Best Forgotten, a Fic for Brandy, Pt. 13

[chazper]

Disclaimer:You already know, the characters (well, the main ones!) aren't mine. And you may vaguely remember this evil!Caleb story. On and on it goes . . .

Best Forgotten, Part 14 (14? Seriously?)

“Nurse Cree!” Lucy heard her voice rise, quivering, as she rushed to the nurse’s station. Deliberately she slowed her steps. She took a deep breath, trying to remain calm, willing herself to appear dispassionate. “I just went to check on . . . on Brandon McConnell, but his room is empty. I do not understand. Has something happened?”

Nurse Cree shot Lucy an appraising look before resuming her paperwork. Her tone sounded like dismissal. “The patient has been moved to pre-op so he can be prepped for surgery.”

A fist clenched around Lucy’s heart and her fragile composure shattered. “But . . . surely not yet,” she stammered. “The operation is not scheduled for another four hours, unless -it has not been moved forward, has it?”

“No,” Nurse Cree replied curtly. She didn’t bother to glance up from the desk. “However, the patient became combative-again-during his last examination and Dr. Keller thought it best to move him now.”

Lucy shook her head. “But . . . why?” she demanded. “I do not understand.”

“Nurse Fordé, may I remind you that you are not on the surgical team. That means Brandon McConnell is no longer your concern.” Nurse Cree stood up, her lips pursed with disapproval. “I suggest you give your attention to patients who are still on your case load.”

Before she could contain it, anger flared in Lucy’s eyes. “You are wrong,” she snapped. “Ryan is my concern until the surgery is performed. I am charged to care for him and I shall do exactly that.”

Without waiting for a response, without even realizing that she had used the name “Ryan,” Lucy turned and marched away. Nurse Cree’s voice followed her, sharp and imperious, but Lucy ignored it. She did not even pause to knock when she reached Dr. Keller’s office. Instead, she stormed inside.

The receptionist jerked upright, startled. “Nurse Fordé? Is something wrong?”

Lucy nodded, trying to still her hectic breath. “I need to see Dr. Keller. It is about his patient, Brandon McConnell.”

“I’m sorry. The doctor is not available right now, but Dr. Snowden is taking his calls, and he could relay a message. Would you like--”

“No!” Lucy blurted. Striding past the reception desk, she headed towards the inner office. “I must speak to Dr. Keller!”

“You can’t! Nurse, wait! He’s not here!”

Already poised to push open the door, Lucy glanced back, her gaze both a question and a dare.

“Dr. Keller is in seclusion with his surgical team,” the receptionist explained warily. “They’re rehearsing for the procedure that they’ll perform later today. The doctor left strict orders not to disturb them under any circumstances.”

“Rehearsing--?” Lucy’s hand faltered, then fell from the doorknob. Her shoulders slumped, deflated. “Oh,” she whispered. “How long then? Until they are done?”

“I have no idea. All I know is that I am supposed to route all communication through Dr. Snowden or security. If you would like to leave a message--?”

Lucy swallowed, shaking her head. What message could she possibly leave? “You must cancel this operation. The medical and legal records are wrong and your patient is not delusional. He is not Brandon McConnell at all. He is actually Ryan Atwood, the boy he is supposed to have murdered”?

No. How could she expect anyone to believe that? It was too bizarre an idea. Lucy had to find incontrovertible proof before she confronted Dr. Keller.

First, though, she had to find Ryan.

Seeing him, reassuring him, perhaps learning more about Caleb Nichol-somehow Lucy felt that was urgent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kirsten sat alone in her office, still and silent, hands clasped on her lap, her body stiff and turned to the window. Only her fingers moved, twisting around each other as she stared at the cloudless sky. She didn’t stir when the door eased open behind her.

“Mrs. Cohen?”

The gentle prompt seemed to startle Kirsten. She jumped, spinning around in her chair. “Charlie?” she exclaimed hopefully. Then she saw her secretary, and all animation drained from her voice. “Oh. What is it, Helen?”

“I was just wanted to let you know that I’m going to lunch,” the woman replied. She studied Kirsten, her brow creased with concern. “Are you all right? Did you need anything before I leave?”

