Remember Murder Page 3

  “Yeah, and you love me, too.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “You will soon enough. We’ve been lovers for a long time now.”

  Wow, he believed in putting it out on the line. But that was more information than she wanted to handle at the moment. She wasn’t so sure she believed it, either. She shut her eyes and pretended to sleep until he went away. But she did feel stronger, now that she’d eaten a bite, and she was bound and determined to get up and out of that bed before the day was done.

  Lunch consisted of Melba toast, cream of chicken soup, lime Jell-O, and apple juice. Yeah, a real appetizing spread after eighteen days of fasting. It was gross, and she didn’t eat much of it. By that time, her ragged nerves were knitting together and well under control, and she began to feel more like herself. But she wasn’t sure who herself was, so go figure. Her confusion was letting up a tad, and she found it strange, almost interesting, that she couldn’t remember much about her past. A few things clicked in place, of course, regular day-to-day mundane routines. But she couldn’t recall any accident or much else that had gone down since she’d left Los Angeles. Even some things before and during her sojourn in L.A. were crouched down and hiding in great wide chasms inside her brain.

  By force of will, she mustered enough strength to get up and let Monica walk her into the bathroom. She showered and washed her hair by hanging on to the bar on the shower wall, with the ever-solicitous Teensy Monica standing close, waiting with a big fluffy black towel. Claire watched the bathroom door, half afraid that Dr. Black a.k.a. the-man-who-claimed-to-be-her-lover-but-that-she’d-never-seen-before-in-her-life was going to barge in himself and lather up some serious bubbly suds on her person. No way. She would jerk the brake on that idea fast enough.

  Maybe he held her last night and she appreciated that about as much as was humanly possible, that’s for damn sure. You betcha, after that horrific scary dream. Maybe they were hot to trot before her accident—she sure didn’t have a clue if they were or not. Not that he would be a bad guy to trot with. But even if they were lovers, he was the only one out of the two of them who knew it. Thus her reticence to share her bathtub and naked body with him was to be understood.

  Already craving more substantial fare, for instance, a Quarter Pounder with cheese or a Big Mac, or both, and supersized fries with a Cherry Coke would hit the spot. To no avail. With vocal protestations that she could walk just fine now, thank you very much, she was taken via wheelchair by the aforementioned Monica down a long and über-luxurious black marble hallway to Dr. Black’s private office. He wasn’t there. Some bedside manner that, huh? Especially if he was her honey and true love, and all that rot, as he had so professed, and earnestly, too.

  Monica got her settled in front of the doc’s giant and expensive teak desk and put the brakes on her wheelchair, and did a few other nurselike busy things. Jeez, where were her lap blanket and hearing aids? She was beginning to feel like an eighty-year-old invalid with two broken legs. Truth was, though, she felt a whole hell of a lot better after her ultra-delicious lunch. All she had to do was keep it down, and maybe somebody would sneak in some decent fast food. But so far, so good. Funny how no meat cleavers made life seem grand. All in all, though, she was feeling exceptionally well, considering the fact that she’d been deeply comatose around this time yesterday with demonic creatures chasing her around with sharp weapons.

  Fifteen seconds after Monica left the room, Claire stood up without any nursemaid’s help and did feel a bit woozy for a second or two, but hey, that was understandable enough. The dizzy spell passed quickly. But she wasn’t deranged, just forgetful, so she needed to take things slowly and carefully, unless she wanted to end up tied to that bed again. She had thoroughly inspected her face and physique in the bathroom mirror after she took her shower. Her arms and legs were quite muscular and lean, and nothing seemed particularly out of whack or broken or distressing to her sensibilities. There were a few massively gigantic and hideous scars on her person that she couldn’t explain the origin of, and that Monica didn’t seem capable of explaining, either. But on all other accounts, she seemed to be a healthy enough specimen of law officer, after surviving that pesky coma thing.

