Forget Me Not

by Lee Boschen

  "Somebody went to a lot of trouble,” Richard said.

  "Somebody? You can speak more clearly than that,” Leslie said.

  "You suppose he's watching us right now?"

  "I wouldn't be surprised. Let's perform for him,” she said. “I'm going to call the sheriff."

  * * * *

  Deputy Oliver Thornholt was a giant of a man: immensely capable, slow to wrath. He had very large hands, and when he folded those hands into fists, there were felons who'd swear from first hand knowledge that they were hard as stones.

  He held up the plastic evidence bag into which he'd dropped the doll. “Alex Wright's doing, you say. The same guy who allegedly fired shots at you the other day?"

  Leslie nodded. “The same alleged guy."

  "We couldn't prove a thing, you know."

  "I know.” She inclined her head toward the doll. “You won't find anything on that, either. Pretty clear what he's doing, though, isn't it?"

  "Yep,” Thornholt said. “The shooting, the phone call, then Coleen, and now this ... he's stalking you.” His flinty face became a little less disapproving. “Must have been a real surprise when you cut loose at him the other day. I guess you know you shot the hell out of his car."

  "Yes, his car, not him."

  Thornholt shook his head. “You know we don't take to people talking about shooting at each other. They don't always hit the right people."

  Leslie leaned forward, looking up to put her face in his. “I'm not going to listen to that, Ollie Thornholt. He can shoot at me but I can't shoot back?"

  "Now, Leslie, you know better than that. But if you'd heard his alibi—we can't lay a finger on him."

  Richard spoke for the first time. “Was it a cocktail waitress who swore he'd been there?"

  Thornholt's eyes narrowed. “A waiter. And just how do you happen to know that?"

  "Leslie said there'd be one. Told me that she—he, would be well paid for his trouble."

  Thornholt nodded, grimacing. “Yeah. Just try proving it."

  "I know, Ollie,” Leslie said. “Only too well. Anyway, we thank you for coming by."

  "Listen, Leslie, maybe we ought to have someone here."

  "She has someone here, Deputy Thornholt,” Richard said. “Besides, Wright would just wait till your guy got tired of nothing happening and went away. No, this way we'll get it over with in a hurry."

  Thornholt's mouth turned down sourly as he contemplated Richard. “I don't suppose I can blame you,” he said, “but I sure don't like to hear that kind of talk."

  "You think we like it?” Richard said.

  "We?” Thornholt squinted a look at Leslie. “I've been hearing ‘we’ a lot. What's this ‘we’ business?"

  Leslie smiled. “Richard is my ‘someone here,’ Ollie."

  "Mm-m.” Thornholt's eyes narrowed as he considered Richard in a new light. At last he nodded. “Hard to see anything but trouble ahead for the two of you."

  "We expect him to come in person, to do the job himself. According to what Leslie tells me, that seems to be his nature,” Richard said. “It shouldn't be too long. And we'll keep a sharp watch, don't worry about that."

  Thornholt looked around. “Yeah, talking about watching, where's your dog? Don't I remember a black dog always playing around my legs when I come by here?"

  "Miko. She's sick,” Leslie said. She pointed at the doll. “Otherwise we'd known about that when he was here. She must have eaten something bad. She can hardly wiggle. According to the vet, she vomited most of it up or she'd be dead by now. He says she'll be okay in a few days."

  Thornholt hooked a thumb in his uniform belt, tapping his index finger against the polished leather. “Eaten something bad,” he repeated. “Hell of a coincidence. Have you thought maybe she was poisoned?"

  "Poisoned?” Leslie grew indignant. “Nobody around here would do such a thing to Miko."

  Richard nodded slowly. “Yeah. To get her out of the way. That's what you're thinking, isn't it, Thornholt?"

  Thornholt nodded. “You just lost your first line of defense."

  * * * *

  Alex Wright waited until the Thieves’ Hour, four o'clock in the morning, before he made his move. He appeared at the dining room windows as silently as a ghost, cut the small, round hole he needed, then inserted his hand and unlocked the window. After climbing in he waited patiently for any restless sleepers to drop back to sleep, then slowly and carefully made his way up the stairs to the first door on the left. He peered for a moment into the doorway yawning into the darkly shadowed room across the hall, finally turning away.

