asked, trying keep a little humor in the car before Mia’s situation overwhelmed them. He rolled down his sleeve.
“You know”—Frank suppressed a smile as he ate the bacon sandwich Jack’s mom had made for him—“that’s going to come up in this year’s campaign.”
“Front-page material,” Jack said.
“Mia’s not going to be happy.” Frank spoke as if confident that finding her was already a given.
“Hell,” Jack said, “she probably knows about it. Who’s to say we haven’t already fought about it?”
“Did it occur to you that maybe it was her idea? She may have had you branded, trying to make sure her prize cattle didn’t get lost.”
Jack reached around to his side and pulled out his Sig Sauer. He had fetched it from the oversized gun safe in his workshop before they left. He rarely touched it except to clean it, having left his particular talent with the weapon in his past.
“I haven’t seen you holding that in forever,” Frank said. “You remember how to use it?”
“Yeah,” Jack said quietly. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Why don’t you let me handle things involving weapons?” Frank smiled. “I have an aversion to being shot.”
Jack ignored the joke. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
“You’ve got to learn to put that guilt away.” Frank admonished his friend as if he were his son. “Everyone else has except you.”
Jack didn’t respond. The car fell silent as Frank turned his eyes on the highway ahead.
Jack Keeler was dead—the world thought it, the papers screamed it, and it was the lead story on every local news channel. In the matter of an hour, Jack’s mind had gone from confusion to fear to relief and back to confusion. While the faint odor of Mia’s perfume had sparked his memory of the night before, and the two bears had helped fill in his memory from the beginning of the week, nothing else came forth. He tried everything: he looked at pictures, looked at her clothes in her closet, read her various Post-it note reminders around the house in hopes of dredging up those lost days, but he found no key to unleash his recent past.
“You know, if someone sees you alive,” Frank said, “it’s going to create a lot of questions.”
“Whoever has her thinks I’m dead. It’s an advantage for the moment.”
“Do you think this is connected to a case out of your office?”
“I’m sure the list of people who want me dead isn’t small, but then, why ask Mia about the box?”
“And you didn’t see the box before?”
He heard their demand; it still rang in his ears, box 7138. No matter how he tried, he could remember nothing about a box. When he saw it pulled from the rear of the Tahoe, he was more than surprised. Mia must have hidden it there underneath the tons of crap—soccer balls and tennis rackets, water bottles and blankets, shopping bags and toys—that they had accumulated over the summer. And what it contained he had no idea.
“No. At least, I don’t think—” Jack paused. Something gnawed at the periphery of his mind, just out of reach of clear thought, like a two-day-old dream that was discarded as insignificant … although he couldn’t grasp it.
“Listen,” Frank said, “you said you remember last night, you remember the attack, going over the bridge, climbing out of the water. But how did you get home?”
Jack remained silent.
“Someone else was there,” Frank said slowly.
Jack didn’t respond.
“Stitched you up. Do you remember and are just not saying?”
“No,” Jack said.
“Jack?”
“Don’t you think if I could remember, I would?”
“Someone helped you, kept you alive. Maybe if we could figure out how you got home—”
“How did I get home?” Jack asked rhetorically. “How the hell did I survive the fall off the bridge? Being shot? I’m not Rasputin. Who sewed me up, got me back to my house? Who wrote this crap on my arm?” Jack pulled up his sleeve, revealing the dense black
“You know”—Frank suppressed a smile as he ate the bacon sandwich Jack’s mom had made for him—“that’s going to come up in this year’s campaign.”
“Front-page material,” Jack said.
“Mia’s not going to be happy.” Frank spoke as if confident that finding her was already a given.
“Hell,” Jack said, “she probably knows about it. Who’s to say we haven’t already fought about it?”
“Did it occur to you that maybe it was her idea? She may have had you branded, trying to make sure her prize cattle didn’t get lost.”
Jack reached around to his side and pulled out his Sig Sauer. He had fetched it from the oversized gun safe in his workshop before they left. He rarely touched it except to clean it, having left his particular talent with the weapon in his past.
“I haven’t seen you holding that in forever,” Frank said. “You remember how to use it?”
“Yeah,” Jack said quietly. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Why don’t you let me handle things involving weapons?” Frank smiled. “I have an aversion to being shot.”
Jack ignored the joke. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
“You’ve got to learn to put that guilt away.” Frank admonished his friend as if he were his son. “Everyone else has except you.”
Jack didn’t respond. The car fell silent as Frank turned his eyes on the highway ahead.
Jack Keeler was dead—the world thought it, the papers screamed it, and it was the lead story on every local news channel. In the matter of an hour, Jack’s mind had gone from confusion to fear to relief and back to confusion. While the faint odor of Mia’s perfume had sparked his memory of the night before, and the two bears had helped fill in his memory from the beginning of the week, nothing else came forth. He tried everything: he looked at pictures, looked at her clothes in her closet, read her various Post-it note reminders around the house in hopes of dredging up those lost days, but he found no key to unleash his recent past.
“You know, if someone sees you alive,” Frank said, “it’s going to create a lot of questions.”
“Whoever has her thinks I’m dead. It’s an advantage for the moment.”
“Do you think this is connected to a case out of your office?”
“I’m sure the list of people who want me dead isn’t small, but then, why ask Mia about the box?”
“And you didn’t see the box before?”
He heard their demand; it still rang in his ears, box 7138. No matter how he tried, he could remember nothing about a box. When he saw it pulled from the rear of the Tahoe, he was more than surprised. Mia must have hidden it there underneath the tons of crap—soccer balls and tennis rackets, water bottles and blankets, shopping bags and toys—that they had accumulated over the summer. And what it contained he had no idea.
“No. At least, I don’t think—” Jack paused. Something gnawed at the periphery of his mind, just out of reach of clear thought, like a two-day-old dream that was discarded as insignificant … although he couldn’t grasp it.
“Listen,” Frank said, “you said you remember last night, you remember the attack, going over the bridge, climbing out of the water. But how did you get home?”
Jack remained silent.
“Someone else was there,” Frank said slowly.
Jack didn’t respond.
“Stitched you up. Do you remember and are just not saying?”
“No,” Jack said.
“Jack?”
“Don’t you think if I could remember, I would?”
“Someone helped you, kept you alive. Maybe if we could figure out how you got home—”
“How did I get home?” Jack asked rhetorically. “How the hell did I survive the fall off the bridge? Being shot? I’m not Rasputin. Who sewed me up, got me back to my house? Who wrote this crap on my arm?” Jack pulled up his sleeve, revealing the dense black
Similar Books
