Amnesia Read online

  Lowell just kept walking.

  * * *

  Civilian Bill Lowell signed out of work, picked up his suit bag containing his uniform, and walked over to the door, pausing briefly for the guard to press the button releasing him into the outside world. It had been a long shift to cap-off a long week. His first day, Wednesday, he had taken over the search for Beverley Windham and Peter Frindle, the Senator’s daughter and her friend. Thursday had been the night with the two brainless wonders and their sword-fight. Friday’s shift had ended with some maniac trashing lovely Lissa’s, um, Dr. Brandon’s car and leaving her in a weeping puddle in his arms, um that is in the parking lot. Saturday and Sunday likewise had been nightmares, with nasty car accidents of families on summer vacations and drunks whose only concern was for their best friends Dr. Liquor and Mr. Wine. He was more than ready for a couple of days to take off his badge and start feeling human.

  The sun shone down brightly, momentarily blinding him as the summer heat rolled over his shoulders and down his torso and back. A quick glance into the blue ether above showed the promise of another sweltering day in Boise, Idaho, just another in a long string of hot days. The weatherman had announced that it was a record high summer and that there were plenty more to come. Already the Monday morning atmosphere smelled heavily of heated asphalt and summer weeds. It even left a metallic taste on his tongue as he breathed in the dry air.

  He reached into his shirt pocket for his sunglasses, opened them with his teeth and placed them over his squinting eyes. He looked around for moment trying to remember where he had parked his Chevy, checking for anyone else in the parking lot. Seeing no one he strode over to the blue topaz car reaching into his left pocket for his key ring, and punched the button to unlock the driver side door.

  Inside, the car was already warm, a reminder of the hundred plus degree weather they were having. At least the heat keeps people inside, he thought, keeping them out of trouble. Then he reconsidered remembering his own plans for heading up to Lucky Peak Reservoir this afternoon. Actually, the lake is where everyone will want to be today.

  He started the engine and rolled the windows down, allowing the air to flow through the car. Later he would need the air conditioner, but for now the fresh air was rousing and helped clear his head. He took a deep breath, relaxed into the seat, and pulled the gear into “drive.”

  He loved this car. His parents were surprised that he would have gone for the Chevy Volt thinking instead he would buy a muscle car like a Mustang or Corvette as so many of his colleagues had done. But he liked this car. Sure he liked those other cars too but he didn’t think it would fit the image that he wanted to portray. It seemed that guys that owned the flashy sports cars were all show-offs that liked to make people think they were tougher than they really were. He may be a thrill seeker as well, but he knew he had nothing to prove.

  He also liked the fact that he didn’t have the huge bills and debts that the other guys hauled with them. He worked hard to save the money to buy a car and wanted one that would last a while and look nice, but not eat up his paycheck for expensive tires and maintenance, not to mention insurance and gas. As it was, he was out of debt and he liked it that way.

  Bill pulled the notebook style CD case out from under the passenger seat and leafed through it deciding which genre of music he preferred this morning. Part of him was angry and wanted hard rock to match the mood. Yet he knew where that led—it would simply escalate until he wanted to hurt something. No, today he needed to cool down; after all he had a great outing planned for tonight. He and several of the guys from the ward were taking a boat out onto the lake to do some serious boogie boarding and water skiing followed by a barbecue. He selected instead an upbeat pop group that would make him want to dance and lighten his mood.

  He pulled left onto the road facing the police station then left onto the main crossroad. It had been a long day and he still had to get some groceries before he got home. He had a big afternoon planned and would need to catch a few hours of sleep, but he wanted to be ready to go when he got up.

  Reaching the next intersection, he turned right past the elementary school, then past his apartment, finally pulling into the Albertson’s parking lot. He parked, headed into the store, and was immediately chilled by the A/C already pumping cold air down onto the incoming customers.

  “Bill? Bill Lowell?”

