by Linda Ladd
“And you were following me to keep me safe? That doesn’t sound like L.A. police procedure. In fact, that sounds slightly bizarre and like I’m some kind of wimp.”
“You’re not a wimp, believe me. Like I just told you, I have some expertise in forensic psychiatry. Your sheriff sometimes lets me help out in your investigations. His name is Charles Ramsay.”
“What about the killer?”
“He is presumed dead, drowned in the river. They never found his body and think it washed downstream into the James River and maybe on farther, out into Table Rock Lake, perhaps.”
“And this happened several weeks ago?”
“Yeah. Three long, endless weeks ago.”
“Tell me about the case I was on, Dr. Black.”
Black shook his head at her formal address. It seemed so odd coming out of her mouth. She shot him another frown.
“You never call me that.”
“What?”
“‘Dr. Black.’”
“What then? Nicholas? Or Nick, I guess?”
“No, actually, you call me Black.”
“Black? Really? Just your last name?”
“Yes. Now anything else just doesn’t sound right.”
She obviously decided to get back on point. “Okay, Black, tell me about the victim.”
Black was not thrilled to get into that, but he obliged. She could take a little dose of the horror, he guessed, but just a little. “A man was found hanging under a bridge not far from here. When you went back to search his apartment, you found a dead woman inside his house.”
Now that appeared to set Claire back a bit. “So it was a murder-suicide?”
“A serial killer murdered both of them. Unfortunately, you seem to have a tendency to get tangled up with every psychopath that wanders through the lake area. It was a terrible thing.”
“And you’re sure this perp’s dead?”
“Yeah, the guy, the one who abducted you and had the accident? He killed him.”
“What was my assailant’s name?”
“His name was Thomas Landers.” He paused, and looked directly at her. “He’s psychotic, Claire, and he has a fixation on you.”
“Oh, more fantastic news. This sounds suspiciously like we’re playing parts in an episode of Grimm. Hey, I remembered that show.”
Black couldn’t summon up a smile this time. They were approaching no-man’s-land, some very dark, unpleasant business, and she wasn’t ready for it.
“You’re suddenly Dr. Serious, all of a sudden.”
“This is serious. Everything about this is serious. We both need to take it that way.”
“Well, I’d be glad to, if I could remember. You’d think I would, since it’s so awful.”
“You have blocked out all the terrible things, including him. He was a sick man, like I said, a murderous psychopath.”
“Jeez, this just keeps getting better. And we’re not a hundred percent certain that he’s dead?”
“No, but he’s presumed so. They searched downstream for his body for days and didn’t find a trace of him. The river was high and running fast the night you went in. Bud searched awhile with the Ozark P.D. He thinks the guy’s dead.”
“So who’s Bud?”
“Bud Davis. He’s your partner. And a good friend. For five years or so, I think, maybe more.”
“Oh, my God. I don’t remember the last five years or more! I can’t believe I don’t remember my own partner.” Claire shut her eyes, and kept them closed. “I can’t really remember his face, but he’s kind of tall, isn’t he? And he got this book that we laughed about. He’s from the South somewhere, I think.”
Smiling in triumph, she looked at Black for verification. “I’m beginning to get it back, right? That’s an encouraging sign, don’t you think, doctor? I mean, Black.”
“Interesting, yes. Do you know what made you remember those things about him?”
“I don’t know. Glimpses and thoughts just dart in and out of nowhere. Little flashes. You know, like minnows in the shallows. Kinda like film clips but fuzzier.”
He gazed at her, smiling, definitely encouraged. “We’ll talk. I’ve put together some pictures for you to look at after you get used to what’s happening, and then some friends of yours want to come by and see you. They’ve all been up here to visit you while you were sleeping. A lot of people care about you, Claire.”
Black watched her, frowning, because her eyes were closed and all sorts of naked emotions were flitting across her face. “Was there a little child that came in to see me? I heard a child’s voice in my dreams, I know I did.”
Okay, now he was really worried, fearing she could be remembering Zach, and that was one thing he did not want her to have to deal with yet. He hid his consternation quickly and chose his words very carefully. She was looking at him in dread, as if knowing it was going to be terrible, whatever it was.
