Chasing My Shadow (4 page)

“My nephew works for me,” the chubby cook told him,” and I know he’d rather drive you around than help me. What time did you want to go?”

“About 9:00 if that’s OK?”

“Sure, people are in and out of here before that. Good time to let him go. Would you be through before the noon rush?”

“I’ll see that we are,” said Stone, “and I appreciate it. Can he pick me up at Currier’s…I mean the motel, about 9:00?”

“He’ll be there. If he shouldn’t get in to work for any reason, I’ll see that someone is there to take you. You remember when it was Curriers?”

“Yeah, I was living here in 1983. Had the Collectibles store on Baintler.”

“Guess I don’t remember that.”

“Well, it wasn’t here long.” Then he asked, “How about some bacon—crisp—, eggs over easy, and rye toast with another cup of coffee?”

“Coming right up,” and the cook turned and grabbed the bread to add to the turning toaster.

By the time Stone had finished, the little diner was crowded. He thanked the man again as he left to walk back to the motel. Then on his walk back he began to wonder if he had tipped enough. Were you supposed to tip more in 1994 than you did in 1983? Eleven years was a long time and he began to feel panicked again. There was so much to learn and no way to catch up. Life was too short anyway, and no one should have to be cheated out of eleven years. Such a long time.

He was glad to get back to the motel, and with a sigh of relief he smoothed out the covers on the bed and flopped down on top to try and get some sleep before he had to leave.

At five minutes to nine he heard three short toots of a horn and went out to find a young lad who looked barely old enough to have a license sitting in a little Dodge Dart in front of the building.

“Taxi?” Stone asked with a smile for the lad.

“At your service, Sir,” grinned his driver. “Uncle Randy said to take you wherever you want to go.”

“Is there a drug store or department store anywhere near that might sell glasses—you know, the kind you can just try on and find some that help? I’ve lost my glasses and would like some for temporary use.”

“Well, yeah, or there’s an oculist on Brainard Street, not too far from…”

“No, that would involve an appointment and….No, just a place where I can get some to use now.”

The young driver started off. “Know just the place. It’s called ‘Courtney’s Corner’ and it’s a lot like the old Woolworth stores. They have everything and I’m pretty sure I saw one of those turn things with glasses all around it and mirrors on top the last time I was in. If not there, the drug store would have them. Want to try Courtney’s?”

“Why not?”

They soon arrived at an unimpressive corner store with a large sign on top reading
Courtney’s Corner
, then a smaller sign below which read
If we haven’t got it, you don’t need it
. Then underneath that
If you really really need it, we can get it for you.

He told the young man to wait for him, then got out and entered the store. The glasses display he wanted and that his driver had described was off to the right just as he entered. He tried on several pairs. Most of them seemed to be for reading, but he finally found some that helped him greatly to see far-off, and the frames were even similar to the ones he always wore. After he had paid for them, he removed the tag and sticker from the glasses themselves.

“You can put that stuff right in here if you want,” said the young man, pointing to his trash container.

“Thanks,” he said, as he tucked the papers into the container. He put on the glasses and looked around in satisfaction. It was great to be able to see at a distance again. He returned to the car. “Now I’d like to go to the Colburgh National Bank,” he said to the driver, as he settled into the seat. “Nice little car. Is it yours?”

“Yeah—sort of. My parents gave it to me on condition that I don’t have an accident or a ticket within a year. Dad says if I’m clean then, the car is mine.”He laughed and added,“I even considered not driving at all just to be sure it would be mine in a year, but decided that was pretty silly. What good would a car be if you couldn’t drive it?” Then he added, “I usually play some tapes, but if you don’t want me to, I won’t.”

“Actually I’d like that.” When the music started he put his head back on the head-rest and closed his eyes as though he were enjoying it, and let his mind take over—now free to think about the bank ordeal, and he went over it again. He had no identification, so all he could do was hope he still had an account there and it would not be questioned. Maybe they had considered it a dead account and closed it out. If he still had an account and they asked for identification he would just have to pretend he had forgotten to change his wallet from his other trowsers, and leave. It was embarrassing not to have any memory of those years, and he didn’t intend to tell anyone. He felt like he had three strikes against him before he even opened his mouth. He just prayed this memory thing wasn’t permanent.

CHAPTER 4
 

When he entered the Colburgh National Bank he hesitantly approached the line of patrons waiting. There were three tellers at their windows but only one line, which he now joined. He remembered there used to be as many lines as there were tellers. Except for that the little bank looked the same. He was getting more nervous with each step forward. Finally his turn came.

“Hello, I’m Stone Langston,” he said to the teller who had motioned to him, “and I was wondering about my account….I used to live here and…and….”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Langston, just a minute,” and she went to the computer across the small room. “Did you mean your money market or checking account?” she called to him.

He gasped inwardly, and replied as calmly as he could manage, “Both of them, please.”

She returned to the window and said, “You should have received this month’s money market statement—or maybe you had already left by then. I’ll get you a copy, and we’re just in the process of sending out checking account statements now. Let me see if I can intercept it for you.” She left to make a copy of the money market statement and to see if she could locate the checking account. Stone’s heart was beating rapidly and his head was starting to ache again. She seemed to know him and didn’t question the account.

