Kill Me Again

“Even so,” he continued, “it won’t stay a secret for long. People talk. The boys will say something. Wives will tell their husbands. Husbands will tell their best pals. Those best pals will tell their wives, and so on.”

“It’ll only have to hold for a day or two,” she said. The odd way she’d been looking at him before—like a wary doe eyeing an armed hunter—had faded. “Bryan’s going to contact your publisher to see if someone there can identify you, or if they know of someone who can. From there, we should be able to find out where you live, who your relatives are, all the things you must be so eager to learn. As frustrating as I know this must be, it won’t take long to fill in the gaps. In the meantime, there’s no reason to let the killer know he didn’t succeed.”

Did she know how much better she was making him feel? he wondered. To think he would have all the answers in a day or two…

“But…the shooter probably expects to see something in the papers about a body being found. That would be big news in a town this size, wouldn’t it?”

She frowned at him. “How did you know Shadow Falls was a small town, not a city?”

He stopped short and wondered about that. “I don’t know. Bits of conversations pinned together, combined with the view outside my window, I guess.”

“Or because it’s something you knew before, and the knowledge is still there, in your memory, right where you left it. I think it’s a good sign, Aaron.”

He felt his worry lighten just a little. “I hope you’re right.”

She nodded. “I’m sure I am. But to answer your question, you were found along a back road that leads through a state forest. It’s dirt, not pavement, not even gravel. Just dirt, and hardly ever traveled. It’s near one of the spots where the high school kids go to party and underage couples go to have sex, when they aren’t out at the old abandoned Campbell farm or the vacant cheese factory. It’s perfectly believable that a body dumped out there might not be found for a few days.”

He frowned and looked her up and down yet again, taking in her pencil skirt, silky blouse and tightly wound hair. “You say you’re an English teacher?”

“Why do you ask it like that?”

“Because you think like a cop. Or a criminal.”

She looked away so quickly that he knew she had something to hide. Some deep, dark secrets of her own. And all of a sudden he was almost as curious about her past as he was about his own hidden history.

There was something fascinating about Professor Olivia Dupree, but the shadows in her eyes told him it wouldn’t be easy finding out what it was. He didn’t really believe she was a criminal, much less in league with a hit man. But there was definitely something hiding behind those intelligent brown eyes.

She met his curious gaze and stared right back. The tension, the attraction—oh, yeah, the feelings were there, and they were real—built. Finally, she looked away. “There’s a policeman guarding your room,” she told him. “That should reassure you.”

“Yeah, I just love cops,” he said, and he made his words as sarcastic as possible. “But having one outside the door is only going to make the gossip mill grind a little faster, isn’t it?”

She nodded and licked her lips, the motion of her tongue, quick and slight though it was, grabbing him by the testosterone and not letting go.

“I’ll phone Bryan,” she said. “I can ask him to send a plainclothes officer instead. You’re right, the uniform raises too many questions.”

“A plainclothes cop will be just as obvious.”

“To you and me, maybe. But not to anyone else.” She moved closer to the bed, leaned over him just a little, and her face softened. “You really do need to spend the night, Aaron. Dr. Overton wants to be sure she hasn’t missed anything, and you know how tricky head injuries can be. Your brain could swell later on and you could be dead—” she snapped her fingers “—just like that.”

“Did you just come in, or did you somehow miss that I already could have been dead—” he snapped his fingers “—just like that? I don’t like being in this hospital. I’m a sitting duck here.”

“I don’t think you have a choice.”

“You don’t know me very well, then.”

She thinned her lips, looked at him steadily. “I think it would be a bad idea for you to leave, but you’re an adult. You do what you want. I’m going to leave that card here.” She bent over it, picked up the nearby pen and scribbled something. “I put Bryan’s numbers on it, too. But I’m closer—only fifteen minutes away. If you need anything, feel free to call me, okay?”

“You’re going, then?” He almost tried to snatch the words back and wondered if he could have managed to sound any more like a disappointed four-year-old.

Her chocolate eyes melted. “I’m going out to talk to Dr. Overton. But I’ll come in and say goodbye before I leave.”

“No need. You’ve told me all you know.”

She moved close to the bed again, and for a second he thought she was going to touch him, put a hand on his shoulder or brow or some sappy thing like that. And while he didn’t think he would mind her putting her hands on him in the right circumstances, he definitely didn’t want it like that.

She didn’t, though. She said, “Aaron, your work has seen me through some…difficult times. It’s probably been more important to me than you can imagine. And if I can return the favor by helping you now, then that’s what I want to do. So if you need anything, call me. Okay?”

He frowned at her, finding this whole thing very strange. She was a fan. He had a fan. Images from the film of Stephen King’s Misery ran through his mind, along with a surge of frustration that he could recall old movies but not a damn thing about his old life.

Still, he replied, “Okay,” and let it go. He didn’t want to need this woman’s help. He wanted to think that all he really needed was his past.

“Okay,” she said. “It was a real thrill meeting you, Aaron.”

He nodded. “Wish I could say the same. But I don’t feel like I have—met me yet, that is.”

She sighed. “You’re talented, gifted even. Special. You really are.”

Hearing that from her made him feel kind of queasy inside, and then suddenly he was sucked into his own head, into what he thought must be his own past.

He saw himself, and thought he would have recognized his own body even if he hadn’t spent several long minutes staring into a mirror when he’d first awakened.

He was standing on a sidewalk in the dark, in the pouring rain. Streetlights gleamed on slick pavement. He stood motionless; then, slowly, he raised his arm and looked down its length to the black handgun resting easily in his hand. The laser sight shot through the murky gloom and appeared as a tiny red spot on the chest of the man who stood farther along the broken sidewalk, laughing and talking to the person walking beside him.

He felt himself take a breath, release half of it, and squeeze the trigger. He heard the soft pffft of the silencer, felt the 9 millimeter buck in his hand. And then he saw the man—his victim—jerk stiffly, crumple to his knees and topple facefirst onto the sidewalk.

The victim’s companion looked down for a moment, then glanced up and said, “He never saw it coming. You’re a freakin’ artist, Mr. Adams. An artist. You know that?”

“Yeah,” he heard himself mutter. “I’m something, all right.”

He blinked away the memory and was back in the hospital bed, looking at the woman who’d paused near the door to glance back at him.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He gave his head a shake. “Yeah. Fine. Sorry, I’m tired. I guess I zoned out a little.”

“You’ve had a rough day. Get some rest.”

“Yeah. I will, thanks.”

She smiled at him, a gentle, reassuring smile, and then she walked out of the room. Aaron stared at the ceiling and wondered what that vision had been about. He hoped to God it wasn’t a memory and was scared to death that it had been. He didn’t think he was a reclusive novelist anymore—if he’d ever believed it. He didn’t think that was even close to what he did.

3

“It wasn’t my car,” Carrie Overton said softly.

Olivia had left Aaron, though she’d done so reluctantly. He certainly wasn’t what she’d expected. But she was captivated—and eager to spend more time with him, even while rather disgusted with herself for feeling that way.

She was torn. He was a hero to her. Yet he was still a man. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to be. Some kind of genderless word wizard, a spiritual, asexual guru, she supposed.