When Memory Fails Read online

  “My boyfriend and Bronson, they’re right on the other side of the store. I’ll go get them. They’ll want to come hear what you have to say.” Sandy swallowed hard and backed off.

  He grabbed her and yanked her toward him with such roughness, that Sandy gasped. She stood still, considering her options.

  That ended when, with the speed of a jaguar, he produced a knife with a sharp, eight-inch blade. He held it to her throat. “You’re not listening. I said I want you to come, and I don’t enjoy being denied. I want only you. I don’t want anyone else spoiling our party.”

  Sandy tried to scream, but he covered her mouth.

  She squirmed.

  He punched her stomach, and she doubled over.

  “I want you to know that I killed before, so I won’t hesitate to do it again. You either come with me quietly, or I can kill you right now. Right here. Your choice.”

  Sandy swallowed a deep breath and nodded.

  “I’m taking you at your word.” He moved the knife closer to her throat so she could feel its sting. A small line of blood ran down her neck. “If you try anything funny, you’re dead. You hear?”

  She nodded.

  He released her, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her along. “By the way, I don’t like being called the Hermit.”

  Sandy cast one final look toward the store, wishing she had been able to leave Daniel a message. Maybe, if she delayed long enough, Daniel could see her. “What do you want me to call you?”

  “My name is Cricket,” he said and smiled, a curvature of the lips that sent a chill running down Sandy’s back.

  Chapter 19

  Daniel smiled as he ran down the streets nearing the store where Sandy waited for him. With his uncle out of the way, he could sneak a kiss or two. Just imagine, he and Sandy all alone in a town they could call their own. How many guys could say that?

  He hastened his step, dreaming of Sandy’s sweet tasting lips.

  He turned the corner and abruptly stopped.

  Had he seen someone lurking behind a façade that at one time served as someone’s residence? No, of course not. Yet, he could have sworn he had.

  Not that it mattered. Surely, tourists would be interested in visiting a place like this. That’s all he saw, a tourist checking the place out even though the entrance to the town clearly had a sign that warned others to stay away. This was private property. No wonder the tourist didn’t want to be seen.

  Daniel shrugged. Let the tourist be. His mission was to find Sandy.

  Less than a block away, he saw the store where he had left the love of his life. A wide smile broke on his face. He galloped toward the store. Once there, he slowly inched the door open and crept in. He got on all fours, planning to pop up in front of Sandy and scare her half-to-death. She would playfully beat him up, and he would resist. The wrestling would begin and who knows what that would lead to.

  He crawled around the store from counter to counter, looking for Sandy’s legs, but he couldn’t see her anywhere. Maybe she had seen him enter, and she was playing a game with him. She would be the one who would try to scare him.

  That wasn’t going to happen. He was prepared.

  He stood up and looked around him.

  No Sandy.

  Maybe the person he saw lurking in the town was Sandy. But why hadn’t she called out to him? He stepped outside. “Sandy?”

  He looked up and down the street.

  The empty street.

  Daniel ran his tongue over his dry lips. “Sandy!” Should he text Uncle Harry? He hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. He’d forgotten. The cell didn’t work in this forsaken town.

  What would his uncle do? Think!

  That tourist he thought he saw, that must have been Sandy. She was hiding from him, trying to scare him—and it was working. He stood perfectly still, studying every inch of the town. He had seen his uncle do this on several occasions, and he had always been able to solve the puzzle.

  Daniel could do the same.

  He stood and watched.

  He heard a small sound from behind him.

  He tried to twist and turn. Too late.

  Someone reached out from behind him and placed a handkerchief that had been dipped in chloroform over Daniel’s nose and mouth. He tried to resist, but his legs soon buckled from under him, and he tumbled to the ground.

  Chapter 20

  Bronson stopped his ascent long enough to choose a couple of fist size rocks and stuff them in his pocket. He kept his vision glued to the ground as he resumed his climb. He needed to do more time in the gym. This climb at a fast pace was killing him.

