Unforgiven: A Conspiracy Thriller

by Stacey Fields

  "Don't worry," Michael replied, standing up straight and crossing his arms at his chest. "This won't take long." Derek swallowed hard, causing the Adam's apple in his throat to bob up and down. "It seems awfully down to business around here," Michael said stepping to his left, around the edge of the desk, "considering one of your employees just passed away a few days ago."

  "We were very sorry to hear about Joy," Derek said, stepping back as Michael stepped forward, "but we have a business to run; we can't let our clients get pushed to the side…"

  "And what about when Rachel died?" Michael said, stepping around the side of the desk to put himself face-to-face with Derek. Michael stood at least six inches taller than him, and he seemed to shrink down even further as Michael got closer. "That happened right here!" he exclaimed, pushing the little man back against the wall. "But from what I recall, as soon as forensics was done on the scene, the mess all cleaned up, and the memory pushed far back in everyone's mind, doors were open for business once again!

  Derek pushed back against Michael's chest, trying to force him away. "I'm very sorry for your loss…" he squeaked.

  "You're sorry for my loss?" Michael yelled in his face, laughing. "You're sorry?" He pushed the man back again, pinning him to the wall.

  "Tasha!" Derek yelled out, trying to peer around Michael's shoulder. "Call the police!"

  "What's happening in there?" the man from the reception area asked loudly.

  "Tell me, Derek," Michael continued, not paying attention to Tasha's gasp or her footsteps running to the phone. "How is it that two of your employees pass away within the same calendar year, and yet your company seems to be running without a hitch?" Derek squirmed back and forth, trying to free himself from Michael's grasp.

  "They're coming!" Tasha yelled into the office.

  "Hey!" someone yelled out behind him. "Let him go!" the man from the waiting area ordered Michael.

  "What if I told you," Michael said, leaning in to place his face close to Derek's ear so he could whisper, "that I think the two deaths are related? That I think there's something going on here…" Michael stopped suddenly when he felt someone's hand grab his shoulder and pull him back.

  As he stumbled away from Derek, his eyes still fixed on his, he smiled, almost mischievously at the small, disheveled man. The look on Derek's face let him know that he was scared—whether it was from Michael's attack, or his words, he wasn't sure, but he was sure that what he saw in his eyes was fear.

  As he sat in one of the wooden chairs in reception, waiting for the police to show up and charge him, Michael tried to piece the few bits of information he already had together. Two women were killed, both working for the same law firm; for some reason, the receptionist knew his name, and refused to let him in to see Hamilton; and he knew, almost for a fact, that this morning wasn't going to be the last time he saw the black Impala.

  Chapter 4: Taking Steps

  "Mr. Kent, I told you before, and I'll tell you again—your fiancée's murder has been solved! We have the perp in holding. I know you feel like you don't have closure, but going down to her office and physically threatening her boss isn't going to give you that." Officer Connolly, the man who worked with Michael previously when they brought in Rachel's shooter, looked at him exhaustedly across his desk. His piercingly dark eyes, half hidden under his massively large eyebrows, seemed to accuse Michael of being absolutely crazy and obsessive.

  Michael was familiar with Officer Connolly. He was a kind enough man, but very down to business. This isn't the first, or second, or even third time Michael sat at his desk across from him. This was the first time, however, that he had been back to the police station since he was escorted out about six months ago.

  "And I've told you!" Michael shot back, "I've told you that something more is going on there! That girl Joy that just died… she never drank! How is it that she got into an alcohol-related accident?" Michael slammed his fist down onto the desk.

  "Now, Mr. Kent," the officer said, clearly losing his patience, "if you insist on acting this way, I'll have to put the cuffs back on you and throw you back into holding until you calm down." He leaned back in his chair and let out an exhausted sigh. "We ran toxicology on her. The reports are conclusive—she was under the influence. Her blood alcohol content was above 2.0!" He tilted his head to the side and looked at Michael apologetically, "I don't know what to tell you, Michael."

