Past Abandon

by Alice Ayden

  Mrs. Kiness pulled Cora back into her room. “I am always more comfortable with a solid floor under me than whatever that dreadful balcony is made of, and you should not be seen in your sleeping attire.”

  Cora looked down. “They’re sweats.” She rolled up the sleeves of her red, oversized sweatshirt.

  Mrs. Kiness nodded unconvinced, released a rag from her pocket and jabbed at the windows.

  “Ah, the old avoid by being busy ploy.” Cora sauntered back to the balcony to collect her morning’s calm. Through the pillars, Cora scanned the powder blue sky and plump clouds. She shut her eyes and prepared for squawk or ratchet rattle to announce the winner of the daily blue jay versus squirrel smackdown.

  The eerie silence startled her. Her heart pounded and stomach clenched. Cora stared directly at the tree line that bordered the property about 300 feet away. Thickets and trees oozed and melted to create crevices of shadowy darkness; the sun hadn’t conversed with the ground in years. Eager for a rational explanation, Cora peered into the mass. A gardener? “They rarely ventured over there.” A tourist? “It’s too early.”

  She prayed for a benign explanation as she confronted the deliberate gaze. Cora couldn’t actually see anyone in the shadows, but eyes bore into her.

  Chapter 7: Oliver

  Oliver watched Cora from the shadows of the tree line as he scribbled in his journal.

  My darling Cora, I see all - especially your palpable, intoxicating fear. You believe me hidden deep in your nightmares. You prefer chocolate bars, lemonade, garden walks, and playing with your cat. I do not fit into your cocooned world of safety hidden behind the security of the plantation’s gates. And you do not realize how close I am.

  As Oliver hurriedly scribbled thoughts in the journal, his mind wandered to one of his earliest memories. Wandering on his own in a park, he witnessed what he couldn’t adequately describe at the time. Now he knew what he saw: two pedophiles sexually assaulting a girl who couldn’t have been more than seven.

  Oliver crept closer. They groped and pushed and forced and touched. A flurry of activity. A scent of fear and sweat. Her brown teary eyes wide and her mouth permanently fixed in a silent cry, she surrendered her naiveté.

  When they were done, they nonchalantly left as if they’d just taken out the mail. They’d probably done it so many times to so many little girls. For them, it probably lasted less than fifteen minutes; for her, those fifteen minutes would spread over a lifetime. Those minutes pierced her soul and altered her path. She’d live with it or suppress it. It would inspire everything she did or be the reason she couldn’t.

  In that moment, Oliver collected. He absorbed. It became part of him. After the men left, he could have done anything to that little girl, but they’d already shattered her. Anything Oliver did would have been excessive. Aware that some might have witnessed what he’d seen and been inspired to protect the innocent, Oliver didn’t sympathize with the broken girl. Why would he? Those men didn’t do nearly enough.

  On that day, Oliver swore that his mark would reverberate from his prey outward. He wanted people to toss through sleepless nights and jump at every noise. He wanted to permeate their soul and rip and shred and tear through tendon and muscle and bone. He wanted to be the inspiration for their fear, their tears, their immobility. He swore in that delicious moment he would find his own little experiment with someone who wouldn’t shatter so easily. Then he met a girl with an stimulatingly volatile memory: Cora Austen.

  In the past, Cora would remember, but her unpleasant memories overwhelmed. The truth instantly disappeared into the ether. Oliver allowed Cora some leeway that wouldn’t be tolerated in others. As he imagined their past times together, his old impatience emerged. Before, he’d been too quick to appease his needs, and Cora’s mysterious scars and wounds confirmed his impetuous nature. Oliver was much improved now. But Cora’s worsening migraines hinted of her impending disintegration. Oliver was surprised they’d danced so long.

  Cora forced Oliver to evolve. He could not have practiced on anyone else. She allowed him to specialize and hone. He had the patience and skill of those twice his age. He took advantage of vulnerabilities and took what was available. Oliver believed that was the downfall of so many of his ilk - their intense obsession with certain targets which the police and FBI exploited.

