Forgotten

by Neven Carr

  Another bump. A very awkward spin of the wheels. Reardon quickly readjusted them, waited until he curved the next bend. “You with me?”

  Claudia glared at him with a gloriously high, resolute chin. “Of course.”

  Disbelief hit Reardon first, then a long breath of admiration and relief. The next bump sent the car swinging to the other side of the road. Brakes screeched. Claudia jolted, clasping the side of the seat. Reardon pulled hard on the wheel, straightened it. Sharp pain stabbed his wounded arm. He swore.

  “You okay?”

  Shouldn’t he be asking that? “Fine.” Sweat irritated his forehead. He checked the mirror. He made out two distinct shapes piloting the car. Reardon guessed the passenger was their doer, the other, one of his driving lackeys. The vehicle dropped back. “The next thing they’ll probably do is come close to our side. Try to shunt us that way. I’m going to let them to do that a couple of times. Even have a few attempts at giving the same back.”

  She asked him why.

  He crisscrossed his gaze from the mirror to the road ahead. “Because they’d expect it of me.” Did that sound wanky, a bit full of himself? “Then when I think the time is right, I’ll run the car off the road. Remember, I’ll be doing it on purpose.”

  “Please tell me you know how to do it without killing us.”

  “I know how to do it without killing us.”

  “Do you mean it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then what… what do I do then?”

  There was a grittiness to her look now. And something else. What was it? Control? Was she trying to control her fear? Shit, the bloody woman never ceased to amaze him. “Play unconscious. I’ll do the rest. Got me?”

  That stubborn little chin nodded along with her head.

  “The airbags may go off. The crash won’t be that major, but just in case, be prepared that they may knock the wind out of you. Use it to make your act appear more real.”

  Another nod.

  “And promise me, unless the car catches fire, which it won’t, under no circumstances get out of the car until it’s over.” That part was important. Reardon needed to concentrate on something other than her.

  The foreign vehicle sped up until it sidled them. Reardon still couldn’t make out the faces; the windows were black like the car. It suddenly swerved, side swept the front of Reardon’s car and pulled away.

  Reardon took his foot off the accelerator, gripped the steering wheel and turned into the direction of the skid. When he was back in control, he mimicked their maneuver. The other vehicle zigzagged for several yards, then fell back to the rear. The racing jock knew how to wheel a car.

  “Watch out!” Claudia yelled.

  A pair of iridescent eyes shot up from the road’s center and stared at them. A possum perhaps? Reardon wove sharply to avoid it. The subsequent thumps meant his racing companion didn’t. Claudia mumbled beneath her breath.

  They sped on. Another sideswipe, another counter attack, the cry of angry brakes, the stench of scorching rubber.

  Until the big hit came. Bigger than Reardon expected.

  It didn’t take much effort on Reardon’s part to execute the false crash. They would’ve crashed anyway. In contrast to all his defensive driving techniques, Reardon slammed the brakes, executed a half pirouette and screeched to the alternate side of the road where he allowed the car to plunge and stop in a sharp down-turned angle.

  No deployment of airbags. He was happy with that. He immediately checked Claudia. “You okay?”

  A meager yes followed. She then rolled her full weight against the door and closed her eyes. Reardon tapped his watch and did the same.

  A car door opened.

  Light footsteps approached.

  Reardon paced his breathing.

  Light footsteps became heavy footsteps until they stopped just outside his door. He imagined someone looking through the window, could sense their sharp, inquisitive eyes burn a hole in him. But Reardon remained flawlessly rigid.

  A click.

  The car door.

  A pause.

  And the door began to open.

  Just a little.

  And then it stopped.

  A little more.

  And Reardon bolted, grabbed the door handle and smacked the door directly into the Racing Jock’s middle. Racing Jock buckled and groaned.

  In one swift move, Reardon sprang from his seat. Knitting his hands into a rock-solid fist, he smashed his opponent squarely beneath the chin. Racing Jock’s head cracked back. He stumbled several steps. But the man was huge. He quickly uncurled, flexed his burly biceps and came thundering towards Reardon. He swung his clenched fist. It caught nothing but vacant air.

