Charlotte Had A Boyfriend : 2

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

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Know thyself? If I knew myself I would run away!
— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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"What if my memories don't come back? What if I forget even more?" I didn't mean to panic; I didn't want to panic... and yet... panic was there, waiting to pounce, ready to devour me.

In spite of my rather obvious distress and incipient fear, Dr Thistlewaite struggled to keep an amused half-smile off his face. "How could you possibly forget more?"

My eyes widened in disbelief. "You just said I might forget even more--"

"No, no," he interrupted. "I was talking about electroshock, and why it's a bad idea--"

"Because I could forget even more than I have already. That's what you said. Just now."

He fumbled. "Look--"

I interrupted, imperative. "What if I wake up tomorrow, and I don't remember today? What if I forget the little I remember right now? Don't laugh at me — please; I'm serious."

"I'm not laughing," he quickly (but not convincingly) assured me. "The thing is, it doesn't work like that—"

"How do you know?"

"Because you aren't the first person to go through this," he replied. "Also, because medical science knows pretty well how the different parts of the brain handle their specific functions. Listen to me. You were in a car accident. You hit your head. You don't remember the accident, and you don't remember anything *before* the accident. This is a fairly common pattern, for this sort of amnesia." He smiled, warming to his subject. "As I said: you aren't the first person to experience this. What you have is called PTA, or post-traumatic amnesia. As the name implies, it was caused by a trauma — the car accident, the blow to your head—" he pointed above his right eye, to the spot where I had the lump— "It's retrograde, which means you don't remember old memories. It doesn't affect new memories, memories formed *after* the trauma. Okay?"

I shrugged helplessly. What could I say?

"The pattern, in these cases — cases like yours — is that the amnesia doesn't last very long — as I said, hours or days. It's not a long time. Little by little — or all at once — your memories will all come back to you."

"And if they don't?" I repeated, insisting.

"They will," he assured me. "Believe me, they will. And — and — if you were going to forget more, you'd be forgetting things already." He covered his name tag with his hand. "Tell me: what's my name?"

"Thistlewaite."

"See? And that's not an easy name! Now tell me: how many cars were in the accident?"

"Two."

He spread his hands, palms up, as if say, you see?

I twisted my mouth to the side as I digested this. Then I asked, "What about this: why *do* I remember new memories? And how come I still know how to talk? Why didn't I forget that, when I forgot everything else? Do I have to worry about that disappearing?"

He shook his head no. "Different parts of the brain," he said. A sound outside the curtain distracted him. "The brain isn't all one thing. It has a lot of compartments... components... different components have different jobs to do. Okay? Listen, I'm going to have to leave you now. I'll see you upstairs, after you're admitted. Okay? In the meantime, try not to worry. Try not to stress! Stress makes it harder to remember. Don't rush things."

He put his hand to the curtain, then stopped himself. "Oh! I just remembered something that might help! Have you ever heard the saying Don't push the river; it flows by itself?"

"No," I told him. "I'm pretty sure I've never heard that."

His eyebrows danced. "Interesting that you put it that way! Well, in any case, it's something Fritz Perls said. It suits your present situation perfectly. Don't push the river."

"Okay," I said. "No river-pushing. I promise."

There came a cough from outside the curtain, a cough that signalled someone else wanted their turn. Thistlewaite gave a quick smile and a wave before he swished the curtain open.

"Hey!" I stopped him. "Can we talk about my name? I'm not sure this Deeny thing is really my name."

He glanced at the person outside the curtain for a moment, then told me, "Upstairs. Okay? We'll can pick up our conversation at that point.. Alright?"

With that, he was gone.

As Dr Thistlewaite exited, a trim, business-like woman entered. She wore a long white lab coat and had a stethoscope around her neck.

"Hello, Deeny," she said. "I'm Dr Lukkenbocher, but you can call me Dr Sandy. How are you feeling?"

I tried to work up a witty remark about doctors with long names, but Dr Sandy was like a train. Once she started, she was ready to move on, with or without me.

As she spoke, her eyes danced over the machines in the wall behind me. She picked up my arm and took my blood pressure.

"Any aches and pains?" she queried, and shined a penlight into each of my eyes in turn. She asked me to grip her hands and squeeze them.

"Follow my finger with your eyes," she directed, moving her index finger in front of my face, up, down, left right.

"Good!" She consulted my chart. "I see you got some tylenol for your headache. Did it help?"

