Forget Me Not

by Vicki Hinze

  “I don’t know that he’s done anything yet, or that he plans any action. But neither do I know that Brandt hasn’t infiltrated. He could have caught wind of something and acted on it.”

  “From where?”

  “Edward.” Paul sent Gregory a level look. He could be annoyed at his raising that possibility again, but Chessman needed to give it due consideration. Paul understood how the man’s mind worked—his own worked in the same way, only wiser and better. But in Edward’s convoluted way, tapping Brandt on the shoulder made sense. “Maybe Edward knows you’ll sacrifice him to save yourself.”

  “Of course he knows that.”

  “Then statistically speaking, Edward is going to do what any man in that position would do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Kiss loyalty good-bye.” Paul put a warning bite in his tone he wanted Chessman to hear. “And sacrifice you first.”

  Gregory dismissed Paul’s warning—he had squashed others just like Edward—and thought through the possibility. Would Edward be so stupid as to get Benjamin Brandt involved? Would Brandt so stupidly get involved?

  Either or both might, especially with their knowing nothing about NINA. Edward, to save his neck. Ben, to find the truth. He’d been obsessed with finding his family’s killers from the start, following all leads—even those deemed impossible—and there was that two-month stint in seclusion with his docs. Very little was known about that, but the village grapevine had been hot with speculation.

  Peggy Crane had denied the rumors, no doubt out of loyalty to Ben and to Susan. Yet Melanie Ross, being young and guileless, had been far less discreet. Ben apparently had spent two months in total seclusion with an army of psychiatrists and crisis counselors—Dr. Harvey Talbot among them. Supposedly they were doing extensive research on incidental shootings. With Talbot gone, Lisa Harper had been hired to fill in at the crisis center.

  Maybe Edward wasn’t involved at all. He could still be in hiding with Harry. Maybe Brandt had discovered something and had hired on with the recruiter.

  Not nearly so certain as he had been, Gregory looked at Paul.

  “You see now.” Paul pulled out a handkerchief and sneezed into it. “It is possible.”

  “Okay, it’s possible. But if it isn’t Brandt and it is Edward, what is he doing?”

  “Posturing, sir.” Paul frowned. “I’m just not yet sure why.”

  Paul unsure? The same Paul who stayed at least three steps ahead of everyone else? The same Paul who routinely examined multiple scenarios, formed multiple strategies, and never had been more than two percentage points off anything in his adult life? Paul, who made murder disappear and delivered a recruit’s bloody finger to assure Gregory the man wouldn’t make future errors? Now, when most desperately needed, that Paul stood unsure?

  That worried Gregory most of all.

  8

  Susan swallowed a bite of burger. The flavor burst in her mouth, wiping out the pain of chewing, and her stomach grumbled, protesting its long absence of food.

  “You’ve got to chew and swallow it for the food to do your gut any good.”

  Sitting in Crossroads’ kitchen, she glanced over the tabletop to Clyde. “Thanks.”

  “You feeling bad?” He dabbed at his mouth with a scrunched-up paper napkin.

  “Define bad.” She grunted and sipped from her paper cup of soda. Her jaw was so sore that her teeth hurt. Using the straw had been impossible. “I ache from head to toe, but that’s nothing compared to how—”

  No. She stopped herself suddenly. She couldn’t think about that. Fear was insulting to God. She had survived and she would be fine. Her memory would come back … sometime.

  Dr. Talbot came in. “I have some good news.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Not yet.” He slid onto a seat beside Clyde. “May I speak about your condition here, or would you prefer privacy?”

  “Here’s fine.” Clyde knew everything she knew already.

  “We’ve gone through all your test results, and you don’t have Dissociative Fugue.”

  She took a sip from her cup. “What is it, then?”

  “We think it’s the result of your head injury and/or an effect of the drug used to subdue you. Probably a combination of the two, though we can’t be sure. If we’d gotten blood right away, maybe. But—”

  “This is the good news, right?”

  “Far less complicated to treat, yes.”

  “And my memory?”