  Reardon had already sidestepped him, smashing his foot directly into the back of Racing Jock’s knees. Racing Jock crumbled with an ear-splitting roar. Reardon ripped to his rear, pressed two digits into his wide, fleshy neck and Racing Jock went down.

  Claudia called out. The door of the black car was slowly opening.

  “Stay put,” Reardon whispered. Using his car as a shield, he crouched low. An obscure figure stretched from the opened door, then darted into the nearby bushland.

  Reardon took chase.

  The forest was dark. The forest possessed a map load of possible directions. One could easily lose a runner in a forest like that. Reardon stopped a few feet inside its perimeter.

  You have good natural instincts, Roscoe, his mentor, once told him, but at times, you need to stop, take heed of your surroundings. It is those same surroundings that will speak to you… give you what you need.

  Reardon pressed his eager palms against a nearby gum tree, used it as his base. He closed his eyes, drew strength in the sharp, distinctive scents of night-time bushland, pure with plant-driven oxygen, devoid of innocuous daytime fumes. To his left crickets chirped, as did the few desperate rasps of hungry frogs crying for rain. Dried leaves shuffled, crunched; scavenging scrub turkeys perhaps.

  To Reardon’s right?

  Nothing.

  He smiled.

  Employing the moonlight as his ally, and the silence of his animal friends, he carefully trod forward, avoiding the sharp crunch of twigs, the crackles of parched foliage. He stopped, listened some more. Heard the sounds of human invasion. And followed it.

  Partially crouched behind a bush was a well-rounded figure. Reardon carefully withdrew his switchblade from his ankle and backtracked. A soundless route wasn’t easy in such a rain-starved environment.

  A little skill, a little luck and soon his blade met his surprised assailant’s throat. “I expected more challenge from someone like you.”

  The man’s laugh came far too easily. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “Is that a threat? Rather ineffectual if it was.”

  The man shifted his weight. “We could debate it, but another time, perhaps.”

  Reardon pressed the blade until it indented the man’s skin. “On the contrary, tonight’s perfect for me.”

  He boosted the man to his feet and spun him around, allowed him to slither like the snake he was back to the ground. The moon reflected the evil shine in his eyes, the rabid smirk on his lips, the unprecedented self-confidence in his pumped out chest.

  Reardon’s initial instinct was correct.

  This man was dangerous.

  “Senator Carlos Macey,” he said. “This is a surprise and a strange place to be gathering constituents.”

  Chapter 39

  Saul

  December 28, 2010

  11:54 pm

  MACEY SQUARED HIS broad shoulders, bent his knees and began casually plucking small, withered bits of plant life from his grey, pinstriped pants.

  “Ah, if it isn’t Saul Reardon,” he said. “The poor man’s redeemer. You’re good, no doubt about it, and no less than I was led to believe by the many myths about you.” His tone was all well-practiced poise and self-righteous power.

  “Is that so?” Reardon crouched ont
o his haunches, spun the knife’s blade close to the senator’s face. The blade quickly ignited with sharp, shimmering lights giving it a striking but deadly appearance. “You flatter me, Senator. But myths are mere stories, and like all stories, breed upon the vibrant imagination of the tellers.”

  Macey stopped the plucking, glued a steadfast look towards Reardon. “Very poetic, Reardon. I like it. So, what is it that you want from me?”

  Reardon cocked his head, took his time before answering. “For starters, how about removing the hit on Claudia Cabriati, call off Basteros and his minions.”

  Macey’s surprised expression was a trifle over-acted. He then laughed a great, full laugh. “A hit? My, how very gangster-like of you. And why would I know anything about a hit and of this… Basteros?”

  “Please, Senator, tell me you’re smarter than that.”

  Raw anger flashed in Macey’s eyes. And just as quickly vanished.

