He glanced up. He knew I'd been staring, but he didn't object.
"You're lucky to be alive," I said.
"I'll tell you the worst of it. Big hunks of my brain are gone, you know?" The drag in his speech was back, as though the very subject affected his voice. "I was in a coma for two weeks, and when I came out, I didn't know what the fuck was going on. I still don't. But I can remember how I used to be and that's what hurts. I was smart, Kinsey. I knew a lot. I could concentrate and I used to have ideas. My mind would make these magic little leaps. You know what I mean?"
I nodded. I knew about minds making magic little leaps.
He went on. "Now I got gaps and spaces. Holes. I've lost big pieces of my past. They don't exist anymore." He paused to dab impatiently at his chin, then shot a bitter glance at the handkerchief. "Jesus, bad enough that I drool. If I'd always been like this, I wouldn't know the difference and it wouldn't bug me so much. I'd assume everybody had a brain that felt like mine. But I was quick once. I know that. I was an A student, on my way to medical school. Now all I do is work out. I'm just trying to regain enough coordination so I can go to the fuckin' toilet by myself. When I'm not in the gym, I see this shrink named Kleinert and try to come to terms with the rest of it."
There were sudden tears in his eyes and he paused, fighting for control. He took a deep breath and shook his head abruptly. When he spoke again, his voice was full of self-loathing.
"So. That's how I spent my summer vacation. How about you?"
"You're convinced it was a murder attempt? Why couldn't it have been some prankster or a drunk?"
He thought for a moment. "I knew the car. At least I think I did. Obviously, I don't anymore, but it seems like… at the time, I recognized the vehicle."
"But not the driver?"
He shook his head. "Couldn't tell you now. Maybe I knew then, maybe not."
"Male? Female?" I asked.
"Nuh-un. That's gone, too."
"How do you know Rick wasn't meant to be the victim instead of you?"
He pushed his plate away and signaled for coffee. He was struggling. "I knew something. Something had happened and I figured it out. I remember that much. I can even remember knowing I was in trouble. I was scared. I just don't remember why."
"What about Rick? Was he part of it?"
"I don't think it had anything to do with him. I couldn't swear to it, but I'm almost positive."
"What about your destination that night? Does that tie in somehow?"
Bobby glanced up. The waitress was standing at his elbow with a coffeepot. He waited until she'd poured coffee for both of us. She departed and he smiled uneasily. "I don't know who my enemies are, you know? I don't know if people around me know this 'thing' I've forgotten about. I don't want anyone to overhear what I say… just in case. I know I'm paranoid, but I can't help it."
His gaze followed the waitress as she moved back toward the kitchen. She put the coffeepot back on the unit and picked up an order at the window, glancing back at him. She was young and she seemed to know we were talking about her. Bobby dabbed at his chin again as an afterthought. "We were on our way up to Stage Coach Tavern. There's usually a bluegrass band up there and Rick and I wanted to hear them." He shrugged. "There might have been more to it, but I don't think so."
"What was going on in your life at that point?" "I'd just graduated from UC Santa Teresa. I had this part-time job at St. Terry's, waiting to hear if I was accepted for med school."
Santa Teresa Hospital had been called St. Terry's ever since I could remember. "Wasn't it late in the year for that? I thought med-school candidates applied during the winter and got replies back by spring."
"Well, actually I had applied and didn't get in, so I was trying again."
"What kind of work were you doing at St. Terry's?" "I was a 'floater,' really. I did all kinds of things. For a while, I worked Admissions, typing up papers before patients came in. I'd call and get preliminary data, insurance coverage, stuff like that. Then for a while, I worked in Medical Records filing charts until I got bored. Last job I had was clerk-typist in Pathology. Worked for Dr. Fraker He was neat. He let me do lab tests sometimes. You know, just simple stuff"
"It doesn't sound like hazardous work," I said. "What about the university? Could the jeopardy you were in be traced back to the school somehow? Faculty? Studies?
Some kind of extracurricular activity you'd been involved in?"
He was shaking his head, apparently drawing a blank. "I don't see how. I'd been out since June. Accident was November."
"But your feeling is that you were the only one who knew this piece of information, whatever it was."
His gaze traveled around the cafe and then came back to me. "I guess, Me and whoever tried to kill me to shut me up."
I sat and stared at him for a while, trying to get a fix on the situation. I stirred what was probably raw milk into my coffee. Health-food enthusiasts like eating microbes and things like that. "Do you have any sense at all of how long you'd known this thing? Because I'm wondering… if it was potentially so dangerous… why you didn't spill the beans right away."
He was looking at me with interest. "Like what? To the cops or something like that?"
"Sure. If you stumbled across a theft of some kind, or you found out someone was a Russian spy…" I was rattling off possibilities as they occurred to me. "Or you uncovered a plot to assassinate the President…"
"Why wouldn't 1 have picked up the first telephone I came to and called for help?" "Right."
He was quiet. "Maybe I did that. Maybe… shit, Kinsey, I don't know. You don't know how frustrated I get. Early on, those first two, three months in the hospital, all I could think about was the pain. It took everything I had to stay alive. I didn't think about the accident at all. But little by little, as I got better, I started going back to it, trying to remember what happened. Especially when they told me Rick was dead. I didn't find out about that for weeks. I guess they were worried I'd blame myself and it would slow my recovery. I did feel sick about it once I heard. What if I was drunk and just ran us off the road? I had to find out what went on or I knew I'd go crazy on top of everything else. Anyway, that's when I began to piece together this other stuff."
"Maybe the rest of it will come back to you if you've remembered this much."
"But that's just it," he said. "What if it does come back? I figure the only thing keeping me alive right now is the fact that I can't remember any more of it."
His voice had risen and he paused, gaze flicking off to one side. His anxiety was infectious and I felt myself glancing around as he had, wanting to keep my voice low so our conversation couldn't be overheard.
"Have you actually been threatened since this whole thing came up?" I asked. "No. Un-un."
"No anonymous letters or strange phone calls?" He was shaking his head. "But I am in danger. I know I am. I've been feeling this way for weeks. I need help." "Have you tried the cops?"
"Sure, I've tried. As far as they're concerned, it was an accident. They have no evidence a crime was committed. Well, hit-and-run. They know somebody rear-ended me and forced me off the bridge, but premeditated murder? Come on. And even if they believed me, they don't have manpower to assign. I'm just an ordinary citizen. I'm not entitled to police protection twenty-four hours a day." "Maybe you should hire a bodyguard-" "Screw that! It's/you I want."
"Bobby, I'm not saying I won't help you. Of course I will. I'm just talking about your options. It sounds like you need more than me."
He leaned forward, his manner intense. "Just get to the bottom of this. Tell me what's going on. I want to know why somebody's after me and I want them stopped. Then I won't need the cops or a bodyguard or anything else." He clamped his mouth shut, agitated. He rocked back.