Forget Me Not

by Vicki Hinze

  Tires squealed at the west boundary of Three Gables, on the street paralleling the property. Without thinking, Susan ran toward the sound.

  Ben followed her. “Stop! Stop!”

  She should stop, but every instinct warned her to run, warned her that running would give her a much-needed answer.

  Twilight flirted with deep shadows in the greenbelt woods beyond the landscaped lawn. Branches and spiny bushes scraped her legs and slapped her arms. A twig caught her right across the neck. She swatted it aside and ran on—and nearly tripped over a teenage boy sprawled on the ground. She dropped down and checked. He had a pulse, but he was out cold. Another boy lay a short distance away.

  “Ben! Hurry!” She scanned the street and caught a glimpse of a red Jag. Inside, she saw one of her abductors, the hooded-sweatshirt guy Mel had described as the crisis center bomber. “Ben!”

  He caught up to her, breathing hard. “Why did you take off like that? You heard Mark. You could have been hurt or even killed.”

  “They’re gone, and I’m fine.” She stepped aside. “Check that boy. This one is breathing.”

  Ben went to the second teen, bent down, and checked him. “He’s alive.” Using his cell, he hit speed dial. Seconds later, he said, “Mark, where are you?” He paused, then said, “Forget the reservation. The intruders are here. Two teenage boys. They’ve been beaten unconscious.” Another pause, then, “Where the fence was cut.” He grimaced. “Better get an ambulance.”

  “It was my abductor, Ben. At least, the passenger was, and they were in the Jag.” She wished Ben had seen it too.

  Sweat beaded on his brow. “Why would your abductors beat up two kids and dump them here?”

  “I don’t know. But maybe the teens do.”

  Ben looked at the kids, then back at her. “Why did you run here? Mark told us there’d been a breach.”

  “I had a feeling that if I followed the screeching tires, I’d find answers.”

  “A divine push kind of feeling?”

  “Yes.” She shrugged. “You might not want to hear it. I know you’ve sworn off God—don’t look shocked. Peggy inadvertently told me, explaining your behavior toward me.”

  “I haven’t sworn off God. I no longer believe He exists.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said and meant it. “That’s a hard way to live.”

  “Frankly, it is. But reality is what reality is. It’s honest. You live with it.”

  Angry and betrayed. If she’d lost her family, she might feel the same way—short-term. But she hoped she’d realize that was a misguided and lonely way to live. Three years was pushing the bounds on short-term—at least in her view. Maybe that’s why God had brought her into Ben’s life and told her to be patient with him: to help him find his way back—to life and to God.

  Having a better grip on her instructions, she didn’t push. “You’ll work through it your way in your own time, I’m sure.” Pushed, his shield would become a brick wall. Ben didn’t need to hear about faith; he needed to see it in action. “Me, I know this was a divine push—and the proof is right at your feet.”

  To Ben’s credit, he didn’t argue.

  A twig snapped.

  Susan spun toward the sound and saw a flashlight beam sweeping the woods. Memories of Clyde Parker and the crippling fear she’d felt on seeing his flashlight’s beam flooded her. Every muscle in her body tensed. She stood rigid, still. Give me strength. Please, give me strength.

  Mark stepped over a downed branch and dropped to examine the boys. One groaned. The other was still out.

  “Someone worked them over pretty good. Wake up.” Mark roused one, then the other with gentle shakes and a loud voice. “Who are you?”

  Neither spoke.

  Mark’s tone turned gruff. “Look, you’re going to jail for destroying the fence and trespassing. If you want any chance of avoiding the worst you can get, you’d better start talking right now.”

  “Jason Marsh,” the one closest to Susan said.

  “Shut up!” the other kid shouted.

  Mark turned to Ben. ““Why don’t you take Jason over to the fence and have a little chat with him.”

  Ben looked down at the boy. “Can you walk, Jason?”

  “Yeah.” He pulled himself to his feet. “I can take a punch.”

  “What about you?” Mark asked the reluctant one with blond hair and wide eyes. “You okay?”

