The Forgotten (30 page)

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Authors: Tamara Thorne

Tags: #Horror

BOOK: The Forgotten
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83
Jennifer Labouche smiled into the dark night from the window of Felicia Banning's bedroom. She was in love for the first time in her life. When she'd begun her assignment keeping track of Project Tingler, that's all it was, an assignment with some very distasteful aspects, number one being Pete Banning and his goddamned prick. Getting close to his wife, Felicia, was part of the plan, though only as a friend.
Who could know that when they met, sparks would fly? Certainly not Jennifer, hardboiled military operative. She'd always preferred women, so her attraction wasn't a surprise, but she was a professional soldier. She never got involved. But Felicia was something special.
Tonight, after Felicia proposed they dump Pete and move in together, Jenny had told her lover everything she could. Felicia was alarmed and asked enough questions to understand that Jennifer's line of work was similar to Pete's military days. Secret stuff. She accepted it and in turn told Jennifer everything she could about herself, which turned out to be pretty vanilla. Jennifer found she loved that. She'd had enough of the games. She was thirty-one, and more than ready to settle down.
And so they agreed to get rid of Pete. And to become a couple. Although Jennifer hadn't told her yet, she was seriously thinking of retiring after the job was finished. Felicia would own Caledonia Cable and she'd need someone to help her run it.
She glanced at the glowing hands of the alarm clock. Three
A.M.
No sign of Pete. Felicia slept peacefully in the bed. And Jennifer, her Glock 9mm snug beside her, kept watch.
84
“Will. It's me. Michael. Listen!”
Will sat up in bed, disoriented. Three fifteen. The cats were in their usual spots, but he could feel the tension in their bodies.
Maggie?
he thought suddenly, then remembered she had gone home to her own brood sometime after midnight.
“Will. It's Michael. I have a message for you.” Whispers from under his bed.
There was no cable box in the house.
I'm imagining things.
He lay back down. His subconscious must still be playing with him.
“It's me, Will. I'm real. It's Michael. You're not making me up.”
Will wondered if he'd see anything if he looked under the bed. Michael, dead, gutshot. He shuddered and made himself close his eyes. He'd had enough ghost stories to last a lifetime.
“Will. Listen. Let me show you something. Will. It's Michael.”
He thought about Masters's suggestion that the devices in the cable could actually allow you to sense things. Like ghosts.
Nah. The cats are here.
They wouldn't be if he was really hearing a ghost. But maybe they weren't afraid of Michael.
Maybe they were just afraid of whatever the cable box was giving off.
“Will! Please. It's Michael. Listen to me.”
“Michael?” he asked softly. “Is that really you? Or have I lost my mind?”
“It's me. Listen to me.”
“I'm sorry I killed you.”
“You didn't.”
“Yes, I did. It was an accident.”
“Will, let me show you something.”
The whisper grew louder, seeming to fill the room. It was all around him, in the air, in his mattress, his clothes, his body. As it enveloped him, he began to see a summer's day long ago.
 
