Forget Me Not

by Lee Boschen

  He peered out of Roget's kitchen window. Webb's house was quiet. Be dark before long. Where the hell was Webb?

  Pacing around the house, he'd already worked out his plea—temporary insanity brought on by the stress of imprisonment and the pain of his injuries. It was up to his lawyers to make it fly. For what he paid them...

  Another look out the window.

  Webb! God, he'd almost missed him, walking hand in hand with the whore Leslie, like lovers, up to the door of Webb's place. He wanted to open the door and start blasting. End it once and for all, but the thought of Webb's watching the whore Leslie die screaming under his knife was too sweet. Give them a chance to get in and settle down, then...

  What the hell! Who was the woman creeping around the corner of Webb's house? Christ, she was carrying a pistol. Was she after Webb too? He could see his options slipping away; he had to get to Webb first. He opened Roget's front door quietly, remembered to leave it open lest the noise of closing it alert the woman with the gun, and crept stealthily toward where the woman was pressing her ear against Webb's front door. What was going on inside?

  The woman sensed him and spun away from the door, raising her pistol, but Wright was faster, smashing his pistol against her head. Her pistol dropped from her hand and she fell against the door. Damn her, now they'd be alerted inside. No time to finish off the woman, he had to make his move now. Stepping over her body, he slammed his heel against the door with all his might. The door flew open and he strode inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Phearson and Dailey were waiting in the living room when Richard and Leslie walked into the house. Coleen sat on the floor, her back against the wall, her wrists and ankles bound with layers of duct tape. More tape covered her mouth.

  Phearson crouched beside Coleen, his pistol against her head. “Go check outside,” he told Dailey.

  In a moment Dailey returned. “Nothing.” He laughed. “I guess you sold ‘em, all right. They think they're going to walk away."

  Leslie's mouth went dry at his words. One last hope, she thought. Honey and Fahrquar should be moving into position now. From here on it's up to them. The weight of her pistol was heavy in her purse. Would she have a chance to use it? She daren't try, not now, with Phearson's weapon at Coleen's head.

  Richard had heard Dailey's words too, and interpreted them correctly as their death sentence. “The thing that gets me about this, Phearson,” he said, “is that none of it was necessary. No one knew your picture was on that film, and once the Kimberlys had their Christmas cards, chances are they would have tossed the negatives. They wouldn't have been able to use them again next year, and they had no sentimental value.” He shook his head slowly. “No need for this at all."

  Phearson shrugged. Standing, he moved his pistol from Coleen to cover Richard and Leslie. “What's done is done.” His gaze moved to Dailey for a moment. “We couldn't afford to take a chance."

  Like a bantam strutting, Dailey swaggered up to Leslie and held out his hand. “Give me the negatives.” When she stepped back, away from him, her mouth twisting in revulsion, he snapped his fingers. “Come on, baby, let's have ‘em, or do you want me to take ‘em off your body?"

  She darted a look at Richard. His body was coiled tight, his fists hard knots as he poised to spring at Phearson.

  Phearson saw the look and he aimed his pistol at Richard. “Don't try it. I'll kill you before you've gone a step."

  "Kill him now,” Fazz snapped.

  "You damned fool,” Phearson shouted. “You want to do it again? Kill everyone before we have the film? Get the damned film."

  Fazz glowered at Phearson, then, “Yeah. You're right.” He peered up at Leslie, his little eyes glinting between the rolls of fat on his cheeks. “Who's got it, baby, you or him?"

  "Let Coleen go first,” she said, hoping against hope.

  Dailey broke into laughter. “Yeah, sure.” He reached out to grab Leslie's blouse. “Maybe, if you cooperate..."

  At his touch, Leslie's tight control broke. She hit him in the face with every ounce of her strength, knocking him sprawling. Dailey lay stunned for a moment, then rolled over onto his hands and knees, staring up at her, his eyes glittering, his face pale with fury. Leslie saw the print of her hand on his face.

