Chapter 1

My eyes opened, but I couldn't see, not at first. There was light, though, and finally the room came into focus. I didn't recognize the room, but it wasn't in a house, not with fluorescent lighting and an acoustical dropped ceiling.

I also had the mother of all headaches, so I closed my eyes again. I opened them when I heard the sound of feet shuffling across the floor. The sound came from a middle-aged woman, a nurse, I gathered from the way she was dressed, which by inference made the room I was in a hospital room. That's when I noticed the wires and tubes hooking me to equipment - monitoring devices, I figured. An IV dripped something into my arm.

Ah, he's awake, the nurse said. No, she didn't speak. Her lips didn't move. There was no sound. Still the words were clear in my mind, and they came to me from the nurse. She smiled at me. One of her front teeth was chipped.

She spoke out loud then, fussed over me, and told me she'd let the doctor know I was awake. When she turned to leave, I grabbed her wrist, which surprised her. When I tried to speak but only croaked, she removed the tubes from my mouth and nose and gave me a sip of water.

"Where am I?" I asked, my throat feeling like raw meat.

"Valley Hospital."

"What city?"

"Las Vegas."

"What's wrong with me?"

"I'll let the doctor tell you - that is, if you'll let go of my wrist so I can let him know you're awake."

"Sorry," I mumbled and released her.

The doctor was younger than the nurse - Doctor Birch, he announced, a neurosurgeon. He looked way too young to be a neurosurgeon. Rosy plump cheeks. Mischievous eyes.

"You arrived at the emergency room ten days ago, Mr... ?"

I opened my mouth to give him my name, but...

I didn't know my name! How could that be?

The fact that I didn't know my own name terrified me.

He noticed my agitation. "What's wrong?"

I closed my eyes. "I can't remember my name."

Unlike me, he seemed unconcerned. "That happens sometimes after a concussion. Don't worry about it."

"My clothes, my wallet. My wallet would have ID. Find my wallet."

The rosy-cheeked doctor looked at the nurse. She shook her head. "No wallet," she said.

"What do you remember?" Dr. Birch asked.

I concentrated. Nothing came to me at first, and then I saw a playground. My hands moved from one bar to another, swinging as if I were Tarzan from tree to tree in a jungle, a concrete and gravel jungle, not a green one. I told the doctor about the memory.

"A childhood memory?" he said.

"I guess."

"Anything else?"

I tried. "Nothing."

While I pondered the black hole that was my past, Birch told me about my injuries. Along with large masses of bruises, contusions and cracked ribs, I'd arrived at the emergency room with a serious concussion. The doctor operated, stopped the bleeding and removed the blood clot. The swelling, he said, wasn't severe, so he buttoned me up - his words. I spent the next four days in the hospital's nuerosurgical intensive care unit. More swelling occurred, but they handled the problem with medication. During my stay in the ICU, they kept me on a ventilator and sedated, but even after curtailing the sedatives, consciousness had eluded me. I'd remained in a coma for an additional six days.

"Any brain damage?" I asked. Other than the fact that I can hear your thoughts, I wanted to add, but didn't. No, hearing his thoughts wasn't accurate. I experienced them. His thoughts moved through my mind just like my thoughts, no sound, more like the sensation of words. The words had inflection but no volume.

"Memory loss, of course, but that's temporary," he said. "I saw nothing in the CT scan that indicated dangerous contusions, or bruising. Your prognosis is good. When you're up to it, we'll do some more tests."

"Tell me about the memory loss, Doc," I said.

"Amnesia, probably retrograde amnesia," he said. "There are two stages of retrograde amnesia: an early one that lasts only minutes or hours and corresponds to intermediate-term memory, and a late stage that extends back days, even years from the point of trauma, in your case a severe concussion."

I snorted. "How do I get my memories back, another bonk in the head?"

He chuckled. "No, that's Hollywood amnesia, screenwriters mixing a few facts with a lot of artistic license. Another bonk on the head would, in all likelihood, make the memory loss worse."

"If I can't remember my name, why can I remember how to speak and understand English, for instance?"

"Some cognitive learning ability survives into amnesia. Memory is complex, but for the most part, amnesiacs are missing only one kind of memory - the memory for events."