  Carefully, he turned the knob and inched open the door to Leslie's room. He waited again, listening for any sign that Leslie knew he was there, but there was none. Her breathing was soft and regular. Grinning, he pulled the straight razor out of his pocket. She'd wake up soon enough, he thought, when he cut her damn throat. She'd wake up just in time to die.

  He had researched what he wanted to do. A slicing cut across her trachea, deep, so her blood would pour into her lungs and she'd strangle, dying hard, and knowing she was dying.

  So long, whore.

  Standing with the razor in his hand he never saw the tall figure loom behind him. When he tried to reach out to pull the sharp edge across Leslie's throat, he didn't realize at once what had happened, and he strained against the hand that had seized his wrist. It was only when he was whirled around that he saw his doom.

  Richard's fist smashed like a pile driver into his face, ruining the carefully maintained symmetry beyond redemption. A second crushing blow slammed into his ruined face, and he sagged in Richard's hand.

  The sounds had awakened Leslie and she switched on a lamp. Her heart jumped into her throat at sight of the two men, Richard standing like nemesis before Alex Wright, readying another blow. Then she saw the wreckage of Wright's face. Aghast, her heart pounding, she watched Richard pause while his dark-adapted eyes adjusted to the flare of the lamp, then he drew back his fist again.

  "Richard,” she screamed. “No!"

  Richard's fist poised, still cocked, trembling in indecision, his gaze at Alex Wright cold and sharp, as unforgiving as an executioner's axe.

  "You'll kill him, Richard. Don't, please, he isn't worth the trouble."

  For a long, long moment she thought her plea useless, then Richard opened his hand to allow Alex Wright to fall like a rag doll to the floor.

  Richard drew a deep breath and held it, staring down at Wright. Finally he released his breath in a hard gust. “All right. Call 911. Have him put in a cage where he'll be safe from me."

  "Who is he?” Coleen asked. Awakened by Leslie's scream, she had come running from her room down the hall. Seeing the man lying on the floor, she sidled close alongside Leslie.

  Richard shared a look with Leslie, then answered Coleen carefully. “I never saw him before in my life, Coleen."

  "Mom?"

  "Is that the man who came to pick you up at school,” Leslie answered.

  "I don't know. He could be, I guess. He looks—all mashed in.” She looked up at Richard. “Why did you hit him?"

  Richard pointed to the open straight razor lying on the floor. “He was about to use that on your mother."

  Coleen face paled as she stared at it, then at her mother. “Why?"

  Leslie sighed deeply. “I don't know, Coleen."

  "Who is he?"

  "A man I used to know, a long time ago, before you were born."

  "He said that. When he came to the school, he told me he was an old friend, that he knew you before I was born.” She looked at the razor glittering on the floor. “Some friend."

  It was broad daylight. An ambulance had come to carry away an unconscious Alex Wright. The sheriff's crew had come, and measured and photographed and questioned. Near the end, curious, deputy Thornholt had asked Richard what he had used to hit Wright with. When Richard had held up his hand, wrapped in a towel full of crushed ice to help reduce the swelling, Thornholt raised h
is eyebrows. “We don't often see men who can punch like that. Where did you learn that?"

  Richard looked shamefaced for a moment, and he directed his answer to Leslie. “When Barbara and Timmy were killed, I went off the deep end for a while. Barbara's dad finally put me straight. He told me I needed to do something physical instead of sitting around thinking, so I went to a gym and took up boxing."

  Leslie's eyes went to Richard's nose, and Richard nodded, confirming her thought. “Yes,” he said, “that's where I got this. Anyway, for the last six years I've been punching the hell out of the drunk who drove the red car."

  He squeezed his hand into a painful fist. Water drained out of the towel onto the carpet. “Isn't it strange that I should remember something as useless as that in such detail, but can't recall a single damned thing that would really help?"

  "Whatever happened to him, Richard, the man in the red car?"

  "Nothing.” He shrugged. “He lost his driver's license for a year. I heard he finally drank himself to death."

