Forget to Remember, page 19
“Won’t he feel obligated to go to the police?”
“I don’t think so. There’s something called client confidentiality. I’d feel better if we did talk to him. Somebody else has to know what’s going on, and as the executor of the estate, he’s the logical one. I want him to know who you are. Maybe he can help us. If worst comes to worst and anything happens to either one of us, he needs to know who’s behind it.”
“I guess you’re right. Should we make an appointment to see him?”
“I’ll invite him for dinner. He and his wife are separated. I’m sure he could use a good home-cooked meal.”
“Does Audrey know everything?”
“No. It’s time she knew. I’ll fill her in when she returns. For one thing, she should have the option to leave if she thinks it’s too dangerous here.”
CHAPTER 31
“Carol is really Cynthia?” Paul looked incredulous. “Elizabeth, I remember you sitting in that very chair and telling me Carol couldn’t possibly be Cynthia because of some crazy thing about her earrings.”
They were sitting at the table beside the kitchen counter having a pre-dinner glass of wine. Carol and Mrs. Horton had spent the afternoon reminiscing—or at least Mrs. Horton had reminisced while Carol listened and tried to grasp threads of events from her past, hoping one would open a closed door within her brain.
Carol greeted Paul with a firm handshake. He didn’t look bad in a tan suit—he might even have lost a few pounds—but now that she was the heir to the Sakai estate she wasn’t going to do anything to besmirch her reputation in the eyes of her grandmother. Paul acted equally distant. Mrs. Horton wanted to clear her conscience and dropped the bombshell as soon as they sat down.
Mrs. Horton explained she had rejected Carol because of the phone call from Michael. Paul had a hard time believing Michael was still alive. Mrs. Horton persisted. Paul took copies of the wills of Richard and Helen out of his briefcase and looked at them.
“Michael isn’t mentioned in the wills at all, so from the point of view of the estate, it doesn’t matter whether he’s alive or dead. Carol, or should I say Cynthia, you’re the sole beneficiary if you’re alive and available. My memory of discussions with Richard and Helen when they revised their wills a year ago is that Michael didn’t want to be a beneficiary. I didn’t think much of it at the time, except that Michael must be an odd duck. I don’t remember ever meeting him. The contingent beneficiary is the Weatherford Foundation.”
Carol took a swallow of wine. “What do you know about the Weatherford Foundation?”
“Your parents seemed to be very keen on it. As executor, I felt it was my duty to do some research. It’s a foundation based in Fairfax, Virginia, that donates money to worthy causes, whatever that means. I have their brochure and I’ve talked to the Executive Director, a woman named Katherine Simpson, on the phone. She seems competent enough. I gather from talking to her the foundation doesn’t have a lot of money. The inheritance from the estate would be a huge bonanza for it.”
Mrs. Horton asked, “Do you have a list of the board of directors or anybody else connected with the foundation?”
“I have the names of the board members.”
“Is Michael among them?”
“No, he isn’t, but remember, Michael is officially dead. If he’s connected with this foundation in some way, which is what I think you’re implying, he’s using an assumed name.”
Carol smiled grimly. “I’m afraid that runs in the family.”
It took Paul a while before he understood everything. Then he did a summation, as if he were speaking to a jury. “Elizabeth, you didn’t acknowledge Carol as your granddaughter at first because you were afraid of Michael. Carol—I’m going to continue to call you Carol for the time being—you went to England and ran into a woman you’ve worked with for two years who filled you in on as much of your history as she knew. Michael was supposed to be on the plane that crashed but wasn’t, and in fact, he sabotaged it, causing it to crash, killing his parents. He’s tried to kill Carol three times. His motivation, at least for the last two times, apparently is that he controls the foundation that receives the money from the estate if she’s dead.”
At this point they moved into the dining room to eat a fancy chicken dinner served by Audrey, who could hear everything they said. Mrs. Horton had told her some of it that afternoon.
Paul continued. “I found a newspaper clipping in my Sakai file this afternoon about the knife attack against Carol. I had forgotten about it. Michael isn’t mentioned as a suspect. I believe it says he called nine-one-one. That doesn’t sound like the act of a murderer.”
“That’s one memory I’ve recovered.” Carol didn’t want her opinions to be dismissed so lightly. “I remember the smell of Michael’s aftershave. There’s no doubt in my mind he did it. My parents must have talked me out of making an accusation against him. Janet, my English friend, says I told her I went to England to get away from him.”
“All right, we’ll accept that for the moment. The second attempt was the Dumpster in California. There were no witnesses. The third attempt was a shooting in California.”
“My friend Rigo saw the man.”
“Could he identify him in a lineup?”
“No. It was dark. I saw him for a second but only as a silhouette.”
“I’ve done some defense work, and I can tell you this is one case I’d gladly take. I wouldn’t have any trouble getting an acquittal on all three counts.”
Carol felt upset because the way Paul said it made it sound as if her testimony wouldn’t be believed. “How are we going to protect Grandma—Mrs. Horton?”
“We have to go to the police.”
Carol exchanged looks with Mrs. Horton. She’d been afraid of this.