I frowned. "I don't understand."

"Hmm, how to put this? There are two types of memory: one that stores the skill acquired through practice and another for remembering the practice experience as an event. Usually, amnesia affects the event memory but not the skill memory."

"So, I remember how to do something but won't remember how or when I learned how to do it?"

"That's oversimplified, but essentially correct.

"The holes, the blank spaces are irritating. How long will I be without my memories?"

"Usually, not very long. Experiencing stimuli associated in the past with missing events often stimulates the retrieval of memories lost in retrograde amnesia, although the memories aren't truly lost; they're where they always were. The retrieval processes to access the memories are malfunctioning. I know of an amnesiac who was unable to recall anything from the preceding twenty years of his life who went home for a visit and began to remember immediately. While standing in one room, he suddenly visualized the contents and arrangement of an adjoining room without looking. The sight of a neighbor's house evoked a memory of the neighbor's name. Bit by bit, association by association, you'll retrieve most of your missing memories simply by experiencing stimuli linked to the lost memories."

"My head hurts," I mumbled and closed my eyes.

Other than telepathy and memory loss, my doctors could find no other brain damage. I told no one I could experience thoughts. Intuitively, I feared revealing my telepathic ability could create serious problems for me. If I brought up the subject, I figured an army of doctors would descend on me and run me through a maze of tests like a lab rat. Besides, I didn't know if the paranormal ability preceded the concussion or was caused by Doc Birch's scalpel.

I did explore the parameters of the ability. I couldn't experience thoughts that were farther away than about a hundred feet, and if there was an obstruction between the thinking person and me, then that distance dropped to about thirty feet. To my delight, I also discovered I could turn off someone's thoughts. I was delighted because the thoughts of more than two or three individuals at the same time were... not noisy, but very confusing, like listening to two or three ratio programs at the same time, all set to the same volume.

Two days later, two police officers questioned me about the accident that brought me to the hospital, but with my memory loss, I couldn't tell them anything, and they weren't helpful either. A person - anonymous - noticed me lying in a parking lot behind Circus Circus and called 911. The officers who responded to the call, called an ambulance.

"You were mugged, sir," one of the officers said. "Someone hit you on the back of your head and turned your pockets inside-out."

As soon as possible, I spent some time in front of a mirror. I hoped seeing what I looked like would trigger some memories.

Nothing, dammit. The face in the mirror didn't trigger even one memory.

Not bad, though, I thought as I gazed at myself. My half-shaved head looked funny, so I lathered and shaved my head completely bald. Better. Except for my baldpate and the last-gasp remnants of the bruises inflicted by whoever had attacked me, I considered myself relatively good-looking. I guessed my age in the late twenties and my height at six feet, give or take an inch. Brooding dark eyes looked back at me. My nose was slightly crooked. Had it been broken? I had a strong jaw and chin and, when I smiled, good teeth.

I fingered the pucker of a bullet wound in the crook of my left shoulder, and twisting, could see the scar of the exit wound. Surely I'd remember being shot! I didn't. Three other scars disfigured my skin, from cuts, not bullets.

Considering I'd just been through brain surgery and had lain in a coma for ten days, and spent another ten days in a hospital bed, I appeared to be in pretty good shape. I had thick wrists, I noticed, and the wrists stirred a memory.

Images flashed. I felt a saber in my hand. Twisting, flying through the air, I slashed the saber left, right, and then... the memory faded. Did the cut scars on my body come from a saber?

The hospital wasn't happy with me. I presented a conundrum they'd never experienced. Oh, they'd had emergency patients who couldn't pay their bills before, but when they asked me to sign a stack of documents that included a promise to pay, I asked them what name they'd like me to scribble as mine.

"Use an X," the snotty female administrator said. Her stern, unforgiving look matched her personality. Did her job make her unhappy, or did she have the job because she was unhappy?

"Should I use cursive or print it?" I asked.

"Whatever."

I signed the X boldly with the left-to-right slash offering a sinuous curve - half-cursive, half-printed, so there.

A few days later, Doc Birch said, "At my objection, I've been told to release you."

I nodded.

He grinned. I liked the guy.

