The Forgotten

by Heather Graham

  And then she glanced out the sliding glass doors into her overgrown backyard.

  There was a medium-size mango tree in one corner, bougainvillea draped over the stone wall and small plants she couldn’t identify lining the short path that led to a table with an umbrella and a few chairs.

  She started. Standing on the path, staring at the house, was the same man she had seen standing in her office doorway.

  Fear instantly seized her. She hurried over to her phone and dialed 911. When the operator came on, she quickly gave her location and explained that a man was in her walled yard, and that he could only have gotten onto the property via a locked gate, and that she’d seen him earlier at work. “I’m afraid I’m being stalked.”

  “We have someone on the way to your address right now. You can stay on the phone with me. Officers will be there momentarily. What is the man doing now?” the operator asked.

  “Just standing there, staring at me.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “He looks Hispanic. Fiftyish, with a well-manicured mustache and goatee. Medium build and maybe five-eight to five-ten. He’s wearing gray trousers and a guayabera shirt, beige.”

  She heard the buzzer from her gate. The cops had already arrived, which didn’t surprise her since she was right down the street from Cocowalk, one of the area’s malls, and the whole Coconut Grove area.

  “They’re here, I think,” she told the operator.

  “You can stay on with me while you let them in,” the operator said.

  Lara looked out the window, just to be safe, then went out to the gate to greet the two policemen waiting there.

  “Someone’s in your yard?” one of them asked her. “Is he threatening you?”

  “No, he’s just standing there. But I don’t know how he got in, and he came to my office earlier today, then left without saying anything,” she said.

  “I’ll go in with her,” the second officer said to the one who’d spoken.

  “Get back in the house and I’ll see what’s going on,” the first man, whose badge identified him as Officer Dewey, said.

  Lara nodded and thanked him. The second officer, badge identification Martino, followed her into the house.

  “Maybe I’m being a little paranoid,” she said. “He’s not doing anything, in fact he looks a little lost. But I saw him before, and now he’s in my yard, and the gate was locked! He might have scaled the wall, but it’s pretty high, plus it’s covered with bougainvillea.” She realized she was babbling and stopped.

  “It’s okay. Better to be safe than sorry, right?” Martino asked.

  “Miss? Miss?”

  Lara dimly heard herself being called and realized she was still holding her cell phone, and the emergency operator was still on the line. She quickly thanked the woman, told her that the police had arrived and hung up. Then she headed toward the back of the house, followed by Martino, and looked out the window.

  Officer Dewey was there, looking puzzled. He walked toward the back door, and she quickly let him in.

  “I looked everywhere, but there’s nobody back here,” he said.

  Lara looked at him, dumbfounded. “He was there. I swear he was.”

  Both officers looked at her with polite curiosity.

  “I’m telling you, there was a man in my yard, staring in my back windows,” Lara said.

  “Well, whoever he was, he’s gone now. We can check out the house for you, if you want,” Dewey said.

  “Thank you.” She knew they were both doubting her sanity right about now. Well, why not? The gate had been locked, the wall around her property was at least seven feet high. It would have taken a gymnast to scale it.

  The officers went through the house. It was empty, of course.

  Dewey asked her, “Were the locks changed when you moved in?”

  She nodded. “I was here when they changed them,” she said.

  “And no one else has keys?”

  “My boss has a set in his desk,” she said.

  “Any way someone could have gotten them?” Martino asked her. “You did say you saw the man at your office earlier. Maybe he is stalking you. Maybe he’s been watching you and knew that your boss had your keys. Where do you work, and how tight is the security there?”

  “I work at Sea Life. We don’t have private security, but we do have cameras and alarms.”

  “What about you? Any enemies?” Dewey asked.

  She opened her mouth to answer, then realized the truth was just too complex.

  “Not that I know of now,” she murmured.

  “I wish we could stay with you, just in case, but we can’t do that,” Martino told her. “We can only see that the house is secure and then patrol frequently. We’ll be close by if you need us, though.”

  “Do you have an alarm?” Dewey asked.

  “Yes, but only for the house, not the yard.”

  They all stood uncomfortably for a moment. She knew they were genuinely concerned, but with no real threat against her, they had done what they could.

  “At any rate, no one is here now,” Dewey said. “If you’re uncomfortable, perhaps you could spend the night with a friend.”

  She nodded. “Thanks. I’ll just head back to work. A few of our staff members live on the premises. I can stay with one of them.”

  “We’ll cruise by here a few times, and we’ll ask the next shift to do the same,” Martino told her.

  She wasn’t sure if they thought she’d imagined the whole thing or were certain that she had a stalker and he had somehow gotten hold of her keys.

  “Will you give me a minute to get a few things together?” she asked.

  “Of course,” they said in unison.

  As she packed, she called Adrianna and told her about the man in her yard. Adrianna found Grady, who checked and still had the unmarked backup keys to her car and apartment in his desk drawer. He told her that she was free to stay at Sea Life until they got the matter settled, and she thanked him. She was definitely going to feel better knowing that Rick and Adrianna were sleeping down the hall.