“The voice you heard was a little girl named Lizzie. Her father’s name is Joe McKay, another friend of yours. They came to see you often.” He hesitated, half afraid to say what came next, and she looked afraid to hear it.
“I think this is enough for today. We’ll have another session tomorrow and see if we can pull out more memory. Your brain is protecting you, giving you time to recover before you have to face everything. There’s no need to force it. It will come back.”
Her back was to him now as she sauntered casually around the room, getting her sea legs back. She trailed her fingers across the gleaming surface of the grand piano that was sitting in front of the windows. “Nice piano,” she commented.
“That was my mother’s. She played beautifully.”
Claire picked up the old violin case on the top, opened it, and took out the fine-tuned instrument. “And I suppose this is mine?”
He was startled, as that was a question he hadn’t expected. “No. That was hers, too. She could play both.”
“So can I.”
Now that was an interesting development and news to him.
“You didn’t know?”
“You never mentioned it before.” He couldn’t hide his surprise. He thought he knew practically everything about her past, but she’d certainly never mentioned musical talents.
“Maybe I have lots of secrets you don’t know about.”
“Maybe,” he said carefully.
“Do you think I’m lying? Do you want me to prove it?”
“I don’t think you’re lying. But I’d love to hear you play.”
Expertly, she put the violin against her chin, brought up the bow, and began to play. Black sat transfixed as she played the most beautiful, concert-worthy rendition of a haunting song he couldn’t name, a Chopin sonata, maybe. In the middle, she stopped abruptly with a discordant squeak and quickly repacked the instrument and bow inside the case.
“Why did you stop? It was beautiful.”
“It brought back some bad memories. Foster parents from hell, and all that sort of thing. Funny how I remember them, and not you.”
Black said nothing; his gut told him she didn’t want to talk about it. He wasn’t going to question her. But bad or not, one more memory was back in place.
Claire surprised him by coming back and sitting down on the couch, closer to him than before. They stared at each other, and he picked up her hand, kissed the back of it, and then let it go before she could snatch it away. If she thought he wasn’t going to touch her until she recalled everything, she had another think coming. “Let’s order up dinner. What do you say? Whatever you want, just name it.”
Claire must have decided that he was not such a threat, after all. “Okay. I’ve got a feeling that whatever you were going to tell me was pretty bad, and I’m not so sure I want to hear anything else like that right now. My dreams are terrible enough.”
“Good girl. Now what are you hungry for?”
“A Big Mac and fries. That’s what I want. I’m craving it, in fact.”
Black laughed, relieved but seriou
sly worried, too. Not so much that she didn’t remember him but that her regression was going to make it a lot harder to get her back to the same level as before. And that it’d take longer. “Fine, that’s what we’ll have.”
Claire sat there watching him, and he picked up the phone and asked the desk clerk if he would find somebody to make a run to the nearest McDonald’s. Then he turned back around to find Claire pinching her arm.
She answered his question without him having to ask. “Just making sure I’m not dreaming again. My dreams are that vivid.”
“Oh, yes, this is the real thing. Look at it this way, Claire. Tomorrow at this time, you may have already remembered everything, including me.”
“We can only hope,” she said.
But they both knew it was unlikely, and they’d both do well not to get their hopes up for that quick of a recovery. This was going to be a long haul.
Chapter Four
I was locked up in a cold dark place. I could smell hay, the odors of a barn. I heard someone coming, but I didn’t know who it was. When I saw the man’s face in the dim glow of a flashlight, I was terrified. He dragged me out and held a gun to my temple. Then we were inside a house, and he was threatening to kill me. Again, there were others there, tied up, helpless, and I knew he was evil, so very evil. He had a large pair of scissors in his hand, and he was going to use them on one of us. Oh, God, I had to get loose. I had to stop him… .