"Where will you go?"

I shrugged.

"You'll need clothes, money," he said.

"Got a set of scrubs I can borrow?" I asked.

He laughed and said, "We're about the same size. I brought in a set of clothes for you, and I passed a hat around for donations. It isn't much, but it'll get you through a couple of days if you're careful."

The black beret the doc gave me was a nice touch to cover my shaved head. I adjusted it to a cocky angle as I walked out of the hospital into bright sunlight.

At blackjack tables in four casinos, I ran the $200 collected in a hat at the hospital to $5,000. It helps to experience the dealer's thoughts. Each dealer silently told me his hole card when he looked at it. Three days later, the $5,000 became $50,000, and I was told I was no longer welcome at the blackjack tables.

"At any casino," the large man, obviously a security officer, added. "Your picture has been circulated."

"May I play poker?"

"Sure."

I met Gloria Conner playing poker. I put her age at thirty, thereabouts. She had thick, auburn hair, a beautiful face and, later when I first saw her standing, a gorgeous body. I was having a drink in a lounge when she walked up to me.

"How did you know I was bluffing?" she asked.

"Your sensuous ears laid closer to your head."

She laughed and sat next to me. "Liar. You took all my money. Buy me a drink."

I motioned to the cocktail waitress, and Gloria ordered a margarita. "With salt on the rim, please."

While she waited for her drink to arrive, we talked. I adored the sound of her voice. It had a low, guttural quality reminiscent of a young Lauren Bacall.

Early on, I realized I needed a name. X just didn't do it, so I flipped open a phone book at random and dropped my finger to a name - Wayne Johnson. (In truth, I rejected the first two names my finger found.) When Gloria introduced herself, I gave her my made-up name.

"Why do you wear that beret all the time?" she asked.

I took it off and ran my hand over the stubble growing on my head. "Brain surgery. About a month ago, the hospital shaved my head for the surgery; in another week or two, I'll lose the hat."

Her thoughts told me she believed I was putting her on. I pointed out the scar, and her eyes widened.

"Got mugged," I added. "A concussion that required an operation. Also, for what it's worth, Wayne Johnson isn't my name. I picked it randomly from a telephone book. I don't know my name. I'm suffering from retrograde amnesia, Gloria. No memories."

Humph, not likely, she thought, and then said, "For a man with no memories, you play a hell of a hand of poker."

I explained the difference between skill memories and the memories for events. "Poker is like language, a skill set that I can call on, but I can't tell you how and when I learned to play poker, which were events."

I've always wondered about that, she thought, referring to how amnesia worked, I assumed.

"Having no memories is troublesome," I said. "No name, no social security number, no bank account, no credit cards, and what's more, I can't open a bank account or acquire a credit card. It's as if I don't exist. Do you have a cell phone?"

"Yes."

"I don't. I don't know anyone I want to call, except perhaps Doc Birch, my neurosurgeon, and he's a busy man."

She grinned coquettishly. "You can call me."

"Ah, an incentive, for sure. I use this casino as my bank, and with the substantial amounts I maintain with them, they allow me to rent a room. Still, I can't rent a car, or buy one, for that matter. Otherwise, I carry cash, which could get me mugged again, and I owe the hospital an amount that approximates the national debt. I signed papers promising to pay them with an X."

She shook her glorious auburn mane, and the corners of her eyes crinkled with doubt. "That doesn't make sense. You're gambling with a hefty stake at the poker tables."

I smiled sheepishly and told her about the hospital personnel who had donated what they could to carry me for a few days. "I multiplied their donation a few times at the blackjack tables until the casinos declared me a card counter and banned me from the tables. I'll play poker until my luck changes, pay off what I can at the hospital, and then search for my past."

"Are you a card counter?"

I shrugged. "I watch which cards have been played, and except for past events, I have a good memory, but..." I shrugged again and flashed a smile when a new urge grabbed me by the gonads. "Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

She hesitated.

I widened my smile and said, "As far back as I can remember, which admittedly isn't very far, I haven't had a date. If you say yes, you'll be my first date. Waddaya say?"

What the hell? Why not? She nodded. Harry won't arrive for a couple days. Live a little. Have some fun.