Paul continued. “It’s their job to protect you. Carol, since you think Michael’s tried to kill you three times already, not going to the police isn’t going to help you. He’ll keep trying until he succeeds or until the police catch him. Remember I have a vested interest in your safety. I wouldn’t recommend this if it weren’t the best thing to do.”
Mrs. Horton nodded. “Paul’s absolutely right. When I agreed not to tell anybody, I hoped it would protect you, but now I see it hasn’t—and won’t. I always thought there was something odd about Michael. He’s mentally unbalanced. As long as he’s free, Cynthia isn’t safe.”
Mrs. Horton had adapted to her being Cynthia faster than she, herself, had. They agreed the three of them would talk to the police together in the morning. Carol and Paul left at the same time. Mrs. Horton offered to let Carol stay with her, but she had already paid for the night at the motel and her belongings were there. She said she’d move in with Mrs. Horton tomorrow.
Paul and Carol walked along the narrow sidewalk single file to their cars. Carol clicked her remote and received an answering flash from her car’s headlights. As she opened her car door Paul said, “I’m glad you’re Cynthia.”
“So am I. It’s nice to know who I am, even if I can’t remember much.”
Paul hesitated. “I missed you.”
“Don’t go there. You’re going to have to be satisfied with the millions you’re going to receive from the estate. I’m sure you can get a lot of girls with that kind of money.”
“But not like you.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but it’s not going to change anything. Good night.”
Paul didn’t speak, a habit he had exhibited before when he was rebuffed.
CHAPTER 32
Carol was staying at a motel in Hillsborough, a few miles north of the farm. She crossed I-40 and I-85 on the two-lane road and then drove up a short hill on a side street. The three-story building was part of a chain of economy motels, not luxurious like the Carolina Inn, but comfortable for someone like Carol who was on a budget. She might not have to be on a budget much longer—if the problem of Michael could be resolved.
She found a parking place at the corner of the building, locked the car, and went in the front door. She waved to the female night clerk who was on the phone and walked through the lobby to the lift—elevator. She was back in the States now and had to use American terminology. Two couples with too many suitcases denoting infrequent travelers were waiting for it. The small elevator might not hold all of them and their luggage.
Carol decided to take the stairs at the end of the corridor to the third floor rather than wait. How many times had she taken the steep and narrow stairway to Sean’s loft when she was posing? These stairs were a snap in comparison. She knew from walking down them this morning that the stairway entrance was close to her room, closer than the elevator. That gave her some comfort.
She had requested an upper-story room for security purposes, so if Michael somehow found out where she was staying he wouldn’t be able to climb in her window. That was silly; there was no way he could know where she was. Still, she’d sleep better knowing that unless he rappelled down from the roof, he wouldn’t be able to get to her from the outside.
The metal stairs to each floor were in two flights, with the second flight switching back so the stairway doors on each floor were in the same relative position. She made it to the second floor landing and started up the first flight to the third floor when something almost directly above her came into her peripheral vision. Or perhaps it was a slight noise, but in any case, she looked up.
Carol had seen pictures of Michael, and she knew immediately the man on the third floor landing was him, even though he’d dyed his hair red and it was long and shaggy. It might have been the “oriental cast” to his features, to quote Sean when he’d been talking about her.
While her brain was processing this information, her body, thankfully, was already initiating action. She turned and ran back down the stairs, taking them two at a time, hoping she wouldn’t trip. She listened for the clang of Michael’s footsteps on the steps above, hoping against hope he hadn’t recognized her
She hesitated long enough to turn the handle of the door exiting the stairway and then yanked it open and burst through the doorway into a corridor with rooms on either side. Now she heard Michael’s footsteps. He was coming after her. She ran the length of the corridor, past the elevator in which the startled guests were just now loading their suitcases, and turned the corner into the spacious lobby.
Carol yelled, “Call nine-one-one,” at the night clerk and, not hearing Michael right behind her, stopped for a second to survey the situation. It would be suicidal for her to go outside into the dark, alone with Michael. The lobby had a number of round tables set up for guests to use when eating their continental breakfasts. She ran among the tables until several were between her and where Michael would enter the room. She picked up a chair and held it with the metal legs pointing in front of her. This was her weapon.
Michael came skidding around the corner into the lobby and stopped. He was holding a small knife, like a Swiss Army knife—small but deadly. Thankfully, he didn’t have a gun. He spotted Carol and came at her, charging like a bull, banging into one of the tables on the way.
Carol had been braced for his charge, but he came so fast he almost overwhelmed her. Just as he ran around the last table separating them and was about to sweep the chair she held aside she lunged forward. One of her chair legs caught him in the chest, knocking them both backward.
Carol backpedaled, hit the table behind her, and went down on her knees. Michael grunted loudly and also fell, landing on his butt. She got to her feet before he did, still holding the chair. He appeared to be hurt. She went for him, feeling a terrible rage, intending to stab him with the chair legs, but he rolled away and she only hit him with a glancing blow on the back.
