ignored the taunt and concentrated on the memories now flooding into his mind. He looked back to Lissa, found support and encouragement in her eyes, and pressed forward with his remembrances.

  “Well, I decided to be stupid, and ignore my mother’s pleas to let it go, and hopped a flight to Idaho to find my father. Instead I found that he had died several months earlier, but that my brother here had taken his place in the community. I decided I had to meet him….”

  “Yes, the prodigal son returns to claim his inheritance, and they all live happily ever after,” Stanton interrupted sarcastically. “Did you find what you wanted, little brother?”

  “What I found was that my mother was right,” he scowled at the other man, “an evil, malicious man, intent on destroying anything in his way.”

  “That’s right,” Darrion snapped menacingly. “And what’s currently in my way is you.”

&nbs
p; Ignoring the outburst, he turned to Lissa to explain. “I went to his house, and his maid let me in. I wandered through the house, exploring, and ended up in the library. There was something I found there, can’t quite place what it was now, but he flew into a rage when he found me. I tried to explain who I was and that I just wanted to get to know my family, but he wouldn’t have any part of it.”

  “What do you mean ‘you can’t quite place it? ’ You know very well it was….” His voice trailed off, his expression moving from anger to confusion to bemusement before settling on crazed glee. “You really can’t remember!” Stanton threw his head back, laughing. He was giddy with the sudden revelation.

  “You have amnesia, don’t you?” he asked, and then roared with laughter again at their expressions confirming his supposition. “I don’t believe it! So that’s why you didn’t turn me in. Oh well, it’s all too late now. You should have stayed in San Diego with ‘Mommy’ Drake.”

  “Wait a minute!” cried Lissa, lost in the dialogue between the two. “Why are you trying to kill your brother? Just because he’s your brother? Is he a threat to your inheritance or something?”

  “No,” answered Drake, the last pieces falling into place, “because I learned of his plans. I remember now. I remember it all.

  “He has a document he wrote, hidden in the library. I came across it entirely by accident, but I figured out what he was planning. He couldn’t risk me exposing it, so he hired Scardoni and his thugs to take me out of the picture. They tied me up, put me on a plane, and tried to throw me out. I escaped, ending up in the water. You know the rest,” he concluded.

  “Although they did leave me with a little memento,” he added as an afterthought, rubbing his now scarred left check. “‘M’ for ‘Marcuse,’ I would imagine. A token one of his hired thugs gave me just before the plane helped him use the knife on himself.”

  “So Nancy was right, the amnesia was because of the trauma of being taken, and thrown off the plane, all by your only brother,” Lissa surmised. “Of course the trauma of the hypoxia and probable concussion sealed it.

  “But what was so important about this document that he couldn’t risk you exposing? And what has all this got to do with me?” she asked.

  “I know this will hurt, but he needed your father’s connections, which is where you came in. His manuscript, as cliché as it might sound, is his plans on taking over the world. Meet the new and improved Adolf Hitler.” Drake answered snidely.

  “Hitler was a simpleton!” Stanton roared defiantly. “I simply wanted to provide the world with a better answer to its healthcare crisis. Everyone else simply complains about how bad things are getting—I have answers. With my plans no one would have to suffer and die because of greedy insurance corporations and unscrupulous HMO’s.

  “Simply put, people would no longer need to worry over their medical choices. We would provide them with what is best, removing the possibility of failure. That way we would lose no one, everyone would win. Is it really so wrong to get a little credit if I save the world from themselves and their ignorance?”

  “I’ve heard that argument before,” Drake said dryly. “That guy was banished forever, and became the most miserable being of all time.”

  “Don’t mock me, Drake,” he threatened menacingly. “You may be my biological brother, but you will never be like me. You will never be a Stanton!” Marcuse, the pseudonym of Darrion Stanton, reached into his backpack and pulled out a small package of explosives and a several strips of duct tape with which he attached it to his baby brother.

  * * *

  Tires screeched as the unremarkable brown sedan leapt into motion in front of the Stanton mansion. Giving barely a sideways glance as he entered the street, Bill gunned the car ahead, the engine screaming in protest. Sweat freely ran down the arms and back of the driver as worry and heat pounded at his tense muscles. Instinctively he knew this was their final chance to save their friends and stop Marcuse/Stanton from unleashing his evil upon the world. If only they were quick enough.

  Out to the freeway they drove, neither man speaking, completely absorbed in their own thoughts. The engine roared, carrying the would-be rescuers to the distressed victims purportedly floating down the Boise River. They had already exited Interstate 84 and were headed down Vista Ave. when Jack got the second call.