  “We’re not sure, Susan. It could return at any time, all at once, or in pieces. It could take a while. The important thing to remember is that forcing it won’t work and could exacerbate the problem. Anxiety and stress won’t do you any good either.” He smiled. “So you’re under direct orders not to worry.”

  This sounded better, but in her position, how could she avoid worry, anxiety, and stress? “I’ll try.”

  “Try hard,” Talbot said. “It’s important.”

  “So is remembering.” She dusted salt from a fry off her fingertips. “This has wiped out my past—I remember nothing from before the attack—and it’s punched in huge holes of what happened during it. I see flashes, little snips and snatches. They’re not always connected and they don’t always make sense.”

  “I understand. Just try to let it come as it will.” Harvey got up and grabbed a bottle of tea from the fridge. “Still nothing on your lost day?”

  “Not a thing,” Susan said, “which sure sounds like chloroform or some combination of it and short-term amnesia drugs.”

  “They use them in surgery all the time,” Clyde chimed in. “I had an arteriogram last spring. Don’t recall a thing about it.”

  “They are common,” Dr. Talbot said, “in some diagnostic procedures.”

  She asked the question she wasn’t sure she wanted answered. “Do you think there’ll be long-term effects?” That worried her with the first diagnosis. It worried her with this new one.

  “We’ll know more in a few days. You’re doing well now. That’s encouraging.” His beeper went off. “Sorry. I’ve got to run.”

  Susan watched him go.

  “You’re worrying,” Clyde said, assuming his self-defined protector role. “Harvey’s encouraged. He said to avoid worry.”

  “Wouldn’t you worry, Clyde?” She automatically reached for the cross that had hung at her neck. Not finding it, she felt empty. “Someone wants me dead, and I have no idea why.”

  “Yeah, I reckon I would be a mess. But I hope I’d remember what we both know too. God’s in control. He’ll set things to right.”

  She believed that. It was just beyond unsettling to have all these things happening and not to know what was behind them. That she was in danger was apparent. But from whom, and for what reason? And what kind of person was she to warrant all this criminal activity? It couldn’t be good. Actually, it had to be pretty bad. And knowing it had her nerves raw, tight, and threatening to fray.

  Hearing voices, Susan looked at the kitchen door just as Peggy and Ben walked in. Seeing her, Peggy smiled. “Glad to see you eating.”

  Susan nodded. “I need the fuel to figure out what to do.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Ben asked.

  “I don’t know. I have no memory so there’s no one to call, no money, no—” A catch stuck in her throat. To cover it, she paused and took a sip of her drink. “I don’t have many options.”

  “We’re going to help you.” Peggy sat beside her. “You have no reason to panic and every reason not to worry.”

  Everyone telling you not to worry made you worry. Didn’t they realize that? Susan paused, refocused. “I appreciate it, really. But I don’t think you can afford much more of me being here. I’ve already gotten you bombed.”

  “You’ll come home with me.” Clyde polished off a french fry. “I’ve got plenty of room.”

  “Absolutely not.” He’d taken on a fatherly role with her, but she couldn’t do this to him. “I do thank you. It
means the world to me that you’d offer, but—”

  “Then why not accept?” He frowned.

  She clasped his hand on the table. “Clyde, you’ve been in danger twice for me. I can’t put you in danger again, and I don’t dare risk anything happening to you. You’re all I’ve got.”

  “Which is why you should let me help you.”

  Peggy stepped in. “Susan, we’re a crisis center. This is what we do.”

  “I can’t.” She stiffened. “It’s too dangerous for all of you.”

  “It’s common for us,” Peggy countered. “We don’t dump victims in the street. You’re the reason we exist.”

  Susan looked down, afraid she’d cry.

  “We own a lovely hotel called The Towers,” Peggy said. “You can stay there while we sort things out.”

  Unable to talk past the lump in her throat, she blinked hard.

  “No.” Ben crossed his arms over his chest.

  “No?” Peggy looked stunned, her round, affable face reddening.

  “It’s okay, Peggy.” What Susan would do, she had no idea, but if Ben didn’t want her at his hotel, well, under the circumstances, she couldn’t blame him. This all had to be really tough on him. “Ben’s right. It’s not a good idea to put the others at The Towers at risk.”

