Free C Is for Corpse by Sue Grafton Page A

who." He paused, shaking his head with puzzlement.
    "You don't remember why it was important?"
    "No. I remember feeling anxious about it, thinking I better not have it in my possession because it was dangerous to me, so I passed it on. At the time – and I remember this part clearly – I figured I could retrieve it later." He shrugged, snorting derisively. "So much for that."
    "Was this before the accident or afterwards?"
    "Don't know. I just remember giving it to someone."
    "Wouldn't it be dangerous to whoever you gave it to?"
    "I don't think so. God." He slid down on his spine so he could rest his head on the back of the seat. He peered through the windshield, following the line of gray hills up to the left where the pass cuts through at the crest. "I hate this feeling. I hate knowing I once knew something and having no access to it. It's just an image with nothing attached to it. There aren't any memory cues so I have no way to place it in time. It's like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle with a whole hunk knocked off on the floor."
    "But how does it work when you forget like that? Is there any retrieving the information or is it just gone?"
    "Oh, sometimes it'll come back, but usually it's blank... like a hole in the bottom of a box. Whatever used to be there has spilled out along the way."
    "What made you think of it in the first place?"
    "I don't know. I was looking through a desk drawer and came across the red leather memo pad that was part of the same set. Suddenly, I got this flash." He fell silent. I glanced over at him and realized how tense he was. He was massaging his bad hand, milking the fingers as if they were long rubber teats.
    "Kitty didn't know anything about it?"
    He shook his head.
    "How's she doing?"
    "She's up and around. I guess Derek's going over to see her later on... ." He paused. We were reaching the crest of the hill and a muscle near his left eye had started to jump.
    "Are you going to be all right with this?" I asked.
    He was staring intently at the side of the road. "Just up here. Slow down and pull over if you can."
    I checked my rearview mirror. There were three cars behind me, but the road was narrowing from three lanes to two. I eased over to the right and found a gravel shoulder where I could park. The bridge, with its low concrete guardrails, was about ten yards ahead. Bobby sat there, staring to his right.
    Where the road descends from the summit, the whole valley opens out, hills sweeping back as far as the eye can see to a range of lavender mountains pasted against the rim of the sky. The August heat shimmered in silence. The land seemed vast and primitive, looking as it must have looked for thousands of years. In the distance, live oaks dotted the landscape, as snaggy and dark and hunched as buffalo.
    There'd been no rain for months and the vista seemed chalky and pale, the color washed out.
    Closer to us, the roadside dropped away into the treacherous canyon that had nearly marked Bobby's death nine months ago. A length of metal railing had been replaced, but where the bridge began, there was still a chunk of concrete missing.
    "The other car started ramming us from behind just as we came over the rim of the hill," he said. I thought he meant to continue, so I waited.
    He walked forward a few feet, gravel crunching under his shoes. He was clearly uneasy as he peered down the rocky slope. I looked back over my shoulder at the few cars passing. No one paid the slightest attention to us.
    I studied the scene, picking out one of the scarred boulders I'd seen in the photograph, and farther down, the raw, jagged stump where a scrub oak had been snapped off at the base. I knew the Santa Teresa police had swept the area clean of debris from the accident, so there was no need to whip out a magnifying glass or creep around picking fibers from the underbrush.
    Bobby turned to me. "Have you ever been close to death?"
    "Yes."
    "I remember thinking, This is it. I'm gone.' I disconnected, I felt like a