Never Forget

by Harper Shaw

  Besides, “staking out” Bruce might make her feel at least a little bit like a detective again. And it beat another day of soap operas and pizza rolls.

  Before going to bed last night, she’d dug around in the back of her closet and found the old camera. Junior year of high school, she developed a passion for photography and had spent months saving up for it. For a whole year, it had seemed like the camera was always around her neck, capturing every moment of her teenage years. The picture of the Beach Heads that she’d stashed in the closet had been taken with this camera.

  It was going to be put to similar use today, though these pictures would be a touch more candid. And secret.

  Around 8:30 a.m., Bruce emerged from his house.

  Click. Click. Through the zoom lens she could see he was carrying a tall thermos and a lunchbox adorned with some Japanese-animation robot Rebecca didn’t recognize. Bruce was a grownup, but it seemed he hadn’t really grown up.

  She shook her head, worrying that maybe this escapade wouldn’t beat soaps and pizza rolls.

  Bruce got into his car. Rebecca let him get halfway down the block before putting her own car in gear and tailing him.

  He hit a drive-through to get some breakfast and then meandered over to his comic book shop. Rebecca found a parking spot in the strip mall across the street and settled in to watch and wait.

  The place seemed to do surprisingly brisk business. Throughout the day, a steady stream of pimply faced, scrawny teenage boys and pimply faced, full-bellied grown men went in and out. Some emerged with just a single issue or two. Others came out with thick bags full of them. Who knew something as dorky as comic books could be such a hot commodity?

  “You must feel like quite a stud among these nerds. Huh, Bruce?”

  She took a picture of everyone who went in, on the off chance that maybe one of them was working with Bruce and Jennifer. Maybe one of them was even the Shroud? If the Shroud is part of this crew, you should be embarrassed, she told herself. Still, she kept on shooting and trying to imagine how each and every person would look covered in a black slicker.

  Bruce didn’t emerge for lunch, probably eating whatever he’d packed in the lunchbox. A PB and J with the crusts cut off? Rebecca grabbed herself a few slices and a soda from the pizza shop in the strip mall and ate in the car.

  She was bored out of her mind by the time 6 p.m. rolled around and Bruce finally emerged from the store and locked up.

  Thank the Lord, Rebecca thought, shifting and stretching. She turned on the car and followed him into rush hour traffic, making sure to stay several car lengths back. She played the odds with herself on the chance that Bruce was going to do anything but go home. Unless he’s Dungeon-mastering somewhere, I guess.

  So certain was she that he was heading home, she nearly missed him making an unexpected left turn. Shit. She did a U-ie and breathed a sigh of relief when she was able to get back on his tail.

  Where ya headed, Brucey?

  He was going the direct opposite direction of his house. Was he heading to meet Jennifer? No, this wasn’t taking them toward her house, either. Maybe they were having a rendezvous somewhere in town?

  If so, it was definitely in the seedier side of town. Night was falling as she followed Bruce’s car down some poorly lit streets. A mix of boarded-up shops and dive bars lined either side of the street. Rebecca was now definitely intrigued.

  Bruce finally pulled over near a long-closed movie theater. Rebecca parked a block away and turned off her lights. She lifted the camera to her eye and zoomed in.

  Bruce was leaning toward the passenger side of the car, talking out the window to—

  “Bruce, you naughty boy. Picking up a prostitute, are we?”

  The girl—Rebecca hoped she was at least eighteen, but it was hard to tell from this distance in the fading light—sidled over to Bruce’s car. She was short, but her blonde hair was strikingly similar in color to Jennifer’s. Maybe it came from the same bottle. Maybe that was what had caught Bruce’s eye.

  She was wearing a short skirt that rode up and revealed her lack of underwear when she leaned into the car to talk to him. Her fishnets were slightly torn, and her high-heeled stripper boots were ragged. He was really scraping the bottom of the barrel here. Surely if the shop was as successful as it appeared, he could afford a decent escort or something? Or had Jennifer really messed up his self-esteem that much?