  Turning to his left he found himself facing a short, pretty girl standing at the register waiting patiently for a non-existent customer to check-out. He recognized her instantly, his police skills quickly matching faces and names. It was a prettier girl than he remembered, her rosy complexion setting off the cute auburn hair now cut into a bob. The soft comeliness was cheerier than he remembered, but somewhat more haggard, even…haunted? Must be the time that had passed, he thought, must be at least three years.

  “It is you! Do you remember me? Carrie Price, we were in sixth ward together! How’s everything going?”

  He feigned a smile and almost cheerily responded. “Sure I do Carrie. Things are going great. How about you? Last I heard you and Paul were headed to Provo where he could finish law school. Is he ‘hanging out his shingle’ here in Boise after all?”

  The pretty smile flickered for a moment, just long enough to betray that all wasn’t well, before she answered. “No, we’re working some personal things out right now. What about Lacy? How is she doing? And didn’t you two have a little boy? Brad, that was his name. How is he?”

  Now it was Bill’s turn to feel awkward. “Actually, they aren’t with us anymore. There was a…an accident… they both died.” He turned, unwilling to see the pity he was sure he’d find in her eyes. “Well, I’d better get going.”

  “Sure,” Carrie agreed flatly, her enthusiasm drained. “Good seeing you. Maybe we can get together some time and talk. I remember you were a good home teacher and thought maybe we could, you know, catch up a little.”

  He noted that she was starting to look more like what he remembered and it suddenly dawned on him that he couldn’t remember ever seeing her smile before. Part of him wanted to reach out and help her smile again but knew that he wouldn’t even know where to begin.

  “Sure. Well, gotta go.” He turned, and almost left the store before he realized he hadn’t gotten his groceries.

  * * *

  The day had been manic enough already without a call from Darrion Stanton. It wasn’t that he was that bad, Gregg Windham realized, it’s just that Beverley had been missing since last Wednesday, six days now without a single word. Sure the police and FBI were involved, but nothing so far had been found, not even a ransom note. He pushed his left hand back through his blonde hair yet again, a nervous habit that constantly plagued him, something his wife Tawny had tried unsuccessfully to rid him of for years.

  “What should I tell him, Mr. Windham?” his secretary asked.

  He sighed loudly before pressing the intercom switch. “Send him in, Mary.”

  “Um, it’s Millie, sir. He’ll be right in.”

  Windham pushed his hand through his hair again before straightening himself and glancing in the mirror his wife had placed on his polished oak desk. “You should always ensure you look good,” she commented on presenting the item to him, “you never know who will be walking through the door.”

  At this moment, however, he knew exactly who was walking through the door and he wasn’t sure he cared how he looked. Stanton was an arrogant surgeon who wanted power and prestige and thought the “Good Senator” was the way to get it. He wasn’t the only one of course, but something about him rankled Gregg immeasurably, probably the way that he kept dropping his late father Ralph Stanton’s name. And Gregg really disliked Ralph.

  “Gregg, so sorry to hear about your daughter,” the slick doctor sympathized as he walked through the mahogany door. He wore an expensive suit that probably cost more than the Senator’s monthly expenses. The left breast pocket sported a perfectly pressed handkerchief. His tie was the late
st version of a “power” tie, an almost shiny bright blue, just the right shade to accent the man’s suntanned face. His shirt was tailored, sporting gold cufflinks announcing his wealth to the world. Even his shoes were the expensive leathers that you only found in the upper class catalogues.

  Yet it was the bearing that exuded wealth more than the clothing. Beyond the manicured nails, perfect teeth, and hair that always had that “just stepped out of a salon” look that bespoke of money, his aura of charisma and confidence filled the room with his dominion and authority However, it was his eyes that spoke the most volumes, shouting to the world that this man was born to conquer. And rule.

  “Thank-you Darrion,” the man behind the desk answered, almost sarcastically, pointing to the plush leather chair opposite him. “What brings you around this morning?”

  “Why, I simply wanted to let you know that I’m incensed by this cowardly act, and wanted to pledge whatever support I can give. Have you found anything yet?”

