Distant memory, p.1
Distant Memory, page 1
DISTANT MEMORY
PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS
12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921
Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-57856-121-6
Copyright © 2000 by Alton L. Gansky
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.
WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gansky, Alton.
Distant memory / Alton L. Gansky.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-57856-121-3
eBook ISBN: 978-1-60142-832-5
I. Title.
PS3557.A5195 D57 2000
813′.54—dc21
99-047801
v3.1
To my son Aaron,
who taught me the meaning of courage
and the power of perseverance
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
Monday, 10:40 P.M.
The tires released an anguished scream like an animal caught in the steel jaws of a trap. The car slid several feet into the oncoming lane. A truck, a behemoth on eighteen wheels, careened past, just inches from the vehicle. Half a foot closer and it would have ripped the side mirror from its base and sent it tumbling along the asphalt highway.
Instead of slowing, the driver pressed the gas pedal to the floor and the engine growled loudly. A glance in the rearview mirror showed the piercing high beams behind her fall away into the night. Seconds later, the lights began once again to gain, slowly pulling closer and closer.
The lights—stabbing, burning, brilliant lights—were still there, like tiny suns pushing back the cold black of space. Pursuing. Tracking. Hunting. Tears formed in her eyes, as much from the reflected brilliance as from the fear within her. The pursuer was closing the distance. The speedometer read ninety-five, and the needle was still moving up.
“Leave me alone!” she shouted and slammed her fist on the steering wheel. The headlights behind her were higher off the ground than those of a passenger car—a van, a truck, or maybe a sport utility vehicle. Whatever it was, it was big and, worse, it was fast.
Ahead she could see the lights of a town. That was her hope—her only hope. There would be people, and people meant safety. Perhaps there would be a highway patrolman or sheriff or someone else who - could help.
Something brown shot out of the desert and into the bright white of her lights. A coyote—a young one judging by its size. Instinctively she hit the brakes. It was a mistake. The car lurched forward, and she was thrown back into the seat as the vehicle behind rammed her bumper. The tires lost traction, and she turned into the swerve. She found herself in the oncoming lane. A horn blared with painful intensity; the high beams of an oncoming car blinded her. Her heart pounded like a piston, and she cried out in fear. Yanking the wheel hard to the right, she accelerated and once again missed a head-on collision by mere inches.
The vehicle behind her rammed her again, and she struggled to keep the tires on the road. Once more she pressed the accelerator to the floor in a desperate attempt to get to the town ahead.
Desert landscape rushed by as she willed the car to go faster, praying that she did not lose control. The coyote had almost been the death of her. If she had hit it, she would have done so at nearly one hundred miles per hour and she would certainly have crashed.
Slam! Her head rocked back, hitting the headrest behind her. A scorching pain raced down her neck. Slam! The sound of crumpling metal reverberated through the metallic skin of the car.
She was losing the race. She would die, they would see to it. They knew about her, and she knew about them.
The attacker was just a yard or two behind her. One more hit would certainly put her off the road. Another pair of lights, higher than those of her attacker, caught her eye. These were farther back but closing the distance rapidly. Great, she thought. He has a partner with a bigger truck.
There was another bump, but more gentle than the previous ones. For a second she was thankful, but then she felt herself drifting to the right. The car behind her was pushing her left rear bumper, causing the car to veer. If she hit the brakes, the car would slip into a wild spin. She had to stay on the road, had to keep the tires on the pavement.
It was impossible. The right front tire of her car left the firm surface and dug deeply into the soft, sandy shoulder of the highway. The steering wheel twisted out of her hand as the car flipped into the air. The horrific sounds of tearing and crunching metal, of breaking glass and racing motor, blended in a crescendo of destruction. One moment she was staring into unforgiving desert floor, the next into stygian night. The car rolled and flipped. The windshield blew inward, showering her with a thousand pieces of safety glass.
The two-second eternity ended with the car upright on all four deflated tires. Seconds later, another symphony of twisting metal pierced the night. She did not care. She could not think.
Her head lolled to the side, resting on the driver’s window. Blinking several times, she let her eyes look up at the black velvet night sky. Stars sparkled like sequins—all but one. A tiny light moved slowly across the backdrop of stars. The sight terrified her. “No,” she said softly. “No, no, no.”
The black of night filled the car; the black of unconsciousness filled her eyes. She took a ragged breath and waited for death.
CHAPTER 1
Tuesday, 9:45 A.M.