  Whatever conversation they were having came to an end and the hooker hopped into Bruce’s car. They were all off again. Rebecca expected Bruce to turn into an alley somewhere and let the pro take care of business, but instead they drove several miles out of town. Finally, he turned into the parking lot of a cheap motel just off the interstate.

  Rebecca waited until Bruce and the prostitute disappeared into a first-floor room. Then she turned off her car’s headlights and pulled into the parking lot. She threw the Leica’s neck strap over her head and got out.

  She padded over to the door of Bruce’s room and crouched down, her ear to the door. Thank God for cheap motels. The room’s door was paper-thin, and Rebecca could hear everything being said. They were mid-conversation and the hooker seemed upset over something.

  “You fucking kiddin’ me?”

  “I’ll pay extra.”

  “No way, José.”

  There was a pause. Bruce must have shown her how much extra he was willing to pay for whatever she was reluctant to do, because the next thing Rebecca heard was the girl saying, “Okay, fine. Money first, though, bub.”

  Rebecca wondered what she’d agreed to. Probably going to make her dress up like an elf or call him Frodo or something, she guessed.

  Suddenly, Bruce appeared at the large picture window that looked out onto the parking lot. Rebecca pressed herself firmly to the door and held her breath. Bruce yanked the curtains closed. For a moment, his shadow spread across the curtains, and then it moved away.

  Rebecca crawled to just below the window, and then slowly peeked her head up. Through the sliver of an opening the uneven, ratty curtain afforded, she had a good glimpse of the poorly lit room’s bed.

  The girl sat on the edge of it, stuffing a large wad of cash into her clutch. She set the clutch on the nightstand and then unceremoniously stripped naked. Then Bruce handed her something. A blood-red silk scarf. The hooker studied the scarf. Bruce gestured strongly for her to take it. She did. He made another gesture. The girl wrapped the scarf around her neck.

  And suddenly Bruce was choking her with it. Rebecca resisted the impulse to burst in and save the girl. She didn’t seem to be in real jeopardy, however. Bruce wasn’t trying to harm her. It was clear he knew what he was doing. There was a practiced nature to it. The girl pretended to be into it as she let Bruce gently asphyxiate her while they fucked.

  Rebecca forced herself to be professional. She took the pictures. She tried not to think about the teenage boy she’d once known, who’d been head over heels for their mutual friend and often came to her in tears because of the shitty ways Jennifer treated him.

  This was business. This was self-preservation. It was disgusting, yes. It was maybe a kind of betrayal of their friendship, but he’d forced her hand when he and Jennifer cooked up whatever plot they had going on.

  It definitely beat soap operas and pizza rolls…

  Click-whirr. Click-whirr. Jennifer had introduced the blackmail game into the mix. Maybe these photos would end up being something she could use as leverage against Bruce. Maybe she could even get him to turn on Jennifer. After all, would the parents of all those unfortunate teenagers who got their nerd-fix at Bruce’s shop let their kids go there if they knew what kind of kinky secrets the proprietor had?

  Chapter Twenty

  This was a stupid idea, Rebecca thought as people in tuxedos and gowns swarmed about her.

  She’d just arrived at the Coastal Discovery Museum’s annual gala. This year, as banners and signs all around the pavilion stated, they were raising money for the museum’s �
�Winter Rose: The Camelia Garden.” The pink flower was on display everywhere. Many of the men’s bow ties and cummerbunds and many of the women’s dresses were coordinated to match the flower-of-honor’s hue.

  Rebecca had gone with something slim and black. She had no desire to draw attention to herself. It also happened to be the only formal dress she had in her bedroom closet. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought maybe the last time she’d worn it had been to a high school graduation party. She was pleased with herself that it still fit so well. The black heels she was wearing, on the other hand, pinched her feet. But that’s the price you pay for good-looking calves, she figured.

  Her parents had talked her into attending the gala.

  “Go. It might be nice to take your mind off things,” her mother had said. “Your father got tickets from work, but you know how much he hates going to these things.”

