Distant Memory (5 page)

“Sure, but don’t make too many calls, you need your rest.”

“I’ll try not to overdo it,” he said.

As the nurse left, McCullers pulled the phone from the stand and set it on his lap. Again he looked at the clock. It was nearly 10:30, which meant his report was nine hours late. His employers would be concerned, maybe even angry. That would have to be his first call. He preferred not calling from a phone in a hospital since the phone recorders would document the time and number he called, but that couldn’t be
helped. Not that it mattered in the end. The phone he would be calling - could not be connected to his employer. The phone number, like the business under whose name it was listed, was a front.

Now all he had to do was make his report, bad as it was, lie his way past the doctor and CHP investigator, and then find out what had happened to his target. If she was dead, then he could go home; if she wasn’t, his job was just beginning.

N
eed any help?” Nick asked.

Lisa was looking up at the broad, white door of the semi that he had opened for her. In front of her was a pair of flat, knurled steps, and mounted to the side was a smooth, vertical, chrome handrail. To enter the truck, she would have to place her tender right foot on the step, reach up with her left hand, extending the sore muscles in her side, and pull herself up. The thought of pain caused her to hesitate. Nick moved to help. Taking a deep breath, she said, “No, I think I can do it.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” she responded, “but let me give it a try.”

“Okay. I’ll catch you if you fall. It’s the gallant thing to do.”

“So chivalry isn’t dead,” Lisa quipped.

“No, just wounded.”

Raising her arm, she grasped the tubular handhold, placed her foot on the first step, and hoisted herself up. Pain fired in every direction. Spots of light flashed in her eyes, and spasms erupted in her back. She winced and muffled a cry.

“You all right?” Nick asked with concern.

Lisa took another deep breath. “Give me a second,” she whispered. Resting her weight on one leg, she clung tightly to the rail. Taking quick, shallow breaths, she felt the pain slowly subside. A few seconds later, she
climbed into the cab of the truck. A thin gloss of perspiration covered her face. She felt woozy and tired, as if she had run a mile instead of merely stepping into the high cab of a diesel truck. She licked her lips and closed her eyes. The pain continued to recede, like the tide from the shore. “I’m … I’m okay now.”

“You sure? That looked pretty tough.”

“It was, but I’m fine.” She looked down from her perch in the cab and saw Nick standing next to the open door. His face was a portrait of fretfulness. “You can’t drive this truck from down there.”

He laughed lightly, but his concern was still evident. “I guess you’re right. Can you take these?” He held up the two cups of coffee he had purchased at McDonald’s. “There’s a cup holder just to your left.”

Taking the cups one at a time, she placed them in a black plastic holder situated between the passenger’s and driver’s seats. Gently Nick closed the door and then entered the cab through the driver’s side. “Welcome to my home away from home.”

“It looks new.” She let her eyes trace the inside of the cab. The seats were leather and showed no sign of wear. The dash was free of dust, and its components showed no scratches.

“It is,” he said with obvious pride. “My old one finally gave up the ghost, so I purchased this one just a few months ago. It’s a Mack CH with an in-line six-cylinder diesel engine and an eighteen-speed transmission that delivers 460 horsepower—” He stopped abruptly. Lisa was smiling at him. “Sorry, I tend to get carried away.”

“You sound like a proud papa.”

“She’s my baby, all right. I spend as many nights sleeping in here as I do at home.”

“You sleep in here?”

“Sure. Look behind you. That’s the sleeper cab.”

Stiffly Lisa turned and looked over her shoulder. She saw a small compartment with a neatly made bed, a small counter, a shelf, windows on the side, and a television. “Wow.”

“There’s a refrigerator with soft drinks and sandwich makings if you get thirsty or hungry. And if you want to lie down, you can use the bed. There’s a television, but it’s hard to get anything while we’re on the road. I have a video player if you want to watch a movie.”

“What, no cable television?”

Nick laughed. It was a hearty, deep laugh that came easily to him. She sensed that he was a man who enjoyed humor. Just hearing his guffaw made her feel better. Evil men didn’t laugh, did they? At least not like that.

“That would have to be one long cable.”

Lisa looked around the cab. It was immaculate. No discarded candy wrappers, no newspapers lying in a pile on the floorboards, no empty coffee cups. She had a feeling that she was not so neat.

“There is also a tape player and a CD player here,” Nick said, pointing to the dashboard.

“You seem to have everything,” Lisa said. “Why did you sleep in the motel last night? Your truck is cleaner than those rooms.”

“That’s for sure. What a fleabag. That place gives
roach motel
new meaning. I feel bad putting you in that room. But I stayed in the motel for two reasons: I wanted to be able to hear you if you needed anything, and I wanted to take a shower. I’ve been on the road for quite a while and was getting a little … ripe.”

The thought of Nick listening through the night for her cry was touching. All he needed was a suit of armor and a mighty steed. “It looks like you keep your truck in perfect condition.”

“It was perfect,” he said solemnly. “I need to have the front bumper replaced. Some kid was carting his friends around in his mother’s minivan, playing the radio loud and goofing off. They were trying to pull into a parking lot for pizza or to buy CDs or whatever kids do these days, and they cut in front of me. Next thing I know,
smash
. The front end of their car is crumpled and my bumper is trashed.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No. I had just pulled out of the back lot where I had made a delivery, so I was going slowly. Still, their mother’s car is going to need a lot of work.”

“Where did this happen?”

“Sacramento, two days ago. It’s no big deal. My insurance will cover it. But it irritates me.”

“I can imagine. It’s easy to see that you love your truck.”

“There are more important things in life,” Nick said philosophically.

