When Memory Fails

  When Memory Fails

  A Harry Bronson Mystery/Thriller

  by

  L. C. Hayden

  Cover design by Nathan Dasco

  Book Cover Mall

  * * * * * * *

  Dedication

  The miles separates us, but our good times unites us. To

  Gary and Tami Secheverell

  Honey also wants to do her own dedication: Wuf, woof! To

  Ace Secheverell

  Early 1900s

  Chapter One

  Isaac Sechrest.

  That name had once commanded respect. People had cowered before him. He’d been both, loved and hated. He had followed the family tradition to rule with an iron fist, no matter the cost. Wealth dictated his every move.

  Now, because of him, the family wealth had more than tripled.

  All of that, and now that time had robbed him of his strength, what did he have to show for his great sacrifices? His own sons and daughters, staring at him through greed-filled eyes. They wanted his title, his power. Not one of them truly loved him.

  Then he saw her, his teenage granddaughter. She looked at him and tears sparkled in her eyes. He almost smiled. Victoria. Gentle, kind Victoria. Nothing like her father. Nothing like her mother. All she had ever asked for was to be with Papa Isaac.

  “Play with me.”

  “Sing to me.”

  “Make me laugh, Papa Isaac.” She would run away from him, taunting him to follow her. “Come on, Pappy. Make me laugh.”

  Her gentle, warm ways turned Isaac’s heart from stone to jelly. Everyone in the family criticized her, called her weak. But now as Isaac Sechrest lay dying, he realized she was truly the only strong one in the family.

  The rest were cowards, hiding behind wealth and power. Hiding behind the powerful name of Sechrest.

  “Leave,” he ordered his family and so-called friends who had gathered for his passing. “I wish to speak alone to my granddaughter.” His voice boomed, a clap of thunder on a warm summer night. “Come, Victoria. Sit with me for a while.” He patted the empty bed space beside him.

  Without a single protest, like soldiers blindly following orders, each vacated the room. Some glared at Victoria, their silent stare cursing her for being singled out.

  “Close the door,” Isaac told her.

  Victoria did as she was told and shuffled toward her beloved grandfather.

  “Papa,” she whispered. “How can you leave me?”

  “Not . . . my choice, but . . . I do have one request.” Now that he didn’t have to be strong in front of everyone, he allowed his weakness to take over. “A big request.”

  “Anything for you, Papa.”

  “Then listen to me. . . Don’t interrupt. I don’t have much time.”

  “Papa.”

  “Shh.”

  Victoria shrunk back. Her lips quivered, but she held her head high. “I’m listening.”

  “Our name, our wealth, is built on deceit, lies, and corruption. All we have, we have stolen.” As Isaac spoke, he became more animated, drawing strength from the release of the great burden he carried. He flashed a reassuring smile. “All the land we have, it’s not ours. The gold, the riches—none is ours. I’ve known this for a long time and chose not to do anything about it. But now, I want a peaceful death and only you can give me that. Will you do that for me?”

  Victoria sat on his bed, tears streaming down from her eyes. “Papa, what are you saying? It must be the sickness that’s making you think this way.” She reached for his hand and wrapped hers around his.

  Isaac took a deep breath and shook his head. “Wish it were so. But what I say now is the truth.” He took in several shallow breaths. “You must believe me.”

  Victoria cast her eyes downward.

  “Look at me.” Isaac’s voice boomed with the expected demand of respect Victoria was so familiar with.

  Slowly, she raised her glance to meet his.

  “A while back, I started thinking that I had to correct all that I’ve done wrong, so I created a ledger that lists the names of all the innocents we have killed and stripped of their belongings.” A faraway look glazed his eyes. For a long time, he remained silent. “Every day, I looked at that ledger and did nothing. And now…now, it’s too late.” His face took the look of a deflated balloon.

  “No, Papa. It’s never too late. Tell me what I must do.”

  A smile spread across the old man’s face. “You sure about this?”

  She nodded. “As sure as my name is Victoria Ann Sechrest.” She sat up straighter.

