Killer Amnesia

Exhaustion rippled through him. He was working a double shift that had started before six this morning. Only the county sheriff along with two deputies were assigned to this area, and the three of them were spread thin.

He flipped on his flashing red lights and pulled a U-turn. A canine whimper sounded from the backseat, and Liam glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry, Duchess, looks like you’re stuck with me.”

He’d discovered the animal earlier in the day wandering around the town square. The tag listed her name but no phone number. A nuisance call and a traffic stop had prevented him from reaching the county shelter before closing. Though bedraggled from being caught in the rain, the dog was well fed—too well fed. Someone must be worried about her.

He handed over a bone-shaped biscuit from the box he’d purchased earlier. “Why are you complaining? You’ll be home before me at this rate.”

Soon the flashing lights of Deputy Jim Bishop’s identical Chevy Tahoe appeared, and Liam eased his vehicle to the side of the road.

His radio popped to life. “Unit 120.” Rose’s voice was solemn. “Deputy Bishop called in a code four.”

A frisson went through him.

All the years he’d been in law enforcement, he’d yet to overcome his latent dread of fatality calls. “Ten-four.”

He adjusted the collar of his slicker, tugged his hat lower over his forehead and stepped into the pouring rain. Splashing through ankle-deep puddles, he jogged the distance to where Deputy Bishop stood vigil.

Tall and gaunt with thinning sand-colored hair, Bishop was openly gunning for the sheriff’s job in the next election. Given what Liam had seen of the deputy’s job performance, the guy had a better chance of getting kicked by a snake.

The man pointed a slender arm. “Down there. Got a brief look at her before the rising water drove me back.”

A beige Fiat 500 rested upright in water from the culvert, rain streaming through the shattered sunroof. Liam recognized the car—the model was distinctive—but he didn’t know the driver.

“Single fatality,” Deputy Bishop shouted over the storm. “Female.”

Judging by the crumpled exterior, the car had rolled at least once before landing at the bottom of the ditch. The headlights cast a weak, shimmering beam through the rising water, and Liam caught a glimpse of the motionless driver.

“Any identification?” Liam asked.

“Rose is running the license plates.”

Liam always trusted that God had a plan. Sometimes that plan was human intervention. “I’ll check it out.”

“You can’t. You’ll be washed away by the current.”

“Turn on your searchlights,” Liam called over his shoulder.

He shucked his utility belt but kept his police two-way radio clipped to his shirt collar. Rummaging through the rear compartment of his vehicle, he retrieved a rope, then slammed the hatch shut. He paused a moment before deciding to forgo the backboard. Fire and rescue were better equipped to retrieve the body.

Bishop’s truck was parked with the nose angled toward the ditch. After securing the rope to the bumper, Liam tied off and backed toward the vertical grade.

“Take up the slack,” he called.

Bishop nodded.

The drop wasn’t far, but it was steep. Liam’s boots sank into the muddy embankment, and his arms strained against holding the bulk of his weight. Moisture had already soaked through his collar and saturated his uniform. Though it was early spring, the rain was just shy of sleet. He could have left his slicker behind for all the good it was doing him.

His gloved hands slipped, and he lost his grip. The slack broke free. He plunged the last few feet into icy, calf-deep water, his hip bumping painfully into the car’s rear fender. Stumbling and slipping, he managed to fight the current.

“Thanks for keeping the slack, Bishop,” he mumbled darkly.

His feet went numb almost immediately. The rain was coming down too fast, turning runoff from the culvert into a shallow, raging river. The water reached his knees and wrenched at his balance. Gripping the car roof for purchase, he squinted through the dim glow of Bishop’s searchlights and wrestled his way to the shattered driver’s window.

Submerged to the waist, the woman’s lifeless body was slumped over the deployed airbag. Her right arm bobbed near the gearshift, palm up, the fingers curled, and her dark hair hung limply around her downturned face. Papers drifted in the current, escaping through the broken passenger window.

Liam’s throat tightened. Even without seeing her face, he sensed she was about his age.

He offered a brief prayer for her and the family she left behind.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he grasped her shoulder and pulled her upright. Her head lolled backward, and her dark hair plastered wetly across her ashen cheeks. He aimed the beam of his flashlight toward her face. Blood oozed from a gash near her temple, and a purple bruise darkened one eye.

He brushed her hair aside. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t place where he’d seen her before. Maybe he’d stood behind her in line at the supermarket. A likely occurrence in a town the size of Redbird.

Her eyes flew open.

Adrenaline spiked through his veins, and the flashlight slipped from his fingers. She gulped for air, her chest heaving, then feebly groped the front of his coat, her expression panicked.

“H-help me.”

He’d caught a brief glimpse of her eyes. A unique shade of amber topaz.

Catching the woman’s hands, he pressed them between his gloves. She wasn’t dead, but she was going to be if they didn’t get her out of this water soon.

“It’s all right,” he soothed. “Fire and rescue are on the way.”

“Wh-who are you?” Her teeth chattered.

The question caught him off guard for a moment. That was the problem with being a dead man—remembering his cover name didn’t always come easy.

He sluiced the moisture from his face. “I’m Deputy Liam McCourt with the county sheriff’s department. What’s your name, ma’am?”

“My name is...” An expression of abject terror descended over her features. “I don’t know. I d-don’t know what my name is! Wh-what’s happening to me?”

A fresh sense of urgency filled him. Injuries from car accidents were notoriously deceptive.

“It’s all right.” He cupped his hand behind her head, and she turned her face into his palm. “Don’t be afraid.”

He caught sight of Bishop’s silhouette outlined by the searchlights and depressed the button on his two-way. “Check on fire and rescue. They’re late.”

“I’m c-cold,” she managed to say between chattering teeth.

Something wasn’t right. People sometimes forgot the events leading up to an accident, as though the trauma bleached their memories, but he’d never encountered someone who’d forgotten their own name.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll get you out of here.”

“Promise?” She clutched the lapel of his jacket. “Please don’t lie to me.”

Don’t lie to me.