For Want of a Memory Read online

  "I can do the outline with paper and pencil," he said. "But I don't think I want to write the whole thing that way. I'll have to get a computer, and a job so I have the money to do that."

  "Why don't you use my old one?" she asked. "I was going to throw it out anyway."

  "That would be really nice," he said. "You're being awfully nice to me, you know."

  "Why wouldn't I?" she asked. "Now, what kind of vegetables do you like?"

  * * *

  When they pulled into the driveway, Kris was not just surprised-he was astonished. It was a nice house. The yard and house were covered with a thick layer of snow, but he could still see it was a well kept and spacious place.

  "Wow," said Lou Anne. "Maybe you're rich after all. This is a lot nicer than where I live." She got out. "Should have gotten you a snow shovel."

  "I'm going to be in debt for the rest of my life," he moaned. "We spent over three hundred dollars!"

  "Well, you said you were going to get a job of some kind," said Lou Anne, picking up a sack of groceries.

  Ambrose had carried the toilet paper and paper towels on his lap, and there had even been a sack of stuff between Kris' legs in the front. It took them eight trips to get everything out of the trunk and passenger compartment of the car. The depth of the snow prevented Ambrose from carrying anything except the paper goods and even then he struggled. By the time they got done, though, they'd packed down a trail from the driveway to the door.

  The inside of the house was as nice as the outside, though barely above freezing. The first thing Lou Anne did was find the thermostat and turn it up. Then she unpacked bags and started putting things away in the cupboards.

  "I can do that," he said.

  "Of course you can," she said. "But you'd put them in the wrong places." She grinned at him. "I'll just get you started off right."

  She inspected the refrigerator and pronounced it clean, then tested the microwave.

  "It's good that it's furnished," she said, looking around. She climbed the stairs to the loft that overlooked the living room. "It's also a good thing we didn't get those queen sheets," she announced. "It's got a king size bed." She came back down. "I'll get you some sheets and bring them to you as soon as I can. You have the blankets for tonight and it's warming up already."

  "I'll be fine," he said, looking around. "I can't thank you enough. You've done way more than you had to."

  She turned and looked at him. "My grandmother used to say that if you saved someone's life, it belonged to you and you were responsible for taking care of it."

  He blinked. "Do you believe that?"

  "I don't know," she said. "But I feel good about all this. You just write a best seller. I've always wanted to do the cover art for a novel."

  "You have?" He looked surprised.

  "I do some graphic design and web programming on the side," she said. "It's to bring in a little extra money. When your book is finished, maybe you can talk me into setting you up a web site. I can create the graphics for the cover art and let the world know how good you are." She dimpled. "If you're any good, of course."

  "What if I'm not?" He frowned.

  "Jess said you paid for this place in advance. I don't think you'd be able to do that if you weren't any good. Maybe we can find something of yours on the net."

  "How? I can't remember anything I've written and that policeman said he already looked."

  "Mitch?" she snorted. "He doesn't know anything. Let me play around with that," said Lou Anne. "I know some tricks of the trade about searching the net. And besides, you might remember something. You've remembered some things already, haven't you?"

  "A few," he said doubtfully. The first thing he thought about was the accident where he'd hit the man ... if it was a real memory. It was just as real to him as the other things that had come back. The only problem there was that he didn't know if any of those memories were true.

  He was left alone to think about that as Lou Anne and her son left.

  It was suddenly very, very quiet in the house.

  Chapter Ten

  Mitch called the number he'd gotten from the web. It was the home office of the company listed in the New York records as Farmingham's insurance company.

  "Northern Mutual Insurance," came a svelte female voice. "How may I direct your call?"

  "This is Officer Connel of the Pembroke, Connecticut PD," he said in his best official voice. "I need to talk to someone about recovering the car of one of your clients. It's been in an accident."

  "Claims?" asked the woman. "One moment please."

  Mitch hummed while he waited for someone to come on the line. He heard a recording that said his call might be recorded to ensure quality service and snorted. All those recordings were used for was to cover their asses.

  "Thank you for calling Northern Mutual claims service, the fastest and most complete service in America. This is Rodney, how may I help you?"

  Mitch frowned. Rodney sounded like he might be seventeen. He repeated his identification and the explanation of why he was calling.

  "You're not the insured?" asked Rodney.

  "No, I'm the police officer investigating the accident."

  "What's the customer's name?" asked Rodney.

  Mitch told him.

  "And his social security number?"

  "I don't know that," said Mitch. He gave him Farmingham's home address.

  "What's the customer's phone number?"

  "I don't know that," said Mitch.

  "I'm sorry, but we file all claims under the social security number and phone number of the insured," said Rodney.