  “What I ask of you…it’s not easy. Your parents will hate you. Your aunts and uncles will desert you. They may even try to kill you.”

  “I’ll be prepared. I’ll be strong. Tell me what to do.”

  “At all costs, keep that ledger protected. Trust no one and find a way to return the money and the property we—I—stole. Can you do that?”

  Victoria bit her lips. “Papa. Papa, I don’t know how to do this.”

  “Find a way. I’m depending on you…I hid The Ledger in the attic under Emily’s wedding dress. Go now and take The Ledger out of the house while you still can…Tell everyone to come back in. I’ll keep them busy here while you go to the attic.” Isaac closed his eyes. Now that the secret was out, he felt better. He could die in peace. He opened his eyes in time to see Victoria with a straight back and head held high move toward the door.

  At the last moment, she turned and stared at him through glistening eyes, filled with grief, shock, and maybe even fear. Tears formed at the inside corners of her sad eyes. Without saying a word, she reached for the doorknob, opened the door, and let herself out.

  Ah, yes. He could die a peaceful death, but what of poor Victoria? What hell had he cast her into?

  * * *

  As Victoria closed the bedroom door, the double door to the wardrobe opened just wide enough for the man to stare wide-eyed at Isaac Sechrest. That fool! He was glad he had been wise enough to listen in.

  He would have to correct this great wrong before it was too late. As much as he hated the idea, he knew he would have to kill Victoria to keep the family secret safe.

  Present Time

  Chapter 2

  He opened his eyes, and the pain in his head exploded like a bolt of lightning. Immediately, he snapped his eyes shut.

  Taking a deep breath, he slowly released it.

  The pain made him wish Dreamland would return to him. Sleep. That’s all he wanted. His hands fumbled for his head, found his temples, and massaged them. It didn’t help.

  He forced his eyes to gradually open, making himself take in the details. A large chunk of plaster had fallen off the wall to his right, exposing the wooden slats. Next to it, stood a dresser, dating back to maybe the 1930’s. It rested at an angle, missing one leg. Half of its drawers were either missing or broken. He lay in a plain, metal bed where the mattress was so thin he could feel its springs. Definitely, this couldn’t be his bed.

  Or could it?

  Where was he? What had happened?

  And worse—he swallowed another deep breath—who was he? Why couldn’t he remember his name?

  His hands shook. Was he hurt? He moved his legs, his arms, his torso. Nothing seemed to be broken.

  He managed to squirm to a sitting position, and his legs fell over the side of the dilapidated bed. He looked down. Portions of the floor were missing, exposing the wooden beams of the house’s foundation. Bits of white, crusted linoleum remained here and there.

  What was he doing in a place like this? Did he live in this dump? He looked down at his clothes. They were much too modern and clean—in spite of the few dirt stains—to be from here.

  His breath came in short, fragmented gasps.
Sweat covered his entire body, causing him to shake from head to toe. Was he experiencing an anxiety attack? Relax. You’ve got to relax and get a grip on your situation. He took in deep breaths and slowly let them out. He forced himself to count slowly, aloud, “One…two…three…”

  A medic.

  Was he a medic? How else did he know what to do?

  His glance landed on his wedding band. He was married or had been married at some time. To whom? He slipped the ring off and read the inscription inside: The Bronsons Forever. No date.

  Bronson.

  He whispered the name, as though tasting it in his mouth. It sounded right. He was a Bronson. But what was a Bronson?

  Slowly, he stood. Raw pain screeched through his head. He reached for the bed’s metal head rail to keep from falling and held on for an eternity. He gradually let go. He was going to be okay. “Good for you, Bronson. Now let’s see what else I can find out about you.” His own voice sounded strange.

  He retrieved his wallet from his back pocket. The picture of an older, but still beautiful woman stared back at him. Soft curls framed a perfectly oval face. The eyes spoke of wisdom, warmth, and determination. He continued to stare at her.

