The tire tracks were easy enough to follow. They led the team for 2.2 miles and ended in the pavement of route 163. Brass, Catherine, Nick and Percival left the truck for a closer view. Sara remained huddled in the back.
"The way they angle onto the road says they were headed east," Percival said. "That means they could have been going to Laughlin, or across the border to Arizona. Bullhead City. Kingman."
"They couldn't be going too far," Nick said. "They've got a load of elk meat that needs refrigeration pretty quick." Then he thought of something and winced. "Unless they're carrying their own freezer. Then they'd have all the time in the world. Pick up the interstate and …"
"I doubt it," Percival said. "Most hunters, when they field dress a kill, won't do much more than quarter it for easy transportation. They either do the finer butchering when they get home or take it to a pro. I didn't see evidence on that kill site that they did anything more than bleed it and gut it. They didn't even take the trophy. They weren't lookin' at a long drive. Laughlin and Bullhead City are closest. Kingman's only about 45 miles."
xxxxxxx
While the CSI team and the Park Police worked, so did the former Dr. Firth.
He started his unexpected guest on 500 mg of tetracycline as soon as Cassie brought the prescription back from the pharmacy the night before. He had ordered a 14-day supply with two refills, thinking that should take care of whatever infection might develop. He chose tetracycline because it was a good way to attack a broad spectrum of infections, including respiratory. Pneumonia was one of Firth's biggest concerns right now.
He didn't know, but it wouldn't have surprised him to learn, the biggest medical threat was coming at his patient from an entirely different direction.
The man in the back bedroom survived the night. The first order of business in the morning was to set his broken bones. But first, he had to be cleaned up. He still wore the biking clothes shredded in his fall. He smelled of dried sweat, crusted blood and caked desert dirt. Firth filled a basin with hot water and an astringent soap. He picked up a pair of scissors and moved to the patient. Cassie presented herself to help.
"I can handle this," he said.
"It'll go faster if I help," she said.
"No!" he said. "Look, I'm going to be cutting off what's left of his clothes, and I have nothing for him to wear. The only reason you want to help is to gawk at his body, and while I understand your urge, that's not what I call helping. Give the poor man some privacy, Cassie. You really want to help, go to Wal-Mart or someplace and buy him some clothes, sweats and tees, three of each, extra large so they're loose. And some sort of slipper." The man had lost one shoe in his fall. Firth tugged off the other and checked inside. "He's a ten and a half. Go on now."
She went.
Once she was out of the house Firth made quick work of what remained of the patient's clothes, noting as he tossed away the last scrap of material that Cassie would, indeed, have enjoyed the view. He cleaned the body and the wounds, rolling him over onto his less-injured right side to get access to his back and buttocks. By the time Cassie returned, Firth had the man clean and comfortable on the bed, covered with a blanket.
With Cassie's help, Firth built passable casts for the patient's arm and leg and did a commendable job of taping up the broken ribs. He kept checking the man's eyes to gauge the severity and progression of the head injuries, and to his surprise and relief, there seemed to be improvement. At least the man wasn't in a coma. He and Cassie had been able to arouse him to the point it was safe to give him the tetracycline pill with some water without the risk of him choking.
But there were other hurdles to overcome. The patient needed liquids and nutrition, but Firth had no access to IV supplies. And there was the matter of the man's elimination needs. Firth couldn't insert a catheter because he had no access to those, either.
Perhaps, the doctor thought, a shot of bourbon would help settle his nerves and produce some insights. And if one shot was good, two shots were even better.
xxxxxxx
Back in Las Vegas, the investigation progressed with agonizing sluggishness. Nick identified the tracks as belonging to 17-inch Goodrich T/A all-season, all-terrain tires, most-typically found as aftermarket upgrades on 4x4 pickup trucks. The wheelbase Nick and Catherine had been able to measure out in the desert was 160.3 inches, an exact match for three models of Dodge Ram Mega-Cabs. Since the tires weren't standard issue, it became a matter of tracking down the store that sold them and matching them to a specific vehicle and then to a specific owner. Tire retailers were the logical starting place.
Nick found 11 large tire retailers and a dozen smaller ones in the Laughlin-Bullhead City-Kingman area, fewer, actually, than he expected.
Brass assumed the assignment as mission coordinator.
Getting cooperation from the various law enforcement jurisdictions proved difficult. When they got right down to it, the only crime had been poaching the elk, and that was a federal matter since it happened on federal land. So Brass got creative. He categorized the crime as the interstate kidnapping of a law enforcement official – and that got everyone's attention. Still, the process moved like glue on a mid-winter morning in Minneapolis.
Meanwhile, the DNA came back on the bourbon bottle found next to the dead elk. There were two matches of both saliva and fingerprints, with enough epithilials in common to confirm they came from related individuals. Both XY. Both in the system. Brothers. Luke and James Blount of Henderson Nevada. Multiple arrests for big-game poaching.
The only trouble was, there was no Luke Blount, no James Blount living in Henderson. And since leaving, neither had been arrested for anything.
Big dead end.
xxxxxxx
On the third day after he arrived at the Firth home, the injured biker regained consciousness.
He was alone in a small room.
He was alone in a small life.
The room began and ended in four walls and a closed door. It contained one bed, a battered dresser, two night stands and a window air conditioner that strained to blow coolish air across his face.
His life began in the back seat of an unfamiliar vehicle and ended in pain, in a bed in a small room with coolish air stroking his face.
