Blackout (10 page)

I've got to lose the crutch. It draws too much attention to a man.

The sun had already climbed high in the sky and the air was getting hot. Josh hadn't checked what time it was, but he guessed that it was between ten and eleven. Another twelve hours' sleep, he figured: Kate had given him his regular cocktail of sleeping juice and painkillers the night before. Another half-day closer to getting my strength back.

He had tried to hold on to his thoughts as he woke up, but there had been nothing there this morning: the only thing he remembered was Kate sobbing about her lost husband just before he went to bed, and his attempts to comfort her.

But what use is it? he asked himself. How can you comfort a woman who has lost her husband?

Josh pushed open the kitchen door. Kate was already at the table, the remains of some cereal in front of her. She looked up at Josh and smiled. 'You feeling better?' she asked.

Josh nodded. 'Some,' he replied.

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'The crutch,' said Kate. 'Where is it?'

'Back in the room,' answered Josh. 'I wanted to walk without it.'

Kate stood up, looking down at the leg. 'How does it feel?'

'Hurts a bit,' said Josh. 'When I put pressure on it.'

'Don't push it too far. You'll end up with a permanent limp if you don't let it heal properly.'

Josh poured some coffee from the pot next to the sink. He stirred in just a dash of milk and took a sip of the resultant strong liquid. The headache had subsided this morning for the first time in the past week. Now his head felt surprisingly clear, settled and relaxed.

/ can think again.

He glanced towards the television playing in the corner and punched up the volume. The weather girl was just wrapping up her forecast. A forty-degree high, and nohint of rain. Not even a cloud. Why do they bother with a forecast? wondered Josh. It's a desert. Of course it's bloody hot.

'Returning to our main story of the week, the Ben Lippard murder in Coconino County,' said the newsreader.

A picture had come up on the screen. A boy. About sixteen, and a thrash-metal fan, Josh guessed, judging by the long black hair that fell down past his shoulders. His face was long, and thin, but with eyes that were sparkling with curiosity and boyish life.

So young, thought Josh, looking at the face staring back at him.

'And there is still no sign of his friend Luke Marsden who went missing on the same day' continued the newsreader.

Another picture flashed onto the screen. Another boy, also about sixteen. He had a rounder face than the Lippard kid with sandy hair cut away from his face. He was wearing a pale blue shirt with a couple of buttons open at the neck, revealing a strong chest 'Nobody has heard from Luke Marsden since the day of

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Ben Lippard's murder last Monday,' continued the newsreader. 'The sheriff's office say they are urgently looking for Luke, but have so far failed to make contact with him.'

Josh looked at the picture again. The boy's face had the innocence that nearly all teenagers have, but there was an edge to the half-smile that was playing on his lips. A smart kid, thought Josh. A kid who knows more than he lets on.

'The sheriff's office has told this station that if anyone sees Luke they should contact them immediately,' continued the newsreader.

Something was happening in Josh's mind. An image had started to play out in front of him. He could see a flat landscape, with rocks in the distance. He could see the sun burning down from the sky. He could see scrub, and a cloud of dust. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, blocking out all the light, and concentrated his mind, closing out the sound of the television. A boy. He could see a boy.

A gunshot.

Another boy was falling.

Ben.

Then a voice. Josh redoubled his concentration, trying to relax his mind so that nothing would soften or blur the moving picture that was playing out in his mind. One of the boys, Luke, was shouting something. He was looking towards Josh and his lips were forming words but although Josh could see he could not hear.

Try, he told himself.

What did he say to you?

'And now, with the latest sports round-up,' said the newsreader, 'here's Dan Smotten.'

Josh cursed and opened his eyes, noticing that Kate was looking at him. The picture had gone, blown right out of his mind. He took a breath, concentrating, struggling to bring it back.

Nothing.

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'A memory?' asked Kate, her tone hopeful.

Josh nodded.

Kate stood up from her chair, walked across the room and gripped Josh's arm. He could feel her nails digging into his skin. 'What?' she said quickly. 'What was the memory?'

Josh nodded towards the TV screen. 'Him,' he replied slowly. 'I was there. I saw Ben murdered. And I saw Luke. He was running away from me and he was shouting at the same time.'

