Distant memory, p.24
Distant Memory, page 24
“She was afraid of being tracked,” Nick said thoughtfully.
Hobbs noticed that Nick looked puzzled. Apparently he was unaware of the dismantling. “Can a person really be tracked that way?”
“It depends on a number of factors. Some GPS systems are more than read-only. You’ve seen commercials on television where someone is lost or in need of a gas station and gets live advice over the GPS unit. That means someone must be able to determine the car’s position. There are also security systems that people can buy and have installed in their cars. Should their car be stolen, the police can activate a transmitter and locate the vehicle. It’s quite an achievement and has many safety advantages, and it’s risk-free as long as the person on the other end is friendly.”
“Moyer Communications wouldn’t be the friendly type in this case.”
“That’s right, and they specialize in satellite systems for telephone, data, and military communications. They’re pioneers.”
“But the car was a blank too. The VIN and license plate numbers were untraceable. I assume NSA provided the car. Why wouldn’t she trust those devices?”
“Systems can be altered or even tapped, Detective. The GPS system came with the car. If anyone could intercept a GPS signal, Moyer Communications could. The cell phone unit could give away her location whether she was using it or not.”
“So why does NSA plant a spy in the midst of Moyer Communications?”
Again Nick hesitated, weighing his answer. “There are some who think that Moyer may have more than his country’s interest at heart.”
“You mean he might sell out?”
“There are laws about selling certain technology to other countries. But there are ways around those laws. There’s reason to believe that national security is at stake.”
“Then why not arrest the guilty parties?”
“Because we only have suspicions. Lisa was to provide the evidence.” Nick paused for a moment then said, “As you can see, there’s much more here than a simple auto accident.”
Hobbs frowned. “Nothing about this has been simple.”
Massey watched as the two men at the front of the hospital turned and entered the building again. He started the engine and pulled away from the shopping center lot. It was time to get to work.
Lisa was exhausted; still she could not sleep. She closed her eyes, longing for the blissful nothingness of slumber, but it eluded her. Too much had gone on, and her mind continued to race with the events of the day. When she had been a child, she had overheard her mother tell her father that she had been too tired to sleep. It made no sense to her young mind. How could someone be too tired to sleep—?
Lisa’s heart skipped a beat. She had had a memory—an actual, valid memory. In her mind she could see her mother, a short woman with light brown hair and a thin frame. She could see her father, too. He was tall with a prominent nose, kind gray eyes, and a face that was accustomed to smiling.
As if a floodgate had been opened, additional memories poured in. She could see the living room of the house where she grew up. Jade green drapes hung over the windows, the carpet was brown, the walls white. A painting—a barefoot boy in a straw hat with a homemade fishing pole slung over his shoulder, walking toward a covered bridge, kept company by a golden retriever—hung over the sofa.
The smell of food came with the memory. Pancakes. Mom in the kitchen, pouring batter into a skillet. Lisa could hear the sizzle as the moist mixture hit the hot pan. On the counter rested a plate of flapjacks and a platter of bacon. Between the bacon and the platter were several sheets of paper towels. It was something her mother always did to remove the excess grease. It was her idea of making breakfast healthier.
She saw her father snitching a piece of bacon.
“What do you think you’re doing?” her mother asked with pretend anger. “Can’t you wait until it’s on the table?”
“You know the house rule. It isn’t Saturday unless the papa steals a piece of bacon.”
“I know the rule,” Mom said. “I also know who made it up.”
“Truth is truth,” Dad countered with a broad smile.
“Unless you plan to do the dishes, get out of my kitchen.”
“I’m going. I’m going. Don’t have a fit.”
The loving banter was a joy to relive, and Lisa wished with all her heart she could step into that memory, to really smell the aroma of frying bacon, to see, to touch her parents one more time.
It was a real memory, and a joyful one at that. Tears of unexpected delight welled in her eyes. A single drop rolled down her cheek. What had Dr. Brice said? There were “islands of memories,” and as time passed those islands would begin to connect. The image had been wonderful. Of all the possible memories that could have surfaced, this one brought her great joy.
Lisa tried to push the recollection a little further. Could she remember her parents’ names? No. She tried to visualize her front yard, but nothing came to her. Patience, she told herself. It will all come back.
The domestic scene continued.
“So when do we eat?” her dad asked.
“Okay,” her mom said, picking up the platter of bacon and the plate of flapjacks. “Let’s pray and then we can eat.”
Pray? Of course. Pray. It was what they did before every meal. Every day. Prayer. Sweet prayer.
Again, Lisa was reminded that although she had no recollection of attending a church, hearing a sermon, or participating in a Bible study, she was a spiritual person. The Scripture verse that had triggered something in her thinking, her Bible study in the motel room, and the attraction to the abandoned church in Fillmore were all bits of evidence that showed her faith. She might not remember her spiritual past, but God had not forgotten her.
Prayer.
All that she had been through, all the terror she had experienced, she had survived because God’s hand was upon her. She was as certain of this as she was of her very existence.