Her lips crimping, Kirsten thought of all the things she needed: the sight of Sandy’s contented grin, the sound of Seth’s laughter, the sense that her family was safe, happy and complete.

She needed Ryan home with them, where he belonged.

Rousing herself, she forced a faint, apologetic smile and shook her head. “No,” she replied. “Thank you. I’m fine. Just . . . thinking, that’s all.”

Helen nodded dubiously. She hesitated for a moment, but when Kirsten said nothing more she finally retreated.

Kirsten watched as the woman left. Then, reluctantly, she turned back to her desk. The Shoreway Project Proposal lay abandoned exactly where Caleb had left it. Kirsten glanced down at it, shuddered, and looked away. Her gaze fell on a set of familiar twin frames. Abruptly pushing aside all the business papers, she pulled the photos closer.

Kirsten had thought she knew them by heart, but all at once the people in those pictures looked like strangers. Her fingers traced the smooth silver frames as she studied them.

Seth’s picture had been taken in the spring at Harbor. From a distance, even in the quick glimpses she had given it every day, her son’s wide grin looked cheerful, but when Kirsten examined it closely she detected no real happiness. Seth was just posing. The smile she had taken for granted was actually strained and stretched thin. It would disappear with the flash of camera, leaving just the shadow of loneliness in his eyes.

Kirsten caught her breath, ashamed. Why, she wondered had she failed to notice her son’s misery before? And why hadn’t she spotted Sandy’s frustration? His picture had been snapped at some formal Newpsie function. Kirsten couldn’t even remember which one, but in the photo Sandy was wearing a tux, his shirt collar pinched around his neck, his bow tie tilting awkwardly to the left. He had one arm looped around Kirsten and he wore a practiced grin, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, Sandy’s shoulders slumped and his eyes, glazed with weariness, gazed past her, beyond the country club terrace, beyond its manicured grounds, to some private spot far away.

Kirsten recognized that distance. Slowly, silently, it had grown between all of them over the years, an invisible gulf keeping them apart. Seth stayed in his room, Sandy went surfing or, like Kirsten, spent long hours at work, while she devoted her spare time to social affairs, events with near strangers, not family.

At the end of the day, their lives barely intersected at all.

Until Ryan arrived, and everything in the Cohen home changed.

Kirsten fingered the photos of her husband and son.

She didn’t understand how, but she realized suddenly that Ryan had brought her family together. From the very beginning-even when she still distrusted him and insisted that he could not stay-Ryan had made them reconnect. Something about his quiet presence, his rare, wary smile, compelled them to talk to each other, look at each other, recognize the need in each other’s eyes.

Kirsten’s lips trembled. Her fingers, blindly tracing the picture frames, fumbled as they touched the hinge between the two photos.

Ryan, she thought wistfully. He was the missing piece, the one that completed her family.

And she didn’t even have a picture of him.

“Mom?”

Kirsten started, dropping the frame. It fell with a sharp, accusing clatter, landing face-down on the desk.

“Whoa.” Seth paused just inside the office, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just, there’s nobody out there and the door was open-well, partway-so I thought it was okay to walk in.” His smile teetering uneasily, he jerked a thumb towards the reception desk.

Kirsten’s heart clenched. “Oh, sweetie, of course it’s okay. Come in and sit down. Is your grandfather--?” She stopped. Her eyes clouding with guilt, she straightened the Shoreway Proposal portfolio on her desk. Without realizing it she gouged its leather cover with her fingernails.

“With me? No.” Slinging one leg across its arm, Seth slumped into a chair. He frowned quizzically. “He left the yacht club before me, so I figured he’d be back here already. Or at least call and check in.”

“No . . .” Kirsten murmured. Her brow puckered and her voice drifted off.

Seth waited impatiently, but she said nothing else. He was just about to launch a barrage of questions when her phone rang. The sound made them both flinch. Kirsten caught her breath. Her hand shook as she answered and Seth scooted forward, halfway off his seat, shamelessly eavesdropping. His mother barely sounded like herself. She stammered, her face flaming when she spoke.

