40 Souls to Keep - 1. Chapter 1

October 2005

He took his first breath and choked on the scent of burning leaves.

Visions flashed through his head—a clock, a beating heart, green scales, a toothy smile. He recognized none of them. They merged into a flickering golden sphere, unmistakable even in its abstract imagery—the world on fire.

The flames winked out.

Alone in the dark, he sucked in his second breath. A breeze kissed his skin, chilling him through. In the distance, children laughed. A woman screamed, “Get down from there!” and a man’s deep voice called, “Hotdogs! Fresh hotdogs!”

He had no idea where he was. He had no idea who he was. That terrifying truth had him curling more tightly into a fetal position.

Bits of knowledge bloomed. Stray thoughts. Funny he could remember the way leaves smelled when they were set on fire. How the musk of decay filled the air until woodsy smoke overpowered it. He remembered that in parts of the world where the trees went dormant
in winter, some people burned leaves and some people bagged them. He knew fall was the season after summer, and that winter came next, bringing snow and a filthy coating of gravel on the sidewalks. He recalled that road salt was hell on your car’s paint and rotted the undercarriage if you didn’t clean it regularly.

But he couldn’t remember his name. He had no idea where he was or what day it was. Newborn and helpless, he couldn’t even cry. The tears wouldn’t come.

Open your eyes. Instead, he squeezed them shut. What would happen if nothing looked familiar?

A hard surface cradled him, and the wind reached up and under it, snaking through his clothes, making him shiver. A bench? Hard, narrow, slatted, and cold as hell. So open your eyes and look at it, coward.

No. He couldn’t.

“Hey, mister.”

He flinched at the closeness of the voice and at its innocent loudness.

“You okay, mister?”

Open your eyes and talk to the kid. You are not okay. But the dark felt safe, and some base instinct told him to ignore the voice. Then he could curl up on his bench until he remembered his name and everything else that went with it.

I don’t hide from my problems.

It was the first clue to who he was. The hell if he’d let anyone call him a coward. Even the demons in his own head.

Mindful of the light that wanted to spear through his cornea and into his brain, he cracked one eye open, widening it when the shape in front of him sidestepped to block the blinding sun. As senses went, vision was the real bitch. There was no denying the reality of his situation now. To his best guess, he was in a park, sprawled across a listing wood bench. Overhead, tall oak trees, still stubbornly holding on to their curled brown leaves, failed to block the worst of the late-afternoon sun, which was slanting low over a duck pond thirty yards away. A boy stood in front of him, holding a sandy pail filled with acorns. Brown curls framed his round face and wide green eyes. “Are you okay?” he repeated.

He ignored the question and ducked his head, squinting at himself, then wished he hadn’t. He didn’t recognize the lanky frame curled up on the bench. Or the khaki pants, ripped out on the left knee. Or the green T-shirt and lightweight brown jacket. He commanded the legs to move, to stretch out and dangle over the end of the slats and onto the grass. They obeyed. That settled it, then. This body belonged to him, even if he didn’t remember it.

His calf muscles ached, and his left shoulder throbbed when he tried to sit up. Had he been in a fight? Mugged? A blow to the head could account for the temporary amnesia, wasn’t that right? He had no idea. Which only proved his medical knowledge extended no further than cable TV hospital dramas.

His clothes were rumpled, but not torn or dirty; that did a lot to bury the mugging theory. The confusion circled, never settling, never leaving, spinning alongside the other physical sensations. His dry, scratchy throat. A gnawing in his gut that could be hunger or anxiety. And a headache to end all others, pounding through his temples before zigzagging over the crown of his head and down his neck. Hungover? That idea didn’t sit well, but at least it was some sort of explanation.

He pushed into a sitting position, listing like the bench, and waited for the details to come. The hell if he was going anywhere until they did. His stomach lurched, then settled, but he still ached as if he’d been run over. Possibility number three? He made another cursory check of his clothes and wiggled his fingers and toes. Took a deep breath. No blood and no pain across his chest or ribs. Just a deep all over ache.

The boy took a step back when he sat up, but didn’t flee. He swiped a dirty hand under his nose, snuffling. “Do you need a doctor?”

