Lost but not Forgotten

Maybe blue wasn’t blue wasn’t blue, Gillian thought, recoiling from the hostility aimed her way. In marked contrast, she tried for a guileless expression. “Sorry, ma’am, he’s not on our menu.” She made a joke of the same phrase she’d used earlier, that time referring to herself. When it became apparent that her joke had only irritated the other woman, she fervently wished she’d kept her comment to herself.

“Don’t play naive,” the cop snapped, pausing to count out exact change for her meal. “I know every officer on this beat. Any one of them could make it tough on you in a million small ways. For instance, someone whispers a word in the ear of a restaurant inspector. Maybe you don’t wash your hands after trips to the john. There are dozens of possible infractions—even leaving plates under the warming light too long. A few reprimands, and Bert and Flo can’t afford to keep you on.”

Climbing nimbly to her feet, the speaker shifted her heavy leather belt in a manner calculated to draw Gillian’s attention to the tools of her trade. She obviously thought they gave her stature above a mere waitress, even though Gillian stood head and shoulders above her.

A chill not caused by the lazily churning overhead fan marched rows of goose bumps up Gillian’s bare arms. She reined in her temper and said nothing at all in response to the policewoman’s veiled threats. After all, the woman had no idea how much trouble she could cause Gillian. Because if Christy Jones had the slightest inkling, Gillian didn’t doubt for one minute that she’d be hauled in for questioning wearing those impressive silver handcuffs.

Using more force than necessary, Gillian scrubbed the table clean. Twice she fumbled and dropped the coins she tried to sweep off the table onto a tray.

Flo motioned her to the pass-through. “Was Christy complaining about her sandwich?”

“No. Nothing like that.” Gillian wrinkled her nose as she turned to dump the money in the till. “Actually, she issued a personal warning for me to stay away from Mitch Valetti. I take it they are or were an item?” Gillian hadn’t meant that to come out as a question; it did of its own accord.

The older woman laughed, then said in a more subdued voice, “See the brawniest of the three motorcycle cops walking in right now? That’s Christy’s husband, Royce Jones.”

Gillian whirled. “Her husband? She’s married?”

“Well,” Flo muttered, “a few months ago I heard she’d moved in with her sister again. It’s happened before. The other times she’s gone back to Royce. I dunno, maybe this time she won’t.” Raising her voice, Flo greeted the trio who stood inside the door surveying the dining area. “There’s space at the counter. Or if you wait a minute, Gilly’s about ready to reset a table that was just vacated.”

“Has Christy been here for lunch?” the man in the middle asked. He stripped off his goggles and gloves and tossed them into a helmet he held hooked under one arm.

Shivering at the mere size of him, Gillian ducked past the trio. She wouldn’t want to meet any of them in a back alley, or out in broad daylight for that matter. Let Flo field the man’s query. Better she avoid any personal contact with cops.

“Just missed her, Royce,” Flo noted cheerfully. “Christy left here no more than five…ten minutes ago.”

“Damn.” The big man, who’d followed Gillian to the table, threw his helmet down on one of the chairs. She jumped a foot straight up at the noise.

“Easy does it.” The shorter of the two men with Royce threw an apologetic glance at Gillian. He elaborated for her benefit. “I called the dispatcher myself to see when Royce’s wife was scheduled to go to lunch. If he’s testy, it’s because Christy’s department thinks it’s clever to play mind games with us. Next time she comes in, tell her he only wants to talk. A man has a right to see his own wife, doesn’t he?”

“I guess that depends.” Gillian pulled her order pad out of her pocket. “Coffee or sodas?” Her voice squeaked. Clearing her throat, she asked if the men knew what they wanted to eat, or if they needed a minute to decide. No one responded. She handed them menus and walked away.

“Hey, Royce,” hollered a uniformed cop getting up from a back booth. “Christy and Valetti sat at that same table while she ate. Cozy as two peas in a pod.”

“Mitch Valetti? Come on, Billings, quit lying. You think I don’t know Valetti got his balls shot off and left the force a couple months ago?”

