Chapter 7

"You're looking better," said Officer Connel. The hospital room didn't look any different.

"I feel better ... mostly," said Kris. "I have lots of questions, but I feel better."

"I've still got lots of questions, too," said Mitch.

"Why didn't you tell me I got shot?"

"I was hoping you'd tell me about that." Mitch watched for signs of stress, but didn't see any.

"I'd love to tell you," said Kris. "I'd love for you to put whoever did this to me behind bars for the rest of his life."

"His life?" Mitch waited.

"Or her life," said Kris. "Don't you think I'd tell you who shot me if I knew?"

"I can think of a dozen reasons why you might not want to do that," said Mitch.

"Do I need a lawyer?"

Mitch frowned. He hated it when suspects asked that question. There was precedence, in some of the more liberal courts, that had interpreted that question as a request for a lawyer. He hadn't advised Farmingham of his rights, because he really had no probable cause to arrest the man. It wasn't against the law to get shot. And, while there appeared to have been a motor vehicle accident of some kind, Mitch didn't have the car and there was no way he could convince even the stupidest of jurors that Kris had "left the scene."

His gut instinct was that there was much more below the surface of Mr. Farmingham than was visible, but the fact was that all he had ... at present ... was that gut instinct. He decided not to play anymore games. Sometimes just being up front with a suspect got some cooperation.

"I don't know," he said. "In the first place, that's your decision to make. I can't advise you on that, legally. What I CAN tell you is that you're not under arrest and you're not being charged with any crime ... at least not for now. You popped up here in very curious circumstances, though, and I'm not going to just forget about you."

"So if I'm not under arrest ... I can leave?"

"Where do you intend on going?" asked Mitch.

"I've been thinking about that," said Kris. "I don't know where to go. It would help if you answered some of my questions."

"Isn't this interesting," said Mitch. "I have all kinds of questions for you and you have all kinds of questions for me. Seems like kind of a yin yang situation, don't you think?" He smiled. "You have information that could be valuable to me, and I may have information that could help you. How about trading?"

"What do you mean?" asked Kris.

"I'll ask you a question and then you get to ask me one," said Mitch.

"How do I know if I can trust you?" asked Kris.

"I could ask the same question," the policeman countered.

"OK, fair enough," said Kris. "How will I know if I'm getting myself into trouble by answering your questions?"

"You'll know when I advise you of your legal rights," said Mitch.

"Don't I already have them?" asked Kris.

"Of course you do," said Mitch. "I'm just not required to tell you what they are yet."

"That sounds pretty chicken shit," said the man in the bed.

"You'll get no argument from me on that," said the policeman. "But that's the law. You're not under arrest and I don't have any current plans to charge you with anything, so all we're doing right now is chatting. I'll make you this promise, though. If that changes ... I'll tell you."

"Remind me not to play poker with you," said Kris.

"Actually, I kind of hope that someday we do play poker," said Mitch.

"Why?"

"Because that would mean you were my friend, instead of a disturbing mystery."

There had been a few more moments of uneasy silence, until Kris finally said, "OK, what do you want to know?"

"You were in an accident," said Mitch. "A car crash, probably. What do you remember about that?"

He had hit on the one thing that Kris had some relatively distinct memories of, but those memories didn't make any sense. If he'd hit a car door, and the man getting out of that car door, the policeman in his room wouldn't have said "probably." He would already know about that part. And, he was still scared that he would be arrested, if he described what he remembered. Still, he had to give the man something.

"I remember hearing glass breaking," said Kris. "I also remember being afraid I was going to die, but that part seems kind of obvious."

Mitch frowned. He'd already told the suspect about the glass, so this wasn't new information. He tried a different approach.

"What do you remember about your vehicle?"

Kris was quiet. The only memory he could access was the one he was afraid to talk about, but this question didn't seem so dangerous. He closed his eyes and replayed the memory. This time, when he saw the door open in front of him, he paid attention to the front of his car hitting the door ... and the man.

"It's kind of light blue," he said.

"What kind of car is it?" asked Mitch, his voice quiet.

"I don't know." Kris opened his eyes. "I know you ran a check on my license. Does that match?"

Mitch didn't think giving that up was much. "You have a '98 Buick Regal registered in New York. They don't list the color of the car in their records."

"Buick Regal," Kris repeated. It didn't mean anything to him. He couldn't even think of what a Buick Regal looked like.

"What about your personal life?" asked Mitch.

"I'm pretty sure I write books," said Kris. "I have this kind of hazy memory of a computer screen, and I'm writing something. It has chapters, so it has to be a book."

"Maybe you came up here to do research on a book," suggested Mitch.

"Where is here, exactly?" asked Kris.

"Here is Pembroke, Connecticut," said Mitch. "We don't have any industry to speak of. Some people vacation here in the summer. There's some sport fishing and a little hunting. Are you a nature writer?"

"Maybe," said Kris. "I like nature."

At that moment a scene flashed into his mind. He closed his eyes, because he was eager for anything that might drift up in his memory, and he recognized what was happening as a memory being uncovered. It was of a kangaroo, standing and looking at him. He stared at the animal in his mind. The landscape behind the kangaroo was stark and almost bare, with reds and yellows in the dirt, and scrubby little bushes, but no real trees. A joey stuck it's surprisingly large head out of the kangaroo's pouch and looked around before ducking back in.

"What is it?" asked Mitch, seeing the man's face change.

"I think I've been to Australia," he said. "I remember a kangaroo."

Mitch blinked. That matched the accent, but it didn't fit with his image of this man ... or, more correctly, of a man who might be involved in some criminal enterprise. Australia wasn't a place where criminals went to further criminal ends. Not in the sense of drug trafficking, anyway, which was what a lot of criminal enterprises were mixed up in, one way or another.

"A kangaroo," said Mitch.

"And a dingo," said Kris, smiling now. "I had a pet dingo named Gyp. She used to try to get me to stop writing and pay attention to her."

The kangaroo had flowed into another memory, of a mottled looking dog, that made Kris feel an ache in his heart. He knew he had loved this dog and that the dog had died. He couldn't remember much more, except that the dog had a habit of coming up to him while he was typing and lifting his arm with its nose. He opened his eyes.

"I wrote a book in Australia."

"What was it called?" asked Mitch.

"I don't know," said Kris.

"I'll run a check on your name as an author," said Mitch.

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For Want of a Memory

Lubrican

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