Evil Deceit

By P. G. Simmons

It was 1939war was on the horizon and many dangerous people lurked in the shadows plotting to damage America. Government agents were fighting across the country to bring down these enemy spies. When Katelynn Collins woke from a coma, she had no memoriesher mind was a clean slate. Haunted by her dreams, she fought hard to recall her past life. As her memory began to return, she found herself in middle of an espionage ringconfused, disoriented, and frightened. Until she could replace her present with her past, she did not know which side she was on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524568368

P. G. Simmons

P. G. Simmons lives on a small farm with her husband. They have two dogs, one cat, chickens, and a few cattle. Although she is a published writer, she is also a photographer, sculptor, and graphic designer. Her latest novel, Evil Deceit, is a continuation in the saga of the Claybourne family, which is seeped in deep Southern traditions and moral values.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by P. G. Simmons.

Photography: Tony Arrasmith.

Illustration: P.G. Simmons.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016920522

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5245-6838-2

               Softcover       978-1-5245-6837-5

               eBook           978-1-5245-6836-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 12/19/2016

Xlibris

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Contents

Prologue Year 1939 (Saturday - December 2)

Chapter 1 Nine Weeks Earlier (Monday - September 24)

Chapter 2 Mobile, Alabama (Friday 10:00 AM: October 20)

Chapter 3 Mobile, Alabama (Friday 2:00 PM: October 20)

Chapter 4 Mobile, Alabama (Friday 4:30 PM: October 20)

Chapter 5 Mobile, Alabama (Monday 10:00 PM: November 20)

Chapter 6 Mobile, Alabama (Tuesday 7:35 AM: November 21)

Chapter 7 Mobile, Alabama (Wednesday 5:00 AM: November 22)

Chapter 8 New Orleans, Louisiana (Wednesday 9:00 AM: November 22)

Chapter 9 Houston, Texas (Wednesday Night 6:30 PM: November 22)

Chapter 10 San Antonio, Texas (Thursday 12:10 AM: November 23)

Chapter 11 Sanderson, Texas (Thursday 8:25 AM: Thursday 23)

Chapter 12 El Paso, Texas (Thursday 1:22 PM: November 23)

Chapter 13 Long Beach, California (Thursday 5:00 PM: November 23)

Chapter 14 Maricopa, Arizona (Thursday 8:55 PM: November 23)

Chapter 15 Long Beach, California (Thursday 9:30 PM: November 23)

Chapter 16 Los Angeles, California (Thursday 11:50 PM: November 23)

Chapter 17 Huntington Beach, California (Friday 1:15 AM: November 24)

Chapter 18 Los Angeles, California (Friday 5:35 AM: November 24)

Chapter 19 Huntington Beach, California (Friday 8:00 AM: November 24)

Chapter 20 Los Angeles, California (Friday 9:00 AM: November 24)

Chapter 21 Huntington Beach, California (Saturday 8:30 AM: November 25)

Chapter 22 Los Angeles, California (Saturday 11:00 PM: November 25)

Chapter 23 Huntington Beach, California (Saturday 2:10 PM: November 25)

Chapter 24 Huntington Beach, California (Saturday 4:00 PM: November 25)

Chapter 25 Las Vegas, Nevada (Saturday 7:00 PM: November 25)

Chapter 26 Las Vegas, Nevada (Sunday 2:10 AM: November 26)

Chapter 27 Huntington Beach, California (Sunday 9:20 AM: November 26)

Chapter 28 Las Vegas, Nevada (Sunday 9:38 AM: November 26)

Chapter 29 Henderson, Nevada (Sunday 12:00 Noon: November 26)

Chapter 30 Huntington Beach, California (Sunday 9:00 PM: November 26)

Chapter 31 Boulder City, Nevada (Monday 6:00 AM: November 27)

Chapter 32 Huntington Beach, California (Tuesday 2:30 PM: November 28)

Chapter 33 Hoover Dam (Tuesday 6:00 PM: November 28)

Chapter 34 Huntington Beach, California (Wednesday 10:00 AM: November 29)

Chapter 35 New York, New York (Thursday 7:00 AM: November 30)

