David Morrell - Long lost

"I've been catching up on office work."

The man looked puzzled.

"On the Internet," I said, pointing toward my computer on the corner table, which I later realized he couldn't see.

The man looked more puzzled.

"You have my credit-card number," I said. "I'll gladly pay all the phone charges."

"As long as everything's okay."

"Couldn't be better."

"Have a nice night."

He left, and I became aware of throbbing in my head, of cramps in my stomach. Through the crack in the door, I saw a harsh red-and-blue neon sign across the street. The words it flashed were steaks 'n' suds. Two eighteen-wheeler trucks were at the edge of the crowded parking lot. Begrudging the time I'd be wasting but telling myself that I couldn't be any use to Kate and Jason if I didn't maintain my strength, I disconnected from the Internet, locked the room behind me, and walked toward country musi c- ajukebox playing something about a one-man woman and a two-timing man-coming from the restaurant's open windows.

Forty minutes later, the steak sandwich I'd eaten felt heavy in my stomach. I recalled the strict healthy diet that I'd put myself on in preparation for my search. Tomorrow, I'll rededicate myself, I vowed. Tomorrow.

"Here's your coffee to go," the waitress said.

"Thanks."

As I left the restaurant, about to cross the parking lot, a noise made me pause. The jukebox had stopped, but the conversations of the crowd inside were loud enough that I had to strain to listen harder. On my right. Around the side of the restaurant. I heard it again. A groan.

A woman's groan.

"Think you can leave me?" A man's muffled voice came from around the corner. "You're dumber than I always said you were."

I heard a metallic thump, as if someone had fallen against a car. Another groan.

Inside, the jukebox started playing again: something about lonely rooms and empty hearts. The careful Brad I'd once been would have gone back into the restaurant and told the manager to call the police. But how long would it take the police to arrive, and what would happen in the meantime?

Imagining Kate being punched, I unzipped the fanny pack I always wore. Knowing that I could draw the pistol if I needed it, I walked to the restaurant's corner. There were only a few windows on that side. Away from the glare of the neon lights, my eyes needed a moment to adjust before I saw moving shadows between two parked cars: a man striking a woman.

"Stop," I said.

The man spun toward my voice. The minimal light showed a beefy face. A chain on his belt was attached to a big wallet in his back pocket. "This is a private conversation. Stay out of it." He shoved the woman to the asphalt. "You don't want to live with me anymore? Well, either you live with me or you don't live at all."

"I told you to stop."

"Get lost, pal, or when I finish my family business, I'll start on you."

"Get lost? You just said the two words I hate the most."

"You heard me, buddy." The man jerked the woman to her feet and pushed her into a car. When she tried to struggle out, he struck her again.

"But you're not hearing me." Conscious of the pistol in my fanny pack, I stepped closer.

"All right, I gave you a chance to butt out!" The man spun toward me again. "Now it's your turn."

"Must be my lucky night."

He lunged.

The take-out coffee was in my left hand, the liquid so hot that it stung my fingers through the Styrofoam cup. I yanked the lid from the cup and threw the steaming contents at the man's face, aiming for his eyes.

The man shrieked and jerked his hands toward his scalded face.

I drove stiff fingers into his stomach, just below the V of the rib cage, the way I'd been taught.

Sounding as if he might vomit, the man doubled over. I kicked sideways toward a nerve that ran down the outside of his left thigh.

Paralyzed, his leg gave out, toppling him to the pavement, where he shrieked harder from the pain in his leg.

I yanked his hands from his face and drove the heel of my right palm against his nose, once, twice, three times. Cartilage cracked. I stepped back as blood spurted.

He dropped to the pavement and lay motionless. Ready to hit him again, I shoved him onto his side so the blood would drain from his nose. I felt for a pulse, found one, smelled his sour alcohol-saturated breath, and turned to the woman slumped in the car. "Are you all right?"

She moaned. I was appalled by the bruises on her face. "Are you strong enough to drive?" I asked. "I don't…" The woman was off-balance when I helped her from the car. Her lips were swollen. "Yes." She took a deep breath. "I think I can drive. But…" "Do it."

Behind me, the man groaned. "Hurry," I said. "Before he wakes up."

Through blackened eyes, the woman looked around in confusion. Bruises that deep couldn't develop in just a few minutes, I knew. They were the consequence of numerous other beatings.

"Drive?" she asked plaintively. "How? I ran here. I hoped I could borrow money from a girlfriend who works in this place. It turns out she called in sick. He was waiting instead."

Stooping beside the man on the pavement, I satisfied myself that he was still too dazed to realize what was going on. I pulled his car keys from his pants. Then I took his big wallet from his back pocket and removed all the money he had-what looked like a hundred dollars.

"Here," I told the woman. I pulled out my own wallet and gave her most of the cash I had-around two hundred. "I can't accept this," she said.

"My wife would have wanted me to give it to you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Take this. Please. Because of my wife."

The woman looked at me strangely, as if trying to decipher a riddle. "I have a sister in Baltimore," she said as I gave her the man's car keys.

"No, it's the first place he'll look," I said. "If you'd robbed a bank, would you hide at your sister's? Too obvious. You have to pretend that you're running from the police."

"But I haven't done anything wrong!"

"Keep telling yourself that. You haven't done anything wrong. But that son of a bitch over there certainly has. You have to keep reminding yourself that your only goal in life is to stay away from him." In Denver, when life had been normal, I'd been proud of the volunteer work Kate had done as a stress counselor at a shelter for battered women. I knew the drill. "Pick a city where you've never been. Pittsburgh." I chose it at random. "Have you ever been to-"

"No."

"Then go to Pittsburgh. It's only a couple of hundred miles from here. Leave the car at a bus station, and go to Pittsburgh. Look in the phone book under 'Community Services.' Look for the number of the women's shelter."

I trembled in my motel room, amazed by the rage that had overtaken me. For a moment, as the bastard had come at me, I'd almost shot him. The only thing that had stopped me was the realization that the shot would have sent people scurrying from the restaurant. Someone might have seen me. The police would have come after me. How could I have looked for Kate and Jason if I were in jail?

For reasons important to my family and me, my E-mail said, I'm looking for information about a young man who might have come to your church in the late summer or in the fall nineteen years ago. I realize that it's hard to remember that far bach, but I think that the circumstances would have been unusual enough that someone in your congregation would recall him. The boy would have been in his mid-teens. He would have collapsed against the front door of your church early before Sunday services, so that the first person to arrive would have found him there. He would have been wearing torn clothes and would have had scrapes and scratches, suggesting that he'd been in an accident of some sort. He wouldn't have been able to recall his name or what had happened to him or how he had come to be at your church. Members of the congregation would have taken care of him - in particular, women- because something about his eyes invites mothering. He would have been able to quote the Bible from memory but otherwise would have been unable to read or write. Someone, probably a woman, would have tried to teach him. Ultimately, he would have stolen from the people who helped him, perhaps have beaten them also, and have fled town. It may be that near the end he "remembered" that his name was Lester Dant. If you have any knowledge of someone like this, please send me an E-mail at the above address. I very much need to learn everything I can about this person. A year ago, he kidnapped my wife and son.