The Lazarus Trap Page 3

  “No. I was put through the same routine earlier.”

  “The cops let you see a doctor? Why didn’t they clean you up?”

  “An ER nurse was in the lockup with me. He did the finger thing and the head twist and said I didn’t appear concussed.”

  She came around to reveal another quick smile. “Did he charge?”

  “He should have.” He looked down at his feet. “He saved my shoes. And maybe my life.”

  “What was he in for?”

  “He says he got drunk.”

  “If we canned everybody in this place who fell off the wagon, you’d see tumbleweeds blowing down the center aisle. Have him stop by when he gets out. We’re always on the lookout for good nurses.” She shone a light into his eyes. “Follow the light. Good. Okay, how many fingers?”

  “Three.”

  “Close your eyes and bring your left forefinger up and touch your nose. Now do the same with your other hand. Good. Well, I agree with your nurse’s opinion. But I’d still like you to stop by the hospital and have a scan. As for the drug they slipped you, there are several options.” She began making notes on a metal-backed clipboard. “My guess is GBH. That’s the street name, which stands for Grievous Bodily Harm. It’s a tablet derived from an anesthetic known as GHB. The user remains vaguely conscious, but loses muscle control. Behavior can often become extremely erratic, sometimes illogically violent. Which mirrors what the cops said.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Remember. Right. Not a total surprise. I assume you were drinking alcohol?”

  “The cops said I was tanked.”

  “Had you done any other drugs?”

  “I don’t . . .”

  “The bar where you say this all took place has quite a reputation. You went there for some reason. There are a lot of other bars you could have gone to for a drink, Mr. Adams. Safer places closer to your hotel. I assume you’re staying somewhere midtown?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “So what we have is a night of heavy drinking, with possibly some recreational drug use added for good measure. Then you were slipped something that brought you to the verge of unconsciousness. After which you were struck repeatedly on the head.” Another swift smile. “I’m surprised you made it this far on your own steam, Mr. Adams.”

  “Everything hurts.”

  “You’ll get over it. I don’t want to give you anything for the pain unless you’re in desperate agony. It might only slow the process of your brain ridding itself of whatever toxic mix it’s struggling through already. Can you manage?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Come back if you can’t. I’ll leave a note in your file saying whoever is on duty should give you a prescription for Percodan.”

  “Can you suggest someplace for me to stay?”

  The doctor halted in the process of reopening the curtains. “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t know where I was booked. I need someplace to sleep.”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer someplace south of the park?”

  He found himself unable to confess just how desperate he was not to lose connection to the one face that seemed concerned about him. “I’d rather stay around here.”

  She drew the curtains aside in a slow sweep. “The Everest is around the corner on Lenox. It’s clean and safe. Or as safe as you can get in this area.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Trauma such as you’ve experienced can result in a sense of severe disorientation. More than likely your memory will begin to return in a series of flashes. It could be very disconcerting. Remember what I’m saying, Mr. Adams. This is a normal part of the process. But if you have not seen any improvement within the next forty-eight hours, I want you to stop by and see me again.” A final smile. “Now go get some rest.”

  He stopped at a men’s store midway down the same block as the Everest Hotel, desperate to get out of clothes that felt glued to his frame. He dared not move enough to try anything on. He pulled items from the shelves and carried them to a Hispanic shopkeeper who watched impassively as he peeled the cash off his roll.

  The shopping bag formed his only luggage as he entered the hotel. The Everest was a postwar brownstone conversion with an ancient mosaic on the lobby floor and an authentic brass railing around the check-in counter.

  The desk manager was a light-heavyweight who showed no curiosity whatsoever over his battered state. “How do you want to pay for this?”

  “Is cash okay?”

  “Cash is always okay by me. Long as you don’t mind leaving me a two-night deposit. You got some kind of ID?”

  “Yes.”

  “The authorities, they’re very big on us keeping records. Me, I’m not so worried.” The clerk could have easily tossed his new guest across the room. His neck was too thick for the shirt collar to be buttoned. His shoulders formed lumpy ridges beneath his jacket collar. “Long as my guests are willing to pay for the service.”

  “How much extra?”

  “Call it another twenty a night.”

  Remaining anonymous until his head straightened out sounded like a very good idea. He set another forty dollars on the counter.

  The desk clerk made the bills disappear. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Smith.”

  Soon as he entered the room, the bedside clock caught his eye. He stood on the frayed carpet and stared at the red numbers counting out time that was not his to claim. Somewhere there was a life ticking away without him.

  He picked up the phone. The receiver felt sticky with old sweat. He pulled out his shirttail and wiped it down. He dialed the operator.

  “Desk.”

  “How do I get an outside line?”

  There was a click and a dial tone. Val dialed information, then pulled out his driver’s license. He gave the state and city and name in response to the automatic prompts, wishing he did not feel like he lied with every word.

  An operator came on the line. “That listing is for Des Moines?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have several J. Adamses but no Jeffrey. Do you have a street address?”

  He read off his license, “One eighteen Hawthorne Boulevard.”