Chapter 36 Huntington Beach, California (Thursday 3:00 AM: November 30)

Chapter 37 New York, New York (Thursday 4:45 AM: November 30)

Chapter 38 Huntington Beach, California (Thursday 8:25 AM: November 30)

Chapter 39 Huntington Beach, California (Thursday 11:00 AM: November 30)

Chapter 40 Huntington Beach, California (Thursday 1:00 PM: November 30)

Chapter 41 New York, New York (Thursday 4:30 PM: November 30)

Chapter 42 Cross-Country Flight (Friday 9:45 AM: December 1)

Chapter 43 Huntington Beach, California (Friday 1:30 PM: December 1)

Chapter 44 Huntington Beach, California (Friday 3:00 PM: December 1)

Chapter 45 Los Angeles, California (Friday 4:55 AM: December 1)

Chapter 46 Huntington Beach, California (Saturday 8:30 AM: December 2)

Chapter 47 Huntington Beach, California (Saturday 10:00 AM: December 2)

Chapter 48 Huntington Beach, California (Saturday 7:00 PM: December 2)

Chapter 49 Huntington Beach - (Saturday 9:30 PM: December 2)

Chapter 50 Huntington Beach, California (Saturday 7:30 to 9:58 PM: December 2)

Chapter 51 Huntington Beach, California (Saturday 9:64 PM: December 2)

Chapter 52 Huntington Beach, California (Saturday 10:00 PM: December 2)

Chapter 53 Huntington Beach, California (Saturday 10:10 PM: December 2)

Chapter 54 Huntington Beach, California (Saturday 10:20 PM: December 2)

Chapter 55 Huntington Beach, California (Saturday 10:38 PM: December 2)

Chapter 56 Huntington Beach, California (Saturday 10:40 PM: December 2)

Chapter 57 Huntington Beach, California (Sunday 1:00 AM: December 3)

Epilogue New York City - 3 Years Later (Friday 9:45 AM: December 1942)

References

This book is

dedicated to my aunt,

Mamie Lee Solomon

PROLOGUE

Year 1939 (Saturday - December 2)

I COULD FEEL the cold hard steel of the gun barrel being pressed against my temple as my heart began thumping erratically. Although my left hand hung freely by my side as if paralyzed, I could still feel the coolness of the locket that I clutched in my right hand.

It was obvious that the man holding the gun had no compunction about pulling the trigger, his hand steady and firm as a rock. He stood dispassionately waiting for the order to end my life.

The others stood before me not speaking one word but the icy inflexibility of their eyes was unmistakable. If tested, they could all easily be cold-blooded killers themselves.

Funny, I thought as I tightly shut my eyes, what one’s mind chooses to recall when one’s life is held in the balance.

Right outside the double glass doors was freedom if only I could manage an escape. My choice of fighting the storm or staying put was not that difficult now. I was oblivious of the desperation of my situation. All I could think of was if I could free myself from my captor, I’d rather take my chances with the storm.

My mind could think of nothing at this precise moment, even though it all seemed like déjà vu. Although my mind was as blank as my memory had been, I could not shake that strange feeling.

Nothing that had happened so far was but a ripple in the fabric of my mind. Here I was—knowing that my life was hanging in the balance and my mind chose to release a flood of micro-minor memories when I needed to concentrate more on my precarious position.

Why did my mind choose to flash these particular scenes across my memory cells as I faced death? None of it had any possible connection to what was fixing to happen to me. I wanted desperately to know why these people wanted to kill me.

Letting out a calming breath, I gave in and let my mind wander—

Within an instant, I was standing in the entrance of Oak Ridge preparing myself to once again walk through the huge plantation house. Somehow without looking, I knew it was a dull and gray day as the clouds were threatening rain.

Why would the recesses of my mind choose such a moment? Was it because that was the most recent memory since I had left the hospital? Was I fixing to replay my first introduction to my per se guardian?

I could feel the tears lightly trickle down my cheeks. Was that real or just in my imagination? Why at this moment was I having such a hard time distinguishing between the present and the dream world?

As I made my way around the rooms as if saying my last adieus to a home I never remembered, it was very surreal. There was a quietness filling the air and everything seemed to be at peace—somehow I knew the house was empty.