 
Heat shimmered on the golden grass on Crackle Hill where Michael, Will, and Pete had gone to target shoot. It was a mile and a half bike ride to get there, then a half-hour hike on foot to reach the backside of the hill where there was an old log to set up tin cans to shoot. It was Will's first summer as a shooter and he loved it. Michael said he had a knack.
Pete hated that Will was a better shot than he was. Michael was, too. Pete hated, hated, hated it.
Today, like other days this summer, they had hiked the rolling meadows and set to shooting with a purpose. The only bad thing, in Will's opinion—and Michael's he knew now—was that Pete was with them. He was so sour he drained the happy right out of people, but when Will was with Michael, Pete didn't bother him much. He felt safe.
As far as Will was concerned, Michael was royalty. He was going into his senior year in high school. He was lighthearted, outgoing, excelled in both sports and academics, and had a smile that could light up a pavilion. He was growing into a handsome man with wide-open features, a square jaw, and broad shoulders.
Pete was something altogether different. He always looked sullen, always felt sullen. Even then, Will understood that Pete hated Michael for the same reasons Will loved him. Pete oozed jealousy.
Slighter of build and his face was narrower than Michael's but similar in features. He could have been almost as attractive as Michael but he tended to scowl, holding his lips in a grim line. He hated team sports, primarily because he wasn't much good at them, and while he wasn't a loner, he wasn't popular like Michael. His friends, like Mickey Elfbones, were as sullen and unfriendly as he was.
The one thing Pete did love was a practical joke, usually at Will's expense.
These were all things that Will didn't think about much consciously, and when they were plinking cans, he never thought about them unless he felt Pete's eyes boring holes through him. Michael was an excellent shot and he seemed to hit his targets effortlessly. He taught Will how to shoot and he caught on quickly. Pete wasn't a really bad shot, and Michael never crowed about it, but it drove Pete nuts anyway.
That day, they finished shooting and began heading back across the mile of meadowland. Pete had made a couple of dead-on hits, but Michael made three times that. Will had made two, as well, and, safe with Michael, he did a little teasing as they hiked home. Michael chuckled and Pete seethed as his older brother pointed out that little Will and Pete made the same number of dead-on hits.
Pete fell behind as they walked, but Will barely noticed because Michael was telling him stories about outer space and stuff. The two came to a delapidated old wooden rail ranch fence. Will bent to go between the two rails while Michael started to swing his leg over them. A shotgun blast rent the air.
Time stopped. Something hot spattered over Will and he couldn't figure out what it was. It was red. At the same time, he heard Pete laughing and screeching, “Ha ha! I scared you!”
Will stood staring at Michael, at the hole in his middle, at the daylight he could see beyond it. He couldn't comprehend what he saw even as time sped up and Michael crumpled to the ground.
“Scared you!” Pete repeated, running up. He saw the blood on Will, then looked down and saw Michael. Saw what was left of him. He looked from Michael to Will, back again, his facing draining of color. Finally, stilted, he said, “Oh my God. You killed him! ”
Will stared up at him, at his shotgun. “You shot him.”
Pete fell on his knees in front of his little brother. He laid his weapon on the ground by Michael's and took hold of Will's shoulders. “No, Will. I didn't shoot him. I was just walking along slow, looking for arrowheads. Your gun must have gone off when you went under the fence.”
Will looked at the shotgun. It was Michael's. He'd let him carry the 12-gauge while he toted Will's smaller piece. Will loved carrying the big gun. “But it wasn't loaded,” he said, voice breaking.
“Sorry. It must have been.” As he spoke he finally looked away from Michael and into Will's eyes. “I'll fix it for you, little brother.”
Pete had never called him that before. Only Michael called him that.
Will didn't reply.
“Nobody but you and I need to know what you did. I'll tell Mom and Dad that his gun went off by accident while he was climbing the fence. Nobody will ever know that you shot him.”
Numb, Will nodded. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome. Remember, now. Michael carried the gun and it went off when he climbed the fence. Remember that. Forget that you shot him.”
And Will did. For a long, long time.
 
