Airtight Case (5 page)

She nodded and listened to John explain things to her brother.
Sinjin’s a strange name
. She wondered how he got it.

“Five hours? That long before we get there?” she asked.

“It’s about 280 miles.”

“I was a long way from home.”

“Yes.” John picked up the phone again. She fought the urge to put her hand on his to stop him.

“Who are you calling now?”

“I need to call Derrick. He’s worried, too.”

“You and I must have a very civilized relationship, for you to be so considerate of my old boyfriend.”

“We do—as long as we aren’t fighting about your work. Derrick’s an all right guy.”

John called Derrick and told him everything he had told her brother. He paused and handed the phone to her.

“He wants to talk to you. He understands you don’t remember him.”

Lindsay took the phone and put it to her ear, almost afraid to speak. “Hello?”

“Lindsay. I—I just wanted to hear your voice. John says you’re well, except for—”

“I’m fine, except for a few bruises. Really. I’m sorry I worried everyone.”

All these people, she thought, so worried for her, and she didn’t know any of them. The conversation didn’t last long. With no memory, there wasn’t much to say. She replaced the phone and looked over at John, wondering what their relationship was like. He cared. She believed that now. She heard the worry in his voice—unless he was really worried about her regaining her memory.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“You’re sitting there staring at me. I just wondered if you trust me yet.”

“Almost. I’m sorry I’ve brought everyone such anxiety. You say I’ve gotten into trouble before?”

He sighed and waved a hand in the air. “There have been times when you’ve been out doing what you do, and . . . if I had discovered you were really with another man, I’d have been relieved.”

“Oh . . . I’m that bad at getting into trouble?”

He nodded. “You’ve been in deep trouble before—shot, kidnapped, stabbed, lost in a cave, lost at sea in a hurricane—all really frightening and dangerous things. But, as bad as those things were, you’ve always come through with your intellect intact, never lost your memory this way.”

His jaw clinched and his grip tightened on the steering wheel. “The thing that worries me—really worries me this time—is what could have happened that was so terrible you don’t want to remember?” He took her hand in his and looked at her. “It scares me. It scares me as much as when we discovered you were missing.”

Chapter 5

The Black Stallion

LINDSAY WAS SNATCHED out of a disturbing dream by the bouncing of the truck. John had turned from the highway, and they were heading down an unpaved wooded lane. A strip of uncut grass grew in the center of the pastoral road between two narrow tracks worn bare by the travel of vehicle tires. The road seemed to disappear into a green wood ahead.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Home. Your home. This is your property.”

Home?
It didn’t look familiar, but it felt right. She rolled down the window and inhaled fresh woods smells. She wasn’t frightened. Perhaps her memory was coming back after all, in parts, the sensory zones in her brain becoming unfrozen one at a time. The feelings—what she liked, disliked, feared, made her feel safe—maybe those feelings were truly hers, hers before the . . . before whatever happened.

“This is lovely. I live here?”

“It’s yours, all right. Thirty-six beautiful acres.”

He stopped the truck at a silver farm gate. Lindsay jumped out and opened it for him to drive through. Ahead of them was a wooden fence where a black horse pranced up and down the fence row, flagging his tail, talking to her in throaty rumbles and high-pitched whinnies, his ears listening for a sound from her.”

She closed the gate and walked to the fence, drawn to the powerful horse. The huge stallion trotted to her and stood pawing the ground, shaking his head, his glossy mane shimmering and rippling with the motion, his big brown eyes fixed on her. His black coat was not the colorless black of darkness, or ink, but the blackness of a crow, or John’s hair—with hues of dark blue and a shine that reflected in the sun. He talked to her in deep guttural tones. She stretched her hand out over the fence to him. He nuzzled her palm. His nose felt like fine velvet.

“That’s Mandrake.” John had gotten out of his truck and joined her at the fence. “He’s your horse.”

“I ride?”

“Quite well.”

“All this is mine?”

“Yes. This is where you belong.”

