Memory Lapse: A Slater Vance Novel (11 page)

Slater placed a hand
against her cheek. “Hey, are you okay? Do I need to call someone – an ambulance
or something?”

With a ragged jerk, she
gave a quick shake of her head. “I’m sorry, I’m… tired is all. I’m sorry about
dinner, but I think I need to lie down for a while. Okay?”

Even more awkward than
before, she clumsily moved to her feet, grabbed her crutches, and lumbered down
the hall to her room. She fell across the bed and placed her un-casted arm over
her eyes. What had happened in there? Was that her memory returning? Who was
that man and why couldn’t she see his face? Maybe it wasn’t a memory of an
actual event but maybe something she’d seen on television or something. Had it
been a memory or had the violence she’d witnessed earlier in the day manifested
itself into what she’d seen? She wondered who the man had been in her
vision/memory. Somehow she felt she knew him well.

She didn’t know how long
she lay there before she heard the gentle tap at her door.

Removing the arm across
her eyes, she said, “Come in.”

Slater entered, obviously
uncomfortable. “I’ve made you a sandwich. You need to eat something. I’ll leave
it here on the bedside table. Let me know if you need anything. Okay?”

Her eyes watered at his
generosity. It looked as if she misjudged him.

“Thanks, Slater.”

“No problem,” he said,
backing out the door.

More exhausted than he
could remember since his Special Forces days, Slater showered quickly and
crawled wearily between his six-hundred count Egyptian cotton sheets – a
must-have, Anne had said. As exhausted as he was, he couldn’t seem to shut his
mind off. He thought through the incident in his office first, trying to
isolate every second to determine who had been behind the break-in and
subsequent attack. But no matter what angle he looked at the situation in, he
just couldn’t find one clue. Was it the Senator? He’d done work for several
high-profile companies as of late, so it really could be any of them.

The week before he’d
tracked the Senator’s movements, he’d done work for a high-tech company called
STU - Satellite Technology Unlimited. It was an international company whose CEO
thought someone was selling company secrets to his competitors in China. The
CEO, Carlton Sanders, had been right. Unfortunately for the suave executive,
the culprit turned out to be his extremely smart and determined
sixteen-year-old son. For Slater, as the secrets weren’t what he’d considered
to be a threat against national security, he didn’t feel the need to alert the
board of STU or any other federal agency. Carlton Sanders had hired him
personally and paid him directly through his own account. In Slater’s line of
work, the ability to keep secrets was an essential and necessary requirement.
Besides, Slater followed the money. But maybe Carlton Sanders was afraid he’d
put the information up to the highest bidder? Who knew?

Slater rubbed a hand over
his face, longing for sleep. He thought about Honey Luscious – maybe he’d start
calling her Jane Doe – that at least carried a modicum of decorum. She was
different from the women he currently dated. While he knew the uphill battle
she faced every day, she still managed to keep it together – except for
tonight, that is. He didn’t know what’d happened to her, but it had really
shaken her. But even with whatever it’d been, she’d maintained control. There’d
been no raving hysterics, no tears,
no
outbursts of
any kind. He respected that.

Slater felt as if he had
just drifted off to sleep when his cell phone began to play
Highway to Hell
, his current ringtone –
much to his brother’s chagrin. Slater really loved pushing his brother’s
buttons.

“Slater Vance,” he answered
groggily.

“Umm, hey, this is Honey
Luscious,” an urban, sultry voice said. “I heard you were looking for me. I
know you said you wanted me to call you yesterday, but I just got your message.
Do I still get double the money? I only missed yesterday by two hours.”

Slater glanced at the
glaring red numbers on his clock/radio, which read two-twelve.

“Yeah, of course I’ll
still pay you double. Listen, is there any way we can hook up tomorrow
sometime? Say around ten o’clock?”

“
Umph
,
that depends on whether you mean a.m. or p.m. I don’t do mornings.”

With a faked chuckle, he
replied, “How about four o’clock then?”

“Better. How ‘bout you
meet me at
Kwik
Klean
. Umm,
how much time to you want me to block off for you? You
wantin
’
the Saint’s treatment or the Hell
Freezing
Over
treatment?”

“Saint’s
treatment?”
Slater questioned curiously.

With a barked laugh, she
answered, “You know, straight missionary.”

Evasively, Slater said,
“I only need to see you for about fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, so a little
jojo
,” she smirked knowingly.

Slater cringed at the
thought. “Yeah, something
like
that.”

“Okay, dude. I’ll meet
you there. Hey, does your car have tinted windows?”

“Yes, I’ll see you
tomorrow at four,” he said, tired of this conversation.

It took Slater about
seven minutes to fall back to sleep. He’d been asleep for less than an hour
when he heard strange noises coming from down the hall. He listened but didn’t
understand what he was hearing. Was she having a nightmare? He sighed heavily.
He thought about ignoring her and even placed the pillow over his head to block
out the noises, but his damned brother popped into his head. Tucker would never
forgive him if she hurt herself with the casts while thrashing about. Slinging
the pillow aside, Slater stopped long enough to slip on some sweatpants before
going down the hall, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

He’d gotten almost to her
door when he heard a man’s muffled voice. Did she have a man in her room? Due
to his many sleepless nights, it took Slater a minute to understand what he was
hearing. As he pressed his ear against the door, he heard her muffled screams.
Slater took a second to focus. The automatic kick of adrenaline which forces
either fight of flight got more people killed than saved. Taking a deep breath,
he silently grabbed the door handle, and in one precise, smooth motion, he
opened the door and charged into the room.

