Time Thieves Read Free Page B

to be ashamed of, he would not flaunt his shattered memory until it became absolutely necessary.
        
        They took Jagger's Curve slowly, the only way it could be taken if one wished to get all the way around it. When the car was on even road again, Pete drove into a small picnic area and stopped the car. He turned in his seat and looked behind them, through the rear window. Jagger's Curve was silhouetted against a blue sky.
        
        “What's the matter?” Della asked. She followed the direction of his gaze but could not see anything out of the ordinary. “Did you remember something?”
        
        “I don't know.”
        
        On an almost subliminal level, however, he was certain that he had. But consciously, he had nothing more than a vague fear associated with that wide, acute twist in the roadway.
        
        “It's silly,” he said, “but the minute we entered the curve from the other side, I was uptight. I wanted to jam on the brakes and turn, right there in the middle of the bend. Then we were past it and I felt sure I never went any farther than Jagger's Curve that Thursday morning.”
        
        She waited, then said, “Where else could you have gone?”
        
        He turned front arid stared through the windshield at the picnic table and the wire trash receptacle. “I don't know. I wouldn't have made a turn in the middle of a curve like that. So I must have come clear around before I changed destinations-though I definitely don't remember making it this far.”
        
        “Your imagination, then,” she said.
        
        “Perhaps.”
        
        But he did not believe it. He felt as if something rested within him, some gloved hand which clutched any surfacing memories from those twelve days and forced them down again. It was as if someone had gone to great lengths to be certain that he didn't remember.
        
        That was paranoia. He best avoid it, or he would find himself in even more trouble.
        
        He drove on. The remainder of the ride to the cabin was uneventful, though the certainty persisted that he had not come this far on that Thursday morning.
        
        The cabin had three rooms: kitchen, living room and bedroom. It was built of logs on a single floor. The rear corner had been expanded with a bath addition which he intended to cover with half-log artificial siding to match the rest of the place. It was set on a slope above the road, and it looked out on the same breathtaking scenery that had accompanied them since Jagger's Curve. They parked by the front door at the top of the tortuously steep driveway and went inside.
        
        “But you were here!” Della said, delighted at her discovery. “You did some painting!”
        
        The white plaster had been only half covered with beige paint before. Sometime within the last two weeks, the living room had been finished. It was a good job. He had apparently taken his time with it.
        
        “I don't remember doing it.”
        
        He tried, to be analytical and speak clamly, but the panic rose in him again. He felt trapped, abruptly reduced to primitive fears and animal intuitions that threatened to guide his reason. He knew, without any facts, that it was dangerous to be here. He had to fight down the urge to bolt for the car and get off the mountain.
        
        “You'll remember soon enough,” she said. She knew that it was necessary to make him think she believed that, to offer her own certainty as an anchor.
        
        They prowled the cabin, but they found no other sign of what might have transpired to spark his amnesia. The paintbrushes were washed clean and racked with his typical care. The cans of beige paint were firmly tamped shut to keep the contents from drying out.
        
        Why couldn't he remember any of it?
        
        She forced a smile as she saw that his fear was as strong