  "This is ridiculous!" Michael threw his hands into the air. "How can you people not see a connection?" he yelled.

  "Connolly," a female voice called from the door leading from the cramped office to the rest of the station. "We just heard from the lawyer. He's not pressing charges," she informed both Michael and the officer. She looked at Michael quickly and smiled half-heartedly.

  "Thank you, O'Neil," Connolly replied looking over Michael's shoulder at the female officer.

  "Of course, he's not pressing charges!" Michael said standing up quickly. "Because he doesn't want any more attention drawn to him!" He turned to face the female officer. She was a tall, slender woman, attractive, with light blond hair pulled back tightly into a bun and deep blue eyes that were now fixed on him.

  "Let it go," Connolly said standing up behind Michael.

  "Fine," Michael shot at him over his shoulder. "So, no charges, are we done here? Can I go?"

  "You can go," Officer Connolly replied.

  As he pushed past the woman at the door, he locked eyes with her. Something about the way she looked at him was sympathetic. Not sympathetic in the way that people had been looking at him for the last eight months, however. She didn't look at him with pity; she looked at him with conviction, almost like she wanted to believe him, even though she didn't. "Hey," she called out after him as she followed him into the middle of the station.

  "What?" he turned around and asked bluntly.

  "I remember you," she started, "from before. I didn't work your fiancée's case, but I was here…"

  "And?" he was losing what little patience he had left for police officers.

  "I just wanted to say that I'm… I'm sorry," she continued. "Here," she said grabbing a slip of scrap paper and a pen off of the desk nearest her. She scribbled something down and handed it to him, "in case you want to talk or something." He looked down. It was her name and phone number. He looked back up at her surprised. Was she trying to hit on him? "Oh, no," she said quickly, reading his thoughts, "it's not like that, really. It's just… I don't know, I just figured you might want someone to grab a coffee with, chat or something."

  "Thank you," he said looking down at the name on the paper, "Lindsey."

  When he got into his car, he pounded his fist on the steering wheel, letting out a cry of frustration. He knew what this meant; he was going to have to get to the bottom of this on his own. Little surprise to him, the police were going to be of absolutely no help.

  As he jammed the keys into the ignition, he spotted it—the key to Rachel's apartment. If he went now, it would be much sooner than he had planned. He wanted to give himself a few more days to warm up to the idea. But, there's a chance that she had something there, some file on the law firm, or some appointment written down in a datebook, something, anything that could lead Michael to the next step in solving the puzzle. He knew there was no way he would be able to think about anything else until he knew so, taking a deep breath, he started the car and turned in the direction of Rachel's apartment.

  He drove slowly, almost turning around three times before pulling into the parking lot. "You can do this," he told himself again and again. But when he stepped out of the car and into the fresh, cool air, he second-guessed himself. His heart began to race, and his palms became sweaty. He felt more and more light-headed as he climbed the stairs leading up to the second floor.

  As he turned the key in the lock, his legs started to shake, and his ears began to ring. When he pushed the door open slowly, he stood motionless, staring into the dark, abandoned apartment.

  "You okay,
son?" a voice from behind him caused him to jump, pulling his attention back away from the memories which were beginning to invade his thoughts.

  He turned to see a small, elderly man, standing only to the middle of his chest, with a shiny, bald head, and a mouth full of obviously fake teeth. "Yea," Michael replied, trying to push back the emotions that were on the brink of overflowing.

  "Sad what happened to that one," he said motioning towards Rachel's apartment with the wooden cane he was holding. "Did you know her?"

  "She was my fiancée," Michael explained.

  "Now, that can't be," the man said, his head bobbing back and forth as he spoke.

  "I'm sorry?" Michael asked, looking at him confused.

  "No," he said again, "I just talked to her fiancé about an hour ago," he continued. "He was trying to get into her apartment, said he left his key at home and asked if I knew anyone in the building who had a spare."

  "What did he look like?" Michael asked quickly, having to restrain himself from the urge to reach out and shake the answers out of the old man.