  “Mom, I don’t know that a party is really what I’m in the mood for right now.”

  “You don’t go to a party because you’re already in the mood. You go to a party to get in the mood! There’s two tickets. Bring one of the Beach Heads.”

  For a moment, Rebecca considered calling up Dennis, but then she thought better of it. If the idea was to take her mind off of things, going stag was a better option.

  She’d managed to talk herself into thinking that maybe her mother was right—maybe it would be distracting—and now here she was, wishing she’d stayed in.

  “Well, you’re here. Make the most of it,” she told herself.

  To that end, she flagged down the first tray-carrying caterer who passed her by and piled a cocktail napkin with mini marinated lamb chops. The next caterer she saw offered her a glass of pink champagne. Rebecca was tempted. She shook her head and, instead, bee-lined for the bar and ordered a soda.

  As he prepared the drink, she leaned her back against the bar and took in the party. An octet of strings and woodwinds played something classical. Rebecca gnawed some lamb off the bone.

  “How’s your evening going?” the bartender asked as he filled up a cup with ice and then emptied a can of coke into it.

  “Just started,” she said, covering her mouth while she chewed. She took the drink and dropped two bucks into his tip jar. “To be honest,” she confided, “this isn’t really my scene.”

  “No? You look to me like you fit right in.” He was giving her a flirty smile. It was just the right sort of inviting.

  She reciprocated with a smile of her own. “Thanks.”

  “If you need another one of those, you know where to go.”

  “Sure do,” she said and headed back into the event, nabbing two cocktail weenies from another passing tray as she went.

  Stepping out of the pavilion, she emerged out into the Camelia Garden. She blinked a few times. The orange glow of the Pavilion was outmatched here by standing lights brightly illuminating every inch of the walkway running through the garden. Docents in cheap suits and tacky dresses greeted the upper-class guests, offering them guided tours.

  One middle-aged woman wearing a Volunteer pin approached Rebecca. “Would you like a tour of the garden?”

  Rebecca declined and started down the walk on her own. She forced herself to take deep breaths, inhaling the pleasant scent of the flowers. As she wound her way through the garden, she had to begrudgingly admit something was calming about this excursion. The deeper she got into the garden, the more she felt like she was in some sort of oasis, safe from her problems.

  “Excuse me, would you take a picture of us?” a woman in a bright pink, tulle-covered dress called to her. She was standing with a man dressed in tails.

  “Of course,” Rebecca beamed. She surprised herself with her own sense of good feeling.

  The woman handed her a yellow disposable camera, and then she and her date posed in front of a beautiful bush of camellias. Rebecca raised the camera. “Say cheese!”

  “Cheeeese!”

  The flash burst its bright light against the couple and illuminated the darker part of the garden beyond them.

  It also illuminated someone out there, in the shadows. The Shroud.

  “Wait, I think I blinked! Can we get one more?” the man asked.

  “Sorry, no,” Rebecca muttered, absently handing back the camera.

  He’s here!

  She hiked up her dress and raced off the path, into the bushes. Thorns pricked at her, tearing at her pantyhose and scratching her bare arms. She didn’t care. She frantically looked around as her eyes adjusted from the glare along the walk to the dimness off the path.

  She heard a rustle twenty feet away followed by movement. A black figure moved surreptitiously.

  I got you, you son-of-a-bitch.

  She ran as fast as the form-fitting dress would allow. Her heels caught on some of the foliage and she cursed as she came up short. She tore the shoes off. Carrying them in one hand, she took off on a run again.

  She emerged from the greenery onto another bend of the walk. She looked around, searching, searching—

  There! Near the end of the trail. She ran, the gravelly path biting into her feet with every step.

  She had to catch the Shroud. Prove that whoever it was existed and start putting an end to this whole mess.

  The path ended, giving way to several feet of boardwalk and then several steps down to the beach.

  The sand was cold beneath her feet as the waves lapped gently against the shore. She looked up and down the beach, searching for the Shroud in the moonlight. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and took off at a run once again.

