Forgotten (6 page)

Was he?
Reardon wasn’t so sure.

“
Aint seen
the likes of it before, well… not the ways I’s lived. Yer don’t
seems to care who we are but if there aint no-one else who can
help, yer just do.”

A penance I inflicted upon myself years ago, Jacko.
And Reardon recoiled at the thought.

“
And yer
wants nothin’ in return.”

Just your loyalty.

“Just our loyalty.”

Reardon smiled.

“And me loyalty is there for yer anytime.”
He let out a deep, throaty cough and nodded at the parcel.
“Anyways, open it.”

Reardon
began stripping off the speckled gift-wrapping. It was a little
tattered, wrinkly, sections of it marked by old, yellowed sticky
tape. A blue pre-loved bow balanced on the top. Pieces fell with a
soft whoosh onto the marble floor. What remained was a photo,
framed in white cardboard with roughly colored crimson
hearts.

“
Ellie
wanted yer to have that, to remind yer of how yer helped save
her.”

Ellie was
Jacko’s seven-year-old daughter. The photo was of her. She was
leaning over a small table with a red crayon in her hand. Blonde
curls framed her chubby-cheeked face, her fringe pulled back by a
pair of bright purple baubles. Her smile was wide and unmistakably
happy. But her eyes dominated all else. They were the most
remarkable blue, glassy like, yet so full of warmth.

Much like Issie’s.

Much like yours,
Reardon could
hear his mother say.

“
She made it
herself, even wrote them words,” Jacko said with a burly swell of
his chest.

Heading the
frame, in childish scrawl was –
I won’t forget you ever.

Reardon’s
breath was sharp; it almost hurt.
I won’t forget you either… ever.
“How’s she doing?”

“
Real good,
real good. She’s movin’ around real fine now; she can’t wait to
shows yer.”

“I can’t wait to see it.” He pictured a very
frightened, very damaged Ellie of eight weeks ago. He clenched his
jaw tightly, felt a deep-rooted anger re-ignite. He looked across
at Jacko and said as fiercely as he could, “Those men will never
bother you or your family again.”

“
I believes
yer.” Jacko’s tone was just as fierce.

Reardon
nodded and then shot a look at his left hand. There were three,
deeply embedded scars on his palm, one crossing the other two,
creating the symbol Ѝ. His chest tightened.

Disturbing
images of another set of men quickly infested his
head. As did the hauntingly terrified faces of
their seven innocent victims. Victims misguided by their trust in
Reardon. He visualized the day when he would finally hunt the
bastards down. And his chest loosened just a little.

Patience, Saul,
he would hear his
mentor say.
Let it guide
you.

He had been
patient for six years now. Six long years of following one lead or
another. But as initially promising as those leads were, the
results were always the same.

Nothing.

We will find them, Saul.

He had to
believe it.
Closure, at least for the
children, at least for his Issie, that’s all he wanted.

I love you, Daddy.

I love you too, sweetheart.

“
Yer
ok
ay, Mr. Reardon?”

Reardon
snapped back to the present and again lifted the photo of Ellie.
“Just a little overwhelmed.”

Jacko smiled and before long, he left.

***

Reardon strode towards his bookshelf.

It lined one
of the room’s nine-foot walls and housed a wealth of his passions.
He searched for a particular book titled
The Road Less Traveled
- a
special gift from his mentor. When he found it, he carefully placed
Ellie’s photo before it.

He ran his hand over his hair, messing it
further, then headed to the bar where a semi-filled coffee maker
sat bubbling on a white stone bench top. The heady aroma of the
coffee was enticing. But Reardon reached for the bourbon instead.
He filled a short glass deciding against his usual ice.

On the way
back to his desk, he paused at a chess game still in progress,
centered on a low marble coffee table. Beside it lay a current
issue of
Business
Weekly
. He grinned at the game. At
present, he was winning.

