Remember Me (16 page)

Nodding briskly and thanking him, Rhodes asked the detective to get a formal statement from the roommate, and contact the boyfriend for a statement as well. Opening the bag and removing the letter, she held it at arms length so they could both read it.
Please make sure to notify my mother, you’ll find her name and number in my address book.
Tell her that even though I haven’t seen her in a long time, I love her, and couldn’t come to see her because I was afraid.
Sammy
“Short, and to the point.” she muttered. Looking at him, she asked, “What is your business here, Bishop?”
“
She called me, right before she did this." he answered quietly.
“Detective, I have something very interesting to share with you about her boss." he said as he watched a patrolman use a water hose to spray the blood off the sidewalk.
Briefly, his mind flashed to his childhood as he watched his
mother’s
blood spill from her own body. Closing his eyes, he breathed a silent prayer for the young secretary’s wounded soul.
I couldn’t save you, but I’ll make sure he pays for this, I promise you. Rest now, he can’t hurt you, ever again.

                                                        Chapter 15
Staring at the food in front him, Granger couldn’t bring himself to eat any of it, and wondered why he had bothered to order it to begin with. He couldn’t stop thinking about what was going on with Cassandra, and he felt personally responsible for the nightmare she was enduring, and
had endured
. After all, he had brought her into his world to begin with. He was very well aware of the hard times she had been through in the past, not only dealing with his mother, but the pressures that his lifestyle had put on her. At times he had been away on business trips for weeks on end, which left her all alone to deal with his admittedly difficult and demanding mother.
When he had been around, and she seemed sad, instead of taking time off work, he had simply bought her expensive gifts that most women would have killed for. But his Cassandra was different, she would simply say,
“All I want is you…”
But at the time he had found it very difficult to believe that any woman wouldn’t crave the material things he lavished on her. He had hoped she would understand that that was his way of expressing his love for her. It was in his upbringing. He had learned from a very young age that expressions of love always had a price tag attached.
Shoving the plate away, he gazed around the deluxe penthouse suite, and thought
I can’t kid myself, I didn’t know a damn thing about love until I met her.
He had to face the facts: He had failed Cassandra and his son terribly, and apparently it was time he paid for his sins. Once all this was sorted out and he got her the treatment she needed, he would go to the authorities and reveal an old secret that would ruin both himself and his mother.
           
********************************************************
Granger, age 17: Christmas Eve Night
Driving up in the new Bentley his father had given him for Christmas, he parked in the circular drive in front of the family estate. Getting out of the car, he looked around, marveling at the thousands of Christmas lights twinkling, all expertly placed to show off the house. His mother had gone to even greater lengths this year decorating, she had hosted several parties in which many of the elite, upper class in Virginia came to participate. Of course, like it had been every year since he was a small child, the family estate had been featured on the front cover of several magazine publications. Briefly, he remembered a TV reporter who had came to their home, doing a piece on the estate and it’s history, and how the original mansion was one of the first multi-million dollar homes ever built in southwest Virginia. The reporter had said, ’The Mortensen family is truly the image of class and elegance.” He himself had had to fight from rolling his eyes, but instead, simply smiled for the camera like the perfect son. If the people had only known about the nightmares that went on behind those gates, they would have been horrified.
Shaking his head to clear the memories, he noticed for the first time that there were no activities, and he hoped his parents were off in their own wing of the place, asleep. Looking at his watch, he was surprised to see it was midnight. He had tried to beg off coming home this year, he actually preferred the cold halls of the Powell Military Academy to this place, but his mother would have none of it. She demanded his presence, because it wouldn’t look right to their family friends if he wasn’t there. So here he was, and dreading every moment, mostly due to the fact things had gotten worse than usual between his mother and father recently, mostly due to his father’s heavy drinking.
Sighing, he climbed up the front stairs and reflected on the fact that he had little room to talk about his father, because on the rare occasions he himself came home, he would stay out to all hours of the night, partying, chasing girls, and getting drunk. In short, anything that would to make his time at home more bearable, and pass the time more swiftly.
