Discoveries

As Nick was leaving the hospital, he received two calls on his cell phone, one right after the other. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he told Deputy Holloway, “but first I have to stop in at police headquarters and see what Chief Carter wants.”

Nick was ushered into Chief Ben Carter’s office by one of his detectives, the same one Nick had met at the site of the stolen getaway car used in the bank robbery. Chief Carter was not alone, though.

“Come in, Sheriff Scarpelli. I’d like you to meet these nice young folks. This is Bethany Rostenkowski and her boyfriend Levi Greene.” To Nick, they looked like poster children for the granola industry. True to his name, Levi was dressed in denim shorts, extra thick socks, hiking boots, and a plaid cotton shirt with cut-off sleeves. His ruffled, light brown hair fell across his forehead, barely missing his eyebrows. An Aussie hat rested on his lap. Bethany wore grey jogging shorts over a pair of black leotards. A light-weight red hoodie barely concealed her black jogging bra. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a braided ponytail. A smattering of freckles adorned her petite nose, and dimples highlighted her cheeks when she smiled, which she did almost incessantly.

“What’s this all about?” asked Nick after pleasantries had been exchanged and everyone had been seated.

“Well,” said Ben Carter, “These folks live just off of Horse Creek Road,” and they say they saw the men who dumped the getaway car.” Nick wondered what that had to do with him, but out of respect for the police chief, he sat and listened politely.

“Last Thursday,” said Levi, “we were driving by that stretch of road when we saw three men get out of a white Camry (Mattie O’Toole was right again, thought Chief Carter) and get into an ‘87 Dodge Charger.”

 “So, how can you be so sure the car was an ‘87 Charger?”

“Oh, Sheriff,” beamed Bethany, rubbing her boyfriend’s bare knee. “Levi here’s an expert on vintage cars. He knows everything about them,” she gushed.

“Did you get a good look at the three men?” asked Nick.

“No,” the couple echoed each other.

“It’s been nearly a week since the robbery,” said Nick. “Why did you wait until now to come forward with this information?”

“We just heard about it this morning,” replied Levi. “When we passed the Charger last Thursday, we were on our way out of town. We went to Billings for the weekend—for an antique auto show—and we just got back last night.”

“They weren’t home when I sent my men out to canvass the area,” confirmed Chief Carter. “With no leads to go on, I sent them out again this morning, and they found Ms. Rostenkowski and Mr. Greene.”

The chief thanked the young couple for coming down to headquarters and instructed his detective to drive them home.

“That was interesting,” Nick conceded, “but what does any of this have to do with me or the sheriff’s office?”

Ben smirked, “Just wait until I tell you who owns an ‘87 Dodge Charger.”

Sheriff Scarpelli mulled over the new revelations all the way down to Ned Beasley’s place, where Deputy Holloway had asked to meet him. As he pulled up the driveway, he spotted Holloway lying on the ground under an old oak tree in front of the foundation where Beasley’s house once stood.

“Holloway, are you all right?” he yelled, running up to the supine body.

“Never better,” grinned the deputy.

“What the hell are you doing, Holloway?” demanded the irritated sheriff.

“Well, Sheriff, I decided to take a page from your notebook.”

“Huh?”

“Remember back at the Travis Ranch how you climbed up into the loft and lay down in the hay? That’s when you found the hasp from Randy Dawkins’ bracelet.”

“Yeah, so—”

“Well, I decided to try a different perspective…see if I couldn’t find something we might have overlooked before.”

“And did you find anything?”

“Yessir, I did. Up in that tree right there,” said the deputy, pointing to the huge oak, “I saw what appeared to be a piece of metal lodged in the branches.”

“Oh?”

“So I climbed up there and shook the limb until that piece fell to the ground.”

When Deputy Holloway handed the small plate to the sheriff, Nick Scarpelli couldn’t believe his eyes. It was the VIN plate from an automobile.

“I ran the number,” Holloway quickly added, anticipating Nick’s next question. “It’s from an ‘87 Dodge Charger, and you’ll never guess who it belonged to.

“Carl Pipkins,” replied the sheriff.

“How the hell did you know?” asked the stunned deputy.

Nick immediately called Ben Carter to inform him of the latest discovery. “Let’s assume for the moment that one of the three men Ms. Rostenkowski and Mr. Greene saw was Carl Pipkins,” said Nick, “since it was most likely his car.”

“And the second man was probably Eddie Culver,” added Ben.

“So who was the third man?” asked Nick.

“And where’s Eddie Culver?” asked the chief.

“And where’s the money?” added Nick.

"It’s called ‘selective amnesia’," said Dr. Galbraith, the chief neurosurgeon at New Orleans’ Baptist Hospital, where Ford was being treated after having been shot in the leg and the head during the robbery of a convenience store.

"Did the bullet do that?" asked Kenny.

"Probably not. It’s more likely psychological than neurological. His subconscious is attempting to block out the trauma of the shooting. Only in his case, Officer Leveque has blocked out all recollection of not only the shooting, but all events of the past week. He may be giving himself a little extra buffer, so to speak, or there may be other memories besides the shooting that he wants to forget."