  “Ticked off. Only a coward hits you from behind.”

  Susan muttered, “It doesn’t hurt less when they hit you head-on. Trust me on that one.”

  The boy blinked up at her. “They do that to your face?”

  “Yeah, they did. Only after they beat me up, they cracked me in the head with a rock and left me for dead.” She gave him a steady look. “You got off a little better.”

  The boy sucked in a shuddered breath. “Whoa.”

  “So who are you?” she asked. “And why did you cut the fence?”

  “Lance Green. My dad’s the mayor. But I didn’t cut any fence.” He lifted an arm, swiped at his nose. “Me and Jason were taking the shortcut to Snapper’s. We hang there.”

  Mark nodded, letting her know that wasn’t uncommon.

  “So why were you on the property? You knew it’d trigger the alarm, right?” She shrugged. “I mean, if you take the shortcut all the time, you know if you cross the fence, the alarm’s going to go off.”

  Lance rocked his head on his shoulders. “Yeah, everybody knows it. But we wanted the twenty bucks.”

  “What twenty bucks?” she asked.

  “The twenty the guy paid us.”

  “For beating you up?”

  “No, for running across the property. That’s it. We just ran across the property, cut through the woods, and met him on the other side.”

  So they wanted to sound the alarm. “Did he ask you any questions about the property or what you saw?”

  “No.” Lance shook his head. “He took the hats, gave us our money, and then left.”

  Something was wrong here. “Wait a second. What hats?”

  “The ones he wanted us to wear while we were running across the property.”

  “Why the hats?”

  “They were rigged with some electronics. I don’t know what kind. Never seen anything like them before.”

  “You’re lucky they weren’t bombs.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” He shuddered. “He said it was a joke on Mr. Brandt. We didn’t think much about it. He’s a good guy—Mr. Brandt, I mean.”

  So the man and the boys knew Ben, or knew of him. “So you were paid the twenty and then the men beat you up.”

  “That’s right.” Lance grunted, frustrated. “Like I said, we never saw them coming.”

  “But you took the money from them. How could you not have seen them coming?”

  “No.” He looked up at her, confused. “The guys who beat us up didn’t give us any money. I don’t know who they were. But the big one packed a wicked punch.”

  A chill swept up Susan’s back, and her worry reflected in Mark’s eyes. “The man with the money and the hats wasn’t the same man who beat you up?”

  “No ma’am. The guy with the hats—I don’t know him. He was by himself. He took the hats, paid us, and left. These other two guys beat us up and brought us here. I don’t know where they came from. Me and Jason were just walking down 98 minding our own business. The next thing I know, we’re creamed from behind and fighting them. I took a bad lick, and that’s all I remember until I woke up here.”

  Susan clenched her hands and dug deep not to panic. “There are two sets of them.”

  “Looks that way,” Mark said.

  Why would they dump the kids here? Susan couldn’t see the logic in it. She puzzled through it while Mark continued talking to Lance.

  Then the obvious became clear.

  She went over to Ben, tugged at his sleeve. “I need to talk to you.”

  He stepped away from Jason. “What is it?”

>   She filled him in on what she’d learned from Lance. “Ben, there’s only one reason my abductors would dump those kids here. They wanted us to find them.”

  “It’s deeper than that.” Ben looked into her eyes. “They wanted us to know that they weren’t trying to kill you.”

  “I don’t know if I agree with that.” Susan needed more time to think before making that one-eighty. “They jack my car, kidnap and drug me, beat me to a pulp, and leave me for dead. That’s not exactly expressing goodwill.”

  “If they wanted you dead, you’d be dead. You were drugged and not in a position to stop them, right?”

  “True.” A leaf clung to the shoulder of his shirt. She reached over and plucked it off, then tossed it to the ground.

  Ben jerked back at her touch.

  “I’m sorry.” Heat flooded her face. “I shouldn’t have touched you. I wasn’t thinking … ”

  The look in his eyes softened. “It’s okay. I-I just wasn’t expecting … ” He paused and let out a self-deprecating grunt. “Sorry. I definitely overreacted.”