Kate's nails dug harder into the skin of Josh's forearm. 'What?' she insisted. 'What did he say?'

Josh shook his head from side to side. 'I don't know. The memory is blurred. I can see, but I can't hear. I can feel him looking at me, and see his lips move, but I don't know what it is he is saying.'

'Try, Josh, try'

Josh broke free of Kate's grip. He took another hit of the coffee, letting the caffeine flood into his veins, hoping that the energy would put him back in touch with the memory. Nothing. His mind was still a blank.

'I can't see anything else,' he replied. 'It's gone.'

'It's a start,' she said. 'Once your memory starts recovering, it should all start coming back to you.'

'So long as you stay safe,' said Marshall as he stepped into the room.

'I know something about that murder,' said Josh. 'I don't know what it is exactly, but I know something. I was there.'

'Maybe it was you,' said Marshall. 'The Sheriff's office certainly seems pretty damned keen to talk to you.'

The question had been rattling through his mind for the past few days. Am I a murderer? he kept asking himself. Could I shoot a boy in cold blood?

'Do the letters S-A-S mean anything to you?' asked Marshall.

Josh paused. His mind was jumping all over the place,

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making associations, but he couldn't pin anything down. The headache was coming back: the chisel was starting to tap away insistently at the inside of his skull again. 'No, nothing,' he answered blankly.

'The Regiment,' said Marshall. 'Hereford.'

Josh shook his head. 'Nothing. Why?'

Marshall took a step closer. There was still a bruise on his arm from the fight with the policeman yesterday, and his eyes had the rough appearance of a man who had slept badly. 'Couple of days back, when we were shooting together,' he said, 'you chose a Sig-Sauer P228 like it came natural to you. Like you already knew that gun. So I checked around with some of the veterans who use my website. I wanted to know which British regiments might have trained with that handgun. One guy had the answer.' He paused, looking towards the light beaming in through the window. 'The SAS. British special forces.They used to use Browning High Powers but then they moved on to Sig-Sauers, both the P226 and the P228 models.'

Josh let the words settle in his mind, rubbing his hand against the thick stubble that was growing fast on his face. He repeated the three letters a couple of times to himself. He closed his eyes and tried to relax his mind, intoning the letters silently in his head. No, nothing. No triggers, no flashes of recognition, no pictures. / don't even know what the sodding letters stand for.

'Mean anything to you, boy?'

Josh shook his head. \ already had one memory today. I think that's my lot.' He attempted a smile but could tell it was not likely to be reciprocated.

'You're SAS,'persisted Marshall.'The guns you know.The way you handle yourself when you shoot. I'm sure of it.' He took another step towards Josh, so close that he could smell the shaving foam that had just been washed off the older man's cheeks. In Marshall's eyes, Josh could suddenly

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see a flash of the same anger and violence that he had seen yesterday: in that second Josh was certain that Marshall was a killer.

Maybe it was you that shot the boy? thought Josh. Maybe that's why your daughter happened to be in the area.

'What I want to know is this,' continued Marshall. 'What the hell is a British special forces man doing in the backwaters of Arizona tracking a pair of runaway teenagers?'

Josh could feel his own anger starting to build. The chisel was getting worse, slamming into the side of his skull, and his neck wound was playing up, sending tiny jabs of pain running down from his neck into his spine. 'I don't bloody know, do I?' shouted Josh. 'I've lost my fucking memory.'

'What are you, boy?' snapped Marshall. 'What the hell are you?'

Kate stood up. 'Easy, Dad -- he's not well.'

Josh held his hand against his brow. 'I can't handle this any more,' he said. 'I'm going into that police station tonight to find out who I am, and what the hell I've done.'

'You're not going, man!' shouted Marshall.

Josh stood up straight. 'Nobody gives me orders,' he snapped. He brushed past Marshall, heading towards the door,

'You're going to walk the whole way,' shouted Marshall. 'It's ten miles.'

Josh and Kate had been watching crap TV for hours.

Marshall had gone to bed. Josh looked at Kate. 'I need a

smoke,' he said. 'You got any cigarettes?'

Kate shook her head. 'I'm a doctor, remember?'

Josh stood up. 'I'm bloody gagging for one now. Maybe

I could borrow the car and drive into town to get some.

There should be a gas station open, even at this time of

night.'

