Part Two: Things Lost

Mark climbed out of the car and stretched his back. A combination of tension and the drive had caused his muscles to bunch painfully. He probably should have let Jesse or Amanda drive, but he hadn't given himself time to think about it. His only concern had been getting to Lake Wickobee as fast as he could.

He glanced at his two companions as they climbed out of the car as well, both dressed for their alleged camping trip. It hadn't been difficult to convince the two to come along with him. They had practically insisted once they'd learned about what was going on, and Mark had to admit it helped to have them with him.

"This is a little like stepping back into the past," Jesse announced as he looked up at the rustic building before them. "What would Steve be doing out this way? I didn't even know LAPD extended this far."

"I don't believe that they do, Jess," Mark replied. "I got the impression that it was a bit of a surprise when the investigation took them this far." Mark didn't add that the possible inclusion of other law enforcement agencies might complicate matters. "And the troop leader whose group found Ruhaas works here."

"So this is where we start," Amanda said as they all started toward the log building. There was a large sign out front which declared that a camping license could be purchased there as well as equipment rentals.

"Yes, this is where we start."

One hour and two tent rentals later, Mark, Jesse and Amanda found themselves on a two lane road which led to the area near Lake Wickobee where Ruhaas had been found. The area had only recently been obtained by the Department of Parks and Recreation, so there were no marked trails or rangers. But the map that the troop leader had drawn on the back of a brown bag had been very detailed.

They all fanned out away from the car, checking out the surrounding areas. Mark noted a lot of damaged foliage. Although, he couldn't be sure if that had been caused by the rescue workers or by something else.

Ruhaas had been found at the bottom of a ravine, a broken and damaged motorcycle was found nearby. It looked to Mark as if he had skidded off the road and gone over the side. While Jesse and Amanda started down toward the ravine, Mark moved back along the road, following the path that the police officer would have likely taken.

As he walked, he thought back to the time decades earlier when Steve had first asked him if he could have a motorcycle. He had been completely set against it, even forbidding him from riding the one that one of his young friends had recently acquired. The argument and silences that followed had faded into the back of his mind.

When Steve had grown older, he hadn't lost his interest in motor bikes. In fact, he'd eventually purchased one of his own, but he had made certain that he knew how to operate it safely. That conversation hadn't faded from Mark's mind, remaining vivid in his memory. 

"Dad, I wanted you to know that I bought a dirt bike." Steve raised his hands in defense when Mark would have spoken. "Now, I know how you feel about them, but I promise you that I'll be careful. I've even taken a class on safety. But I didn't want to do this behind your back."

Mark looked at him and sighed, settling the coffee he had been drinking on the table. Steve was 26 years old and living on his own. He didn't have to make his father aware of all of his decisions, but he had in this case.

"Son, of course that was your choice to make. And though I think they're dangerous, I'm not going to try to tell you what to do with your life. You're a police officer, and an adult. I'm just going to have to trust that you've gotten all of your facts and gone into this with your eyes open."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Dad," Steve had smiled at him. "I wouldn't want this to come between us. It's a hobby that I really enjoy."

"All I ask is that you enjoy it sensibly," Mark replied with a chuckle. He didn't want anything to come between the two of them either. They only had each other these days. Carol had disappeared from their lives earlier in the year when she'd run off with Bruce Hilton. Both had been careful to be extra sensitive to the other's feelings since.

"I will. Um . . ." Steve looked around the restaurant where they were having lunch, seeming a little embarrassed as he adjusted the neck of his blue policeman's uniform. "I, uh, sorta won a place on a team for a biking event that's going to be coming up in about three months. Now, I'll understand if you don't want to come, but I wanted to invite you, anyway."

Mark sensed immediately that the event was important to Steve, and that he was trying to give him an out. But regardless of what he said, Mark knew that he would be disappointed if he didn't come. "I suppose I could give it a try," he said. "But I reserve the right to be a nervous father."

Steve smiled brightly at him. "Thanks, Dad. You're the best."

Mark's lips drew up into a smile at the memory. Steve had won an award at that event, and quite a few more over the intervening years at the local level. Mark had attended each occasion when he could. In time Steve had begun to work with teens, teaching them how to safely and responsibly operate the machines as well. Mark was very proud of his son, and the type of role model he had become.

The smile faded away as he continued along the road. Would those memories be all that he had left?

~*~

It was blazingly hot. Even the air was uncomfortable to breathe. And he was so tired, mentally, physically and emotionally. But then it started. The gunfire echoed through the surrounding jungle, sparking the kill-or-be-killed adrenaline rush that had become a part of him. He had to fight to stay alive. That was just the way things were. And then later, when the adrenaline wore off, he could talk himself into believing that it was all for a good cause. But for now, the gunfire rang and the survival instinct sang in his blood.

"You going to eat that? Or just play with it?" The gruff voice interrupted the sights and sounds that had taken over his thoughts.