Harry, huh? What did you expect? I asked myself. That Glorious Gloria would be footloose and fancy-free? Not likely, not with the face and body of a movie star. Was Harry a husband or something less than a mate? Gloria wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

She had the situation pegged, though. Why not? Live a little. Have some fun. Did some fun include some sex? I had to admit some sex was becoming important to my continuing mental health. Masturbating wasn't getting the job done anymore.

I called the concierge. I'd previously spoken to him about my problem and laid some cash money in his palm. He remembered me and said he'd be pleased to send flowers to Gloria's room in another hotel, arrange for the use of a limo for that evening, and to make reservations for two for dinner at Le Cirque, Bellagio's best restaurant. As a guest of the hotel, I could sign for the meal. The flowers and limo would also be charged to my account with the hotel. I told him to add a twenty-percent tip for his effort, which pleased him.

While dressing for my first date in my new life - I'd purchased new clothes with some winnings before I was banned from the blackjack tables - I had an eerie feeling that something was missing from my wardrobe. Images marched in front of my eyes.

Another memory!

A shoulder holster and a pistol, a Springfield Armory XD-9, to be specific. What I knew about the XD-9 wasn't a memory, but rather a part of a skill set. I knew it held ten rounds and combined the best of both Glock and SIG designs. However, that the XD-9 was my favored weapon was definitely a memory. I normally wore the pistol in a shoulder holster. Why?

The memory expanded. I was at a shooting range. A target settled 25 meters in front of me. I took aim and emptied the clip in about five seconds. Without retrieving the target, I knew every round had struck the ten rings.

While I mulled over the new memory, I combined it with my one other memory, the saber, and the way I moved with the sword. I could shoot a pistol and use a sword. Besides being slightly weird, what did that make me? Was I a bad guy or a good guy? Questions I couldn't answer.

The urge to strap on a shoulder holster and fill it with an XD-9 was strong, strong enough that I made a few calls to some bartenders and cabbies I'd used. I couldn't buy a legal weapon, not without ID and a background check, but illegal weapons were available for a price. Was this knowledge a memory?

No, I decided, it was part of a skill set. I knew how to search for and purchase illegal weapons. Did that make me a crook? Possibly, but I didn't see myself on the wrong side of the law. I was gambling like crazy to pay the hospital and doctor bills I'd accrued. Wouldn't a crook merely walk away from them?

Frustrating. The two memories I'd retrieved hadn't answered any questions about my past. They only made me ask more questions.

One call produced a name and telephone number. I dialed it.

"Yeah," said the gruff voice on the line.

"Benny, I want a Springfield Armory XD-9," I said.

"How did you get my number?"

I gave him the name of the bartender.

"Don't have an XD-9," he said. "Gotta HK USP Compact 9mm."

"I'd prefer the XD-9." Stubborn, I thought. The Heckler and Koch was a good weapon.

"Can you give me a few days?" Benny asked.

"Sure. In the meantime, I'll take the HK with a couple of boxes of ammo, two extra magazines, and throw in shoulder and hip holsters."

We settled on an amount and a place to meet the next morning.

You'll be breaking the law, an inner voice warned me. A different inner voice urged me to proceed. In the end, I knew I'd meet Benny at the appointed time and place.

Gloria appreciated my scruffy look; at least, her thoughts regarding the stubble on my head weren't negative. The beret didn't ruin the fashion statement I was trying to make with the navy Armani suit I'd donned, but it came close. With a sigh, I'd left the hat in my room.

I loved the sexy, sophisticated look she presented when she opened the door to her suite of rooms in Caesar's Palace. She wore a black sheath dress with a scooped bodice that accented alluring cleavage set off by opera-length pearls. The dress was short, displaying her slim, shapely legs.

The long-stem roses I'd sent her were arranged in a vase sitting on the coffee table in the living room of the suite. She thanked me for the flowers by wrapping her arms around my neck and giving me a soft kiss.

Good, she thought, he's well enough to get a hard-on.

I've gotta admit it. The thoughts of women I'd experienced since I came out of the coma had shocked me, particularly at first. Their thoughts ranged from naughty to downright raunchy, and for the most part, female minds used dirty words without qualms, especially the nurses at the hospital.