He crawled under a table as she tried to hit him with the chair again. Then he managed to get to his feet and hobbled toward the outside door, obviously in pain. Carol followed with the chair, but before she got to the door, one of the men who had been getting on the elevator stepped in front of her.
“He’s still got the knife. Let him go.”
Carol dropped the chair. “I want to get his license.”
She eluded the man, ran to the door, opened it, and looked outside. She could see Michael running out of the motel parking lot. His car apparently wasn’t in the lot. The man came to the door. “We’ll follow him in my car.”
The man’s wife yelled at him to be careful. His car was parked close to the door. Carol jumped into the passenger seat when he activated the remote. He started the car, backed out of the parking place, and drove to the exit from the lot. As far as they could tell, Michael had run downhill toward the main street through Hillsborough.
They drove down to the intersection and looked in all directions, but he was nowhere to be seen. Carol pointed to the right. “He’s probably going to get on I-85.”
The man turned right, and they went to where the Interstate went over the road. No cars were in sight. They parked within sight of both onramps. Damn it, Michael was going to get away again. Carol had dropped her purse containing her cell phone during the pursuit. She turned to the man who had a shaved head and whose skin was darker than hers. “Do you have a cell phone? I’ll call nine-one-one and get the police looking for him.”
He produced a phone from his pocket, punched in 911, and handed it to her. She told the dispatcher the attacker from the previous 911 call was getting away. Since she was on a cell phone, the dispatcher had no knowledge of the other call and asked her location. When Carol got that straightened out, she had to admit she didn’t have a description of the attacker’s car, but she tried to give a description of Michael without mentioning his name.
She handed the phone back to the man. “By the time they get mobilized, he’ll be gone. Would you mind waiting here five minutes before we go back to the motel, just in case…?”
He said okay and asked her who this man with the red hair was and why he was trying to kill her.
“Long story. I don’t mean to stonewall you, but I’m going to have enough trouble explaining it to the police.”
“You are one brave young lady.”
As they drove back toward the motel, a police car pulled up behind them, lights flashing. They spent valuable time explaining they were the ones who had issued the 911 call while Carol pictured Michael getting farther and farther away.
After what seemed like an eternity, they arrived at the motel. Another police car was parked by the front door. Carol thanked her driver for his help, knowing she was walking into a mess.
***
“Are you all right?” Paul gave Carol a hug.
“I’m a little banged up; my back is sore from hitting a table, but nothing serious. Thanks for coming.”
Carol had called Paul’s cell phone from her own as soon as she arrived back at the motel and found her purse. She had dropped it when she picked up the chair in the lobby. On the phone they had a quick conversation in which they agreed what to tell the police.
The policeman who had responded to the motel clerk’s 911 call found out she was the victim and asked her what had happened. When she tried to answer that question, she was glad Paul was coming to help her. She followed his instructions and kept the story simple. She said she’d been attacked by a stranger. She didn’t want to give a long and involved explanation of something the local police couldn’t help her with, especially since her ID said she was Carol Golden, not Cynthia Sakai, the brother of Michael Sakai who was supposed to be dead and would be using an assumed name, anyway.
The officer seemed to buy her story, but she was still relieved when Paul arrived. He was magnificent. Upon receiving her call, he’d phoned the Chapel Hill police, just in case Michael was headed toward the farm. Not being content with that, he called a private security service and had the owner position a guard on the farm twenty-four hours a day to monitor all traffic coming along the private road. Since there was only one approach to the farm, that would be easy to do. Maybe guarding Mrs. Horton wouldn’t be as hard as she thought.
Paul told the policeman who he was, which carried some weight, vouched for Carol, and helped place the thought in his head that this was a random attack. The officer took statements from the motel clerk, the man who helped Carol, and the other members of his party. There was no physical evidence; Michael had taken his knife and hadn’t left any blood or pieces of clothing behind, and certainly no fingerprints. Carol remembered he’d been wearing gloves.
Still, it was some time before the officer left. The patrol cars searching for Michael hadn’t found him. He’d slipped through their fingers. Carol and Paul sat down at one of the breakfast tables. She drank water while he had a cup of coffee. He asked her if she was absolutely sure it was Michael who attacked her.
Carol nodded. “I caught a whiff of his aftershave when I hit him with the chair. The vile smelling stuff he used always made me sick. That’s the memory that came back to me when I was talking to my friend, Janet, in England.”
“Is it the same aftershave he had on the first time he attacked you?”
“Yes. He’s always used it.” Carol was worried about what Michael might do next. “Do you really think he’ll go after Mrs. Horton?”
“She’s not the heir, but she can identify you as Cynthia. Since Michael’s mind is not that of a completely sane person and we’re not completely sure what his game is, we have to cover all the bases.”
“I’ve been wondering how Michael knew I was here. Someone must have tipped him off, in time for him to drive all the way down from Virginia, if that’s where he’s living.”
“Who did you tell?”
“Nobody. I told Grandma I was staying in Hillsborough, but I didn’t tell her the name of the motel.”
“Did you tell Audrey?”
“No. Audrey didn’t know anything. I was with Grandma most of the day. Neither of us said anything to Audrey about where I was staying.”