 
Will came out of the vision, tears on his face. “Michael.”
“Do you understand now?”
“Pete killed you. Why?”
“Because he hated me. It was a practical joke, Will. He didn't mean to kill me, but he did.”
“I miss you, Michael. I love you.”
“Be good, baby brother. Go live your life now.”
Something rolled onto his chest.
The baseball.
He picked it up and smelled it, breathing in nostalgia. Silent tears rolled from the corners of his eyes. Tears of loss, tears of relief, tears of joy.
He slept peacefully among his felines, his dreams full of Michael, full of mostly repressed childhood memories. Not bad memories, but good ones he'd forgotten existed. Memories too painful until now to allow, memories that he had to suppress to be free of guilt. Days playing catch, nights camping out in the backyard. Going on the merry-go-round when he was too young for school, Michael standing by the tall white horse, one hand resting on Will's leg, making sure he wouldn't fall off. Playing tag, listening to Michael tell ghost stories or tales about Davy Crockett or a million other things.
The night was full of beautiful dreams. Only when he woke up did he feel the anger.
85
Pete Banning had some dreams of his own. They were all about Maggie Maewood and what he wanted to do to her.
Dressed in his skivvies after a night on the couch—Mickey offered him his bed, but Pete knew he slept in the nude and he wasn't about to lie where some other guy's dick and ass had rolled around—Pete ate a big breakfast. Mickey was a decent cook, a little heavy on the grease, but who fucking cared. He made bacon and eggs and hash browns. The coffee sucked, but Pete didn't complain.
After breakfast, he put his clothes back on and checked in with Nedders, who told him that if he wanted fresh clothes, he should go buy them rather than go home and change. So, he had time to kill and decided to spend it with the lady veterinarian.
He gave Mickey the day off and took his van, parked right in front of Maggie's house, went up and knocked on the door. And knocked some more. A dog barked upstairs.
Finally, he heard the dog bark again, behind the front door. Footsteps approached and the door opened. “Yes?” Maggie looked young and sleepy.
“I'm sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Yes.” Her eyes had hardened. “What do you want?”
“To offer up an apology.”
The dog growled, sensing its mistress's mood. “Fine,” she said. “You offered. Now go away.”
“I have something for you. A peace offering.”
She eyed him warily. “Oh?”
“Free cable. I'm here to run the line and install however many boxes you want. See? I have the work truck and everything.”
“Not interested.”
“I know you have a satellite company, but this is free. Absolutely free. All the stations you get now and more.”
“No. Go away.”
“Sorry,” he said, pulling his little .38 from his waistband. “Gotta come in or I gotta shoot you.” He leveled the gun. “Or I could shoot your dog.”
“Anteater. Hide.”
The dog looked at her stupidly, then took off. Bat out of hell time.
“What kind of name is Anteater for a dog?”
She started to close the door so he pulled off a shot that whizzed past so close that it ruffled her hair. He glanced around. “Nice living out in the sticks all by yourself, huh, Maggie? I wish my neighbors weren't so close to my place. Have to watch the noise, you know? Now let me in or I'll get you before you can try to shut the door again. Get you right in the face. Let me in, I won't hurt you.”
He was a little surprised when she stepped back and allowed him to enter. The surprise put him on guard or she might have managed to hit him with the tire iron she'd kept behind her back. Instead, he twisted her arm, but she wouldn't drop the damn thing until he heard a bone snap. The iron clattered to the floor.
Tears welled in her eyes as she cradled the arm. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Holding the gun on her, he yanked her by the good arm. “You know who I am, and you know what I'm here for. Let's go. Upstairs.” He poked her with the gun.
They marched up the stairs and at the top, Maggie yelled “Hide! Downstairs!” at the top of her lungs. Two cats and the dog he'd seen before all tore out of a room and raced down the stairs, nearly knocking Pete off his feet. He didn't quite get a shot off. “Bitch,” he said, pushing her forward. “Get moving.”
In the bedroom, he held the gun on her and rifled through her dresser. He pulled out panty hose, forced her down onto the four-poster bed, and started tying her down. The cunt screamed bloody murder when he grabbed the broken arm, so he took pity. She couldn't use it against him anyway.
Finished, he surveyed his work. In his haste, he hadn't made her strip, but cutting off the clothes would be more fun anyway. Her face, though tear-streaked was stone cold. He knew the look. “Bitch,” he said. “I can have your body, but I can't have you, is that it?”
She didn't reply.
“I guess that's it, then. So guess what, bitch? I don't want you. I just want your body.”
She wouldn't answer.
He put the gun on her dresser and undressed. “Look at me,” he ordered.
She stared at the ceiling.
“Look at me, bitch. Look what I got for you. Gonna ram it up every hole in your body.”
No response. He took his pocket knife from his pants pocket and opened it, holding it over her face. “Maybe I'll make some new holes to ram it up. Think you're tough, don't you? Not sobbing over the broken wing makes you a tough broad. Well, you don't know shit about tough. I'm gonna rip you in two, you goddamned whore.”
The phone shrilled and she showed signs of life, but it stopped after four rings. “Where's your machine?” he demanded, taking the broken arm in his hand.
“Broken,” she muttered.
“Good. Probably just somebody wanting to sell you something anyway. Now, let's do something about all those clothes.”

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