Dead Street

So we shook hands gently and I went on outside. Halfway down the corridor, a doctor was walking up, consulting a chart in his hands. I said to the uniformed officer at the door, “Nobody’s been here, okay?”

He got the drift right away and said, “Okay, Captain.”

It was nice to have a reputation. Being nicknamed the Shooter leaves a mark on everybody’s mind.

On the flight back I kept thinking about that one thing Burnwald had told me. He couldn’t remember the man, but paying in advance for twenty-five years worth of service was a damned unusual request. What was supposed to happen at that time? Who would get the information? And what was the information about?

There was another factor running right along with this one. A five hundred million dollar shipment of government-owned atomic material was missing.

And a blind girl whose memory was filling in a thousand-piece jigsaw one puzzle piece at a time could be the key to everything. They had tried to kill her once but the attempt had failed. It was twenty years later, but could she still be recognized? Would she still be slated for a kill?

So I said to myself, screw the details and start off with the kidnapping. Why was Bettie the target back then? Could Bettie possibly have recognized the man for somebody other than who he was pretending to be?

When we were together, she’d been an avid reader of newspapers, had two national news magazines delivered to her home and for mental excitement attended court cases of nefarious criminals. I went with her twice, but those things were pretty damn dull after getting your hands dirty in making an arrest on those slobs.

I was back to being the barroom psychiatrist again. You didn’t need a college degree for that. Experience would do nicely, with some cop smarts on the side.

When I got my car out of the parking area beside the airport I drove directly home. The lights in Bettie’s house were on, so I parked in my carport and walked up the stairs of her porch. I heard Tacos sound off with a happy yip and when Bettie opened the door she held her arms out and gave me a big squeeze.

And all those years of not having her were suddenly wiped away again. She was more charmingly beautiful than ever, still smelling of little-girl freshness and wasn’t at all surprised when I kissed her lightly.

But lightly wasn’t what she wanted. There was an excited quivering to her, almost a sparkle in her sightless eyes and she said, “I remembered you, Jack! It was like waking from sleep when you have a great dream, but can only recall it for a second.”

I waited a long moment and she continued, “It was from a long time ago! We were young!”

“I was never young, Bettie.”

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

“Would you want it to be?”

“Oh, yes,” she said very softly.

Tacos’ tail thumped the floor. If I had a tail, I would have thumped it too.

When all the exuberance had settled down, I sat next to her on the sofa and recounted my visit with her old boss. With the medical details out of the way, I eased into his telling me about the customer who bought twenty-five years of service in advance.

And that got a reaction. It had come from someplace way back in her mind and opened a mental door she thought had been shut forever. Her shoulders made a sudden twitch and her whole body tensed, then she said barely audibly, “He paid in cash.”

I waited without speaking.

“He... I had seen him before.” Her eyes were staring at the other side of the room. “He was... wrong.”

“How was he ‘wrong,’ Bettie?”

“He was bad.”

“You are sure of that?”

“They didn’t convict him.” She frowned, her forehead wrinkling.

I knew now what was going through her mind. She had seen the guy in one of those court cases she enjoyed attending. He had been up on charges and had not been convicted, but the D.A. had leveled some pretty heavy evidence on him, enough to put in her mind that he was “wrong.”

Trying to sift this event out without a photo ID of the guy would be nearly impossible. But at least it was a start.

I asked her, “Do you remember working at Credentials at all?”

Hesitatingly, she replied, “I think so.”

“What was it like?”

She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Like a dream.”

Then I took a wild swing at a badly pitched ball and said softly, “Remember when you looked at that man’s files?”

Her answer was a strange, jerky nod. “There were odd symbols and numbers. Pages of them.” Then she turned and gave me one of those sightless stares and said, “Where is... Oak Ridge?”

I took a deep breath. Oak Ridge was the site of a nuclear development installation a long time ago. She didn’t notice my reaction and went on, “There was something else...”

“What?”

I saw that familiar blank expression again.

“I don’t know,” she said. That special moment had disappeared, but it had lasted longer than former episodes and if I played it right her memory might spark another bright moment.

Might. Maybe. Foggy words you couldn’t depend upon.