  Windham inwardly cringed at the thought of having Stanton anywhere near his trials, but also knew that without his support, and his father’s before him, he wouldn’t be the senior senator from Idaho. “Actually, no, we’ve heard nothing yet. However the FBI is optimistic that if we haven’t had a ransom note by now, the kids might not have really been kidnapped, perhaps just gone away for the weekend.”

  “I hope that’s all it is,” Darrion replied, “but it is Monday afternoon, and no one has seen them yet, right?”

  “True,” Gregg answered with a sigh, “but that is all we can hope for now.”

  “Well, they are just kids, after all, I guess,” the doctor opined, “and you know that kids do this type of thing. I even flew over to Paris for a weekend once. I thought my father would have a heart attack on the spot, but we all survived. I’m sure they will be back any time now and we will all have worried for nothing.”

  “Thank-you, Doctor Stanton, I’m confident all will turn out alright. We have the best teams working on it and I’m sure we will get it resolved happily.” He stood, and came around the desk, trying to usher his guest back toward the door.

  Darrion also stood, taking the hint, letting Windham lead him out. “Oh, Gregg, one more thing.”

  Windham froze, sensing what was coming, the hair on the back of his neck warning him to tread lightly. He pasted his politician smile on and turned back to his guest. He wished he were larger than his five-foot-ten, 130 pound frame offered, perhaps then he wouldn’t feel quite so intimidated by the six-foot-two man facing him. He swallowed the thought as well as his concerns, and managed a polite “Yes?”

  “About that position we were discussing, the National Medical Czar replacing the Surgeon General, have you heard anything yet?”

  “Doctor Stanton, as I told your father,” Gregg answered the query, “I am doing all I can on the hill. This is congress, after all, and things move slowly.”

  “Good, Gregg, what more can we expect?” Darrion offered in a conciliatory tone that reminded Windham of the spider and the fly. “I know you’ll do what’s right.”

  Windham opened the door, bid farewell, and then closed it again. He turned, leaned his back against the door and shook his head in disbelief. National Medical Czar! Gregg knew exactly what he was referring to. It was the elder Stanton’s belief that the medical world needed shaking up, doing away with the current healthcare structure, and appointing a single man to direct, and correct, the nation’s healthcare crisis.

  This “Medical Czar,” Stanton believed, should be given direct and extensive powers to clean up the mess left in the wake of HMO’s, tort lawyers, and insurance companies. The Medical Czar would have the power to remove Medicare and Medicaid entirely and take all healthcare decisions back from the States. He felt that there should be one governing body that would control not only costs, but also the care given. It was a wild idea, one few would support, but the nation needed a solution that was fresh and new. This one might actually work, unlike any of the other politically correct attempts made thus far.

  Of course Stanton, a man made famous and rich through his own medical practice and political allies, had felt that there was no one better to lead this new organization than his protégé, the younger Doctor Stanton—the politically ambitious and savvy son of the medical baron: Darrion.

  Senator Windham partially agreed with the idea. He had seen skyrocketing insurance premiums that had beset his constituents; people going for little, or even no, insurance just to survive, then being hit with something catastrophic forcing them into medical bankruptcy. He even knew of families that had sold their homes and moved into apartments or trailers, just to afford the yearly increases in premiums. How could someone lose their home when all they wanted was health insurance to protect their family? It was enough to sicken him.

  He also knew that it wasn’t entirely the fault of insurance carriers. Medical centers, physicians, surgeons, all workers in the healthcare arena were constantly under the pressure to be perfect; in every way, every day. They were expected to always run the exact tests that were needed, use all the best equipment, and know almost presciently the exact ailment and cure. Then they were expected to wave a magic wand and make it all better. However all of this cost a great deal of money, for research, equipment, even training to stay current, and these costs are spiraling out of sight.

