Authors: Josh Lanyon
Griffin ignored that feeble protest. “Apparently, you were struck over the head and left unconscious while the thieves made off with the wall painting—at which point you regained consciousness, made your way back to the museum, and triggered the alarms by not disarming the security system when you let yourself inside the back door."
As Griffin spoke, Peter had a dizzying and fleeting impression of images. A small cave ... flashing shadows ... voices echoing in argument ... the delicate lines and muted colors of a painting ... two riders on horseback ... Chinese, yes. A tomb painting ... yes. He did remember...
He remembered ... something.
It took a few seconds to absorb the implications of Griffin's flat pronouncement.
"You don't think that's what happened?"
"I think it's convenient. Like your amnesia."
Peter let that sink in too. He had the disconcerting sensation of trying to feel his way through the smoke.
"You think I was involved in the robbery?” he managed at last.
"Were you?"
"No! Of course not."
"I thought you couldn't remember?"
Peter tried to sit up. Not a good idea. Quite a bad idea, actually. Despite the railing, he nearly overturned right out of the narrow hospital bed. His stomach overturned too as his brain seemed to slam the roof of his skull. Dimly, he was aware of Griffin grabbing him and putting him back against the pillows. Griffin said something to him, but he couldn't make it out. Maybe Griffin rang for help, because he could hear a buzzer going off. Peter felt sick and woozy and cold all the way through. He needed to make Griffin understand, needed to convince him, and he already knew that was going to be a hopeless cause. Griffin's mind was made up. He believed Peter was guilty.
Then the room was full of people. There seemed to be a lot of noise and activity. Somewhere behind the wall of sound, he could hear Detective Griffin protesting—and being overridden. Peter put a hand to his head, touching some kind of bandage; his skull felt like it was about to split in half. Someone leaned over him; there was pinch in his arm, and suddenly the commotion faded out.
It was quiet again. Warm. Dark. There was black tide rushing toward him and he stepped out to meet it.
Mouths locked, their cocks awkward, poking, stiff as they moved against each other. A slow wriggle that turned into humping—uncomfortable, embarrassing—but then slowly, rhythmically finding themselves in step, moving faster, faster, picking up a frantic kind of speed. No longer awkward or strange, just give-and-take, a lovely reciprocity. He could hear the hard, steady pounding of the heart beating against his own. A husky voice speaking against his ear ... The words were lost. But that was all right. Even without the words, this was what he had been waiting for, what he had wanted for so long.
Why had he been afraid of this? Why had he thought this wasn't possible?
"Cole?"
He woke, startled, to sterile silence. Had he spoken aloud?
"So, Professor Peabody, I guess your memory is coming back?"
Professor Peabody?
He opened his eyes.
Blue sky and clouds. That was nice. Strange but nice. Ah. Fluorescent lights behind decorative diffuser panels. He turned his head—very carefully. Medical paraphernalia ... and a face he'd hoped he'd dreamed up. Although ... given his most recent dreams, maybe not.
Detective Griffin was at his bedside once more, faithful as any lover. Well, he'd known that reprieve couldn't last. Griffin had been a no-show yesterday evening, but here he was bright and early, as though standing in for Peter's nearest and dearest. That was unsettling, now that Peter thought about it.
"Why isn't anyone here?” Peter asked.
"I'll try not to take that personally."
"I mean ... my..."
"Your?"
But Peter had already figured it out. There wasn't anyone. No family. Friends ... He looked doubtfully at Griffin. Those blue-gray eyes that didn't seem to miss anything. Even if Peter had a crowd of friends queuing up outside the room, Griffin would not be letting them in till he got whatever it was he wanted from Peter.
Which was what? A confession of guilt?
When Peter didn't speak, Griffin said, “I guess you're wondering where Cole is?"
"Cole?"
The flash of impatience was almost concealed. Not quite. “You woke up asking for him. Now you're pretending you don't know who he is?"
He had to tread warily here. “I was half asleep."
"You're trying to tell me you don't remember Cole?"