When the teller returned, she remarked, “You’re one of our absentee customers. Your name is familiar but I don’t think I have seen you before. That’s a long ways to come. Will you be in town long?” As she spoke, she handed him both statements.

“Not very long,” he remarked as his eyes quickly went to the name “Stone Langston” on the first statement. He put them together in the large envelope and, thanking the teller, turned to leave.

“Have a nice day, Mr. Langston,” she called after him.

When he came out of the bank his driver started the car and reached across to open the door for Stone. “Now where to Sir?” he asked.

Stone didn’t answer at first, as he quickly took off his glasses and scanned the statement with his name on it—and just stared at it. Then, looking up as though he had suddenly noticed someone was with him, he said, “I…I think that’s all for today. I’d like to go back to the motel, please.” The driver shrugged his shoulders and started back the way they had come. “Whatever you say, Sir.”

They rode back to the tune of the rock music that was on the tape, as Stone skimmed the rest of the money market statement. When they arrived at the motel he paid the amount asked, along with some extra bills for a tip. “I don’t even know your name,” he said.

“Bill Grandy,” he told him.

“Well, I’m Stone Langston, and if I called you do you think you would be able to take me to the airport sometime tomorrow?”

“Gosh, I think so,” he said, brightening up. It would depend on what time it was though.”

“I realize that and I’ll have to contact the airline to find out when I can get a flight, so if you’d like to leave me your phone number I could let you know when I find out the time.”

The young man found a slip of paper in the glove compartment and wrote his name, his home phone, and the number for the diner and handed it to Stone. “Thanks,” said Stone, “I’ll be in touch,” and he headed for his room.

As soon as he had entered and locked the door he fell onto the bed. What did it mean? The address under the name of Stone Langston on the statement was Malsheba Rd., Pertula, California. What was he doing out in California? he asked himself in astonishment. He could understand going there on a buying trip—but to live there? The bank teller had said something about his coming a long ways. She had called him one of their absentee customers. He couldn’t believe he had ever lived in California but that must be his address, he reasoned, and he remembered nothing—nothing at all—since he left for his buying trip in ‘83 from this town. And he had never had a money market account—not enough money to warrant it—but he obviously had current accounts here in Colburgh. It just made no sense. He wanted to open both statements and read them thoroughly but his head ached and, for some reason that he didn’t understand, he was afraid to look. Out west—the man in the restaurant had mentioned that he heard they had gone out west. Did that woman go with him all the way to California? Maybe he just took her to the airport so she could fly home to wherever she came from. Of course, that had to be it. He felt better. He had to rest a while until his headache eased and the dizziness let up a little.

Finally after he started feeling a little better he pulled himself up to a sitting position against the headboard of the bed, took off his glasses, and slid them into his shirt pocket, then scanned the statement. Suddenly he stared at the balance of the money market account, $79,862.73. Where did it come from? Where did he get all of this money? He noted that he had apparently made a deposit on it of $20,000 in May. How could he have made a deposit of that amount? He must have been living at this California address then, and according to the teller she had never seen him. What was he doing out there?

He wondered if he could find out what date he opened the account. Could he have just kept the account when he left and then sent them his change-of-address? But he knew he hadn’t had a money market account then.

Then he remembered the other account—checking. He knew he had a checking account when he was here so he must have simply kept it and changed his address, then probably opened the money market account by mail. That’s probably exactly what he did. And now he opened the checking account statement too. The checks spewed out in his lap and he gathered them up, then stared at the one on top. It was made out to a Selina Avery, and he quickly noted that it was signed by him. Who was this person? Then his hand shook as he looked at the amount of $100,500. “Oh, no.” he said aloud. “I have no idea who this person is.” He only knew that was a lot more money than he had ever had. It was dated May 21, 1994. That had to be only a few weeks before he left on the plane trip from California. He had actually written the year 1994, so he had to have known what was going on in that year. Now it was gone—all of it a blank.

Headache or not, he had to find out what he could, and he took the checking account statement and sat at the small Desk spreading the checks out in front of him. He found the motel stationery and a pencil in a drawer and soon had the checks in numerical order, then started looking at each one. He noted they were dated from May 10, to June 12. Most of them on June 11. He had already figured out that the Grayline crash must have been on June 14, and he must have paid several bills just before he left on that flight—as well as the one to this Selina Avery three weeks earlier. He started making notes, then realized the statement itself would tell him all he could find out until he remembered something, so he started reading it.

He sat back in the chair and tried to make some sense out of the statement. He had certainly been paid a lot of money from some source or sources in May. Unless he could find out the names and addresses of these places, he wouldn’t be able to call anyone. He was afraid to call anyway. How could he converse when he didn’t know anything about the subject or the person he was calling. The name Raymond Chelsea rang no bells either, and he had apparently written a check to this person for $1200.

What really bothered him was the woman that he supposedly left town with. Who was she? And what was she to him? He wanted so much to call Tara Lee, but what could he tell her? He had to find out why he was out there and what he had been doing—and especially the relationship of this woman who was a stranger to him. And why would he have paid such a huge amount of money to this person, even if he had it? And was she the same one he left town with? So many questions. So many. Finally he realized that he hadn’t made reservations to fly out and see if he could straighten out the mess, and he immediately picked up the phone book.