CHAPTER ONE
He awakened to flame and smoke and it was as though he had been bornagain. About him lay thick, summer cloaked forests and heavy carpets oflaurel and brush. Obviously, it was some sort of plane that was burningnearby and he had probably been in it. In his mind, he remembered onlythe blinding flash of white light, then a sea of darkness that hadenveloped him. Whether he had been thrown clear of the wreck, or whetherhe had crawled, he didn't know. But the torn flying suit he woreconvinced him that he had once been airborne in that battered craft.
The heavy, canvas-like material of the flying suit had protected theblue serge business suit underneath, so that besides a ripped pocket itwas presentable. He grinned wryly in the pre-dawn darkness. Presentableto whom? The squirrels? He peeled off the flying suit and added it tothe flaming wreckage, then staggered off through the night toward thevalley below. There was usually, he recalled, water in ravines.
He used small saplings for handholds while his head thumped andthundered wildly. Probing fingers found a lump beneath blood matted hairthat was sensitive to the touch. There was a scratch on his cheek,sealed with dried blood, and his hands were skinned as though he hadbroken a fall in cinders with them. It was, he decided, amazing that hehad survived a plane crash with so little injury; but then, strangerthings had happened.
There was a run at the bottom of the hill, one of those leaf choked,meandering little creeks that become stagnant pools in July and August,and raging torrents of brown water in the spring. Lying on a sloping,flat rock he thrust his face into the stream and drank deeply, feelingthe life flow from the water into the weariness of his body. He washedhis face in it, splashing it over his head until his mind began tofunction with familiar clarity.
But he still did not know who he was...
When he tried to search backward into the past, he could see only thewhite flash and the darkness. It was frightening. It was as thoughsomeone had taken a pair of scissors and cut away the whole memory ofhis past life. He fumbled through his pockets, found the wallet and thecigarette lighter and began flipping through the cards with the help ofthe tiny lighter flame.
An identification card labeled him Nicholas Howard Danson and statedthat he lived at 2312 Weisman Drive, Everett, Pennsylvania. There wasalso a draft, social security and drivers license card. The others weremembership certificates to various clubs and organizations. Finallythere were several pictures of himself and a woman; in fact, there werea great many pictures of the woman. One was a portrait of her,inscribed, "love, Beth", which told him that she was either a girlfriendor his wife.
Nick extinguished the light and put the wallet away. In his shirt pockethe found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He shook one out, lit it anddragged the smoke down deep into his lungs while he pondered over hisnewly discovered self.
Of course the proper thing to do would be to get to a phone, call thelocal authorities and explain the crash. The law would help him get homeand check him out. That was the proper thing - but he wasn't about todo the proper thing. He was a stranger to himself. Who was he? What washe? He could well be outside the law, a criminal... Then what? Turnyourself in, Danson, he grimaced, and discover that you are wanted bythe law for something? To hell with that. Get to this Beth woman and getsome answers to a few questions before you bring in the law.
Apparently no one had seen the crash. No one knew he was here. Perhapsit would be better to leave it like that until he had a chance to findout just what he was up against.
He decided not to contact anyone. When it was light enough he would lookfor a ride to somewhere. At a gas station he could find out where he wasand where Everett, Pennsylvania was. Then, by thumbing, he could get aride to where he lived. If this Beth woman was his wife, she could fillhim in. There was plenty of time to call the law.
Sleep, when he tried it, refused to come. There were too many unansweredquestions rocketing around in his brain. Well, he had to find a road,sooner or later, so it might as well be now. Perhaps the more distancehe put between himself and the wreck, the better it would be for him. Hetook a final drink of water from the creek and stood up, his sore,battered muscles protesting violently. Then he began to stumble throughthe adumbral forests to find a road.
It was getting light when he found the highway. It was small and narrow,bedded with pebbly asphalt with a faded white line down the middle thattold him it was not a first class road. It stretched ahead of him,dwindling among the thick hemlock forests and dwarfed by the steep,wooded hills. He grinned, wondering vaguely which direction he shouldtravel to get to Everett. Finally he pulled a quarter from his pocketand flipped it into the air. He caught it deftly. Heads, I go to theright; tails, I go to the left. Heads won and he started off toward theright, the stiffness and the weariness dragging at him like a weighttied to his legs.
While he walked he studied the pictures in his wallet, noting happilythat it also contained twenty dollars in bills. That was comforting.