“No kidding? His balls? Well, he was stove up some. But I’m not lying. If you don’t believe me, ask Red there. She was chatting with him when Christy walked in. Valetti dropped Red like a hot potato and made a beeline for Christy.”

Royce pinned Gillian with angry eyes. “Tell me. Is Don having me on or not?”

Gillian slopped coffee onto the clean table from a pot she’d gone to fetch while the men talked. “I believe, ah, they were discussing business. Are you three ready to order yet?” she asked, nervously sponging away the spill.

“Like hell they were discussing business,” Royce roared, slamming a hamlike fist down on the table. “If Valetti didn’t lose his balls in that shoot-out, he will when I finish with him. Come on, Jeff. Chico. Let’s ride out to Valetti’s place and show him what’s what. I always said he was too free with his pretty-boy smiles.”

The other two men each grabbed one of Royce’s massive arms. “Mitch lives in the county, dude. We don’t have jurisdiction there. You want his balls, you’ll have to wait till the next time he comes to town. Settle down, Royce. Tell the lady what you want to eat.”

Gillian noticed Bert had left the kitchen to stand at the end of the counter. As she scribbled the men’s orders on her pad, she saw him replace the telephone receiver. The notion that he’d been about to call the cops struck her as funny, since at least a dozen from the nearby station sat in the cafе. Or were they off duty during lunch? She didn’t know that much about how police operated.

A new thought replaced the previous one. Perhaps Bert had intended to notify Valetti. For no reason at all, Gillian felt a stab of sympathy for the injured ex-cop. She hoped he had enough sense to stay put on his ranch. Though whatever happened wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Sheesh. She had troubles of her own. Perhaps that was why she empathized. It was a frightening experience to have brutish men wanting to hurt you.

Except…when push came to shove, how did she know he wasn’t deserving of Royce’s accusations? After all, Mitch had certainly come on to her. Somehow, though, she believed Mitch was blameless. Gillian found herself wondering about him off and on the remainder of the afternoon. Had he really lost his reproductive organs in a senseless shooting? He certainly came across as virile. But she knew men went to great lengths to hide their weaknesses. They hid most of their emotions. As Daryl had when they’d lost Katie.

He gave her no hint that he’d suffered, too. Not until he’d packed the quilt and baby dress she’d sewn, along with Katie’s urn, that night he’d arrived at her apartment. If only he hadn’t waited so long to show some understanding. Maybe they could have talked out their problems. Maybe their marriage wouldn’t have disintegrated.

Gillian dropped a set of silverware she was rolling into napkins to get ready for the dinner crowd. Her fingers shook when she bent to retrieve the utensils for rewashing. Odd that only now did she remember certain details about that night. Portions of the scene flooded back. There’d been urgency in Daryl’s voice and, she thought, a plea for forgiveness. His hands weren’t steady as he packed the smallest case. Yet he’d grown cross when she couldn’t seem to emerge from her mental fog. The sleeping pills left her confused and only half-awake.

Oh, how she wished she could recall every word Daryl had uttered that night. Eventually he’d recognized he wasn’t getting through to her. He’d thrown up his hands and instead of continuing to explain, he wrote down instructions telling her the location of a hidden car.

If he hadn’t stormed out then with the cases and gone straight to place them in the trunk of the hidden vehicle, she wouldn’t have a stitch to her name. Scarcely two hours later, one of his next-door neighbors had phoned to say he was dead. Without the written instructions, she might not have run. It wasn’t hard to imagine how she’d have ended up then.

Another memory appeared. Gillian realized she hadn’t destroyed Daryl’s message. No wonder the thugs were on her trail so fast. She’d left them an engraved invitation. The note gave the location, color, model and make of her getaway car.

Daryl had finally demonstrated that he did care about the baby they’d lost, and Gillian had failed him. Or felt she had. She hadn’t asked the right questions, and worse, she’d lost all that was dear. Tonight, after work, no matter how tired she was, she would search that lane. The worst of the devil’s disciples. That was how she thought of the men who’d killed Daryl and Pat Malone. Surely not even they would be so heartless as to destroy the contents of that suitcase. Those men only wanted a key, and there was no key. Of that Gillian was sure. So what in heaven’s name had Daryl—meticulous, methodical Daryl—done with the blasted thing?

