Forgotten (21 page)

Exasperated,
he groaned, forcing himself from his desk and closing his eyes. Not
being able to concentrate wasn’t like him.

Perhaps he
was tired. Perhaps the complexity of Claudia’s case, the stature of
people involved, was such that it required more from
him.

And perhaps
his
‘perhapses’ were nothing but
bullshit.

He stood,
poured himself a nightcap and leaned hard against the
bar.

I feel safe.

It was
precisely how Reardon
wanted her to
feel.
The mental and physical well-being
of all those he helped was important to him. But with Claudia, it
was somehow different, her safety more urgent.

Maybe it was
nothing more than guilt nudging him, reminding him that he only
took her on because of her possible connection with Charles Smith
and Thomas Bellante. Maybe he thought that by keeping her from
harm’s way, it would justify his own selfish motives, redeem
himself just a
little. A plausible enough
explanation, except for the fact that Reardon rarely subscribed to
guilt.

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. “Shit, 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.”