"I guess," I said. "Will it be hard for me to get more if I need it?"

She seemed amused. "Was it hard to get it the first time?"

"Yes," I answered, a little nettled. "It *was* hard. I had to ask ten times. I had to insist pretty hard. They told me a doctor had to give it to me, so..."

"I see. I'll write an order. Every four hours, if you need it. If you ask for it."

"Great."

She reached forward and, starting gently, dug her fingers into the soft tissue of my shoulders and neck. "Any pain up in here?"

"No."

She had me move my head in every direction. She asked about my bruises. As she talked to me, she poked and prodded my arms and legs. She ran her hands over my scalp. She looked at the lump on my forehead, but didn't touch it. "Does it hurt?" she asked.

"I have a headache. I don't know if it's from the lump or from the sun. The bump hurts like hell if you touch it."

She pressed a finger into my right forearm, the arm that isn't bruised, and let it go. "You're very red," she observed. "I'm worried about sun poisoning. Make sure you drink lots of water, okay? We're going to keep this IV running, to help hydrate. And I'm going to order you some aloe vera gel. Will you remember to apply it? Cover all the red, all the burn, even on your face and scalp. Don't forget the back of your neck and your feet. Okay? The nurses can take care of your back."

She asked a lot of questions. She wanted to know whether I had any allergies to foods or medicines. Of course, I had no idea, but I told her that I didn't think so. Then she told me she was going to do a general examination, to see if I had any injuries I wasn't aware of. "Another thing: The police asked me to check for distinguishing features," she informed me. "so that will be part of the examination."

"The police? Why?"

"Well, you're a Jane Doe, an unidentified female. Hopefully someone reported you as a missing person."

"How can I be missing?" I asked, laughing. "I'm right here."

She gave me a serious look. "Imagine someone who loves you. Someone who has no idea where you are. You lost your memory, haven't you? You have no idea how long you've been away. Maybe it's only hours, but for all you know, you've been gone for days or weeks or even longer. Think about that. And imagine: the people who know you... imagine how they must feel."

What she said made me confused and seriously uncomfortable. "Who would... Does somebody have to be... I mean... who's allowed to report me missing?"

"Anyone," she answered. "Anyone can file a missing person report. It could be a friend, a neighbor, someone in your family, a roommate, a boyfriend, your husband. The police will match you up, if they can."

I scowled at the words boyfriend and husband. "No boyfriend, no husband," I told her.

"For someone who lost their memory, you sound pretty sure," she said with a smile.

"How could I have a boyfriend or a husband?" I scoffed.

"Woo!" Dr Sandy exclaimed, puffing out her cheeks. "How? Are you seriously asking that question? At your age? Didn't your mother explain to you about the birds and the bees?"

I blushed, but didn't know how to respond.

She let me stew in my embarrassment for a few moments, then, quietly teasing, said, "I'm quite curious as to whether you've forgotten all that!"

Dr Sandy pulled down the neck of my hospital gown so she could look at my chest. My jaw dropped when I saw a pair of breasts sitting there, stuck on me. They were obviously my own. I'm sure I was vaguely aware of them this whole time, but actually seeing them was quite a shock. I almost blurted out Where in hell did *those* come from? but stopped myself in time.

She caught the look on my face, and quite bemused, asked, "You look surprised. Are they different from how you remember? Is this something else you've forgotten?"

"Ahhh — I don't know," I replied, drawing out the vowels. "I guess I, uh, hmm."

Sandy's face reverted to a perfunctory professional half-smile as she had me turn first to the left, then to the right, so she could check my back. "We probably ought to take photos of these bruises," she observed. "I'll have one of the nurses come in afterward to do that. Okay?"

"Sure."

Next she checked my feet and legs. "Your legs are very smooth," she commented. "I assume you wax them."

"Um— I guess?"

She gently lifted the hem of my gown, when a loud clang! made her turn her head away. "Somebody dropped a bedpan," she explained with a laugh.

Thank goodness someone did! If Dr Sandy thought I looked surprised when I saw my breasts, she would have been astonished at my reaction when I saw the... nothing... the space... the gap between my legs! Where the... what... I wanted to gasp, but I bit my tongue.

"Okay," she concluded, pulling my gown back into place and covering me with the sheet.

"So how do I rate, as far as distinguishing features are concerned?" I asked her, a little nervously.

She made a vague gesture. "You don't have any. Which is nice for you, as far as your appearance goes, but it doesn't help the missing-person process. No tattoos, no birth marks, no piercings, no scars..."

