Chapter Two

After slipping into his standard sleeping gear-sweats, a long sleeves shirt, and a pair of thick socks-John stretched out on the narrow bed. The room was cool, but that was because he kept the shuttered window open half a foot so the white noise of the waves pounding against the wooden piles of the dock would, in time, lull him to sleep. Sleep still didn't come easy, but it came easier than it had in the beginning.

He'd been afraid when he'd woke up in the cramped cabin of the Wynn brother's boat, but it had morphed into terror when he'd been unable to remember his name. They told him they'd found him in the water with two gunshot wounds. One bullet had passed through his shoulder, doing mostly muscle damage; the other had glanced off his scull and had done much worse. His arm had healed but not his mind; he still had no memory of anything before that day. All that remained from his previous life was the suit and watch he'd been wearing, neither of which were salvageable. The suit label read Pure S150's Wool by Thomas, Italy. The Wynns called him John, and when he'd needed a last name to go with it, he'd picked Thomas.

The Wynns were closed-mouthed and bordered on paranoid, and he realized whatever they did on the high seas was likely outside the law. He didn't feel he had any right to judge that; his own past was questionable, considering the state he'd been found in. He was just grateful they had seen fit to fish him out of the ocean. Just short of a week later, still weak as a kitten from blood loss, he'd been deposited in a fishing village in Maine with their Aunt Tilly. They clearly thought the world of their Aunt Tilly; when speaking about her, he'd even seen smiles break the stoic plains of faces. She and her second husband, Captain Aaron Devaine, ran a fishing business, and though she didn't approve of their choices, she loved them. If they asked her to care for him, she would, no questions asked, and would feel no need to report the issue to the local sheriff.

Captain Devaine operated the Lonely Mariner and did the fishing; Matilda Devaine ran The Fish House Market and Restaurant, where the catch could be turned into cash. It was in the room above The Fish House he'd found himself convalescing. But even with the pain medicine and comforting words his caretaker had given him, he'd been unable to rest. Anxiety and fear kept him awake, and then, when he did finally sleep, nightmares plagued him. He'd wake heart-pounding, sweat-drenched, and panicked but unable to remember or recall what the dream had been about. Nights had been miserable, and the days little better. When his fever would spike, she'd stay with him, applying cold compresses to his head and offering soothing words. One such night, after she'd awakened him from one of his night terrors, he'd confessed he had no idea who he was or where he'd come from. The understanding and sympathy she had shown him had been sorely needed, and he had felt an enormous weight lift from his soul.

As soon as his fever had abated and his strength began to return, he ventured down to help out in the restaurant. He needed something to do other than stare at the walls wondering who the hell he was, where he'd come from, and who wanted him dead. Mrs. Devaine agreed that being busy would be good for him. She believed the more he worried about his loss of memory, the less likely it was to return to him. She suggested the trauma of being shot might be more to blame than the physical injury, though the lump on his head had been sizable. If that was the case, she'd said, he needed to take each day as it came and appreciate the simple things. the sunrise over the water, the sound of seagulls, and the waves breaking against the wooden piles of the dock, good food, and good company. When the nightmares came, she suggested he write them out and let them go; He needed to focus on the things he had, not the things he had lost. When his mind was calm and his spirit easy, maybe his memory would start to return. But if it didn't, he would still have a life and home in Jonesport, Maine. He tried to take her advice and release the ever-present tension, the heavy weight of dread, but it was futile. No matter how many sunrises he watched, there was no way to curb the panic he felt when he stared into the mirror at the face of a stranger.

His arm was still tender when a short-handed Captain Devaine asked him if he'd come out with him for the next days' haul, but he'd gladly accepted. His knot-tying skills and knowledge of navigational gear impressed the Captain more than his card tricks and artistic talents. Probably because he could see some practical use for them, much as he had his surprising fluency in French. After that first outing, John had been moved from the kitchen under Mrs. Devaine's watch to serve aboard the Mariner under her husband's.

The work was hard and the hours long, but he felt he was now really earning his keep. An added benefit was the more physically exhausted he was, the more able he was to sleep. Over time, he'd become accustomed to the work and grueling routine, and the fear and panic became less of a burden. He wasn't sure if they had actually lessened or if he was just getting better at bearing them. Either way, the nights had become easier. He still had to work until he was bone tired, but the nightmares came less often.

But three weeks ago, there had been a change. After one of his nightmares, he'd woke himself calling out the name Peter. There wasn't a memory attached to the name, but there was a feeling. Actually, several, but the overwhelming one was of, well, safety.

Over the next weeks, the nightmares were sporadic, and there was never clarity about what danger stalked him. But the mysterious Peter remained his anchor, the safe harbor in his storms. Then, one morning, when the Captain sent him to phone a late crew member, a number popped into his mind, and he knew it was Peter's.

It had taken him some time to gather the nerve to dial it. But this afternoon, he had and had, in fact, reached the faceless man of his dreams. A man who knew him. Knew who he was, or at least, who he had been.

Neal. He whispered the name aloud for the umpteenth time. Peter seemed sure that was who he was, but the name sounded foreign to his lips.

Neal who? And how did Peter know him?

He should have asked more questions, but the truth was, he'd been so shocked he'd not been able to think clearly. Peter was a real person, not just a figment of his jumbled and confused mind. But as he thought back, Peter hadn't seemed all that keen to share over the telephone, either. When asked if he was his brother, the mysterious Peter didn't answer, which told John the answer was no.

But who was Peter that he could drop everything and come to Maine? Who was he to him that would motivate him to do so? What past did they share?

Peter had sounded genuinely happy to hear from him. Relieved. That had to be a good thing, right? Surely, if Peter had wanted him dead, he would have picked up on that. But maybe not. Someone had gotten close enough to shoot him. Was it someone he'd trusted? When his mind wandered down that road, fear began to seep in.

He pushed it aside and studied the ceiling beams above his head. He didn't hate his life here, but it just didn't seem to fit. He needed to know who he was and where he'd come from. Living like this, with his past a blank, was unbearable. What was a person without a past? Without a family, or memories or stories to tell? He was nothing, an empty canvas.

But someone would start creating a scene on that canvas in two days. Would he be happy with the image or wish he'd never made the call?

Like everything else, he had no idea and no way to answer the question. Letting out a sigh, he left the bed.

Maybe he could paint.