"So, what do we do, Doc?" asked Jeremy. "Should we try to help him remember?"

"Well, if he’s blocking out something that’s bothering him, it could be counterproductive to remind him. I think it would be best to let him work it out on his own. If he asks about people or events, you can help him fill in the gaps, but be careful not to give him more information than he can handle at any given moment. If he starts to show signs of discomfort, back off."

"He will get his memory back, though, won’t he, Doc?" asked Red.

"There’s really no way to tell, I’m afraid. It’s all up to him."

"The wedding is still on for Monday, isn’t it, Sis?"

"No, Ford, it’s not."

"Oh, no, I hope you didn’t postpone it on my account. I know how important it is for you."

"No, little brother. Don’t you worry about that right now. There’ll be plenty of time to work all of that out when you’re feeling better."

"I just met your fiancée. He seems like a nice guy."

"He is, Ford. He is. Right now, you just concentrate on getting better, OK?"

The next 24 hours were living hell for Jeremy. Everyone told him it would be best for him to stay away from Ford until his memory came back—although Jeremy felt that his presence was precisely what Ford needed to get his memory back. Kenny, who was put on temporary medical leave, spent practically every minute at the hospital even though he was allowed into Ford’s room for very limited periods at a time, and when he wasn’t on duty at the fire station, Kyle spent all of his time looking after Kenny. Red, of course, had his gym to look after, and Brandon was probably in College Station by now. And, of course, Amy now had Paul, which meant that Jeremy was pretty much all alone in the Crescent City.

Then, his cell phone rang.

It was Red, the young man Jeremy had met with Brad...uh, Ford...in the bar that first night. "Red, where the hell have you been?"

"At a management seminar in Dallas. I just heard this morning about what happened."

Jeremy filled Red in on the details, at least what they knew at that point. Red went down to the hospital to visit Ford, and then Kenny suggested that he go look after Jeremy.

"Come down to the club with me tonight, Jeremy. It'll do you good to work out, soak in the hot tub, and maybe get a massage." Jeremy moaned that he was not really in the mood, but Red insisted. Jeremy did work out with the equipment for about 45 minutes. His heart wasn't in it, but he did have to admit that it felt good afterwards, as did the soak in the hot tub.

On his way back to his locker, he passed the dungeon, which he vaguely remembered from his first visit there. He thought he recognized the guy chained to the floor in the corner as the same one he had pissed on before, but it had been dark then as it was now, so he couldn't be sure. In another area, three young men fisted a slightly older man who was suspended in the sling. Sex had been the last thing on Jeremy's mind, but he was a man, and there was no denying the tingling in his groin.

He decided to go into the video room and jerk off to a porn flick. It'll help me relax, he said to himself. Though the Southern Decadence tourists had all left town, the city was filled with young men attending a convention of computer programmers. Yes, they were geeks, but many of them were pretty hot geeks! And the video room was packed with them. They fucked like rabbits all over the place, in couples, in trios, and in gang bangs. As soon as Jeremy sat down, one of them approached him and began sucking his cock. No "hello." No "may I?" He just dived in and swallowed. Jeremy's initial instinct was to wave him off, but it felt too damn good. It was like that old joke: "Don't. Stop. Don't. Stop. Don't stop. Don't stop! DON'T STOP!" Pretty soon the cock sucker was joined by another and then another. Before Jeremy knew it, he was surrounded by men sucking his cock, french kissing him, and licking his body from head to toe.

They lifted him up and laid him on a bench. Two of the men raised up his legs while a third knelt on the floor and rimmed his ass. One continued to suck his dick as others licked him all over. He squirmed with delight at the sensations he felt under his arms and across his nipples. They rotated, each taking his turn at Jeremy's cock, ass, face, and other parts of his body. Yes, this was what he needed—not to be the hunter, but the hunted. He needed to feel alive again. He needed to have every single fuckin' dick in that room shoved up his ass. He needed to feel the power of manhood reinvigorating him. "Oh, fuck me, man. Fuck me hard."

Over the next two hours, Jeremy took more than a dozen loads up his man chute and just as many more down his throat. He shot his own wad no less than three times, and each time, someone lapped it up and fed it back to him. When it was all over, his ass dripped with so much cum that it looked like a waterfall in the Wyoming mountains.

The last thing Jeremy wanted that night was to be alone, so he invited a couple of the guys to come back to Ford's apartment with him, and they accept delightedly. After all, Jeremy was fuckin' gorgeous and a hot piece of ass to boot. They fucked him again when they got to the apartment and, after smoking several joints to help them relax, fell asleep in a tangle of masculine flesh on the bed. In the morning, they fucked him again. He never did get their names. It didn't really matter. He got what he needed.

Later that day, Kenny strolled back to Ford’s room to check on him once again, but Champ stopped him at the door just as the head nurse, Ms. Spencer, was passing by. "He’s getting his sponge bath right now," said Champ.

"Sponge bath?" asked Nurse Spencer. "It’s not time for that. Who’s in there with him?"

"Nurse Hackett."

"Nurse Hackett?” reacted Nurse Spencer with a puzzled look. “We don’t have a Nurse Hackett in this unit."