  The Shroud had slowed down, stepping to the edge of the water. She went full speed at the Shroud and tackled him. They both went toppling into the mud.

  Cold waves lapped at her, making her dress cling to her, as she quickly got back to her feet and grabbed the figure by the shoulders, turning it to her and finally getting a good glimpse at…

  … “Albatross” Gaines.

  He was something of a folk legend around these parts. Over the course of his life, Al “Albatross” Gaines had been a sailor, fisherman, merchant marine, Navy vet, you name it. Now and again people would see him on the beach or near the docks, always mumbling to himself. He’d been older than dirt back when Rebecca was a teenager. It was a shock to see he was still alive.

  Albatross started growling at her, his lips pulled back to reveal a mouth that was more gums than teeth. His eyes were wild. “Leave me alone!” he shouted. “Let me go!”

  Rebecca kept hold of him. No way in hell was this guy the Shroud. Still… she’d been chasing someone. Hadn’t she? “Were you watching me in the garden?”

  Albatross leaned in close. His breath smelled like garbage as he said, “Let me go, bitch.”

  “Were you watching me?” she shouted.

  With a grunt, Albatross shoved at her. He was surprisingly strong, and she stumbled back, falling into the water.

  Albatross started laughing as he crawled up the beach to the dry sand.

  Rebecca followed him. She stood over him, prepared to pepper him with more questions, but she knew it was pointless. Albatross lay on his side and began muttering to himself.

  Rebecca plopped onto the sand a few feet away from him. Great job, Rebecca. Clearly, this had all been an exercise in paranoia on her part. She’d done nothing more than chase and assault an old man who’d unknowingly wandered into the gala.

  The music of the chamber group and the low murmur of cocktail conversation drifted over them. It mixed with the lapping of the waves and the stream of Albatross’ muttering.

  So much for the distraction, she thought. It also occurred to her that maybe she should stay home the rest of the nights she was in town. Every time she’d gone out so far, she’d ended up in the ocean.

  She peeled off her soaking pantyhose and wrang the saltwater from them before stuffing them inside one of her heels. She stood and wiped the sand from her ass. With her heels hanging from two fingers, she prepared to head ba
ck through the party.

  Then something caught her ear. Albatross’ mumblings had changed. He was repeating something over and over. It took a moment for her to make it out.

  “I know,” he was saying. “I know. I know.”

  She looked down at him. He was sitting up and leaning on one elbow. He stared straight at her.

  “I know your secret,” he said. “I know. I know your secret. I know.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I can’t do this anymore,” Rebecca muttered as she rolled out of her bed. She had lain there for most of the night but felt as if she hadn’t sleep at all even though her eyes slipped closed sometime around five in the morning. As she rubbed her them, they burned, and she felt her heart’s palpitation. It felt as if her chest were hiccupping, and she’d yet to come to peace with all the unrest in her over what had been going on, last night being the freshest wound.

  Letting in a long breath, she couldn’t get her fingers to stop trembling and the chills to stop combing down her spine. Rebecca let the breath out. She’d thought breathing would help calm her, but the hoarse wheeze was only making her feel worse and lightheaded.

  To block the light out, she shut her eyes tightly. Then she hunched over, folding herself with a pillow hugged tightly to her middle. It seemed that shrouded figure was everywhere, and Gaines popping out hadn’t helped her nerves.

  Hilton Head was about to be the death of her. She felt this desperate desire to leave, to not even bother buying a plane ticket or calling a taxi. Rebecca wanted to just jump out of her window and run on foot to El Paso. Screw the police. Screw the Griswalds. At this point, she was willing to do anything to make everything stop. It was all she wanted.

  Shuddering, Rebecca turned to the clock in her room and saw it was still early, only a little after eight. It was rare for her mother to be up before ten, so she knew she had a little bit of time. Picking up the phone from her nightstand, she settled it into her lap, dialed the number of her sponsor she had memorized before coming over in fear of her parents finding a slip of paper.