“You manage that one, you’ll make my source a happy man.”
Pasternak looked at the photos again. “I assume you’re gonna let me keep these?”
Vargas nodded. While he was at the Internet cafe, he’d paid a few extra pesos to use the scanner and transferred the images to his SD card.
Pasternak said, “I’ve gotta admit you managed to root out one helluva story.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.”
“So what’s your next step?”
Vargas didn’t even have to think about it.
“California,” he said. “I’m headed back to California.”
56
Everyone kept telling her how remarkable her progress was, but Beth didn’t see it.
Physically, perhaps. Her motor skills had improved to the point that she could now walk unassisted for long periods of time, eat on her own, and even write passages in her journal-a journal Dr. Stanley had encouraged her to keep. But the inability to remember clearly was driving her mad.
That, to her mind (such as it was), was much more debilitating than not being able to clench a fist or stand without assistance. She’d gladly give up her mobility for a day free of confusion. A day in which both her long- and short-term memory were fully functioning, all synapses firing properly and glitch-free.
A day in which she stayed put. No more imaginary trips to the Mexican Riviera.
In these welcome moments of clarity, however, all she could think about was Jen. Those last few minutes Beth had spent with her sister didn’t seem to want to leave her alone.
Lunch. Fight. Bathroom break.
Gone.
And far from being a figment of Beth’s imagination, Rafael and Marta Santiago had been very real. Just because the cruise line had no record of them didn’t mean they weren’t there. Maybe they were stowaways. Maybe they had signed on under fake names, using false identification. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that had happened.
And the fact that there wasn’t a record of them led Beth to believe that they had, indeed, been somehow involved in what had happened to Jen.
And to her.
In one of her brief, uncomfortable phone conversations with Peter, he’d told her that the FBI and the Albuquerque police were now convinced that the two didn’t exist. But Beth didn’t care what they said; she knew in her gut that these weren’t false memories.
No White House dinners or grizzly bears for her, thank you.
“You ready for your walk now, Elizabeth?”
It annoyed her that everyone around here called her Elizabeth. At first she had accepted it. They were simply reading the name off of a chart. But she was pretty sure that she had finally told them that most people called her Beth.
This was not, she decided, a particularly friendly place. Everyone was nice enough, sure, but they were just people doing their jobs, smiling professional smiles, offering professional sympathies and encouragement.
She’d done enough of that in her own job to know when it was happening to her.
But the people here always treated you as if you were a child. That they were the ones who knew best, no questions asked. A little pat on the head when you forgot your words or a face or a name.
Isn’t she cute?
She’ll do better next time.
But they couldn’t even remember Beth’s name. So who was the one with the brain damage?
“Did you hear me, Elizabeth? Time for your walk.”
Ever since Beth had learned not to rely on her wheelchair, her physical therapist had been taking her for regular walks. Not far. Just out to the courtyard and around the field, a small stretch of land bordered by trees and a chain-link fence.
Every time they walked the perimeter, Beth would look out at the city streets and wish that she could close her eyes and will herself back into her old life. Back to the days when she would slip behind the wheel of her BMW, drive down the 101 to the building on Spring Street, then settle into her office chair, ready to take on the new morning.
Back when Jen was still here. And Peter had not yet been exposed as an unrepentant philanderer. Before his late-night meetings with “clients,” the faint but unmistakable lipstick stains, the condoms in his wallet.
Beth had been blissfully ignorant of his cheating before then, and maybe she was better off that way.
Growing up, she’d thought that the worst that could ever happen to her already had: the death of her parents.
But she’d been wrong about that, hadn’t she?
Very wrong.
A hand touched her shoulder and she turned with a start, looking up from her wheelchair into the pleasant but rather bland face of her physical therapist.
David?
Danny?
“Time to go,” he said, then helped her to her feet and guided her toward the courtyard door.
When they got outside, Beth was happy to see that the sky was clearer than usual. The smog had decided to take an unscheduled holiday. The morning was bright and clean and she drank it in, wishing every day in Los Angeles could be so beautiful.
She remembered the first morning after the breakup, when she had moved into her own apartment. It had been a day a lot like this one, the sky clean, sunlight slanting through her bedroom window, and she had hoped it would be the start of a new life.
Apparently it was. Just not the one she’d bargained for.
Now, that apartment was gone. Given up after she went missing. Peter had had all of her things sent to a storage facility; then later some of it was transferred here.
Clothes. Family photos. A box full of her favorite books. Her entire life summed up by a few meager possessions.
Pretty pathetic, when you thought about it.
As David or Danny guided her toward their usual starting point at the edge of the field, Beth looked out at the street again, at the rows of cars parked on either side.
She couldn’t tell you why, but something drew her attention to the distant street corner. A sense that she was…what?
Being watched?
Yes, that was it.
There was no rational explanation for this feeling, of course. Something Dr. Stanley would have a field day with. All she saw there was a parked car, covered with dust, as if it had just traveled a long distance.
She couldn’t even see the driver.
Yet she sensed he was in there. Watching her.
Waiting for something.
Beth averted her gaze-afraid to stare too intently-and let Danny (Dennis?) guide her along the path around the field.
But as they rounded the second turn, Beth found herself looking back toward the street again.
At that dust-covered car.
She recognized the make. It was a lot like the one her parents used to drive so long ago.
