hated like hell feeling helpless and incapable.
Especially in front of a woman like Juliet Crandall.
When Terry Sanchez had quit, she’d told him to ask the new computer whiz for help, and he had fully intended to do so…until he’d seen her. It had been a Monday, her first day on the job, and he’d caught a glimpse of her over at the police department. She was pretty, quiet, apparently interested in little besides her machines, and she scared the hell out of him. It had taken him two weeks to find the courage to approach her.
It had been a long time since he’d been seriously attracted to a woman. At least ten months, he knew. Even longer, he suspected. He’d had a few dates since the accident, but nothing special. Just pleasant evenings with nice women. There had been no electricity, no heat, no potential.
Just seeing Juliet Crandall made him so hot he could melt ice.
She lived in a neat little house with a picket fence less than three blocks from his own place. The house was green, the fence white, the yard big enough for kids. She didn’t have any, though. She didn’t have a husband, either, or, as far as he could tell, anyone special in her life. The male population both in Dallas and Grand Springs must be stupid or blind or both.
Forcing his fingers to unclench, he walked away from her office and out into the warm April sunshine. He wondered if he preferred summer or winter. Would he rather be sweating somewhere under a blazing sun or racing down a mountainside on skis? He’d gone to Squaw Creek Lodge a couple of times over the winter with the intention of renting a pair of skis and taking the lift up the mountain, but fear had kept him from actually doing it. Fear that he would get to the top and be unable to ski down? Or fear that he would be able to? He hadn’t known.
He wondered a lot about the fear. What had frightened him before the accident? Had he been a coward, or had he taken chances? Had fear been an occasional thing, or had he lived with it? He wanted to believe the former. He suspected the latter.
He suspected a lot of things. He suspected that the truth was out there somewhere, if he could just find the smallest clue. He suspected that he might not like what he learned. He suspected that he might not like who he’d been.
But he had to know. No matter what it cost.
He walked down the hill, taking the turns that led to his place, a garage apartment that Stone Richardson, the detective who’d tried to identify him last June, had found for him. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was cheap, and, under the circumstances, cheap was important. He’d worked off and on during the last ten months, though mostly at odd jobs, so his income was pretty meager. Added to the money found in his pocket after the accident, it had stretched, but just barely.
Five hundred dollars and change. That was all he’d had on him when he wandered into the Vanderbilt Memorial emergency room. No wallet, no car keys, no jewelry beyond an inexpensive wristwatch. Just five hundred dollars and clothing that could have been bought in any of a hundred thousand places in the country.
His wallet and the car keys, the police theorized, had been left in the car following the accident. Unfortunately, when the mud slides had been cleared away and the roads had opened again, no car had been found. Maybe, with the keys in it, someone had taken it. Or maybe there had never been a car. Maybe something else entirely had happened, and his scrambled brain had substituted an accident for it.
He climbed the wooden steps to the second-floor landing and unlocked the door. Sometimes he hated coming home because it wasn’t really home. Sometimes he hated leaving it, because at least it was safe. Inside these four walls he didn’t have to be Martin Smith. He didn’t have to be anybody at all, and he didn’t have to pretend that he was coping with being nobody. He could be as angry, bitter and afraid as he wanted—as long as he got it under control before leaving again. Control was important. He remembered that, although he didn’t remember why it was, or what would happen if he lost it.
The apartment was gloomy, and turning on the lights didn’t help. It was one room with a kitchen in this corner, a bathroom in that corner, a closet over there and living quarters in the middle. The furniture had come with it—a bed and night stand, a sofa and chair, a table and four ladderback chairs. Everything was ragged and worn, but still functional.
Like him.
He wasn’t a particularly neat housekeeper. The floor needed sweeping, and the rag rugs needed washing. There was dust on the tables and the lamp shades, and sections of newspapers were scattered everywhere. Ignoring the dirty dishes in the sink and the dirty laundry in the corner, he went to the bathroom and stripped out of his clothes.
Normally he tried to avoid the mirror hanging above the sink. He’d learned the art of focusing his attention so narrowly that he saw only parts—jaw, chin, cheeks—when he shaved, of combing his hair without seeing the face it framed. On occasion, though, he was drawn to the mirror. He could sit for hours staring at the total stranger whose face he wore, desperately seeking some connection, some tiny distant hint of recognition that never came. When he’d seen enough, it usually took far less time to get so drunk that he couldn’t see, period.
This afternoon he stared, cataloging features that he knew by heart and yet didn’t know at all. Blond hair in need of a trim, blue eyes, crooked nose. High cheekbones, thin lips, square jaw.
His gaze slid lower. There was a scar on his upper right chest—round, raised, the edges uneven. A gunshot wound, Dr. Howell had said. The long, straight, clean scar underneath it was from the incision made to remove the bullet. There were a matching set on his back and other smaller scars on his chest and back, plus one on his arm from something jagged—maybe a broken bottle or a dull knife that had torn instead of cut.
God help him, what kind of person had he been?
Violent.
Criminal.
Dangerous.
Had he been a dangerous man? He didn’t want to believe it, but sometimes he did. Sometimes he dreamed that he had been exactly the sort of person who could threaten, intimidate and hurt—maybe kill—someone else. Sometimes the dreams were so vivid, so intense, that they terrified him, and he spent the rest of the night pacing the room to avoid falling asleep again.
That was the first thing he had to tell Juliet Crandall this evening. She hadn’t wanted to help him in the first place. Warning her what kind of man he might be was only fair.
He’d never felt compelled to warn Terry Sanchez. But he had never seen Terry outside the library, and all he’d wanted was her assistance. He wanted a lot more from Juliet.
A hell of a lot more. But he couldn’t have it. He might have a wife and kids somewhere. There might be warrants for his arrest. Whoever had tried to kill him before might try again. Before he could have any kind of future, he had to find out about his past. He had to find out whether he deserved a future or whether everyone would have been better off if one of those bullets had killed him.
Maybe, once he knew the truth, then he could want someone. Maybe then he could have someone.
Scowling, he turned the shower to hot and stepped into the tub. It wasn’t yet four o’clock. He would be ready to go to Juliet’s house three hours early. Or maybe he would never be ready to go to Juliet’s house.
He bathed quickly, grateful when he got out that the mirror had fogged over. He dressed, combed his hair straight back, then stretched out on the couch to watch the clock. He didn’t turn on the television in the corner or pick up the