  Claire found she could walk fine, just as she told Monica earlier. She was just a little wobbly and uncoordinated, but she could stumble her way from point A to B well enough. She wouldn’t be running any charity 5K race anytime soon, but she wasn’t particularly wild and impetuous, either, so she braced one hand on the shiny desktop as she moved alongside it. A moment later, she stopped her exhausting trek to the other end of the desk and stared out the vast set of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water and one sweet view. The good Dr. Black’s practice was going like a house on fire, she figured. Great, even, if he could afford digs like this. Well, good deal, maybe that meant he had the expertise to make her remember nearly everything about herself, which at the moment made a blank blackboard look chatty. The idea sobered her some, depressed her, even.

  She’d been struggling to recall things ever since she woke up all freaked out and crybaby scared, but she had yet to get past the large dark hole sucking everything out of her brain. She kept getting quick flashes, cute little film clips, in fact, of faces, of places, of people, and lots of them, but didn’t know who or what or why. Yes, aforementioned snuggle-happy doctor had assured her that all would be well and normal as the day was long, but could she believe him? Yep, she had landed in the proverbial pits, believe it.

  On the other hand, good Doc Black had to be super savvy with head examining. Just one look at that Picasso hanging on the wall behind his desk proved it. The painting looked to her like a woman’s face with one large and rather bulbous almond-shaped eye, a pig’s snout kind of nose sticking out the side, all of which were sliding down her neck. Jeez, she’d seen better stuff in a preschool class. But hey, she did recognize the artist. Good sign, right? If she could remember Pablo Picasso, maybe she could eventually remember where she lived.

  Claire hobbled around the desk and checked the artist’s signature, just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming again. Yes, indeedy, it was a legit Picasso, for God’s sake. And with its own special little spotlight pouring down on it. Yikes, that prize had to cost said doc a pretty penny. She usually hated rich guys with a passion, and their arrogant, entitled behavior even more, so maybe Claire didn’t love Dr. Nick as much as he thought she did.

  And where was her supposed lover slash doting doctor, anyway? The guy was supposed to be in love with her, right? So where was he and what was he doing? Taking a snooze down the hall? Probably, if indeed, he’d really spent all those nights hovering over her bed and wanting to get in it with her. But she did appreciate him jumping in last night so she wasn’t going to notify the A.M.A. Wow, she remembered the big M.D. association. Yep, all the important things were flooding back willy-nilly now. Nick Black wasn’t forced to hug her to sleep last night. Nobody had a gun trained on him. And where was her weapon, anyway? She was a law enforcement officer. She wanted her gun back.

  But back to Mr. M.D.: He probably had other equally messed-up and ex-comatose patients to see to. She wondered if he’d do that bed-hopping thing for them, just up and climb right on in and make himself comfortable. He probably even stole the covers off her last night after she went to sleep. Maybe he was in bed with some Sad Sick Sue somewhere right now, pulling off her sheets every time he turned over. Claire then envisioned the big handsome doctor getting in and out of bed with a whole ward of patients as he went down the line. The idea struck her funny, and she laughed softly to herself. Good, at least she still had a sense of humor.

  There were half a dozen photographs sitting around on Nick Black’s desk, all held in pricey silver frames, except one smaller gold one, and all polished to a shiny gleam, to boot. These rich-as-Onassis folks, what’s a gal to do? Claire picked up the biggest one, trying not to leave a smudge mark, for fear that the doc might get all bent out of shape and have to buff it
off. Heaven forbid. The picture portrayed the doctor and her, and yes, they were getting mighty cozy in that hot tub by the looks of things. She knew it was her because she had studied her face in the bathroom mirror after examining her scarred-up body. Her face at present was not a pretty sight, nope, not even close. Especially in that shaved-off spot where they’d stitched the wound on her right temple. The hair was growing back, though, in a sort of blond fuzz like a newborn Daisy Duck’s. Monica insisted the head wounds were healing quite nicely, her words, and that they’d taken out the stitches days ago. With the one on her forehead, too, and that Claire was almost as good as new. All she needed now was to get her strength back. And her memory. And her life. And it wouldn’t hurt to figure out how the hell to find her house and go home, either.