  He stopped, not so much because he needed to catch his breath—which he did—but more because he spotted a perfect branch at the side of the trail. He picked it up and swung it with all his might. The whishh sound pleased him. This crude, primitive weapon would work, and it definitely was better than not having anything at all.

  He knew better, but just in case, he checked on the cell connection. Still nothing. Modern technology was worthless if it wasn’t available when needed. He put the phone away.

  He once again swung the branch as though aiming for the home run that would save the game. Satisfied with his homemade weapon, he continued his ascent. As soon as he crested a small hill, he saw the mansion the hill hid.

  That must be the castle where the royalty of this place once lived, but now probably served as the Hermit’s residence, the sole ruler of memories and an era long gone. Studying the structure, Bronson realized he had two huge advantages. One, the house had been built at a time where there was no central heating or air conditioning. The owners had to rely on simple things like closing the windows to keep the warmth in or keeping them open to circulate the air and let the breeze cool the place down. At this moment, all of the windows remained open, the curtains billowing out the windows.

  Perfect. That would allow him easy access, if need be. That also meant if anyone was talking, he could listen, and to top it all, he had the element of surprise. He was as ready as he’d ever be.

  Following a zigzag pattern, Bronson went from tree to tree and stayed as low to the ground as possible. The last forty feet, unfortunately, stood barren of trees. Nothing Bronson could do but make a run for the house and hope for the best. He glanced at each window. Nobody seemed to be looking his way. He took a deep breath, crouched, and ran the entire length. When he reached the house, he plastered his back against the wall and looked in.

  He saw a no-frills bedroom, not something anyone would expect to find on a place as fancy as this mansion. Unless Bronson missed something, the bedroom held no interest for him. He moved to the next window.

  He saw a modern kitchen complete with a microwave. A man, his back to Bronson, stood staring at the contents of the open refrigerator. His belt held a holstered good sized revolver that looked like it might have been a .38 or .357 caliber. Bronson wondered if this was the Hermit, why would he feel the necessity to carry a gun?

  But then hermits were supposed to be eccentric, weren’t they? If this man was indeed the Hermit, all was well, and Bronson could ring the front doorbell like any normal person. But first, he’d verify his theory. He moved on to the next window. What Bronson saw through there changed his mind.

  An elderly man, tied to a kitchen chair with his hands behind his back and his mouth taped shut with duct tape, wore the expression of a defeated man.

  The Hermit, Bronson reasoned.

  Standing directly in front of the large picture window, another man held the curtain slightly ajar. He stared out the window, as though anticipating someone’s arrival. This man, like the one in the kitchen, wore khakis from head to toe which somehow made them stand out and look unnatural. Instead of blending in, they looked like they had stepped out of a sporting goods store clothing catalog.

  “Do you see them anywhere?” the man who had been in the kitchen asked as he entered the living room. He held a can of Coke in his hands.

  “Does
it look like the trio arrived?” The man by the window removed his hands from the curtains and allowed them to close. “You know what I’m thinking?”

  “What’s that?” He took a swig of his Coke.

  “I’m beginning to think Cricket is messing us up.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about him. You sent Jay to find him. He’ll do his job. You can depend on Jay.”

  “Then why aren’t they here?”

  The Coke man took another long sip and shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe Cricket found that cute little blond, and he’s spending quality time with her.”

  The man’s voice by the window took on an authoritative tone. “I specifically ordered everyone not to mess things up. I don’t care what happens to that cute little blond or her stud of a boyfriend or that detective uncle of theirs. All I want is that ledger, and then you all can do whatever you want to whomever you want. I thought I made myself clear.”

  “You did…Boss.”

  The boss let out a grumbling sound that came out as an angry hmph. “I should know better. If you want something done right, do it yourself.” He picked up Cricket’s rifle resting by the window. “You stay here. I’m going to find Jay and Cricket and drag their asses here. Make sure nothing happens to the old man. Can you handle that?”