Opening the entrance doors, he heard Christmas music echoing through the halls, and even though the music was supposed to radiate warmth and good cheer, the dark house still held a sense of foreboding. The place, his family‘s home, was filled with all the creature comforts anyone could ever desire, yet had always felt as cold and impersonal as a museum. Rare works of art, some of them costing more than an upper middle-class worker’s home, some pieces of furniture that had at one time been owned by kings and queens, and he didn’t care about any of it. ‘They’ve given me everything but what I need the most, love.” he muttered.
Drunken shouts coming from his father’s study confirmed his suspicions that both his parents were indeed awake, and not in bed as he hoped.
Closing the door behind him, he shook his head sadly. Holidays were supposed to be about healthy, happy traditions, and they were, for most normal families. Normal families sang carols, hung stockings, wrapped gifts, others made cookies and hot chocolate. The only thing that could be considered a holiday tradition here was his mother and father going at it tooth and nail. He also could predict what the fighting was all about, it was always, without exception, his father blaming his mother for his misery, and his mother screaming at him about one of his many mistresses.
Looking at the twelve-foot tall, Napa Christmas tree that an interior decorator had been hired to erect, he stepped forward and looked down at the huge pile of gifts spilling out from underneath. Shrugging, he leaned over and picked up a silver package absent mindedly, trying to tune out the rising voices. He always tried to never get involved, after all, he had learned the hard way, when he was only ten years old.
His father had flew into a rage one night during dinner, and began beating his mother. Frightened out of his wits and spurred by the desperation in his mother’s screams, he had tried to pull him off her, but it was big mistake, because his rage had been redirected at him. He had beaten him so badly he had had to spend an entire week in bed. There was no hospital for the likes of that, no sir, it would have been too much of a scandal. The family housekeeper, Gianne, and the butler, Edoardo, had cared for him and nursed him back to health. They watched over him in shifts, holding him when the pain was too much, and when he would cry.
His mother only came to check on him one time, and it was something he would never forget. Her smiling down at him, with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, telling him that his father would never dare leave her now. That he knew she would use the attack on him to destroy his public image. Her clear blue eyes glimmering with malice, spite, and pleasure. “Thank you for your sacrifice hon, we now have the power, you and I!” No words of comfort, no words of love, or even that she was sorry that she hadn’t been able to protect him.
So no one ever knew, besides the miserable people within these walls. Even when he returned to school, no one asked about the bruises. Not the teachers, the principle, not the school nurse. After all, who would dare cross the
Mortensons
? Same thing with the household staff, afterwards.
Putting the package down, he began wearily approaching the long spiral staircase that led to his room when he heard another scream, this one from his mother, and it sounded unlike anything he had ever heard from her before.
Sprinting in the direction of his father’s study, he quickly opened the door and stepped inside. To his horror, he saw his mother lying on the floor, her small body curled into a
fetal position, while his father was kicking her in the ribs viciously. As he drew his leg back preparing to deliver a kick to her head, he lunged forward, grabbed the back of his collar, and hurled him half-way across the room, where he stumbled briefly, but managed to keep his feet.
Bending, he helped his mother rise to her feet shakily. Steadying her with both hands on her shoulders, he studied her red face closely, but could see no bruises or swelling. “Of course he wouldn’t leave any visible marks on you, where everyone could see them.
Not a pillar of the community like him.." he muttered.
Turning, he fixed the drunken man with a withering glare and said, “This has got to stop!”
Pushing his pale hair from his brow, his father simply smoothed his wrinkled dress shirt, adjusted his tie, and made his way to the bar. Filling a crystal tumbler with bourbon, he took one gulp, then turned to face them both. With a thin-lipped smirk, he mocked, “Well well, what do we have here? The young Lord, playing the role of shining knight, coming to save the Duchess! But that’s good, you’re finally acting like a real man! Can that be why you dared put your hands on me?”
Ignoring the taunts, he turned his attention to his mother. Caressing her cheek gently, he said, “You should go to your room, I’ll have Anne come help you, give your something for pain and sleep too.”
“Oh, come on now son, the fun is just beginning!” his father’s voice taunted.
“Granger, I’ll be fine, you just run along now…” his mother replied with a look of panic, eyes darting nervously back and forth between him and his father.