He slumped
into his chair, stretched out his long legs and took a slow swig of
his bourbon. It was warm, smooth and slid down his throat like
virgin honey. He then leaned forward, clicked his laptop to life
and stared at the name heading the documented page.

Claudia Cabriati.

Reardon
rubbed his brow, felt his fingers press hard against his
skin. Someone had to be messing with him.
Right?

Either that or this was one bloody
coincidence.

The office door flew open causing Reardon to
shoot a look over his shoulder.

Ethan Sloane
entered, swinging a well-used cricket bat and whistling an upbeat
version of ‘We Are the Champions.’ He shoved the door closed with
an easy back kick, tossed the bat onto one of the sofas, and then
strode directly towards the bar.

After
grabbing a beer, he yanked a rubber cooler from the pocket of his
cricket whites, thrust the beer into it and himself onto the other
sofa. Its leather fabric whooshed under his muscled weight. With
little effort, he twisted the cap from his beer, aimed it towards
the sink and threw. It landed with a tinny clatter.

Ethan grinned broadly and took a long scull
of his ale.

“I take it the game went well,” Reardon
said, returning to several small piles of printouts. He stapled one
last batch together and placed the stapler back in its drawer.

“Certainly did. You should’ve seen me, mate.
Smashed a six right over the fence. Bloody brilliant, if I say so
myself.”

“
Really?”
Reardon’s chair squealed as he swiveled to face his friend. Ethan
was now lying horizontally, his unblemished socked feet crossed on
the bottom armrest. His adidas joggers were scattered randomly on
the floor. “With
my
lucky bat.”

Ethan
feigned outrage. “Mate, luck had nothing to do with it. It was
skill. Pure Sloane skill. Man, I was like an art form! The flawless
foot movements, the seamless swing of the arms, the cracking
connection of bat to ball and then the ultimate follow through.”
Ethan shook his head and let out a long, relaxed sigh.

“Sounds quite the picture. I guess the only
question left is, which female did it impress and what time are you
picking her up?”

Ethan arched
one eyebrow. “For someone with your mathematical capabilities, I
hate to tell you that’s two questions. But seven thirty, actually.
A pretty little number named Cherisse.”

Reardon crossed his arms and grinned.

“
You know
you could come. A small group of us are meeting at The Local.”
Ethan shrugged his broad shoulders. “After that who knows? The
chicks would really dig that posh London twang of yours. Naturally,
I’d have to rip them off me first, but hey, what are good friends
for?”

For a
moment, Reardon considered Ethan.
He was
almost as tall as Reardon, well over six feet and displayed all the
rewards of someone who worked out tirelessly. Along with his
supposed boyish charm, it made him a very resourceful person to
have around.

Get yourself a good wingman,
his
mentor had once said. And Reardon had. One that, in time, had
become more than some selected sidekick.

He and Ethan were like brothers.

As
for
Ethan’s invitation? Reardon’s silence
was the only answer Ethan needed.

“
Don’t get
too comfortable,” Reardon said. He handed Ethan the detailed
printouts on Claudia Cabriati.

“What’s this?”

“
Read it,
tell me what you think.” Leaning back in his chair, Reardon stole a
few, short moments to take in his favorite spot in the house. It
faced two enormous double-glazed doors that clearly revealed the
panoramic splendor of Queensland’s Blackall Ranges. Reardon
worshipped the Blackall Ranges. Here, he could think
forever.

“
You want to
help this woman?” Ethan sounded puzzled. “Why? She’s not your
thing.”

Ethan was
right, she wasn’t. Years ago, Reardon had made a pact. That pact
included a prescribed set of people he would help - as Jacko had
said - only those who had no one else. Cabriati didn’t fit that
description, not in the slightest.

One of Cabriati’s many supports was Melanie
Lloyd. She had rung Reardon earlier that day.

“
I’m told you can definitely help her,”
she says in a noticeably strong, expectant tone. “Claudia’s already
been through enough.”

Reardon is well aware of Cabriati’s sorrowful past. “Mrs.
Lloyd…,” he begins.