Dozens of boxes, trunks, and suitcases were packed and stacked along the east wall just inside the door. Was someone coming or going?

As I stood surveying the scene, I felt in my bones that all the ghosts from the past would suddenly begin to appear and mourn my passing or was it the passing of such a grand family legacy?

Where did that come from—somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind? What was I trying so hard to remember during the last moments of my life? It was hard to tell whether I had just arrived at the house or was leaving the house for the last time.

All I knew was that these were my few sentimental possessions—more than I had arrived with that first day. I moved past these material things and began to climb the staircase surveying each portrait as I passed. They were all a blur until I reached a certain particular one!

Strange how familiar all these images felt—especially since I had been told I had no connection whatsoever to the historic house besides the one with the present owner!

Suddenly, the portrait came into focus. Catching my breath, tears pricked my eyes and I again felt my wet cheeks. Reaching out, I wiped away the dust on the frame and the name Claybourne jumped out.

Why did the face and the name cause so vivid a reaction within my soul that even now right this minute I could feel it in real time! Why did I feel that someone so much greater than imagined had allowed me to peek into the past before I died? Was it really my past or just a fabrication of what I had so often dreamed was my past?

Oh! I heard the words fly from my lips, not knowing if it was because I recognized the name, the face, or had felt the nudge of the cold steel of the barrel being pushed harder against my head.

I still seemed to be in a trance because my eyes would not adjust to the scene before me. I couldn’t see that clearly, but I could hear voices! Familiar voices? Try as I may, I couldn’t concentrate even though it might mean my life. Refusing to open my eyes in hopes of avoiding the pain of the bullet, I tried my best to force the surrounding noises from my thoughts, as I let my mind meld backward once more—

Turning from the portrait and looking back down toward the entryway, I couldn’t help but notice that it was empty. Everything had disappeared being replaced by bright sunshine streaming through the windows and across the beautiful hardwood floors, beckoning me back down the staircase. I could sense that something was wrong. I knew I should run, but I was frozen in time.

Was that a hint that my time was growing short? Why wasn’t I fighting for my life? For some unforeseen reason, I couldn’t fight the urge to return to the vision—

The scene changed and I had been miraculously transported to Oak Ridge’s little garden that I so enjoyed. A wave of calm flooded over me as I heard giggling and laughing coming from across the lawn somewhere outside the gate. Hurrying out of the garden toward the joyful sounds, I saw a child—a beautiful blond blue-eyed little boy waving as he ran across the meadow into the handsome man’s arms. Something told me that I knew the child, but I could not recall the name.

There was the sensation that his name was there on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t quite grasp it—what was it? Why should I know him? What was his connection to me? Or was there any connection?

Innately I knew that I should run to them, reach out, and envelope them in my arms in order to protect them. But before I could bring myself to move, they vanished.

My heart was filled with love and compassion, but I knew my vision wasn’t real. But why—why now remember this? What was fixing to happen? Why should I be so happy yet so very sad? Was my mind preparing me for something—to die? Then again without warning, my memory moved further on—

I found myself standing on the hillside watching as the man swung the small boy up and onto the horse! Cuddling the little blond headed boy closely to his chest, they came riding across the wind swept meadows whooping and shouting with joy as they cleared fence after fence. My heart beat uncontrollably with love!

Suddenly, I felt the gun being pressed harder into my temple. Had this happened before in a dream? Was this déjà vu? Was my mind only trying to placate me with sweet memories from the past?

I felt a chill in my heart as I observed the riders come up the hill at a full gallop on the long legged thoroughbred. The man tapped the horse’s rear end with the crop urging the steed to move faster and faster as they cleared fence after fence. After jumping the last fence, the man turned the horse and the two smiling and laughing galloped in my direction as relief flooded my heart!

But then it all changed, as the man increased the pressure of his hand on my neck and rubbed the barrel of the gun along my cheek. My calm, wonderful memory had been replaced with that horrid nightmare which had been haunting me!

