missing?"
"Just my team," she said. "Seven of us. And now you." I said nothing.
"We came straight here," she said. "We need a break. Why else would we fly up here on a Sunday?" The room went quiet. I looked from her to Eliot and back to her. They needed me. I needed them. And I liked them. I liked them a lot. They were honest, likable people.
They were like the best of the people I used to work with.
"I'll trade," I said. "Information for information. We'll see how we get along. And then we'll take it from there."
"What do you need?" I told her I needed ten-year-old hospital records from a place called Eureka in California.
I told her what kind of a thing to look for. I told her I would stay in Boston until she got back to me. I told her not to put anything on paper. Then they left and that was it for day two. Nothing happened on day three. Or day four. I hung around. I find Boston acceptable for a couple of days. It's what I call a forty-eight town. Anything more than forty-eight hours, and it starts to get tiresome. Of course, most places are like that for me.
I'm a restless person. So by the start of day five I was going crazy. I was ready to assume they had forgotten all about me. I was ready to call it quits and get back on the road. I was thinking about Miami. It would be a lot warmer down there. But late in the morning the phone rang. It was her voice. It was nice to hear.
"We're on our way up," she said. "Meet you by that big statue of whoever it is on a horse, halfway around the Freedom Trail, three o'clock." It wasn't a very precise rendezvous, but I knew what she meant. It was a place in the North End, near a church. It was springtime and too cold to want to go there without a purpose but I got there early anyway. I sat on a bench next to an old woman feeding house sparrows and rock doves with torn-up crusts of bread. She looked at me and moved to another bench. The birds swarmed around her feet, pecking at the grit. A watery sun was fighting rainclouds in the sky. It was Paul Revere on the horse.
Duffy and Eliot showed up right on time. They were wearing black raincoats all covered in little loops and buckles and belts. They might as well have worn signs around their necks saying Federal Agents from Washington D.C. They sat down, Duffy on my left and Eliot on my right. I leaned back and they leaned forward with their elbows on their knees.
"Paramedics fished a guy out of the Pacific surf," Duffy said. "Ten years ago, just south of Eureka, California. White male, about forty. He had been shot twice in the head and once in the chest. Small-caliber, probably .22s. Then they figure he was thrown off a cliff into the ocean."
"He was alive when they fished him out?" I asked, although I already knew the answer.
"Barely," she said. "He had a bullet lodged near his heart and his skull was broken. Plus one arm and both legs and his pelvis, from the fall. And he was half-drowned. They operated on him for fifteen straight hours. He was in intensive care for a month and in the hospital recuperating for another six."
"ID?"
"Nothing on him. He's in the records as a John Doe."
"Did they try to ID him?"
"No fingerprint match," she said. "Nothing on any missing-persons lists. Nobody came to claim him." I nodded. Fingerprint computers tell you what they're told to tell you.
"What then?" I asked.
"He recovered," she said. "Six months had passed. They were trying to work out what to do with him when he suddenly discharged himself. They never saw him again."
"Did he tell them anything about who he was?"
"They diagnosed amnesia, certainly about the trauma, because that's almost inevitable.
They figured he might be genuinely blank about the incident and the previous day or two.
But they figured he must be able to remember things from before that, and they got the strong impression he was pretending not to. There's a fairly extensive case file.
Psychiatrists, everything. They interviewed him regularly. He was
"Just my team," she said. "Seven of us. And now you." I said nothing.
"We came straight here," she said. "We need a break. Why else would we fly up here on a Sunday?" The room went quiet. I looked from her to Eliot and back to her. They needed me. I needed them. And I liked them. I liked them a lot. They were honest, likable people.
They were like the best of the people I used to work with.
"I'll trade," I said. "Information for information. We'll see how we get along. And then we'll take it from there."
"What do you need?" I told her I needed ten-year-old hospital records from a place called Eureka in California.
I told her what kind of a thing to look for. I told her I would stay in Boston until she got back to me. I told her not to put anything on paper. Then they left and that was it for day two. Nothing happened on day three. Or day four. I hung around. I find Boston acceptable for a couple of days. It's what I call a forty-eight town. Anything more than forty-eight hours, and it starts to get tiresome. Of course, most places are like that for me.
I'm a restless person. So by the start of day five I was going crazy. I was ready to assume they had forgotten all about me. I was ready to call it quits and get back on the road. I was thinking about Miami. It would be a lot warmer down there. But late in the morning the phone rang. It was her voice. It was nice to hear.
"We're on our way up," she said. "Meet you by that big statue of whoever it is on a horse, halfway around the Freedom Trail, three o'clock." It wasn't a very precise rendezvous, but I knew what she meant. It was a place in the North End, near a church. It was springtime and too cold to want to go there without a purpose but I got there early anyway. I sat on a bench next to an old woman feeding house sparrows and rock doves with torn-up crusts of bread. She looked at me and moved to another bench. The birds swarmed around her feet, pecking at the grit. A watery sun was fighting rainclouds in the sky. It was Paul Revere on the horse.
Duffy and Eliot showed up right on time. They were wearing black raincoats all covered in little loops and buckles and belts. They might as well have worn signs around their necks saying Federal Agents from Washington D.C. They sat down, Duffy on my left and Eliot on my right. I leaned back and they leaned forward with their elbows on their knees.
"Paramedics fished a guy out of the Pacific surf," Duffy said. "Ten years ago, just south of Eureka, California. White male, about forty. He had been shot twice in the head and once in the chest. Small-caliber, probably .22s. Then they figure he was thrown off a cliff into the ocean."
"He was alive when they fished him out?" I asked, although I already knew the answer.
"Barely," she said. "He had a bullet lodged near his heart and his skull was broken. Plus one arm and both legs and his pelvis, from the fall. And he was half-drowned. They operated on him for fifteen straight hours. He was in intensive care for a month and in the hospital recuperating for another six."
"ID?"
"Nothing on him. He's in the records as a John Doe."
"Did they try to ID him?"
"No fingerprint match," she said. "Nothing on any missing-persons lists. Nobody came to claim him." I nodded. Fingerprint computers tell you what they're told to tell you.
"What then?" I asked.
"He recovered," she said. "Six months had passed. They were trying to work out what to do with him when he suddenly discharged himself. They never saw him again."
"Did he tell them anything about who he was?"
"They diagnosed amnesia, certainly about the trauma, because that's almost inevitable.
They figured he might be genuinely blank about the incident and the previous day or two.
But they figured he must be able to remember things from before that, and they got the strong impression he was pretending not to. There's a fairly extensive case file.
Psychiatrists, everything. They interviewed him regularly. He was
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