  Oliver frowned as if he’d just tasted something unpleasant. He was unused to the feeling of gratitude. He realized what Cora did for him, but, deep down, he knew she was his greatest weakness - his kryptonite. He was too astute not to admit that to himself. He might not write it for anyone to read, but he knew. Cora would be his downfall.

  A quick look at his watch told Oliver that Detective Maines would be at the crime scene. He had placed Jessica’s body in full view. Maines would be the first to notice the similarity to Emily.

  Chapter 8: The Name Tag

  Detectives Maines and Weever arrived at the crime scene. Weever pulled behind two police cars parked in an oversized ‘L’ to shield the body. Cars crawled along the highway to give the rubber neckers a chance to ghoul it up. Weever watched the uniforms close one lane of the four lane highway to give the detectives, ambulance, and police space to work. “What a circus.”

  “A typical highway.” Maines stared at the road ahead and behind. “Two lanes coming. Two lanes going. The usual asphalt with patches. Green belt in the middle.” Maines studied the swatch of grass with a generous sprinkling of yellow wildflowers separating oncoming lanes. “Rows of trees.” Evergreens closely spaced on both sides of the road created a thick shadow line. “Could have left her there.”

  “He wanted her found.”

  Maines peered into the dense trees hoping to find holes or gaps. The trees were too thick with dead underbrush that should have long ago been cleared away. “No witnesses?”

  Weever shook her head. “If we don’t find this guy soon…”

  “It’ll be the wonderful FBI.” Maines grinned maliciously. “And we’ll be the ones on traffic detail.”

  Maines watched Weever stiffen. He knew his partner wanted to work with the Feds but as an actual agent. She didn’t want to be babysat while still a cop. “Your sister’s fine.” Maines’ whisper broke Weever’s concentration.

  Weever didn’t flinch. “It’s been two weeks.”

  Maines had six commendations for his detective work, a promissory lunch with the mayor, and several write ups in the local newspaper. He’d have been an idiot not to think Weever wouldn’t worry about her sister. “She’s just having fun. First time on her own and all. She’ll call.”

  They got out of the car and sauntered towards the body. They took note of everything. A diaper in the tall grass. Old tire tracks. A broken beer bottle at the side of the road. They needed something that could tell them about the perpetrator, but Maines worried their guy wouldn’t casually leave obvious identity clues. Maines and Weever walked around the police cars and stopped when they spotted Nick.

  Maines sighed loudly as he brought out his notepad. “Gotta get ready. Sure he’s got some real interesting stories.”

  Weever flashed him a look and kept walking.

  “What? I’m just saying.” Maines caught up with Weever. “Everything’s a story with him. Can’t stand that type. Can’t just answer a simple question.” He lowered his voice the closer they got to Nick. “You ask him time of death. I guarantee he’ll rip open some yarn about his Aunt Jolene’s strawberry dip.”

  Nick knelt over the body. He stood up and straightened his tie as soon as he saw the detectives.

  Weever walked to the body first. “White female. Early twenties.” The body was face up - eyes open - with arms bent at the sides like a drooping scarecrow. “Obvious stab wounds.” She grimaced at the depth of the wounds across the woman’s arm and throat. “About an inch deep? About half inch in width?”

  Nick smiled. “Good eye, detective.” He lifted the arm up. “And about half that on each wrist.”

  Maines stopped when he s
aw the face. His blood raced. She looked so much like Emily. His Emily. He shook himself out of the trance. “Do we have her name?”

  Nick looked down at what he wrote. “Jessica Suthers. Worked at a local coffee shop. They think she was taken there. Uniforms are there canvassing. You know her?”

  Maines couldn’t take his eyes off Jessica. “Just looks like someone I knew.”

  “Bummer,” Nick blurted. “COD: exsanguination. He got all the major players.” Nick pointed to the body as he spoke. “Here we got brachial, femoral, jugular, and radial. Those are main arteries where the—”

  “You think we’re tourists here?” Maines asked.

  “Right.” Nick shrugged.

  Weever studied the wounds. “Any hesitation marks?”