Suddenly, the sky turned turbulent and violent! At that moment, I saw the gun appear. Perceiving the danger, I reached outward but no sound emanated as I tried to cry out to warn them. As much as I wished to turn away, I couldn’t—I was being forced to watch. The men wouldn’t let me turn my face away! Filled with apprehension, all I could do was stand there my eyes glued to the tragedy which was about to unfold before me—

Was the anxiety I was feeling trying to tell me that the vision I was having were pieces of my mind filling in the gaps of my empty memory or something I had just read about? Why couldn’t I just bring myself to think of something else? Refuse to watch what was playing out before my eyes? Concentrate on what was taking place right now at this moment, in this room, and in this house?

The precipitous quietness of the room brought me crashing back to the present as I silently began to pray. Whether the prayer was for a perfect leap from the horse and riders or for my own safety from the man standing beside me with the gun, I couldn’t discern. Still, I wanted desperately to return again to my vision, but at that particular moment my mind chose the present over the past.

I could hear the screams erupting from my own lips, as I feared that indeed my life was over—thick red liquid slowly oozed down my neck!

CHAPTER 1

Nine Weeks Earlier

(Monday - September 24)

M Y FIRST MEMORY was waking up in a crisp white room in the private hospital with the sun flowing through the window and the last smells of summer in the air. Confused and afraid, I recognized none of the individuals hovering above me. Since the floods of strangers coming in and out of my small room were all dressed in white uniforms, I easily surmised that they had to be the nurses and doctors seeing to my care.

Although the hospital staff was pleasant enough and as helpful as they could be under the circumstances, I felt totally alone and abandoned. When one’s mind is washed in total darkness, fear lingers in each and every corner. Shouldn’t one feel nothing if one’s mind contains no information? But one thing that I did sense was that something was horribly wrong!

The general medical term for my loss of memory was amnesia. This medical condition refers to the large-scale loss of memories that more than likely should not have been forgotten. There are two causes for such a malady—organic or psychological. Organic causes may be due to brain damage through injury, the use of drugs or Alzheimer’s disease. As for the other cause, psychological factors often use amnesia as a defense mechanism.

Dr. Albertson was open about which malady caused my loss of memory. Since there was no major sign of brain damage from the riding mishap, he was sure that it was emotional—caused by my desire to forget something very tragic and emotionally disturbing.

My full diagnosis was hysterical amnesia. Apparently as I discovered, it is a rare phenomenon. A person not only forgets their past, but sometimes their very identity. One could even look in a mirror and not recognize their reflection. Well, that was certainly a description of me!

Whenever I wanted to discuss my brain being scrambled, the doctor glossed over it always avoiding getting, as he often repeated—too deep in the weeds! His evasiveness didn’t bother me that much at first, but it was his final warning that I might find it hard to imagine a future without a past, which caught me off guard. The fact that constructed future scenarios are generally closely linked to recollections of past experiences haunted me—my question was—if I had no past experiences how could I have a future scenario?

Since Dr. Albertson believed that my loss of memory was triggered by a tragic event which I was unable to cope with, he wanted to give me time to remember on my own without being told by a third party all about my past. He assured me that in most cases, like mine, the memory either slowly or suddenly returned within time.

For the time being, he told me to be satisfied with at least having my identity back—my name! That at least sounded logical if not satisfying. I had been told that my name was Katelynn Collins and I had been in the employment of a Mrs. Raymond P. Lawrence of Oak Ridge for the last three years.

The fact that I had been in a coma for months after a riding accident sounded somewhat reasonable, even though I had no memory of ever riding a horse, much less being thrown by one. I looked healthy enough, except for the slight gauntness of my cheeks. I had definitely lost weight—possibly too much. But then again, I couldn’t remember what I looked like before the accident.

A few days after I regained consciousness I began to dream—none of which I could ever recall. But the Doctor told me that was not unusual after everything I had gone through. Although deep down that explanation did not appease me, it wasn’t hard to accept the fact since I had not been able to recall one thing about my previous life—not even my own name. Why should I remember some dream. Being a blank slate was difficult to accept, but what choice did a single woman all alone have?

