Charlotte Douglas - Storm Season

“Any message for Bill?” She was watching me closely as if aware of the tension I’d been trying to hide.

On days like these, I was almost tempted to give in and get a cell phone, but I have an aversion to technology, especially computers and cell phones. Darcy handled my computer work, which took care of one problem, but carrying a cell phone would create an intrusion into my life that I didn’t want. The only good thing about no longer being a cop was not being electronically connected to the world with a radio and beeper. So far, that disconnect hadn’t been a problem. I could usually find a landline if I needed one, and I checked in with the office often in case of emergencies. But sometimes, like today, I wished for that instant connection with Bill.

“When Bill comes back, give him Kimberly Ross’s phone number. He can reach me there after five o’clock. I’ll be pulling the night shift.”

With a pat for Roger, whose forlorn look nipped at my conscience, I headed out the door.

I FOUND J.D. in the front yard of the Lassiter house, trimming shrubbery. He wasn’t the wild-eyed, aging hippie with long oily hair pulled back in a ponytail, dirty ragged clothes and a body covered with bizarre tattoos that I’d expected. The man, who appeared only a handful of years older than Bill, had the gentle demeanor and clean-scrubbed look of an old-fashioned country doctor or a favorite parish priest.

His gray hair was neatly trimmed in a short, military cut, and his clothes were worn and mended but clean, except for the perspiration that soaked them from his exertion in the humid morning air. His smooth, tanned cheeks were testament to a recent shave and his brown eyes were clear and smiling.

“If you’re looking for Violet and Bessie,” he called when I got out of my car in their driveway, “they’ve gone for their walk.”

I gazed up and down the sidewalk but saw no sign of the elderly sisters.

“On the trail,” J.D. added. “They walk two miles every morning. That must be what keeps them young.”

I crossed the lawn, still wet with dew in the shade. “Actually, I came to see you.”

His friendly smile faded.

“The Lassiters asked me to,” I added quickly. “They’re concerned about you.”

He sighed, hunched one shoulder and wiped his perspiring face on his sleeve. “Are you a social worker?”

“I’m a private investigator. Violet and Bessie want me to find your family.”

J.D. turned his back on me and took a couple of angry whacks at the Turk’s Cap hedge beneath the front windows. “I don’t want to find my family,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Wouldn’t you like to know who you really are?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

J.D. dropped the loppers to his side and pivoted to face me. His eyes were pools of misery and fear. “Because I have dreams. If they’re from my former life, it’s better for everyone if that man stays dead and buried.”

“What kind of dreams?” I asked J.D., thinking his sleeping visions might be a window into his state of mental health.

“Blood. Death. Killing.” He grimaced and shook his head. “I don’t understand the nightmares. I’m not that kind of man. Not now, at least. I can’t stand the thought of hurting anyone. That’s why I want to leave the past behind. Things could be buried there I don’t want to unearth.”

Everyone had nightmares at one time or another. Bad dreams didn’t automatically brand a person as crazy or homicidal, and J.D. appeared calm and caring. But I’d feel a lot better about the Lassiter sisters’ safety if I knew more about J.D.’s past.

“How long have you been like this,” I asked, “without your memories?”

The air was thick with moisture and mosquitoes and no breeze to alleviate, either. My blouse stuck to my skin, and sweat trickled into my eyes. I swatted mosquitoes with one hand and wiped my face with the other. Maybe J.D., who hadn’t responded, thought I’d become uncomfortable enough to leave him alone, but, if so, he underestimated my persistence.

“How far back do you remember?” I said.

“You have no right to pry into my past.” His voice held more frustration than belligerence. “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

“Yes, you do, because I’m concerned about two elderly sisters who have opened their home to a man they know nothing about. I need to be convinced that they’re safe, that you’re no threat to them. Either you deal with me, or I take my concerns to the sheriff’s office. Which will it be?”

“I’d never hurt Violet or Bessie,” he insisted with a stricken expression.

“Are you sure?”

“They’ve been good to me. Why would I hurt them?”

“Do you ever have blackouts? Hear voices?”

He shook his head and regarded me with a kindly smile that reminded me of my late father. “And I don’t drink or do drugs, either. Believe me, Miss—”

“Skerritt. But you can call me Maggie.” I felt drawn to J.D. in spite of my intention to remain objective.

He nodded. “Except for loss of memory and occasional night terrors, I’m as sane as you are. If I thought I was a danger to Violet and Bessie or anyone else, I’d turn myself in.”

“Then what’s the harm in letting me run your prints to find out who you are?”

J.D. sighed. “My memory goes back only as far as July. One morning I awoke and found myself on the Pinellas Trail in Palm Harbor with no money, no identification, a blinding headache and no recollection of anything before that.”

“Why didn’t you go to the authorities?”

“I know it sounds foolish, but I’d had those dreams before I came to, and I was afraid I’d…done something I shouldn’t have.”

He was warming to his topic, so I didn’t interrupt.

“For days, weeks, I scrounged old newspapers, looking for stories about missing persons. Or some horrible crime. If I had family worried about me, wouldn’t they have contacted the press?”

“Maybe. Did you come to the Lassiters then?”

“Not at first. I stayed in homeless shelters in Tarpon Springs and Clearwater, but the people who ran them asked too many questions. Eventually I found an old bike someone had left as garbage on a curb. I fixed the chain and appropriated it for transportation. Between collecting cans and doing odd jobs, I earned enough money to buy food. I shopped in thrift stores for clothes. All I needed was a place to stay. That’s when I discovered the toolshed out back, here. It’s handy for my bike, being next to the Trail, and I worked out an exchange with Violet and Bessie, odd jobs in place of rent.”

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