Claire jerked upright in the bed, shivering, clammy with sweat, heart thumping. Then an instant later, Nicholas Black was there beside her, and she was inside his arms. She clung to him, trembling, terrified. This was day three of her just hunky-dory new life, and her dreams were still so real, so frightening that she lost all control of her nerves, and Black had to come in and take charge. She felt like a fool every single time, but not enough to push him away, not at first, anyway. He felt solid and real and safe, and he always ended up saying that he loved her and that everything was all right. Oh, yeah, everything was just fine now. Not. In fact, that’s why she was still clinging with both fists to the front of his white T-shirt, like she was drowning and he was the life preserver. She swallowed hard and forcibly tamped down the overwhelming panic attack that always came at her so fast and hard, while Black tried to soothe her.
“How long is this going to go on?” she got out against his shoulder.
“Probably until you remember it all,” he whispered, stroking her hair, his mouth moving against her temple. “You want a sedative?”
Claire considered that, but she knew she had to get over these night terrors, and do it quickly. Sedatives weren’t the answer. She had to face them and get over it, already. “No, I’m okay. Are these things I’m dreaming about real?”
“I suspect they probably are. You’ve dealt with some really bad people in your cases, serial killers. Once you remember everything that happened, in context, you’ll be able to handle it. You were dealing with it well enough before you got hurt this last time.”
Claire couldn’t bring herself to ask about the gory details. Instead, she disentangled herself from his arms, sat up, and looked at the windows. Daylight was graying the edges of the drapes. “What time is it?”
“Six-thirty. I’ve got a conference call with my London clinic in forty-five minutes. I’m going to take a shower and go over my notes before it begins. Do you want to get up? We can have a late breakfast together later, if you want.”
“No, go ahead. I’m okay now. I am. I want to look through those pictures you gave me. See if anything clicks.”
“Good idea, Claire.” Black held her tightly for a moment, kissed her on the cheek, and smoothed her hair away from her face. Then he got up and walked into the giant black marble and white subway-tiled adjoining bathroom.
Claire sat there and watched him go. At that moment, she realized that she had better learn to steel herself against this guy’s overabundant sex appeal, which absolutely dripped off him like wax off a half-burnt candle. Or maybe she’d be the burning candle. Whatever, she wanted to get to know him before she said, “Yes, take me now and hurry it up already.” Yes, indeedy, Nicholas Black had enough masculine come-hither-and-let-me-wow-you to fill up two Ryan Goslings and three Liam Hemsworths.
Glancing through the open bathroom door, she could see him vaguely inside the shower in all his glory, although the glass walls were steamy and pretty well blocked her view. Jeez. And yes, she was attracted to him, so she could very easily believe she had been so before her accident, too. Hell’s bells, she was getting a headache, he was so charming and too good to be true. But she did not know him, did not know if he was for real or putting on an act. Why he’d do that was yet another question that didn’t make much sense. Maybe she was just an interesting case that he was intrigued with. Maybe he was writing a book about cops with amnesia. Yes, she was a suspicious woman; she couldn’t help it. Claire rubbed her temples, suddenly feeling trapped in a strange Bizarro world with no fire exits.
Claire looked around the room. She was sleeping in Black’s master bedroom at his request, but he wasn’t forcing himself on her. In fact, he was sleeping in another room next door. When she told him she wasn’t ready to get friendly, he had backed off big-time and didn’t mention it again. But he was growing on her, to be sure, and she now was pretty sure that she used to love him back. She was trying to jam everything together, and the puzzle pieces just didn’t quite fit.
Swinging her legs off the bed, she stood up and walked down the hall barefoot to one of the guest baths. Quickly showering, she dressed in a black T-shirt with CANTON COUNTY SHERIFF in fluorescent yellow letters on the front, and black sweatpants that Black said belonged to her. They were a little loose, but Black told her she’d lost a lot of weight, so she made do. He was certainly trying to force-feed her enough, now that she was awake and hungry. The Big Mac had been a bust; she’d barely been able to eat half of it.