Too exhausted after ending her shift to do more than drag up the stairs to her apartment, Gillian escaped from the issues plaguing her into the pain caused by aching feet.

She’d rented a third-floor apartment for security reasons. Now, having trudged up three flights of stairs leading from the parking garage, she might have considered trading safety for the convenience of living quarters on the first floor. Or an elevator, she thought, falling fully clothed across her bed. There was an ancient elevator at the front entrance, but because the building sat between two streets, it would have taken more energy to walk a block to go in through the front door than it did to climb the back stairs.

A shower turned out to have amazing recuperative powers. Afterward Gillian felt rejuvenated enough to eat one of the three pieces of chicken Flo had insisted she take home along with her leftover taco salad. The chicken looked good. Not a bit greasy, and yet she must not be hungry, after all, she decided, rewrapping it.

In the hour between when she’d left work and when she returned the food to her refrigerator, the sun had almost finished setting. It was merely a glow on the horizon, now. Calculating the distance to the side road where she’d had the flat tire, she figured darkness would arrive before she could drive out there. A perfect time to search the area without being seen.

Well, the owners of the ranch might see her light. But even if they were home, they might not investigate. Gillian remembered entering an S curve to reach the point where the lane dead-ended in front of the house.

Donning black jeans and a charcoal, long-sleeved knit top, Gillian slid her driver’s license into her back pocket. Bless Daryl for packing a pair of sturdy, ankle-high boots. She dug them out of her closet and slipped them on. Next, she purposely left everything but her keys behind. The last concession she made to a disguise was to stuff her short curls under a dark-blue baseball cap.

The trip took just under thirty minutes.

“Darn.” In the gathering darkness, she missed the lane on the first drive by. She had to go an extra mile before she found a spot where she could turn around.

On her second approach, moments before she touched her left-turn blinker, a big blue sedan shot out of a road on her right side. The car careered across the highway, nearly clipping Gillian’s front fender. She slammed on her brakes and watched in horror as the heavier car swayed and almost lost control. The driver gunned his motor, straightened the lumbering vehicle and entered the lane that had been Gillian’s destination.

Her headlights illuminated the reckless driver’s back license plate. Louisiana. “My God, it’s them,” she sobbed aloud. It had to be the thugs who wanted to kill her. They were obviously still hoping to locate her in this area, where they’d lost her three weeks ago.

Her mouth went dry and her muscles tightened. They wouldn’t know this car.

Or would they? Had they tracked her to the border? Was it only a matter of time before they caught her?

Gillian was aware of the exact moment determination edged out her fear. Time was now her enemy. If she had to disappear again, she didn’t intend to run and leave Katie’s ashes to the likes of them.

Coldly she reasoned that if they were still searching these side roads, they probably hadn’t found her suitcase. Shaking, she pulled onto a fire road and parked behind an outcrop of boulders, dousing her lights. If the men were inspecting each byway intersecting the perimeter road, they’d have already searched this one.

Leaving her car, Gillian crouched low and zigzagged across the main road. She counted on blending with the underbrush. It was quite a hike on legs already weary from hustling food orders all day, and now spongy from fear. She stumbled frequently, but dared not risk using her flashlight. Once her eyes adjusted, a bright three-quarter moon allowed her to distinguish solid form from shadows.

Creeping along the fence row, Gillian expected at any minute to come upon the men rifling her suitcase. At each bend, when the lane remained vacant, she released a little more of the breath she’d been holding. Where were they? Somehow, she hadn’t thought she’d driven this far before her tire blew out.

Of course, it would seem longer on foot.

As she inched along the fence, taking care to keep out of sight, a cloud of dust rolled across her brush cover, obscuring her view of the starry sky. She dived toward a thicket and flattened herself against the rough bark of a squat desert tree. Forced to eat grit, Gillian spat it out as quietly as possible. She needn’t have worried about being seen. The heavy sedan thundered by, traveling at far too great a speed.