Where she belonged. Her place of mooring. What had John said when she asked him why he had hovered and watched over her every time they had stopped during the long trip back? He said he was staying close because one of the doctors had told him that people with amnesia are prone to wander off. With no memory, there is no place to dock. They’re afloat in a perplexing, unfamiliar world with nothing or anyone to hold them.

Mandrake, in a burst of stallion energy, turned and galloped across the pasture. Was this where she was supposed to lay anchor and not drift away from?

John drove them down the quarter-mile-long winding driveway overhung by tall sheltering trees. This place was soothing and seductive. She felt safe for the first time within the span of her memory. Why didn’t these woods frighten her? Did she remember home?

They crossed a creek and rounded a curve in the driveway, and ahead was a log house nestled among the trees. She looked hard at it, as if staring would bring out the memory of it. Nothing. She wanted to pound the dashboard with her fists in frustration, but she was afraid that acting crazy would be cause for John to take her away to someplace else.

Two people came out on the porch and rushed down the steps as they pulled to a stop in front of the house. A man a little older than she, and an attractive woman about her age.

“That’s your brother, Sinjin,” said John. “The woman is Harper Latham. She’s a friend, the one I told you about.”

A brother and a friend. Roots. Enough to hold her down? She got out and walked toward them.
Strangers. Damn.
They were strangers—but only to her. She saw the keen look of concern in their eyes, as though they wanted as much as she to clear the fog from her mind.

“Lindsay.” The man had short, chestnut-brown hair, the color of hers. His unshaven face, plaid shirt, and jeans made him look like a logger. He was taller than her by three or four inches—and she was tall, almost six feet.
Must have tall genes in the family.
He had blue eyes, too, but his were lighter, cooler than hers. Height, hair, and eye color were where the resemblance stopped. His facial features looked nothing like hers.

What if this was all a trick to get her to trust them and let her guard down? What if they were playing on her need to belong somewhere and feel safe?

“You’re Sinjin?” she asked and saw a brief look of pain sweep across his face and disappear.

“Oh, Lindsay.” Lindsay turned her attention to the woman, searching her hazel eyes for some sign of familiarity. Harper was five or six inches shorter than Lindsay with chin-length auburn hair and distinctive features. A memorable face. Why couldn’t she recognize it? Or anyone? She hated the unrelenting unfamiliarity of virtually everything and everyone she met.

Sinjin stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders as if she could recognize his touch. “Harper made a pot of chicken-and-vegetable soup. It smells really great. Why don’t you come in and eat something?”

Lindsay nodded and walked with them up the steps to the cabin door. She stopped in the threshold and gazed at a painting of a woman from some past age looking over her shoulder at whoever enters this house. It had soothing, subtle hues. Had she selected it to welcome guests into her home, or to welcome herself after a hard day? She followed Sinjin into the living room, her eyes desperately searching for something familiar. The room was furnished with simple oak and leather furniture. A painting of Mandrake hung over a rock fireplace. Cozy, warm. She liked it. It rang no bells.

“I’d like to clean up first,” she said, without looking at anyone.

Sinjin, John, and Harper exchanged glances before Harper spoke. “Shall I show you where your room is?”

Lindsay shook her head. “Let me try to find it.” She walked back to the entrance hallway. There was a door opposite the living room and a staircase.
Which way? Fifty-fifty. Flip a coin?
She put a hand on the stair railing and forced herself not to look back for reassurance. She started up the stairs. Steep stairs. Had to be, with the narrow dog trot.
Dog trot? Where did that come from? A memory?

No one said anything as she climbed, and she heard someone start up the stairs behind her. Up on the balcony, she looked down at John and Sinjin, still following her with their eyes. They smiled at her, relieved, perhaps, that she had chosen correctly. But then, there had been an even chance that she would. Maybe more than even. From the balcony it wasn’t hard. There was only one door, and it led to a bedroom.

I have simple tastes,
she thought as she looked at a quilt-covered white cedar bed in the corner of the room. There were a desk, a bookcase, a night stand, and a chest-of-drawers, all of white cedar. Atop the chest-of-drawers, across from the foot of the bed, sat a television—its remote control on the night stand. The room didn’t have carpet, but shiny hardwood floors with green-and-white wool rugs.
It’s good
, she thought.
I like it.

