Storm Season

“Blood. Death. Killing.” He grimaced and shook his head. “I don’t understand the nightmares. I’m not that kind of man. Not now, at least. I can’t stand the thought of hurting anyone. That’s why I want to leave the past behind. Things could be buried there I don’t want to unearth.”

Everyone had nightmares at one time or another. Bad dreams didn’t automatically brand a person as crazy or homicidal, and J.D. appeared calm and caring. But I’d feel a lot better about the Lassiter sisters’ safety if I knew more about J.D.’s past.

“How long have you been like this,” I asked, “without your memories?”

The air was thick with moisture and mosquitoes and no breeze to alleviate, either. My blouse stuck to my skin, and sweat trickled into my eyes. I swatted mosquitoes with one hand and wiped my face with the other. Maybe J.D., who hadn’t responded, thought I’d become uncomfortable enough to leave him alone, but, if so, he underestimated my persistence.

“How far back do you remember?” I said.

“You have no right to pry into my past.” His voice held more frustration than belligerence. “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

“Yes, you do, because I’m concerned about two elderly sisters who have opened their home to a man they know nothing about. I need to be convinced that they’re safe, that you’re no threat to them. Either you deal with me, or I take my concerns to the sheriff’s office. Which will it be?”

“I’d never hurt Violet or Bessie,” he insisted with a stricken expression.

“Are you sure?”

“They’ve been good to me. Why would I hurt them?”

“Do you ever have blackouts? Hear voices?”

He shook his head and regarded me with a kindly smile that reminded me of my late father. “And I don’t drink or do drugs, either. Believe me, Miss—”

“Skerritt. But you can call me Maggie.” I felt drawn to J.D. in spite of my intention to remain objective.

He nodded. “Except for loss of memory and occasional night terrors, I’m as sane as you are. If I thought I was a danger to Violet and Bessie or anyone else, I’d turn myself in.”

“Then what’s the harm in letting me run your prints to find out who you are?”

J.D. sighed. “My memory goes back only as far as July. One morning I awoke and found myself on the Pinellas Trail in Palm Harbor with no money, no identification, a blinding headache and no recollection of anything before that.”

“Why didn’t you go to the authorities?”

“I know it sounds foolish, but I’d had those dreams before I came to, and I was afraid I’d…done something I shouldn’t have.”

He was warming to his topic, so I didn’t interrupt.

“For days, weeks, I scrounged old newspapers, looking for stories about missing persons. Or some horrible crime. If I had family worried about me, wouldn’t they have contacted the press?”

“Maybe. Did you come to the Lassiters then?”

“Not at first. I stayed in homeless shelters in Tarpon Springs and Clearwater, but the people who ran them asked too many questions. Eventually I found an old bike someone had left as garbage on a curb. I fixed the chain and appropriated it for transportation. Between collecting cans and doing odd jobs, I earned enough money to buy food. I shopped in thrift stores for clothes. All I needed was a place to stay. That’s when I discovered the toolshed out back, here. It’s handy for my bike, being next to the Trail, and I worked out an exchange with Violet and Bessie, odd jobs in place of rent.”