"Scars?"

"Sure, from accidents... I mean previous accidents... or surgeries."

"Surgeries?" I repeated. "Oh! Like operations?"

"Well, yes, of course," she replied, with an amused smile. "Surgeries, operations... they're the same thing."

"But what if— what if— it was an internal operation?" I asked. "Could you still tell?"

Dr Sandy was puzzled by my question. "Do you mean, like, having your tonsils removed? Or some kind of umbilical surgery?" She considered for a moment, then added, "Or are you talking about a D&C? Something like that? It's possible I'd miss something along those lines — but... do you have any reason to think you've had a surgery like that?"

"Well, not like that," I replied.

"Then I don't know what you're getting at," she said. "Most surgeries leave traces that I would see." She scratched her head. "Still, I'm really curious to know what you're thinking, especially given your memory loss. If you could be a little clearer, more specific, I'd have an easier time giving you an answer."

"I guess I don't know what I'm thinking," I told her at last.

"There's one last thing," she said, hemming and hawing a little. "The police also asked whether I could do a rape kit. I told them I'd need your consent before I could do that."

"A rape kit!?" I exclaimed. "What the hell! Why?"

Sandy dropped her voice just above a whisper (which made me realize I'd been shouting.). "Look at it this way: you don't know where you've been or who you've been with. Anything could have happened to you."

"Not that, though!" I assured her. "Not that!"

"How you can be so sure?" she countered. "I mean, superficially it doesn't look like you've had sex recently... Maybe they'll be satisfied if I tell them that... If they push it, I'll tell them you refused. How's that sound?"

I nodded.

"Excellent teeth, no cavities, crowns, or bridgework," she said as she scribbled on my chart. "Your ears are pierced in three places — that's interesting, but so do a lot of women your age. No nail polish, but nails are carefully tended. As I said: no tattoos, no body piercings, no scars, no birthmarks."

She scribbled some more, her head down. When she finished, I said, "Dr Thistlewaite told me I was going to be admitted. Um, I have some questions..."

"You had a head injury; probably a concussion. We want to keep you overnight for observation. Tomorrow, if everything looks good, you can
go home! Okay?"

Without waiting for my answer, she swished through the curtain and was gone.

"Home?" I repeated lamely. "Home," repeated the old man behind the curtain, sounding as though he spoke in his sleep.

Home, though. Home. It ought to be evocative, shouldn't it? Home. I kept repeating it, expecting to get a mental image, a picture: a house, a street, a yard... a tree? A tire swing? Something. Anything.

Instead, I got nothing. I drew a complete and utter blank.

I didn't even get a feeling. No sense of who I might find at home, of who I'd expect to see at home. Of who *I* was, when I'm at home.

Nothing. All a blank. A tabula rasa.

And speaking of blanks... of a tabula rasa... I slipped my hand down between my legs, to my groin. What happened there? I wasn't about to tell the doctor this, but I felt sure that I used to have a penis. Seems impossible, given its absence. It's hard to believe I'd *imagine* something like that. And yet, my certainty... how reliable was my certainty, given my amnesia?

Was it possible that I used to have one, and had it lopped off? Was I transgendered? Seems like I'd remember that. Wouldn't I?

I didn't exactly want to come out and ask the doctors, though. They'd think I was crazy, and I didn't want that.

I gave my breasts an experimental squeeze. They were thoroughly real, as far as I could tell. Then my hand drifted down, back to my... zone. It didn't feel bad or wrong. It was just... puzzling. Unfamiliar. New. But how could it be new? I didn't venture to explore any further. I was too nervous. Too frightened of what I might find or feel.

Good thing, too, because the moment I'd settled myself, with both hands chastely above the hospital sheet, the police walked in. Of course, they said "knock, knock" and didn't open the curtain until I answered "come in," but I'm glad I was ready. I didn't want to be making furtive movements in front of the police. I didn't want to look embarrassed, or have something to explain. I *especially* didn't want to explain something that I didn't understand.

 

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The police, in this case, were a pair of young, polite, professional women. One was a detective, Carly Rentham, and the other a uniformed officer, Tatum Scrattan.

The detective, Carly, started off by asking how I was feeling, pointed to the lump on my head, made an ouchy! face and said, "God! That must have hurt!" and so on.

Once the brief obligatory chit-chat was over, Taturm, the uniformed cop, opened her hand-sized notepad and poised, pen at the ready. She looked me full in the face and asked whether it was really true that I'd lost my memory.