The one thing that totally confused me was that I couldn’t find one smidgen of a sign of damage to my face or head even though I had been told that I had cracked my skull. Surely if that was true then there should have been remnants of where some stiches had been—but there were no signs. Not even a little scar to confirm that I had any type of surgery. The question, which haunted me more than the fact that my mind was empty, was that if the accident had been so horrific that I slipped into a coma for three months, then where was the proof—even a minor scar or lump?

Everyone that I came into contact with was more than happy to answer all of my questions, but nothing they said rang any bell. I questioned each of the nurses and attendants by changing up my inquiries—hoping to trip them up. But everyone had the answers down perfectly as though reciting the same story!

Even when they referred to me by name—I felt nothing! In fact, it only bewildered me more! Surely something should have registered—especially one would think one’s name would! Still, with every question asked and answered, ten more appeared on the horizon to be solved.

Also, the idea that I had remained in a coma even after recovering from all of my physical wounds even now seemed somewhat inconsistent with reason or logic. The story I got was piece meal, and I had to put each piece into some chronological order. Some of the parts didn’t fit—probably because no one actually knew all the answers.

Even the fact that Mrs. Lawrence, my so-called benefactor, was footing my bills, she made no attempt to visit. Each time I mentioned her or asked a question, I got the same answers. The woman was absolutely frantic about my recovery but was advised to keep her distance until I was able to deal with everything. It didn’t seem that logical to me since I wanted more and more information.

Yet, what reason would she have for avoiding me? For some reason, the name Lawrence was familiar or was it only the fact that it had been repeated so many times by so many people? I had no way of telling because I couldn’t remember.

Although most everyone at the hospital was eager to help, no one really gave the impression of truly knowing anything about me. It was as if I was an unwritten book with blank pages waiting to be written on!

I had to rely mainly on what Dr. Albertson was willing to tell me. He had painted a brief picture of my accident carefully not giving away too much. He was quick to indicate that I should try hard to fill in the spaces hoping that in time the meat of the story would unfold.

His version was rather short and sweet: a horse had thrown me causing trauma to my brain and putting me in a coma. When I didn’t wake from the coma, I was placed in a private facility—Meadow View Nursing Home. It was an expensive private hospital and my benefactor was someone I couldn’t recall knowing. The fact that she was footing the bill out of the goodness of her heart seemed odd.

That was the rub—why did Mrs. Lawrence feel any particular responsibility for me? I could understand it if I was a relative, but the Doctor was honest about that. The woman and I were not related by blood!

There had to be an explanation why this Mrs. Lawrence had taken such an interest in me. After all, the woman was paying out good money and no one at the hospital got upset or complained about the fact that I was over staying my welcome. I surmised that as long as I remained, the hospital had a good stream of income that they were not that anxious to lose anytime soon.

I was absolutely sure that the cost of this facility was more expensive than the doctor let on. The furnishings were extravagant, and the food was as good as one could get at the most expensive restaurant. I imagined that it was much like living in a fancy hotel. So, why was this Mrs. Lawrence willing to pay out so much money on my behalf? I should be grateful, shouldn’t I? How many employers treat their employees so well? But I was still very suspicious!

No one ever gave the impression that I should leave the facility any time soon even though I was now physically recovered. How many times did Dr. Albertson remind me that not remembering was just an inconvenience for a short period of time? Isn’t that what a shrink is suppose to instill in a patient?

When I finally took a good look at the man. I noted that he was rather average looking—the type of individual one wouldn’t take notice of in a crowd. He was a tall, thin man with greying hair and a small mustache above his upper lip. Although he was a soft-spoken man, I got the impression that there was something within him that he kept bottled up!

I had to admit that for a shrink he was most patient and understanding about my anxiety of what laid outside of the comfort of Meadow View walls. He was a good listener and only offered advice when necessary. There were times I would get very exasperated with the man—times when he seemed to refuse to answer an inquiry or two.

At first when I begged to be given the newspapers to read, he insisted that all newspapers and radios be banned from my room saying it would not be beneficial to my recovery at the moment. At the same time, he explained that I had all the time in the world to catch up news wise and come to terms with everything. I did not understand what the big deal was about not letting me catch up on the current events of the day—things that might aid in my regaining my memory.

Although I tried to understand his position, I was desperate to know what was happening in the world especially locally. Deep down I knew that it could only be an aid to me. I was constantly questioning the staff about what was going on in the outside world even though they were under orders to resist answering me.

