Chapter 4

THE BARN WAS EMPTY. It smelled of dust and dryness and hay. There was no one in the farmhouse when we'd arrived in search of a place to hide and rest, but it wasn't deserted - the property too well maintained. My clothes itched. I'd sweated in them and slept in them for the past three days, maybe more but I couldn't remember. I was tired, too.

Bianca looked a bit bedraggled, her hair messy. She looked exhausted, her face drawn. Despite that, her Egyptian blue eyes were clear and bright and questioning.

Studying the barn, I saw hay piled up in the loft above us, a rough wooden ladder leading up. Pointing, I said, "Up there. We can rest. Tomorrow we'll find clothes, food, and a shower. Va bene?"

Bianca nodded. She began to climb the ladder moving slowly, the effort of pulling herself up evident. I followed, checking below to make sure we'd left no signs of our presence. Fatigue tugged at me, too. Spotting something, I lowered myself, crossed the barn and grabbed what looked like a horse blanket. Tossing it over my shoulder, I climbed up to join Bianca.

BIANCA'S BODY ACHED. SHE was tired and wanted to sleep. But she was hungry and thirsty, too. Her clothes itched, soiled from being worn for too long.

"Here. We'll sleep here," Julian said, spreading the red plaid blanket on a bed of straw.

She didn't have the energy to complain. Lying down, a feeling of comfort, of security, wrapped around her as Julian hugged her from behind. Her eyes closed.

Despite his comforting presence she was still scared. Julian clearly didn't remember anything and he looked so confused. He'd entered her consciousness back at the house with such explosive force, a dark-haired slender man bursting through the bedroom door, emerald green eyes flashing, gun firing, a grim expression narrowing his mouth. She'd actually seen the bullet crease his temple. Not the bullet itself but the blood welling suddenly, Julian falling to one knee. She'd been shocked at the violence of death, how he'd twisted and killed the other kidnapper in a seamless move of blinding speed before collapsing.

For a day and a half she'd tended to Julian as he fought a fever brought on by the head wound. She'd washed it with clean water, and stayed by his side as he moaned and burned and cried out in his delirium. She'd carefully avoided looking at the dead bodies that littered the house but they couldn't be ignored. They'd started stinking, a cloying, disgusting smell.

The relief she'd felt when Julian finally came around had been huge. She'd worried that he was going to die, that she'd be left all alone wherever she was. When he'd opened his eyes, she'd gasped at the intensity of his green eyes. They were so powerful, so penetrating. When he'd come to she thought everything would be okay. But it wasn't.

A helicopter had forced them to run. She'd not even been able to relax in the café, Julian hauling her out of it. He'd shocked her with the way he disposed of the man chasing them. One hit with his fist. The guy had dropped like he'd been shot in the head. Julian was frighteningly violent.

All day they'd been running; bus rides, walking, more bus rides, endless tiring movement as they made their way out of the city. She was exhausted, hungry, and dirty. Julian's arms tightened around her, almost like he could feel her worries. She sighed. Would he get his memory back? Where would they go? What would happen next?

Disturbing images flashed behind closed eyes, a kaleidoscope of memory fragments and emotions. Bianca never knew when she slipped from disturbing reality into a disturbing restless sleep.

AN OWL HOOTED ITS lonely night call. Hay smelled dry. Bianca muttered in her sleep and moved restlessly. I held her tighter. I'd been so self-absorbed I'd forgotten what Bianca must be feeling. How could a fourteen-year-old have the poise to tend to me amidst dead bodies? She'd been remarkably calm as we'd run, not complaining at all.

It struck me as I hugged her that, without the distraction of fleeing danger, the confusion of amnesia, and the mesmerizing power of her remarkable eyes looking at me with such trust, Bianca was very young. In my arms she was small, much smaller than her personality, smaller than her mature attitude. She was a fascinating girl and, even with her bedraggled appearance, really quite pretty.

Sleep rebuffed me despite a body crying out for rest. Bianca whimpered in her sleep. I tightened my hug and whispered, "It's okay. We're safe." It worked. She settled.

Lack of memory was disorienting. It was like my mind had a physical void spot, a dark empty hole where everything was hiding from me, teasing me, frustrating me. Who was I? Was I a killer? All evidence said yes. But how did that connect to Bianca? Not knowing was almost physically painful.

Wait! Stop fretting and think!

I was approaching this problem all wrong. My memory might be blank but my mind wasn't useless. I could make some reasonable assumptions. First, how did I get to that farmhouse? Was I driving? If so, where was the car? Did I have help? If so, who helped me? Why didn't I have documentation, identification, money? Everyone had some. Where was mine? Had I left it somewhere? With identification would come knowledge. I could find out where I came from, where I lived, and that could lead to friends and acquaintances who would know me and reveal my life to me.

We had to go back. We had to return to that farmhouse. With a plan of action settled, I relaxed. Sleep arrived to comfort my aching body.

Birds twittering woke me up. My body was cramped from not moving all night. Morning sunlight streamed through gaps in the wooden barn wall, dust motes hovering in the shafts of light. I needed to pee. Hair tickled my nose. I sneezed.

Bianca sat bolt upright as if electrocuted, her eyes wide in fright, blonde hair messed, hay stalks sticking out. When she saw me fear faded from her large, deep blue eyes. I smiled and shrugged in apology and promptly sneezed again.

She laughed at me, her eyes twinkling with amusement. It transformed her face. Without the shadow of fear, Bianca was a very pretty girl indeed, even with her messy hair and the smudge of dirt on her cheek. It added character.

"Salute," she said with an amused smile, then surprised herself by sneezing, too. Hers was dainty little sneeze. "Mi scusi," she added, grinning.

It was a small moment of innocent pleasure with no thought to our current situation. Bianca brought a smile to my face. Hers faded when I told her we were going back to the house she'd been held hostage in.

The sudden crunch of tires on gravel reached us from outside the barn making my blood pressure jump. Bianca opened her mouth to talk. Reaching out, I pressed my finger against her lips warning her to be silent. I couldn't help but notice how silky soft they were. Car doors slammed. Voices floated up to us.

"Su madre es una bruja!"

"No, no lo es. Usted no debe ser tan grosero con ella!"

I smiled despite my nervousness. A husband and wife arguing over the wife's mother, the husband too rude to the mother-in-law; a time-worn dispute suffered by many.

"Nosotros nunca vamos a volver!" the husband swore as a front door slammed.

Grabbing Bianca's hand, I nodded down. We descended, slipped around behind the barn and cut across a fallow field to find the road. Despite needing a shower and clean clothes, we settled for a snack bought in a bodega - a small grocery store - taking the opportunity to use their small bathroom. It took seven hours for us to make the journey back. We couldn't risk returning to Cordoba so our route took us well out of the way. I debated stealing a car but feared being stopped and detained by the police.

By just after three o'clock the scent of ashes hit me. Rounding a bend in the long lane leading back to the isolated farmhouse, we arrived at the still-smouldering burnt shell of the house and barn. The fire had raged. Three walls had collapsed; the sole exception was the one with the chimney. Inexplicably I knew from the smell that all the dead bodies had been removed before the house was set alight. It didn't matter.