Cole. Did he know who Cole was? He couldn't picture him. And yet the name seemed imprinted on his consciousness. Too important to forget.
And yet he
had
forgotten.
Peter's stomach knotted with tension. He was sliding out onto some very thin ice; he could feel the chill. What division did Griffin work for? Robbery and ... homicide? Was that what he'd said? Peter couldn't remember. But there was something about Cole. He could feel it. Something bad. Something too painful to bear.
"Who is he?"
"Cole Constantine? He's the great-great-grandson of MacBride Constantine."
Peter must have looked blank, because Griffin's sarcastic mouth quirked and he said, “Captain MacBride Constantine. The founder of Constantine House. The salty old sea dog who ripped off all those treasures from foreign climes and dragged them home to Southern California."
"What is Cole to me?"
Griffin's slanted eyebrows rose. “Good question. For one thing, he's your employer. Well, one of them. He's on the trustee committee for the museum. And"—he seemed to be scanning Peter's face closely—"you were college roommates and best friends."
"What else?"
"You tell me."
Peter stared. Griffin had a thin, cruel face, he thought. His eyes were wintry, like old ice.
"Has something happened to him?"
"Like what?"
The tension knotting Peter's muscles seemed to wrench tighter. He was afraid now—starting to shake with it.
"Like ... something bad.” He blurted, “Is he dead?"
Griffin laughed. “Worse than that. He's married."
"You really don't remember anything?” Roma shouted.
She was a small, slim woman of about forty with hazel eyes and dark hair cut in what they used to call a pixie. Apparently, she and Peter were great friends; she had turned up at the hospital to collect him and was now flying him home in her green vintage MG. She drove well, if terrifyingly fast.
He hedged, calling over the rush of wind, “It's coming back."
"But you remember me?"
"Sort of."
Not really, if he was brutally honest. He had been relieved to find that he did apparently have friends. His hospital stay, though relatively brief, had been lonely and nerve-racking till Roma had shown up claiming long acquaintance. He had to take her word for it. He liked her, though. Liked her directness, liked her easy acceptance of his plight. He could believe they were friends even if he couldn't recall that friendship.
She laughed now at his obvious discomfort. “In that case, I guess your trust is flattering.” She spared him a glance—Peter wished she wouldn't, given the bat-out-of-hell speed they were traveling at down the 210. Having just escaped the hospital, he definitely didn't want to wind up there again anytime soon. So there was something else he now knew about himself. He didn't like taking chances.
"Anything you want to stop for on the way? Jessica is stocking the pantry for you, so you'll be set for the next few days."
Jessica, he had already gathered, was Roma's partner. He had no recollection of her either. He had no recollection of anyone, though there was no organic reason for this lapse according to the doctors. He remembered the year, the month, and who was president. He remembered who won the fourth round at Wimbledon; he remembered seeing
Duplicity
—although he couldn't remember the circumstances of seeing the film. He remembered the Art Loss Register.
He remembered pretty much everything, provided it had no personal connection to himself. Which indicated, according to the hospital's resident psychiatrist, that his memory loss was psychosomatic. Amnesia, as it turned out, pretty much only happened in books and movies. If Peter wasn't remembering, it was because he didn't want to remember.
Either that or, as Detective Mike Griffin suggested, Peter was faking.
"I just want to get home,” Peter answered. He had no appetite. The hot summer wind blowing against his face was making his head hurt, although he should have been sufficiently medicated.
"Coming right up!” Roma pressed the gas and Peter closed his eyes.
Constantine House was located in La Cañada at the junction between the 210 and 2 freeways. Built in 1880 by retired sea captain MacBride Constantine, the Victorian mansion overlooked ten acres of live-oak forest and a series of carefully cultivated gardens.
Peter had been hoping that his first sight of the house might trigger his memories, but though he recognized that it was a charming architectural hodgepodge of styles and influences, it did not resonate with him personally. It might have been the first time he laid eyes on the ornate brick chimneys, fish-scale shingles, stained-glass windows, curved wood brackets, and corner turret crowned with an enormous copper fleur-de-lis that defined the grand old Victorian.
