"That's Lulu," said Mitch. He smiled for some reason. "She may be a little out there, but she saved your life."
Nothing made sense to Kris. He was, if anything, more frustrated now than he'd been before getting his questions answered.
"Have you got that rental agreement?" he asked.
"It's in your personal effects," said Mitch. "Not that there's much left. Your clothing was cut off in the ER. As far as I know, all they have is the rental agreement, the key, some loose change, and your billfold. I'm not even sure they kept your shoes."
"Can I look at what they have?" asked Kris.
"It's your stuff," said Mitch, shrugging his shoulders. "Be right back."
He was gone for only five minutes, during which Kris tried to make sense of what he now knew. What he'd learned suggested he'd had
two
accidents; one in a city, where he hit a man and another here in Connecticut, where his car had gone into a river. That didn't seem likely, but it's what the evidence suggested. Mitch came back into the room, a plastic bag in his hand.
The bag was upended on the table they put his food trays on, and Mitch pushed it across the bed. Everything except the loose change looked like it had been wet. The paper had been folded into three equal sections, but was wrinkled and stained with red. He realized it was his blood and was fascinated by it as he unfolded the document. It was still legible, but just barely. It said the rent had been paid in full up to the end of May.
"What day is it?" he asked.
"Today is the thirteenth," said Mitch.
"I mean what month?"
"November."
"So I obviously just drove up here to come to this house," said Kris.
"Looks that way."
"I don't remember any of this," sighed Kris. He was obviously frustrated.
"Maybe you came here to meet somebody, or write a book that you couldn't write in the city," suggested Mitch.
"Why couldn't I write a book in the city?" asked Kris.
"Too many distractions?"
"I'm pretty distracted right now," said Kris explosively. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to be writing!"
"Can't help you there," said Mitch. "While they were getting me this stuff I Googled your name. If you're a writer, you either haven't written anything noteworthy or wrote it under another name."
The men looked at each other, both arriving at the same conclusion.
"My other name," said Kris. He picked up the rental agreement. "This name!"
"I Googled that one, too," said Mitch. "I didn't get anything on it either. Not about an author. Who's your publisher?"
Kris closed his eyes, but got nothing.
"I don't
know!
" he moaned.
"Maybe it will come to you," said Mitch. "The place is paid for. Why not just move in and see what happens?"
"You want me around ... in case you find out why you want to arrest me," said Kris.
Mitch grinned. "I can't exactly tell you not to leave town. Used to could do that kind of thing, but those days are over."
Kris looked at the man, who was at the same time a threat, though a hazy one, and just a man doing his job. He
had
told Kris some things that he'd wanted to know and he
was
, apparently, being honest about what he had in mind. While that was threatening, Kris liked it that the man was honest and direct with him.
"I don't even have any clothes," said Kris.
"You've got a credit card," said Mitch, standing up. "It's valid. I checked that when I ran your license." His smile looked friendly, but his words robbed it of that attribute quickly. "And, as soon as you decide to tell me what you're holding back, maybe we can figure out what to do with you."
He left and Kris picked up the billfold he didn't recognize. Other than the credit card, it contained a twenty and three ones, a library card in the name of Kris Farmingham, a discount card showing that if he bought two more pizzas from Tony's Real Italian Pizza and Pub that he'd get a free cheese pizza, and three pieces of paper with phone numbers on them, but nothing else. The wallet looked starkly bare to him. There were no pictures. Maybe the policeman was right. Maybe he was some kind of hermit who shunned contact with the outside world, even to the point of fleeing the city he lived in so that he could write without anyone bothering him.
He couldn't remember being like that, but his billfold suggested he didn't have much of a life.
He looked at his left hand. There was no wedding ring and no indication that one had been removed. He wondered if anybody was looking for him.
Chapter Eight
Lou Anne looked at Ambrose playing and felt the surge of warmth in her heart she always did when she saw him like this. She loved him more than anything she could think of and every time she saw him her heart reminded her of that.
She didn't want more children, but that was because of the difficulties she'd had carrying Ambrose. It had been torture for her. Her body hadn't coped well with hosting a baby. The thought of going through that again had convinced her to take precautions.
Not that she'd needed them. There hadn't been "another man" after Ambrose's father. There had been some that were mildly interesting, but that was all. At least until now.
She thought again about the man she'd found on the road. She remembered the feeling of fear that he might be dead, and the hope that had leapt into her heart when he had turned out to be alive. He was very interesting. She tried to figure out
why
he was so interesting. She had a hard time with that. She knew almost nothing about him, and her short visit with him at the hospital had been routine in a very strange kind of way. She'd noticed his accent while she was there. Maybe that was it.
All she knew was that something made her want to learn more about him. She hadn't thought about any man this much for almost as long as she could remember. She'd said he'd see her again and she'd meant it. That she'd meant it was one of the reasons she was thinking about him so much. She
wanted
to see him again ... she just wasn't sure why.
Lola Henderson was one pissed off woman. Kris hadn't called her in over a week. All the messages she left for him at home went unanswered and his cell phone had been turned off every time she'd tried to call it. She'd gone to his apartment twice. The second time she'd waited around for a while, hoping to catch him. She was sure he'd dumped her and that he'd done it the gutless way of not telling her about it. She was positive she'd catch him bringing some other woman home to his apartment and she was primed to make him pay for it.