  Reardon shuffled in his jean’s pocket and pulled out a small, silver mobile. “This phone belongs to one of Basteros’ men.”

  “How unfortunate for him.”

  “More unfortunate for the person who received a text from it, say around two, three this morning believing it was from Basteros. Funny thing about mobiles, you can never be sure who actually sent the text.”

  Macey’s smirk dropped fast. “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you do. It’s why you’re here.” Reardon let that hang for a while, enjoyed the Senator’s visual discomfort. “Why else would a prestigious, well-respected government official such as yourself, be traipsing along back roads at this time of night… just when Claudia and I are?

  “I’m not a coincidence sort of guy. I think you had a job to finish, one that Basteros continually botched up. Hence, you took the bait, my bait. Again, I would’ve thought you smarter than that. And like you, I thought that from the many myths I’ve heard.”

  Macey’s lips gelled into a thin, tight line.

  “Look, if it helps any,” Reardon said, playfully chucking the mobile between his hands. “I admire you, admire how you got away with it all these years. Brilliant even. How better to cover who you really were, amongst the pretentious façade of a supposedly passionate anti-gun law advocator. You, who headed a gun clan in the seventies. You, who warped the sweet innocence of the Araneya children with the sick, twisted belief that knowledge of guns was their only salvation. You, who controlled the rest of a Vietnam-damaged clan to adhere with your perversions. That’s power, Senator. And precisely what you wanted. Sorry, rephrase… what you believed was owed to you.”

  Macey shriveled his eyes.

  “Then Claudia’s father, Vincent Cabriati, happened. How you must’ve hated someone smarter than you.”

  “Smarter than me? Cabriati?” Macey stretched his neck as one after a hard day’s work. “You should write a fucking book, Reardon.”

  “Can I include your alias in it?”

  “My what?”

  “Wesson. The name of your chosen revolver. The name you use for all your illegal dealings, for the gun clan and for… Basteros.”

  Even in the partially lit night, Reardon could make out the veins in Macey’s neck pumping wildly. But, to Macey’s credit, he remained remarkably controlled. Macey stood, shook his head. “You are one fucked up piece of engineering, Reardon.”

  Perhaps he was.

  But his instincts about Macey weren’t.

  Macey dragged up his pants until it connected with his well-fed paunch, re-tucked his white shirt, front and back and returned with a small revolver.

  Reardon pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “This isn’t giving me positive vibes for our budding relationship.”

  “Did you expect I’d just buckle under a few paltry accusations from the almighty Saul Reardon?”

  “No, sadly, I didn’t.” Reardon glanced over Macey’s head. “Come on down, fellas.”

  “You’re bluffing. I know about the tactics you employ.”

  “Obviously not all of them,” a guttural voice to Macey’s rear said. Reardon cut to the swag-like Scotty. Tonight’s bandana flavor was black. How appropriate, he thought.

  “Cocky bastard, aint he, Saul.”

  “More like, predictable.” Reardon re-strapped his switchblade. A second man, lean and swarthy emerged. “Andy, you cover him from the front.”

  Macey turned to one, then the other, back to Reardon. “How the fuck….”

  “I’d be more concerned with the pair of M16s aimed at your head,” Reardon said.

  Macey released his weapon, then leaned against the nearest tree trunk; night-colored it was, mirroring Macey’s mutinous eyes. Reardon collected Macey’s gun, passed it to Scotty. He then searched Macey until he found two mobile phones. He flicked through both, pocketed one and returned the other to Macey. “You can keep that one. You’ll need it to ring your lawyer.”

  Reardon glanced around, found a long, twisted log and parked himself on it. It was bumpy but solid. He slumped his arms over his knees, gestured a rare section of green grass for Macey.

  Macey preferred standing.

  Reardon didn’t care.

  From the north, high-pitched sirens wailed, grew progressively louder with every passing second.

  “You called the fucking police?”

  “Not me exactly.” Reardon glanced at the smiling Scotty.

  “This is absolute madness. You have no fucking proof of any of your shit.”