Another tear was followed by another wave of warmth.
“And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” The words were spoken only in her head, but they rang with a clarion quality. There was a purpose in all that had happened, a reason for the madness she had endured.
Her lips moved in silence, the words of her prayer being heard only in her mind and in heaven. The words were those of thanksgiving and praise. She asked for nothing, pleaded for nothing, attempted no bargains.
There in the hospital room, sore, battered, and confused, Lisa took a stroll with the Almighty, communed with the Savior, bathed in the Spirit. Anxiety was washed away and replaced by peace. Sweetness filled the air and electricity coursed through her soul. Calmness, like a warm familiar afghan, settled upon her.
“Lisa? Are you all right?”
The familiar voice seemed distant and out of place, like a radio in the midst of a deep forest. She continued her prayer, wanting to be no place other than in the throne room of God.
“Lisa,” the voice said more forcefully. “Are you hurting?”
Opening her eyes, she saw Nick by her bedside. He was leaning on the crutch. “What … what?”
“I asked if you were hurting?”
“No. No more than an hour ago. Why?”
“You’re crying,” Nick said. His face was chiseled with concern.
“Oh. I was praying,” Lisa said, shifting in her bed.
“Again? Praying makes you cry?”
She smiled. “Just like a man,” she said. “Tears can be for good things, too.”
“I suppose,” Nick said without conviction.
“Actually I’m praying because of you.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Back in the motel room, when I was doctoring your arm, you said that it all works out for the good. That sounded familiar. It’s similar to a Bible verse.”
“I don’t know anything about the Bible,” Nick confessed.
“I’m not saying you do. I’m saying that your words reminded me of something. It took me awhile to realize what it was, but it’s like a verse in Romans, chapter 8.” She recited the verse.
“Boy, your memory is returning.”
“Not yet. Just snippets.” She thought of the scene with her parents in the kitchen. A small smile crept across her face.
“So what are you saying? That God caused all this to happen?” Nick hobbled over to the plastic chair and sat down, grimacing as he did.
She shook her head. “No, not caused, but maybe allowed. I imagine that God gets blamed for a lot of things.”
“I don’t want to burst your bubble, but I don’t think I believe in God. I don’t see how anyone can.”
“I don’t see how anyone can’t,” she countered.
“I guess I’m just a cynic, Lisa. I’ve seen too much, experienced too much.”
“What does that mean?” she responded. “You don’t really think that faith is just for those who lead sheltered lives, do you? That’s absurd.”
Nick brought a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. His weariness was beginning to show. The unflappable facade was cracking. “Perhaps,” he said. “Maybe I just don’t understand such things.”
“When I get my memory back, I’ll do my best to explain what I know to be true.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling so confident,” Nick said.
An awkward silence descended. Lisa could tell that the day’s events had taken their toll on Nick. “I don’t think I’ve said thank you for all that you’ve done,” she said.
“Not necessary.”
“I think it is. You may have been doing your job, but you risked your life and were injured on my behalf. That deserves some gratitude.”
Nick laughed lightly. “Well, it has been an interesting day, hasn’t it? Had I known that all of this was going to happen, I would have been better prepared. Maybe brought in the army or something.”
“So what happens now, Nick?”
“What do you mean?”
“To me. What happens now?”
Nick straightened himself in the chair. “Well, the mission needs to be completed, and that means that whatever it was that you learned at Moyer Communications needs to come out. So I imagine that the first step is getting you well.”
“So I’m to stay here for a while?”
“I doubt it. There are a few things that have to be worked out with the police. Our superiors will take care of that. I imagine that you will be transported to a larger, better equipped hospital until your memory returns.”
“Nick,” Lisa began. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“About what?”
“About me. You knew my name, my occupation, and what happened to me on the road, but you lied to me—not once, but several times.”
“I was instructed to do that. After I picked you up, it didn’t take long for me to realize your memory was gone. After I had you safely tucked away in the Pretty Penny Motel, I called in. My supervisor told me to take it easy on you, that any further trauma could make things worse. We hoped that your memory would come back on its own.”
“Is that why you took me to the house instead of to my own home or back to the office—wherever that may be?”
“Partly,” Nick said.
“Is that house really yours?”
Nick nodded. “Yeah. The NSA has an office in southern California. Since I grew up in the area, it was natural for me to transfer there. It sure beats Washington, D.C. Anyway, I figured it was a safe place.”
“What about my name? Lisa is my middle name, but you took it from the nametag of the McDonald’s employee.”
“That was coincidence,” Nick admitted. “Massey was right about one thing: I hoped the familiar name might jog a few memories loose.”
Lisa felt like an archeologist digging through the remains of a past civilization. What was she missing?
CHAPTER 22
Wednesday, 1:15 A.M.
The hospital was shaped like the letter U, with each wing forming one side of a courtyard. In front of the courtyard was a parking lot. Another, larger lot was situated at the rear. Massey had ascertained this by a systematic reconnoitering of the grounds that began with a slow drive around the block. From time to time, he would park and make mental notes of the facility. He studied the shape of the buildings, the lighting, the number of access points, the driveways, and to the best he - could from a distance, he located the power supply and main phone lines.