  At the sound of Phearson's snort, Dailey's eyes shifted to meet Phearson's contemptuous gaze, and he flushed red at the disdainful curl of Phearson's lips. Dailey stood, gasping his words in his rage. “You're gonna die, bitch.” He reached under his jacket and pulled out his pistol, then walked up to Leslie and punched it hard against her stomach.

  Leslie's body grew taut, her heart a giant drum, banging wildly as she waited for Dailey to pull the trigger. Her eyes sought Richard's, and she willed him not to move. Pinned under Phearson's pistol, if he came to her defense, she knew he would die, and with him Coleen's last hope to survive.

  Richard's face was a mask of torment, and she heard his soft groan, “No-o."

  Dailey heard it too. He stepped back, grinning grotesquely, his gaze flicking between Richard and Leslie. “Yeah, that would be too quick,” he whispered. He looked at the weapon he held, finally shoving it back into its holster. “Yeah, first you're gonna watch your kid die. Oh, yeah,” he breathed. “An’ I'll make sure she dies hard. Then I'll do you.” From his pocket he pulled a knife. Flicking open the blade, he held it against Leslie's cheek. The feel of the cold steel sent a chill of horror through her, and she shuddered. “Oh, Christ,” Dailey said. “I'm gonna enjoy you."

  He walked over to Coleen, grabbed her arm and dragged her away from the wall. Laughing softly, he circled around her, his eyes on Leslie. “Watch this, bitch."

  "Get on with it, Dailey,” Phearson said. “The longer we hang around here, the more likely somebody will come by. We need to get the film and get out of—"

  A noise at the front door interrupted him. Startled, Dailey dropped his knife and spun to face the doorway, scrabbling under his coat for his pistol. Phearson rounded on Richard. “You had to try something cute, didn't you? I warned you what would happen. Now everybody loses.” He raised his pistol to point at Coleen.

  With a crash, the front door was kicked in, to hang drunkenly from one hinge. Leslie's heart sank at the sight of the man who stood there, a pistol in his hand.

  Alex!

  Leslie's last hope dwindled. She turned her head for a last despairing look at Richard.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  "No-o,” Alex howled at Dailey. “They're mine. Mine. You can't have them."

  He raised his pistol and fired.

  Dailey grunted, staggering back at the bullet's impact, his hands pressed hard against his belly. His lips drew back in a gaping grimace, and he groaned as pain flared inside him. He dropped to his knees, painfully turning his head to glare at Leslie. He strained to raise his pistol to fire at her, but it seemed too heavy for him to lift, and it fell from his hand. A second later he sagged forward on his face, his feet drummed wildly for an instant, then he lay still.

  Alex hadn't waited to point his pistol at Phearson. But he was too late; Phearson was already aiming and now he fired. Alex's leg collapsed under him, and he fell against the door frame. His lips pulled back in a wild rictus of pain and rage, Alex pulled the trigger of his pistol. His bullet dug a splintery groove in the hardwood floor. Phearson fired again. And again, watching as Alex, his face a mask of hate, struggled to bring his pistol to bear, not on Phearson, but on Richard. Phearson fired once more and Alex collapsed across the open doorway.

  Richard was already moving. Taking advantage of the distraction, he dove toward Phearson, slamming Phearson to the floor and reaching out for the pistol. The two men rolled on the floor, struggling for control of Phearson's weapon.

  Leslie frantically dug in her purse for her own pistol. She clicked off the safety and watched in dread as Richard and Phearson struggled. But she had no clear shot.

  Phearson freed his hand for a second and fired. His bullet punched R
ichard back, blood spraying from his head. On his hands and knees, Phearson scrambled away from Richard and raised his pistol to aim another shot at Richard.

  "No! I'll shoot.” Leslie aimed her pistol at Phearson. She screamed the word again, “No!"

  Phearson's head whipped around to see the pistol pointed at him, and his eyes met hers.

  "Drop your gun,” she shouted.

  Phearson froze under the threat of her weapon, and his eyes, fiery and compelling, locked to hers. Then, slowly, smoothly, careful to avoid the appearance of threat, he began to bring his pistol around toward her.

  Leslie stared into Phearson's eyes, paralyzed by his burning gaze. Part of her mind—cool, detached—knew what he was doing. That part of her mind noted his arm coming around, observed his hand beginning to rise slowly toward her.

