Forgotten (38 page)

“
No, there
wasn’t,” Ethan said, “not directly with Claudia’s name.”

Reardon
slumped back and swore, felt the old, tag-along hope desert him
faster than a deleted e-mail, like so many times before.

“
I know what
you’re thinking. Bear with me,” Ethan continued. “We assumed that
any other communication must’ve been done before we bugged the
place. So, I went back with refreshed eyes, with the new
information we now have on Claudia.”

“And?”

“
And
….” Ethan brought up an e-mail
dated eleven days before the Claudia/Bellante/Smith
e-mail.

It read:

Smith:
Inform MC
he’ll be required to take on a new person.

Bellante:
Dates?

Smith:
Unsure yet,
but soon. Tell him to be prepared.

Reardon re-read it several times. What was
he not seeing? Was he that bloody exhausted? And then it hit
him.

MC.

Malcolm bloody Cruikshank.

He
ran his hand roughly over his hair, felt it
spike like the prickly hairs on his skin. “Let’s, for a minute,
assume that this MC is the psych Claudia saw after Simon Struthers’
death.”

Ethan
scoffed. “No assumption, necessary. Only a week after the
‘Claudia/or else’ e-mail, Claudia is in Cruikshank’s office for her
first consultation. Too close to be… um… coincidental.”

Ethan
crooked a bent arm over the chair; his side-swept
grin was arrogant, triumphant. “So, I then get
to thinking, why Cruikshank? Why does someone want
him
specifically to take Claudia on? What if it was because
someone just wanted Claudia back in Nankari, you know
to….”

“
Keep an eye
on her.” Reardon’s intuition buzzed with fresh layer of hope. “And
Cruikshank was in charge of the eye-keeping. So, it then begs the
question, who wanted her home
and
under control?”

Numerous
members of Claudia’s family and friends fitted that bill, but no
one more than her father.

We look after our own.

Reardon
suddenly felt way beyond tired. The throbbing sensation in his arm
had intensified; his head felt distended well over capacity. He
needed sleep
, wondered if it would come
easily tonight… prayed it would. “Shit, Ethan, don’t like where
this is going.”

“Me either.”

“Seeing Cruikshank?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Reardon lowered his head. Ethan’s work was
impressive. And he said as much.

“I know,” Ethan said.

“
Making me
look incompetent.” After all, why hadn’t Reardon thought of
cross-referencing new information with past information?

“
Not hard
to; not right now.” Ethan’s normally jesting voice came across as
uncommonly drab and heavy. And for the first time that night,
Reardon openly acknowledged the dark shadows swelling beneath
Ethan’s glassy eyes.

“
We’re all
buggered, mate.” Ethan yanked himself out of his chair, zipped open
his blue canvas duffel bag and returned with a half-empty bottle of
Jim Beam.

Reardon smiled, lazily. Just what he needed
to soothe away the gnawing prickles. He grabbed a couple of glasses
from Annie’s top cupboard, some ice from the freezer and was soon
relishing the smooth, rich amber liquid. A few sips later, he
sensed the tension slowly slip away.

Michael Cruikshank.

Charles Smith.

How did Ethan’s theory fit into his own?
Reardon pulled out his earlier scribble and stared at it. “Got that
clip with the reporter interviewing Macey?”

Ethan set to
work, pulling up the clip. When he did, Reardon said, “Can you hone
in on the spot, where Macey begins searching the
crowds?”

Ethan did,
Reardon grateful that the camera operator had performed a long,
leisurely sweep of the crowd.

“
Slow it
down. And… stop.” Reardon studied it, checked his scribble once
more, and then back at the screen.

Ethan’s eyes darted between the clip and
Reardon. “What are you seeing?”

Reardon felt
that all too familiar instinctual pull and smiled. “Not
what…
who
.”

“
And
who
is?”

“Charles Smith.”

Ethan laughed then stopped midway. “Mate,
think you better slow down on the bourbon.”

Reardon
didn’
t need to slow down. And he was
certain his deadpanned face, still focused on the clip, said
so.

“
You’re
fricking serious, aren’t you?”

Reardon
certainly was. “Watch that section just before the Senator’s whole
demeanor changes.”

Sloane did.

“
See that?”
Reardon was pointing to the man closest to the reporter. He wore a
military-style buzz cut and black sunglasses. “Follow Macey’s line
of sight. Who is he staring at?”

“Buzz-boy.”

“And?”

Ethan
replayed it slowly a third time. “And Buzz-boy is mouthing
something to Macey just before Macey is scared shitless.” Ethan
slammed still. “Hell, if you’re right … then… Charles
Smith….”

A painful
smile scratched Reardon’s face. “Send out an e-mail. We want
anything and everything on Buzz-boy, ASAP. And anything on this
news clip.”

Ethan’s fingers flew across the
keyboard.

Reardon poured two more bourbons. “I know
how we can catch the guy who ordered the hit.”

Ethan stopped, stared.

“You said you have the phone of one of
Basteros’ men.”

Ethan pulled
the phone from the pocket of his light-colored cargoes. “Right here
in my hot little hand.”

Reardon was pleased but quiet.

Ethan was beyond quiet. “Are you going to
fricking tell me what’s brewing in that irritating head of
yours?”

“Absolutely,” Reardon replied, “But first we
have some planning to do.”

December 28, 2010

1:32 pm

SAUL AND
I
were leaving Nankari.

In light of what we now knew, it was for the
best.

I placed a
newly washed plate into the wooden drying rack and continued the
lunch dishes. Nearby, Annie was quietly humming, redressing Saul’s
wound.

Saul sat at the dining table working his
laptop, his expression a visual mish-mash of concentrated eye
squints and frowns. He wore his trademark jeans and a black,
sleeveless muscle shirt, my pitiful head registering more muscle
than shirt. Several neatly stacked piles of paper, two empty coffee
cups and his mobile phone surrounded him.