His head hurt, though less, he thought, than when he awoke in somebody's back seat. He could feel his left arm again and wished he couldn't. His left leg throbbed. His chest was the worst. It still burned as if on fire, and the pain flared white-hot every time he tried to take a deep breath. He felt as if is someone had pulled a wide belt around his chest and cinched it two notches beyond bearable. It felt as if someone had jammed an ice pick into his lungs.
Using his right hand, he lifted the blanket and examined himself by the ambient light streaking through the window. He wore a pair of heather gray shorts, like sweats, with a draw-string at the waist, untied. He saw a cast on his left leg from the knee to the ankle. Another on his left arm from the wrist to the elbow. He was tightly taped across his abdominal muscles. That area was a source of pain when he inhaled, but not the only source. He saw a piece of bloody gauze taped over his left breast. More of the breathing difficulty originated somewhere beneath that flimsy patch. The rest of his body was covered with jagged cuts and abrasions, some looking inflamed with infection, and black-and-purple bruises.
What happened to me?
Where am I?
For the love of Christ, who am I?
His breathing began to come fast and shallow, and he recognized it as the beginning of a panic attack. He had no idea how he knew it, but it knew it with certainty.
He examined himself again, and this time he noticed a striking gold wedding band on his left hand.
I'm married.
Okay that's something.
Narrows me down to about half the people in the world.
Is this my home?
Is my wife here?
Will I even remember her?
Will someone please help me? Please!
The bedroom door began to open, and a young woman stood there. He turned his head a little to the left against something that restricted such movements. He looked at her. He had no idea what his own face looked like, but he thought he might be middle-aged. She looked to be 30 or so, perhaps a bit young to be his wife.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
He thought she was pretty in an unkempt sort of way.
She smiled at him, apparently glad to see him awake.
As if reading his mind about her unkempt appearance, she reached up and hooked a stray strand of sandy hair behind her ear.
He felt as if someone had hit him in the chest.
Pain.
A hollow sensation. A longing. A loneliness.
An overwhelming loneliness.
She turned away, and he tried to ask her to stay. He couldn't bear to be alone in that room again where he knew no one, not even himself.
She didn't walk away. She called out to someone.
"Daddy, he's awake. Come quick."
She left the door open and walked to his bedside. She pulled up a straight-back chair and sat next to him. He hadn't seen the chair before.
She reached under the blanket, found his left hand below the cast and took it in her own warm hand.
"Can you talk?" she asked.
He tried. His mouth was too dry. His throat too scratchy. She reached to the nightstand and brought back a bottle of water with a flex straw in it.
"Not too much or too fast," she said. "Your stomach's probably a little upset. You've been getting antibiotics without food. You don't want to start throwing up."
She extracted her hand from beneath the blanket and helped him lift his head. He took several sips. The water was room temperature but welcome nonetheless.
"I know it's warm," she said. "Easier on the stomach."
He nodded, understanding. And she lowered his head again.
"You can have more in a minute," she said. "Can you try to talk to me now?"
He swallowed once. Hard. "Who am I?" he asked, surprised at the clear undercurrent of anxiety in his voice.
Her face morphed into sadness. "You don't remember?"
"N-no. Nothing. Do I know you?"
"I'm Cassie," she said.
"Are … are you my wife?"
She smiled ruefully then. "I wish."
"Excuse me?"
"You're married to someone very lucky," she said. "But it isn't me."
An older man stumbled into the room just then. Was this the one she had summoned as, "Daddy?" He looked old enough to be the woman's grandfather. As he moved to come up on the patient's right, he pushed a piquant cloud of bourbon odor ahead of him. It hovered over the bed.
"Let me take a look at you, son," he said.
Son? Could he be the right age to be this man's son? Well, that narrowed things down a little more. He was married and probably younger than 60. At the rate he was gathering information, he'd know his identity by nightfall.
He groaned at the impossibility of his own humor.
"What is this place?" he asked.
"I'm Dr. William Firth, and this is my home," the older man said.
"Doctor?"
"In title only. You're my first patient in 11 years."
The patient sighed. "I hope you remember something."
The doctor smiled slightly. "A little."
"Am I hurt badly?"
"Yes."
"Why here? Why not a hospital?"
"Long story."
"I want to hear it."
"Not now. You need to rest."
He could feel himself becoming angry.
"I don't need rest. I need information. I need to know who I am?"
The doctor leaned back from his examination.
"I can't help you with that," he said.
"ID?"
"You didn't have any on you."
"Missing persons report?"
"Maybe somewhere. I'd find out if I knew where you came from."
"Where am I?"
"Just outside Kingman, Arizona. Does that ring any bells?"
He shook his head slightly.
"You were found in Nevada, north of Laughlin. Does that help?"
"No."
"You were wearing the slicks that cyclists wear. So you probably were hurt in a fall from a bicycle." The doctor peered at him hopefully.
The patient simply shook his head again.
"Well, don't get too upset," the doctor said. "You've had a head injury. Amnesia isn't uncommon in cases of severe concussion. Chances are it will all come back to you. When you wake up from a sleep, try to remember your dreams. Sometimes things start to come back that way. Okay?"
The patient frowned and nodded. His eyes had gone far away.
The doctor took his bourbon cloud and left.
Cassie took his hand again.
She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles, and he took another emotional shot to the chest. Something so familiar about that gesture. Something so special.
"Don't leave," he asked of her.
"I won't," she said. "I'll stay with you until you're asleep, and after that I'll be right outside." She laughed lightly. "The house isn't that big. I'll hear you if you call me."
He closed his eyes and held onto two images, one visual, one tactile.
Hair hooked behind an ear.
A soft hand stroking the back of his hand.
I left something out there, and I need to find it again.
It's precious to me.
If only I could remember it.
Her.
Oh, dear God, please help me remember.