  “No, no. I didn’t mean we wouldn’t help you.” Ben turned his gaze to a skeptical-looking Peggy. “I meant that, considering the attacks, I don’t think The Towers is a good idea.”

  “Oh.” Peggy looked decidedly relieved. “You do recall what Harvey and Lisa said. Feeling safe is essential to Susan’s memory returning.”

  “Yes, I recall.” Ben sat beside Clyde, across the table from her. “She’s right about The Towers. We have twenty-seven people there right now.”

  “Twenty-six.” Peggy grimaced. “One left this morning.”

  That she wasn’t happy about that was clear. Susan knew why; she’d overheard Lisa telling Peggy about the abused wife who had returned home that morning.

  “Twenty-six.” Ben acknowledged the change. “The security there is good, but at Three Gables it’s better, and there aren’t other victims at risk.”

  “Three Gables.” Susan cocked her head. “Like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s story?”

  “Very interesting.” Ben’s eyes shone. “Most who make the connection go right to Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Never mind that,” Peggy said. “There’s no connection to either of them, Susan.” She turned a frown on Ben. “She can’t stay at Three Gables. It’s not proper.”

  “It is proper. I’m talking about the cottage, not the house.” He swung his gaze to Susan. “Three Gables is my home. There are two guest cottages on the grounds. Both are empty. You’ll be safe, and you’re welcome to stay there as long as you like.”

  All this and he’d also open his home to her? Overwhelmed, she couldn’t speak.

  “The security is first-rate, Susan,” Peggy said. “Mark Taylor, Ben’s security chief, is excellent. You’ll like him. And until we find out who’s attacking you, we need to keep you isolated and out of pocket.”

  Clyde reached over, patted her hand. “I’d enjoy the company, but Ben’s right. Three Gables is best for you.”

  “Thank you. All of you.” Susan finally found her voice. “Hopefully, someone will file a missing person’s report with the police soon, and I won’t have to impose on you long.”

  “It’s no imposition.” Peggy snitched a fry. “Like I said, it’s why we exist.”

  Susan flipped the bag of fries around to share them. Her hand trembled, and she quickly drew it back, then tucked it into her lap. “What if they come back?”

  “It’s easy to say don’t worry about that, but anyone would.” Ben reached over and took a fry. “Instead, I’ll say that until they hit the center, we didn’t know they were there. Now we do.” Ben snapped down his teeth, nipping a bite. “If they come back, we’ll be ready for them.”

  “We?” Surprise rippled through her body. “As in, you and me?”

  “You and me and Mark Taylor and the security staff at Three Gables, Peggy and our staff here, the police—everyone who needs to be prepared.” Ben motioned to her food. “You’re not eating. Should this discussion wait until you’re done?”

  He sounded a bit irked about having a security staff and contrite about her not eating. The second surprised her more than the first, though why he’d be irked at having protection she couldn’t imagine. It sounded great to her—at least, at the moment. Would it normally? Not knowing, the tart bite of pickle in her mouth seemed to swell. When she finally could swallow, she did and then said, “I’m fine. Just slow.”

  Clyde cleared his throat. “Her jaw’s sore and her teeth ache. She can hardly chew.”

  Her face burned. “I’m fine. Really.”

  “When you’re done here, we’ll get going then.” Ben glanced at his watch. “It’s after six o’clock. Where’d the afternoon go?”

  “Tied up getting counselors for Mobile, dealing with the police chief, the mayor and his wife, the fire department, the insurance—”

  “Enough, Peg. Don’t make me relive it.” Ben looked at the burger, at Susan. “That was supposed to be your lunch.”

  “She couldn’t eat. Nervous stomach,” Clyde said. “So we waited a spell.”

  Susan frowned at him. “Do you tell everyone everything?”

  “’Course not,” Clyde said, not at all ruffled. “Just those who need to understand you’re a mite fragile right now and they need to mind their manners.”

  He’d heard about Ben being hard on her and he was not happy.

  Ben had the grace to look away.