  “Yes, I can, Boss, Sir. Boss.”

  “Cut the act. My name is Eddie.”

  “Yeah? Mine is Frank.”

  Eddie’s eyes narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed. He stomped out.

  Chapter 21

  In the span of a second, Bronson weighed the two options he could see at the moment. One, rescue the Hermit, who definitely needed help. Or two, go search for Sandy and make sure she was okay. Chances were she was with Daniel and both were fine, but he needed reassurance.

  The only fact he could depend on told him that the Hermit was being held captive by one man. A man who had a gun, and Bronson knew that gun would come in handy if he had to confront the other men.

  Something nudged Bronson’s legs.

  Grasping the club branch tightly, he slowly turned.

  A medium sized, honey-colored dog stared at him. Her ears stood straight up, and she gazed at Bronson through large brown eyes.

  Bronson relaxed his stance. “Go home,” he mouthed loud enough for only the dog to hear.

  The dog stared at him, turned, and took two steps forward. She stopped and turned to look at Bronson. The dog then again advanced two more steps before once again stopping and staring at Bronson.

  “What? You want me to follow? I got a situation here.” Bronson mouthed more than spoke the words.

  Casting Bronson one last look, the dog jumped through the open window.

  Okay, I’ll follow.

  Bronson stuck his head in just far enough to make sure it was safe for him to enter. He saw the dog sitting, waiting for him. Bronson swung one leg in and pushed himself forward. He stood in a room filled with books, a piano, two leather couches, and a large old fashioned wooden desk. The study, obviously.

  Once Bronson was in, the dog stood up and headed out the door, down a hallway. Instinctively, Bronson knew the dog was leading him to the Hermit, most likely his owner. Bronson crouched low so as not to be seen.

  Soon as he did that, the dog bolted toward the living room, making a mad dash toward the man wearing khakis. The dog snarled and barked.

  The startled man looked down at the dog, then up at the Hermit. “Hey, what’s the matter with your dog? Thought you said she was friendly.”

  The fierceness in the dog increased to the point where the guard took one step back. “Back off!” he told the dog.

  The dog took a step toward him.

  Frank pulled his revolver.

  The Hermit bounced in his chair, his eyes wide with fear. He shook his head. No, no, no!

  “Shut up or you’re dead,” Frank told the dog. He pointed the gun at her.

  Bronson jumped him from behind. “It’s not nice to kill defenseless creatures.”

  The man tumbled forward, and the gun went flying through the air. Both Bronson and Frank saw it at the same time and both dove for it. Frank reached it first. Bronson had no choice but to throw his weight on him and drag him away from it.

  Frank rolled over and threw a punch at Bronson.

  Bronson moved to the side and dodged the blow, but lost his balance and fell to his right.

  Frank lost no time in taking advantage of the situation. He kicked Bronson in the stomach. The air left him in a wave of pain.

  The dog jumped on Frank’s chest, going for his throat.

  That gave Bronson the time to regain his breath and grab the gun.

  With the speed of a cheetah, Frank let out a loud yell as he grabbed the dog and threw her against the couch. He bounced to his feet and rushed Bronson.

  The dog yelped as she hit the couch.

  Bronson and Frank struggled for control of the gun. For one horrifying second, the struggle continued before the gun went off, a muffled sound that filled the room with a deadly silence.

  Both men stared at each other as the blood poured out from between them. Their shocked look intensified as the gun fell with a loud thump.

  Slowly, Frank released his grasp on Bronson and dropped to the floor.

  Bronson kicked the gun away from Frank’s grasp, bent down, and placed his fingers on the man’s throat. Despair wrapped itself in Bronson’s heart. A man had just died, a man Bronson wasn’t familiar with, but still a man, and he was responsible. Bronson looked away and focused instead on the man tied to the chair. “Are you the one they call the Hermit?”

  The Hermit nodded.

  Bronson retrieved the man’s wallet and took out his driver’s license. It was issued to a Frank Gray from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

  Interesting.