  Thornholt shook his head. “Maybe that's what happened to him,” he said.

  Richard stared at him. “Yes,” he said, nodding after a moment. “I never thought of it like that.” He moved his gaze back to Leslie and she could see a glow deep in his eyes. “I guess now I can stop pounding on him, can't I."

  She nodded. “Save your energy for ... other pursuits. You'll be needing it."

  * * * *

  That evening they were sitting as close together as they could get, neither of them very comfortable on a hassock not really big enough for two. But, thigh to thigh, neither of them wanted to move away from the other. The towel around his right hand still dripped melted crushed ice onto the carpet but Leslie scarcely noticed. She was preoccupied with his other hand, the hand that reached out and tucked a stray curl back into place, touched her gently on the cheek, slid lightly down her nose, and caressed her softly on her throat.

  The sound of the radio Coleen had on as she studied gradually faded, and they were surrounded by a solemn hush so deep she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. He was weaving a spell over her, she thought, and it was magic, powerful magic. She didn't want to move lest she ruin it. His eyes met hers, and she was flooded with new emotions—she felt precious, of great value. She didn't ever want this feeling to go away.

  At first she hadn't realized what was happening, the changes were so subtle, so gradual. The first was the way the air thinned out, so she had to gulp air through her mouth. And the way it had gotten so warm that she had to open the throat of her blouse, but that hadn't helped at all because then his hand trailed lazily into the deep vee and across the tops of her breasts, and now she had a racing heart to add to hot breathlessness. She kissed the fingers that brushed her lips, and she noticed that she was trembling, with little tremors fluttering in her stomach.

  There were other changes. Deep inside her she felt stirrings as the female within began to respond to the male on a very primitive level. A tingling begin to spread from the tips of her fingers to the soles of her feet. She felt her nipples tighten and she wanted desperately for him to touch her there and soothe the ache. But he wouldn't. She wanted to call out, Yes, darling, it will be all right, but she didn't. She sat still, thigh to thigh on a hassock too small for two, afraid to move, afraid he would stop.

  Oh, God, this is loving. There had never been anything like this. Such an incredible yearning. If he wants to make love right here on the living room carpet, she vowed, I swear to God I'll let him. No, I swear I'll help him.

  His eyes were darker than usual, she noticed almost casually. Oh, yes, he was feeling it too. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they leaned toward each other, and her eyes drifted closed as their lips touched.

  There was a sudden loud clatter as Coleen charged pell-mell down the steps into the living room, stopping open-mouthed at the sight of her parent kissing a man.

  "Mom!"

  Leslie could never quite get over how much exuberant energy Coleen brought with her space. But why just this very minute, honey? She opened her eyes regretfully, and found herself staring into the intense blue of Richard's smiling gaze. She gazed dreamily at him for a moment. They parted reluctantly.

  "Yuck,” Coleen said. “You were necking."

  "Yes,” Leslie answered. She sighed. “We were necking. Or trying to anyway. I'd start getting used to that if I were you. You're going to be seeing a lot of it."

  Coleen blinked, her look flipping between Richard and her mother. “Gee, Mom, I've never seen you do that before.” She looked at Richard and grinned. “I guess you really do like him, huh?"

  "Yes, honey. I really do."

  Chapter Eleven

  Next morning, after seeing Coleen off on the school bus, Richard and Leslie drove to the City-County building in Indianapolis to see the police. Leslie hid her grin when Richard walked up to the grizzled desk sergeant and said, “Good morning, Sergeant. My name is Webb. W-E-double-B-Webb. Richard Webb. I'd like to ask you for your help."

  "Yes, sir? What is it you want?"

  "First, I want to report an attempt on my life."

  Sergeant Fahrquar never turned a hair. “Then you want to talk to—"

  "And also I want you to send someone around to my house to see if the people who tried to kill me are waiting for me to come home so they can try again."

  Sergeant Fahrquar's gaze moved between Leslie and Richard. “I have to warn you, sir, that falsely reporting a crime is itself a crime."

  Richard raised his hand to his cap. “Do you want to see my scars, Sergeant?"

