L ater that afternoon, Savannah and I took one of the rental cars and drove the short distance to Fort Myers Beach. It had grown up a little over the years; newer businesses here and there and a lot more homes, but it was still basically the same.

“I’ve been here a couple of times,” Savannah said, looking around. “Flo and I anchored in Matanzas Pass for a week once. Quiet area.”

“Yeah, it is,” I said, turning into the parking lot of the treatment center. “I’ve probably been to the beach here a thousand times as a kid.”

I checked my watch. It was 1525. We were five minutes early.

When we walked in, a pretty receptionist greeted us. I recognized her voice.

“Hi, Audrey,” I said. “I’m Jesse McDermitt, and this is my wife, Savannah.”

She smiled warmly. “I thought you said you were seeking treatment for a friend.”

“Not me,” Savannah said. “Someone else.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Hold on just a sec and let me buzz the doctors. They’re in the conference room now, going over the case load.”

She made a call and announced that we were there, then hung up the phone, and came out from behind the counter.

“Follow me, please,” she said, then went down a hallway.

Audrey ushered us into a room, where two men and a woman were seated at a conference table. One of the men rose and extended a hand.

“I’m Dr. Porter,” he said. “And these are my associates, Doctors Wilson and Lopez.”

I introduced Savannah and we shook hands all around. Then I took a small roll of bills from my pocket and placed it on the table.

“This is just for agreeing to see us on short notice,” I said. “My wife and I would like to make you a proposition.”

Dr. Porter ignored the wad of cash. “Audrey said you have a friend who needs treatment.”

“More than one, I’m afraid.”

“How many?” Dr. Wilson asked.

I’d told Savannah and Chyrel our plans while DJ had taken Alberto for a walk around the docks to show him the boats.

“We don’t know for sure,” Savannah said. “Maybe quite a few.”

“You don’t know how many friends?” Dr. Wilson asked.

“Can we sit down?” I asked.

“Yes, of course,” Porter said.

He was a few years older than the other two, slightly built, with dark hair starting to go gray around his ears.

Once seated, I laid out what we were planning to do, including giving each woman we brought in $5000 and a chance at a new life somewhere else if they completed the treatment program. The doctors listened attentively.

“In short,” I said, “we need your help to curtail the prostitution problem in Fort Myers.”

“Quite an endeavor,” Porter said, tenting his fingers under his chin.

“And very philanthropic,” Wilson added. “But what makes you think you can do this? And where will the money for treatment come from?”

“My husband can do anything he sets his mind to,” Savannah said. “And our organization is made up of some very wealthy people.”

Dr. Lopez had sat quietly through the whole discussion, taking in everything. She was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, with dark hair, brown eyes, and light brown skin.

“We’ll do it,” Lopez said, her voice firm.

Porter turned to her. “But we don’t have—”

“Then we’ll get it,” she said, cutting him off. “This center was created to help exactly the type of people the McDermitts are talking about. If I could bring them in myself, I would. So, if the McDermitts can do what they say, we will treat these girls.”

The two men were silent. I’d assumed Porter was the head of the organization.

Dr. Lopez turned to Savannah. “My sister, Ariana, was one of those streetwalkers,” she said. “She died of a heroin overdose ten years ago.”

Savannah offered her a sad smile, reached across the table, and put her hand on the other woman’s. “I also lost my sister to drugs,” she said.

“Ariana died just before I completed my bachelor’s in psychology. It was because of her that I went on to med school. I never wanted to be a psychologist. I planned to use my degree in the marketing world. After residency, I worked and saved and eventually created this facility. We are at your disposal and if we run out of room, we can put these women into other facilities.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Savannah said.

“My friends call me Cat,” she said. “It’s short for Catalina.” She picked up the roll of hundred-dollar bills and extended it to me. “This isn’t necessary.”

“A deal’s a deal, Cat,” I said, making no effort to accept the money.

“Very well,” she said, with a smile. “We will consider it a deposit on the first case. When should we expect the patient?”

“Tonight,” I said. “Probably late. And with any luck at all, more than just one.”

Cat rose from the table. “I will be here all night.”

With the meeting over, Savannah and I left.

“I thought the older guy was the boss,” I said, once we got into the rental car.

Savannah smiled as she buckled her seatbelt. “I knew it was her all along, just by the way she didn’t talk much.”

“Much? She didn’t say a word until she agreed to help.”

As I drove across Matanzas Pass Bridge, I asked, “Are you sure you’re okay with me doing this tonight?”

“What?”

“Picking up prostitutes.”

