Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"John? There's someone to see you. It's the sheriff," Katie said, as John opened his eyes and looked up at her sleepily.

He had been dreaming again—the same dream he sketched in the notepad. But as usual, it had ended abruptly, and without any further detail to add. As he opened his eyes, the image of the man with the covered face remained in his mind's eye, and it was the eyes themselves he remembered—the anger in them, the cruelty…

"The sheriff?" he said, and Katie nodded.

"That's right. He wants to ask you some questions. It might help bring back some of your memories," she said.

Standing behind her was a tall man with an intelligent-looking face, dressed in breeches and a white shirt, with a waistcoat that displayed his sheriff's star. His sleeves were turned up, revealing strong arms, and he had a holster at his belt, the buckle of which displayed a matching star. He was a well-built man, and despite his friendly appearance, John could tell he was not the sort to take trouble from anyone.

"Good morning, Mr. Smith. I'm sorry not to be able to call you by your real name," the sheriff said, holding out his hand to John, who took it and smiled.

"It's all right. I've got to be called something, haven't I? John Smith seems as good as anything, but… well, I just wish I could remember for myself."

The sheriff nodded, pulling up a chair to the bedside and taking out a pocketbook.

"What I need to discover is if any crime's been committed in relation to what happened to you. Now, you were brought here with some significant injuries, but you don't remember how you got them, do you? You don't know if you were robbed or simply had an accident," he said.

John thought for a moment. All he could think of was the dream. But after Doctor Reardon's reaction, he was hesitant to say anything that might make him appear delusional.

"I… well, that's right. I don't know," he said. "But doesn't the fact I had no papers on me, no documents or money, suggest someone took them? I couldn't have gotten here without some form of identification and something to live on."

The sheriff nodded and scribbled something in his pocketbook.

"Yes… I've made enquiries around the town, but it seems as though there's no one expecting a visitor matching your description. One woman—Ella Blair—has a brother due to visit from New York, but he's not expected for another week. Does that name mean anything to you?" he asked.

John shook his head. He had never heard of anyone called Ella Blair, and the name did not immediately rouse any hidden memories.

"I don't think so. But then why was I coming here? I must've had a reason."

"Doctor Reardon showed me your clothes. By the looks of them, I'd say you're from the East," he said. "We don't have tailoring like that out here, and the fact you're not familiar with your surroundings suggests this is your first time here. I think it's likely you've come here to visit someone, and I don't discount the thought you were robbed on the trail."

John was strangely relieved to hear the sheriff say this. Doctor Reardon had been skeptical about the idea, telling John a dream could be very different from the truth, and yet it seemed the sheriff was more open to the possibility, and now John decided to show him the notepad.

"Doctor Reardon told me to draw what I could remember. It might be nothing, but I've been having a recurring dream. There's a man with his face covered. He's holding me up with a pistol. I have to back up against a tree, but… that's when it all becomes blurred. I don't know who the man is, or if it's even real. I've drawn it as best I can," John said.

The sheriff looked interested, holding out his hand to take the notepad.

"May I?" he asked. "This could be significant. I know dreams aren't necessarily reliable witnesses—no judge would convict a man on the evidence of a dream. But the fact you've lost so many of your other memories suggests you're holding onto something important. I'm not a medical man. I'll leave that to Doctor Reardon. But perhaps I might recognize the scene."

He opened the notepad, examining the charcoal picture and nodding.

"Do you recognize the man?" John asked.

It was wishful thinking—a rough charcoal sketch was hardly a photograph—but there was every hope the sheriff might notice something distinctive. But he shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Smith. I don't recognize the scene. Those trees… the tall pines, we don't really get those in these parts. If you look at the woods leading up the pass, the trees are shorter and more squat. Also, there's no snow here," he said.

John hadn't thought of that, and now he tried to recall the details of the dream. Had there been snow there? But the images were blurred. It was all so confused. He furrowed his brow, trying desperately to remember.

"It was cold. I had an overcoat on, and then… I attacked him. That's how the dream ends. He's trying to force me up against the tree, and I spring for him. The pistol goes off… but I haven't been shot, have I?" John said, as much to himself as to the sheriff.

The more he thought about the dream, the more it failed to tally with the facts. The snow on the trail was deep. He remembered it from his journey down the pass on the back of Tara's horse, and if he had been shot, there would have been a very different injury to a broken leg and a gash to the head.

"I think perhaps you've got the dream confused with the truth, Mr. Smith," the sheriff said. "But that's not to say it's not valuable. It means something to you, even if the thoughts are mixed up. I'll carry on making enquiries. If you were coming here, someone must've been expecting you. I asked at the boarding house, but the only reservation was for a man named Kyle Patrick, and he's already arrived."

John furrowed his brow, trying to work out if the name was familiar. "Kyle Patrick" didn't ring any bells, but then neither did anything else. His name could well be John, or Kyle, or Abraham Lincoln.

"Then it seems I'm still a mystery, Sheriff," he replied, shaking his head sadly.

He wanted so desperately to remember, and yet the harder he tried, the less he seemed to know. Everything was confused and mixed up, and he was growing increasingly frustrated with himself over his failure to be certain of even the smallest details.

"But it's mystery to solve, and I intend to solve it. Did you draw anything else in your notepad?" the sheriff asked, and he turned the page to reveal the picture of Tara.

John blushed, and the sheriff raised his eyebrows.

"Nurse Culden?" he said, and John nodded.

"She's the one who found me. I owe her my life. Doctor Reardon asked me to draw the memories I had, and she's about the only memory I can summon," he replied.

The sheriff smiled. "She and my sister Gina are the best of friends. They're thick as thieves, those two. But Tara hasn't had it easy this past year. I just hope she's going to be happy with… Well, I'd better be going, Mr. Smith. I'll continue with my enquiries. I can't promise anything for certain, but I'll do my best for you, I promise," he said, holding out his hand to John, who shook it and thanked him.

When the sheriff had left, John looked again at the picture of Tara. He had drawn several more, too, and all with the same look—the look she had had when first they had encountered one another. In that moment, John had known he would survive.

There had been a confident reassurance in her eyes, and a determination, too, to do all she could to help him. He owed her everything, and as he closed the notepad, he sighed, wondering if he would ever remember the truth about himself, and who he really was.