Forgotten

by Neven Carr

  So then, what the hell was this?

  He strode back to his desk and sat down. He then searched his laptop until he found a particular on-the-scene news clip. It showed Claudia leaving the hospital some time after Simon Struthers’ death. Her long, dark hair shielded much of her downcast face. Numerous reporters flashed cameras from every angle.

  He thought, as he always did when playing it, how extraordinarily beautiful she was, and yet how extraordinarily tragic she appeared. Then came that split second when she lifted her face to the world.

  When she displayed that look.

  Her eyes, huge, like onyx, dark, cold and glassy but not sufficient to hide what else he could see.

  Guilt, failure and the lack of desire to live.

  A swift chill had numbed him when he first saw it, when he realized he could’ve been staring at himself.

  Staring at the same dead eyes that had once haunted his own mirror.

  I have been there, he had said to her.

  So have I, she had said.

  And he believed her.

  Reardon rubbed his temple until he sensed the skin there tingle. He couldn’t deny the odd connection he felt with her every time he watched the clip. They had shared a similar past, a similar form of grief. Maybe this explained his unusual obsession for her safety. He leaned back in his chair and crooked his finger across the top of his lip.

  Guilt, failure and the lack of desire to live.

  He knew why he had suffered such feelings. But why had she? What was it that she had felt guilty about, had felt a failure with? As far as Reardon had established, Simon Struthers’ death was beyond her control. Or had it been? Was there still something she hadn’t shared with him?

  I feel safe.

  Those words struck him again. He swore, scraped his fingers through his hair, long and hard. He had to get his shit together.

  He stood, left the study and loitered amongst the corridors until the only surviving light was of his own accord. He then made his way along the hallway, out the back door and down a series of timber stairs to a section beneath the rear of the dwelling.

  Although the front of Reardon’s home was set high on colossal hardwood poles, the back section was not. Instead, it aligned with the steep incline of a hill. There amongst the incline was a solid, steel door. Hidden by large spans of concrete that appeared nothing more than an addition to the house, the door was virtually undetectable by any person appearing from the front or the sides.

  Situated at the top right hand corner of the door, was a keypad. Reardon keyed in a sequence of numbers and then scanned his thumbprint across the small, square-shaped sensor to its right. Once done, a quiet click indicated the door operable. Reardon gripped the slim handle and yanked it outwards. He stepped in and promptly pulled the door closed behind him.

  The room was the size of a small bedroom. No windows, no outlets existed except for the entry he had just used. Air was ducted in via a large vent. The walls were constructed of steel, several inches thick as was the ceiling and flooring. It was designed as a place of concealment in the event of intruders or other threats.

  He named it the SUB.

  It accommodated enough provisions such as foodstuffs, medication, clothes and personal toiletries for up to a half-dozen people to survive for many days. It possessed an emergency phone link, as well as security cameras to certain divisions of the house and its adjoining grounds. It was fireproof, bombproof and waterproof. It was totally solid, totally secure and totally safe.

  But here in this underground crypt, Reardon could allow his ironclad layers to peel away, discharge any needless emotions and recharge himself with the real objective for his existence, his real motive for living.

  He ventured to the back wall, barely acknowledging the other possessions in the room, a rather sizable filing cabinet, a small single settee, a desk and a wide screen monitor, surrounded by six smaller ones, placed strategically above a built in control panel.

  Situated parallel to the wall, on stainless steel castors, stood an electronic whiteboard. Methodically placed upon it, were photographs. Reardon drew nearer, feeling his heart leaden with each grueling step. He could sense the watchful eyes of the photos’ inhabitants descend upon him as he did.

  He briefly scanned their images, recapturing their personalities with every telling smile, every affable gesture, and every overt movement. Reardon breathed deeply in preparation for the ritual he would soon perform, one that he hadn’t done in some time. He reached out and touched the face of the girl.

  Issie.

  The waves of her short, blonde hair framed her excited face. Her small stature was clearly emphasized by the much bigger present she was unwrapping, a present that Saul knew she would never use. His eyes stayed with hers, frozen forever in a dreamlike time, long ago. He mouthed words of love, desperately wishing she could mouth some in return.

  Next, his fingers traveled to the child nearby, a boy slightly older. He sported the same blonde hair, the same eager, innocent face. He was perched on his first real bike, full of pride at his inborn ability in mastering it. Reardon’s chest stiffened, his breathing slowed to an almost standstill, but it didn’t get in the way of his routine.

  His fingers then crept to the image of the young woman, tracing her glorious ivory-skinned face. She was using both of her slender hands to restrain her wild, fair hair into place. His heart died, as it did every time he looked upon her.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, a rite of apology he had carried out many times. What he would give for her to reply just once.

  He scanned the images of four more adults and two more children, all of whom Reardon knew and all of whom he loved. All gone. Because of him.

  They hadn’t been safe.

  It had been seven years. Time had released him from much of the painful burden he had suffered in the early days. Time had also reduced the initial compulsion to visit them constantly.

  Nonetheless, he could never allow himself the luxury of forgetting. There was still too much to do.

