Don't Ever Forget (Adler and Dwyer)

by Matthew Farrell

  James spun his wheelchair around and made his way to the landing of the stairs. He looked up and saw the basement door was closed. He counted fifteen steps to the top. In his condition, it might as well have been one hundred and fifteen.

  “Hello!” he shouted, his voice hoarse from sleeping. “Is there anyone up there?”

  No answer.

  “Hello! I can’t find my lesson planner, and I need it for class! Can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  He waited a few minutes, listening for movement. The house appeared to be empty. His class was due to start soon. Without his lesson planner, he’d be lost. The students would laugh at him. They could be so cruel sometimes.

  James wheeled himself into the bedroom area, huffing as he went. How could they leave him down here like some animal when he had a class to teach? And what if he fell? What if he needed to use the bathroom? He couldn’t ask a student. That would be inappropriate. He was in no condition to be left alone. He needed care. He needed someone to be with him in case something went wrong. What if there was a fire? Who would save him if he needed saving? Did his students know first aid? Were they equipped to handle a teacher who was handicapped? What would the school think of all of this?

  He stopped in front of his dresser and pulled the top drawer open, searching for his lesson planner. He wasn’t sure the last time he’d had it, but it couldn’t have been that long ago. It had to be close by.

  The drawer was empty. No clothing, no lesson planner. He closed the top drawer and opened the second. It, too, was empty. He tried the third with the same result. The fourth and final drawer, empty.

  Where were his clothes?

  James backed out of the bedroom area and wheeled himself around the perimeter of the basement, searching for storage bins or a closet or another room that might have his clothes. There was nothing. The room was just one big space except for the single step up to the tiny hallway that led to the hurricane doors. He made his way to the edge of the step, where the shadows met the light, and stopped. He knew the ghosts were down there, waiting. The step looked to be about six inches high. Too high for his chair to roll over. He reversed himself away and returned to the light.

  James spun the chair around so he could see the entire basement laid out in front of him. For the first time, he noticed that nothing in the room appeared to be his, other than the pajamas he was wearing and the robe on his bed. There were no books or magazines or newspapers or music. He couldn’t see any of his nature photos that should’ve been framed and displayed. No keepsakes or knickknacks. The space he saw was cold and heartless. Completely anonymous.

  “Rebecca!” he cried. He needed Rebecca. She would know how to make him feel better. She would help him get ready for class and find his planner.

  “Rebecca! Where are you?”

  The fog began to grow thicker. How could he be living down there without his belongings? It didn’t make sense. Where was his nurse? Why were his drawers empty? Where were his books and pictures? Where was his life?

  What was happening?

  22

  Dr. Sara Phines was James Darville’s neurologist, and the last doctor on Susan’s list. Dr. Phines was a tall woman, towering well over six feet, thin, her hair short and gray with barrettes pinning back her bangs. A pair of bifocals hung around her neck and tangled in the collar of her oversized lab coat. She smiled when she saw Susan and extended a rather large hand with bone-thin fingers, no nail polish. Susan watched her own hand disappear when they shook.

  “I appreciate you seeing me.”

  “Anything I can do to help. I can’t believe James is missing. And I saw the thing about his nurse on the news. So terrible.”

  They walked into an empty break room and sat on plastic chairs at a round table.

  “I spoke with Dr. Calib and Dr. Trammel earlier today. I understand you’re in the same network.”

  “That’s right,” Dr. Phines replied. “I first met James about three years ago when he was presenting with Alzheimer’s stage three, which is considered a mild decline. He was initially brought into the ER after he collapsed at a supermarket. The people there thought he was having a stroke. James was having trouble finding his words when he was speaking and was quite disoriented. The staff neurologist made the diagnosis, then passed him to me. Two years ago, we requested full-time care when he slipped into stage four. He was having short-term memory loss. Couldn’t pay his bills or do the math required for balancing a checkbook. His disease has progressed to stage five now. Unawareness of his surroundings. Inability to remember people, sometimes even himself. Inability to remember anyone’s history. It’s not a pretty disease.”

  Susan made a few notes in her pad. “Do you know if Mr. Darville has any family?”

  “I looked through his file when he first came to me, and it never mentioned family or next of kin. He always came and left with Rebecca.”

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  “I’ve only known her through James. She seems nice. Cares for James a great deal. You can see it in the way they interact.”

  “Ever see her outside of your practice?”

  Dr. Phines shook her head. “No, sorry.”

  A woman came into the break room and stopped when she saw Susan and Dr. Phines at the table. She quickly grabbed an apple from the refrigerator and left.

  “Did James ever talk about friends?” Susan asked. “Any acquaintances we should be made aware of?”

  “I literally never saw him with anyone other than Rebecca,” Dr. Phines replied. “And he never talked about friends. He rambled about things, as patients do in their decline, but nothing I could definitively point you to.”

  “Give me an example of something he would ramble about.”

