Gone, but not forgotten

WAKE-UP CALL.
Chapter One.

"Have you reached a verdict?" judge Alfred Neff asked the eight men and four women seated in the jury box.

A heavy-set, barrel-chested man in his mid-sixties struggled to his feet. Betsy Tannenbaum checked the chart she had drawn up two weeks ago during jury selection. This was Walter Korn, a retired welder. Betsy felt uncomfortable with Korn as the foreman. He was a member of the jury only because Betsy had run out of challenges.

The bailiff took the verdict form from Korn and handed it to the judge.

Betsy's eyes followed the folded square of white paper. As the judge opened it and read the verdict to himself, she watched his face for a telltale sign, but there was none.

Betsy stole a glance at Andrea Hammermill, the plump, matronly woman sitting beside her. Andrea stared straight ahead, as subdued and resigned as she had been throughout her trial for the murder of her husband. The only time Andrea had shown any emotion was during direct examination when she explained why she shot Sidney Hammermill to death.

As she told the jury about firing the revolver over and over until the dull click of hammer on steel told her there were no more bullets, her hands trembled, her body shook and she sobbed pitifully.

"Will the defendant please stand," judge Neff said.

Andrea got to her feet unsteadily. Betsy stood with her, eyes forward.

"Omitting the caption, the verdict reads as follows: 'We the jury, being duly impaneled and sworn, do find the defendant, Andrea Marie Hammermill, not guilty…'"

Betsy could not hear the rest of the verdict over the din in the courtroom. Andrea collapsed on her chair, sobbing into her hands.

"it's okay," Betsy said, "it's okay." She felt tears on her cheeks as she wrapped a protective arm around Andrea's shoulders. Someone tapped Betsy on the arm. She looked up. Randy Highsmith, the prosecutor, was standing over her holding a glass of water.

"Can she use this?" he asked.

Betsy took the glass and handed it to her client.

Highsmith waited a moment while Andrea regained her composure.

"Mrs. Hammermill," he said, "I want you to know that I prosecuted you because I believe you took the law into your own hands. But I also want you to know that I don't think your husband had the right to treat you the way he did. I don't care who he was. If you had come to me, instead of shooting him, I would have done my best to put him in jail. I hope you can put this behind you and go on with your life. You seem like a good person."

Betsy wanted to thank Highsmith for his kind words, but she was too choked up to speak. As Andrea's friends and supporters started to crowd around her Betsy pushed away from the throng to get some air. Over the crowd she could see Highsmith, alone, bent over his table, gathering law books and files. As the assistant district attorney started toward the door, he noticed Betsy standing on the fringe of the crowd. Now that the trial was over, the two lawyers were superfluous. Highsmith nodded.

Betsy nodded back.

With his back arched, his sleek muscles straining and his head tipped back, Martin Darius looked like a wolf baying over fallen prey. The blonde lying beneath him tightened her legs around his waist. Darius shuddered and closed his eyes. The woman panted from exertion. Darius's face contorted, then he collapsed. His cheek fell against her breast. He heard the blonde's heart beat and smelled perspiration mingled with a telltale trace of perfume. The woman threw an arm across her face.

Darius ran a lazy hand along her leg and glanced across her flat stomach at the cheap digital clock on the motel end table.

It was two p.m. Darius sat up slowly and dropped his legs over the side of the bed. The woman heard the bed move and watched Darius cross the room.

"I wish you didn't have to go," she said, unable to hide her disappointment.

Darius grabbed his kit off the low-slung chest of drawers and padded toward the bathroom.

"I've got a meeting at three," he answered, without looking back.

Darius washed away the sheen of sweat he had worked up during sex, then toweled himself thoroughly in the narrow confines of the motel bathroom.

Steam from the shower misted the mirror. He wiped the glass surface and saw a gaunt face with deep-set blue eyes. His neatly trimmed beard and mustache framed a devil's mouth that could be seductive or intimidating.

Darius used a portable dryer, then combed his straight black hair and beard.

When he opened the bathroom door, the blonde was still in bed. A few times, she had tried to lure him back into bed -after he was showered and dressed. He guessed she was trying to exercise sexual control over him and refused to give in.

"I've decided we should stop seeing each other," Darius said casually as he buttoned his white silk shirt.

The blonde sat up in bed, a shocked expression on her normally confident, cheer-leader face. He had her attention now. She was not used to being dumped. Darius turned slightly so she would not see his smile.

"Why?" she managed as he stepped into his charcoal gray suit trousers.