“Dad! We . . . I was just wondering what . . . when you were coming back . . . Oh. No, that’s fine. I understand . . . Of course I will . . . Please tell your friend I’ll keep him in my thoughts . . . Yes I will, Dad. I’ll . . . call you.”

Clumsily, her hands still shaking, Kirsten hung up. She fumbled with the phone as she replaced it in the cradle, then sat silent, staring down at her desk.

“So . . . what? Grandpa’s going straight to the airfield?” Seth prompted.

Kirsten glanced up sharply. “How did you know that?”

Seth shrugged, scuffing the toe of one sneaker into the plush, cream carpet. “He said something about having to catch a flight this afternoon, but I figured he’d check in with you first . . . So where’s Charlie? What’s been going on here?”

Kirsten’s brow puckered, and she didn’t appear to hear her son’s questions. “He told you that he had a flight? That’s odd,” she mused, almost to herself. “I got the impression that this trip was an emergency. Dad said--”

She stopped, rising abruptly as Sandy walked into the office. He looked harried and preoccupied, but his face softened at the sight of his wife and son. Without breaking stride, he squeezed Seth’s shoulder, half-hugging him fondly, on his way Kirsten. She made a tiny, mewing sound as he wrapped his arms around her.

“I know,” Sandy murmured. “It’s been a rough day for you here, hasn’t it, sweetheart?”

Kirsten nodded into his shoulder. Then she stepped back. Visibly steeling herself, she lifted her chin and took a deep breath.

“Has it been worth it, Sandy?” she demanded. “Are we any closer to finding Ryan?”

Sandy sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Then he stroked his wife’s arm, urging her back into her seat and simultaneously settling himself on the edge of the desk. “Let’s talk when Charlie gets here,” he said cautiously. “I called her. She’s on her way.”

“From where?” Seth hitched his chair closer to his parents. His knees knocked into a drawer handle, but he didn’t appear to notice. “Shouldn’t she be here? I thought the whole idea was to give her a chance to check Grady’s office and--” Belatedly catching his father’s eye, he concluded “you know, sound out the people he works with and . . . things.”

“She did,” Sandy assured him. “She just needed to check something with a source of hers. But she’ll be back--”

“Right now,” Charlie announced, rushing in. Her jacket swung open and her hair tumbled out of its tight, business-like knot. Shoving it back impatiently, she pushed the door closed. When she turned around, Charlie smiled at the Cohens, but just as a brief, automatic greeting. Her eyes looked opaque and except for a sharp glance over at Sandy, her face betrayed nothing at all.

Seth instantly slouched further down in his seat.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Charlie said as she joined the family.

Sandy inched closer to Kirsten. He reached over to take her hand. “It’s all right. We’re all here now,” he said quietly. “So let’s try to sort out everything we learned--”

“Wanna know what I got? Sunburned,” Seth blurted. He snatched a pad off his mother’s desk and began viciously shredding post-it notes. Bright yellow strips rained down on the carpet. “That’s about it. Oh . . . and a pep talk from Grandpa about how I should always choose my friends wisely. As if I had friends to choose. Tell me you guys found something. Charlie?” He looked up, his face taut with entreaty, his gaze wavering between hope and fear.

Charlie hesitated, taking a deep breath. Her eyes flashed a warning to Sandy before she answered. “I may have a lead,” she reported, each word measured and even. “We were right about Grady. He’s not just trying to make you abandon your search for Ryan. He . . .”

She paused again, but Sandy nodded. “Just tell us,” he ordered flatly.

Charlie nodded back, her lips tight. “Grady had a new, private phone line installed the day after Ryan disappeared,” she told them. The cadence of her voice increased, as if she had decided it would be best to deliver the news as quickly as possible. “I managed to find the number, but when I called, I got his voice mail. And Sandy? The message he recorded? Grady made it sound as if he were you.” The Cohens stared at her, shocked and alarmed, but Charlie did not give them time to respond. “It says,” she continued, “‘You have reached the Cohen residence. Kirsten, Seth and I are not available to take your call.’”

“Oh my God,” Kirsten whispered. “Charlie . . .”