To say he was both surprised and shocked was an understatement. His mother had never shown fear, even while being beaten mercilessly. She had always at least tried to fight back, and when that was useless, would take the beating and later find a way to use it against him. But this time he saw raw fear in her eyes.
“No no, my dear! He’s what…. seventeen years old now? I think it’s time he took part in our little adult discussions. And in the spirit of Christmas, I’m going to bestow our little man with a very special gift. Son, tonight you learn the truth about everything.” his father replied with nasty, sly grin.
“Granger, go to your room, now! Just go!” she yelled, trying to push him out of the office.
“Ohhhh no no no no
NO
, he stays!” his father yelled, causing them both to jump.
Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, his heart began beating like a trip hammer as he watched the man refresh his drink, then light an expensive Cuban cigar with a gold-plated Zippo.
Puffing luxuriously on the cigar, he took another drink and looked at them both blearily. “Grace, lets tell OUR son how we REALLY, met.” Even though his tone sounded merry and warm, hatred and resentment blazed forth from his blood-shot eyes. “Yes, a touching family story, it’s perfect for this cold winters night. We’ll tell you a bed time story that you’ll never forget.” he said as his head fell back and cruel laughter followed.
Turning to look at his mother, he noticed her complexion had gone from a dark shade of red, to pale as the winter snow outside. Her lips were trembling, and her eyes held a vacant, faraway look.
“My boy…” he continued, “…your dear mother loves to brag about her royal roots, does she not? A lineage that has been part of the Italian royal family since 1874. I’ll concede, yes, it’s true, she DOES come from royalty….” Turning his gaze on him, he looked him up and down for a moment. “Maybe that’s where you get those classic good looks from. “What do you think, my dear?” he said, turning his attention back to his silent mother. “IS that where the boy gets his dashing good- looks from?”
Averting his gaze, she began weeping silently.
With a ridiculously over-the-top look of sympathy, his lower lip protruded in a phony pout. “Ohhhh, sorry…” he mocked. Looking back at him, he continued. “But on with the story. As I was saying, yes, Grace Sesia
Mortenson
is indeed from royal stock, but her father, the Duke Sesia, wasn’t a very adept businessman, was he, my dear?” he asked, not even bothering to look at her. “Came a time when he found he was in need of a rather large loan in order to save the family vineyard, one that had been operating since the 18th century. You know, the one that we visit every summer, son?”
Listening in mute silence, he felt vaguely nauseated, and sensed worse things were yet to come.
Grabbing his glass from the bar, his father puffed on the cigar again and made his way to the large fireplace. Above the mantle hung a nearly life-sized, commissioned oil painting of the three of them. Looking up at it, he was silent for a moment, then continued. “The good Duke begged and begged for money. You see, because of his addiction to gambling and whoring around, he knew he would eventually default on an earlier loan to the family business I had given him, and then I would get the vineyard, worth millions, for a song and a dance. Long story short, on the verge of default, he came to me groveling, begging for me not to call in the loan, not to take the family vineyard. He told me he had something priceless that he would give me in return…” he said as he slowly turned and pinned his gaze on the silent woman.
‘LEAVE NOW, YOU DON’T WANT TO HEAR THIS’ his mind screamed at him, but he was unable to move.
With a
faraway
look in his eyes, his father continued. “I’ll never forget what The Duke said. He said if I would forgive the debt, he would give me his sixteen-year-old daughter,
his only child. He would give me, a thirty-year-old man at the time, that he knew nothing about, his only daughter. YOUR mother.” he said as his gaze landed squarely on him again. “Guess what else he told me? He told me she knew very well how to please a man, because, after all, he taught her how to himself.”
Everything seemed to move in slow motion as the realization of what his father was saying finally hit home. Thinking the nightmare was just beginning, he was only dimly aware of his mother’s own wail of anguish.
“So I agreed. Well, mostly. I took your mother, then forgave twenty percent of the loan, but not all of it. She wasn’t worth THAT kind of money. So I called in the rest of the loan. The day I tossed him off the vineyard he hung himself. And that is why we go to the vineyard every June, to celebrate the miserable degenerate‘s demise. Why, the year you were born I had the actual tree the ol’ boy hung himself from planted by our bedroom window.” he smirked as he puffed the foul smelling cigar and twirled the bourbon around in the glass.