The hospital was small, a simple community hospital, probably owned by a larger organization. It would be difficult for a man to enter such a small facility unnoticed. At a big hospital, he might be able to walk into the heavily used emergency room and get lost in the crowd. He also had to assume that a guard had been posted by the woman’s door and had been given a description of Massey.
Already his plans had been changed and his life forever altered. Why did the woman have to be so belligerent? The woman was charmed, Massey decided. There was no other way to explain it. How else could she live through the auto accident, an attack by McCullers, and the assault in the motel room? How is it that the police showed up at just the right time? “Too many coincidences,” he said under his breath. Charmed or blessed by fate, it no longer mattered. Robin Lisa Keller would die.
“So they’re not picking you up until the morning?” Hobbs asked.
Tanner, who lay on the hospital bed in a room two doors down from Lisa’s, replied, “That’s right. I didn’t see any reason for my wife to make the drive at this late hour. It’s not like my life is in danger.”
“I feel responsible,” Hobbs said.
“Nonsense,” Tanner countered quickly. “I’m a cop. Cops run the risk of getting shot every day. I came along on this investigation because I wanted to and because I wanted to know what happened in Mojave. You’ve got to admit, it’s turned out to be an interesting case.”
“It has certainly been that,” Hobbs agreed, nodding. “How long before you can return to active duty?”
“The bullet went clear through my leg, so I’ll be off for a few weeks. They’ll put me behind a desk for a while. That will be the worst part. I hate paperwork.”
“Don’t rush it, cowboy. Get well first.”
“My wife will see to that,” Tanner said with a smile. “How’s the woman?”
“She’s battered but safe. The doctor says her memory should return in seventy-two hours or so.”
“She really has amnesia? I thought that just happened in novels.”
Hobbs shook his head. “Not according to the doctor. He gave us a whole lecture on it.”
“So she and Blanchard are NSA agents. I would never have thought that.”
“That’s confusing, all right. That’s the problem with those government agent types. They play by different rules from the rest of us.” The few times Hobbs had dealt with government agents there had been tension. It didn’t matter if it was the FBI, INS, or ATF. The locals always resented the come-in-and-take-over attitude that some of the feds had, and the feds felt that the locals were provincial and uncooperative. “Maybe if he and NSA had brought us into the loop, we would have had fewer problems.”
“That’s for sure,” Tanner agreed. “What do you plan to do now?”
“I need to hang around. The sheriff’s department is going to have more questions for me about the shooting.”
“The gunman is still on the loose?”
“Yeah,” Hobbs said with frustration.
“It’s just a matter of time before the locals catch him.”
“I don’t know,” Hobbs admitted. He explained what Nick had told him. “In addition to that, I just got a report from the guys in the field. They found a couple of briefcases in the abandoned car that he was driving. There was some pretty sophisticated equipment in there.”
“You don’t think he’ll come looking for the woman, do you? He has to be smarter than that.”
“I hope so,” Hobbs said. “Coming back would be about as dumb an act as a person could do.”
“There’s a guard by her door, isn’t there?” Tanner asked.
“Yes. A local Ojai cop.”
Tanner yawned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “They gave me a pain reliever, and it’s making me drowsy.”
Hobbs smiled. “It’s also the wee hours of the morning. I should let you get some sleep. I just thought you might want to know the situation.”
“I’m glad you came by,” Tanner said and yawned again. “Don’t let me miss anything exciting. I want to know everything that goes on.”
“You’ve earned that right, buddy. Now go to sleep. I don’t want to have to answer to your wife.”
To Massey, who sat in the stolen truck that he had again parked in the shopping center lot across the boulevard from the hospital, the situation seemed impossible, but he would not be deterred. His impulse was to simply walk in, find the woman, put a bullet in her head, and then make the best escape he could. But Massey knew that acting on impulse always led to failure.
He faced a couple of problems that he continued to mull over. One, he had no idea which room she was in. He thought of calling the hospital and asking for her, but he was certain that the switchboard would have been alerted to such calls. That would certainly be the case if he were in charge of her safety. Two, the police were there. How many were in the building he couldn’t know, but he had to assume that there was at least one and maybe more. A frontal approach would be a disaster. He had only a few rounds left in the clip of his weapon. He would be facing better-armed men, and the uniformed officers would be wearing bulletproof vests. Even if he sacrificed his life for the cause, there was no guarantee that he would achieve his goal of killing the woman.
Massey needed another idea. Time was passing quickly, and every moment he wasted increased the chances of his being seen. Yet despite his keen intellect, his years of intelligence experience, and his overwhelming commitment to success, he could conceive of no way to enter the hospital undetected.
“If the obvious doesn’t work,” he finally told himself, “then look for the obscure.” The wheels of his mind turned furiously. Then it happened. An idea surfaced unexpectedly, a gift from the gods. But to make it work, he would need a few things.