  Then came the tort and trial lawyers, always eager to line their pockets, caring nothing for either the physician or the client. Courts were deluged daily with attorneys trying to give clients “what they deserve,” seeking more creative ploys to elevate settlement amounts and court awards. No physician or health care center could handle these numbers, so they invest in their own insurance companies, who are all too willing to charge high premiums to protect their own interests, and possibly their clients as an afterthought.

  At first it looked like the Health Management Organizations, or HMO’s, were the silver bullet to end the spiraling costs. And they looked good too—at first. They pay their own doctors, they run their own tests, and they are the insurance carriers all in one. Of course businessmen, rather than physicians, run them so they were able to keep the bottom line firmly in sight, keeping expenses down, thereby holding the public premiums down as well. Unfortunately it was a two edged sword: they kept costs down by forcing doctors to avoid the more expensive tests and procedures, no matter how necessary they may be. Soon the horror stories began to be heard of people suffering or dying needlessly, doctors’ quotas, where the doctors are paid to not treat people, and people being refused service if they had been seen too frequently or out of the proper sequence.

  So what was the answer? All of Washington was searching for it, but thus far it had avoided detection. Then Stanton had come to see Windham. The senator had listened politely, nodding in all the right places, but knowing that no one was willing to turn over the control of peoples’ lives entirely to a single entity, let alone a single man. He had thanked Stanton for offering his concern, and said, as all good politicians do, that he would look into it and get back to him.

  Only Ralph Stanton was not willing to be dismissed so easily. He had called in several of his political allies, put down a great deal of “campaign contributions” and had pushed Windham as far as he legitimately could. Then he had suggested that there were a few illegitimate ways. Windham finally agreed, under duress, that there was nothing too wrong with the plan, but that there was nothing he could do about it. To which Stanton simply laughed and said that a man who sat with the Senate Finance Committee and had the president’s ear, could accomplish a lot more than he may at first believe. Then he slapped him on the shoulder and walked out of his office, but never quite out of his life.

  Senator Windham turned to view his inner sanctum and resisted the temptation to run to his washroom upstairs and scrub at his skin. He felt as if he couldn’t take any of this anymore. Looking around the room he saw the beautiful and expensive curio cabinet, filled with gifts from visiting dignitarie
s, including a genuine Native American peace pipe from his fact finding trip to see if Death Valley, Arizona was the best place to store spent nuclear fuel rods. “The General,” a hand carved elephant from his trip to Hong Kong, hung above the cabinet on the right. An ancient and real samurai sword from the visit from the Japanese trade ambassador, searching for Idaho potatoes, hung above the cabinet on the left. So many trinkets to boast about; too many to count.

  At first he was thrilled at what was given to him, but now he knew that it was all just part of the game, everyone wanting something from “The Senator from Idaho.” At one time even the game was thrilling to him, seeing how a single discussion could overthrow an entire year’s worth of talks. But now he knew it was all little more than junk and posturing.

  Today as he looked around the cluttered room it felt oppressive and claustrophobic. He wished it would all go away, the games, the clutter, and the shallow power. He’d give it all up in a heartbeat, he thought, just to have peace of mind and a safe family. Yet even with all he had been through, and was still going through, he knew he was addicted to it and would never be free of the allure.

  He went back over to the massive desk that sat in the middle of the room, the most intimidating piece of furniture he had ever seen. It was a deep brown polished to a high sheen he could have used as a mirror to shave with. There was no mark anywhere on it, and it was his personal pride and joy, the first thing he had bought when he had won his first election. He was so proud that day, and so anxious to save the world. Yet at this moment he wanted nothing more than to save the one thing that his office couldn’t control.

  His stomach churned again, as it had often of late, and he reached into the bottom right drawer and pulled out a bottle of Mylanta. He realized that he had been through many such bottles recently, probably an ulcer gleaned from years of high-pressure politics. He also realized that politics wasn’t the only part of his life that had acids eating at his stomach lining. He sighed, put the chalky medicine back, and closed the drawer wishing that he could close away the stress as easily. When this was all over, he vowed, he would take his whole family on a nice European vacation. Perhaps that could help with other problems as well, he thought optimistically.