Saul caught
my eyes. “You okay?”

Of course I
wasn’t. But I nodded at him, smiled a small, weak smile. It didn’t
alleviate his concern however; worry lines still marred that
striking face of his.

Annie’s
loose, wheaten locks fell to one side. “Leave the dishes, Claudia,
just go and….”

“
And what?”
I said. “Rest?” My manner was sharp, biting and I immediately
apologized.

She
dismissed it in her usual Annie-like graciousness and returned to
Saul. I returned to the dishes and desperately clung onto the
lingering smells of freshly baked bread and smoked ham.

“
Whatever
happened, we will find out the truth,” Saul said.

“
I know,” I
answered. But did I really want the truth any longer?

The soothing aromas quickly deserted me. The
chilling memory of two hours earlier returned like a brazen, ill
wind.

I am sitting beside Saul
. “Do you know who wants me dead or why?” My words have a
ridiculously implausible quality to them.

“
Only that it’s not the same person
responsible for the other murders.”

I cross my arms on the table, marvel at its dust-free
surface and grunt. “Well, that would be too easy, wouldn’t
it?”

Saul grins
.
“Today we rest. We’ll leave late
tonight.”

Rest? I have just slept over ten hours.?

“
I have something to show you,” Saul says
in a non-committal way.

“
Hmm,
a good something
or a bad something.”

He shrugs. “Not sure; maybe both.”

I’m
naturally
intrigued. He whips his laptop around to face me. And my breath
grinds to an instant halt. I side-glance Saul. His brows knit into
a tight frown. I lean closer, take in the extraordinary
image.

It is a snapshot of my dream, a shot of the long hallway,
the ugly portrait, the endless spiral staircase and most
importantly, the door, looming as large as I had always visualized
it.

“
I can’t imagine what this must be like
for you,” Saul whispers.

What it’s like? Disturbing, shocking,
wonderful… strangely liberating are just my first thoughts.

“
Wh… who… who?” I say, sounding like an
owl with anxiety issues.

And then Saul tells me.

About Araneya Estate.

Its name conjures up faraway visions of a beautifully
quaint cottage, of tall, floral archways and stone cobbled
walkways. Of a small, pretty woman with a large, welcoming
grin.

Of vast, stately rooms and old, elaborate
furnishings.

Of hallways that go on forever.

Of… hidey-holes.

I instantly straighten.

Hidey-holes.

And just like that, fear resurrects into
something far more horrible, far more frightening.

I gasp, stumble out of my chair and step
back.

“
Claudia, what’s wrong?”

I don’t answer… I can’t. Terror has struck me dumb. I fall
into the wall, hear blood rush to my head as I stare blindly into
an alien past. Saul is shaking me, calling out my name. But I can
barely hear him; his voice replaced by others, more fearful, more
urgent.

And then I smell that stench, so strong, so
putrid… so human….

So absolutely final.

The unmistakable stench of death.

I stare at my hands. I stare at what’s in them… what’s on
them.

Oh god… no
… no… oh
god….

My stomach heaves, once, twice and I stagger forward and
grab a chair. It falls. I nearly fall with it. I clutch my stomach.
Bile now burns my insides. And the need to run consumes me like a
ravenous, wild animal. I get as far as the kitchen. But there my
legs desert me and I crumble to the floor. Saul is next to me. He
reaches out but I shrink away.
I huddle my knees close to my chest
and desperately try to forget.

“
Tell me what you saw, Claudia.”

I shake my head, thankful that the vision is now
dispersing, returning to its original place.

“
Baby, please… it’s important.”

I look to Saul’s face. His anxious eyes are pleading. I
press my hand to his cheek; it’s clammy, unusually cool. A heavy
weight presses against my chest, robbing me of my next breath. My
hand falls away as I reluctantly nod. I shrug off the thousands of
threatening goose bumps, clutch my knees tighter to me. “I… I saw a
small girl,” I stammer.

Icy shivers work through me as I visualize her again. Her
terrified face, her long, thick hair, her pretty blue and white
dress all caked in blood. I place my palms flat on the floor as I
tell Saul. “She’s… she’s…..” My throat begins to clog. “Oh no…
please no….”

Strong arms grab my shoulders. “What about her, Claudia?
Tell me.”

But I shake my head furiously. “No, just let her run,
please just let her run… hide…

…
let her forget
.”

An emphatic slam of the front screen door
snapped me back to the present. Ethan appeared, his hands tucked in
the pockets of his long shorts. His eyes darted directly to Saul
and he nodded. Saul closed his eyes and nodded back.

It wasn’t
easy to shove away the thoughts of the blood-soaked girl. But
something about Ethan’s expression told me I should. I forced a
playful groan. “You two are doing it again.”

With a click
of the bin lid, Annie disposed of Saul’s old bandage. She then
stripped some wipes from a commercial container and cleaned her
hands. A faint smell of antiseptic wafted from her. “Get used to
it, Claudia. They’ve been communicating like that for so long, they
don’t realize how irritating it is to the rest of us plebs.” She
laughed. I obligingly laughed with her.

Surprisingly, there was no reaction from either man. Worse
still, Ethan appeared like one who had just run over his
much-beloved cat. “Okay, what’s wrong?” I asked.

Ethan rested
his forearm along the bar. His stance was awkward, the bar too low
for him. However, any obvious unease he felt seemed pointed towards
me. Was he preparing me for something… dare I say it…
bad
?

I looked to Annie. She screwed her face in a
comical sort of way and shrugged. She then took solace in one of
the barstools. I wiped my hands and joined her. My stool complained
bitterly as I heaved into it, screeching like some distressed
parrot.