Finally, Dr. Albertson gave in and had a number of past newspapers delivered to my room. With great determination, he still firmly persisted in me to take things slowly—no radio until I was at ease with the world situation.

I avidly read every newspaper that the nurses were allowed to bring in from cover to cover. I was enthusiatically hoping that something would cause my memory to grasp on to an event, which might cause my past to return to the future.

It was a shock to learn that only twenty-two days before on September 3rd that Britain and France, in response to Hitler’s invasion of their ally Poland, had declared that a state of war existed between them and Germany. All the different newspapers carried similar monotonous tones: Britain At War With Germany.

Hoping to glean something more tangible in prompting my memory, I proceeded to choose one of the newspapers and began to read: In a momentous speech in the House of Commons today, the Prime Minister declared that this country was now at war with Germany. The Premier’s voice trembled as he said, Everything that I have worked for, everything that I have hoped for, everything that I believed in during my public life has crashed into ruins this morning.

When I had finished the article, I moved to another newspaper in the stack, hungry for more information. The headlines were rather frightening: British Liner Athenia Torpedoed, Sunk; 1,400 Passengers Aboard, 292 Americans; All Except A Few Are Reported Saved.

In a manner of speaking, the world recoiled over the despicable and cowardly act of attacking and sinking an unarmed passenger ship without warning. The fact that 112 passengers lost their lives and 28 were Americans was bad enough, but to learn that our President was unmoved by the tragedy stating emphatically that the United States would remain neutral seemed scandalous. What had happened to—attack an American and you are declaring war on America?

I couldn’t put any of the newspapers or articles down. Although all of it was horrific, none of it sent a glimmer of recognition to my brain. I remained as before, in total darkness! No matter how much information on the situation of world affairs I tried filling my brain with, I gained nothing.

The fact that I couldn’t stay at the hospital forever was becoming more and more apparent. I had to agree that taking advantage of my employer’s benevolence wasn’t fair. The fact that Mrs. Lawrence was sparing no expense regarding my recovery bothered me—especially now since I was awake, seemingly in perfect health, and quite capable of taking care of myself. The only problem was that I had discovered that perfect health to Dr. Albertson had nothing to really do with the body—only the mind!

For almost a month, I had been in the care of the good doctor. Every day at the same time, we had our little talks—sometimes in his office, sometimes in the sitting room, and sometimes in the outdoor garden. Finally, he had to admit that I was as ready as I would ever be to leave the safety and comfort of Meadow View. He had done as much as possible—healthwise. Now, it would be up to me and weekly visits with him to continue to help with my mental problems.

Everything pointed to the fact that there was nothing wrong with me—except for my loss of memory. We were both in agreement that what I needed was more external stimuli. And being at home would certainly enhance that prospect! As for his final diagnosis, he concluded that I needed to return to the home I had occupied for three years—in order that I might begin remembering.

So, as fate would have it, I was released into the custody of Mrs. Raymond P. Lawrence, who immediately sent her chauffeur to fetch me. The only reason I didn’t put up any opposition was the fact that I was anxious to find out if being at Oak Ridge would help with lifting the veil from my memory.

CHAPTER 2

Mobile, Alabama

(Friday 10:00 AM: October 20)

T HE SECOND BIG memory, which was to be added to my recent new ones, was sitting in the backseat of a big black brand new 1939 Cadillac Sedan being driven to heaven knows where by an evil-looking little man with a pasted scowl on his pock-marked face. The first thing I had noticed about him was his beady little eyes set much too close together along with the single eyebrow marching above them.

I had been very reluctant to leave Meadow View with this strange little man especially since I had no recollection of ever seeing him before. But the good doctor assured me that I would be quite safe with Tony, Mrs. Lawrence’s chauffeur. Dr. Albertson also guaranteed me that he would pay weekly visits to Oak Ridge to check up on my progression and just talk.

Under the circumstances, I had no choice but to agree to the premade arrangements between the doctor and Mrs. Lawrence. I had no funds or any way of raising any at the moment. In truth, even if I had a bank account, I had no other place to go. My only option was to return to Mrs. Lawrence’s employment—at least, until I could put the puzzle pieces all together.