Kate turned to look at him. 'You've been okay without

them until now.'

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'Well, now I need one.'

'Good time to give up,' said Kate. 'If you made it through three days, you're over the worst. Take some advice. Quit.'

Josh grinned. He reached down into his pocket. The car keys he'd picked up from the table earlier were right there. Doesn't matter what she says, he told himself. I need to get into town.

'I'm going,' he said.

Turning around, Josh walked swiftly from the kitchen and out into the back yard. The night was quiet and still. He walked across to where the Avalanche pick-up truck was parked, pressed the key button, and watched the doors unlock. He sat himself down in the driver's seat, glancing around for the ignition, and checking out where the other controls were. He fired up the engine. Suddenly, the door burst open. Kate was staring at him, her eyes burning with anger. 'Where the hell are you going?'

'I told you, I need a smoke.'

'Then I'm coming with you.'

Kate sat down* in the Avalanche's passenger seat, slamming the door behind her. Josh pulled the car out onto the road, heading in the direction of the small town. 'Just on your way in,' said Kate coldly, 'there's a Texaco gas station. You'll get some cigarettes there. Since you seem to need them so badly.'

Christ, thought Josh. With this woman on my case, I really will need to start smoking.

They both remained silent for the twenty minutes that it took to drive into town. When he saw the Texaco sign, Josh pulled up. 'I'll be just two minutes,' he said.

'Don't be any longer,' said Kate. 'And you can't smoke in the car. Marshall doesn't like it.'

Josh walked towards the counter. He had no intention of buying any cigarettes. So far as he knew he didn't smoke, and he certainly didn't plan to start now. It was just an

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excuse to get away from Kate. He stopped at the counter, picked up two packets of gum, and looked up at the boy behind the desk. 'Where's the gents'?' he said as he handed over a dollar bill.

The boy nodded towards a back door. Josh walked up to it and went through. There was one door that led to the toilets, and another that led outside. He stepped quickly through it. The gas station backed onto some scrubland, leading down to the town. Despite the aching in his leg, Josh started running into the darkness.

By the time Kate realised he'd slipped out of sight, it would be too late.

The rocks provided some cover. Josh hobbled between the boulders, leaning against one, then another to support himself as he moved forward. Keep going, he told himself.

High above him, the moon was casting a silvery light down on the plain. The town of Boisdale had a population often or fifteen thousand people judged Josh, thinking back to the map he had studied at Kate's house. It had a WalMart, a Motel 6, and a carpet factory that was the main local employer. If you want quiet, Boisdale was the place to find it, reckoned Josh as he looked down towards the neat row of suburban dwellings that led down towards the centre of the town.

Nobody comes here? So why the hell did I?

The Sheriff's office was on the edge of town, on Roosevelt Avenue. It was a big, square concrete block, set fifty yards back from the road. Abotrt a hundred metres long and thirty deep, its front was protected by a wall. At the back was a fifty-square-metre courtyard. Josh raised a pair of binoculars he had brought with him to his eyes and peered down into the yard: he could see a shooting range, a pound for keeping the dogs, and a row of motorcycles.

If I can keep out of the way of the dogs, that's how I'm going in.

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He edged forward. The boulders were littered along a patch of scrubland that led up to the start of the town. From here it was thirty yards to the sheriff's office. He had equipped himself with a grappling rope taken from Marshall's garage, plus the Sig-Sauer P228. It's just a smalltown sheriff's office, he told himself. It's already two in the morning. At most there's going to be one fat old night guard on duty, and he's probably fallen asleep in front of the TV. I shouldn't have any trouble breaking in here.

Somewhere in there they may have my blood sample. If they've tested the DNA, they will know who I am. In a few minutes I'll know as well.

Josh moved down next to the back wall, walking as quickly as he could on his wounded leg, and as he did so he could feel the adrenalin starting to surge through his veins. Then he paused. A snake was crawling across the ground. Josh remained perfectly still, letting the animal pass, but he realised that he was sweating with fear. He looked up at the wall. It was seven feet high, made from concrete breeze-blocks. About fifteen, maybe twenty years old, he judged. Old enough for the mortar between the blocks to be crumbling. He dug his nails into the space between the blocks. There was some give there. Enough for a man to get a grip.