The room was lit only by
the moon filtering in through the windows. Slater’s eyes immediately went to
the bed and saw a man dressed in what appeared to be black pants, black shirt,
and a knit ski-mask covering his face. Prior to Slater stepping into the room,
the man had pinned Honey… Jane Doe… whoever down on the bed with one hand
placed over her mouth and one hand wrapped tightly around her throat. Under
him, she was thrashing about, bringing up her casted arm to hit him repeatedly.

Upon hearing the door
open, the man stumbled off the bed and lunged toward Slater. At his movement,
Slater threw himself
against the man, his momentum knocking them both to
the ground. The pain that exploded in Slater’s chest reminded him of his
cracked rib. The pain caused him to hesitate briefly as he sucked in a breath
in protest. The man, it appeared, had participated in the same or at least
similar defensive training as Slater. It didn’t take Slater long to realize
that if he wanted to outmaneuver the other man, he’d have to deviate. Rolling
from the man, he raised his knees slightly, waiting for him to move over him so
he could toss him with the greater strength of his legs away from himself long
enough to get to his feet.

The man seemed to read
his mind and understand his tactic. Instead of trying to roll over onto him as
planned, he shoved Slater onto his side and grabbed Slater’s head in the vice
of his forearm and bicep. Slater could feel the air being squeezed from his
throat. He’d begun to see black spots floating before his eyes when up above
him, he saw Honey standing unsteadily above them holding one of the crutches in
her good hand. Slater watched as she lifted the crutch and swung it in classic
baseball bat style. Because she didn’t have the use of both hands, the hit
wasn’t strong enough to knock the man out, but it did stun him for a minute.
With a small shake of his head, the man reared back his fist and punched Slater
out cold.

Slater came to with the
feel of Honey’s hand patting him gently on his face. She heaved a sigh of
relief when his eyes fluttered open. He jerked upright, let out an
uncontrollable gasp as fire ate into his sore ribs, and immediately scanned the
room. He jumped up and felt his jaw tighten in agony where he’d been punched.
He ran through the house looking for the
perp
, but he
was long gone.

Quickly he returned to
Honey’s room to check on her. He found her struggling to rise from the floor,
which was made difficult with her casted leg. He placed his forearms underneath
her arms and picked her up effortlessly. He sat her down on the bed’s edge and
knelt in front of her.

“Are you okay?” he
murmured.

“Yes.
How
about you?”

Slater rubbed a slight
hand over his already bruising jaw.
“Nothing that an icepack
and some Tylenol won’t cure.
Did you know who the man was?”

She just shook her head.
“If I do, I don’t remember,” she answered ruefully.

“Of
course, stupid question.
Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m good.”

Slater rose from the
floor, “Okay, well call if you need anything,” he got to door then paused, “You
did
good
, Slugger. In fact, I think that’s what I’ll
start calling you – that, or maybe Sammy Sosa,” he said, grinning.

“Anything is better than
Honey Luscious,” she said, returning his grin.

“Well about that… I’m
meeting the real Honey Luscious tomorrow. You’ll be relieved to know, you’re
not her,” he kidded.

She wiped her good hand
across her brow. “Whew, that’s a relief,” she grinned back.

Slater turned back one
more time. “Really, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Slater returned to his
room after checking all the locks in the house. His annoying clock/radio now
read three-fifteen. Would he ever get any sleep? No, he figured one day he
would just wake up dead – maybe then he could get some sleep. He had to hand it
to Honey… Jane… Slugger, she’d been awesome, and what an arm!

◊◊◊

The woman known as Honey,
Jane, or Slugger, raised her hand to her throat and could still feel the finger
impressions left there by her attacker. For some unknown reason, she felt the
icy fingers of fear wrap themselves around her throat and squeeze.
Irrationally, she was filled with more terror now than when the man had
attacked her. It was strange, but when the man had jumped her on the bed, she
felt almost deserving of the attack. She took deep breaths to control her fear.
She concentrated on making her mind blank as she didn’t want to dwell on the
attack.

As she idly continued to
rub her neck, a vision of sorts flitted across her mind, almost like what
happened at the dinner table earlier. She felt the terror rising again, but
forced it way down. She was in a masculine room, like an office or study. The
walls were paneled in dark wood and there were rows and rows of bookcases
covering them. She was lying on top of a desk, naked, with her legs splayed.
There was a man – she couldn’t see his face clearly – he was standing between
her legs thrusting into her with slow, measured strokes. She didn’t find the
act itself terrifying, in fact, she rather enjoyed it. She felt her body quiver
and tremble at the touch of his hands on her bared breasts. She closed her eyes
to intensify the sensations the man was producing in her. She moaned as the
pleasure became almost unbearable. She was almost there… almost there; her
breathing became rugged and rapid.
Yes
,
she cried. Suddenly, she felt his hands close tightly around her neck and she
couldn’t breathe. She began to struggle against the man, but he was heavy and had
her caged against the desk with his body.

He leaned down to her ear
and whispered, “Not yet, bitch. You wait for me.”

The man began to plunge
into her body now with punishing brutality, tearing her tender flesh. He didn’t
have to worry anymore; she no longer felt desire rushing through her veins…
only terror.

The no-name woman raised
an unsteady hand to wipe at the tears streaming down her face. What kind of
life had she had before? Even if she wasn’t Honey Luscious, maybe she worked
with her. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the truth anymore.

Chapter 8

Highway to Hell
had played and stopped twice before Slater could rouse
himself enough to grab and answer his phone.

He muttered, “Dammit,
who’s calling this early in the morning?”

He groaned and cast a
glance at the clock. He was startled to see it was already ten o’clock. He
hadn’t slept in this late since he was a
hungover
teenager. He glared at the phone and saw it was his brother.