  Had these hoods followed them all the way from Pennsylvania? Were they after The Ledger, too? If so, how did they know about it, and what was their interest in it? Bronson pocketed the license so he could properly report the death.

  The dog sat up and seemed disoriented.

  Bronson bent down and checked on the dog who seemed fine. Bronson patted her head, then headed toward the Hermit and began to untie him. “Is this your dog?”

  Again, the Hermit nodded.

  “You got a heck of a good dog.” Bronson removed the tape from the Hermit’s mouth.

  “Tell me about it. She’s a darn good dog.” The Hermit rubbed his cheeks where the tape had been. “Her name is Honey.”

  “Honey.” Bronson looked at the dog as he continued to untie the Hermit. Whoever had tied him had done a magnificent job. “Thank you for your help.”

  Honey yelped as though she understood.

  The Hermit first eyed the body, then Bronson. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Bronson, retired detective, Dallas Police Department. I’m here with Sandy Sechrest and her boyfriend, Daniel Jenkins. We want to talk to you, but that’s going to have to wait.” He finished untying the old man. “What kind of dog is that?”

  “She’s a Basenji.” The Hermit reached down and patted the dog that lay down at his feet. “Basenjis don’t bark. This one does. Means she’s not a purebred.”

  “Interestin’.” Bronson nodded and turned his attention back on the Hermit. “Will you be okay?” Bronson helped the Hermit up and then bent down to retrieve the dead man’s revolver. He flipped the cylinder open, realized that it held five unexpended .38 cartridges, and inwardly relaxed. “My future niece may be in trouble. Do you have a phone?”

  The Hermit shook his head. “Never needed one. I have a buddy who comes here every Wednesday and checks on me. Sometimes, he comes more often. In fact, he was here a couple of days ago, so he probably won’t be back for a day or two.”

  Great. No police. “I need to find Daniel and Sandy, make sure they’re okay. Will you be all right?”

  “I got a rifle in the closet, and I know how to use it. Nobody is coming in here again without me knowing it. I may be an old
man, but as long as I sit here, I can shoot with no problems.”

  Bronson stuffed the revolver in his waistband.

  “I heard a conversation between this man—” The Hermit pointed to the body, “and the one he called Boss. They were discussing Sandy.”

  Bronson straightened. “What about Sandy?”

  The Hermit rubbed his forehead. “Can’t really remember. Something about where she might be, maybe?” He shrugged. “Sorry. I’m an old man, and I easily forget things.”

  Bronson formed fists and opened them. That always helped him to relieve tension. “It may be important. Is there anythin’ I can do to help you remember?”

  “Sometimes, when I do physical work, I start remembering.” He shrugged. “Other times, if I focus on something else, that helps.” He paused for a brief moment. “Did I tell you that there’s four men total?” The Hermit rubbed his chaffed wrists.

  Bronson nodded. He could account for all four. Frank, the dead guy on the floor. Eddie, alias the Boss. Cricket, the creep who might be stalking Sandy, and the man he hadn’t seen. That one must be Jay, who had been sent to bring back Cricket. Bronson would remember all four.

  The Hermit eyed the dead man lying on the floor, the blood seeping out of his chest staining the wooden floor crimson. “Well, there’s only three now. They’re all wearing khakis, so they may be hard to find.” He looked at the body, and a small tremor shook him. “Want me to go with you?”

  Bronson shook his head. “These men may be professionals. I don’t want to endanger your life. Best if you wait here.”

  “I can take care of myself.” The Hermit shrugged. “But I would slow you down. I’m not as agile as I used to be.” He again eyed the body and shuddered. “There’s an old mine shaft not too far from here.”

  “I saw it. Why did you bring it up?”

  The Hermit stroked his chin-length white beard. “How about we dump the body at the mine shaft? Later, when we talk to the police, we tell them what we did, and they can dispose of him properly. That’ll give me time to remember what I heard those two say about Sandy.”