Nameless Night (30 page)

“They found your fingerprints in . . . in an air-raid shelter or something.”

“Do what you have to do,” he told her. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I’m an officer of the court. They get a warrant and I’m going to have to tell them what they want to know . . . which is everything I know about you. Otherwise I find myself disbarred and on my way to jail.”

She pointed over at the TV. “Gill has a news conference at four.”

She checked her watch. “Twenty minutes,” she said. “After that, everybody is going to know about Harmony House and Paul Hardy.”

She took a deep breath. “Another hour and he’s going to know about the plastic surgery. Then the race is on for the first picture of the new Adrian Hope.” She waved a well-shaped arm toward the front of the house. “That street out there won’t hold all the reporters. There’ll be photographers in the trees.”

“They can camp out there in the rain for all I care,” Helen said.

“Nobody says I have to let them in.”

“The FBI isn’t going to camp out,” Kirsten said. “They’ll kick down the door if they have to.”

She looked at Randy. “You’ve got to get out of here.”

42

And then the rain arrived in earnest, blasting into the picture window with the strength of a fire hose, bowing the glass with its ferocity, whistling from some crack as a sudden gust of wind shook the house.

“Goodness,” Helen said. “Was that an earthquake?”

“The wind,” Randy corrected.

And then another gust rattled the house to the rafters. From the floor below, several high-pitched cries seeped through the floorboards.

“I’ve got to go,” Helen said quickly.

They watched as she trotted over to the elevator and disappeared. He read the question in her eyes. “Problem is, I don’t know any of the things they want to know,” he said.

“What?”

“I don’t remember anything before I woke up in the hospital seven years ago. I don’t know what happened to Adrian Hope on the night before he was supposed to blast off. I don’t know what happened to the Howard family or why.”

“You’re serious.”

“Absolutely.”

“Nothing?”

“An image here, an image there,” he said. “For a while there, it seemed like I might get my memory back. I started remembering random bits and pieces.” He shrugged. “But that stuff stopped coming a few days ago.”

“What kind of images?”

“Oh . . . I can see myself sitting at a desk in a classroom. You know, one of those desks with the arm you can write on.”

She nodded.

“I can see out the window . . . out over this big expanse of snow.”

He snapped his fingers. “That’s all.”

“That makes sense,” she said. “You’re from Wisconsin.”

“If they say so. In my mind, I’m not from anywhere. In my mind, Adrian Hope is just a name. At best, he’s who I used to be.”

“Who are you now?”

“The jury’s still out on that one.”

The lights flickered, went out for ten seconds, and then came on again. Sounds of commotion rose from the floor below. The screech of Shirley’s voice caught his ear.

“Come on,” he said, heading across the room to the elevator. He slipped an arm around Kirsten’s waist and let her precede him into the elevator car. Half a minute later, they were greeted by a scene of chaos. Shirley was down at the far end of the hall squawking at Eunice, who, for her part, was hollering back about how she’d stand anyplace she wanted. The lights flickered again. Screams of protest rose to the ceiling.

Helen shouted them down. “Let’s all go down to the TV room,” she yelled. “That way we’ll all be together.”

The notion was well received. Charles and Randall immediately went running down the stairs. “Everybody bring your flashlight,” Helen shouted.

Carman was rolling Mrs. Dahlberg toward the elevator. Dolores and Darl walked along with Shirley, waited for the elevator, and all rode down together. As usual, Eunice brought up the rear. She stopped in front of him and looked him over.

“I liked your other face better,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Let’s go, Eunice,” Helen said.

Helen, Kirsten, and Randy stood on the second-floor landing and watched as Eunice flounced down the stairway in slow motion.

“Funny as it may sound . . .” he said when she was out of sight, “but these guys feel a hell of a lot more like my family than those people I see on television.”

They descended the stairway three wide. “Shirley thinks you’re mad at her,” Helen said as they walked toward the back of the ground floor.

“I don’t understand what she’s saying anymore,” Randy said. Helen stopped and looked at him. “You’re serious?”

“I don’t know what happened, but it just sounds like noise to me now. It’s like some switch got thrown in my brain.”

“She’s going to be crushed.”

“I know.”

