She’d have to tell him about the men, of course, as soon as his knot went down and his headache eased. It would help if she could come up with some logical reason for her reaction. A woman’s intuition? She could just hear him jeering at that. Men always did.
“You sent them away? Because you didn’t like their looks? Are you crazy, or what?”
Okay, so she was crazy. She’d done what she thought best at the time. It wasn’t the first time she’d ever acted on impulse. If that made her guilty of some crime, so be it. At the moment her guest was her responsibility. In his vulnerable state he was in no condition to defend himself against a couple of weirdos who came knocking on her door in the middle of the night.
“So sue me,” she muttered, collecting the supper tray on her way out.
The man called Storm struggled to absorb and process information, but it was slow going. One thing he knew—his head still hurt like hell. And he knew he wasn’t about to take any painkillers, not without knowing more about himself than he did. He’d heard of people taking a simple over-the-counter remedy and going into shock.
He’d heard of it? Where? Who?
“Think, man, think!”
The trouble was, whenever he tried to reach out mentally and latch on to something solid—some glimmer of information hiding just beneath the surface of his mind—it slipped away. He didn’t have time to waste sleeping. He needed to stay awake long enough to put two and two together and come up with some answers, but he kept dozing off.
It was still pitch-black outside. He seemed to recall being awakened several times. Gingerly feeling the knot on the side of his head, he winced.
Head wound. Concussion. Check the pupils.
He knew that much, at least. Maybe he was a medic, a doctor.
The woman—Ellen Wagner—had been frantic over her son. “I knew he was on his way home from Joey’s,” she’d said. “But when I saw that sky…”
She’d taken several deep breaths then, unable to go on. Oddly enough, he understood how she’d felt. There was a hell of a lot he didn’t understand yet, but that much, he did. She was a mother. Her kid had been threatened; she’d reacted. She was still reacting.
So what did that mean—that he had a mother or that he had a son?
The boy was sound asleep, she’d told him the last time she’d roused him to be sure he was still alive. Or maybe the time before that—he’d lost all sense of time. She should have gone to bed hours ago, but she’d stayed up to wake him periodically in case he started showing signs of a concussion. Sometime during the night she’d taken the trouble to heat a can of chicken noodle soup, telling him that her son used to call it chicken oogle soup. The small confidence hadn’t triggered any buried memories, but the soup had helped stave off the shakes.
He knew now that he was in a downstairs bedroom she’d furnished for her husband after he’d grown too weak to climb the stairs. She’d told him that when he asked. He might not know who he was, but at least he knew where he was. In a pine-paneled room on a small ranch about five miles from the town of Mission Creek, in Lone Star County, in the State of Texas.
That part felt right, anyway. The Texas part. It didn’t really ring any bells—he could have been from the planet Pluto for all he knew—but somehow, Texas felt right.
It was just beginning to get light outside when she came to bring him her late husband’s shaving kit. “I thought shaving might make you feel better. I’m not sure about letting you stand long enough to take a shower, though. If you got dizzy and fell…”
“Maybe you could roll me outside and hose me down.”
She was obviously running on fumes. He wondered how much sleep she’d gotten during the night. Judging from the early hour, it couldn’t have been much.
She took the time to give him a general description of the area. “It’s mostly small farms and cattle ranches. We have year round grazing here, so cattle are a big thing, but crops are big, too. At this point our farm hardly qualifies as a working ranch—we’re just hanging on to status quo, you might say, but— Oh, I don’t know why I even said that, you couldn’t possibly be interested. Anyway, we love it here. It’s a great place to raise a son.”
If she was hoping something she said would trigger his memory, she was disappointed. They both were. She had a nice voice, though. A bit raspy, as if she might have screamed herself hoarse searching for the boy. She’d be the type, he was somehow sure of it, to run outside in the teeth of a tornado to rescue her child.
Lucky kid.
During the wakeful periods of the night they’d exchanged a few words—just enough to let her know he hadn’t gone off the deep end. From a few things she’d said, he’d gained the impression that she and the boy might be having a pretty rough time keeping their heads above water. Not that she’d complained. He’d had to ask a few leading questions. Somewhat surprisingly, he’d discovered that he was good at it, even when he wasn’t particularly interested in the answers.
Although, oddly enough, he was. The woman was nothing to him. He’d brushed off her gratitude, saying that whatever he’d done for her son, she had more than returned the favor by hauling his ass out of that ditch. Not that he’d phrased it that way. Which told him something else about himself. It wasn’t enough, but it was a beginning.
Some five miles away, a terse conversation was taking place between two men. The air was redolent with the smoke of a Cuban cigar. “I’m telling you, Frank, he’s dead. He’s gotta be dead, else them two guys I sent scouting around woulda found him. They found what was left of his car over by that Quik-Fill place out on 59. I had ’em haul it to the chopshop.”
“You’re sure it was Harrison’s?”
“I had a guy run the plates. ’Sides, his coat was still inside caught up in some branches where a tree limb busted through the windshield. Big mama! Rammed clean through the front and out the back. Man, nobody coulda lived through that! Hood’s gone, one o’ the doors ripped off. Nothing left but scrap metal.”
Lying on a polished table between the two men was a sodden wallet, a driver’s license, several credit cards, a Triple-A membership card and ninety-eight dollars in cash. No one had reported the missing credit cards.
“Where the hell is he?” the older man muttered, stabbing his cigar at the driver’s license issued to one J. Spencer Harrison, six feet, one inch tall, one hundred eighty-seven pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, born November 4, 1967.
“Man, I’m telling you, nobody could’ve survived that hit. Ask me, he’s buzzard bait by now.”
Frank Del Brio paced in a tight circle, occasionally thumping ashes onto the plush carpet. After several minutes of silence he turned and jabbed his stub of a cigar toward the other man. “You ask around?”
“You know me, Frank. I say I’ll check something out, I check it out.”
“Who’d you send?”
“Sal and Peaches.”
“Jesus Christ, man, those two couldn’t find their ass with a road map!”
“You wanted it kept quiet, didn’t you? Sal don’t talk and Peaches owes me.”
More pacing. More scattered ashes. Finally, as if he’d come to a conclusion, Del Brio turned to face his companion. “I’m gonna have to trust you on this one. Joe Ed’s already positioned to take his place, but I swear to you, if Harrison turns up once a new D. A. is appointed, there’s no place south of the North Pole I can’t find you. You might want to notify your next of kin, just in case.”