Distant Memory by Alton L. Gansky

with interest.
    She frowned. “No, but my thinking seems less … fuzzy.”
    “Your memory will come back in time.”
    “I hope you’re right.” The dark sense of doubt surfaced again. Her emotions were a churning pot of depression, fear, and perplexity.
    “I’m sure that I am,” Nick said reassuringly. His voice was smooth, easy, the kind that kindled trust, the kind that was familiar with laughter. She liked the sound of it. “Do you know what kind of car you were driving?”
    “No. Why?”
    “I was wondering if a small memory might trigger a larger one. I mean, if you could remember the kind of car you drove, then other things might fall in place.”
    “I don’t recall my car. I don’t even recall ever having driven. My oldest memory is the motel.”
    “Had I known that was going to be the case, I would have searched for a nicer place. Motels like that are best forgotten.”
    She gazed out the window and studied the cars, hoping that one would seem familiar. Maybe Nick was right; one memory could launch an avalanche of others. She had nothing to lose. She looked at the passing autos, studying each one, visualizing herself behind the wheel. An old Ford van followed a Cadillac, which was followed by a shiny black Mercedes. Pickup trucks, Volkswagens, commercial vehicles, sports cars, luxury autos made up an endless parade, and none looked familiar. “There are so many cars,” Lisa said. “What are the odds that the kind of car I was driving will pass us?”
    “Who knows? I suppose the odds are pretty good. If nothing else, you’re exercising your brain, jogging your memory. It can’t hurt to try.”
    “You didn’t see my car when you picked me up?” she asked, her eyes still following each car she saw.
    “No. Like I said before, I found you walking along the side of the road in a daze. I have no idea where your car is … or was.”
    “Was?”
    “I’m sure the CHP have found it. That’s why I wanted you to go to the police. Technically, you’ve left the scene of an accident. They won’t like that.”
    Dread flowed through her like an icy stream. The mention of the police unnerved her, and she had no idea why. She wondered if she were a criminal. Why else would she feel such apprehension?
    A pearl-colored Lexus sedan rolled by and caught Lisa’s attention. Suddenly her mind was filled with strobelike flashes of memory. Visions of the car’s interior flooded her consciousness: walnut wood trim, leather seats, leather-wrapped steering wheel. Her heart pounded, and she caught her breath.
    “What?” Nick said with concern. “What’s wrong?”
    “The car,” she said pointing. “I know that car … or a car like it.”
    “The Lexus?” Nick said. He whistled in admiration. “SC 300. Nice piece of work. You have good taste. Those things go for more than fifty thousand.”
    Lisa nodded. “Fifty-eight thousand.”
    “You remember the price? What else do you remember?”
    Closing her eyes, Lisa tried to organize the bits of memory that had splashed on her mind like raindrops on a windshield. “Gold,” she said. “My car was gold. Leather seats. Music. I remember music.” Bits and pieces of a tune drifted into her thoughts. “Beethoven. I think it was Beethoven.” Bright lights. Impact. Crunching metal. Spinning, spinning. Blackness. The car was in the air, then on its side, in the air again, rolling, rolling. Pain. Fear. Scorching terror. Silence. Glass everywhere. Fire in her ribs, stabbing in her chest. Powder, fine and gray, filling the front seat. The steering wheel collapsing upon its column, a white airbag hanging flaccidly in her lap.
    “Lisa …”
    She was still alive. The pain meant she was alive, but for how long? Would he come back? Would he make sure that the job was done? Run. Move. Hide.
    “Lisa!”
    It was Nick’s voice, strong, concerned. Lisa snapped her eyes open. It was day, not night. She wasn’t in the desert, sitting in a mutilated car; she was in the