  Dr. Phines looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “I gather he used to be a teacher because he’s always talking about his students, and he often went on and on about losing his lesson planner. All typical behavior. His mind is confusing the past and the present.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Every once in a while he talks about a specific set of kids. Bonnie and Sonia. There are a couple more, but I can’t think of them right now.”

  “Any chance you took notes?” Susan asked. “The names could point us in some kind of direction.”

  Dr. Phines shook her head. “I stopped taking notes after stage three. His thoughts are too incoherent to make heads or tails of anything.”

  “But the names he mentions and losing his lesson planner are consistent things he talks about?”

  “Nothing’s ever too consistent, but he brings them up every now and again.”

  Susan took a business card out of her jacket pocket and slid it across the table. She stood from her seat, said goodbye to Dr. Phines, and left. Rebecca had no real friends, no boyfriend, and no social life other than hanging out with her mother and brother on Sundays. James also had no friends and no family. They had each other, and they were both missing, and there was no question Rebecca had been with someone else that night in Darville’s house.

  So who was her accomplice?

  23

  Susan walked onto the investigators’ floor to find Crosby waving her into his office. She placed her bag down on her chair and went to see what he needed.

  “Still here on a Saturday?” she said.

  Crosby pointed to the news on the flat screen. They were doing another story on the trooper’s death. “All hands until we catch our guy.”

  “Right.”

  “Any luck?”

  She sat down in one of the two chairs in front of her boss’s desk. “Not really. Just trying to get a background from friends and family, but neither Rebecca nor Darville has friends and the old man has no family. I got nothing from Rebecca’s mom and brother yesterday, so I’ve been talking to the old man’s doctors. Not much there, either, but the general picture everyone has painted is that Rebecca was an excellent nurse and cared very deeply for James. I’m starting to think the
re might be a twist in this we’re not seeing.”

  Crosby turned his computer screen toward her. “There is a twist, and I’m about to show you. We got the dashcam footage. Check it out.”

  He clicked his mouse, and Susan was suddenly looking through the lens of the trooper’s dashcam. There was no sound. She watched as the trooper’s car caught up with Rebecca’s Honda. He hit the bar lights, and the Honda immediately complied, signaling and pulling off to the shoulder. The trooper walked to the driver’s side, and the window rolled down. He was talking and shining his flashlight from the front of the car to the back. Everything appeared routine. Then he pointed at something.

  “What’s he see?” Susan asked.

  “No idea.”

  The driver nodded and leaned toward the passenger side. The trooper stiffened up and yelled something. The driver stopped moving as the trooper shined the flashlight back down on the driver’s lap. A few more words were exchanged; then the trooper opened the door.

  “He spotted something. He’s making the driver get out of the car.”

  A woman emerged from the driver’s side, tall and well built. The wind blew, and her curly hair fell in front of her face.

  “That’s not Rebecca Hill,” Susan said immediately. “This driver’s too tall.”

  “And she’s white,” Crosby replied. “Keep watching.”

  There was a blur as someone stepped in front of the dashcam, and by the time Susan could see the next frame, the trooper was falling backward, and a figure wearing dark pants and a black hoodie was beating him with a tire iron. A few hits. It didn’t take much. The attack was over in seconds. When the figure stood back up, it appeared to be a man.

  “Who the hell is that?”

  Crosby points. “White male. Look at his hands.”

  Indeed, she could see his wrists between his gloves and shirtsleeves. He was white. The male came back toward the trooper’s car. His face was covered and his hood was up.

  “He knew the dashcam would be on.”

  “Yup.”

  The video terminated a few seconds later.

  Crosby stood from his chair and turned the monitor back toward him. “He cut the power to the patrol car. That’s all we got.”

  “And no sign of Rebecca. Or the old man.”

  “Could’ve been in the car the male came from. No way to know.”

  Susan’s mind was spinning. “This fits within the time frame of when Darville went missing from his house, for sure. Could be the same night. Forensics is testing the blood we found in the bedroom, which will confirm how old it is. But according to Darville’s physical therapist, they hadn’t been able to reach him for three days. Not sure what the gap in time might be.”

  “Maybe this couple spent a few days searching the house until they found whatever was in that hole in the floor.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.” She got up from her seat. “Are we getting these images out to the media?”

  Crosby shook his head as he shut off the video. “Not yet. We want to keep this in house for now. Your new suspects are both Caucasian, a woman taller than Rebecca and a man younger than James Darville. Rebecca may still be involved, or she might be dead and her car stolen. We just don’t know. Keep digging and see what you come up with. Play it safe.”

  “Copy that.”

  “You need anything from me at this point?”

  Susan turned to leave the office. “I need a copy of that footage so I can study the tape. I could also use a few more hours in the day.”

  TRANSCRIPT

  I sat in my car across from Tiffany Greene’s house for about an hour, willing myself to have the courage to walk up to her parents and tell them what had happened. I watched as Mr. Greene opened his door and looked up and down the street. I knew he was looking for Tiffany. I knew he was starting to get concerned that she still wasn’t home yet. I wanted so badly to call him over and confess, but I was a coward. All the things Noreen warned me about—jail, the death penalty, losing everything—were overwhelming. We’d made a mistake, and I was too weak to cop to it. I drove away, crying.