“You should tell her.”

He thought it over. She was right.

“I will,” he promised. “First chance I get.”

As they turned the corner into the TV room, Eunice was trying to pull the remote control from Darl’s hand. He could see in her face how she was hoping Darl would get agitated and give her an excuse to pop him one.

“Hey,” Randy called. They both turned his way. “What happened to sharing?”

Helen settled the matter by snatching the remote from Eunice’s hand. She hit the power button and channel-surfed to the local ABC affiliate. They were a minute or so late for the press conference. By the time Helen found the channel, Gill was already holding forth on the subject of Paul Hardy, about how he’d been found in a railroad car, about how he’d lived for seven years in a home for disabled adults. About the plastic surgery and Paul’s ultimate recovery. Cut to a photo of the famous plastic surgeon Dr. Lenville Richard and then back to Gill. The lights flickered; the TV quit. The storm couldn’t have been more than a block away now. The windows were shaking, bending inward from the wind. The volume of water dropping from the sky had rendered the panes completely opaque, like riding in the car through the car wash. The roar of the wind sounded like an airplane flying low over the house. The doorbell rang. Randy said he’d get it. Without thinking, he took Kirsten by the arm and pulled her along with him. She came without a struggle. He looked out through the little telescope in the door. An older guy, but real lithe and fit looking, holding a huge plate of what looked like brownies before him on a platter.

Randy pulled open the door. The guy was a bit taken aback by the sight.

“Uh,” he stuttered, “. . . uh . . . is Hel . . . Ms. Willis here?”

Behind him, Arbor Street was being thrashed by the storm. The trees bent like supplicants. Leaves swirled through the air. A black plastic garbage can was rolling down the middle of the street. A limb was down in the front yard. The trees groaned and cracked. Somewhere up the street something hit the ground so hard he could feel the impact tremor in his feet.

Randy took the stranger by the elbow and pulled him into the house. “Come on,” he said. Kirsten followed along as Randy led him back to the TV room. Helen’s shoulders slumped at the sight of him. “Mr. Jaynes,” she said. “You shouldn’t have. Really there was no need.”

She kept on at how he shouldn’t have, but it didn’t matter. The brownies were a big hit. The assembled multitude made short work of what must have been thirty brownies.

Kirsten and Randy were standing hip to hip and neither of them bothered to move. On the other hand, Mr. Jaynes had moved in on Helen. Randy could tell from her body language he was way inside her bubble. “Watch him, he’s making a move on her,” Kirsten whispered in his ear. She was right, no doubt about it. This Jaynes guy definitely had the hots for Helen. Helen turned and looked at Randy as if he’d just pissed on the rug. That’s when the lights went out and Kirsten leaned against his shoulder in the darkness.

43

Looked like a prison break. Flashlight beams zipped around the walls and the ceiling for about five minutes, until everybody calmed down and got used to the idea that things were going to be dark for a while.

The storm settled over the house. The walls creaked and groaned from the power of the wind. The rain attacked the windows, sweeping across the backyard in ranks of silver soldiers, exploding on the grass, one following another in close ranks as the storm spent its fury on Arbor Street.

The joy of sitting in the TV room without the TV working was short-lived. Helen broke out the playing cards and the games. Half an hour later, the grumbling began in earnest. The house was starting to cool down. Dolores had her jacket on. Darl was playing poker with gloves. Eunice was cheating at dominoes.

“Everybody . . . everybody,” Helen sang out. Things quieted down. “Everybody grab your flashlight.” Chinese fire drill. “We’re going to go upstairs to our rooms. It’s warmer up there, and if the heat doesn’t come back soon, the only place to stay warm will be in bed.” They stood up one by one. “Let’s put the cards and the games away before we go.” Grudgingly, they began to put things away. A knock on the door. And then another, harder and more insistent this time. Helen looked at Randy through the darkness. “I’ll get it,” she said immediately. Anything to get away from Mr. Jaynes. She was gone less than a minute. Her face was hard when she returned.

“We’ve got company,” she said. She jerked her thumb toward the front hall. “I told them to go away.”