  Still waiting for the smokin’ hot doctor to show up, Claire stood there and stared for a long time at a second photograph of the two of them, laughing, all happy and lovey-dovey with each other. Hell, they looked downright ecstatic. Claire sure as hell didn’t remember being ecstatic with anybody. And she looked a heck of a lot better in that photo than she did now. This one had been taken on some beach somewhere with a fantastic view of crashing waves and a turquoise sea that faded into cobalt on the far horizon. She had on a little, itty-bitty, yellow string bikini, and her blond hair was shorter and wet and combed straight back. She was deeply tanned, which made her eyes look awfully blue, but still not as pure azure as his did. He was tanned then, too, and more deeply than he was now. In the picture, he wore white swim trunks and no shirt and looked damn good without it, too. Her new and not on time doctor lifted mucho weights and worked out a lot. Probably out on a beach somewhere, yep, no doubt about it.

  Picking up his other photographs one at a time, Claire realized they were all of her or the two of them. So maybe that nailed down the romantic duo thing. Multiple examples of photographic evidence were hard to argue with. She was drawn to one photo in particular and leaned a hip against the desk while she studied it up close and personal. It was of the doctor and her, too. He was holding her on his lap with some long white taper candles sitting on the table beside them. He was wearing a white pleated tuxedo shirt with a black silk cummerbund around his waist, and a black bow tie pulled loose around his neck. She had on his tuxedo jacket, as if she had gotten cold. She couldn’t see what she had on. Obviously taken after whatever they were celebrating was over. A fish-slippery memory slid its way down a hidden slope inside her stunted brain cells, and she almost caught hold of its tail, but then it was gone way too quickly for her to figure out the feelings it evoked. Oh, well, better luck next time.

  Jesse’s Girl

  The day after the accident

  Jesse awoke with a start. Instantly afraid, he sat up quickly and peered around in the pearly-gray light of dawn and let out a relieved breath. He was still in Miss Rosie’s bedroom, still fully dressed in his muddy clothes and soggy shoes. He had been so exhausted after he made Miss Rosie his new friend that he barely managed to drag himself up the stairs and collapse on her white wrought-iron feather bed with the squeaky springs. Uh-oh, he’d gotten mud and water and lots of her blood all over her pink-and-blue striped sheets and pretty pink chenille bedspread.

  Miss Rosie was going to be so, so mad at him. He’d have to do something special for her to make up for the dirty bedclothes, something like he used to do for his own mother. Tears came to his eyes when he thought of his sweet mother with her long blond hair that he’d liked so much to plait into a long tail down her back. May she rest in peace, wherever they’d buried her when they took her head away from him and locked him up in that hospital for the criminally insane. That was a laugh. Him, insane? No way, and far from it. Anyway, now he was free again and had a brand-new old lady to live with, now that he’d lost his beloved Annie in the dark depths of the river.

  What he needed to do right now was take a hot shower and go in to town for supplies. There was lots of stuff he liked that Miss Rosie probably didn’t have on hand. Standing up, he carefully straightened the bedspread and pillows like his mother had taught him, trying to hide a lot of the dirt so Miss Rosie wouldn’t be too upset. Then he walked down the hall to the small green-tiled upstairs bathroom. The rest of Miss Rosie was still in the downstairs tub where he’d left it the night before, so he’d have to use the upstairs bathroom to clean up.

  Jesse stopped off in the second bedroom and found some old clothes, probably her husband’s, that Harry guy who she loved so much. The red-and-blue checkered shirt and faded Levi dungarees were pretty old-fashioned, but he put them on anyway. They were a little big, but he could make them do with a belt. After that, he methodically searched the house until he finally found a coffee can in the kitchen cabinet just chock-ful of cash. It would be plenty, more money than he expected the nice old lady to have on hand. She must’ve saved every cent of her husband’s social security checks.

  Opening the door of the fridge, he stared down at Miss Rosie’s head where he’d put it last night. He had chosen a really cool blue-and-white flowered platter to put her on. He’d found it displayed on a little stand on the mantel in her living room. So it must have been one of her favorites or she wouldn’t have given it such a special place of honor. Now it was in another even more important place of honor. Last night, he had gently combed Miss Rosie’s lovely white hair back into the bun at the back of her head as she had worn it when they’d met. He so wanted to please her, to show her how grateful he was, and how much he loved her.

  “Good morning, Miss Rosie. And how are you feeling today?”