“Wait. Why would he do that?” Seth demanded. Pushing aside the Shoreway portfolio, he leaned across the desk, his fists clenched around the remnant of the post-it notes. “Grady can’t keep Ryan from calling with some bogus number and message. This doesn’t make any sense. Ryan knows how to contact us. He’s got our home number, my cell, Dad’s, my email . . And hell, it’s not like he wouldn’t know that’s not Dad’s voice.” Seth’s voice dissolved in confusion, and his gaze circled, frustrated, from Charlie to his parents and back again.

Her eyes warmed with sympathy. “That’s true, Seth,” Charlie conceded gravely. “But Grady is obviously determined to prevent someone from reaching your family. Not Ryan himself or any of your friends, but someone else, somebody--”

Sandy broke in, grim comprehension edging his voice. “Somebody who doesn’t know us, but who knows what happened to Ryan, and might try to get in touch with us,” he concluded. “That means Grady had to give the person that number--”

“Which also means Grady must know where Ryan is!” Seth jumped to his feet, shedding bits of yellow post-it notes and knocking aside the Shoreway Portfolio. “So now we call the police, right Dad?” he asked eagerly. “They can arrest him and make him confess and--”

Without looking, Sandy rubbed his son’s arm in slow, calming circles. His shrewd gaze remained locked on Charlie, seeking some message in her impassive face. “Slow down, Seth,” he urged quietly. “We can’t go to the police with just a misleading phone message. It doesn’t prove anything.”

“Your father is right, Seth,” Charlie agreed. “Especially since Grady is bound to have some excuse.”

“What?” Seth demanded. He still stood, his whole body bristling with frustration. “The guy is pretending to be you, Dad. That’s like identity theft or something isn’t it?”

“Grady could claim that he using the number to screen calls to your family from a tip line. He could say he was just trying to spare you grief by weeding out the cranks.”

A fine white line appeared around Kirsten’s mouth. “But you don’t believe that’s why he did it,” she said flatly.

Charlie shook her head.

“All right then. Let’s sort this out.” Sandy swiped his hair back from his forehead, his voice blurred and weary. “Seth? Sit down son, please.” He waited until Seth dropped down into his chair. Then he added slowly, “Charlie . . . did you find anything else?”

A current of apprehension buzzed through the question. Automatically, Sandy glanced at Kirsten who sat beside him, one cold hand clasped in his, the other, white-knuckled, clenched on her lap. Charlie caught the gesture. She paused, fingering her notebook, a deep, silent sympathy flitting across her face.

“Tell us,” Kirsten ordered, when Charlie didn’t reply right away. Her voice sounded tissue-thin, torn from her throat, but it grew stronger as she spoke. “Whatever it is . . . We already know, that night after Dad’s party, Grady must have done something to Ryan to get him to leave. If he hurt him-whatever he did, we need to know.”

Charlie took a deep breath. “Yes,” she agreed. “You do.” Very slowly, she pulled out a slip of paper. Its rustle, like the hiss of a fuse, ripped through the tense silence. Seth crowded closer, trying to make out the writing, while Kirsten stiffened and Sandy’s arms tightened around her. He closed his eyes briefly before he looked at Charlie, his gaze asking a question. She nodded her reply. Then she turned to Kirsten.

“I still don’t know exactly what Grady did,” she said quietly. “But Kirsten, I don’t believe he was acting on his own. I think that your father is involved.”

For a moment, the words sizzled in the air. Beside his father, Seth stiffened. He opened his mouth, but he instantly shut it again, swallowing hard. Like Sandy, he waited, watching his mother.

Kirsten didn’t move. She barely seemed to breathe, and Sandy felt her skin grow icy. When she managed to speak, a sharp edge of desperation rimmed her reply. “Yes,” she whispered. “Because Grady did it for him. We talked about that. But it was all his idea-he acted on his own, without Dad’s knowledge. He must have . . . Charlie?”

“No. Kirsten, I’m so sorry, but I think Grady has been acting on your father’s orders all along.” Charlie slid the note she’d been holding across the desk, smoothing the crease before she released it. “I found this in Grady’s desk,” she said gently. “It is your father’s handwriting, isn’t it?”