“Jesus, enough with the questions, kid.” He could speak. Hallelujah. One more mystery solved. Or not. If he hadn’t felt the words spill out, he wouldn’t have known the deep, raspy voice was his. His answer startled the child, and he blinked, backing up one more step.

“I was just asking. You look hurt.” He set the acorns down. “I’m Christian.”

“Christian,” he said, garbling the name. His jaw didn’t want to work. What were people teaching their kids these days that they talked to drunken bums in the park? No, he wasn’t going to accept the “drunk” part unless he got some proof. He scratched at his chin, mentally calculating the days of stubble he found there. Three, maybe? “Christian,” he said again, doing better with the name the second time. “What’s your mom’s rule about talking to strangers?”

“My mom’s dead.”

Said so matter-of-factly, and with so little emotion, there was no accounting for why the words made his heart pound. “Sorry,” he said, dropping his eyes.

“That’s okay,” Christian answered.

Turning his attention from the boy for the moment, he patted down his pockets, first the shallow ones in the front of his pants, then the deeper ones in the sides of his coat. Nothing. No wallet, no papers or receipts...not even a gum wrapper. The panic came knocking again. He shoved it back.

“Did you hit your head?” Christian had taken a seat on the grass by the bench, cross-legged, with the bucket in his lap. Idly, he dug through his acorn collection.

Had he? He lifted a pair of large, unfamiliar hands and sifted them through his hair. It was long and thick, just brushing his shoulders. No contusion that he could feel, and no pain. He shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

Christian sighed, frowning in confusion. “What can I do to help?”

They blinked at each other for several seconds.

“Why would you want to?” he asked, shooting a narrowed gaze at the boy.

“I—I don’t know.” Christian shrugged. “I just want to. I have to.”

A Boy Scout out to save the world. As imprudent as it would be to refuse—because he obviously did need help—he would. He might not know his name, but he knew enough not to engage a strange child in conversation, especially looking less than respectable. Getting arrested wasn’t going to help matters.

He sniffed, catching another whiff of wood fire, and reconsidered. If his head didn’t clear soon, the police might be his only choice. “Where are we?”

“The park.”

Christ. “Yeah, I see it’s a park.” And a nice one too. Beyond the copse of trees where he and Christian sat, the duck pond stretched away into the distance, clear water rippling in the wind. A line of grassy knolls surrounded it, and people dotted the lawn—walking, picnicking and playing. Above the tall oaks he could just make out a line of high-rise buildings. “What city is this?”

Christian laughed, the way people did to animals at the zoo. “Philadelphia.”

He waited for his mind to open, to tell him why he was there. Nothing. His brain dredged up some historical facts, things like the Declaration of Independence and the Liberty Bell, as well as the idea that if this was Philly, Christian was probably used to seeing people like himself crashed out on park benches. Beyond that, his mind was as murky as the bottom of the pond. He ground his teeth. Concentrate. Focus. There has to be a clue somewhere. His gaze fell to his lap, and he gulped a breath. There was a band of lighter skin around the base of his left hand’s ring finger. He lifted it, examining the mark, then ran his finger over the indent, noticing how much softer the skin felt. Filing the information away—missing ring, tanned hands—he smiled at Christian. The boy didn’t yelp or run away, so the result mustn’t have been too gruesome. In fact, Christian smiled back, showing a mouth only half full of teeth.

Adult incisors. Missing canines. A few baby molars, barely visible. About nine years old, his mind supplied...from where, he had no idea. What kind of person knew those things? Maybe he was a dentist or...maybe he had children. He concentrated on that, waiting for a rush of some emotion—a name, or a face—but none came.

Christian watched him, patient, his eyes glowing with the sort of nonjudgmental openness that only kids possessed.

He spoke to fill the silence. “I really am sorry about your mom.”

Christian shrugged. “It was back when I was a baby, so it’s hard to be sad. I live with my gramma.” He turned to point at a figure about twenty yards away, a plump older woman, brown hair streaked through with gray. Her nose was buried in a magazine and her ankles were crossed, tapping some rhythm nobody else could hear. At her feet, a soft-sided cooler sat open, juice box balanced on top. Christian’s toys were scattered at her feet, with a platoon of trucks and army men leading like a trail of breadcrumbs to the sandbox a few yards away.

Way to be vigilant, lady. Had the woman even noticed her grandson had left the sandbox to talk to the crazy man?