The dark of unconsciousness swirled at the edge of her mind like black coffee. She first became aware of a sound, small and distant, barely perceptible. It was a chirp, made by a bird near a window. It chirped again and then fell silent, its small cry replaced by the louder, harsher noise of rubber wheels, like those of a shopping cart, being pushed along a concrete walk. A wobbling wheel released a rhythmic slapping sound. The noises of distant cars and trucks traveling quickly along a remote road filtered through the fog of oblivion, from which she was slowly rising like a bubble from the bottom of the ocean.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry as sandstone and her tongue was slow to respond. Her lips hurt. They were dry and cracked. Inhaling deeply, she winced as an ice pick–like pain stabbed her side. The air that passed her lips tasted bad. It was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of stale beer. Sleepily moving the fingers of her right hand, she felt the coarse fabric of a cheap bedspread beneath her. The material felt rough and old, and the dirty threads that formed the yet unseen pattern were stiff to the touch. The bedcover felt alien, unknown. She was sure she had never before touched it.
The darkness began to call her again. The bliss of oblivion beckoned and tugged at her mind, but she resisted it. Several times she had come close to waking, to opening her eyes to see what surrounded her, but each time she had surrendered to the hypnotic chant of dreams, to the warmth of unconsciousness. Tempting as sleep was, she knew that the time for sleeping had long passed. By an act of determined will, she forced opened her eyes and blinked back the foggy dregs of slumber. She was staring at a ceiling that had once been white but was now tobacco brown from neglect and age. A cobweb swayed in a lazy waltz, moved by an air current too subtle to feel.
She raised a hand to her face, and pain raced through her body like a thousand tiny bayonets. Her right side burned, her head throbbed percussively, and the skin of her face was painfully sensitive to touch. She groaned. Things were out of place, something was wrong, but her mind was muddy and slow. Full consciousness eluded her. Bits and pieces of rational thought spun wildly through her brain like confetti in a strong breeze.
“What did you do last night?” she asked herself. Her voice sounded muffled and unfamiliar. She gently eased her legs over the side of the bed and let her feet touch the floor. A deep, aching pain tightened in her back. Looking at her feet, she saw an old pair of Nikes. She had gone to sleep with her shoes on. Beneath her feet was a thin pile, gold carpet with brown stains that looked as old as dirt itself. She had no memory of the stains. For that matter, she had no memory of the carpet or even the shoes she wore.
Raising her head she stared at the off-white drapes that hung limply from a gaudy curtain rod, which looked as if it had been pulled from an old, dila pidated Victorian. The unfamiliar curtains were thin and threadbare, and clearly they had not been cleaned in the last ten years.
The heavy blanket of wooziness began to recede only to be replaced by questions. Where am I? Why am I here? How did I get here? Why is there so much pain?
She forced herself to stand. The room began to spin, and a sea of nausea raged within her, forcing her to steady herself by placing a hand on the mattress. At first she wanted to lie down again, to crumple onto the bed and wait for a better time to rise, but she resisted the urge. She had no idea how long she had been asleep, but she knew it had been too long.
A marred wood nightstand stood next to the bed. On it was an inexpensive clock radio which appeared new, as if it had just been taken out of its box. Blue numbers shone weakly: 9:45. That seemed late, although she was uncertain why. Closing her eyes, she waited for the spinning to stop. She took a deep breath, but this time she inhaled slowly to avoid another stab of pain. Holding the air in her lungs for a moment, she released it in a long, steady exhalation through pressed lips that made a soft whistling sound. She repeated the act several times before her stomach calmed and the dizziness evaporated.
Standing erect again, she wondered if she had spent the night drinking and was now hung over. But that thought seemed misconceived. She had no memory of drinking last night or any night. What then? The flu? If so, it was the worst case she had ever experienced. Her body was weak and sore; her mind muddled and foggy. It was hard to remember anything.
Unconsciously, she licked her lips and was again reminded of her parching thirst. Rounding the bed with deliberate steps, she made her way to an open door at the back of the room. As she had guessed, it was a bathroom. She flicked on the light switch. Inside were a scarred and heavily scratched fiberglass tub and shower, a white toilet with chipped enamel and a rust-streaked bowl, and a freestanding sink. Turning on the water, she watched as brown-tinged liquid flowed from the faucet. After a minute, the water ran clear. There were no plastic cups from which to drink, so she cupped her hands, filled them with the cool water, and brought them to her lips. The water had an odor to it and tasted like copper. She drank it anyway, and then splashed the liquid on her face. It stung. “Ouch,” she cried softly.
Taking a yellowed towel from a plastic holder mounted on the wall between the sink and toilet, she dried her hands and dabbed at her face. The towel felt sandpaper rough against her flesh. Pulling the towel away, she looked into the cracked, oval mirror that hung precariously over the washbowl. She gasped loudly, faltered back, and dropped the towel.
The woman in the mirror was a stranger. Nothing about her was familiar. In utter disbelief, she pushed a wavering hand against the cold glass until her fingertips gently touched the image. The strange woman in the mirror did the same. Pulling her hand back, she touched her own hair. The woman in the mirror mimicked the action. She was seeing a true reflection. The woman was certainly her, but why didn’t she recognize her own face?