Kirsten recoiled. Her fingers knotted around Sandy’s, she stared at the slip of paper almost as if hoping it would disappear. Slowly, reluctantly, she read the cryptic message. “Op now set late today. Trans funds, Keller imm . . .” Her eyes darted up and then fell again. “I don’t understand. What does it mean?”

Charlie ignored the question. “Kirsten,” she prompted, her tone more urgent, “Did your father write that note?”

Sandy could feel his wife shiver as she answered. “Yes,” she admitted. “I think so. But why does it matter? He doesn’t mention Ryan. This is-they must be directions for some kind of business transaction. After all, Grady works for my father. Dad gives him orders all--”

Kirsten stopped, blanching, horrified by what she had just said. A small, wordless whimper escaped her lips and she shrank further into Sandy’s arms. He started to speak, but Charlie shook her head. “Let me,” she mouthed. Aloud she said gravely, “That’s true, Kirsten, he does, but think about it. How many of the Newport Group’s legitimate business dealings involve private messages from the CEO directing his security chief to transfer funds?”

Kirsten shook her head, ashen and uneasy.

“Grady isn’t even authorized to touch any of the company’s holdings. I checked,” Charlie continued. Her tone remained carefully bland. “That means any money he handles must come from one of your father’s private accounts. But what kind of Newport Group business transaction involves the use of Caleb Nichol’s personal funds? And why have Grady manage a money transfer at all? Your father has accountants on staff to do that.”

Unable to keep still any longer, Seth snatched the note, nearly tearing it in his eagerness. “It’s obvious, right?” he blurted. His whole body seemed to vibrate with a combination of excitement and dread. Sandy tried to silence him but Seth, oblivious, babbled on. “Grandpa is using Grady to pay off this, what’s his name, Keller guy. But who the hell is he? And what does he have to do with Ryan?”

Reaching around Seth, Charlie retrieved the message before his wild gestures shredded it. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. She paused to rub his shoulder, sighing an apology. “I can’t find anyone named Keller working for any branch of the Newport Group or its foreign divisions-not that I expected to-but the name is so common. It would be easier to find out who he is if we had a starting point--”

“We have one,” Seth insisted. “Grandpa. He must know. Come on, Dad, if we confront him-”

“No,” Sandy said slowly. “Charlie . . .We should try Cozumel, Mexico.”

The suggestion surprised Seth into a brief silence.

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “Cozumel,” she repeated speculatively, testing the idea as she opened her laptop.

“Okay, that? Sounds totally stick-a-pin-in-a-map random, Dad,” Seth protested. “Why there? Keller isn’t even a Latino name. Shouldn’t we-Wait! You found out something at the airfield, didn’t you? What is it? What did Grandpa’s pilot say?”

Kirsten didn’t move, but at Seth’s question a tremor, like an electric shock seemed to run through her muscles. Instinctively, Sandy traced calming circles on her arm. When he replied, his voice sounded grave and reluctant. It brimmed with unspoken remorse. “Jake mentioned . . . He told me that Cal has flown to Cozumel several times recently, quick trips, just two or three hours turnover. But Jake has no idea why. The Newport Group doesn’t have any holdings in Cozumel, and the first time they went Cal wouldn’t let Jake come along. He had Grady pilot the plane instead . . .” Sandy hesitated, raking back his hair. In the instant before he continued, he seemed to age a decade. “That was the morning after Ryan disappeared.”

At the sound of Ryan’s name, Kirsten’s mute stillness shattered. She whirled around, furious, to face her husband. “What are you saying, Sandy?” she demanded. “That my father, that he and Grady--” She stopped, half sobbing, half choking on her own words. “You think that he didn’t want his pilot to see that they had Ryan with them? That Dad . . .” The word seemed to strangle her but Kirsten forced it out, “kidnapped him? And all this time, knowing how worried we are . . . No-no, that’s not possible! He’s my father! He couldn’t do that!”

“Sweetheart . . .” Sandy whispered, “I’m so sorry. I wish it wasn’t true--”

“It’s not! I know him, Sandy!” Kirsten grabbed her husband’s shirt, bunching it in her fists. Her words tumbled over each other, tangled, rushed and desperate. “Dad can be manipulative and controlling and ruthless. He has, sometimes he has a God-complex, I admit that. I can imagine him trying to get Ryan out of our lives, but not by force! Not lying to us or-Dad wouldn’t hurt Ryan, Sandy! That’s what you think he did, don’t you? How can you? He wouldn’t! He’s my father!”