"Yes, it's true," I replied. "I don't remember the accident or anything before the accident, but I remember everything since then."

From there on, they pretty much alternated in throwing questions at me.

Carly: "You weren't driving, were you?"

Me: "No."

Tatum: "How would you know, if you don't remember?"

I opened my mouth to answer, then hesitated. How *did* I know?

Then it came to me: "There were two cars, right? I saw Wade climb out from the driver's seat of his car, the white car. Amos was trapped in the driver's seat of the blue car. Both cars were all crumpled up when I first saw them. It was hard for Wade to open his door, and Amos couldn't open his at all. So nobody could have been hopping in and out or changing places."

Carly: "Were you under the influence at the time of the accident? Drugs or alcohol?"

Me: "No. I mean, I was in a daze, but that's 'cause I was knocked on the head." I pointed at my forehead, as evidence.

"Was anyone else?"

"What? Under the influence?"

Carly nodded, so I replied, a little unwillingly, "Amos, I don't know. Wade told me that he was, himself, but you know, I didn't smell his breath or see him drink." After a moment I added, "But he behaved very responsibly. The whole time."

"Good for him," Tatum commented. I couldn't get a read on her level of irony.

Carly: "Okay. So you don't remember anything at all from before the accident: your name, where you were going, where you were coming from... nothing."

Me: "That's right."

Carly: "And no idea where you got that Robbins Police t-shirt? You don't know who gave it to you?"

Me: "No idea. Is that important? I mean, it's just a shirt, right?"

Carly bristled. "No, it isn't just a shirt. And yes, it's probably *very* important, because there's only two ways you could get a shirt like that: you'd either have to be a cop here in Robbins — which you're not — or a cop would have to give it to you." She paused, tight-lipped, then: "And we're not supposed to give those shirts to anyone."

Tatum touched her pen to her lips, thoughtful, and added, "There is a third way you could get one of those shirts: you could steal it from a cop. But you didn't do that, did you?"

I frowned, offended. On the other hand, I had no idea what I did or didn't do to get that shirt. Still, I wanted to express my indignation. She called me a thief! Then, a sudden thought struck me: There was an upside to my having this shirt. My eyes brightened. I bounced a little as I sat up straighter. "So— that means— somebody must know me! Somebody on the police force right here! They must! Right?"

Carly gave a one-shouldered shrug: "It's possible. Seems likely. We'll ask around."

Tatum smirked and said, "We'll put your photo on the MOST WANTED board."

Carly shot Tatum a look. "She's kidding," she informed me.

"Yeah, I got that," I lied.

Tatum frowned at her notebook for a moment, then returned to her questions. "Do you remember anything at all about the accident... anything that happened before the accident — I know you said you lost your memory, but maybe you've still got pieces of memories? Even if it's just a sound, a smell, an impression... anything?"

Carly gave Tatum a dubious look and half a frown, but she let the question stand. I cast my mind back. To my surprise, my mind didn't seem so completely empty now. In answer to Tatum's prompt, there wasn't anything you could call distinct or clear. Even so, instead of finding empty rooms full of nothing, I encountered a jumbled mess of something in my head. There wasn't any timestamp on it, but I could sense that it stood on the other side of a fence; the fence that divided me from the world before the accident... the universe before my personal big bang. I peered into a mess formed of cobwebs, static electricity, and softly plumed tumbleweeds. Tatum's word impression echoed, and a dim glow appeared in my inner brush pile.

I carefully drew the fragment into the light and examined it. There was an unmistakeable texture under my fingers. "Finding something?" Tatum queried.

"A scratchy blanket," I told her as I touched the memory. I felt like a psychic, weaving together the uncertain threads of someone else's message — even though this message was my own. "A blue scratchy blanket." I shrugged apologetically. "Heavy. Kind of stiff. But clean." More of the memory emerged. I saw myself in the blanket. "It was nighttime. I was sleeping, wrapped up in a blue blanket. I was naked. I was shivering. From the cold. It was so frickking cold."

Then it was gone. The memory lost its tactile sense and faded away.

I shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, but you said *anything*."

She poised her pen over her little notebook. "You said scratchy. Scratchy like wool?"

"Yes, exactly like wool." There was something else in my mental hodgepodge... "Oh, yes! And a big black umbrella! It was on the floor near me. I'm sure about that! After the accident, Wade found it — the umbrella — in the back seat of Amos' car. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was mine, from before. Before the accident!"