She studied the image. The hair was shoulder length and raven black with a part on the right side. Her eyes were green and rimmed by smudged mascara and eyeliner. Her skin was clear but reflected a pale yellow. As she stepped closer to the mirror, she realized that the yellow hue was from the weak fluorescent light over the sink. The more she examined the reflection, the more puzzled she became. How could she not know her own face? And the face was a mystery in other ways. It was pretty, on the young side of middle age. But it was also—damaged. The lower lip was slightly swollen and creased by a small cut. A tiny rivulet of blood had dried on her chin from where the cut had bled. The skin of her face, which had at first appeared yellow, now paled in the glow of the dim light. Still there was some discoloration; a slight, uneven pink stippled the tissue. It reminded her of a windburn she would occasionally get as a child when … when … She closed her eyes and tried to recall when she had been a child, but no memories surfaced. Focusing as hard as she could, she tried to raise the spectral memories of her past. Surely she had had parents, gone to school, made friends, but no images came to mind—no names, no recollections.
Panic seized her as realization crashed down on her. The sick, burning nausea returned in a hot flood. Ironically, an icy chill ran down her spine. Her brain fired confusing questions that she could not answer. Her eyes danced around the drab little room. “Tub,” she said, pointing at the fiberglass bathtub. Then in rapid, staccato words she uttered: “Toilet. Sink. Mirror. Floor.” She turned and continued her frenetic inventory. “I know these things. Door. Hinges. Screws.” She touched the jamb and then crossed the threshold into the motel room. “Bed. Carpet. Television. Radio alarm. Fire alarm. I know all these things. Why don’t I know who I am?” The last words came out choked and uneven.
The pounding in her heart increased geometrically, thudding so fast that she was sure it would explode violently and she would drop dead to the floor. Turning, she took in the room again with its dirty carpet and moldering walls. A cheap painting of an old California mission hung crookedly from a nail. An aged Zenith television sat on a battered dresser. A thin film of dust covered the furniture.
Another bolt of pain, inflamed by her rapid respiration and agitated motions, ripped through her side. “I know everything in this room, but I don’t know the room,” she said to herself. But that was wrong, she realized a moment later. She could identify everything in the room for what it was, but it all lacked familiarity. The clock radio was easy to identify, not because she had seen it before, but because it was like all other clock radios.
Staggering to the bed, she slumped down on its edge and laid her head in her hands. She calmed herself, willing her heart to slow and her breathing to settle. “Think,” she commanded herself. “Think. Panic can only make things worse. Logic works; fear hinders.” The last phrase seemed familiar and brought a small degree of comfort. Rising from her perch on the bed, she began to pace the small space.
“Let’s start with what we know,” she muttered as if she were talking to a close friend. “I’m in a motel room. But where?” No answer came. She looked around the room again, this time more carefully. Then she saw a key with a dark blue plastic tag attached to it. The dull and washed-out lettering read:
PRETTY PENNY MOTEL
HIGHWAY 58 & 3RD
MOJAVE, CALIFORNIA
ROOM 110
“Mojave? Where on earth is Mojave?” She clutched the key tightly. It was a clue—a solid, concrete connection to reality. “Okay,” she said in a whisper. “If I’m in a motel, then there must be a record of my having checked in. The desk clerk must have a receipt for the room.” That thought made her stop. If she had checked into the motel, then she must have paid for the room. That meant that she must have money or a credit card. Either would mean that she had a purse or a wallet. But where was it?
Still clutching the key, she walked back to the bed and looked over the nightstand. Nothing. Slumping to her knees, she searched the floor and even under the bed, but found nothing. “The closet,” she said, rising to her feet. The act of standing from a kneeling position hurt and she groaned deeply. What has happened to me?
The closet was empty. No clothing hung from the hangers, no handbag rested on the floor. She searched each drawer in the dresser and found only a thin and worn telephone directory. At the top of the phone book were the words: PACIFIC BELL YELLOW PAGES 1999. 1999? Was that the year? The book looked old and well used. Most likely it was out of date like everything else around her. That would mean that it was sometime later than 1999. How much later, she could not tell.
Why could she find no purse? Why was there no wallet with identification? Why …? She froze as the most obvious possibility broke the surface of her mind. Her body was sore, her lip was split, and she had no money or credit cards. Had she been robbed? It was logical and it would answer many questions, including her physical condition. A robber might have attacked her and in a struggle beat her and—
The last thought was unwelcome and sickening. Had it been more than a robbery? Had more than her money been taken? Had she been—? A cold finger ran up her spine, and she shuddered. Surely she would remember that. If nothing else, she would have to remember being attacked, being violated. Or would she? Wasn’t it just such a thing that - could push a woman into a psychological hole—a place to hide from something so horrific, so appalling? In such cases, it wasn’t just the body that was raped. The rapist also violated the mind, the character of the woman, the fragile psyche of a human, and that often took much longer to heal than any bodily wounds.