  He knew her. He knew he knew her. For a fraction of a second, his heart seemed to sing. He loved her. His wife? He hoped so. The picture brought him so much warmth, he definitely wanted her to be his wife. He turned the picture over. Nothing. Next time, he’d make sure to record all the information.

  Next time? Why would there be a next time?

  What exactly did he do? Was he in trouble? Was he in danger? Or worse, was he the danger? If only he could remember.

  He continued to search his wallet. Eight one-hundreds. Four twenties. One ten. Several ones. Not bad. He had the cash, but no credit cards. No driver’s license either. Why? Only people who didn’t want to be found carried no ID. Did that mean he was on the run? From whom?

  His mind continued to search for answers. Automatically, he stuffed the money back in the wallet. That’s when he noticed the crumpled piece of paper that seemed as though it had been hurriedly shoved in behind the cash. Bingo! He was about to uncover a real clue. He straightened out the piece of paper and opened it. He saw vertical wiggly lines leading down to some horizontal ones. On the left-hand side of the vertical wavy lines, someone had drawn a heart, suspending it in mid-air. What the heck! Not a clue. Was it a drawing from a beloved granddaughter?

  He bit his lip. Yes, there was a granddaughter. More than one. He could feel it. If this was nothing more than one of her drawings… He let the thought fade away. He carefully replaced the drawing back in the wallet.

  He stared at the closed door. Was someone out there waiting for him? To help him? To hurt him? He reached behind his back for…for what?

  A cold sweat left him stunned.

  A gun.

  He had reached for a gun.

  What did that make him? A cop? An FBI agent?

  Or possibly a thief and a murderer?

  Definitely a man on the run.

  He needed answers, and they lay beyond that closed door. He took another deep breath and reached for the door handle.

  Chapter 3

  Sandy Sechrest drew her knees up, wrapped her arms around her legs, and lowered her head so that it almost rested on her knees. Her shoulder-length blond hair cascaded down, hiding her face.

  Twenty feet away, Daniel Jenkins, stood, staring at her, leaning against the thick, brownish black furrows of an oversized western yellow pine. His gaze switched to the two armed men standing guard over them. “The hell with ’em,” he mumbled under his breath. He took a step away from the tree.

  The taller and beefier of the two—the one everyone referred to as Pablo Lazzarone—raised his Walther PPK and pointed it at Daniel. “Hey, dude, I didn’t tell you to move. Step back or you and your pretty little girlfriend are both dead.”

  Wide-eyed, Sandy looked up and gasped.

  Daniel stopped his advance but did not retreat. “You won’t kill me, at least not yet. You need me to help you find the ledger.”

  Pablo’s eyes hardened. He swung the gun, pointing it at Sandy. “Maybe. Maybe not. I could shoot her. I only need one of you to find the ledger. Wouldn’t shooting her right now be a kick in the pants?”

  No, it wouldn’t. She’s your family. Different last names, but the same family, and the ties in your family run tight. For a fraction of a second, he considered saying that out loud, but at the last moment, decided against it. “That would be stupid.” Daniel’s voice rang out with a confidence he didn’t feel. “You probably need her more than me. Besides, I wasn’t going anywhere. I just want to sit next to her. Nothing wrong with that. The two of us can brainstorm, and between what she knows and what I know, we’ll come up with the answer you’re looking for. Can’t hurt, eh?”

  Pablo’s face muscles twitched. He looked at his partner.

  Leonardo shrugged and nodded.

  Seconds passed before Pablo spoke. Slowly, he indicated with his head that it was okay for Daniel to sit next to Sandy. “Don’t go get any wise ideas. I can find that ledger just fine, all by myself. I don’t need you. I’d rather shoot you than not. I already killed Bronson, and it felt good. Two more won’t make no difference.” He looked directly at Sandy’s eyes. “Family or not.”

  At the mention of her and Bronson’s name, Sandy’s eyes misted. She straightened herself and didn’t do anything to wipe away the tears.