  When he wasn’t snarling, he really was an attractive man. “No problem.” She dragged her lip between her teeth. “So either they weren’t trying to kill me, or they were and they’ve changed their minds.”

  “Seems that way to me.”

  But why? Her insides quaked. Her knees turned to water, but she followed his line of thinking to its next logical step. “If they’re not trying to kill me, then what’s this with these kids?”

  “A warning?”

  That struck her like a heavy hammer blow. “A warning that someone else is.”

  Detective Jeff Meyers interrogated the boys and got the same stories Ben, Susan, and Mark had gotten. Lance Green pleaded with Jeff until seven thirty not to call his parents. He swore he’d be on restriction until he turned twenty-one.

  Jeff had refused and phoned the mayor.

  He might have caved, but weapons were involved. That sealed the boys’ fates.

  Susan returned to the cottage before Mr. and Mrs. Mayor showed up to claim their son, happy to be spared from witnessing the fallout. She’d had all the tension and frustration and upset and everything else she could take. She needed a little serenity and peace.

  A shower, the clean scents of shampoo and soap clinging to her skin and filling her nose, and then dressing in fresh, soft blue scrubs helped.

  Afterward, she explored the cottage. Susan Brandt’s touch was everywhere. Warm sage and cream color palette, overstuffed, cushy sofa and chairs, lots of comforting touches that invited and welcomed. The cottage wasn’t large—a single bedroom, living room and kitchen combination, and a bath—but it had a little patio off its back door that was littered with white wicker furniture and lots of greenery. Susan liked it best of all.

  She walked outside, closed the french door behind her, then sat in a rocking chair. Its squeak was comforting, soothing her nerves. For long moments, she let her mind just drift, and then her situation intruded. She sought the courage to deal with everything that had happened and what she feared was yet to come.

  “Lord”—she folded her hands—“You are my refuge and strength … ”

  Ben heated the dinner his housekeeper, Nora, had prepared and left in the fridge before departing for the day. Then at eight o’clock sharp, he brought Susan from the cottage to the house.

  “I usually eat in here,” he said, talking about the kitchen. “But if you’d be more comfortable in the dining room—”

  “No.” Susan looked around. The kitchen was large but very informal. A fireplace with a rocker beside it took up the far wall. A breakfast bar with several stools stood center of the room, across from the sink, and in a nook stood a standard table and four matching chairs. In the corner there was a telltale highchair that must have once belonged to Ben’s son.

  “It was Christopher’s,” Ben said, his voice reverent and thick. “He’d be six now, if he’d lived. I just can’t make myself put it away.”

  Unable not to, she reached across the bar and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’d have a difficult time with that too.”

  He looked at her—really looked at her—as if seeing her the first time. “You’re not Susan.”

  Of all he could have said, that she never expected. “No, I’m not.”

  “I’m sorry.” He stepped back. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant, you resemble her, but more like a sister might. You’re distinctly different.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. It’s tough for me to tell with all the bruises.” She tried to smile. “Can I help?”

  “It’s done.”

  He grabbed a blue oven mitt and removed something that smelled great out of the oven.

  “Pot roast?” she asked.

  “Yes. And rosemary potatoes and squash casserole. Last of the season, Nora said.”

  “Nora?” Susan lifted the silverware from the bar and set the table.

  “She comes in every day to cook and clean.” He filled two glasses with ice and poured tea from a glass pitcher. “And to do a fair share of nagging me.”

  There was a fondness in his voice Susan loved. Indulgent fondness. “Are you related?”

  “Not by blood, but by choice, yes.” He motioned to a chair. “Have a seat. Please.”

  She sat down and waited for him to settle in. “You have a wonderful home.”

  “Thank you.” He cleared his throat. Stiff. Distant.

  “You don’t love it?”

  “I do.” He passed her the bowl of potatoes. “It’s just too big. I ramble around here lost most of the time.”