But he never came home. His parking spot was empty, too.
She had been
that
close to getting a commitment from him. She'd had to ask him for a key to his apartment
three
times, but the last time, at least he'd said, "We'll see." And now he'd disappeared off the face of the Earth.
It suddenly occurred to her that he might have been involved in an accident. She felt panic at the thought. He was her ticket. She just
knew
it. He was so secretive about his daily activities. She hadn't met any of his friends. He never talked about any friends either. If he was laid up in the hospital or worse ... dead ... she'd have to start all over again.
She was just barely getting by on her salary and she
hated
her job. She didn't want to work. She wanted a man to take care of her, so she could sleep late and go shopping whenever she wanted to. Kris wasn't rich. Not yet. But he
would
be, if he wrote the right book, and she was quite sure if he listened to her she could tell him how to write it. After all, she'd read at least ten or fifteen books. She liked the ones with pictures of muscled men on the covers, set in England, when people still rode horses and men took what they wanted from a woman. Kris wasn't like that. She'd managed to get him into bed a few times, but he wasn't helpless yet.
She was thirty-six, though she'd told him she was only twenty-eight. She needed to get him dependant on her. If he was in a hospital somewhere, she needed to find out, so she could go and feel sorry for him. She'd get the key to his apartment, to get his mail for him or something, and have a copy made. She'd visit him every day, and take him home to finish recuperating from whatever was wrong with him. He'd see that he needed her.
She picked up the phone book. It took some effort, because it weighed a lot. Turning to "Hospital" she stared at the page. It was covered with names and numbers. So was the next one ... and the one after that. She couldn't call all of them! It would take days!
She thought of a shortcut. Let somebody
else
do all the calling.
She picked up the phone and dialed 911.
"What do you mean I have to come to the precinct?" objected Lola. "My boyfriend is missing. Do your fucking job!"
"I can't take a missing persons report over the phone," said the operator. "That's not an emergency. We're all backed up down here. You'll have to make the report in person."
The line went dead and Lola shouted at the phone.
She checked her watch. She had to go to work. She definitely couldn't afford to get fired right now. She cursed again as she grabbed her purse. She'd have to do this later. She thought that Kris had better be in practically critical condition when she found him, because if he wasn't, he would be when she got done with him.
"You're sure I can go," Kris said to the little Pakistani doctor.
"I am being very sure of deese, yes," said Dr. Massouf. "I vas telling the Mitch Connel dat I was being ready to deescharge you for sure." The man looked up at Kris. "Are you wanting me to be referring you to a psychiatrist?"
"Do you think I'm crazy?" asked Kris.
"Of course not," said the man, his voice on edge. "You are being troubled with memory losses, yes?"
"I'll let you know," said Kris. He stood up. That didn't feel odd anymore. The nurses had had him up and walking around for several days now. All the bandages were off and he had only a little residual ache in a few muscles and bruises. "I don't have any clothes," he pointed out.
"Ah, yes, vun moment, pliss," the doctor said and hustled out of the room.
Jessica came in almost immediately, two bags in her hands.
"The hospital chaplain got these for you from the Salvation Army," she said. "I hope they fit."
From the first bag he pulled out a blue checkered shirt, long sleeved, thankfully, and a pair of gray work pants. There was a new package of jockey shorts, containing three pairs, and another package that had three pairs of new white tube socks in it. A pair of hiking boots - used, but in surprisingly good condition - were in the bottom of the bag. The other bag had a folded up coat in it. He stood there, while she waited. Apparently she didn't intend to leave while he dressed.
"You going to stay here while I change?" he asked.
"Oh!" Her face got darker. She didn't answer his question. Instead, she posed one of her own. "Um ... did you remember anything about your health insurance?"
"No."
"In that case, I'm supposed to take you down to the cashier's office. They want to make arrangements for payment."
"Of course," he said.
"I can leave if you want me to," she said, but she didn't move.
"Well, I'm going to be naked here in a minute," he said.
"It's not like I haven't seen that before," she said. Her face was still darker than usual. He thought again about how she was really a strikingly good looking woman. "I gave you a sponge bath when you were still unconscious," she added.
"Makes no difference to me," he said. He was surprised, for some reason, to find that it really
didn't
make him uncomfortable for her to be there. Maybe she was interested in him.
That
he found to be an odd concept, for some reason.
He dropped the hospital robe and looked at her. She had turned around after all.
"You're not going to make me leave here in a wheel chair, are you?" He smiled. He still hadn't moved to put anything on.
She turned her head just far enough to see he was still naked, then looked away again. "Do you need help getting dressed?" she asked.
"I don't think so," he said. He ripped the bag of shorts open, somewhat enthusiastically, and pulled a pair on. Being in this room naked, with a woman, was affecting him, but the shorts kept it from showing too much. He pulled on the pants, which were loose around the waist.
"No belt?" he asked.
"I guess not," she said. "Mitch says you're staying here to write your book."