  “One moment. I’m sorry. We have no listing for that address.”

  “What about under a different first name for Adams?”

  “Sorry. No Adams on Hawthorne.”

  “There has to be. Could you please check again?”

  The operator muted the line. Then, “No Adams on Hawthorne, no Jeffrey Adams at any Des Moines address.”

  He stared at the face on the license.

  “Can I help you with another listing? Sir?”

  When he remained silent, the operator hung up.

  Slowly he set down the phone and slipped the license back into his pocket. His head throbbed with the compounded pressure of needing desperately to know, yet being increasingly afraid of the answers.

  He took a blisteringly hot shower, then opened the door, rubbed down the glass, and spent half an hour in front of the bathroom mirror. There was a larger mirror on the wall opposite the bed. But the lightbulb in the hotel room’s only lamp was yellow and weak. When he had been with Dr. Martinez in the clinic, he had absorbed a trace of her weary confidence. Now the tight coil of unease twisted and writhed in his gut.

  Even with the bruises and the smudge stains beneath his eyes, he studied a strikingly handsome face. The lines were strong and clearly drawn, which made the swelling around the cut on his temple even more noticeable. His hair was a dark blond with a hint of a wave. His chin had a slight cleft and his lips were a trace overfull. His irises started as dark green around the outer edges and lightened toward the pupils. But their color was not so important. Nor did his looks hold his attention for long. The hollow void at the center of his gaze dominated everything.

  This stranger’s face stared back at him, blank and wounded. He put a dry bandage over his right temple. Over and over he watched his mouth form the words “Jeffrey Adams.” Try as he might, he could
not force himself to claim his own name.

  The bed was soft as a sponge. He lay down and was instantly enveloped in cheap sheets and the odor of someone else’s ashes. He rolled back and forth, trying to find a position where he was not being poked by the springs. Finally he rose and stripped the bed. He folded the bedcover and stretched it out on the floor. On that went the mattress cover, then a sheet. He lay down and covered himself with the second sheet and the blanket. An instant later he rose again, crossed the room, and turned on the bathroom light. He lay back down on his pallet. He fell asleep to the sound of television gunfire from the next room.

  The dream came in stages. Before he saw anything, he smelled the odors. The air was rich with the fragrance of burgers on the grill and overripe oranges. Gradually the world came into focus. He stared up into a deep blue sky. Dappled fruit pulled ancient tree limbs down to where they almost touched a manicured lawn. To his right the sun descended behind the roof of a sprawling ranch-style house. His house. The dusk was intensely vivid, as though each image he examined was cut with crystal blades and set upon a backdrop of endless blue. Even the laughter he heard behind him was etched in perfect clarity. He knew he should have been able to name the people laughing and talking. Especially the woman who was laughing loudest of all.

  The woman stepped into view. She was slender and taut. She wore shorts almost hidden by one of his old short-sleeve shirts starched until it hung on her like pin-striped armor. She had hair that he knew smelled of honeysuckle. And a smile that caught every fragment of the day’s remaining light.

  She called out. One word. She said, “Valentine!”

  The next thing he knew, he was standing in the center of the drab hotel room. His chest was heaving. His legs trembled so hard he had to lean against the wall to make it to the bathroom. He washed his face, taking care to avoid the fresh bandage on his temple. Then he leaned on the bathroom sink and waited for his heart to calm down.

  It had been such a happy scene. He could still hear the laughter. The woman with her lovely brown legs stood before him still, smiling at him with a special sense of ownership.

  So why was his chest crimped by a tight and ancient sorrow?

  He left the bathroom light on and the door fully open. He returned to bed, chased by the worst question of all.

  This time, sleep was not swift in coming. The pallet was so thin he could feel the frayed carpet threads beneath his shoulder blades. The room smelled of age and dust and a multitude of worn-down visitors. His gaze measured the hard-edged shadows formed by the bathroom light. How many other hotels had he stayed in? How many other places had he thought he would never forget? What multitude of memories had he possessed, events he was certain would remain branded upon the fabric of his life?

  Yet now the hunger to remember was tainted by the dream. Fading sorrow flavored his night like the prison’s lingering scent. He rolled over. With his ear pressed against the pillow, he could hear a couple shouting from the floor below.

  Exhaustion and pain finally carried him into a half-sleep where he argued with himself. He stood before another mirror and shouted at an indistinct face.

  His sleep deepened; the dream sharpened. He looked into a mirror cracked with age, as though scarred by all the faces that had studied its depths. His awareness expanded until he saw an antechamber with a floor of broad Mexican tiles. The ceiling was ribbed with hand-painted beams. To his right, a trio of peaked wooden doors were open to a lazy summer breeze. In the mirror he saw rows of tall candles, rising like flaming steps. He knew then where he was, and what it meant.

  He was in a church. He was instantly certain church had once been important. Back then, he had searched out structures like this one, where the faith of cultures and centuries was on display. He had liked the sense of standing united against the rush of uncaring time.