  "He hasn't made a claim yet," said Mitch. "He's been in the hospital ever since the accident."

  "If he hasn't made a claim, there's nothing we can do," said Rodney.

  "You folks insured the car, right?" asked Mitch. "Can we at least get that confirmed?"

  "I'd be happy to do that for you sir. May I have the policy number?"

  "I don't know that," said Mitch, getting impatient. "I gave you his name and address, isn't that enough?"

  "I'm really sorry, sir," said Rodney. "Without the social, or phone number, or policy number, I have no idea how to confirm the insured is one of our customers."

  "How 'bout I talk to your supervisor," suggested Mitch, hoping that would shake the tree enough for some information to fall out.

  "Certainly, sir," said Rodney, who actually sounded happy at the prospect of handing this problem off to someone else.

  There was another wait. It was longer this time. Mitch was treated to a few recordings, alternating between a peppy woman and a downright elated man, who extolled the virtues of ten or fifteen different programs offered by Northern Mutual.

  "Thank you for calling Northern Mutual claims service, the fastest and most complete service in America. This is Priscilla, how may I help you?"

  Priscilla, who had obviously been found by Rodney, had apparently not asked Rodney any questions of any kind. This was suggested by the fact that Priscilla asked Mitch the exact same questions that Rodney had. It got to be too much for Mitch and he vented his frustration.

  "Look, Priscilla, I've got a man in the hospital and his car under the ice in the river. He was shot, okay? The car has evidence in it and I need you all to get it out of the river for me, because you insured it, okay? Send an adjuster with the tow truck, or whatever you want to do, and he can gather all the information he wants to. I just need this to happen as quickly as possible, all right?"

  There was a silence on the phone that lasted six or seven seconds.

  "Sir," said Priscilla. "If the car was damaged while being used in a crime, it voids the coverage. I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid there's nothing we can do for you."

  "I didn't say the car was used in a crime," said Mitch, his voice rising. "I said the car was involved in an accident and went in the river. You're the insurance company. If the car is totaled, it belongs to you, and I suspect-I'm just guessing here-that the car i
s totaled, okay?"

  Silence again. Mitch realized that this woman would be of no help to him either. He sighed resignedly.

  "Let me talk to your supervisor!" he said tightly.

  This time the canned ads went through three complete cycles before someone came on the line. Mitch didn't let the man get through the whole welcoming speech again.

  "Thank you for calling Northern Mutual ... "

  "Stop right there ... I'm a police officer, please identify yourself," Mitch broke in.

  "Um ... this is Ed. How can I help you?"

  Priscilla had apparently told Ed she had a problem, but not what the problem was. For the third time, Mitch patiently explained what he needed.

  "Of course, sir. What is the insured's phone number?" asked Ed.

  * * *

  Mitch didn't want to arrest Farmingham anymore. He wanted to arrest every Tom, Dick and Harry on Northern Mutual's employee rolls instead.

  In the end, Ed, who said he was the regional supervisor and there wasn't anybody higher up in the company than him, at that location, came up with half a dozen reasons why Northern Mutual wasn't going to do a damn thing. They couldn't confirm (or deny) that Farmingham was a customer. They couldn't locate his policy with the information available. There was no claim to act on. There was no police report as a basis for action. Mitch's call was not considered a police report. Ed said he didn't want to hurt Mitch's feelings, but the fact of the matter was that Mitch could be anybody at all. There was no proof he was a law enforcement officer. There was "suspicion" that the vehicle had been used in the commission of a crime. The VIN number of the vehicle in question had not been verified. Without a review of the customer's account record, there was no way to determine whether or not the policy, if one existed, was in force at the time of the accident.

  It was when Ed said, "This is all highly irregular," that Mitch finally hung up on him.

  * * *

  Kris was sitting at the table, a legal pad in front of him and a Bic pen in his hand. He'd written only two outline bullets. One said "Accident" and the other said "Hospital." He was in the process of writing "Pembroke" when there was a knock on his door. Surprised, he got up and went to open it. He found two men on the porch. A gust of freezing air caused him to step back without thinking, inviting them in wordlessly.

  "Thanks," said the older one. "I'm Bill Hoskins, pastor of the church downtown. This is Butch Flannery."

  "Uh, how do you do?" asked Kris.

  "We do fine," said Reverend Hoskins. "Which brings us to our purpose for being here. We understand you've had a run of bad luck. Butch here thought he might be able to help a little."

  Butch didn't look very happy. That was because he hadn't thought a damn thing about helping this man. It had been Reverend Hoskins' idea that since Butch had four cars, and only used two of them, one should be loaned to the mystery man so he could get around town. When Butch had objected, Hoskins had reminded him that he'd already made money on this man.