  Daniel turned, facing Pablo. “I’m barely 21. Sandy’s 19. We both want to live long lives.” Although Daniel was sure Pablo already knew this, he still paused long enough for the words to sink in. “We won’t do anything stupid. All we want is for this to be over so we can be on our way. So, if it’s all right with you, let us brainstorm. I’m sure we’re bound to come up with something useful.”

  Pablo returned the pistol to the holster by his hip. “Go, man. But if I think you’re trying to be a smartass, I swear…”

  “I understand.” Daniel shuffled toward Sandy.

  He sat and wrapped his arm around her. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “You don’t know that.” She bit her lip. “You can’t promise me that.”

  Daniel tilted his head and frowned. He inched over so that his mouth was right next to her ear. “My uncle is alive.”

  Sandy gasped.

  Pablo alerted, like a dog catching a scent of the prey.

  Daniel shrugged. “I told her I love her. I want her to calm down so that she can think more clearly. When she’s tense, I always whisper sweet things in her ear. Let me do this before we start to brainstorm.”

  Pablo continued to glare at him, but relaxed his stance.

  Daniel reached for Sandy’s hands and rubbed them. He leaned as close to her as possible. “When I laid him on the cot, I slipped a piece of paper in his wallet. On it, I had drawn the lines for the lake and waterfall and a heart behind the waterfall. Soon as he sees that, he’ll know where we are, and he’ll come.”

  Sandy glanced at Pablo and shook as though she were still in shock. “He’s alive? You’re sure?”

  Daniel nodded and kissed her forehead. “Very sure, and I bet you anything, he’s on his way over here. It’s just a matter of minutes.”

  Pablo rushed toward them and Daniel hushed.

  Glaring at them, Pablo waved his gun, letting them know he wasn’t afraid to use it. “That’s enough of this kissie-kissie thing. You better start coming up with answers, or you’re both as dead as Bronson. Is that what you want?”

  Daniel shook his head. Where was the great Harry Bronson? Daniel had been sure that his uncle would have been here by now. Silently, he prayed for Uncle Harry’s arrival and wellbeing. He would save them. Of that, Daniel was sure. But why was Uncle Harry taking so long?

  Time was running out.

  Chapter 4

  Bronson touched the doorknob and froze. If someone was out there waiting for him, he could have a gun. That meant that Bronson needed so
me kind of protection. He withdrew his hand and studied each item in the bedroom. His vision zoomed in on the bed. It had a mattress. He could use the mattress as a shield.

  He quickly rejected that idea. A bullet would go straight through that flimsy mattress.

  The dresser might have some possibilities. He checked its drawers. They were empty, all empty.

  The only other item in the room was the broken rocker. The wood that once served as the back of the chair would work nicely as a club. Not much of a defense against a gun, but at least it was something. He pried one of the wood slats loose and swung it to get the feel of it.

  It’d do, he thought and realized that at some point in his life he had done this before. Where and when? Or a better question, why?

  He rubbed his eyes and relief flowed through his veins. His head didn’t hurt as much. That was a good sign, right? He raised a finger, moved it slowly back and forth. His eyes followed the movement. No problem doing that. That meant he didn’t have a concussion, but then he wasn’t a doctor. At least, he didn’t think he was.

  Plastering his back against the wall, he swung the door open. He waited, silently counting, one…two…three. No bullets rushed toward him. No shuffling of feet indicating someone was running for a strategic location.

  Only deadly silence greeted him.

  He stuck his head out enough to see the next room. A glance revealed a living room containing a couch with its stuffing coming out. The coffee table in the middle of the room was missing a leg and angled down in an awkward position. One corner of the living room had a plain desk with drawers down one side. Next to it was an old, cast iron Garland wood burning stove, the type of stove the miners used to cook their meals. If luck was with him, he would find a coffee pot. He would love a cup.

  Interestin’ thought. I must love coffee.

  Bronson headed for the desk, opened its drawers and found a crumpled box of cigarettes. Lucky Strike. He didn’t feel lucky and he didn’t smoke—or at least he didn’t think he did. So much for the Lucky Strikes. He smacked the desktop. Who am I?