"I'm famished," Gloria said with a winning smile and, other than the thought, ignored my partial erection.

When my driver opened the limo door for her, Gloria looked surprised. "Didn't you tell me that you couldn't rent a car?"

"I didn't rent the limo. The hotel rented it for me."

"Oh." She showed a lot of leg as she squirmed into the limo. Good, she thought. He noticed and likes my legs.

What's not to like?

She teased me during our meal, and her thoughts soon moved from naughty to nasty. I figured I'd get lucky because her thoughts also told me what she wanted or didn't want from a man. One thought informed me that she didn't like her hair toyed with. I didn't touch her hair after the first time.

She appreciated my attentiveness when she told me about herself. I became even more attentive by asking questions and listening attentively to her answers.

I took her hand in mine.

It would be so sexy if he turns my hand and kisses my palm, she thought.

I kissed her palm, letting her feel just the tip of my tongue, which made her shiver with passion. I enjoyed the taste of her hand and anticipated other flavors that might be offered later.

The food and service were exceptional, and the wine flowed. When we reentered the limo to return to her hotel, she moved into my arms and kissed me with passion.

Please, please, don't grab my tits. Just kiss me.

I left my arms around her waist and kissed her again.

Nice. Is he hard?

I took her hand and placed it over my erection. "You excite me, Gloria," I whispered as I kissed her neck.

Higher, she thought, referring to my lips on her neck.

I moved my lips higher to a spot just under her ear.

Perfect!

She gently squeezed my erection, and moved her fingers, estimating its length and thickness through my trousers.

Perfect cock, too.

She didn't want her tits grabbed. Would she mind my hand on her inner thigh? She answered my silent question by opening her legs a little, allowing my palm to caress her soft flesh. As we continued to kiss, my hand moved slowly up her leg until it cupped her cunt - she referred to it as a cunt. She hunched forward slightly to press against my fingers as she gasped into my mouth.

The ride to her hotel was short, and at her door, she invited me inside for a nightcap. Once inside, the offer for a drink was ignored when her passion became aggressive. I didn't mind.

Our clothes fell away as we continued to kiss and touch and fondle, and her thoughts told me that she hoped I'd eat her before I fucked her.

Sex is a skill set. I couldn't remember the first or last time I'd placed my mouth on an excited cunt, but I knew how to give a woman oral pleasure.

Her flavors and scents were strong. Was that a memory? Didn't matter. I loved the taste of her and inhaled her pungent fragrance as my tongue traveled from below her slit up through her crease to find her throbbing clitoris.

Suck it. Suck my clit.

I sucked it. Lashed it with my tongue, too.

Stick a finger in my cunt.

I pushed a finger inside her as far as it would go.

Another one.

I added a second finger, and a few seconds later a third, and that's when she climaxed on my mouth.

With only stubble to grab, she used my ears to pull my face tighter to her cunt as her hips started an orgasmic dance, but only briefly, because they suddenly stiffened high off the bed as her body convulsed with the thrilling pulses of an orgasm. She screamed with pleasure.

When she collapsed, I moved up on the bed and took her in my arms. She whimpered and clung to me.

So there, Harry. Some men can make me come.

Yeah, so there, Harry.

"Fuck me," she said. "I wanna be fucked now."

I moved over her, and she helped guide me to her opening. One thrust took me fully inside her. I groaned with pleasure and started to fuck her.

My thrusts remained slow and rhythmic while I waited for her to match my arousal.

I won't be able to come again unless I can touch myself. Maybe he'll hurry, come in me, if I...

"Touch yourself," I said.

Fuck, can he read my mind?

Yeah, I said, silently.

Out loud, I said, "I like the feel of a woman's hand touching herself while I fuck her."

She reached and wet her fingers where we were joined. When I felt the back of her hand start a rhythm that moved faster than my thrusts, I increased my pace.

Nice. Would he get upset if I played with my tits, too?

I didn't respond. She already suspected I could read her mind.

Fuck it. He won't say anything. He's too fucking hot.

She gave me a defiant look as her fingers tweaked a nipple. I smiled at her and kissed her, a soft kiss.