  Nick shook his head. “He knew what he was doing. Could have medical training or could be—”

  “An M.E.?” Maines asked, getting more antsy by the minute.

  Nick flinched. “I’d have to do an examination to be sure. But I think he drained her. She’s got no blood left.”

  Maines tore a piece of paper from his notebook and spit his gum inside. “There goes lunch and dinner.”

  Nick smiled. “When I went to medical school, my grandmother...” He reached into his pocket and searched through various pictures.

  Maines side glanced at Weever as if to say, ‘Told ya.’

  “Here.” Nick held up some pictures. “Married six times. Made the best dumplings with Swiss cheese and sauerkraut. Raised thirteen children. She raised me because my parents were both in the military. Course what I didn’t know at the time was the man I always thought was my father really wasn’t. It was actually his brother who was my real father. That helped later on cause I dated someone who might have been my half-sister, but she turned out to be—”

  Maines raised his hands as if he could summon powers to make Nick disappear. “I’m begging you.”

  Nick pressed his finger to his lips as if promising to be quiet.

  “We gotta keep this low key for pity’s sake. We can’t have a panic.” Maines kept his eyes on Nick.

  Weever nodded. “Inform but don’t feed his thrill.”

  Nick perked up. “I did a paper on that as an undergrad.”

  Maines sighed loud enough for Nick to hear. “Of course you did.”

  Nick looked up at the sky partly so he could remember his paper and partly to avoid Maines’ glare. “The discretionary requirements for a police department to balance the public’s right to know and not capitulate to the psychosexual desires of the killers which might incite panic and distrust among the public is tantamount to—”

  “Catchy title,” Maines said.

  “So!” Nick clapped his hands together as if he’d just finished a big meal. “On to the abduction scene?”

  Maines stared at Nick. “No. We’re going to the abduction scene. We are.” He motioned with exaggerated hand gestures as if trying to communicate with someone who couldn’t speak English. “You know – the police? You - the medical examiner -stay here. Capire? Comprendre? Understand?”

  Nick shrugged as Maines and Weever walked away.

  Maines didn’t want to admit it to his partner, but some cases shelled detectives. “Do not become what you cannot destroy,” he whispered to himself while half thinking he’d move up his retirement after this case. Maines knew it would get worse.

  Nick ran up to them before they got into the car. “Almost forgot this.” He handed Maines a name tag.

  Maines looked at the name. “Emily. Shit.”

  “What I can’t figure out…” Nick twisted this way and that. “Is why the wrong name. Did she switch with Emily or was Emily the real target?”

  Maines didn’t listen to Nick. His mind raced a thousand different directions. He hoped this was just a coincidence. “Had to be,” he whispered. If it wasn’t? “Shit.”

  Chapter 9: Other Morgans

  Cora and Darcie catapulted through the side door.

  “Heads up!” one of the gardeners screamed.

  An open bag of potting soil misfired into the air and splattered in a puff pile. A tiny new shovel decapitated an unsuspecting plant, and the gardeners cringed at the senseless carnage. Darcie eyed the lethal tiny shovel as if that would complete her collection.

  Cora winced and breathed in some potting soil. That sensation transported her back to a childhood of playing hide and seek in the greenhouse and choosing unwisely to hide between open bags of dirt and manure.

  “Sorry,” Cora said coughing, as the gardeners meekly smiled and triaged the scene. She caught a glimpse of the gardener she recognized rolling his eyes at the gardener she hadn’t seen before as if to explain, ‘That’s the one I told you about.’

  Cora followed the snaky brick path as it looped around to the front of the house. She tightly held her breath and paroled the air once rows of white roses sheltered her from the tree line’s prying eyes. Darcie squirmed. Cora put her down, and the cat ran towards the gardeners displaying a few practice pounces. Darcie’s newest mission: harass the gardeners until they released the shiny shovel into her possession.