  Her heart ached with a profound sense of loss. He's killed Richard. Alex and Dailey are dead, and in a moment I'll be dead. Then he'll kill Coleen with Dailey's gun, the negatives will disappear and he'll go free—a hero to have solved the crime. It'll all have been Dailey's doing.

  No. Never.

  Carefully, gently, just as she had practiced so often on the firing range, she squeezed the trigger. Her shot struck Phearson squarely between his eyebrows.

  Her ears ringing from the sound of gunfire, her mind dazed by the noise and violence, she stood motionless, looking down at the three bodies. Her hand fell to her side, and after a moment she became aware of the weight of the pistol in her hand. She snapped on the safety and put the weapon back in her purse.

  A loud clatter, then another shot boomed. A shrill cry sounded from the back of the house. There was a third man, Leslie thought. One they hadn't known about. Thank God Fahrquar was back there.

  It didn't matter, though. Not anymore. Moving like an automaton, she stumbled to where Coleen lay on the floor. Kneeling, she cut away the gag and the tape at Coleen's feet and wrists, and took Coleen in her arms, hugging her tightly, summoning strength from deep within her to murmur sounds of reassurance.

  After a moment, Coleen, her voice tentative and filled with dread, asked, “Mom, is

  Richard ... is he all right?"

  "Richard is dead, honey. They're all dead."

  "Aw, Mom, we were gonna be—” Coleen's voice quavered. “He made me feel ... like I was grown up.” She burst into tears.

  The dam of Leslie's control burst then, and her tears started, scalding hot as the pain of her loss began to seep out from under the numbing shock.

  So long as we both shall live.

  Five days.

  "No-o,” she moaned in her anguish. “No. So little. Oh, Richard, my heart, why couldn't it have been me?"

  The wail of sirens finally penetrated her misery. The neighbors, she thought dully. They couldn't have missed the sound of all the shooting. Soon a uniformed officer, his pistol drawn, edged past the broken front door, stepping cautiously over Alex's body. His partner rose from examining the woman's body outside the door, and used his radio to call for an ambulance. Detective Honey, Leslie thought sorrowfully. Was she another of Alex's victims?

  The officers stopped at the sight of the woman and child sitting on the floor. “What's happened here?” one of them asked.

  From the depths of her misery, Leslie stared at him. Let them talk to Fahrquar. Silently, she pointed down the hall toward the garage, and one of the officers left. The other officer knelt beside the bodies and began to check each one. Leslie saw the shock in his face as he rolled over one body.

  "Jesus,” he said. “I know this guy. He's a cop, a lieutenant of detectives."

  He shook his head over the little fat man, then...

  "Hey, this one's still alive.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Richard had been awake for several minutes, trying to sort out the memories as they flickered in and out, and watching the woman as she stood looking pensively out the window. She was wearing green slacks. That particular shade—surgical greens? He was in a hospital?

  His head twinged as he moved and he remembered. Yes, he'd walked into the tunnel to the Meridian parking garage, and ... he stared up at the ceiling. He couldn't remember coming out. Then, waking up here.

  Realization came. He'd been mugged, and he was in a hospital. The woman—she had to be a doctor. Who else would be here? Jan Waters maybe, but she wasn't Jan.

  His gaze moved back to her. Still, even standing with her face turned away from him, she looked familiar—sort of. She had on what looked like a man's white dress shirt, no larger than it had to be, and tucked into her slacks. Her hair, a shining dark brown, just the color of fresh-brewed coffee, was tied back in a pony tail which reached down between her shoulder blades.

  A tall woman, trim, with everything in proportion. She was little where she was supposed to be little—her waist, her wrists, her ankles. And she was nicely broad where a woman is meant to be broad. Underneath the white shirt, she was big enough where it's all right for a woman to be big. All smooth, soft curves.

  Yes, a lot of woman.