  Choosing Pifer Mountain, West Virginia, was nothing more than figuring out a destination far enough away from West Finley, Pennsylvania, where the authorities wouldn’t bother looking, but would also be close enough to allow for a round trip in one night and a buried body in between. I recalled some coworkers discussing hunting in the Pifer Mountain area and knew it was popular as a rugged hike and a hell of a climb. I figured there would have to be some remote area at the base that would work, so I made my way back into the school at midnight, wrapped Tiffany’s body in a sheet I’d brought from home, and took her out the back way by the gym that was hidden from both the street and the surrounding neighborhood. No one would see me come in, and no one would see me leave. Tiffany was in my trunk, and I was on the road in under thirty minutes.

  The drive took a little over two hours, but I can’t recall much of the trip. At that point the mechanics of the body had taken control, and my brain was on autopilot. I know I hiked about a half mile off a trail at the southern end, picked a spot I thought would work, and started digging. Flashes of that afternoon entered my consciousness from time to time as I worked, but for the most part, my logic had shut down and my survival instincts had kicked in. I remember the earth being rocky and the digging being harder than I thought it’d be, but I got a hole big enough and deep enough to bury my student. The next time anything really registered was when I was back on Interstate 79, alone on a dark highway in the early-morning hours.

  I remember a semi passing me on the other side of the road. Its headlights lit up the interior of my car, and I looked at my soiled hands gripping the steering wheel. It was at that moment the reality of what I’d done hit me. The truck was gone as quickly as it had come, and my car was dark again, but I kept staring at my hands and could suddenly feel the callus on my palms from where I’d held the shovel and swung the pickax. I could feel the grit of soil in between my fingers and the earth caught in my nails. I looked down and knew my clothes were stained with dirt and mud and probably some blood. I’d buried a body. I’d taken a little girl from her family and hidden her so they would never find her. They’d never have the closure they’d need and would forever wonder what had happened. Or worse, they’d wonder if she was still alive and suffering. That uncertainty would hurt more than knowing their daughter was dead. I was aware of that, but I had to stick with the plan. I started crying again, and through the tears and the sobbing and the sorrow that scarred my heart, I kept telling myself that what happened was an accident, but my carelessness was what put it all in motion. If only I’d checked the door.

  If only.

  It was my responsibility to make things right, and if that meant Mr. and Mrs. Greene would never know what happened to their daughter, so be it. Sometimes life only hands you one option, and you have to take it, whether you like it or not.

  I told myself I was doing this for love. Noreen and I met years earlier when I was teaching in Ohio, and we’d spent so much time together since that point. Back when she’d first started her job and had a little piece of Ohio to cover, we met at a coffee shop, and that was the beginning of everything for us. I moved to West Finley to be closer to her, and we eventually decided we were going to get married as soon as her kids were old enough. She was going to leave her husband, and we were going to finally be together without having to sneak around. In saving Noreen, I told myself, I was saving us. For love. Instead, I’d damned us.

  Forever.

  24

  “Where were you?” James growled at the woman who was squatting down in front of the DVD player, pressing buttons as the credits from the movie rolled on the screen.

  “I’m right here.”

  “I mean before! Where were you? I called and no one answered. I was down here alone. The house was empty. I needed you. I needed you to help me.”

  “With what?”

  “Never mind now! Why
was I left alone? Where’s Rebecca, dammit? She should be with me.”

  The woman stood up in front of the television. “I’ve been home the entire time. I came down and fed you lunch, but you were confused again.”

  “That’s crap! I was calling for help!”

  “You didn’t know who I was or where you were. You never called for me. I’ve been here the whole time.”

  “No!” James pounded on the arms of his wheelchair. “That’s not right. No one fed me lunch. No one was home. I was shouting until I was hoarse, and no one came!” He took a deep breath, his mind scrambling to try and remember if she’d been down to feed him. “And where is all my stuff? You said I live down here.”

  “You do.”

  “Then where are my pictures and my keepsakes and things from my old house that I would’ve taken with me? I don’t even have clothes in those drawers!”

  The woman walked over and sat on the couch in front of him, taking his hand. “You remember we talked about you living here?”

  “Sure.”

  She smiled. “Good. Maybe you’re having some clarity now. The fog was bad before.”

  “Why was I down here alone with no food, none of my stuff, and no clothes?”

  Cindy grew quiet. “I’m telling you, we were here the entire time. I fed you lunch, and you got changed. Look at your shirt.”

  James looked down, and his world turned on its side. His blue-and-white-striped pajama top had been replaced by a bright-red golf shirt.

  “When did I . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. I came down, and you were already in it.”

  He searched his memory to find the exact second when he’d put it on, but there was nothing. “Where did it come from?”

  “I assume your dresser.”