  He had promised them.

  Reardon remained for a while in his private darkness, allowing their memory to reinforce his resolution. Once he felt re-armed again, he left, locking the images in their coffer and in a secluded cubicle buried in the deepest hollow of his mind.

  ***

  Laughter chimed from the direction of the kitchen snapping Reardon from his laptop.

  Claudia’s laughter.

  It was magical.

  However, with every chime of it, with every thought of her well-being, he could feel the armor he had strengthened the previous night begin to crack.

  What the hell?

  “Hey, mate, what’s up?” It was Ethan.

  Reardon sat upright, returned to his keyboard and said nothing.

  Ethan took up his usual, horizontal spot along the sofa. “You know I was only joking about not coming to breakfast.”

  “Not really hungry.”

  “The French toast was my best ever; the adorable Claudia loved it and, you’ll be proud of me, I even failed to upset your beloved Shirley Svenson. Quite unfortunate really.”

  Reardon continued mulling over the computer screen. “Are you all set?” He was referring to Ethan’s task for the day, interviewing as many Zephyr residents as possible.

  “Got my charisma plus ready to allure the ‘inallurable’. Claudia’s also going to give me a rundown on some of the people she already knows.”

  “Sounds good.” Reardon clicked his mouse a few more times. “Hello, what’s this?”

  Ethan was by Reardon’s side in an instant. “Something back from one of your computer inhabiting spies?”

  “Looks like the names of the other players in this supposed gun clan.” Reardon scanned the list, caught one particular name and swore beneath his breath. He fell back into his chair, and began rubbing his brow.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ethan said, as he took over the mouse. A silent minute passed. “S
hit, Saul, you need to see the rest of this.”

  Reardon sensed Ethan’s eagerness and the noticeable lack of his own. Normally when presented with information such as this, the two would act like wide-eyed kids in a candy store, hungrily contemplating all the various possibilities.

  “When are you going to tell Claudia?”

  “After Weatherly.” One bloody thing at a time.

  Ethan turned and stared at Reardon. “Okay, so what’s really bothering you?”

  “Just got a lot on my mind.”

  “Crap. I’ve hardly ever seen you this agitated.”

  Reardon was quiet.

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed Ethan close the study door, circle back, and then seat himself on Reardon’s desk. “Why are you on my desk?” He wasn’t sure if he was in the mood for any of Ethan’s ‘Ethan-ness.’

  “Easy, so I can be higher than you and therefore in a more superior position.”

  “Sometimes, you talk such crap.”

  “I very much disagree with that statement, my friend. Most of the time I talk crap. But not this time. Talk to me Saul, what’s wrong?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Absolute shit.”

  Reardon rolled his eyes.

  “I know when something’s not right. I also know you visited your underground vault of memories last night, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s something you haven’t done in a while.”

  “Do I have any privacy?”

  “With everyone else, yes. With me, definitely not.” Ethan paused. Reardon remained tight-lipped. “So what’s with the visit?”

  Reardon began massaging his temples again. Didn’t they have more important things to discuss, like the e-mail he just received? He stood and moved towards the glass doors, anchored his hands firmly on his hips. The gold of the early morning sun was cutting an arresting image against the blue, distant backdrop. Reardon felt its soothing heat smolder upon his skin. Experiencing this would normally stabilize him.

  But not today.

  Ethan slid behind him. “You look totally off-centered, Saul. I don’t like it.”

  “I feel off-centered.”

  “That much is obvious but why?”

  Reardon remained stationary. “I thought I knew but….”

  “Try.”

  And say what exactly? That he fast doubted his ability to manage this case correctly? It sounded almost ludicrous but there it was. After enough pressure from Ethan, Reardon recounted as much.

  “Can I ask why the doubt?”

  “Because I’m not completely convinced I can protect her.”

  “You’re making no sense.”

  Reardon sighed and turned to face him. “What if I make a poor judgment call?”

  “Since when have you ever made a poor judgment call?”

  “Seven years ago I did.” He said this with marked bitterness.

  “What?” Ethan stepped back, took his time to respond. “That was a long time ago and something very different. So what’s really going on? And no half-arsed bullshit.”

  “There’s something different about this one.”

  “Well, bugger me. Tell me news I don’t already know. Come on, mate, spit it out… all of it.”

  As a rule, Reardon didn’t bare his soul to people. But on the rare occasion, when he had no other choice, Ethan was the exception. Parsimonious with his choice of words, he explained the connection he felt with Claudia’s past, his uncharacteristic need to keep her safe and the negative impact it was having on his ability to focus. He told of his attempt to reinforce himself, hence the trip to the SUB.

  “Last night, I thought I had righted it, but this morning, I’m not so sure. It bothers me. Losing control, even for a second, bothers me. I don’t lose control, Ethan.”

  And he didn’t. He, Saul Reardon, was all about control. It was how he survived an event that few people would have. That same event had provided him with the emotional license to do as he saw fit; to apply his own set of rules in the name of helping others, using the skills he now possessed and the protection from a higher authority.

