Identity: Unknown. Suzanne Brockmann
the house on the hill, and he silently crept closer on his knees and elbows, staying low, staying invisible.
He stopped, smelling the cigarette before he saw the red glow of light. The man was alone. Far enough away from the house.
He silently lifted his rifle, double-checking it before he sighted along the sniper’s scope. He brought the night-vision setting up a notch so he could really look at the target. And the man with the cigarette was the target. Not the gardener out for a late-night stroll. Not the chef hunting for the perfect variety of wild mushrooms. No, he recognized this man’s face from the photos he’d seen. He gently squeezed the trigger and…
Boom.
The muffled sound of the gunshot still managed to pierce his eardrums, set his teeth on edge, stab through his brain.
Eyes wide open, he sat up, instantly aware that he’d been dreaming. The only noise in the dimly lit room was his ragged breathing.
But the room was unfamiliar, and he felt a new wave of panic. Where in hell was he now?
Wherever it was, it was a far cry from the church shelter he’d woken up in yesterday morning.
His gaze swept across the impersonal furnishings, the cheesy oil paintings on the wall, and it came to him. Motel room. Yes, he’d checked in to this place yesterday morning, after leaving the shelter. His head had been pounding, and he’d wanted only to fall into bed and sleep.
He’d paid in cash and signed the registration M. Man.
Heavy curtains were pulled across the windows, letting in only a tiny sliver of bright morning light. Hands still shaking from his dream, he pushed the covers off, aware that the sheets were soaked with his own sweat. His head still felt tender, but no longer as if the slightest movement would make him want to scream.
He could remember, almost word for word, the brief conversation he’d had with the man at the motel’s front desk. He remembered the aromatic smell of coffee in the motel lobby. He remembered the clerk’s name—Ron—worn on a badge on his chest. He remembered how endlessly long it had taken Ron to find the key to room 246. He remembered pulling himself up the stairs, one step at a time, driven by the knowledge that soothing darkness and a soft bed were within reach.
He could remember that dream he’d just had, too, and he didn’t want to think about what it might mean.
He stood up, aware that the movement jarred him only slightly, and crossed to the air conditioner, turning it to a higher setting. The fan motor kicked in with a louder hum, and coolness hit him in a wave of canned air.
Slowly, deliberately, he sat back down on the edge of the bed.
He could remember the shelter. He could see Jarell’s smiling face, hear the sound of his cheerful voice. Hey, Mission Man. Hey, Mish!
He closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders, waiting for memories of being brought into the shelter, waiting for memories of what had happened that night.
But there was nothing there.
There was only…emptiness. Nothingness. As if before he’d been brought to the First Avenue Shelter, he hadn’t existed.
He could feel a new sheen of perspiration covering his body despite the cooler setting of the air conditioner. He’d slept off whatever had ailed him—whether it was the result of alcohol or some other controlled substance or simply the blow he’d received to his head. In fact, he’d slept solidly for more than twenty-four hours.
So why the hell couldn’t he remember his own damned name?
Hey, Mission Man. Hey, Mish!
He stood up, staggering slightly in his haste to get to the mirror that covered the wall in front of a double set of sinks. He flipped on the light and…
He remembered the face that looked back at him. He remembered it—but only from the bathroom mirror at the shelter. Before that, there was…
Nothing.
“Mish.” He spoke aloud the nickname Jarell had given him. The word sent a small ripple of recognition through him again, as it had yesterday morning. But what kind of name was Mish? Was it possible that he remembered—very faintly—Jarell calling him that when he was first brought into the shelter?
Mish. He gazed into the unfamiliar swirl of green and brown that were his own eyes. What kind of name was Mish? Well, right now, it was the only name he’d got.
Mish splashed cold water on his face, then cupped his hand under the faucet and drank deeply.
What was he supposed to do now? Go to the police?
No, that was out of the question. He couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t be able to explain the .22 and that huge wad of money he was carrying in his boot. He knew—he didn’t know how he knew, but he did—that he couldn’t tell the police, couldn’t tell any one anything. He couldn’t let anyone know why he was here.
Not that he could have, even if he’d wanted to. He didn’t know why he was here.
So what was he supposed to do?
Check himself into a hospital? He turned his head, gingerly parting his hair to look at the gash on his head. Without yesterday’s fog of pain clouding his eyes, he knew with a chilling certainty that the wound on his head had been the result of a bullet’s glancing blow. He’d been shot, nearly killed.
No, he couldn’t go to a hospital, either—they’d be forced to report his injury to the police.
He dried his face and hands on a small white towel and went back into the main part of the motel room. His boots were on the floor near the bed, where he’d left them last night. He picked up the right one, dumping its contents onto the rumpled sheets. He turned on the light and sat down, picking up the .22.
It fit perfectly, familiarly into his hand. He couldn’t remember his own name, but somehow he knew he’d be able to use this weapon with deadly accuracy if the need ever arose. This weapon, and any other, as well. He remembered his dream, and he set it back down on the bed.
He pulled the rubber band off the fold of money, and the piece of white paper that was fastened along with it slipped free. It was fax paper; the slippery, shiny kind that was hard to read. He picked it up and angled it toward the light.
“Lazy Eight Ranch,” he read. Again, the name was totally unfamiliar to him. There was an address and directions to some kind of spread up in the northern part of the state. From what he could tell from the directions, it was about four hours outside of Santa Fe. The words were all typed, except for a note scrawled across the bottom in big round handwriting. “Looking forward to meeting you.” It was signed, “Rebecca Keyes.”
Mish opened the bedside-table drawer, looking for a telephone book. But the only thing inside was a Gideons Bible. He picked up the phone and dialed the front desk.
“Yeah, is there a train station or a bus depot in town?” he asked when the desk clerk came on the line.
“Greyhound’s just down the street.”
“Can you give me the phone number?”
He silently repeated the number the clerk gave him, hung up, then dialed the phone.
He was going to Santa Fe.
Becca was out front, helping Belinda and Dwayne welcome a van load of guests, when she first spotted him.
He would have been very easy to miss—the solitary figure of a man walking slowly along the road. Yet even from this distance, she could tell that he was different. He didn’t have the nonchalant swagger of the cowboys that worked the nearby ranches. He didn’t carry the bags and sacks of crafts and jewelry that many of the local Native Americans took into Santa Fe to sell. He had only one small bag, efficiently tucked under