Darius turned to look at her so he could enjoy the play of emotions on her face. "For your credit, you are beautiful and good in bed," he said, knotting his tie, "but you're boring."

The blonde gaped at him for a moment, then flushed with anger.

"You shit."

Darius laughed and picked up his suit jacket.

"You can't mean it," she went on, her anger passing quickly.

"I'm very serious. We're through. It was nice for a while, but I want to move on."

"And you think you can use me, then toss me away like a cigarette," she said, the anger back. "I'll tell your wife, you son-of-a-bitch. I'll call her right now."

Darius stopped smiling. The expression on his face forced the blonde back against the headboard. Darius strolled around the bed Slowly, until he was standing over her. She cowered back and put her hands up. Darius watched her for a moment, the way a biologist would study a specimen on a slide. Then he grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm until she was bent forward on the bed, her forehead against the crumpled sheets.

Darius admired the curve of her body from her backside to her slender neck as she knelt in pain. He ran his free hand along her rump, then applied pressure to her wrist to make her body quiver. He liked watching her breasts sway rapidly as she jerked to attention.

"Let me make one thing very clear to you," Darius said in the same tone he might use with a recalcitrant child. "You will never call my wife, or me, ever. Do you understand?"

"Yes," the blonde gasped as he twisted her arm behind her, pushing it slowly up toward her shoulder.

"Tell me what you will never do," he commanded calmly, releasing the pressure for a moment and stroking the curve of her buttocks with his hand. "I won't call, Martin. I swear," she wept.

"Why won't you call my wife or bother me?" Darius asked, putting pressure on the wrist.

The blonde gasped, twitching with the pain. Darius fought back a giggle, then eased up so she could answer.

"I won't call," she repeated between sobs.

"But you haven't said why," Darius responded in a reasonable tone.

"Because you said I shouldn't. I'll do what you want.

Please, Martin, don't hurt me anymore."

Darius released his hold and the woman collapsed, sobbing pitifully.

"That's a good answer. A better one would be that you won't do anything to annoy me, because I can do far worse to you than I just have. Far, far worse."

Darius knelt by her face and took out his lighter. It was solid gold, with an inscription from his wife. The bright orange flame wavered in front of the blonde's terrified eyes. Darius held it close enough for her to feel the heat.

"Far, far worse," Darius repeated. Then he closed the lighter and walked across the motel room. The blonde rolled over and lay with the white sheet tangled around her hips, leaving her slender legs and smooth back exposed. Each time she sobbed, her shoulders trembled.

Martin Darius watched her in the motel mirror as he adjusted his wine-red tie. He wondered if he could convince her this was -all a joke, then get her to submit to him again. The thought brought a smile to his thin lips.

For a moment, he toyed with the image of the woman kneeling before him and taking him in her mouth, convinced that he wanted her back. it would be a challenge to get her on her knees after the way he had crushed her spirit. Darius was confident he could do it, but there was a meeting to attend.

"The room's paid for, he said. "You can stay as long as you want."

"Can't we talk? Please, Martin," the woman begged, sitting up and turning on the bed so that her small, sad breasts were exposed, but Darius was already closing the motel room door.

Outside, the sky looked ominous. Thick, black clouds were rolling in from the coast. Darius unlocked the door of his jet-black Ferrari and silenced the alarm.

In a short while, he would do something that would increase the woman's pain. Something exquisite that would make it impossible for her to forget him. Darius smiled in anticipation, then drove off without the slightest suspicion that someone was photographing him from the corner of the motel parking lot.

Martin Darius sped across the Marquam Bridge toward downtown Portland.

The heavy rain kept the pleasure boats off the Willamette River, but a rusty tanker was pushing through the storm toward the port at Swan Island. Across the river was an architectural mix of functional, gray, futuristic buildings linked by sky bridges, Michael Graves's whimsical, post-modern Portland Building, the rose-colored U.S. Bank skyscraper, and three-story historical landmarks dating back to the eighteen hundreds. Darius had made his fortune adding to Portland's skyline and rebuilding sections of the city.

Darius changed lanes just as a reporter began the lead story on the five o'clock news.

"This is Larry Prescott at the Multnomah County Courthouse speaking with Betsy Tannenbaum, the attorney for Andrea Hammermill, who has just been acquitted in the shooting death of her husband, City Commissioner Sidney Hammermill.

"Betsy, why do you think the jury voted 'not guilty'?"