“I think...” He licked his lips. “I think you better head back to your gramma now.” He shifted on the bench as he spoke, testing the unfamiliar body. It responded sluggishly. Christian didn’t move, a development he couldn’t say bothered him. He wanted the boy to both go and stay. Going would be best, before he found himself accused of something unsavory. But by his calculation, he’d been awake and cognizant for ten minutes, and he knew no more about himself or his circumstances now than he did when he woke to the smell of smoke. Christian was the one familiar element. Childishly, he ached to keep him close.

Going to the police would be the logical step, but the thought made his subconscious rear up in alarm. His palms grew slick with sweat and his heart took off at a gallop. He had no idea why the police made him uneasy, which trebled the bad feeling building in his chest. Bottom line: he needed help. So why the compulsion not to find it? Was he in some sort of trouble with the law?

Cursing under his breath, he pushed to his feet. He could sit and ask himself questions all day, and it wouldn’t help a thing. Time to act.

By the time he’d steadied himself on the back of the bench and looked up, Christian was gone. Just as well. The park stretched all around him, woods to his back, the pond and open meadows in front. No direction spoke to him more than any other, and even logic wasn’t much of a help. He knew Philadelphia was a large city in eastern Pennsylvania, but that was all. Did he even live here? Who the hell knew?

Somebody would. Somebody, somewhere, had to. He clutched at the idea, that help was close, that his mystery wasn’t as bad as he believed, and started down the graveled path, leaves crunching underfoot, crossing out of the shade and into the sunlight. The warmth was welcome, and each step helped to loosen his bunched and aching muscles.

He’d barely taken a dozen steps when a small hand caught his. “Hey, mister?”

He glanced down at Christian. “I told you to go back to your grandmother.”

Christian bobbed his brown curls. “I did.” He glanced over his shoulder.

Apparently he had. Christian’s gramma was picking her way across the grass toward them, muttering at how the heels of her pumps sank into the soggy lawn. She wore a cabled cardigan buttoned over a flower-print dress and carried a fabric bag over one shoulder. Her smile, when she reached them, stretched her face into a pleasant maze of wrinkles.

“Not so fast, young man,” she said, clucking her tongue.

At first he thought her words were for Christian, until she shook her finger in his direction. Her gesture set his heart racing again, but her warm tone tempered the panic. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say. “I hope Christian isn’t in trouble for talking to me.” Or me, for talking to him.

She shook her head. “Not at all.”

He should be. The kid shouldn’t be chatting up strangers in the park. The woman redeemed herself with her next words. “He knows not to leave the sandbox without telling me. And he also knows not to talk to anybody he doesn’t know,” she said, cutting her gaze to the side.

Dropping his eyes, Christian bit his lip. “But I had to,” he insisted.

“We’ll talk about it later.”

The scolding was mild, but held enough censure that he knew Christian wouldn’t stray again without reason. A tiny thing, among the chaos and confusion, but it helped. Ten minutes and he was already fond of the kid.

Another breath of crisp air swept by, and he shivered, dizzy suddenly. Nausea rolled through his gut. The hangover scenario seemed more likely with each passing minute. But since when did alcohol-induced blackouts extend to the day after? He swallowed heavily, throwing a weak wave behind him as he turned and took the final two steps to the fork in the path.

Which direction? He felt small and alone.

“Mister?” Christian tugged on his sleeve. “I think you should go to a doctor.”

The boy had an idea there. Not that he could just walk into any clinic, with no identification and no money, but an emergency room would be compelled to take him.

And then what?

The same sick fear took over, unnamed, but he was beginning to see a pattern now. Thoughts of seeking help through official channels had the effect of spinning him toward a panic attack.

“No,” he said to Christian. “No doctor.”

He made an effort to pull himself together, but his hands still shook, even if his voice didn’t. He clasped them into fists at his sides, willing the trembling away. Maybe this was withdrawal. Was he a drug addict waking up from a bad trip? That idea scared him more than any other, but after a moment, he discounted it. His clothes had seen better days, but he was clean. His fingernails were trimmed neatly. He paused to push the sleeves of his jacket up to his elbows, dreading what he’d find, but the insides of his forearms were smooth and unmarked. He couldn’t speak for anywhere else on his body, but so far so good. Maybe not drugs, then.