  The officers waited until she was ready to go, then saw her safely into her car. As she drove, she asked her built-in Bluetooth to call Meg, and the minute her best friend’s voice came on the line, she immediately felt better.

  “I was about to call you. So another zombie attack in your area, huh?” Meg asked.

  “Yeah, the FBI is all over it—arranging to have the so-called zombie dug out of his grave,” Lara said. “But that’s not why I called you.”

  She described the day and the man to her, admitting that she might be paranoid, but it seemed she was being stalked. “Maybe it’s just my past history,” she admitted, a bit embarrassed.

  “We’re coming down,” Meg said.

  “Oh, please, your bosses will think you’re my personal babysitter,” Lara said.

  “Last time we looked for you, you actually helped catch a serial killer,” Meg said. “Besides, Adam is friends with Grady. He’ll insist we head down after what happened today anyway. We’ll be there by late tonight.”

  Lara glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was nearly six. “You’ll never get a flight down here tonight. And I’m heading to Sea Life. It’s alarm city, and Rick and Adrianna and Grady will be there to look out for me. Listen—if Adam wants you to come anyway, that’s okay, but give it up for tonight. The city is full of cops, and the FBI is already on the case.”

  “Agents Cody and McCullough. I know. We checked. Matt knows Cody and says he’s one of the best. He doesn’t know McCullough, but if he’s with Cody, he’s got to be good.”

  “See? I’ll be fine.”

  “But they aren’t Krewe! Or two of your best friends in the world who should just be helping you get through t
his. We’ll be there as soon as we can. Listen for your phone,” Meg told her.

  Lara laughed. “Adam can control the airlines’ flight schedules?” she asked.

  “Adam can arrange for a private jet.”

  “Wow. Well, tell him thank you.”

  “Of course,” Meg said. She was quiet for a minute. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and I just know I need to be there.”

  Lara hesitated. She and Meg shared a strange telepathy; Meg swore that she had found Lara when she’d been trapped in the old mill because she’d been helped by a ghost, a ghost who had become real for Lara because Meg had made him so.

  A chill suddenly swept through Lara.

  Was the existence of ghosts the answer to tonight’s mystery?

  Meg had always seen ghosts, and she herself had seen that spectral Confederate soldier. And how could a man be there and then not there, unless...?

  Unless he was a dead man.

  “Lara, are you okay?” Meg asked.

  “Yes, yes, I’m driving, that’s all.”

  “We’ll be there tonight,” Meg swore.

  “Just don’t worry about me. I’ll be with my friends, and I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. Just promise me you’ll stay with them until we get there.”

  “I promise,” Lara told her.

  She hung up and told herself to stop freaking herself out. Even so, chills continued to sweep her until she finally came up with the right argument.

  If a dead man was after her, she would be all right. Meg had always told her that the dead stayed around to help, to rectify injustice.

  The sky was still bright when she finally reached Sea Life, and a lot of the staff was still there, despite the hour.

  She almost felt silly.

  Grady, Rick and Adrianna were about to head out to a nearby restaurant for dinner. She agreed to join them and finally began to feel better.

  Along the way to the restaurant, she even tried to convince herself that everything she’d seen had all been in her imagination.

  No, she had seen the man. She had never set eyes on him before she had seen him at Sea Life, but she had known it was the same man when she had seen him in her yard.

  She didn’t think he wanted to hurt her.

  So why was he there, watching her?

  Meg was coming, and Matt with her. And they had already helped save her life once.

  Lara smiled drily to herself. She was educated, she was savvy—she’d been in politics, for God’s sake. She was strong. She wasn’t a coward, and she could handle this, whatever this was.

  Liar.

  This was creepy. Body parts turning up in the lagoon and men who simply...disappeared.

  All right. She was starting to get scared at last. But friends were on the way.

  The idiot in front of her suddenly slammed to a stop in order to cross three lanes of traffic. She swore beneath her breath and gave her full attention to her driving. To her relief—and, she was sure, to that of the drivers all around her—a siren instantly sounded. Didn’t happen all that often, but that was one jerk who was going to get caught.

  She turned her radio on just in time to hear the deejay remind people that this was Talk Like a Pirate day.

  A pirate phrase quickly came to her mind.

  Dead men tell no tales.

  She couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—they did.

  6

  Brett was frustrated.

  Their boss, Special Agent in Charge Colin Marshall, had texted them the image one of the boys had captured on his cell phone—then shared with half the world via social media—and the police sketch. While the phone image was pretty low-res, it was enough to show that the police artist had done an excellent job—especially because, Marshall had assured them, the drawing had been done without the artist having seen the photo.

  It was the perfect image of a dead man. A dead man who’d attacked the man who had been his best friend in life.

