Memory Traffic

Chapter 1: The Escape

I emerged from the darkness of unconsciousness like a drowning man breaks the surface of the water, only to be dragged down again by the unmoving confines of my body. Sleep paralysis. The moment I identified it, I tried to quelch the panic and began to fight to move my fingers... toes... eyelids... anything that would trigger the release. I don't know how long it took—moments like these seem to last an eternity—but I finally jerked a leg, and then I was free.

I snapped my eyelids open and turned my head toward the light. Low on the horizon, the sun shone into the room through the floor-to-ceiling windows framed by heavy drapes. The silhouetted cityscape stretched out to the west, backlit by the light, but we were high above the noisy city streets below. I breathed a sigh of relief about something I didn't quite understand. Home. But where's home?

I struggled to remember where I was. New York? LA? I studied the signs. Lots of Casinos. Las Vegas.

I pushed myself up to sit on the edge of the bed, dress shoes hitting the carpet with a quiet thud. I felt heavy. Had I just crashed for a nap? I was exhausted. I ran my hands across my face, feeling the stubble there. I needed to shave. How long was I out?

My suit jacket hung on the back of a chair at the table in front of the window. The curtain's edge fluttered as the air conditioner kicked on, sending a rush of sound into the silence. I looked around, taking in the spacious room furnished with a table, desk, dresser, and couch. It wasn't until I looked behind me that I realized I wasn't alone.

I jumped from the bed, hand flying to my ribs as if reaching for a non-existent weapon in a shoulder harness. The man lying on the other side of the bed didn't react. I squinted, studying him. He's dead. I knew it before I walked around the bed to check his pulse.

Fuck. My heart raced like a desert roadrunner scamping across the sand.

He was dressed like me in a dark suit and tie with shiny dress shoes. When I opened his jacket to look for some ID, I spied an empty harness for a handgun. I rolled him over and fished for his wallet, not finding what I was looking for. There was none to be found.

I reached for my back pocket, looking for my own. Mine was gone, too.

I scowled. What the fuck is going on here?

Leaning over, I tugged on a small black duffel bag half hidden under the bed. It was heavy. I unzipped it on the mattress, pulling it open to reveal a mound of bundled twenty and one hundred dollar bills packed around a black leather box. On top were two wallets, and tucked to the side were our missing handguns.

I opened a wallet. It had an ID with the guy's face and the name John White. Even without knowing his real name, I could tell that John White wasn't it. Really? He couldn't come up with a better alias? The only other thing in the wallet was a cash-out ticket from the Caesars Palace casino for just over ten grand. The other wallet had an ID with my picture and the name Michael Williams. It didn't feel right either—what is my name?

I began digging through the bag and, at the bottom, found a sealed manilla envelope. It had no markings, but I knew it was for me. For us. I lifted it out and stared at it in my hand momentarily. Perhaps it contained some answers. Maybe it only had more questions. I rubbed my forehead, a headache looming.

I glanced at the dead guy on the bed. No way his name is John White. I opened the envelope, carefully ripping it across the top, and dumped out a folded sheet of paper and a key. The key was one of those that had a big, brightly colored end with a number for a locker of some sort. On the paper, there was a message in small block print: 6675 Gilespie Street.