As I sat there watching the trees, dressed in their colorful leaves, pass-by the windows, I couldn’t help but feel lost and a bit perplexed. There was no conversation pouring forth from the little man huddled behind the wheel in the front seat of the vehicle. For that I was thankful! Besides if the good doctor hadn’t explained that Oak Ridge was about a four-hour drive from Meadow View, I should have begun to fret over being driven across the empty countryside by such a weird individual.

Although I was suddenly quite tired and would have liked to put my head back and doze, I was terrified that I would end up somewhere unable to find my way back to civilization. Yes, I told myself that I needed to be aware of where I was at all times—particularly now that I was out in the world with no memories to help me. Anyway, I couldn’t exactly leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find my way back!

By the time the chauffeur turned the sedan onto a long driveway, I had put together my own plan of action. Determined to survive somehow, I would definitely use the fact that Mrs. Lawrence felt responsible to my own advantage. The idea of knowing how to type, take dictation, or even keep records seemed foreign to me. It was true that I had no memory of such a position, but even that meant nothing. If I couldn’t recall anything about my previous life why would I think I could relate to office work?

I couldn’t help but feel like a lamb going to slaughter as I noticed the drive following the waterway up toward a large yellow mansion sitting high on a bluff. Was that to be my salvation or my jail? The questions never seemed to subside!

It was obvious that the white fences had recently been painted and the pastures were preparing themselves for the onset of winter. There were no animals or humans milling around the grounds. In fact, the emptiness actually seemed quite normal.

I had to admit the house itself made a rather beautiful and imposing picture. One that seemed a bit familiar but still did nothing to arouse a memory! Yet it sat there majestic and all golden in the bright afternoon sun.

As I made my way across the porch, two young girls dressed in black uniforms stepped through the doorway to welcome me. Neither looked the least bit familiar, but they did look friendly.

The little blond girl curtsied and said in a rather soft voice, Welcome home, Miss. She scanned the porch for some type of luggage.

I didn’t know what else to say other than thank you.

No, suitcase, Miss? the little blond asked.

I believe the chauffeur put it in the trunk of the auto, I said absentmindedly, as I walked into the huge entry hall.

Glancing around, I was disappointed that I recognized nothing. But why should I have thought that I would suddenly be able to identify everything the moment I saw it? I had built up my hopes much too much!

The other young girl had also given a little curtsy, but she had remained quiet until there was a slight pause in the conversation. She said in a light French accent, "Madame is waiting in the study, Mademoiselle."

Biting my bottom lip, I wasn’t sure that I was ready to face the woman on whom my existence at the moment depended. I also hated the fact that I was going to have to ask for directions to the study. Nothing so far that I had seen jogged my memory one-way or the other. Although the place felt a bit comfortable, not one thing looked that familiar.

Wouldn’t I, at least, I thought to myself, recognize something if I had been living in this house for three years?

Clearing my throat, I uttered a bit indistinctly, I must apologize, but I am still missing pieces of my memory, and I’m afraid I’m rather confused about where things are located.

Oh, the little brunette replied as if she had no idea what I was talking about. She looked a bit frightened and unsure of what to do.

I still haven’t regained my memory since the accident, I added quickly, trying my best to calm the girl. I’m also sorry that I do not remember your names.

The little blond jumped in and quipped, Oh, Miss, you certainly wouldn’t remember us. Henny and I have just been employed here only a short time. You were already in the hospital when we both arrived. She paused then added sweetly, My name’s Bertie. I’m the upstairs maid, and Henny is the downstairs maid.

Bertie, I sighed, rolling the name around and pointing at the little blond, and then pointing at the brunette, I stated, Henny, wasn’t it?

"Oui, the young girl replied with another little curtsy indicating the hallway with a wave of her hand. This way s’il vous plaît.

Henny doesn’t talk much. She’s French, you know, but she is a good girl. If you will just follow her, she’ll take you to Mrs. Lawrence. I will see to it that your bags are placed in your rooms.

I hate to be a bother, but I don’t know where that would be either.