“I’ll be okay,” he assured the boy.

Gramma’s hand landed on his arm. “You don’t look well.” Lips pursed, she inspected him over the rims of her glasses.

Her small act of compassion left him choked up. “I don’t feel well,” he admitted. As understatements went, it won the prize. “And I’m—” What? He was what? Lost and alone, and without a clue to what was happening to him. He cleared his throat. “Will you help me find...?” He couldn’t finish. What if there was nothing to find? No past and no memories.

Gramma took charge. “Come along with us.” She caught Christian’s fingers and pulled him close. “We don’t live far. Just a few blocks from the park. Looks to me like you could use a good meal and some rest. Soup. Chicken noodle will do the trick. And a shower, if you don’t mind me saying.” She led him down the path. “Christian may complain about his bed, but I bet it beats that bench. Don’t worry, dear. Things will look different in the morning. Don’t underestimate what a bit of TLC can do for a body.”

Was she crazy? He waited until Christian had run to fetch his bucket and collect his toys. “You don’t even know me,” he stuttered, voice low. “I could be—”

Again, the possibilities were endless.

“I know what I know,” Gramma said, but her hands fluttered around her neck. “You’re a man who needs looking after, and that’s what old ladies like me do. I can’t quite explain why I know you won’t cause any trouble, but I’ve learned not to question my intuition. You need help, and I need to give it. So no more chitchat. Christian? Ready? Then off we go.”

He frowned but let himself be pulled along. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“Now sometimes,” Gramma replied, curling her gnarled fingers around his arm, “that’s just not true.”

* * *

Brownstones lined the street that led away from the park, tucked together like stepping stones. He didn’t notice the gradual slope until his calves began to ache. Christian and Gramma never slowed, and out of what he could only assume was his forgotten sense of pride, he matched their pace without complaining.

Trees sprang from small squares of earth at regular intervals, arching over the street in a broken canopy of dying leaves. He grabbed at what knowledge came, identifying makes and models of cars, and even the name of the bouncy female singer whose music was blasting from a second floor window, but the personal details remained out of reach.

The frustration choked him. He could sing along with Britney Spears, but he didn’t know what color his eyes were. His steps slowed, and his strength leached away, leaving him to fall behind the other two.

“Now, now. Almost there.” Gramma backtracked to take his arm. “Just two more to go. That’s us, right there. Number 14. See Christian’s bicycle on the stoop?”

He focused on the bike, a bright blue Schwinn padlocked to the metal railing that capped the low brick wall, and wasted none of his flagging energy on answering. A minute later, they were struggling up the steps together, Christian in front, humming under his breath while he fumbled with the key. He jammed it in the lock, swung the door wide, and the smile he threw over his shoulder was brighter than the afternoon sun. “We’re here, mister. You’re going to be okay.”

He gritted his teeth at the placating tone. “Yeah, okay,” he muttered. “If you say so.”

Gramma led him through a narrow foyer into a well worn but immaculate living room. Mismatched, faded oriental rugs covered the floor, one under the round dining table and another under the two facing loveseats. Photographs of Christian covered every surface, but he couldn’t see a speck of dust. The room smelled pleasantly of lemons.

Christian tugged him to a pea-green recliner, and he sank gratefully into the cushion, self-consciously pretending to smooth his rumpled pants. Brow furrowing, he pinched the material between his fingers. No, not rumpled. Wrinkled, complete with a crease across the thigh, as though they’d just come off the hanger. He ran a finger over the fabric.

“You don’t need that in here.” Gramma strode forward from the kitchen. She’d already tied a red gingham apron around her waist. Motioning at his jacket, she said, “I’ll hang it for you.”

How to explain how his heart jumped into his throat? The thought of giving up one of his meager belongings didn’t sit well.

“No worries,” she crooned, helping him slide it off his shoulders. Pinching the collar between her fingers, she shook it out and carried it to the coat rack standing in the small foyer and hung it in plain sight.

“I’m Helen,” she said, weaving through the maze of furniture to join him in a matching armchair, though she perched on the edge while he curled as deeply into his as the cushions allowed.

“And you’ve already met my grandson, I believe.”