Carly and Tatum exchanged glances. Tatum shrugged and scribbled in her book.

Carly: "You've mentioned Wade and Amos by name. If you have amnesia, how do you know their names?"

Me: "I met Wade when he climbed out of his car. So that was *after* the accident. He introduced himself. And then Amos... I've never actually met him or talked with him. That I remember, anyway. I've never even seen Amos. I don't know what he looks like. He was trapped in his vehicle. Wade went back and forth, talking to me, then talking to Amos."

"Why didn't you go over to Amos? Save Wade all the back and forth?"

"I couldn't stand up. Every time I got to my hands and knees, the world would start spinning, hard, violently. It was pretty bad. So I couldn't move, And Amos was trapped in his car. He couldn't move, either. They had to cut him out with the jaws of life. I didn't get to see that; I was already stuck inside the ambulance."

The women nodded. Tatum scribbled in her notebook.

"Hey," I ventured, "Do you think I could go talk with Amos? Do you know what floor he's on? Do you know what kind of shape he's in? Maybe he could fill me in on some of the things I don't remember."

"No," Carly replied, shaking her head. "No, you can't see him. He's too far away. In fact, normally the two of us would question everyone involved in an incident like this, but Amos is all the way up in Chatterbridge. It's a long drive. See, you came in an ambulance to Robbins Memorial, because it was the closest town, but Amos left the scene in a helicopter, and the medivac only goes to Chatterbridge, which is a regional trauma center."

"Oh," I muttered, crestfallen. "Well, when you find out how he is, will you let me know?"

"Sure thing," Tatum replied.

"And if he can tell you anything about me, I'd be very interested to hear it. I mean, apparently he picked me up hitchhiking, so we probably exchanged some words before the accident."

"You were hitchhiking? In the desert?" Carly asked, eyebrows high.

"Apparently. That's what Wade said Amos told him."

Carly blinked several times. "Hitchhiking? In the desert? Barefoot? Wearing only a t-shirt?"

Tatum, with a half-smile, supplied, "It was an extra-large t-shirt."

"And I guess I had the umbrella," I added. "I must have had it, because I had it later."

The two of them took all that in, in silence.

Once that information was digested, we went through what little information I could provide about the accident. The two women tried to come at it from every direction, taking various tacks, but always running aground on my amnesia.

On the other hand, I was able to tell them plenty about the accident's aftermath.

After what seemed the fifth loop through the same material, my energy began to flag. So many questions! So many questions repeated, over and over, in different ways... and in the same ways!

Still, I kept at it, kept up with them, until they were satisfied. Once they finished with their questions, they set to work on identifying me.

For the sake of matching me up with a hypothetical cop who might know me, or of finding me on a missing-person report, Tatum took several photos of my face.

Then, in case I was "in the system" for one reason or another, she used a high-tech inkless pad to get my fingerprints.

"Wouldn't I have to be a criminal to be in the system?" I asked.

"No," Carly answered. "There are plenty of legitimate reasons for an ordinary civilian to be in the system. People who work in finance, people in the military... and other professions, have to give their fingerprints as part of their background check."

Tatum added, "Also, many elementary schools fingerprint their students... you know... because of—"

"Abductions," Carly abruptly finished the thought.

"Now for your DNA," Tatum announced.

"Oh, DNA!" I exclaimed enthusiastically, as she produced the swab. "Will you tell me the results?"

"The results?" Tatum echoed, amused, with a slack-jawed smile. "Well, yeah — we'll tell you if you match up with any record already in the system. We're not going to do the ancestry thing, though, if that's what you were thinking. We don't do your ethnic breakdown."

Carly, with a half-smile and side glance to Tatum, said, "Did I ever tell you that I'm 65% Scottish?"

Tatum blinked a few times, not knowing how to respond at first, and then: "Yeah? Well, anyway, we're not going to do that. We'll just check and see if you're in the system."

"In the system," I repeated. "What if it turns out that I'm a criminal?"

The two women laughed. Carly responded, "Honey, if you're a criminal, we'll lock you up!"

"I don't think you're a criminal," Tatum quipped.

"Still... you never know!" Carly teased.

"You can laugh," I said, "but I have no idea who or what I am. I could turn out to be some kind of monster... or some kind of crazy person!"

At that, Tatum burst into laughter. She caught herself, stopped laughing, and quickly apologized. "Sorry, but have you looked in a mirror lately? You're not a monster. You're just a regular girl. I mean, woman. You're not a crazy person."