Randy hurried to the front hall and peeked around the window sash. Two remote TV trucks and counting. The curb was mostly full already. Seemed like every car had a logo. Must have been thirty media types braving the elements out there.

Kirsten cocked an eyebrow. “The media,” Randy said. She winced and walked away.

He followed. “Problem?”

“I really shouldn’t be here,” she said. “It looks like I’ve taken sides.”

“Have you?”

She met his eyes. “Of course not.”

Satisfied that things were cleaned up and put away, Helen windmilled her arm.

“Let’s go, bring your flashlights,” she hollered. They moved slowly, dragging their feet as they mounted the staircase on the way to their rooms on the second floor. Eunice, of course, was last and loudest. “I don’t see why I have to go to my room . . . this isn’t a prison . . . we . . .”

Randy walked over and checked the street again. Hoping . . . hoping for what? An additional twenty cameras? That’s what he got. They were everywhere. Two-person teams. One with a microphone. Another with a camera. They were soaking wet and looking miserable. He smiled.

“We’ll outlast them,” he said to Kirsten. “The weather’s on our side.”

They walked over to the window again, standing shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the front lawn as the media types jockeyed for position. CNN’s team included a third guy whose job it was to hold an umbrella over the guy with the mike. Behind him, Randy could hear Helen coaxing everybody into their rooms. Overhead, the wind roared, buffeting the eaves, threatening to tear the century-old roof from its moorings. And then suddenly it sounded as if a cannon had been fired. Kaboom! And then, swear to God you could hear the tree coming down, hear the volume of air the big black poplar was pushing before itself in the three seconds before it smacked into the roof, tearing through everything in its path, crushing century-old roof trusses like matchsticks, until, finally, after a series of bone-crushing starts and stops, it came to rest with its massive limbs poking down into the second-floor hallway. Splinters of wood and shards of glass rained to the floor. Several roofing tiles smacked onto the wet carpet at Randy’s feet. Randy ran for the stairway. The hall had been reduced to a crawl space. Helen Willis was on her hands and knees in the middle of the corridor. She had a cut over her left eye. Looked like a boxer. She was crawling his way. When she saw him, she stopped crawling and gathered herself.

“Everybody,” she yelled. “Everybody open your doors.”

Heads poked into the corridor. “Everybody get your warm jacket and your raincoat. Then come out into the corridor.” She wiped the blood from her eye, pulled her hand back, and was appalled by the sight of her own blood. No Mrs. Dahlberg. No Eunice. No Carman. No Shirley. Randy ducked low and crawled under the trunk of the tree, all the way to Shirley’s room at the end of the hall. The doorjamb had buckled from the weight of the tree. He couldn’t force it open, so he kicked in the panels. Shirley was sitting in her chair waiting for a rescue with her red down jacket spread across her knees. He crawled right up into her face and looked her in the eye. “Since my surgery, I don’t understand what you’re saying anymore. I don’t know why but it’s true. I’m not mad or anything.”

She nodded her understanding. He gave her a hug. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “I’m going to take you out of the chair and put you out in the hall. Then I’m going to fold the chair and pass it out. I’m going to carry you down to the landing and then come back and get the chair. Okay?”

She said it was and held her arms out to him. And it was. Worked for Mrs. Dahlberg, too, although he didn’t have to kick in her door. By the time he’d finished with four trips up and down the hallway, his hands were alive with splinters and the rest of the crew was dressed and milling about the downstairs entrance area.

Helen’s eyes were wide like a spooked horse. Kirsten was dabbing at the cut with the sleeve of her sweater. “I called DHS,” Helen said. “A bus is on the way.” She looked around. “No Carman. No Eunice.”

As if to mock them, the tree shifted and dropped another foot. Everybody ducked and cringed. The rain was pouring in through the hole and running down the trunk of the tree in a long thin stream.

“Take them downstairs,” Randy said to Helen. “I’ll go looking for Carman and Eunice.”

She started to argue. “Go,” he growled.

She went. He looked over at Kirsten. “She could use some help,” he said.

Kirsten was torn. “You be careful,” she said. He promised he would be. The tree dropped another inch.

“Where’s Mr. Jaynes?” he asked.

They all looked around, bewildered, and then Randy headed back upstairs.