  Susan wanted to relieve the tension, but anything she said would make matters worse.

  Peggy, being Peggy, stepped in and paved the way. “We’ll get you some fresh clothes in the morning, Susan. Shopping in the village is limited, and the stores open on Sunday shut down at six. A couple sets of scrubs is the best we can do right now.”

  “That would be great. Thank you.” At war with herself, Susan glanced down at the table. On the one hand, Ben opening his home—well, his cottage—to her, and on the other, humbled and grateful for the assistance the center offered her. Yet never in her life had she felt more alone.

  Or more frightened.

  They would come back.

  Imagining the two men who’d abducted her, she shivered. Her every instinct blared an alarm that they wouldn’t stop coming back. Not until they felt they had nothing to fear.

  Not until she was dead.

  Paul Johnson parked his black Lexus and caught up with Chessman on the well-lit driving range, a new addition to Seagrove Village Country Club’s world-class golf course added by its nongolfing owner, Mrs. Mayor, Darla Green. Paul waited, admiring Chessman’s flawless swing.

  When Chessman spotted Paul, he stuffed his club into his bag, then grabbed a bottle of water from his cart. Twisting off its cap, he walked over. “Smile, Paul. You look like the Grim Reaper.”

  “Soon enough, sir.” Tonight, the subject would be at The Towers, and so would he. When she was no longer a threat, then Paul would have reason to smile.

  Chessman took a long drink of water. “Have you located Edward or Harry?”

  “Not yet, sir. Last sighting was at Crossroads. Harry bombed it while Edward drove the subject’s Jag.” The fool had no sense. Totally unprofessional. That alone was reason enough to kill him.

  “What about her?”

  “Still playing princess in the ivory tower.” He cleared his throat, pausing while two men walked by, heading toward the club. “There is an interesting development on that front. Benjamin Brandt was in the center when it was bombed. Could mean he was hired by our New Orleans recruit, and Edward and Harry were trying to take care of that problem for us.”

  “Edward would see the benefit in doing that.”

  “Yes, he would.” Paul had. And Harry would do whatever he was told.

  “So which is it? A
re they working for or against us?”

  “The investigation continues.”

  “Where’s Brandt?”

  “Still at the center, sir.”

  Worry dragged at the lines in Chessman’s face, proving he clearly understood the danger of Brandt and the woman being in close proximity. “I thought he never went to the center.”

  “This is the first time he’s been there since his wife’s death.” Paul tucked his chin to his chest. “Today.”

  “Hmm.” Chessman paused. “I don’t like it. It’s too convenient to be coincidental. Maybe he did hire on with your recruit.”

  “The jury is still out on that, sir, and I fear it will be for a time.” Paul resented having to admit that. It was an unfortunate reflection on his competence that he’d pay for in due time.

  “Why? What’s the delay with the recruit?” Gregory took another long drink.

  It was warm, even for October, and sticky from the high humidity. Paul squinted against the dying sun and looked into his boss’s face. “I faxed over a photo of Brandt, but to no avail.”

  “To no avail.” That infuriated Gregory; it showed in the tension in his body, the set of his shoulders, the fire in his eyes. “Exactly what do you mean, Paul?”

  His boss was going to hate this, almost as much as Paul hated it. “Our recruit never saw the hireling, so he can’t tell from a photo if he hired Brandt or Edward or someone else.”

  A couple set up near them with a bucket of balls. Chessman turned his back on them, deepened his frown, and dropped his voice so only Paul would hear. “What are you going to do about it?” Before Paul could answer, Chessman added, “I need that information, Paul. And I need it now.”

  “Yes sir.” He rushed to reassure his boss. When Gregory Chessman succumbed to rage, bad, bad things happened. Even crazy women died. “I have a plan to get it and settle the question conclusively, sir.”

  “Conclusively?”

  “Relative to Brandt, yes. A hundred percent conclusive.”

  “How?”

  “Voiceprint.”

  Chessman nodded. “Very well.”

  Paul dabbed at his damp brow with a spotless white hanky. “But to get it, I’ll need your help.”