  "Oh, he was a pretty tall fellow, had no hair, like me," he added laughing. "Looked a little rough around the edges, to be honest." He looked Michael up and down, "like you."

  "Did he get a key?" Michael demanded. "Did he get in?"

  "No, I don't think he did," the old man replied thoughtfully. "I saw him drive off shortly after we spoke."

  “Was he driving a black Impala?” Michael asked, suspicious.

  “No,” the man replied, thoughtfully. “It was an old blue beater, I’m sure of it.”

  "Interesting," Michael said under his breath. He didn't bother to say anything else, but turned away from the man entered the apartment and quickly slammed the door shut behind him. "Tall, bald, rough…" he said out loud. "Obviously not Hamilton," he concluded. "But who would want to get in here? And for what?"

  He moved down the hall and into the family room. The air still smelled like her—sweet, with a hint of a tropical, almost coconut, scent. She always wore the same perfume, ever since the day they met. He would never forget it. Looking around the room, he tried to recall what condition it was in when he last saw it. Not to bring up the memories of Rachel, but instead to see if he noticed if anything was missing.

  He walked from the family room, slowly through the kitchen, and down the short hall that lead to her bedroom. Pausing with his hand on the knob, he took a deep breath before pushing the door open. Walking into the room was like walking into a brick wall. He felt like the wind was knocked out of him, and had to lean forward, placing his weight on his knees, to keep from falling forward.

  Her bed was made neatly with the pillows arranged just the way she always liked them to be. The only thing different was the absence of the plush bear she insisted she would never grow out of. Assuming that was one of the objects her parents took, he took two steps forward, hesitating before pulling open the closet door. Pulling it back quickly, he scanned the items as rapidly as possible before slamming it shut again. All of her clothes still smelled like her.

  After finishing his inspection of her bedroom, he walked back to the family room. It was obvious her mother had been by to clean on several occasions, as there was only a very fine layer of dust collecting on the table next to the couch. He looked through the bookshelf on the far wall, where most people would have a TV, but not Rachel. She never felt the need for one. From there, he examined the stack of magazines under the coffee table, and the pile of old mail sitting on the kitchen counter. Nothing. He wasn't sure exactly what he was looking for, anyways.

  As he made one last sweep through the apartment, something caught his eye. Sitting in the corner of her bedroom was a backpack. He didn't notice it before because he was too worried about keeping his composure. As he walked closer to it, he examined it. Rachel never carried a backpack, not even when she was still in school.

  When he picked it up, he saw Jason's name written in permanent marker going across the bottom. It was light, and at first, he didn't think there was anything in it, but his better judgment told him to look inside anyways.

  He carried it back to the family room, and sat on the floor, pulling open the bag, and peering inside. In the bottom, there was a sheet of paper, folded up small, and stuck to a crevice running along the bottom of the bag. He pulled it out carefully, so as not to rip it as he did.

  When he opened it gingerly, the first thing he saw was the letters, "Hamilton & Le" written across the top. Even though the sheet was ripped, he could make out what he believed to be a phone number, although the last two digits were missing. Under it was a list of dates, written in Rachel's delicate handwriting. Again, only partial bits of the words and numbers remained, but he could guess that they included the time and date of what he assumed were the calls exchanged between the firm and the number at the top of the small piece of paper.

  "This is it," he said, holding the paper up and squinting at it. It was getting dark. He hadn't realized how late it was, or how long he had spent wandering back and forth in her apartment. It was no good trying to read the scrap of paper there in the dark—her parents had turned off the electricity months ago. Deciding to investigate it further back at the house, he folded it up carefully, placed it in his pocket, returned the backpack to its place in the corner of Rachel's bedroom, and began walking towards the front door.

  When he pulled the door open, however, he was knocked backward by someone rushing into the apartment. His head flew back and cracked against the cold tile floor. A wave of pain surged through him, but he quickly pushed it from his mind. When he looked up from his spot on the floor, a tall, masked man stood over him, pointing a gun in his face. "Where is it?" the man demanded.