“
Don’t go ‘Mrs. Lloyding’ me,” she interrupts. “I’m not an
old woman yet. Mel is just fine.”

Reardon smiles. He has a good feeling he is going to like
this woman. “Mel
, I will say
what I say to everyone. I can help her but she has got to want that
help herself.”

“
Of course, she wants it.” Mel speaks as
one addressing a fool.

But Reardon is no fool. “4pm tomorrow
then.”

She rings off shortly after.

Reardon
sighed, then passed Ethan a printed photo of Cabriati. “Let’s just
call it a feeling.”

Ethan’s
reaction was immediate
. “Whoa! A feeling?
Man, I could guess where you’re having that feeling! She’s one
hot….”

“That’s not the reason.” Reardon noted his
slightly defensive voice.

Ethan
analyzed the photo with more interest. “I’ve seen this woman
before.”

He had?

“
At
The Local, just over a week ago.” Ethan paused
and then, “Yep, it was definitely her. She was drinking with a
friend.” A wicked smile spread across his face. “I was trying to
get her attention; she’s a looker all right.”

“And you refrained?”

“Know when they aren’t interested, mate, and
she clearly wasn’t.”

“What? That virtuous charisma of yours
actually hit a snag?”

Ethan jumped up, threw the bottle into a
large metal bin and strode over to the fridge. “It’s a rarity, but
it’s been known to happen.”

Reardon chuckled. “That in itself is enough
for me to meet her. Maybe even award her with a medal of
fortitude.”

Ethan yanked out another beer and threw
Reardon what appeared to be a rather derisory glare. “You’re bloody
hysterical, mate.” He flopped back onto the sofa. “But it just
might interest you to know, that someone else was watching
her.”

Reardon was definitely interested.

“Someone further indoors, in one of those
poorly lit sections.”

“Description?”

“Not much of one; too hard to make out the
face. He had the hood of his jacket pulled over his head and wore
large shades. At first, I thought it was some kid trying to look
cool. Who else would be wearing a jacket in this ridiculous
heat?”

If it was to hide his identity, was it for Cabriati’s
benefit or for someone else’s?
“What made
you think it was a he?”

“
Instincts,
mate.” He grinned a roguish grin that visibly said,
I know a female when I see one,
disguised or otherwise
.

Ethan tapped
the photo. “
This woman got up to go to
the bar and the guy dropped his shades, watched her every movement.
Several men glanced at her. But this? This was completely
different. Whoever he was, kept a strong fix on her all the way
back to the deck. I managed to catch this woman’s eye, and tried to
direct her attention to him.”

“And did she?”

Ethan shrugged. “She looked in his direction
a few times, but nothing. I assumed she either failed to see him,
or just wasn’t concerned about him. Whatever, she returned to her
table. When I looked back, the guy had done a runner. It was all
pretty strange.”

“So you got to see his face.”

“When he dropped the shades? Only
partially.”

“
Recognize
him if you ever saw him again?

“
Maybe,
don’t know.” Ethan threw the photo onto the table. Noticing their
chess game, he leaned forward to study it more closely. “How did
this Cabriati chick find out about you?”

“
Matty
Galloway. He apparently owed Cabriati a favor.”

“Galloway’s a good man. He must believe she
needs you.”

Reardon was still unsure if he really needed
her.

“
You’re
going to hate this, buddy,” Ethan said, as he pushed the white
queen forward.

Reardon shot
an uneasy look at Ethan. He felt a small sense of relief when he
discovered Ethan was referring to the game not Cabriati.

“Check,” Ethan proudly declared.

Reardon examined the move and scowled. He
then flicked his head towards the printouts.

“
Righto,”
Ethan reacted with a sharp salute. “Let’s have a look at this in
more detail.” He swiveled his body, planted his feet firmly on the
floor then spread the pages out on the table. “Cabriati’s name is
oddly familiar.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his
thighs. “Wasn’t she involved in something not that long ago? Give
me a minute.”