"But if you do turn out to be a monster," Carly added, teasing again, "We'll put you in the zoo, with all the other monsters. Okay?" She took a breath and smiled. "And if you're crazy... uh..." She stopped, unsure of how to end that phrase without saying something offensive. After a moment, she gave up. "Okay, I don't have a punchline for that. But listen: don't worry. The doctors say your memory will come back quickly, and everything will be alright. In the meantime, with what we've got — your picture, you prints, your DNA, we'll probably find out who you are... before you do! I mean, we might get the results before you have time to remember. In any case, we'll let you know. And we'll be back. Okay?"

They gathered up their equipment, preparing to leave. Tatum closed her little notebook and stuffed it into a pocket.

I stopped them. I asked, "Hey... what happens if I don't remember who I am?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, suppose tomorrow the hospital wants to discharge me, and I still don't know who I am. Where do I go?" I looked from one face to the other, helplessly.

"Uh— the doctors are pretty sure that's not going to happen. Okay?"

I persisted: "But what if it does?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Carly asserted. "In the meantime, there are a lot of ways this could resolve. We've got a nice handful of leads here. Missing Persons might know who you are, right off the bat. One of our cops might ID you, just like that!" She snapped her fingers. "Your prints might tell us, your DNA might tell us... And then, of course, there's your memories... you know? You've got plenty of eggs in your basket. At least one of them is bound to hatch."

I opened my mouth to object, but Carly held up her hand. "Nobody's going to toss you out on the street," she assured me. "Okay? You're going to be fine. Don't worry."

With that, they were gone.

 

---

 

I liked the two policewomen. I felt I could trust them.

But what about the Missing Persons department? Or was it a bureau? What did I know about them? What if some nefarious person came forward — someone who has nothing whatsoever to do with me — no legitimate tie — what if *they* claimed me, the way a thief takes someone else's suitcase at the airport? What then?

I should have asked the police about that before they left.

I mean, Dr Sandy said that anyone could file a missing-person report. So... could anyone come here and claim to be my sister or brother or whatever? Even if it wasn't true? They could pick me up and take me away, and that would be that.

"She was never seen again," I said aloud, then kicked myself for talking to myself.

I didn't even have time to ask Carly and Tatum a more practical question: if the hospital kicked me out, and I still didn't know who I was, would the police let me sleep a night or two in a jail cell? At least there I'd be safe and warm.

 

---

 

While I lay in the hospital gurney, fussing and upsetting myself, Tatum returned, sticking her head through the curtains without preamble.

"Hey," she asked. "Where's your stuff?"

"What stuff?"

"Your phone, your clothes, your wallet..."

"I don't *have* any of that!" I exclaimed. "That would make it too easy, wouldn't it! Maybe it's back in Amos' car, or somewhere on the ground nearby?"

"What about the clothes you were wearing?" she asked.

"You mean the police t-shirt? I don't know where that went."

"I have that," she replied, a little irritated. Then, as she got what I was saying, her eyebrows popped. "That's all you were wearing? Seriously? No underwear? No shoes? I thought you were joking earlier."

"I said I was barefoot," I reminded her. "I wasn't wearing anything but the shirt," I assured her.

"And you were hitchhiking."

"Apparently, yeah."

She took a breath and blew it out. "Okay. Our team is still out there. I'll give them a call. If they turn up anything of yours, I'll let you know. But here's another thing... When the medivac carried Amos to Chatterbridge, they spotted another car, a third car, in the desert, about thirteen, fourteen miles west of your accident. Does that ring any bells?"

I shook my head no, and asked, "Do you think my stuff might be in that car?"

"It's possible," Tatum acknowledged. "Kind of seems likely, doesn't it? Not that I'm promising anything! Anyway, Carly and I are going to drive out and take a look at it. If we find anything that relates to you, we'll let you know. But first we're going to drop off your picture, your prints, and your DNA at Missing Persons. We'll tell them that someone on the local force might know you. If they figure out who you are, you'll be among the first to know." She paused and looked me in the eye. "By the same token, if *you* remember who you are, or if you remember anything relevant, you'll let us know, right?"

I nodded yes and said, "Of course!"

"We'll be back to see you. If not later today, then sometime tomorrow. In any case."

With a swish of the curtain she was gone again.

Damn. Once again, I missed asking whether I could sleep in a jail cell.