  And he was damn good at it.

  Ethan returned to Reardon’s desk and grabbed the magical snow globe. He shook the globe and watched it with unusual silence. A whirlpool of white tumbled aimlessly until it eventually settled into a thick, lush carpet. Ethan then studied Saul, wearing an expression that, in Reardon’s eyes, was surprisingly humorless. “Issie was three when she gave you this, wasn’t she?” he asked, lifting the globe.

  Reardon slumped back into his chair, stretched out his legs and nodded. It had been the last thing Issie had ever given him. Something cold and razor-sharp sliced his heart, and he was desperate to drop the topic. “You think this sudden self-doubt is crazy, right?”

  Ethan replaced the globe. “On the contrary, not at all. I’m guessing it’s because ‘this one,’ as you like to term Claudia, actually means something to you. You’ve become involved. And I’m not just talking about your whole connecting with her nasty history thing.”

  “They all mean something to me,” Reardon said. “I get involved with all those I help.”

  “I know, but you’ve already admitted, not like this.”

  Reardon didn’t much care for where this conversation was heading. He said nothing. It was probably safer.

  “Come on man, do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “You just might have to.” What the hell had possessed him to open up to Ethan in the first place? “In fact, don’t… don’t say another word.”

  Reardon stretched the back of his neck, tried to relieve some of its swelling tightness. “Why does everything in your life have to involve sex?”

  Ethan grinned. “Nah, this isn’t about sex, mate. This is about you being, well… you being… smitten.”

  Reardon widened his eyes and half-laughed. Ethan remained staring at him with crooked eyebrows, and a large, smug, very irritating grin.

  “You’re actually serious, aren’t you? Shit! And I thought my head was screwed this morning. For one, I don’t get ‘smitten.’ Remember? And two, need I remind you that I only met her yesterday?”

  “Need I remind you that your involvement with her began almost two weeks ago? Something triggered back then, something that’s grown over time. You call it ‘different’; I call it being drawn to her. You call it ‘connection’; I call it falling for her. You can play any linguistic game you wish but at the end of the day, it means the same fricking thing. You… are… smitten.”

  Ethan leaned closer to Reardon as if sharing a private joke. “I’ll let you in on something else. When I walked in last night, there was enough fricking electricity generating between the pair of you to power the entire Sunshine Coast!” Ethan sighed. “You know, it’s been so bloody long you can’t even see it for what it is. You, whose instincts are often borderline inhuman and you can’t see this. Hell, if it wasn’t so sad, it’d be funny.”

  Reardon groaned, pulled himself up and stood once more before the outdoor panorama. Crossing his arms, his body fell into a deep stillness; his mind was anything but.

  Of course, he found Claudia attractive. What man wouldn’t? But at the most, any attraction could only be sexual, as it had been with every other woman he’d been with in the past six years. He would hardly categorize that as smitten.

  But he also couldn’t deny that Ethan knew him better than anyone else did. Or the fact that it would readily explain his out of character behavior.

  Claudia.

  He thought of her with fresh eyes.

  And something warm took light in his chest.

  As simple as that.

  His unsettledness had now ballooned to downright aggravation. How the hell did this happen? He stole several more moments in an effort to regain some of his former control, even though it seemed to be deserting him faster than his logic. He turned to Ethan. “Just say you’re right.”

  Ethan shrugged. “I am right.”

  “Well,
whatever. You know what it would mean.”

  “That we’re right back to square one, you doubting your ability to protect her.”

  “It’s not doubt, Ethan. It would then be a certainty. It would jeopardize the way I operate; it would jeopardize her safety. And if I can’t control that then I would have to take myself off this case. And the sooner the better.”

  At the very least, Reardon knew this much to be true.

  “I know,” Ethan said, “that’s the bummer.”

  They were both silent for a while.

  “Mate, I’m not going to lecture you, me of all people. What you do is your decision, but I just want you to consider something. You said yourself, this is one very intricate, one very nasty case.” He flicked his head in the laptop’s direction. “Especially in light of that new info you’ve just received. Who then would help her if not you? Whom would she go to? Her father? Weatherly? At the moment her faith in people has been shot, but she trusts you.”

  “And if my supposed emotions get in the way, and I make the wrong decision, who does she trust then?”

  “Saul, even at your worst, you’re still the best. And I don’t say that lightly.”

  Reardon flinched.

  “Listen, a very wise man once told me you can’t control everything in life. You can’t control whom you meet or when you meet them, how you may feel about them or what may happen to them. You just have to do the best you can with what you have, when you have it. Sound familiar?”

  Of course it did. Reardon grunted and ran his hand slowly over his face. His palm was warm and moist.

  “As harsh as this may sound,” Ethan went on, “sometimes you need to practice what you preach.”

  “This is truly messed up,” was all Reardon could say.

  “Yep.”

  “More so because sometimes your crap can actually make sense.”

  “I know; scary isn’t it?”

  Reardon thought some more, although he doubted whether his head was even in a rational place. “If I stay with this, promise me something.”