"I believe it was an easy choice once the jurors understood how battering affects the mind of a woman who undergoes the frequent beatings and abuse Andrea suffered."

"You've been critical of this prosecution from the start. Do you think the case would have been handled differently if Mr. Hammermill was not a mayoral candidate?"

"The fact that Sidney Hammermill was wealthy and very active in Oregon politics may have influenced the decision to prosecute."

"Would it have made a difference if District Attorney Alan Page had assigned a woman deputy to the case?"

"It could have. A woman would have been able to evaluate the evidence more objectively than a man and might have declined prosecution."

"Betsy, this is your second acquittal in a murder case using the battered wife defense. Earlier this year, you won a million-dollar verdict against an anti-abortion group and Time magazine listed you as one of America's up-and-coming female trial lawyers. How are you handling your newfound fame?"

There was a moment of dead air. When Betsy answered she sounded uncomfortable.

"Believe me, Larry, I'm much too busy with my law practice and my daughter to worry about anything more pressing than my next case and tonight's dinner."

The car phone rang. Darius turned down the radio.

The Ferrari purred as it pulled away from the traffic. Darius glided into the fast lane, then picked up on the third ring.

"Mr. Darius?"

"Who is this?"

Only a few people knew the number of his car phone and he did not recognize the voice.

"You don't need to know my name."

"I don't need to speak to you, either."

"Maybe not, but I thought you'd be interested in what I have to say."

"I don't know how you got this number, but my patience is wearing thin.

Get to the point or I'll disconnect."

"Right. You're a businessman. I shouldn't waste your time. Still, if you hung up now, I can guarantee I'd be gone but not forgotten."

"What did you say?"

"Got your attention, huh?"

Darius took a deep, slow breath. Suddenly there were beads of perspiration on his brow and upper lip.

"Do you know Captain Ned's? It's a seafood place on Marine Drive. The bar's pretty dark. Drive there now and we'll talk."

The connection was broken. Darius lowered the phone onto its cradle. He had slowed without realizing it and there was a car on his bumper.

Darius crossed two lanes of traffic and pulled onto the shoulder of the road.

His heart was racing. There was a shooting pain in his temples. Darius closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. He willed his breathing back to normal and the pain in his temples eased.

The voice on the phone was rough and uncultured.

The man would be after money, of course. Darius smiled grimly. He dealt with greedy men all the time. They were the easiest to manipulate. They always believed the person they were dealing with was as stupid and frightened as they were.

The pain in his temples was gone now and Darius was breathing easily again. In a way he was grateful to the caller. He had grown complacent, believing he was safe after all these years, but you were never safe. He would consider this a wake-up call.

Captain Ned's was weathered wood and rain-spattered glass jutting out over the Columbia River. The bar was as dark as the voice promised.

Darius sat in a booth near the kitchen, ordered a beer and waited patiently. A young couple entered, arm in arm. He dismissed them. A tall, balding salesman in a disheveled suit sat on a stool at the bar.

Most of the tables were taken by couples. Darius scanned the other booths. A heavyset man in a trench coat smiled and stood up after Darius fixed on him.

"I was waiting to see how long it would take you," the man said as he slipped into the booth. Darius did not reply. The man shrugged and stopped smiling. It was unsettling to sit opposite Martin Darius, even if you thought you held the winning hand.

"We can be civilized about this or you can be bitchy," the man said. "It don't matter to me. In the end, you'll pay."

"What are you selling and what do you want?" Darius answered, studying the fleshy face in the dim light.

"Always the businessman, so let's get down to business. I've been to Hunter's Point. The old newspapers were full of information. There were pictures, too. I had to look hard, but it was you. I got one here, if you'd like to see," the man said, sliding his hand out of his coat pocket and pushing a photocopy of a newspaper front page across the table. Darius studied it for a moment, then slid it back.

"Ancient history, friend."

"Oh? You think so? I have friends on the force, Martin. The public don't know yet, but I do. Someone has been leaving little notes and black roses around Portland.

I figure it's the same person who left 'em in HUNTER's Point. What do you think?"

"I think you're a very clever man, Mr…?" Darius said, stalling for time to dope out the implications.

The man shook his head. "You don't need my name, Martin. You just have to pay me."

"How much are we talking about?"

"I thought two hundred and fifty thousand dollars would be fair. It'd cost you at least that much in attorney fees."

The man had thinning, straw-colored hair. Darius could see flesh between the strands when he bent forward. The nose had been broken. There was a gut, but the shoulders were thick and the chest heavy.