He nodded, but she seemed to want more from him, and what she wanted was obvious. Swallowing, he stuttered, “I’m sorry. I just...I just woke up down there in
the park, and I don’t remember...how I got there or—” A shudder rushed through him. “I don’t even remember my name.” At her frown, he added, “I don’t remember anything.”

Verbalizing it made the fear a living thing. It clawed up his throat, and he covered his face with shaking hands. A moment later, a soft throw settled over his shoulders and Helen’s hand stroked through his hair.

The thoughtful comfort brought the tears close, and he had to stab his thumbs against his eyelids to force them back. Helen clucked her tongue. “Don’t try to take it in all at once. You’re going to be fine. We’re going to help you.”

“Why?” Whatever had been stripped from his mind, a healthy dose of cynicism had been left behind. He straightened, dislodging her hand. “Why are you doing this?”

Christian had caught the hysterical edge to his voice. The boy stopped in his tracks halfway across the room, and some of the water in the glass he held slopped over onto the rug. “We have to. We want to. Right, Gramma?”

Helen tapped a finger to her temple, her expression puzzled. “We do.” Then, more forcefully, “We will. Bring that here, Christian.” She wiped the drips against her cardigan before placing it in his shaking hands. “Start with that while I heat up some soup. Nothing is better for a body than homemade chicken soup.”

This was all wrong. But he was too desperate to dwell on why. The water tasted delicious, and he drained the glass in three gulps. “I don’t know what to say.”

Helen chuckled. She tucked a smiling Christian under her arm. “No need to say a word.” She shuffled back into the kitchen, grandson in tow, though Christian watched him, head turned over his shoulder, until the door swung closed behind them. A minute later, he heard a cupboard slam and a pot clang onto the stove.

Unbelievably, he dozed until dinner was ready and set up on an actual TV tray. A tall glass of milk and two pieces of white toast completed the meal, and he didn’t care what memories he may have been missing—it was the best food he’d ever tasted. The soup energized him, but the way Helen and Christian stared while he ate was disquieting.

“Thank you,” he said as he set the bowl aside. His mind was as blank as before, but the numbing despair was gone.

“You’re welcome.” Helen took his bowl. “Now I think you should rest.”

“No.” He tempered his tone when Christian jumped. “No, I don’t need to rest. Thank you. I need—” Why was this so hard? He needed to find out what had happened to him, but he couldn’t break through the fear that gripped him each time he considered it. Something in his subconscious didn’t like the idea.

There was a psychological term for this—how the mind shut bad memories away until the person was equipped to deal with them. Was that what was going on here? Had he been hurt? Had he hurt someone else? The soup churned in his stomach.

Helen caught some of his distress. “I know this is horrible for you.” With nothing more than a tilt of her head, she sent Christian away. The boy pouted but obeyed, slipping down the hall and out of sight. “Now listen here—” Her lips formed a thin line, and her little speech ended before it got off the ground. “I don’t know what to call you.”

He snorted.

“It’s not proper, being without a name, even just temporarily,” she said.

With a shrug, he said, “Just give me one, then. Until I get my own back.”

The silence that followed could have crushed him. His words felt prophetic in the worst way and his stomach flip-flopped, as if he’d just taunted a dangerous animal. He had the feeling fate was laughing at him.

Helen tapped a finger to her lips. Her eyes had fallen to a photograph on the coffee table—a young man in camouflaged fatigues, gun slung over his shoulder. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes. Behind him spread an endless brown, scrubby landscape.

“My son,” she said unprompted. “Killed in Mogadishu the year after Christian was born.” She plucked the silver frame from the table. “He never had a chance to know his father.”

“I’m sorry.” Even more so because of what Christian had already told him. “He lost his mother too.”

Helen nodded. “Car accident, just a few months later.”

Jesus. He shook his head. Christian was lucky to have someone. If he hadn’t, he would have been—The thought snapped like a fishing line, and he gasped, physically overcome with having the knowledge so close, then snatched away.

“Jason,” Helen said, immune to his distress. “His name was Jason.”

She said no more, not that she needed to. He understood what she was suggesting. Named after a dead man, but then wasn’t everyone to some extent? And it was only temporary, although he wasn’t sure how healthy a choice it was for Helen. “Jason,” he said, rolling the name around his mouth.

“Jase. That’s what we called him.”

“It’s a good name.”

Helen smiled. “It suits you.”