  Jesse listened to her answer, but didn’t like it much. “Well, I’m sorry you’re so cold. I guess I should’ve put a hat on you, or covered you up, or something. But I have to keep you in there where you’ll be safe. Please understand and don’t be mad at me.”

  Again, he listened to her angry complaints. “I’ll be right out here, but there’s no room in there for me, too. Right now, I’m going to check and see what you’ve got for me to eat.”

  Carefully, he picked her up on her pretty plate and held her in one arm while he checked out the contents of her fridge. “Well, I can see right off that you need milk and eggs, and I like strawberry preserves so I’ll get some of those. I love to cook, Miss Rosie. You’ll see what good care I take of you. I’ll fix you anything you want. I promise.”

  Now she was smiling and wanted a kiss so he did that on her mouth because he did love her so much. Then he carefully placed her back on the top shelf and shut the door. When he went outside, the morning was warm and sunny and the honeysuckle smelled heavenly. The barn was out back, but the door was closed. It opened easily, however, and the old metallic blue 1971 Chevy Caprice stored inside fired up pretty fast. It smelled musty and ancient, kinda like mildew, but he took it into town, weeping inconsolably when he thought of his beautiful Annie, now dead and gone and drowned and getting eaten by the fishes, and how they’d never get to live happily ever after as he had always dreamed. He knew the small Missouri town pretty well, so he wiped his tears away and drove straight to the nearest Walmart Supercenter to buy groceries. He pulled into the lot and parked. Outside the store, on the busy sidewalk, he spied a stack of the Springfield News Leader in a newspaper vending machine. Shocked, he stopped in his tracks and stared down at Annie’s photograph. The headline read: MURDER/ATTEMPTED MURDER IN OZARK.

  Fumbling in his pocket for the right change, shaking all over, he finally got it out and into the coin slot. He grabbed out the top newspaper and leaned his shoulder against the wall to read the article.

  Ozark, Missouri—The abduction and attempted murder of two women by an escaped mental patient left three prominent psychiatrists dead and a sheriff’s detective in critical condition. Ozark police officers arriving at the scene said the mental patient escaped and possibly drowned when his truck plunged off a bridge on the Finley River.

  A female victim related to officers a terrifying ordeal that began when both she and Canton County Sheriff’s
Detective Claire Morgan were taken captive with several other victims inside a deserted warehouse two miles upriver from the well-known Riverside Inn Restaurant in Ozark.

  Jesse skimmed some more of the article, eager to find news of Annie’s fate. He had assumed she had drowned because she was still in the car when he fought himself free of the wreckage. He couldn’t get back to save her because the flooded river current was too swift and swept him away from her and downstream against his will. Then he saw what he was looking for, and his heartbeat went wild and soared with joy.

  According to a witness at the scene, the perpetrator, Thomas Landers, was attempting to abduct Morgan when their truck went into the river. Morgan suffered severe head injuries and is at the Cox Medical Center in Springfield where she remains in critical condition. The other victim and an unidentified teenager were also admitted for observation.

  Jesse could not believe it! Now he and Annie could be together after all! All he had to do was find her and take her away with him and Miss Rosie. Thrilled beyond belief, he went into the store and bought a bunch of groceries because now he would have to cook for three. Maybe he could even get Annie while she was still asleep at that hospital, which would be ideal. She’d probably be mad at first because he’d driven her into the river, but she’d forgive him. He’d make everything so wonderful for her that she couldn’t help but smile and kiss him and Miss Rosie and want to live with them forever.

  Heart happy, a new and hopeful smile on his face, he drove straight home and told Miss Rosie the wonderful news. Then he fixed them both a bacon and tomato sandwich with mayonnaise and lettuce, and a pear salad with cheese and a dollop of mayonnaise on top, and freshly brewed ice tea with lemon slices. Just before bed, he wrapped Miss Rosie and her pretty platter in an old red USA sweatshirt he’d found in her husband’s closet, because he thought it would make her feel safe and she loved to cuddle up with her husband. He kissed her good night and placed her on the pillow next to him. Now she’d be nice and warm and very pleased with him. He fell fast asleep. His last thought was that everything was going to be all right now. His beautiful Annie was alive, and they’d be together soon. Life was good. Everything would be all right now.