Unraveling The Past. Elisabeth Rees

her toward the motorcycle, its blue paint polished to a gleaming shine. “Let’s get some sleep and make a plan in the morning.”

      “Thank you, Tyler,” she said. “Even though you’re dealing with some pretty intense emotions right now, you’re still committed to helping me, and I’m grateful.”

      He looked skyward, clearly troubled. “The word intense doesn’t even come close to describing how I’m feeling right now. I’m used to being in control, knowing how to identify the enemy, knowing who I can trust.”

      “You can trust me,” she said. “I promise.”

      He brought his face down to meet hers. “I’m taking a big chance on you, Deputy, so I hope you don’t mind if I ask you some tough questions later on. It’s not easy to trust a stranger.”

      This comment stung. “We’re not strangers,” she said. “Not by a long shot.”

      “We’re as good as strangers to me,” he said. “That’s the way I see it right now, at least until my memories start to return. So I’m asking you to be totally open and honest with me, no matter what. Can you do that?”

      She imagined Tyler prying into her past, her battle with cancer and the toll it had taken on her. She hated talking about it and usually downplayed her feelings to hide the pain.

      “Sure,” she replied. “You can ask me anything.”

      She hoped he didn’t hear the hesitancy in her voice. He could ask her whatever he wanted, but she might not tell the whole truth.

      * * *

      Tyler woke early, just on the cusp of dawn. He sat bolt upright, taking in his surroundings. He saw a clean, functional room with well-worn furniture and peeling wallpaper, slightly nicotine stained at the top. That was when he remembered he was in a low grade motel, and Joanna was in an adjoining room, connected by an inner door.

      He checked his watch: 7:15 a.m. He usually didn’t sleep so late, but he was glad of the unbroken rest. He rose, straightened out his wrinkled sweatpants and shirt and then rubbed his grumbling stomach. He obviously hadn’t eaten in a long while, and he was famished.

      A loud knock sounded through the room, and Joanna’s voice could be heard on the other side of the door, panicked and insistent.

      “Tyler, can I come in? There’s something you should see urgently.”

      He opened the door, and Joanna stood before him, wearing the same clothes she had yesterday: neon yellow jeans, white sneakers and a purple hooded sweatshirt. She would stand out like a sore thumb in any crowd. They would need to buy her some new clothes today.

      “What is it?” he asked as she came rushing into the room, picking up the remote control for the television from the nightstand.

      “This,” she said, flicking on the TV and turning to a local news station.

      On the screen he saw his own face next to Joanna’s, above the words fugitive cops on the run. He took the remote from her hands and turned up the sound, listening in horror to the newscaster’s report: “The sheriff of Yardley County, Missouri, Tyler Beck, is believed to be harboring a wanted felon somewhere in the region, and citizens are being asked to remain vigilant. Deputy Joanna Graham, a former biochemist and Harvard graduate, is wanted by the Federal Bureau of Investigation for alleged drug offenses committed while working undercover for the Southern Missouri Drug Task Force. Both Deputy Graham and Sheriff Beck vanished last night and are now on the run, possibly crossing a state border to evade detection. The Godspeed police chief, George Crenshaw, made this statement about the matter late last night...”

      The picture then cut to Chief Crenshaw, standing outside his station, surrounded by reporters shining lights on his face. By his side was the mayor, his lips pinched into a thin smile.

      The chief read from a piece of paper in his hand: “‘Sheriff Beck suffered a severe blow to the head yesterday while responding to an emergency call, and doctors believe that this injury has seriously affected his memory. The sheriff’s actions are entirely out of character, and it’s likely that his head injury is to blame. Tyler Beck and I are friends and equals, and I’m not judging him for trying to help his deputy. But I’m appealing to him directly to contact the nearest law-enforcement unit and turn himself in.’” Chief Crenshaw looked straight into the camera, his dark eyes narrowing in seriousness. “Tyler, if you’re watching this, please do the right thing. You know it makes sense.”

      As the clip ended, the anchor shook her coiffured head in disapproval and said, “What is the world coming to when you can’t trust your local sheriff’s department to uphold the law? These two could possibly be somewhere in the state of Arkansas, so keep a lookout, folks, and if you spot them, do not approach them. Instead call 9-1-1 right away. But don’t let this news stop you from enjoying the Christmas holidays. Go out and continue your shopping, but be vigilant. Stay safe.”

      Tyler let out a long breath, as if he had been winded. He never expected this amount of publicity. He knew that Chief Crenshaw would be annoyed at being duped, but to place Joanna in further danger like this was just plain irresponsible. Crenshaw had now totally exposed her as an undercover officer. If any members of The Scorpions didn’t already know her status as a sheriff’s deputy, they would now, and they might decide to exact their own vengeance.

      “Do you think the guy who checked us into the motel last night will call the police?” Joanna asked.

      “It was late, dark and he was only a teenager, more interested in playing his computer game than looking at our faces.” Tyler wasn’t totally convinced of this, but he hoped it was true. “We should hit the road anyway, just in case.”

      Joanna raked her hands through her long, dark hair. She had removed the tiny braids she had worn the previous day, and the strands were now slightly crinkled yet still lustrous and shiny, falling like silk over her shoulders. Something stirred in his memory: a flicker of recollection. He knew how her hair smelled and how it felt beneath his touch.

      “Where can we go?” she asked. “Our faces are splashed all over the news.”

      Tyler pulled the photograph from his pocket. The five other men in this picture were as good as family to him, and he would trust each of them with his life. With one of them now dead, this left four people to whom he could reach out for help. He knew each of their cell phone numbers by heart, but he had lost seven years. Would they have moved on without his knowing? Would they still have the bonds of friendship they once did?

      He took out his cell phone. “I’m gonna make a call. Don’t go anywhere,” he said walking into the bathroom, closing the door and sitting on the edge of the tub. He didn’t feel entirely comfortable making this call in front of Joanna. He figured he could almost certainly trust her, but there was still a tiny seed of suspicion, a niggling doubt that she was holding back somehow. When he had asked her to be completely honest with him, he had sensed her reticence and suspected that she was holding something back. Despite her apparent openness, there was something aloof about her, a part that she kept hidden. He pondered whether this was the reason for their breakup. One character trait he would not tolerate was an inclination to lie. Joanna had not fully passed his test. Not yet.

      He punched in the number of Dillon Randall, a close friend and colleague who had served alongside him on at least three missions that he could remember. A recorded message told him that the number had been disconnected. He tried the other three numbers and got the same result. The data in his head must be old and out of date.

      He clicked his tongue in exasperation, feeling the time ticking by. He should take Joanna away from this place and get her somewhere safer, but without a plan, he could simply make things worse by moving her out in the open.

      He turned over the photograph in his hands, thinking hard, and caught sight of a scrawled number on the back. His heart lifted. It was his own writing, and above the number was one single word: Blade. What did this mean? Whose number was it? Given that his options were limited, he decided to give it a try.

      When the phone was answered