Exhausted, despairing, Kirsten dropped back in her chair. Kneeling in front of her, Sandy took her hands in his. She shook her head blindly, but she didn’t resist, and she didn’t seem to notice when Seth sidled behind her, shuffling from foot to foot as he rubbed her shoulders.

“Nothing else makes sense, sweetheart,” Sandy said quietly. “We know Grady lied to us about Ryan’s fingerprints on the note in the pool house and that he forged those police reports from Mexico. Now we find out that he set up a new phone line to intercept calls to our house--”

“Yes! He did! But that’s all Grady!” Kirsten protested. Her voice quavered, pleading, and her tear-glazed eyes burned with mingled rage and entreaty. “It’s not Dad. I know you don’t like him, but to do something like this . . . You’re acting like Dad is some kind of a monster! He’s not, he’s just . . . Grady is the one responsible! Seth is right! We need to have him arrested and--”

Profound sadness filled Sandy’s face. “Kirsten, honey, think,” he urged. “Do you really believe Grady would have done this on his own? Especially now that we find out about Cal’s note and the trips he’s been taking to Mexico?”

“But . . . There has to be some explanation, Sandy,” Kirsten whispered. “It can’t be connected to Ryan. It can’t . . . This . . . Dad may not want us to find him, but that’s all. He wouldn’t . . . abduct him. He couldn’t.”

Shooting Seth and Charlie a helpless glance, Sandy got heavily to his feet. “You try, son,” he murmured.

Seth bit his lip. Then he leaned down close to Kirsten’s ear. “Mom,” he said, “All my Lex Luthor and Machiavelli jokes aside-I mean, this is my grandfather we’re talking about. I don’t want to believe it’s true either, but everything adds up. Grady’s been following grandpa’s orders. . .” He flinched, unable to finish, when his mother wrenched away from his touch.

“No! It’s not true,” she insisted fiercely. “It’s not.” Kirsten twisted her rings, ramrod stiff in her chair, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. “It’s not true,” she repeated, but the certainty began to drain from her voice. “It can’t be.”

Behind her, Charlie picked up the note and inspected it again. Absently, she pushed back her hair, her brow furrowing with concentration. “Op now set late today,” she read aloud.

“What do you think that means?” Seth asked. “Op? Is that some kind of code?”

“It don’t think so,” Charlie replied. Squinting thoughtfully, she scrolled down her screen and highlighted a name. “I found twenty-three people named Keller in the Cozumel area. One of them is a doctor . . . Maybe ‘op’ is just short for operation.”

Seth swallowed hard. “Operation? Like, you mean, a medical procedure, Charlie? Because that does not sound--”

“Oh!” Kirsten sprang to her feet, interrupting. She grabbed Sandy’s hands, her face flushed, her words racing urgently. “That’s it!” she exclaimed. “Sandy, Seth--don’t you see? You were wrong about Dad. I knew there had to be an explanation! That note-it has nothing to do with Ryan. It’s about the friend Dad told me about, the one who need brain surgery. That’s the operation. Dad must be paying for it. And those trips; they must be hospital visits. That’s what all this is about, it’s about his friend--”

Kirsten’s voice sputtered, then stopped abruptly. The color drained from her face. Her hand, shaking, fluttered to her throat and her eyes widened as a fragment of memory, knife-sharp, suddenly pierced her consciousness.

Her parents had said something else, that night long ago when Kirsten lingered in the dark hallway outside their room and overheard them arguing.

All at once, she could hear them again.

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you, Cal,” her mother had cried. “You can be so vindictive, so cold. I look at you right now, and I see a monster.”

There was the sound of ice splashing into a drink, and then her father’s frosty, dismissive voice. “You’re overreacting, Rose. That man is not worth your concern. Trust me, the world is better off without--”

“No!” Kirsten cried. “Oh God, no! Ryan . . . !”

TBC