  “Wouldn’t matter if I did or didn’t. You being here alone would create a journalist’s wet dream. And, unfortunately for you, I just happen to know a few, journalists that is. But, again, unfortunately for you, I happen to have proof also.”

  Macey swung to Scotty. Scotty’s eyes blew wide. “Don’t mess with Saul, mate, it’s like tinkering with the fricking Titanic.”

  Reardon executed his next words with all the precision of someone who knew narcissistic personalities, such as Macey’s, well. There was one thing, possibly the only thing that Macey feared.

  Incarceration.

  And the total loss of control that escorted it.

  “Bad time of year to be thrown in the watch-house,” Reardon continued. “Festive period, courts close down. But, if urgent and with a good lawyer, well….”

  “If you really wanted me gone,” Macey grunted, “I’d be on the road right now, staring at red and blue lights. It isn’t the hit on Claudia you want removed. With my phone, you can do that yourself. It’s something else.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  Macey’s chin rose high.

  “I then have to wonder, how does someone as smart as you get into such an awkward position such as this?”

  “Perhaps it’s not because of me. Perhaps the reason for our special tryst is you. Someone who merely craves the mental challenge from an equal.”

  Reardon collected a nearby twig, dry, withered, any life mere remnants in its last, fading breath. He recalled a time when he was that twig, ready to oblige to the strict laws of nature and simply give up his last breath. But nature gave him extra strength, the solid determination to survive. “Maybe you’re right. But we’re also both reasonable men. I’m sure we can come to some arrangement, one that could benefit each of us, a gentlemen’s agreement if you like. One that excludes the law.”

  The background sirens screeched to a halt. Another small flicker of fear crossed Macey’s steely gaze. “Keep talking.”

  “For starters, I could arrange that your driving buddy up there takes the fall for this entire… hmmm… ‘road rage’ affair.”

  “He’ll talk.”

  “Not something in my experience dead men do very well.”

  “Very unethical of you.”

  “Hardly. Secondly, I have two men here willing to escort you to a destination of choice.”

  “And you would do that, why?”

  “Answers, information, a confession or two.”

  “Huh, you certainly don’t ask for much.” Macey loosened
his red and grey multi-dotted tie. “How do I know you’re not wired?”

  “I swear on Claudia’s life that I’m not.”

  “Means nothing.”

  Means everything, Reardon thought. “You could search me, but I’m sure you already know, today’s technology makes such devices virtually undetectable.”

  Macey stroked his bristled chin in silence.

  “I guess it’s either me or spending the remainder of the festive season in lock-up,” Reardon said.

  “You know this is blackmail.”

  “It is? Oops.”

  “Blackmailing a government minister.”

  “Using the resources of your political office to murder.”

  “It’s a fucking shame those idiots at your house couldn’t finish you off.”

  Reardon considered this. Of course, Macey would want Reardon dead. It’d make access to Claudia that much easier. However, as inept as Basteros’ men proved to be, Reardon still found couldn’t an interesting choice of word. “You’ve been warned off me by someone.”

  “You’ve certainly got one hell of an imagination.”

  “It adds to the myths. So what’s your decision, Senator? I’m a busy man also.”

  Macey chuckled. “You know, we’re not very different you and I.”

  Reardon threw the twig to the awaiting elements and sighed. “How’s that?”

  “You hide your true self beneath the shroud of a modern day Robin Hood, I beneath the hood of a concerned politician. In the end we are simply who we are.”

  Reardon glanced at Macey, wished he could wipe that smug grin off his smug face. “And who’s that precisely.”

  “I don’t need to tell you. You and I, we already know.”

  Scotty stepped forward. “Saul….”

  Reardon shot Scotty a short look. It was enough to return Scotty to his original position.

  “We conduct ourselves beneath a mask of social acceptance. It is how we survive. We are… special,” Macey concluded.

  And no doubt, you believe every delusional word you just said. The man made Reardon’s stomach churn. “You’re right, we are, and that’s how I know you’ll make the right decision.”