“Oh? Like what?”

“Love, friends, family, purpose. Things like that.”

“A truck-driving, philosophical, good Samaritan. Is there some deep, dark secret about you that I should know about? You’re not an axe murderer, are you?”

“Nope. I like axes. I can’t imagine hurting one.”

Lisa laughed. It hurt her to do so, but it also made her feel good inside. Nick reached over and turned the ignition key. The diesel engine came to life with a deep, guttural roar.

An annoying tone filled the cavernous office.

“Turn that off,” Gregory Moyer snapped without turning his attention from the view from his seventieth-floor window. He heard the speakerphone click off. Below him traffic crawled along the surface streets, the late morning sun sparkling off windshields and chrome bumpers. In the distance he could see the San Francisco Bay shimmering green in the summer light. A long tanker slowly plowed through the water. Double-decker ferries plied their way along courses they had traveled countless times. But his mind was fixed on a far more compelling image that filled him with fury. He fisted his hands and clenched his teeth. His neck muscles tightened, his back went rigid, and his eyes narrowed.
“Incompetent. Idiot. Inept fool. I thought you said he was the best, Raymond.”

Raymond Massey sucked in a long breath, then said, “He is, sir. He came highly recommended.”

“I’m unimpressed,” Moyer said icily, turning to face his employee. “If he’s so good, then what is he doing in a hick-town hospital.”

“Bakersfield is hardly a hick town, Mr. Moyer, and—” Massey stopped short, cut off by a look from his boss that said,
Don’t you ever contradict me
. He cleared his throat and looked down at the highly polished walnut conference table. “What I mean, sir, is that our man did track her down and make an attempt to eliminate the threat.”

“Bottom line, Raymond,” Moyer said. “What’s the bottom line? I’ll tell you what it is. Your man is snuggled down in a hospital bed while the woman who can destroy a forty-billion-dollar project is still out there somewhere. Do you understand why I don’t care how valiant his attempts were? He failed. He failed his mission and he failed me. How he played the game doesn’t matter.” He studied his longtime aide. He was a husky man of forty with a thick mustache. Despite his size, he never looked slovenly or rumpled. Moyer would not allow it. His top aides spent more on suits than most men made in a year’s salary. That was the way he wanted it, and that was the way it had been for the last decade.

At fifty-two, Gregory Moyer was trim, fit, and one of the most respected men in the nation. He was also the fifth richest in the country, tenth wealthiest in the world. Had things gone as planned, had it not been for
her
, he would have been number one in less than eighteen months. That possibility was now in danger, his plans teetering on an uncertain precipice. His whole empire could crumble, and he could find himself locked up in some white-collar prison, passing the time with businessmen who thought they could beat the system. Moyer had no intention of beating the system; he had designs to do away with it.

“I’m sure Mr. McCullers will be back on the job before the day is
over,” Massey said softly. “He doesn’t strike me as one to let a setback dissuade him from his commitments.”

“Still have confidence in the man, do you?”

“Yes sir. I’ve made many good decisions on your behalf and that of Moyer Communications. I believe this is another one. We just need a little more time.”

That part was true. Raymond Massey had been with the firm for fifteen years, climbing through the ranks and proving himself to be an exceptional executive. He could hold his own in any boardroom in the world and was comfortable dealing with the media or with less gentlemanly people like Carson McCullers. Massey was a strong man, emotionally and physically, possessing a powerful bulk, which the unenlightened assumed was merely a weight condition. It wasn’t. His body had been hardened by summers spent on fishing boats during his high school and college days. He maintained his strength with daily workouts in the company gym. And he was as loyal as he was strong. If the building were to collapse, in the “big one” that every resident in the Bay Area feared, around Moyer’s ears, Massey would be there to dig him out with his bare hands. Then, if he had time, he would check on his family.

“I’m glad to hear of your assurance,” Moyer said. His anger was subsiding a little, tempered by his respect for the man at the conference table. Returning his gaze out the window, Moyer studied his thin reflection in the tinted pane and brushed back a stray hair. His hair was a flat gray, combed straight back; his eyes were an icy blue. He tugged the lapels of his expensive three-piece suit and turned to face his associate. “I want you to join Mr. McCullers in Bakersfield.”

“You want me to go to Bakersfield?”

“That is exactly what I want, Raymond. This is too important. I know that Mr. McCullers just assured us that he would be out of the hospital within the hour, with or without the doctor’s permission, but he may be more injured than he has let on. If so, then his progress would
be impeded. This matter must be taken care of as expeditiously as possible. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes sir, I do. But I don’t—”

“There is no one I trust more than you. You know that. Together you and I have faced many challenges and won many victories, not to mention having made a great deal of money.” Moyer turned from the window and approached the table. “We’re on the verge of ruin. If she gets away, then all our plans, all our goals, will be lost, and no amount of money or conniving will be able to save us. She is a bomb in the hold of our ship, Raymond. A very big bomb.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Frankly, she has me scared. I’ve spent twenty years building Moyer Communications. I started with an idea and a few thousand dollars drawn against credit cards. That was a long time ago, and I had to ford a lot of financial streams and cut through even more government red tape. I’m not willing to let all that I worked for, all that
we
worked for, go down the drain with her.”

He paused, straightened himself, and clasped his hands behind his back. The posture was one of control, of discipline, but he could feel the fury building like a balloon inflated to the breaking point. “You go, Raymond. You make sure that our Mr. Carson McCullers finishes the task he was hired to perform. Pay him more if you must, but I want this taken care of as soon as possible.”

Massey pursed his lips for a brief moment and then stood. “I’ll leave immediately.”