  “Looks like some kids got kicked off their raft by some gun-toting madman,” he explained. “Sounds like Marcuse is right behind them.” He scowled angrily at the news, fearing he may be too late to save the couple from the man who was the center of so much evil. He thought again of his wonderful wife lying forever changed on a hospital gurney, an innocent victim of Marcuse’s wickedness.

  Bill struggled to coax more speed out of the abused engine, fighting with the Saturday afternoon traffic. Cars were everywhere, everyone absorbed in their own world, oblivious to the drama happening in their midst. Anger at their selfishness hovered above his head, barely controlled by the understanding of their viewpoint, and even somewhat eager to preserve it. Just not right now!

  Finally they found their way through the jumble of vehicles to the bottom of the hill and turned into Ann Morrison Park. Heading down the lane toward the center gathering place, they jammed the car in park, and jumped out the doors. They raced to the slope just above the bridge, through the assembled mass of floaters and revelers, getting to the water only to see a lone rubber raft floating toward them.

  Walking out into the water Bill grabbed the raft and pulled it onto the shore, checking it over for clues to its history. He examined it, next to Jack, but found nothing unusual except a rash of red dots along one side.

  “Blood spatter,” Jack announced, pointing the red field. “The report said that Marcuse pistol-whipped one of the boys before they got out of the raft. It appears they are on foot. Dall said that Drake and Lissa were in a metal canoe, so keep an eye out for it. I bet he forced them out of the water somewhere upstream.”

  He looked down the river, then on both sides, seeing dozens of places someone could have pulled off. They could easily pick the canoe up and carry it wherever they wanted. Making a quick decision he looked over to Bill, pointing to the opposite shore.

  “You take that side, and I’ll take this. Stay as close to the water as you can, and stay with me, that way we can stay in communication since we don’t have radios.”

  “I have my cell phone, we can just keep in touch with those,” Bill offered.

  “No, I’d rather keep it free, just in case. I don’t know if they have any way to contact us, but we may as well leave our options open. Now hop over the bridge there and let’s get started.”

  Painstakingly the two trudged down the shore searching for clues to the whereabouts of the three, picking their way through clumps of trees, climbing over fences, and even occasionally walking through the water itself. The sun beat down on the two, drying their throats and burning their exposed skin, producing buckets of perspiration.

  Finally the anxiety and stress, coupled with the weariness of the search, forced Jack to sit and rest. He sat down on the sloping shore of the river, feet mere inches from the water, trying to think of how to find the trio more quickly. The water rippled and gurgled before him, its quiet roar mocking him with its silence, hiding what it knew from him. The musty, slightly fishy smell of the traveling water goaded him with the lure of promised peace and tranquility, the antithesis of their current situation. He shook his head and looked across the teasing water noticing Bill had also stopped and sat down directly across from him, the narrowness of the river close enough to call to each other.

  “We’re running out of time,” he called across. “I can just feel it.”

  “I agree, but what else can we do?” Bill concurred.

  “I don’t know,” Jack responded glumly. He pulled a handkerchief out of his rear pocket and mopped up the accumulated moisture on his brow. “Maybe we could call in the Search and Rescue chopper. At least….”

  His voice
dropped in anticipation at the jangle of his cell phone. He disconnected the piece from the belt clip and pushed send to accept the call. After a rushed greeting, he just listened intently, without speaking, a deep frown creasing his forehead. A moment later he pressed the key combination to mute his end of the conversation and excitedly jumped to his feet calling over to Bill.

  “It’s them,” he announced excitedly. “I can hear their voices, but they aren’t talking to me directly. Sounds like a big struggle, lots of grunting and cursing. Wait, I can hear Marcuse talking, saying something about goodbye and San Diego…”

  His commentary was cut short by the sound of two gun shots, followed a moment later by several others.

  * * *

  Marcuse stepped up to Drake and with his free hand dispassionately ripped open the younger man’s shirt, still holding the Beretta on his victims. He then took a length of precut duct tape and strapped a cube about two inches along each side to his chest. He then produced a small rectangular black box with a single gray button in the center of the front, depressed the button, and grinned widely at the two.

  “One of the greatest wonders of the Internet,” he explained, “is the ubiquitous information on how to find and build an amazing assortment of items. Things such as where you can get your hands on untraceable cell phones and handguns, or even plastic explosives. It also tells you how to create detonators and triggers, like this small wonder here.” He walked over to Lissa and thrust the black box into her right hand, forcing her thumb onto the button, then stepped back, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  “You see,” he gloated, “the box you are now holding, Lissa, is a very simple triggering device. Once it is depressed it is armed, and when you pull your thumb off it will trigger. You might say you’re holding your fiancés life in your hand!” He laughed maniacally at his joke, walking over to his backpack and producing an identical box, strip of duct tape and triggering device.