  "Yeah, a whole two bucks!" complained Butch.

  "Two dollars you didn't have before he came here," said Hoskins patiently. "And, if you lend him a car, you'll have an excuse to visit him occasionally, to make sure it's running okay, and we can keep an eye on him."

  "I thought you said in your sermon that charity started at home," groused Butch.

  "And if you'd actually been listening instead of napping, Butch," said the reverend, "you would have heard me explain that you arrange your heart ... your home ... to get involved in charitable acts."

  "But this isn't real charity," said Butch. "You just want an excuse to snoop into his business!"

  "God does work in mysterious ways," droned Reverend Hoskins. "You find yourself with more cars than you need, and we find ourselves with a need to keep an eye on a man who has shown an interest in one of our sisters."

  "Lulu's not my sister," complained Butch. "She's my waitress."

  "Tell you what, Butch," said Hoskins. "You donate one of those extra cars to the church and I'll take care of the rest."

  "I'm not giving you a perfectly good car!" yelped Butch. "I already put money in the plate last Sunday!"

  "Maybe Bernice would see it differently," said Hoskins.

  "You leave my wife out of this!" said Butch. "She'd give you both cars. You know she's been pecking at me to get rid of them. They're both good cars, dammit!"

  "Perhaps if you got rid of one, she'd be more understanding about the other," suggested the preacher. "And please don't curse like that, Butch. I care about your soul, even if you sometimes lapse in that area of concern."

  Butch had just stared at him for a few seconds. "You ain't gonna give up on this, are you?" he sighed. "Oh, all right. I'll rent him a car."

  "That's not charity, Butch," said Hoskins, throwing in a few "tsks" for good measure. "You know his situation."

  "I don't know a damn ... a darn thing," said Butch, "except for the rumors we've all heard. You gonna get somebody to give him a job too?"

  "I'm already working on that," said Hoskins, smiling. "Now ... as to that car ... "

  In the end Butch had decided that it was more important to try getting Bernice off his case than it was to argue, even though he still thought he was right. He also convinced himself that it was better for the old Ford to be run now and then, rather than just sitting and rusting in the yard. And, if it broke down, maybe the stranger would have to fix it before giving it back.

  "She's a real good car," he said, extending the key toward Kris. "You take good care of her for me, okay?"

  "I don't understand," said Kris, looking at the key. It was only natural to reach for it, since it was being offered to him.

  "We thought that having transportation available might make your stay here more pleasant," said Reverend Hoskins, beaming at the man. "Butch had an extra car and thought to loan it to you until you can get your feet back under you."

  "Wow," said Kris. "Thanks! The people in this town sure are helpful."

  "You're certainly welcome," said the minister.

  "Who told you I needed a car?" asked Kris. He frowned. "And about my run of bad luck?"

  "Oh," said Hoskins, waving a hand negligently in the air. "It's a small town and any news is eagerly sought to relieve the boredom. I'll check in on you once in a while to see how you're doing. You're more than welcome to come to services on Sunday, too. Are you a churched man?"

  "My father was a minister," said Kris.

  "Really!" said Hoskins. "Well, it appears that those who think your memory is gone were mistaken."

  "I don't remember much," said Kris. "But I remembered the story of the good Samaritan when I was talking to the woman who found me, and that memory was tied to my father."

  "An angel of mercy," brayed the pastor, his smile dazzling. "Our Lulu is surely an angel of mercy!" His smile evaporated as if it were smoke in the wind. "Lulu is near and dear to the hearts of our little town," he said. "We care a great deal about her."

  "I can see why," said Kris, completely missing the veiled threat in the minister's voice. "She's pretty special to me, too."

  "Yes ... well ... " said Hoskins. "She won't have to carry the burden alone. We're all willing to help a stranger in need." He smiled. "At least until you get situated and back on your feet. Please feel free to let me know if you need anything. We'll leave you to your ... writing, is it? See you Sunday."

  With that the two men whisked themselves out of the door, leaving Kris standing there with a key in his hand and a vague feeling that he hadn't understood everything that had happened in the room.

  * * *

  Perhaps because of some subconscious memory of the wreck, he didn't go out and drive the car right away. Instead he sat and thought about how to start a book. Nothing happened in his mind. It was just blank, like a canvas on a painter's easel. He didn't know what the first step was. Finally he decided that he would just write something as if he were telling some friend the story.

  "I woke up in the hosp
ital," he wrote on the pad. "I had no idea who I was or what had happened to me. It was only the first of many puzzles I was to face in the coming months."

  He looked at the lines. Then he spoke them. It sounded okay. He didn't know if it was the "right" way to start or not, but soon he was writing more.