The Lazarus Trap Read Online Free PDF

get an outside line?”
    There was a click and a dial tone. Val dialed information, then pulled out his driver’s license. He gave the state and city and name in response to the automatic prompts, wishing he did not feel like he lied with every word.
    An operator came on the line. “That listing is for Des Moines?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI have several J. Adamses but no Jeffrey. Do you have a street address?”
    He read off his license, “One eighteen Hawthorne Boulevard.”
    â€œOne moment. I’m sorry. We have no listing for that address.”
    â€œWhat about under a different first name for Adams?”
    â€œSorry. No Adams on Hawthorne.”
    â€œThere has to be. Could you please check again?”
    The operator muted the line. Then, “No Adams on Hawthorne, no Jeffrey Adams at any Des Moines address.”
    He stared at the face on the license.
    â€œCan I help you with another listing? Sir?”
    When he remained silent, the operator hung up.
    Slowly he set down the phone and slipped the license back into his pocket. His head throbbed with the compounded pressure of needing desperately to know, yet being increasingly afraid of the answers.
    He took a blisteringly hot shower, then opened the door, rubbed down the glass, and spent half an hour in front of the bathroom mirror. There was a larger mirror on the wall opposite the bed. But the lightbulb in the hotel room’s only lamp was yellow and weak. When he had been with Dr. Martinez in the clinic, he had absorbed a trace of her weary confidence. Now the tight coil of unease twisted and writhed in his gut.
    Even with the bruises and the smudge stains beneath his eyes, he studied a strikingly handsome face. The lines were strong and clearly drawn, which made the swelling around the cut on his temple even more noticeable. His hair was a dark blond with a hint of a wave. His chin had a slight cleft and his lips were a trace overfull. His irises started as dark green around the outer edges and lightened toward the pupils. But their color was not so important. Nor did his looks hold his attention for long. The hollow void at the center of his gaze dominated everything.
    This stranger’s face stared back at him, blank and wounded. He put a dry bandage over his right temple. Over and over he watched his mouth form the words “Jeffrey Adams.” Try as he might, he could not force himself to claim his own name.
    The bed was soft as a sponge. He lay down and was instantly enveloped in cheap sheets and the odor of someone else’s ashes. He rolled back and forth, trying to find a position where he was not being poked by the springs. Finally he rose and stripped the bed. He folded the bedcover and stretched it out on the floor. On that went the mattress cover, then a sheet. He lay down and covered himself with the second sheet and the blanket. An instant later he rose again, crossed the room, and turned on the bathroom light. He lay back down on his pallet. He fell asleep to the sound of television gunfire from the next room.
    The dream came in stages. Before he saw anything, he smelled the odors. The air was rich with the fragrance of burgers on the grill and overripe oranges. Gradually the world came into focus. He stared up into a deep blue sky. Dappled fruit pulled ancient tree limbs down to where they almost touched a manicured lawn. To his right the sun descended behind the roof of a sprawling ranch-style house. His house. The dusk was intensely vivid, as though each image he examined was cut with crystal blades and set upon a backdrop of endless blue. Even the laughter he heard behind him was etched in perfect clarity. He knew he should have been able to name the people laughing and talking. Especially the woman who was laughing loudest of all.
    The woman stepped into view. She was slender and taut. She wore shorts almost hidden by one of his old short-sleeve shirts starched until it hung on her like pin-striped