Once she got over the shattering effect of the scissors dream, however, she felt better, stronger, rather good, actually. So good, in fact, that she wanted to meet this Bud Davis fellow and get back to work. She figured being on the job would help her more than anything. Besides that, she didn’t like feeling so cooped up, and she was ready to escape the constant eagle-eyed protectiveness of tiny Monica Wheeler and big buff Nicholas Black. She also decided without a lot of encouragement that Black was one nice guy. He was very caring and attentive, and certainly not hard on the eyes, and sexy to boot, with the added advantage that he could barely keep his hands off her.
If he was her own special love interest, as he had repeatedly told her, then she was one lucky gal. She was also getting some vague notions once in a while, in short, jerky film-clip versions, about them together, blurry images that didn’t tell her much. Just that they were somewhere doing something at some time together. Real precise, that. Unfortunately, none of it concerned the lovely, lovey-dovey stuff that no doubt went on between them. She didn’t feel anything much about him, one way or another, other than the admitted admiration for his many manly attributes. One thing, for sure, he was paying her a lot of highly enamored attention that was hard to miss, or resist.
She was walking more now and tiring less. The exercise in his private lap pool downstairs on the grounds of the resort was helping, of course, and making her feel better about her sorry state of affairs. At loose ends, as usual, she walked outside on a nice shady balcony off the living room that faced a gorgeous view of the lake. A whole flotilla of sailboats dotted the glittering blue water, gliding here and there while motorboats zipped around pulling water-skiers. Black told her it was Lake of the Ozarks, but she didn’t remember it, or the town or county, either. He had to tell her just about everything. She was gradually recalling something here and there, but according to Black, all of it was pulled out of her past life from a good while back. The short-term memory loss had blocked out nearly all of the last few years living on this nifty lake somewhere in the middle of Missouri.
Nicholas
Black had been rather medically dictatorial to date, to say the least, and refused to let Claire have any visitors yet, not that she’d know any of them. Said she wasn’t strong enough, had to go slowly and carefully into that morass of nothing. But he had allowed in a small and brainy herd of friendly neurologists, world-famous ones, at that, who came around to examine her head and diagnose if she had any modicum of sense left, she supposed. But they all agreed on the primary diagnosis, i.e., she couldn’t remember, but eventually would, so not to worry. Yeah, easy for them to say with all their degrees and fancy certificates on the wall. She could have told them that without any kind of medical degree or paying them the pretty penny they were probably earning.
Today, however, some of her unknown friends were coming to see her and try their dead-level best to jog her recalcitrant memory back into a complicated but slickly designed and finished life journey. Actually, she was really nervous, but trying hard not to show it. She was nervous about everything and everybody, in fact. Not knowing anything was highly annoying. Kind of like a six-month-old baby in a high chair trying to pick up diced peas and carrots. She now was convinced that she had indeed moved in with the handsome doctor some time back. They weren’t married. Problem was, the good Dr. Black seemed to think they were in every sense of the word. Or should’ve been. Or soon would be.
“Here you go, Claire. Time for your meds.”
Claire’s trusty private nurse, Miss Monica Wheeler, sashayed in without a sound on the shiny walnut hardwood floors, with her usual brilliant smile and chipper, you’re-gonna-be-fine-little-sweetie attitude, carrying a white-towel-covered tray. The meds were in a little white cup alongside a Cedar Bend monogrammed glass full of water. Pretty sick of meds by now, yes, she was, but nevertheless, she obediently took them. Too bad they didn’t have a magic pill to give her total recall, but that’s for the movies, she guessed. Now that would a pill really worth taking.
Monica Wheeler was young, in her early thirties probably, extremely good at her job, and nice enough, sweet even. Always chatty and smiley, she was just a little bitty thing, not much over five foot. Pretty and petite and energetic as all get out, and yes, she made Claire feel, at her greater height, like some kind of Teutonic female warrior clomping around, shield in hand. Yes, one could usually hear Claire coming, no doubt about it. Monica’s long dark brown hair was pulled back into a bun, encased in a silver metallic kind of net or something, a hair accessory that Monica called a snood. Never heard of that, but Claire had never heard of a lot of things lately. Monica was built rather well up top and had a quick and pleasant smile and that knack for making no noise, literally or figuratively. Claire figured Monica’s memory was considerably better than hers, at least at the moment.