Distant Memory (26 page)

But her problems had now been bathed in a holy perspective.

Massey was unhappy. He had sworn off such things years ago, but here he was skulking around an old motel on a warm summer evening. A decade ago, he would have found this exhilarating. The spy game was custom-made for a man like him. His mannerisms, speech, and portly appearance made him seem the least likely person to be involved in skulduggery. The truth was, he had thrived on it. With a degree in political science and a gift for languages, the CIA had recruited him right out of Yale. Massey had accepted the offer and soon learned all the subtleties of the profession. During the heyday of the Cold War, he had worked in Germany, turning spies for the other side into spies for the United States.

But the Cold War had died, and with it Massey’s cloak-and-dagger career. His connections, however, were desired, and through a friendly superior officer, he found himself talking to the wealthy and powerful Gregory Moyer, who offered him an executive position with an obscenely large salary with benefits to rival that received by the presidents and CEOs of most major corporations. Massey was no fool. He knew the money and rewards were meant to buy his loyalty, and he was glad to give it. He was, above all, loyal.

Moyer made good use of his acquisition. Massey understood the world political scene as well as the U.S. secretary of state. He was a man gifted in many areas, but he had grown older and less enthusiastic for the hands-on work. He was now an executive in a powerful firm; his days were filled with paperwork and meetings. He had proven himself invaluable to Moyer, and no one wielded more power.

Then why was he here, slinking in the shadows? He was here because Moyer had told him to be, and one did not trifle with Moyer.

Massey cursed McCullers, and then he cursed himself for hiring the man. He made few mistakes, but McCullers had been a big one. Massey cursed the ego that made McCullers fail in his mission. Now he had to do the job himself. Allowing another second to pass, he wished he could kill McCullers again—just on principle.

But he had a job to do, and only a few moments in which to do it. In some ways, he had been lucky. The woman feared the police. Had she run to them, she would be out of his reach.

The motel was similar to many of those built in the fifties: L-shaped with a corridor separating one wing of the building from the other. In the corridor was an ice machine, a snack dispenser, and a door with a brown plastic sign marked E
MPLOYEES
O
NLY
. It was the door that Massey had been looking for. He studied the lock for a moment. It looked like the original, which would make it over forty years old. He tapped a finger on the door, and it yielded a hollow tone. He could easily kick it in, but that would make too much noise and draw unwanted attention. He pulled a small knife from his pocket, exposed the blade, and slipped it between the doorstop and the jamb. The thin wood strip parted easily from the jamb. Massey worked the blade farther into the door until he felt it scratch against the tongue of the lock. A contemporary lock would have been more difficult, but the ancient device was easy to defeat. The door swung open easily. He stepped in, closed the door, and switched on the light.

The room was what he expected. A three-shelf metal cart was situated
in the middle. Piled on top were folded white towels and washcloths. A plastic bucket held tiny bottles of shampoo, bar soap, and hand lotion. Bottles of cleaning fluid rested on the second shelf. Massey was interested in none of those things. He was after only two items.

He found the first hanging near the door: a key on a long string—the passkey. He searched the room for the second item. A series of metal shelves filled with items used by the maid were mounted to the far wall. A red metal toolbox was resting on the bottom shelf. Massey opened it and found what he was looking for: duct tape.

Careful to turn off the storage-room light before opening the door, he exited and pulled the door shut. He took a moment to press the doorstop back to its original position. A close examination would show that it had been tampered with, but at least for now it couldn’t be noticed by a passerby.

Now came the hard part.

Since the motel was small, the walk to the room took only a minute or so. Massey walked slowly but naturally. If seen, he wanted to be mistaken for a sleepy traveler. He paused at the door and listened intently. There was no sound, no television, and no conversation. He desperately wanted to peer in the window to see where Blanchard was, but the curtains were drawn shut. Blanchard concerned him. He had been able to handle McCullers, and he seemed to be a smooth operator. Massey was confident in himself and his abilities; still, a lucky punch, an unseen weapon, or some other unplanned contingency might give Blanchard the edge. The key would be the woman. Control the woman and control the situation.

Holding the roll of duct tape under his arm, Massey took hold of the doorknob and held it still, slowly inserting the key into the lock. It slipped in easily and noiselessly. He turned the key and felt the lock surrender its hold, but he held the door shut. He had one more thing to do before entering. Reaching his right hand behind him, under his coat, he extracted his gun. He took a breath and walked casually into the room.

Lisa had her back to the door when she felt the sudden rush of warm night air. She cranked her head around just in time to see a thickly built man dressed in a three-piece suit step into the room. He held a gun, its barrel pointed at her forehead.

“Nick!” Lisa shouted.

“Shut up,” the man said loudly.

Nick stirred on the bed and then opened his eyes. “What the—” He fell silent as the man swung the gun from Lisa to Nick. She watched as the man calmly closed the door behind him, locking it.

“Take this.” He tossed the roll of duct tape to Lisa. She let it fall to the floor. “Pick it up.”

Lisa bent forward and picked up the roll.

“I’m getting a little tired of this,” Nick said as he started to sit up. “This is the second time I’ve been attacked in the last—”

“I told you to shut up,” the man said. “Lie back down.”

“I’m done with my nap,” Nick said belligerently.

“Lie on your back or I’ll make your nap permanent.” The man held the gun rock steady.

“What do you want?” Lisa asked.

“In a nutshell, I want you, Ms. Keller.”