"Have you told the people who hired you about Hunter's Point?" Darius asked.

There was a brief flicker of surprise, then a flash of nicotine-stained teeth.

"That was terrific. I ain't even gonna ask how you figured it out. Tell me what you think."

"I think you and I are the only ones who know, for now."

The man did not answer.

"There is one thing I'd like to know," Darius said, eyeing him curiously. "I know what you think I've done.

What I'm capable of doing. Why aren't you afraid I'll kill you?"

The man laughed.

"You're a pussy, Martin, just like the other rape-os I run into in the joint. Guys who were real tough with women and not so tough with anyone else. You know what I used to do to those guys? I made 'em my girls, Martin. I turned 'em into little queens. I'd do it to you too, if I wasn't more interested in your money."

While Darius considered this information, the man watched him with a confident smirk.

"It will take me a while to come up with that much money," Darius said.

"How much time can you give me?"

"Today is Wednesday. How's Friday?"

Darius pretended to be considering the problems involved with liquidating stocks and closing accounts.

"Make it Monday. A lot of my holdings are in land.

It will take me until Friday to arrange for loans and sell some stock."

The man nodded. "I heard you didn't believe in bullshit. Good. You're doing the right thing. And, let me tell you, friend, I'm not someone to fuck with. Also, I'm not greedy. This'll be a one-shot deal."

The man stood. Then he thought of something and grinned at Darius.

"Once I'm paid, I'll be gone and forgotten."

The man laughed at his little joke, turned his back and left the bar.

Darius watched him go. He did not find the joke, or anything else about the man, amusing.

A hard rain hit the windshield. Big drops, falling fast.

Russ Miller switched the wiper to maximum. The cascade still obliterated his view of the road and he had to squint to catch the broken center line in the headlight beams. It was almost eight, but Vicky was used to late suppers. You put in the hours at Brand, Gates and Valcroft if you expected to get anywhere. Russ grinned as he imagined Vicky's reaction to the news. He wished he could drive faster, but a few more minutes would not make much difference.

Russ had warned Vicky he might not be home on time as soon as Frank Valcroft's secretary summoned him.

At the advertising firm, it was an honor to be asked into Valcroft's corner office. Russ had been there only twice before. The deep, wine-colored carpets and dark wood reminded him of where he wanted to be. When Valcroft told him he was going to be in charge of the Darius Construction account, Russ knew he was on his way.

Russ and Vicky had been introduced to Martin Darius this summer at a party Darius hosted to celebrate the opening of his new mall. All the men who worked on the account were there, but Russ had this feeling that Darius had singled him out. An invitation to join Darius on his yacht arrived a week later. Since then, he and Vicky had been guests at two house parties. Stuart Webb, another account executive at Brand, Gates, said he felt like he was standing in a chill wind when he was with Darius, but Darius was the most dynamic human being Russ had ever met and he had a knack for making Russ feel like the most important person on Earth. Russ was certain that Martin Darius was responsible for making him the team leader of the Darius Construction account. If Russ was successful as team leader, who knew what he would be doing in the future. He might even leave Brand, Gates and go to work for the man himself As Russ pulled into his driveway the garage door opened automatically. The rain pounding on the garage roof sounded like the end of the world and Russ was glad to get inside the warm kitchen. There was a large, metal pot on the stove, so he knew Vicky was making pasta. The surprise would be the sauce. Russ shouted Vicky's name as he peeked under the cover of another pot. It was empty. There was a cutting board covered with vegetables, but none of them was sliced. Russ frowned.

There was no fire under the large pot. He lifted the lid. It was filled with water, but the pasta was lying, uncooked, next to the pasta maker he had bought Vicky for their third anniversary.

"vick," Russ shouted again. He loosened his tie and took off his jacket.

The lights were on in the living room.

Later, Russ told the police he had not called sooner because everything looked so normal. The set was on. The Judith Krantz novel Vicky was reading was open and facedown on the end table. When he realized Vicky was not home, he assumed she was over at one of the neighbors.

The first time Russ went into the bedroom, he missed the rose and the note. His back was to the bed when he stripped off his clothes and hung them in the closet. After that, he slipped into a warm-up suit and checked the cable guide to see what was on TV. When fifteen more minutes passed without Vicky, Russ went back into the bedroom to phone her best friend, who lived down the block. That was when he saw the note on the pillow on the immaculately made bed. There was a black rose lying across the plain, white paper. Written in a careful hand were the words "Gone, But Not Forgotten."