“Why don’t you look around your room?” suggested Harper. “Maybe something will tickle your memory. Come down when you’re ready.”

Lindsay nodded, still looking at the fan pattern in the bedspread, wondering if she had purchased the quilt or if someone in her family had made it. How odd it felt, almost dizzying, to be cut loose from all connections to the past. John said she had been an archaeologist. There must be some irony in that.

Harper left her alone. She stood for several moments staring at each piece of furniture in turn. Her gaze passed a closet. There first. An image out of the corner of her eye startled her as she opened the closet door—herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

The closet contents were neatly arranged. Shoes were in little pigeon holes at the bottom. She squatted, pulling some of them out. Running shoes, loafers, heels—a few fairly high. Somehow that seemed odd. She didn’t think of herself as the high-heeled shoe type. She stood and examined the clothes on the racks. Tweedy pantsuits, sweaters, and blouses seemed to be the preferred style. But there were also jeans and T-shirts.

Several garment bags hung near the end. She unzipped the first one. It contained a long-sleeved evening dress of blue silky material with a sequined bodice. Very elegant. The next bag held a short black dress with a full skirt and spaghetti straps, along with an almost identical red one, only with rhinestone-festooned straps. So, what was she before she became an archaeologist, a hooker? Her mind went back to the little lavender number her faux-fiancé had wanted her to wear. Maybe he knew her better than she had imagined.

She shivered, closed the closet door, and sat on the bed, frustrated at not being able to remember. But, more distressing than the inability to remember was the fear flowing through her like slow-moving hot lava, turning her insides to raw nerves. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears that were about to erupt. When she opened them, her gaze rested on the bookshelf. Another place to mine for memories.

Most of the books were about archaeology and physical anthropology, but on the bottom shelf was a neat stack of photo albums. Recorded memory cells. Lindsay grabbed the top one and flipped through the pages. The photos were of a dig—one in the ocean—inside some structure built in the water. There were several photographs of John and some of Harper. They filled her with relief.
John and Harper are who they say they are.
She rushed over to a collection of framed photographs on the back corner of her desk. Strangers, except for one: Sinjin with his arm around her shoulders.

Safe. Here was a safe place.

Lindsay pulled another album from the stack. Another archaeology site. Her eyes darted from one photograph to another, looking for things she recognized. She stopped at a group of guys shoveling.
Shovel shaving,
her mind said so clearly it was almost aloud. A memory. Her joy at having a real memory was short-lived, as hot black fear flooded her stomach, making her drop the album. Something about the photo. She sat bent over for several seconds before she picked up the album and returned it to the shelf.

She made her way to the bathroom to the shower.

It felt good to be clean. Good to have seen photographs of John, Sinjin, and Harper. But the guy, Mark Smith, who said he was her fiancé, had a photograph, too. These could be doctored like that one. “No!” she shouted, “I’ve got to have a safe place with no doubts.”

“Lindsay? Are you all right?” It was Harper knocking on the door.

“I’m fine. I’ll be right down.”
Harper must think I’m crazy.”

“No hurry. I just came up to check.”

She dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and hurried downstairs to be greeted by the aroma of chicken soup. They were all standing in the kitchen. If Harper had told them Lindsay had been talking to herself, they showed no sign of knowing it.

“You look better.” Sinjin touched her hand as she passed.

“I feel a lot better. I had a memory fragment,” she said. They all looked up at her, wide-eyed and hopeful.

“Not much. Shovel shaving. I saw a picture in one of the albums, and I knew what they were doing.”

“That’s great,” said Harper, smiling as if she had said she had invented penicillin while she was showering.

“It’s not much, though,” repeated Lindsay.

“It’s something.” John pulled back a chair for her at the table. “I think you’ve been having quite a few.”

They sat down at the table that Harper had prepared with four bowls of her homemade chicken-and-vegetable soup and a large round of flat bread sitting in the middle between them. Lindsay took a spoonful of soup—warm, comfort food. Perhaps this was all she would need to get well. Food and home.