  He knew he was dreaming, yet knew as well that this visit had actually taken place. He had come with another person. A woman. He dreaded seeing her again, even in an image he knew was just a dream. She had brought him here. She had found this church, one of the oldest in Florida, dating back to the earliest Spanish conquistadors. They had come because she had insisted on it.

  The candles were placed in three metal stands that formed a U. Seven pews rested in the center space shaped by the flickering barriers. He watched as the image in the mirror deepened and extended until the woman came into view. It was a different woman from the first dream. The sight of her crystallized the moment with the intensity of an animal’s howl.

  He had a sudden ability to touch every memory connected to this moment. Audrey. That was her name. Audrey d’Arcy. She had loved him with depth and passion. She had brought him to this church because she yearned to see him reconnected to a life he had given up as utterly and hopelessly lost.

  Audrey sat alone in the middle pew. She was an intensely striking woman, with determined features and an intelligent strength. He knew she was also tall, such that if she rose to her feet she would stand only a few inches shorter than him. And she loved him. So much it tore her face into fragments. She had suspected from the beginning that he would refuse her love. And yet she had loved him still.

  The candles burnished her copper hair, forming a halo or a crown—he could not tell which. He watched helplessly as, in the dream, he turned away, following the same course he had taken in real life. His heart keened a dirge of loss and yearning, for that had been the last time he had ever seen her.

  In his dream she called to him, a one-word litany that mirrored his own remorse. She cried, “Valentine.”

  The shock woke him up a second time. His heart thundered and his chest heaved. The veil had been pierced with the precise agony of regret.

  He rose from the pallet and stalked about the room. He pumped the stale air in and out of his chest. He strove as best he could to halt the sudden torrent of images. He was no longer asleep. But the nightmare stalked him. The memories clamored like wolves.

  He beat at his temples, and one fist came away red. Still the memories tore at him. His name was not Jeffrey Adams. He felt assaulted by a storm of mystery. Why he carried an ID with someone else’s name, he could not say.

  He clenched his eyes shut. But the image only intensified. He stopped pacing. He no longer leaned against the wall of a dismal hotel room. Instead, he stood in an office corridor. He looked at the closed door to a corner office, and knew it should have been his. He also knew he hated the man inside so fiercely that just seeing the closed door filled him with acidic rage. He turned away, consumed by a desire for vengeance and destruction.

  He opened his eyes, but the image did not go away. He saw himself moving further down the corridor. He entered another office and stared down at the desk. He looked at the name on the document awaiting his signature.

  The image vanished. He stood once more in the threadbare hotel room and stared at his reflection. He could finally put a name to this face. He also knew that he wanted to know nothing more. But he was certain he had no choice.

  He spoke to his reflection, greeting himself and all the mysteries yet to be revealed.

  “My name is Val Haines.”

  BY THAT AFTERNOON, WORD HAD SPREAD ABOUT THE EXPLOSION and the missing personnel. Solemn workers clustered about the office’s open-planned center. Terrance knew they were talking about Val and Marjorie. Mostly Val. Marjorie Copeland was a colorless woman with a severely disabled child. She did her work, served her time, and left. She was in it for the medical and the security. Val was something else entirely. Terrance had once heard a trio of secretaries refer to Val as Häagen-Dazs in a suit. When Val’s wife had left him two years earlier, the office women had declared her legally insane. When Val’s ex revealed in court that she had been having an affair with Terrance and was carrying his child, Terrance had become the office leper. The fact that Val had never fully recovered from the loss had only added to his mystery and appeal.

  Terrance’s secretary knocked on the door and announced, “Do
n Winslow called to say the guests have arrived and you should stop by his office.”

  “Tell him I’m on my way up.” Through the interior glass wall he spied Val’s secretary weeping on a young man’s shoulder. Val had a lot of friends. The young guy, a newcomer doing his stint in petty accounts, looked close to tears himself.

  He opened his briefcase and extracted the folders from his office safe. They felt radioactive in his hands. He took a deep breath. He had slept only three and a half hours last night, but he felt as energized as if he had just returned from a month’s holiday.

  “I’ll be in the boardroom if anyone needs me.” Terrance noticed his secretary’s red eyes. “Any word about Val?”

  “Nothing.”

  “This really is terrible. Be sure and interrupt us the instant anything further is discovered.”

  Terrance headed for the elevator. When the doors closed around him, he sighed with genuine pleasure, loving the tight adrenaline gleam in his eyes.

  Terrance said, “Let the show begin.”

  Four days earlier, Terrance’s entire world had been permanently canted within the space of a few minutes.

  Two, to be precise.

  Friday evening, he and Don Winslow had been seated in Terrance’s office. Terrance had the inside drapes open, a rarity. The floor’s central arena was quiet. A couple of gofers hustled through last-minute duties. Otherwise the weekend wind-down was complete. He and Don were running through a possible timeline. As in, when they might head out into the sunset, and how. There was a nice low-key tone to their discussion. They had been through this several times before, basically just kicking ideas around. Terrance didn’t mind the repetition. Talking about this stage of the game made his blood fizz.

  Then Terrance’s private line rang. The one that didn’t go through either the main switchboard or his secretary’s desk.