Black (Part 4)

Davis pulled into the drive-way of the home of his former lover. He had to convince her that she wasn't safe and that someone wanted him to kill her. Davis never cared before who hired him, but with this new revelation about the identity of his target, he found himself needing to know.

Davis exited his vehicle and walked to the front door. He looked inside the window and saw a woman curled up on the couch. A light lit up the end of the couch with her head, but nothing else was on. The light, combined with the fading sun, illuminated a playpen in the middle of the room. A small boy, about two, sat in it and was playing with several toys. Davis, for the first time that he could remember, knocked on a door. He took a deep breath as the woman rose from the couch, wiped her eyes, and walked to the door. She opened the door, and her eyes grew wide in surprise, then dark with anger. The red tint around them from her tears grew darker as the tears began to fall again. She began cursing in Spanish at Davis, but he just stood patiently while she got it out of her system. She changed from Spanish to English and said, "Just who do you think you are, Jack Greyson! You disappear for two years, with no word, then just show back up one day and don't even say anything to me! What is going on!?"

Davis waited to see if she would say anything else. When she just glared at him in silence, he spoke. "Hello, Francesca," he said calmly. He was about to speak again, but her confused look made him change course. "What is wrong? Isn't that your name?"

"Not for a few years, now. Not since you brought me up from Panama five years ago." Now it was Davis' turn to be surprised. His look must have betrayed his thoughts because she asked, "Do you not remember that? Do you not remember the three years we lived together in this house? Do you not remember the day when you came home and I told you that I was pregnant? Do you not remember leaving two weeks later and never coming back until now?"

Davis' eyes went wide. He didn't remember any of that. He remembered the mission into Panama five years ago, and he remembers coming back alone. He could remember every mission he had in the time since then, but he remembered nothing of this life with Francesca. "No," Davis finally said. "I don't remember any of it. I don't even remember using the name Jackson. The name I know is Davis. That is my name. Davis Simmons." Davis' emotions began to get the best of him. Something that hadn't happened to him since the day he left the man to die in Panama. He went in and sat on the sofa in a daze. He couldn't get his head clear.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Francesca asked. "Come. I will show you." Francesca led Davis to a small office at the base of the stairs. Inside was something that made Davis' skin crawl. Covering the walls were neat sketches like the anomaly on his apartment wall. His eyes scanned the pictures hastily, pausing only long enough to notice vague details. Soon, though, he found one that he had seen before. It was exactly like the one on his wall. Where his was neat, this one was messier, in Davis' own drawing style. The weird thing was, it was the exact same sketch, dated 2008. Davis paid more attention to it this time. Davis examined the sketch, found the title where he would normally put it, which read Escape. The picture was of a man who was stuck behind a wall of bars and was struggling to break free. Davis staggered out of the room. He and Jackson were the same person. That was a certainty. The evidence was overwhelming, and he knew it to be true in the pit of his stomach. The question, now, was why couldn't he remember the three years he had spent with Francesca?