Five minutes later, we climaxed together.

How about that, Harry? I came while being fucked. I'm not the frigid bitch you think I am.

An hour later, I decided Harry was a dumb shit when Gloria went down on me to get me hard again. Her oral talent was amazing. I was a little disappointed when she mounted and rode me while she rubbed her clit furiously with her fingers, climaxing before I could come again. She redeemed herself, though, by taking me into her mouth and swallowing my semen with enthusiasm a few minutes later.

I met Benny at our appointed time and place. After checking the weapon he placed in my hand, I paid him in cash, which was fine with Benny. He didn't take credit cards.

"Do you still want the XD-9?" my illegal gun dealer asked. His black, baldpate shined in the morning sunshine.

"Yes."

"Call me tomorrow afternoon. I should have one by then."

"Will do."

While playing poker that afternoon, I wore a sport coat to conceal the weapon, and it's weight felt comfortable and right at the small of my back.

I had a good day. I figured I could pay off the hospital if my luck held for another few weeks. Yes, luck was involved. Although from their thoughts I knew the cards the other players held in their hands, I still needed the best cards for the big-money pots to win big. I deposited $20,000 in my Bellagio bank when I quit for the day.

While wandering through Bellagio's shops, I bought a cell phone and called Gloria. A man answered - Harry I assumed. He must have arrived early. I hung up without speaking. A few minutes later, my new cell phone rang. I pushed the talk button, but remained silent.

"Wayne?" Gloria said, whispering.

"Yeah."

"Did you just call?"

"Yes, a man answered, so I hung up."

"Ah... damn it. Wayne, I'm... well, I'm in a committed relationship."

I didn't say anything.

"About tonight..."

I let her off the hook. "I take it our dinner date is off."

"Yeah, sorry. If..."

"Goodbye, Gloria. It's been fun." I hung up. She wasn't the woman for me. I never saw us in a long-term relationship, but still I was disappointed. I'd made arrangements to take her to "O" Cirque du Soliel, the floorshow at the Bellagio.

I wondered what she was thinking, and suddenly, my mind connected with hers, which really surprised me. Surely she wasn't within the hundred-foot radius needed for a telepathic connection.

It took me a minute to realize I was hearing one-half of a conversation, not her thoughts. I could hear what Gloria was saying because she thought the words before she spoke them.

I told you, Harry. I called to book a dinner show for us. If you'd let me know you were flying to Vegas early, I would've called earlier... Why do you want my cell phone?... Redial? I don't understand... Harry!

Fuck. Wayne will answer the call...

My phone rang. I grinned, hit the talk button, and said, "'O' here. How may I help you?"

"O?"

"Yes, sir. This is the ticket office for 'O' Cirque du Soliel, Bellagio's homage to the magic of theatre."

"Never mind," Harry said and hung up.

Had I saved her unfaithful butt? Maybe, but sooner or later, Harry would catch her in the arms of another man. Gloria couldn't come unless she or the man paid a lot of attention to her clitoris, which frustrated her, both mentally and sexually. She'd climaxed three times with me the previous night, so she'd search for other men to give her the satisfaction she needed.

I grinned. The satisfaction she deserved. There was nothing really wrong with Gloria's sexual response. Her problem was named Harry.

I turned off the cell phone. I wouldn't deal with Gloria or Harry again, but the fact that I could connect with her when she as at Caesar's Palace and I was at the Bellagio kept popping up in my mind. Could I connect at a distance with someone else?

My jaw gaped when I experienced a thought coming from Doc Birch's mind. No, once again it was a conversation, and I gathered he was speaking with a nurse I knew. I tried to connect with the nurse, as well, and suddenly I could follow both sides of their conversation. I switched back to Gloria. She was wondering how she'd dodged the bullet, so I tried to connect with Harry. Nothing. I moved back to Birch and the nurse and connected with both of them again.

Further experimentation gave me the answers I needed. I had to be within approximately one hundred feet - thirty feet behind an obstruction - to make an initial connection with a new mind, but once I'd made the connection, I could reconnect with the same mind at... well, any distance, at least, if the subject were in Las Vegas. I'd need to leave Vegas to test greater distances.

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