  "No, sir. I'll ask you to have a seat until I can find someone to talk to you."

  As they walked to chairs, Leslie heard Richard mutter, “Doesn't say much for the crime rate in this town when you have to take a number and wait till it's your turn to report a crime."

  Almost at once a detective was standing beside Richard. “Your name is Webb? Richard Webb?"

  "Yes, but don't ask for much more than that, because—"

  "Mister Webb, do you drive a red ‘96 Mercedes, license number 93W-1960?"

  Leslie felt an uneasy tremor at the tone of the detective's voice. Now what, she thought. “Richard—"

  "I don't know,” Richard said. “That's part of the reason I'm here, to tell you about—"

  "Richard!” Her peremptory tone got Richard's attention. He turned away from the detective, his eyebrows raised inquiringly.

  "I want to talk to you,” she said.

  "Now?” He pointed with his thumb at the detective. “Let me get started with the—"

  "Now, Richard!"

  Richard shrugged his apologies to the detective. Leslie tugged him a few feet away and whispered, “I'm not so sure that coming here was such a good idea."

  "But you said ... what's bothering you?"

  "I don't like the way they've got you in a car so soon. A specific red car. Like they know something special about this car. Listen, do you want me to be your attorney?"

  "What?"

  "Yes or no, Richard?"

  "Why do I need an attorney? I haven't done any—oh, hell, what have I done that I don't remember?"

  "Yes or no, Richard?"

  "Yes. Of course, yes. But—"

  "Then listen. If I say you don't answer a question, you don't answer. You got that? If you're going to argue with me about it, say so now, and I'll get you another attorney."

  "You think something's happened that we don't know about, don't you? Like what?"

  "How could I know? I just don't like the way that detective hopped onto you so fast."

  He gazed intently at her for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, if you don't like it, then I don't either. I'll follow your lead."

  She sighed gustily. “Good. Now let's get back to the man. But don't you forget what I said."

  "You can wait out here if you like, ma'am,” the detective said, “while I talk to Mister Webb."

  "No, we come as a pair, Detective...?"

&n
bsp; "Fahrquar."

  "The same as the desk sergeant?” Richard asked.

  "My father,” Fahrquar said. “Now, about your being a pair..."

  "I'm Mr. Webb's attorney, Detective Fahrquar,” Leslie said. “If you can't live with that, we're out of here."

  "You—” Fahrquar bit off whatever he was going to say, and instead motioned them to follow as he led them to an interview room.

  Leslie stared around her. The room was a far cry from the sterile, stereotypical room so dear to movie sets. It boasted a tank filled with tropical fish, tasteful pictures on the walls, and comfortable chairs around a table. It would have made a pleasant business office, she thought.

  Fahrquar spoke into a phone on a table and in a moment they were joined by a stocky, attractively dressed female officer. She and Leslie eyed each other, but the female officer was content to nod and give her name. “I'm Detective Honey,” she said. The woman was there because of her, Leslie realized. She hoped Richard didn't have a wild urge to make a joke about a honey of a detective. She had a feeling Honey had heard them all.

  "Sergeant Fahrquar said that you wanted to report an attempt on your life,” Detective Fahrquar said.

  "Yes,” Richard said. “I was hit over the head, more than once, judging from the wounds, and thrown in a ditch full of ice water in Boone county. I would have died, frozen to death, if it hadn't been for Leslie—Ms. Carson. She pulled me out of the ditch and got me inside where it was warm."

  "Did you call the police about this?"

  Leslie answered. “I couldn't. Whoever threw him in the ditch knocked over the telephone pole."

  "And about what time was—"

  The door to the interview room flew open and a large, florid-faced man rushed in, looked around and ran to seize Richard by his jacket, pulling him out of his chair. “You did it, you son of a bitch. You killed them, both of them, in cold blood, and, by God, you're gonna pay."

  He swung a massive fist at Richard's face, only to have the blow brushed aside to spend its energy on empty air. Richard's counter punch, a whistling left cross, caught the red-faced man just off center of his nose. Backpedaling to keep his balance, the man slammed into the wall and slid slowly to the floor. Stunned for an instant, he reached under his jacket and drew a pistol.