  He didn’t admit that often. How she knew it, she couldn’t say, but she was sure of it. And she couldn’t explain why, but it struck a familiar chord in her. “I think I understand what you mean.” She tilted her head and placed her napkin in her lap. “I think I feel lost a lot too.”

  He gave her a slow blink. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

  She shook her head, let him see how vulnerable that made her feel. “But when you talked about feeling lost, I knew exactly what you meant. It hurts deep.”

  Hesitating, he paused to study her. “Yes,” he finally said. “It does hurt deep.”

  She spooned squash casserole onto her plate. “I think I know that feeling well.”

  Ben reached for her hand, then squeezed it as she had his. “I’m sorry.”

  Too tender! Tears brimmed in her eyes, blurred her focus. She blinked hard to clear them. “Me too.”

  The room stilled, the tension between them melted, and an understanding borne in a common bond of loneliness and isolation formed between them.

  It was a welcome respite.

  They talked about what they’d learned from Lance and Jason, prodded her memory for details on the carjacking and her lost day, and ate their dinner. It was companionable, easy. It was nice.

  Relaxed, Susan sipped from her tea, then set the chilled glass down. “What do you think of the name Karen?”

  “I don’t know.” Ben took a bite of roast. “Why?”

  “I mentioned shortly after we got here that Susan isn’t my name, and I think if it’s something else, you might be able to say it. So what about Karen? Can you say Karen?”

  “Karen would be great.” He rewarded her with a smile.

  She smiled back at him. “Karen it is, then.”

  He took another bite of roast. “I’m curious. Why Karen?”

  “No reason, I’m sorry to say.” She pushed her potatoes with the tines of her fork. “It just, well, it isn’t Susan.”

  That surprised him. “You’re very blunt, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose I am. At least, that’s how I see myself.” She paused. “I don’t mean to offend; I just don’t have anything left for being subtle or playing nice. Right now, I’m struggling to stay upright.”

  “You’ve been through a lot in a short period of time. That’s scary, but having these men after you and not knowing why … Well, I ap
preciate the difficulty.” Admiration shone in his eyes. “You’re dealing with it well.”

  She had no choice. “Nothing is easy, and if I told you how often I’ve been praying I don’t find out I’m some kind of slug who’s done terrible things, you’d take back thinking I’m dealing well with anything.”

  He chewed slowly, took his time before answering. “Before I met you at the center, I’d have worried about that too. In fact, I did worry about it.”

  “But?” she urged him to go on. He wanted to say more; she could see it. Better to get it out in the open rather than have it hanging between them.

  “But I’m not worried anymore. I don’t know what all of this is about, Karen, but my gut says you’re as much a victim as Susan and Christopher were.”

  She suddenly felt a lot better. “Thank you, Ben.”

  “For what?”

  “That measure of trust”—she smiled at him—“and for using my adopted name.”

  “You’re welcome.” He smiled back.

  A genuine smile. Enjoying that small victory, she took another bite.

  Ben’s house phone rang just as he and Karen finished dinner.

  He excused himself and answered it. “Hello.”

  “Ben, it’s Gregory Chessman.”

  “How are you, Gregory?”

  “Fine. Just fine. Is it convenient for me to drop by in about five minutes? I’m out and I wanted to drop off that check for the crisis center I promised you at my dinner party.”

  “Sure, I’ll be here.”

  “Great. I’ll see you in five, then.”

  Ben hung up the phone, thoughtful.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” Ben watched Karen clear the table. “Gregory Chessman’s just going to drop off a check for the center.”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “Well, I’ll finish up here and then go back to the cottage.”

  “No,” Ben said forcefully enough that she stilled. He didn’t want her to leave. Surprise riddled through him, fell hard and fast under an onslaught of guilt. “Stay. I want you to meet Gregory. He’s famous around here.”

  She dried her hands on a dishtowel and then tossed it onto the counter. “For what?”

  “His generosity mostly.” Ben smiled and guided her to the living room. “If there’s a charity in a forty-mile radius of Seagrove Village, he’s done something significant to support it.”