She turned in her seat, facing me. “What you and your friends plan to do is a noble thing, Jesse. If you can help get just one girl out of that situation, it will all be worth it.”

We drove across San Carlos Island in silence, passing Doc Ford’s Rum Bar, and onto the mainland. When we arrived back at the marina, the others were sitting around the expansive bridge deck on Sea Biscuit .

“What’s going on?” I asked, following Savannah up the ladder.

Tony was sitting opposite Alberto at the small table. There was a checkerboard game between them.

“We’re losing our shirts to this kid,” DJ said.

Tony reluctantly moved one of only two remaining black checkers and Alberto made a double jump, picking them both up.

He looked up at Tony and grinned, extending his hand. “One dollar.”

Tony stood and pulled a dollar bill out of his wallet and handed it to the boy. “How can you have amnesia and know how to play checkers?”

Alberto shrugged. “I dunno.”

“You’re teaching him to gamble?” Savannah asked.

DJ took Tony’s seat. “It was the kid’s idea,” he said. “And it’s hardly gambling, when he wins every game.”

“How’d it go?” Paul asked, watching DJ and Alberto rearrange the checkers.

I moved over closer to him and spoke in a low voice. “We have a place to take the girls.” I nodded toward the kid. “What do you make of this?”

“The checkers?” Paul asked.

I nodded.

“There are many kinds of memory loss,” Paul said. “What Alberto is experiencing is likely dissociative amnesia, brought on by a traumatic experience. It could be permanent, or he could regain his earlier memories. Whatever happened to him, it’s caused his subconscious mind to block out everything personal about himself. People with this type of amnesia will retain motor skills, language, and usually some learned behavior, like how to play simple games. He’s a remarkably intelligent young man. I’ve been watching him play. He’s always thinking several moves ahead, with alternate moves dependent on what his opponent does. He doesn’t have to wait, but makes his move instantly after his opponent. So, he’s actually thinking several moves ahead in several different scenarios. I wonder if he plays chess?”

“You think he’ll be okay?” I asked.

“Hard to say,” Paul replied. “Some patients recover fully and are then faced with the memories of what happened to them. Others never regain the memory of what caused the disassociation, yet go on to live a normal, productive life.”

“I’m glad you’re here with us,” I said. “Is there anything we can do to help him remember?”

Paul looked up at me. “He’s had a hard life up to now. Chyrel got into the hospital records so I could look at his file. The physician who treated him wrote in his notes that he guessed he might be as old as eight or nine, but a lifetime of malnourishment had stunted his growth.”

Paul paused and looked over at Alberto again. “It’s probably best not to push it. If his memory returns, it returns. If it doesn’t, he may be better off for it.”

“King me,” Alberto said.

The game was progressing swiftly.

“How?” DJ asked. “I don’t have any more of your checkers.”

Alberto took one of the checkers he’d already captured from DJ and put it under his piece on the back row. His hand, in midair, began to shake. He sat back suddenly, clasping his hands together between his knees, and tightly closing his eyes.

DJ quickly moved around the table and sat beside him, pulling him close. “It’s okay, little man. You’re safe here.”

Savannah went to his other side and wrapped her arms around both of them. “DJ’s right,” she whispered. “Nobody can hurt you here.”

“He’s just had a flash of memory,” Paul whispered to me, watching the boy closely. “He’s frightened—terrified.”

DJ Martin was usually a boisterous, fun-loving guy, but being a former Army spec-ops soldier, he could turn instantly dangerous. To see him gently holding Alberto and stroking his hair was so out of character. It was something I’d have expected from his partner, Jerry Snyder, but not DJ.

After a moment, Alberto looked up at him with a pitiful expression and tears in his eyes. He looked down at DJ’s prosthetic, festooned with stickers from bars, dive boats, and military organizations. I could see a bond between them. What it was, I didn’t know.

“Did you remember something?” Savannah asked. Then she looked up at Paul. “It’s okay if he talks about it, right?”

“If he wants to,” Paul said.

The rest of us knelt on the deck around Alberto.

“You can think of me as your grandpa,” Tank said, chucking the boy on the shoulder. “And the rest of us are your aunts and uncles. We’re all family and we take care of each other.”

Alberto looked around at each of us, wiping his eyes. Then they fell on Tony. “You too?”

“Me too, kiddo,” Tony said. “Me, Tank, DJ, Paul, and Jesse are all just like real brothers.”

He looked at Savannah. “I remembered someone,” he said, then pointed to Tony. “Someone like him.”

“Someone black?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I think he was my dad.”