Bertie giggled, Of course you don’t. I guess it will take you time to remember everything. Madam said you’ve suffered a bit of a loss of memory. Your rooms are at the top of the stairs—second door to the right. Mrs. Lawrence went to a great deal of trouble to have them redecorated for you.

That last statement gave me pause. Why would the woman change my rooms? Shouldn’t she have left them as I remembered them last? I might have recognized something once I was living in them.

I smiled and thanked the girl once again. Then I turned to follow the little French girl down the long hallway toward the study.

T he first thing upon entering the room, I couldn’t help but notice an elderly woman seated behind the huge mahogany desk. Dressed in pale green with a lace bodice, the dress adorned her broad shoulders showing just the right amount of her neckline for a woman of her age. But it was the perfectly coiffured pure white hair that immediately caught my attention—crowning her head like a halo.

Although she seemed dwarfed by the size of the desk, there was something strong and dominating about her presence. The woman undeniably radiated a kind of strength and grandeur. There was no doubt about her position as mistress of this household.

I was a bit disappointed that I did not recognize her. I had so much wanted to walk into the room, see Mrs. Lawrence, and have my memories flood back.

Looking up and over her tiny wire rimmed glasses, the woman smiled and said in an unexpectedly husky voice, Why, Kate, you look absolutely wonderful!

Kate? Why didn’t it seem to fit? I had no reason to believe it wasn’t my name, and it did almost sound correct. Still, if I had lived in this house for three years with this woman seated before me—why didn’t that name sound more familiar?

Of course Dr. Albertson had referred to me as Lynn, but he had mentioned that Mrs. Lawrence had a tendency to refer to me as Kate. And although I had reluctantly accepted Katelynn as my given name, I felt no connection to it or either nickname.

Wouldn’t I recognize my own name? Wouldn’t one think that they would recall at least one’s own name, or was it a fact that I just flatly couldn’t remember a single thing?

The woman’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I know you must be awfully happy to be back home where you belong. Any chance you have recognized anything?

I just shook my head and glanced around the room as she added, I’m sure that just being where you are wanted and loved can help in taking a great deal of stress and worry from such small shoulders.

I tried to return the woman’s smile, but I couldn’t—something didn’t seem right. One of us did not belong here at Oak Ridge, but which one?

I tried to politely respond to her. I wish I could say as much, but to be quite frank, my mind is still a complete blank. Nothing I have seen conjures up any memories or even loose thoughts!

Pushing herself up from the chair, Mrs. Lawrence seemed to suddenly begin to magically increase in size. The size of the desk had strangely masked her height and weight. She reached for the cane leaning against the desk. Before the woman could wrap her hand around the handle, I noted the intricate design of the golden eagle head. Although it wasn’t feminine looking and didn’t really look like a cane a woman would choose, it didn’t look that masculine either.

Just the sight caused me to shudder as a chill raced up my spine! Certainly there was no reason I should have such a feeling for such an inanimate object. I made a mental note to possibly get a closer look at it some time in the future.

The woman moved quickly for someone her age, easily demonstrating that she didn’t need the aid of the cane. So, why use it? Was it for decoration or protection? That was the moment that I realized that her appearance denied her true age, and she was much younger than she portrayed—most likely closer to fifty than to sixty. Why would a woman purposefully create such an elderly persona?

Towering over me, she put an arm around my shoulders, whispering softly, I know how difficult it must be for you, my dear child, not only having the last three years of your life stolen from you, but also all those years of growing up in Autaugaville, Alabama.

What an odd thing for the woman to say. Why did she put all her emphasis on the name of a town that I had no recollection of? Not that I did not believe that I came from such a place, but I thought it was a bit strange to bring it up upon our first meeting.

Yes, I must admit it is—I mean—it has been difficult accepting much of what I have been told especially without an indepth explanation. Who I am and what has happened to me is something that I’ve had to accept on face value. To tell the truth, I can’t even balance my looks with my age.

I can assure you that you are all of twenty-one years old. Didn’t the Doctor tell you that? Surely, he willingly showed you your birth certificate.

Dr. Albertson was very good at answering all my questions—but he never offered any kind of proof about anything he told me. Strange that I look and feel so much older.