"I don't live
there
, do I?” he asked as the MG wound up the camellia-lined drive.
Roma shook her head. “You live in a cottage in the back. Did you want to stop?"
He should, of course. He should go straight to the museum. At the very least, he needed to know what was going on with the investigation from the perspective of the other victims, but even more than information, he craved silence, privacy. He'd been under a magnifying glass from the moment he recovered consciousness, and he already knew enough about himself to know that he was not comfortable with this much attention.
"I'll see how I feel later."
Roma nodded and they sped past the pastel-colored house with the colored windows shining like jewels in the bright sunlight. With the jacaranda trees in full purple blossom, it looked like a fantasy landscape.
It seemed strangely unpopulated too.
"Is the museum open?"
Roma replied, “Nine to five, every day except Christmas. Parking two dollars."
"Is it closed while the police are investigating the robbery?"
"Not that I know of.” She shot him a quizzical look.
"It seems a little ... deserted."
"It's not exactly Disneyland, you know."
"I suppose not."
Was the museum a fiscally sound enterprise? He had to wonder.
The drive wound behind the mansion, past the statuary and “ancient” garden and boxwood maze. Roma turned off from the main drive and headed down a small side road. Peter sighted a diminutive two-story California bungalow built in the Craftsman style: dark wood shingles and multipaned windows, sloping roof, pale stone chimney, tapered porch posts.
"Here we are. Not a scratch on you. Well, at least no more scratches than you left the hospital with.” Roma pulled to a neat stop on the half-moon drive in front of the house and grinned at him.
"Thanks. Really. I appreciate it. I'm just feeling a little..."
"Fragile?” She patted his knee and then opened her door.
Peter followed her more slowly up the stone stairs. The front door was unlocked, and they went inside the bungalow.
His immediate impression was of lemon oil and fresh flowers. The door opened onto a small living room with a hardwood floor, coffered ceiling, and a large stone fireplace. The furniture was tasteful and comfortable. Earth tones and cherrywood. Botanical prints were artfully arranged on one wall. There were a number of silver-framed photos on the low credenza. Peter recognized Roma among the other strangers captured for posterity.
Every item in the room seemed handpicked: an art nouveau wall sconce, a wrought-iron umbrella stand, a framed Edward Weston photograph. He looked around, hoping something would click ... but nothing did. It was a pretty little house—a showpiece—but it could have belonged to anyone.
An arched doorway led into the kitchen, where Jessica was putting groceries away. She was tall and thin with tiger-framed glasses and curly red hair. She came to greet them, kissing Roma lightly and hugging Peter hard.
"Welcome home!"
Peter hugged her back—uncomfortable but grateful; Jessica hugged like she meant it.
"How are you feeling?"
"Good,” he assured her. And if he said it often enough it might eventually come true.
Jessica and Roma exchanged looks. Roma said, “He still doesn't remember anything."
"
Nothing
?"
He began to qualify, awkward with this. With them knowing so much about him when he knew nothing. “It's not that I don't remember. It's that everything is sort of jumbled.” Plus he didn't remember.
"Gosh,” said Jessica. “You mean you still can't recall what happened the night the mural was stolen?"
Peter shook his head.
"
Nothing
?"
He shook his head again.
"Yeeouch,” said Jessica.
"You said it.” That was Roma. She and Jessica were exchanging those meaningful—but indecipherable—looks again. It made him uneasy. As though he wasn't uneasy enough.
"If you'll excuse me, I think I'll change.” Why was he asking their permission to change his clothes? It was bizarre to feel like a stranger in his own life. Yet he did.
He left them to it, their muted conversation following him down the hallway though the words were lost. Perhaps just as well.
William Morris olive leaf wallpaper, a Stickley library table, a New Haven Clock Co. shelf clock. The house was filled with a small fortune in antiques. His own, or did they belong to the museum? A nice perk for the curator of Constantine House if the bungalow came furnished with these lovely objets d'art.
And why was it that he could remember the name of the manufacturer of a 1904 clock but not the name of two of his closest friends?