  "Where is what?" Michael asked, trying to play dumb, although he had a good idea what he was looking for.

  "You know what I want!" the man shouted down at him, shaking the gun in his face.

  "Ugh," Michael said, lifting his hands to his face, acting as if he were going to wipe away the blood that was starting to pour out of a gash on his forehead caused by the impact of the door. Before the man could respond, he reached back, over his head, and wrapped his hands around the man's ankles, pulling them out from under him, causing him to fall to the floor.

  With this, the gun went sliding across the tile, just out of the reach of either of them. Michael tried to push himself up and lunge for the gun before the masked man was able to, but he was stopped abruptly by an elbow thrown in his face. He heard the bones in his nose crack with the blow, and his mouth began to fill with blood.

  Retaliating quickly, Michael let a fist fly, landing squarely in the jaw of his attacker. He took advantage of his momentary edge to push himself to his feet. His advantage didn't last long, however, because as he threw himself forward to reach for the gun, the man leaped to his feet, pulling Michael back by his shirt and throwing him against the wall. He then raised his knee forcefully, placing a blow in Michael's gut, causing him to wretch forward, spitting out the remaining blood still in his mouth from his broken nose.

  With his head down, he barreled his shoulder into the man's stomach, throwing him back onto the ground. He stretched his arm out as far as it would go, just reaching the grip of the gun. The man reached up, trying to throw his hand away, but Michael was able to grab hold of the weapon, rolling off the man simultaneously, and standing to his feet.

  He was now the one hovering over the other, pointing a gun in his face. "Who sent you?" he demanded.

  "I don't know," the man replied, holding out his hands, palms up.

  "Get up!" Michael ordered. When the man looked up at him dumbfounded, he demanded again, "get up!"

  Slowly, the man pushed himself to his feet. Michael took two steps backward, making sure there was no chance the man could retaliate and take the gun back. "I swear, I don't know," he said again.

  "Was it Derek Hamilton?" Michael yelled.

  "What? No, I don't think so. I really don't know!"

  "Ho
w do you not know?" Michael demanded.

  "I was just assigned a job; I didn't ask questions."

  "What was your job?"

  The man didn't answer.

  "Tell me!" Michael screamed. He could feel his face burning red.

  "I was sent here to get a backpack," the man replied. "That's all. Just to get a backpack."

  "Then why the gun?"

  "Because I knew you were already here," he replied slyly. "I was waiting for you."

  "You're the one who tried to get in earlier?" Michael asked.

  "Yes. And when that didn't work, I called my boss who called the client, who said that a big, shaggy-haired man would come by eventually, so I should stake the place out."

  "Who's your boss—who knows who the client is?" Michael demanded.

  "What's it to you?" the man shot back.

  Michael stepped forward, pushing the barrel of the gun into the man's forehead. "Nothing," he said calmly. "But it's life or death for you."

  Chapter 5: New Friends…

  When the masked man told Michael the name of his boss—Mickey Walsh, or the "matchmaker" as he was known on the street—he let him go. He sent him away with the backpack, telling him to let the client have it. Regardless, he kept the slip of paper tucked tightly in his pocket.

  When he got back to his house, his nose wouldn't stop bleeding, and the large cut in his forehead needed to be stitched up. That wasn't the problem, though. If he could get his hands on some needle and thread, he could take care of the cut with no problem, and he knew from experience his nose would eventually stop gushing blood. What was the problem, was the gash on the back of his head he received upon being thrown back onto the floor when the man came into the apartment.

  "Damn it," he said leaning and tilting his head back and forth, trying to get a better view of the damage. "Damn it, damn it, damn it," he repeated, walking out of the bathroom and turning off the light.

  He found an old towel, wrapped some ice in it, and pressed it to the back of his head. He knew he couldn't go to the hospital, they would ask questions and no matter what lie he told, no one would believe that this was caused by something as simple as slipping in the shower, or tripping down the stairs. The cops would be called, and he would once again be ridiculed and scolded.