Janet was more than a beautiful woman and a good model. She was white
heat and surging womanhood all dolled up in a body like that of a French
movie star. She was as wanton as a Polynesian dancer and as demanding as
a nympho. Lying there beside her relaxed nakedness, Nick Danson felt
like another man - a tired one.
He laid his hand over the swelling rise of her breast and slid it down
the flat velvet of her stomach. She made a small sound in her throat and
kissed him on the cheek with lips like branding irons.
"I'm glad you have amnesia," she cooed against his ear.
"Why, for God's sake?"
She snuggled the curling warmth of her body against him and chuckled.
"Because of this. You used to kiss me, but that was all. I wanted more,
but not you."
He blinked at the ceiling at her words. She'd tricked him! It was a nice
trick, but still she'd cheated. All the time he'd figured that she was
some sort of mistress, or something - obviously that's what _she_ had
wanted, but in his other life he'd never given her a tumble. It was
funny, in a way.
"You mean ... we never..."
"Nope." She chuckled again. "Aren't I a rat?"
"Vixen, is more like it."
"That's a good word. I like it. Janet Vixen. How would you like to kiss
Janet Vixen, Nick Danson?"
"Suppose I get another knock on the head," he suggested, "and I lose the
memory of all this, too? Then what?"
"I won't embarrass you in front of company. C'mon, kiss me again,
stranger!"
He rolled over and kissed her again and, tired or not, he could feel the
desire surging through him again. Her small hands moved over the muscles
of his shoulders, digging into his flesh, her teeth nibbling at his
neck. Janet was one of those odd women who can't seem to take a darned
thing serious. No matter what the risks were involved, to her making
wild love was a hell of a lot of fun and that was that. He had the hunch
that if he tried to get serious with her - marriage serious - she'd
bounce him fast. But hell, it was impossible to think of things like
that with her, besides he was having too much fun. If, he thought later,
you can call it fun when you're so weak you can't move.
"I have to go, lover," she said finally. "Beth might come up, and I
think she would be apt to get a little put out if she caught us in bed."
"That's putting it mildly," he grinned. "Besides, I have to start trying
to find out about myself."
"Do me a favor and don't." She pecked him lightly on the lips. "I like
the new Nick Danson a hell of a lot better. C'mon. Snap my bra."
They climbed out of bed and he helped her into her shorts and halter.
She kissed him lightly again, said; "Good-by, lover," and bounced out
into the hall, leaving him standing there, naked in the bedroom.
What a world, he thought for the hundredth time and began to gather his
clothes. When he started to put his pants on, his wallet dropped from
the hip pocket and flopped open on the floor. He picked it up, his eyes
absently noticing the card that was exposed in the clear, plastic
window. It was a Selective Service Registration Certificate and someone
had written "small scar on right forearm" under the column for general
markings. Absently he glanced at his right forearm, then his eyes
widened in shock.
There was no scar!
A man cannot lose a scar, he told himself. He checked the card again. It
was his, made out to Nicholas Howard Danson; but the scar was missing.
He searched his arm and it wasn't there. The full realization of the
whole thing struck him suddenly like a punch in the mouth. He was _not_
Nicholas Howard Danson!
Who was he? What the hell was going on? Had he killed the real Danson
because they were obviously look alikes, and stolen the guy's I.D. Why?
Was he escaping from some kind of crime? Was he a criminal, and what did
the strange dreams have to do with it?
Numbly he climbed into the rest of his clothes and made damned sure the
.44 magnum was loaded when he strapped it on. His hands shook
uncontrollably and he felt trapped. It would only be a matter of time
before those people at the wreck figured out the whole story and came
howling after him. He had to get out.
The screech of car brakes startled him and he leaped to the window. A
police car was in the lane and a single, plainclothes cop was getting
out. It could only be Nolan. He watched as Brice pulled his Police
Positive from the speed rig and headed toward the house. Then Nick
hauled out his magnum and slammed it into the window.
Brice dived behind a bush as the magnum threw a .44 slug that barely
missed the cop. The .38 barked back and Nick ducked the splinters as the
bullet chipped the window frame.
"Come out, you fool," Brice roared.
"You go to hell," Nick yelled and fired again. "Who tipped you off,
Nolan? Beth?"
"You left Danson's watch where your flying saucer cracked up!" Brice
snapped another shot at the window.
Flying saucer? Nick blinked. What the hell was that stupid cop talking
about?
"What'd you do with Nick," Brice roared.
Nick let the magnum answer for him, not trusting his voice. In the few
seconds that followed Nick, in his nervous excitement, emptied the
revolver at Brice, but never even grazed him. He cursed and began
thumbing cartridges into the Ruger. He was almost finished, when Nolan
caught onto the maneuver and decided to come in closer. He stood up and
began sprinting toward the house. Nick had just yanked the hammer of the
gun back to fire as Brice came into the open but he never made it.
Suddenly, in the middle of the yard, Detective Lieutenant Nolan Brice
disappeared into thin air! Nick heard him yell for help, but he could
see nothing. The yelling kept going straight up into the air until it
grew faint in the distance.
Nick stared dumbfoundedly at the area where the cop had suddenly faded
out of sight. What the hell was going on in this screwy place? Then he
heard the shout below him and he twisted to stare at the borders of the
small creek. It was the two men from Andy Hocum's gas station - the
blond giant and the sandy haired guy. Panicky, Nick snapped off a shot
and the blond dived for cover.
"The dumb bastard is shooting," the blond yelled to his companion
several yards away. "Let's get the hell out of here, before he hits
something!"
He got a brief glimpse of them as they took off through the brush and
snapped a shot at them to hurry them along, just as Beth's car rocked up
the rutty road and braked beside the police car. She leaped out yelling
for him and he went down the stairs to meet her, the gun still in his
hand.
Her face was drained of color as she came into the house, the red of her
lips looking even more red against the pale wash of her face. "Nick!
Where's Nolan?"
"I..."
"Oh, my God, Nick! Have you killed him?"
"I couldn't hit him," Nick told her. "I emptied the magnum at him and he
disappeared into the air." His eyes had a wild look in them, "Right into
the air," he added inanely. Everything was so balled up. Everything was
crazy. He wasn't Nick Danson ... he didn't know his name ... Brice
vanished into thin air ... the two guys were dogging his tracks ...
women came out of the woodwork to make love to him. What the hell else
could possibly happen?
Beth was staring at him. "You killed him," she breathed.
"No, no! He vanished. He vanished ... honest to God, I never even came
close to hitting him. I might as well have thrown rocks."
"Men do not disappear into thin air," she said.
"Listen, forget that for a minute. How'd he know I was here?"
She sank wearily onto a chair and looked at him. "He found the watch I
gave you a few years ago. It was lying at the crash site. He came to the
office where I work and asked about you. I denied that I knew you were
back and he began to yell at me about my life being in danger and that I
should stay away from you until he had a chance to put a bullet into
you. My God, Nick! What have you done?"
"I dunno," he lied. Should he tell her that he was not her husband, that
he didn't have the foggiest notion of who he was? He decided against it.
"How'd he know where to find me?"