  A movement caught the corner of his eye and he saw a young girl sleeping soundly, curled up in a big chair in the corner of the room. It took him a moment to recognize her—she was the daughter of the woman in the Prince George. But what was she doing here? His gaze flew back to the woman as she turned away from the window, and when he saw her face, the shock stunned him speechless.

  Her.

  No wonder she looked familiar. He'd looked at her every Friday for weeks. He couldn't believe the lift he felt at the thought she had come to see him at the hospital.

  She caught him staring, and when he saw the expression on her face he felt as though he had just stepped out of the cold dark into the warm sunlight. Then he saw the flash of gold on the ring finger of her left hand.

  His spirits plunged. Oh, hell. She's married.

  But she hadn't been. He'd been sure about that. He'd checked, the first time he'd ever seen her, and she'd never worn a ring. When had she married? He'd made up his mind, he was going to ask her out next time he saw her. Dismayed, he could see his plans, his dreams, fading. Ask her out? And her married? Yeah. Sure.

  She moved to his bed and sat there beside him.

  "How do you feel?"

  This close, her golden eyes and warm smile hit Richard like a shot of bourbon on an empty stomach. He felt a pleasant glow spread outward. “Uh ... Okay, I guess. Head hurts some."

  Her face filled with sympathy. “Oh, darling, your poor head. I shouldn't wonder that it hurts. You've had some awful knocks. But it'll be better soon.” She sighed. “I guess you know Alex is dead."

  "Alex?"

  She nodded. “Yes, after he killed Dailey. Phearson killed him."

  Richard put his hand to his forehead. “Uh ... Phearson?"

  "The detective lieutenant, darling. How could you forget him after that terrible fight?” She reached for his hand. “Oh, sweetheart, I thought you were dead. And poor Coleen...” She turned to look across the room at the dark-haired girl asleep in the chair. “She was heartbroken.” Turning back to Richard, she added, “I guess you know she has the most enormous crush on you."

  Coleen. That was the girl's name? And she had a crush on him? This was crazier and crazier. He stared at the girl. How could she possibly have a crush on him? They'd never met. Yet ... Coleen. Yes, there was a place in his mind—

  The door to the room opened and a woman wearing a white smock and green slacks entered. She had a stethoscope draped around her neck, and a folder full of papers in her hand. She smiled at Richard. “Ah, you're awake. How do you feel?"

  Another doctor? “Who are you?” Richard asked.

  "I'm your nurse,” the woman replied.

  "My nurse? But...” Richard's looked at the other woman. “Then who are you?"

  She smiled at him. “I'm Leslie, darling. Your wife."

  "My wife?” Richard stared, open mouthed, at her.

  Leslie ... Yes, in his mind, hints. Tantalizing. Ma
ddeningly vague. His gaze dropped to his own left hand, to find a broad gold band there. Yes, she's married— but to me! The warm glow he'd had came back. A memory flashed in his mind—a filmy red negligee. We're married.

  But when? How could he forget something like that? The glow faded, and he raised his eyes to hers. “Leslie, I don't remember."

  Leslie grinned. “Come on, stop pretending, you can't have forgotten me so soon. We've only been married for—"

  Her hand rose to her mouth, her eyes round as she realized what must have happened. Was it the concussion from the impact when Phearson's bullet creased his skull? Or had his earlier memory simply returned? “Oh-h,” she said. “Oh, Lord.” He had lost the last two weeks, the memory of their time together. For a moment she was filled with fear, then she remembered their conversation from just days ago.

  "When you remember everything from before,” she asked. “Will you still remember everything after? Will you still remember me?"

  He grew still, staring at her. “Oh, hell.” The focus of his gaze shifted as he looked inside himself. “Talk about Catch-22.” He reached out to take her hand. “You'd better stick real close to me,” he told her. “If I could fall in love with you this quickly, then even if something wipes out my memory, if you're close at hand I'm bound to fall in love with you all over again."

  "Wouldn't that be nice,” she said.

  Leslie drew a deep breath, smiling at him. I'm going to stick to you like glue. “When I get you home, I'll tell you all about us. I'll help you remember.” Reaching out to touch his face, she said, “Oh, you've got some nice surprises in store, darling, and the rest of our lives to enjoy them.