In the daylight, the picture of Beth that had looked pretty in the flameof the lighter, became beautiful. Although it was a black and whitephoto, Nick decided that her hair was brown. It swept about a soft,heart shaped face like a cloud. The image was smiling at him and he feltthat if she was not his wife, he hoped that she was his girl.
It was late in the morning when he found the service station. It was asmall, lonely, isolated place that sported two pumps and cramped lookinglube rack. Through the open door of the washroom, Nick could see theshoes and coverall legs of the attendant as they stuck out from under aFord. Nick found a dime in his pocket and treated himself to a colddrink, while he tried to figure out where he was.
Across the highway a marker told him that he was on Route 87. He pulleda Pennsylvania map - not entirely sure he was in Pennsylvania - from therack inside the door and, unfolding it, found Everett. The route 87 ranthrough the town, but it was difficult to puzzle out whether he wasnorth or south of the place. He refolded the map and stuffed it into hispocket for further reference, and glanced around. On the far side of theoffice was a door marked "MEN", that was just what he wanted. Hisclothes, his hair and his face needed a few emergency repairs before hecould confront the population of Everett.
He went in.
In a mirror, with most of the backing peeling away, he discovered thatNick Danson was rather good looking, if you overlooked the damage. Hisblocky, rugged face was smeared with dirt and dried blood, with a slightstubble shadowing his lean cheeks. The mop of tangled black hair had alot of red splotches in it from the blood he'd lost. He filled the bowlwith tepid water and began soaping his face and hands vigorously, eventhough it hurt. After washing most of the blood from his hair, he founda comb in a pocket and whipped some order into the matted, dark mass.
The attendant was standing at the counter when Nick came out of therestroom. He was an elderly man with receding grey hair, a hawk nose andgrizzled features set firmly into a face that looked like a dried apple.He grinned and the gold cap on an eye tooth flashed dully.
"Thought I heard someone in here," he said around the chew that pouchedhis cheek. "Car break down on ye?"
"I'm walking," Nick told him.
"Yer a long way from any kind 'o town, son ... say," he said suddenlynoticing the scratch marks. "Y' been fightin' a bobcat?"
Nick shook his head and fished for a lie. "Got drunk last night and intoa brawl. My friends pitched me out of the car in a moment ofplayfulness." He hoped he had put enough bitterness into the explanationto make it ring true.
The old man chuckled softly. "Durned shame, son. Y'from around here?"
"New York," Nick lied. "I'm stayin' in Everett."
"Everett," the old man cackled. "Hell, that's fifteen miles southo'here, or better." He paused, swiveled his bird-like head and spat ajet of brown juice through the open door. "Tell y'what, son, seein's howyou'll have t'walk it down there. Ain't no one goin' that way, I knowof. S'pose y'could thumb it, but it'd be hard. Lonely road, y'see. Ify'don't mind waitin' till after supper, I'll run y'd
own to town. Dropy'off where y'want to go."
"Hadn't thought of waiting so long," Nick told him. "What would I do?Just sit here?"
"Hell no! In th' back room there's a cot. Been sleepin' there myselfsometimes, since m'wife passed along back in '53. December of '53 itwas. I'll wake ye, come supper."
"Thanks."
With the hunger gnawing at his stomach, Nick took a cellophane wrappedpie from the counter and began eating it. He handed the old man aquarter.
"S'funny," the old man said, ringing up the sale, "ye don't smell like adrunk. Ought t'be some likker smell to y'son."
"I was drinking vodka," Nick countered, wondering how he had pulled thatfrom a mind that could not remember his past. He took another bite ofthe pie as the old man gave him his change.
"Bad stuff, vodka. That's th' slop them Russian hassocks drink, ain'tit?"
"I think so."
"Well, it ain't for Andy Hocum. Them hassocks can have it."
Nick was saved from further conversation by a new station wagon pullinginto the pumps. A young woman, dressed in a suit, cut the engine andhonked the horn briefly. Andy waved and headed for the door.
"Get some shut eye, son. I'll wake y' later."
"Thanks, Andy."
He finished the last of the pie and watched Andy stick a hose into thewagon's gas tank, then go around front to wipe off the windshield.
Nick cleared the pie wrapper off the small counter and tossed it into abox as he headed for the backroom. After closing the door, he fell ontothe bed and a moment later into the well of sleep.