“Keller?” Lisa said, shocked at hearing the name.

“Yes, Keller. Robin Lisa Keller, and I don’t have time for your games. Please be kind enough to tape Mr. Blanchard’s wrists together.”

“I still don’t understand,” she said. Her head was spinning with fear and confusion.
Robin Lisa Keller
. Lisa was a name that Nick had chosen for her at the fast-food restaurant in Fillmore. Was it coincidence that Lisa was her middle name?
If
Robin Lisa Keller was really her name.

“You know,” Nick said calmly, “if you fire that thing in here - everyone in the motel will hear it. Then what will you do?”

“I’d fire it once more into Ms. Keller and then drive off into the dark. It’s not very complex, really.”

Lisa pulled a long strip of the silver tape from the roll and struggled to tear it off.

“Use your teeth,” the man said.

She did, biting at the edge of the tape. It tore away easily. Nick, who lay on his back on the bed, held his hands up and Lisa applied the tape, being careful not to cut off the circulation. Knowing that the gunman would inspect the job she did, she secured the tape well.

“Now his feet,”

“Why his feet?” she asked. Her fear was giving way to anger.

“Because I don’t trust Mr. Blanchard. He has secrets, and people with secrets make me nervous.”

“What makes you think I have secrets?”

“You’re an enigma, Mr. Blanchard, if that’s really your name. You seem to be untraceable, as does your truck. Untraceable people usually have something to hide.”

“Maybe I just like my privacy,” Nick responded as Lisa taped his feet.

“Yeah, right,” the gunman said sarcastically. “Just who are you, Mr. Blanchard?”

“Maybe we should be asking
you
that question,” Lisa said.

“No need,” Nick said. “Our uninvited guest is Raymond Massey; he works for Moyer Communications.”

Lisa’s stomach seized into a tight fist.
Moyer Communications? Why would Nick know?

Nick continued, oblivious to Lisa’s response. “He fancies himself a highly placed executive, but he’s really a tool of Greg Moyer. In point of fact, he’s just a middle-aged former spy. He does the work that no one else would do—those with any principles, that is.”

Taking a few faltering steps back, Lisa sat on the edge of the second bed. Her mind was reeling with unchecked emotions and sensations of
fragmented memory. She had had something to do with Moyer Communications.

“I fear you have me at a disadvantage, Blanchard. It appears you know all about me, but I know nothing about you.”

“That’s the plan,” Nick said with a twisted smile. If he was frightened, Lisa couldn’t see it. “That’s the way it is supposed to work.”

“My compliments,” Massey said. “You’ve been successful in your charade … until now.” He turned to Lisa. “Tape your feet,” he demanded.

Lisa sat unmoving, paralyzed by confusion, fear, and anger.

“I said, tape your feet!”

His harsh tone jarred her back to the frightening reality of the moment, and she turned to face Massey.
All things work together for good to them that love God
. The words washed cool over her feverish terror. Alive or dead, God would work all things out for her good. That was a fact to her, not a mere wish. “No.” Lisa said softly.

“What?” Her resistance caught Massey off guard.

“I said no.”

“Who holds the gun here, lady?”

Lisa shrugged. “You do. And if I tape my feet together, you’ll still hold the gun, won’t you?”

“I could kill you, Ms. Keller,” Massey said, his voice heavy with threat.

“That’s your plan anyway, isn’t it? If I’m going to be shot, I think I prefer to be unbound.”

Massey fell silent for a moment, clearly astonished by Lisa’s sudden resistance. “I don’t have time for this—”

“Then leave. I wouldn’t want to hold you up.”

Nick laughed, and Massey turned his attention back to him. “How about if I shoot your boyfriend.”

“Do you think that will be less terrifying if I’m bound hand and foot with duct tape? I’m not stupid, mister. I don’t believe for a moment that
you’re going to let Nick or me live. I may have lost my memory, but I haven’t lost my mind.”

“Lost your memory?” Massey said. “What … Oh, now I see. That would explain a few things.”

“Ironic, isn’t it, Raymond,” Nick said. “You and your buddies are afraid of what she knows, so you try to have her killed. But she can’t remember a thing about her life before you ran her off the road.”

“I didn’t run her off the road. That buffoon we hired did. He was a mistake. I, however, don’t make mistakes.”

“Is that a fact?” Nick said mordantly.

“Yes, it’s a fact.”

“So what is it you want?” Lisa asked. “Why stand here and talk to us?”

“Because I need some information,” Massey said. “Mr. Blanchard is a bit of a puzzle. Whom do you work for?” he asked Nick.

“I’m a truck driver.”

“I don’t buy that for a moment. Your truck was untraceable, your behavior goes beyond what an average citizen would do, and you were able to defeat a trained killer. You also seem to know a great deal about me and my employer, so come clean, Blanchard.”

“I’ve told you all I’m going to.”

Massey pulled back the hammer on the gun and pointed the weapon at Lisa. “Maybe Ms. Keller is willing to watch you die, but I’m betting that you feel differently about watching her brains scattered all over the wall. Or maybe I should just beat her until you talk. You know, break a few fingers and knock out a few teeth.”

Dread rippled through Lisa, but she refused to let it show. The last twenty-four hours had taken their toll. She was tired to the point of apathy.

Nick said nothing.

In a startling display of speed, Massey shot forward and brought a crashing backhand across Lisa’s face. The blow knocked her from her
perch on the edge of the bed. She tumbled to the floor in a heap, her hands raised to her face.