Steve looked up from the unappetizing plate before him toward the man who had done the cooking. Tiny was what the other men had called him. At 6 feet 6 inches, and about 350 pounds, the name was something of an oxymoron. It was clear that Tiny was part of the 'bad element', but Steve was having trouble reconciling himself to the fact that he was among them. Was this what he had become? Part of some biker gang? Or was it some trick?

Though he vaguely remembered someone picking him up the night before, he distinctly had the feeling that he wasn't in 'Nam anymore. The men who'd helped him up and tossed him into the back of the pick-up truck had definitely been American, and he had was sure that he had been wearing a motorcycle helmet. In fact, he'd found it in the room where he had initially awakened. But that didn't coincide with his memories.

His knew his dad hadn't wanted him to get a motorcycle, even before he'd been drafted. He had explained that he'd seen enough injured riders in the emergency room to know that it wasn't the type of activity that he could endorse for his teenaged son. Steve couldn't imagine that either of his parents would appreciate the sort of life he'd apparently taken up. He didn't appreciate it, and he was living it. Why couldn't he remember the things that had happened to bring him to this point in his life? He fought to get past the invisible barrier of his memory, but there was nothing.

Suddenly, he felt incredibly home sick. He needed to see his family; his mom, dad and even Carol. The last decent memory he could recall of them was when they'd met him when he'd hobbled into the Los Angeles airport on crutches on his return from Vietnam. All he had seen in their eyes had been love. Surely he wouldn't repay them this way.

More worrying than the missing memories and his current situation was the length of the loss. When he'd come out of the ramshackle old house to sit at the big wooden table where the food was being prepared, he'd taken a moment to look over the activity in the dirt yard. As he did so, he caught sight of the license tag on the big tarp-covered truck parked near an old barn. It put the year at 20 years past the last one that he recalled. That bit of information had nearly taken his knees out from under him.

But everyone in the camp seemed to know him. Or at least, partially. They all called him Mick. The best he could figure was that at some point he'd started going by a shortened version of his middle name. But none of that mattered. These people all gave him a bad feeling. He didn't like any of them, and they didn't seem to like each other. He hated it here. He just wanted to go home. He could only hope that this wasn't it.

"Yo, Mick!" Tiny got down in his face and yelled. "I asked if you're gonna eat that? I ain't got time for you to go off in another daze!"

Steve startled back to the present once again and pushed the plate away. "No, Tiny. I'm not feeling so good. Maybe later."

Tiny's response was a grunt as he gathered up the plate and slung its contents into the large heavy metal trash can that sat at the end of the outdoor picnic table. "Just as long as you're ready for tonight," he added, turning to point a meaty finger in his direction. "We ride in before dark. You're going to have to ride in the truck with me since you busted your bike up last night."

Steve nodded carefully even though he wasn't really clear on where exactly they would be riding. The pain that still throbbed in his head wasn't much helping the situation. But at least he knew that it was a motorcycle accident that Ray Kreger aka Butt-Ugly had been telling him about. He was certain that was why he couldn't remember nearly half his life. He figured that he probably had some sort of amnesia. His dad would know what kind. If he could just talk to him. But Ray was what passed for a doctor in the camp, and he'd declared him well enough as long as he was still breathing and walking around.

"Hey, you think I could go to the store?" he asked Tiny. "The stuff Ray gave me isn't working." There was no phone at the house, at least not one that he'd seen, and he didn't like the idea of having to ask any of the other men where it might be. If he could find a phone, maybe he could contact his dad. He wondered if he still worked at Community General. If he didn't, maybe someone there would know where he was.

Tiny jerked his head toward one of the younger men helping him. "Jake here needs to get a couple things. You can ride in with him. But you better be 100% by tonight. This is a big score and we're already down a man."

"I will. I just . . . need some things." Steve tried to sound reassuring, but wasn't sure that he succeeded. Hearing that they were to make a 'score' that night shook him. That sounded suspiciously like something illegal. Which wasn't surprising considering they were a bunch of guys living out in the woods in an old house that had probably been abandoned years before. But the thought that he might be a bad guy grated against some internal sense. It just didn't feel right. More than ever, he felt the need to contact his family, if only to ground himself in this bizarre new reality.

Jake, a wiry man about six feet tall led him to an old Ford truck. No words were spoken as they set off along the dirt road. The jostling on the uneven surface aggravated the aches and pains in Steve's body, reawakening the previous night's nausea.

That the other man didn't speak was fine with him. It allowed him more time to try to figure out just how his life had turned out so different than he would have planned. He must have dozed at some point because his next view was of a log building that looked like something out of Butch Cassidy. That sign stated that camping licenses could be purchased and equipment could be rented there. There was another entrance attached to the other side of the store which was equipped with gas pumps and a large flashing sign that broadcasted the fact that cold beer could be had.

Jake completely ignored him as he climbed out of the truck and headed into the side of the store that sold beer. Steve ignored him right back and walked toward the camping store, went to the desk and asked if there was a phone.