  Cora ‘started her day,’ as Mrs. Kiness said by taking an interest in everything around her. Mrs. Kiness believed it important for the family to notice house and garden details on a daily basis. She disliked beauty being taken for granted, but Cora didn’t need the reminders. Appreciating a place like Ausmor and being blessed to live there? Cora couldn’t or wouldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  She paused and looked down at the brick steps that led to the front door. It had been decided years ago that the steps should have the just rained look of shiny; so, the natural red brick looked as if someone had accidentally spilled a thousand tubes of lip gloss. Cora sauntered up three lip smacking steps and gently touched the white pillars that stretched to the brick plantation’s third floor. She stood in the open doorway and studied the long entrance hall stretching to the back door.

  Inside, the pralines and cream paneled walls protruded with carved cornices and fluted pilasters around gigantic twelve foot tall portraits of Cora’s ancestors. All the dangly chandeliers and wall sconces lit the space and highlighted the dark chocolate floors, and the twenty foot centerpiece chandelier bravely splashed light into every corner and crevice. Few dared look directly at ‘the old gal’ as her uncle called it for fear their retinas would explode.

  At the far end of the hall, Cora noticed someone on the phone facing the back windows. Based on the dark blue uniform, it was one of the tour guides. Between bird poetry and jet whooshes gliding in through open doors and windows, Cora caught snippets of the conversation.

  “I know,” the tour guide said. “She’s such a useless bitch.”

  Nice. From the nasally voice, it had to be the subtle and always classy Tour Guide Anne. Careful that her boots didn’t alert her prey, Cora inched closer. She stared at the back of Anne’s blonde head and decided it was her best feature.

  “Princess Cora’s such a loser. Always has been, and they tiptoe around because everyone’s so afraid she’s going to remember something. Or not remember something. Or whatever. And everyone thinks she’s all that. I mean she always looks at me with zombie eyes and gutter hair.”

  Cora touched her hair which alternated between straight, curly and wavy depending on mood. She wanted to flee - her normal reaction. As a little girl, she prayed to seep into the cracks of the hardwood floor never to be seen again when others whispered about her. Then she remembered she wasn’t that shy little girl anymore. Cora thought about how Mrs. Kiness would tell her not to allow anyone to make her feel so small.

  “Maybe she needs a lobotomy…If they can even find a brain.”

  One of the few people Cora could actually admit to hating without regret or remorse, Anne normally wore too much blue eye shadow and too little perfume. Cora tightly pressed her hands against her sweater and acquired a new goal - remember what she did to irritate Anne so she could do it again and again and again. />
  Lillia snuck up behind Cora and listened. She nudged Cora and made a strangulation gesture towards Anne. Cora nixed the idea though the dark wood might hide spillage. She remembered the several reported ghosts living at Ausmor because they died violently in the house; she couldn’t be haunted by Anne forever.

  Lillia slithered as close as she could to the tour guide. “Anne!” Lillia’s scream rattled the windows and swayed the banisters. Anne lurched upwards like a rocket, and her neat bun dangled like a lopsided dumpling.

  Lillia grabbed Anne’s cell phone. “Sorry, Anne can’t have phone privileges after she’s gotten her meds.’” She dropped the phone and watched it shatter to the floor. Lillia held her hand over her mouth in mock guilt. “Oh, I’m sorry. But I don’t think you’re supposed to use cell phones in the main house, are you? Are the tour guides supposed to use cell phones in the main house, Cora? No. Did you get that memo, Anna?”

  “It’s Anne,” she grimaced.

  Lillia smiled. “If you ever speak like that about my family again, Anna, I’ll feed your remains to our horses.”

  Cora stepped back from Lillia. She didn’t know if the mother ship needed her cousin back in time for lunch.

  “Now, be a good little tour guide, clean yourself up, and meet me back here.”

  Cora stepped out of the way so Anne could make her way towards the Old Wing’s restroom. She turned her attention to Lillia. “It looks like my cousin.”

  Lillia smiled as her eyes held the depth of a Great Blue Heron’s ten acre fish filled pond.

  “How?”

  “You like?” Lillia modeled her personality like a new dress.

  Cora hesitated. “Is this part of my missing memories?”

  Lillia didn’t nod, but her expression indicated ‘yes.’ She leaned in close. “Keep this between us.”

  “Why?” Cora turned around to Anne awaiting further orders.