  Brett and Diego weren’t going to be able to reach the doctor who had signed Randy Nicholson’s death certificate until late that night or the next day; he was in transit back from a medical convention in California. With only so many hours left in the day, they decided that the first thing would be to see the family and request that they approve an exhumation, which would make things much easier than trying to proceed without the family’s agreement. Randy Nicholson’s son, Henry, was appalled that people thought his dead father had risen from the grave, not to mention that he could have killed a friend. He was incredulous that anyone could believe that it was even possible, and he was willing to prove that it wasn’t. Better yet, he spoke for the whole family. He’d seen the digital photo, of course, along with the police sketch, and he agreed both looked just like his father.

  But he’d been with his father in the hospital when he’d died, so as far as he was concerned, a picture wasn’t worth a thousand words or much of anything else.

  Brett told Henry that they would waste no time; he intended to see that the body was exhumed by the next day.

  Once that was set, Brett and Diego decided to see the three boys who had witnessed the crime. The parents could have stood in their way, since the boys were adolescents, but they didn’t. In fact, they offered to bring the boys in, but Brett wanted to talk to each boy individually. He wanted to make sure that their stories jibed and didn’t sound rehearsed.

  Brett and Diego went to see each boy in turn. Two were fourteen; the oldest was fifteen.

  They talked to Thomas Clayton first. He had a little sister who hid behind her mother when Diego and Brett arrived, and his father remained in the living room as they talked, silent, but there to protect his son if need be. But despite his growing obsession with the case, thanks to his connection to the Gomezes, Brett knew how to tamp down his personal feelings and interview an adolescent. In a few minutes Thomas was talking easily about seeing Arnold Wilhelm on the platform. Ricardo Clemente, one of the other boys, had been showing them a video when they’d seen the other man—the killer they’d describe to the police. Thomas said the victim had looked surprised but also pleased, as if he’d been about to go and hug the guy. Then Ricardo had decided to take a selfie of the three of them on the platform, and it was as they’d been setting up the shot, their backs to the older men, that the killer had rushed his friend, right when the train was coming.

  The boy started to cry. He’d never seen anyone die before, and Brett hoped he never had to see it again.

  He and Diego rose and thanked Thomas then, and Diego offered the boy’s father a card with the number of a therapist the local Bureau office recommended, and then they left.

  Their next stop was the Clemente house. Ricardo and his family were from Uruguay, and his parents spoke very little English. Brett’s Spanish was passable, but Diego’s was very good. He assured them that the boys weren’t in trouble but, on the contrary, were being a big help. Ricardo’s story was much the same as Thomas’s. He said he wasn’t sure where the man had come from, because he’d been showing a video to his friends until he’d decided to take the selfie. When he described the murder, he turned white, clearly as shaken as Thomas had been.

  The last boy was Ricky Brito. His mom was Chilean and his dad was Cuban, but both had been in the United States since they’d been kids. They told Ricky just to tell the truth and he would be fine. His story was the same, not because it was rehearsed in any way, Brett was certain, but simply because the boys had all seen the same thing.

  It was nearly ten by the time they finished. Diego, who had patiently gone along with every one of Brett’s plans on how to proceed, finally told him, “Brett, we’ve got to call it a night.”

  “We still have to see the doctor who signed the death certificate.” Brett looked at his notes. “Dr. Robert T
reme.”

  “And you think he’s going to see us now?” Diego asked.

  “His plane is due to land shortly,” Brett told him.

  “He’ll be getting off a cross-country flight. We can see him at the exhumation. I’m sure we can make sure he’s there,” Diego said.

  “A man he declared dead is walking around killing people. I’d think he’d want to see us as quickly as possible. His job and his reputation are on the line.”

  “The police spoke with him, and he’s aware that we want to interview him once he’s back. But if you really want to see him tonight, we’ll call him after the plane has landed and reach out. But he hasn’t landed yet, so can we stop for a sandwich first? I’ll be no good to you if I pass out from hunger.”

  Brett realized that they hadn’t eaten all day, but this case mattered to him, and he felt compelled to keep forging ahead. He knew their boss had put them on it precisely because he and Herman Bryant both felt there was a possible connection to the murder of Maria Gomez. Still, Diego had a point.

  “Yeah, we’ll eat. What’s still open around here?”

  “It’s Coconut Grove, take your pick.”

  They opted for an open-air restaurant in the middle of the mall. Diego flirted with the waitress a bit, asking her if they could get their meal as quickly as possible. She promised him that she would put a rush on their order.

  Brett had his phone out and was reading the press coverage of the recent murders. He shook his head. “Diego, this thing is bad. We’re national news now.”

  Diego nodded. “Yeah, and it’s not going to be solved overnight, no matter how loud the media yells.”

  “I know. The whole thing makes no sense. Randy Nicholson died in a hospital, with dozens of people around. He was taken to the Diaz-Douglas funeral home over on Bird. The place has been there forever. It’s beyond reputable. I looked up this Dr. Robert Treme, and he’s been respected in his field for a good thirty years. No complaints have ever been issued against the man.”

  Diego shrugged. “And we’ll do the exhumation and find Nicholson sleeping peacefully in his grave. People look alike. Maybe we’ll find out he had a twin. They say everyone in the world has a doppelganger somewhere.”