Entangled (28 page)

I glanced beneath the desk as I shut the
drawer and spied a small square box hiding in the shadows.
Squatting down, I pulled it toward me. Bottles clinked together as
it slid out. The open flaps revealed another case of empty wine
bottles, but lying on top was a small piece of black cloth. I
lifted it up and as quickly dropped it. A plump, brown spider
scuttled away, disappearing under the corner of the separating
machine. Again I lifted the cloth, holding it tentatively in two
fingers to make sure there were no more creepy crawly things hiding
within its folds.

The shiny material had two small tears and I
wondered if rodents had gnawed through it as well, but then I saw
the large opening at the bottom and realized it was a kind of mask
you pull over your entire head, like a stocking. A small sound
escaped my lips, a child trapped in a corner, a squeak of terror. I
dropped the cloth mask as though it were Satan himself and pedaled
away with my hands and feet till my back was pressed against the
smooth stones of the wall. I felt the chill of the cellar’s
foundation inching up my spine.

I squinched my eyes tightly shut, hiding from
the truth. But blocking out the familiar sight of the room sent my
mind careening into the past.
I saw a man bending over me, his
head covered in the tight, black mask, his eyes gleaming through
slits, clearly revealing his intent. He held me down and I flailed
hopelessly and then whimpered like a beaten dog as he pressed
himself upon me
.

“No! No!” I yelled out, unwilling to endure
the horror again. I opened my eyes and looked wildly about the
room, sucking in great gulps of air as I fought hysteria.

“Is somebody down there?” I heard a voice
call from the top of the stairs and then the soft thud of footfalls
as they started down.

I quickly wiped my tear-streaked face and
stood up, clutching at the desk for support, my knees feeling as
though they might buckle beneath my weight. The mask lay crumpled
at my feet, a ghoulish reminder that dredging up the past can have
a painful bite. Doctor Berger was right.

Charlie’s stocky form filled the doorway as
he looked around the now orderly room, his eyes wide with
curiosity. “Ms. Fredrickson, are you all right?” he asked finally,
squinting across the dimly lit cellar.

I made my way around the desk and separation
machine, taking the moments to compose my face and emotions. “I’m
fine, Charlie,” I assured him, not meeting his eye. “Just cleaning
up the mess my uncle left. What are you doing here so early?”

He adjusted the baseball cap on his head and
took another step into the room, his attention fixed on the desk.
“Been thinking about what you said. Thought I’d go through some of
the books and get a better feel for the business end.”

I nodded absently, and wished he’d just turn
around and go away.

“Appears you’ve been at this for some time.
The place looks almost livable.” His brows drew together. “Were you
looking for something?”

His astute assumption brought my gaze to his
and I trembled still at what I’d found. I cleared my throat and
tried to smile. “Just the past,” I said, bravado pushing to the
fore.

“Well, I guess I’ll get back to the office
then. If you don’t need me.” He sneezed and pulled a handkerchief
from his back pocket as he turned toward the door. “I think you
stirred up a dust storm down here. Woke up my sinuses.”

I watched him go, waiting for the closing of
the door at the top of the stairs before I let myself relax. I drew
a shaky breath and sat down on an upturned crate. Charlie couldn’t
know how true his words were. But he certainly had it right when he
said I’d stirred up a dust storm. When the particles of my past
settled, I hoped I wouldn’t be covered in a film of regret.

Releasing a heavy sigh, I rose to my feet and
looked toward the desk. Uncle Jack’s desk. The man taught me joy in
creating, let me stomp on grapes with wild abandon, and left me a
legacy of family interest, business, and friendship. But was he
also the man who left that mask atop a box of empty bottles? Was he
the sort of man who could play loving uncle one minute and
black-hearted molester the next? The thought made me feel
physically sick.

Piecing the past together from dreams,
fragmented moments in time, and other people’s perceptions was a
lot like working a jigsaw puzzle backwards. Normally you start with
what you know, the smooth-edged frame, and work your way in. But
when you don’t even have that, the picture is a mess of stray
parts, looking for a connection in color or shape to clarify the
whole. I had a lot of parts, but none were connected. Not yet.

I moved around the desk and picked up the
mask, crumpling the material in my fist as though I might destroy
the wearer. Rage spread throughout my limbs, mixing with life’s
blood in veins and arteries and pumping through my heart. The truth
was getting closer, and yet I felt no sense of freedom.

*****

Handel took me to the symphony that night.
The usual calming effect of stringed instruments on my nerves was
lost amid questions that wouldn’t still, drowning out Mozart and
Bach with tunneling persistence. Handel took my hand midway through
and smiled at me, concern evident in his eyes, but I just gave a
slight shake of my head as though to say, later.

I let my wrap hang slightly off my shoulders
as we walked to the car. A gentle breeze blew, refreshing and cool
against my heated skin. After being in an auditorium full of warm
bodies, dressed to the nines, I needed relief. It had been quite
some time since I’d been out on the town. Even in Minneapolis I
preferred to stay home, spending nearly all my evenings in the
quiet of my apartment. I loved music and concerts but the jostling
crowds, waiting in lines, and lack of manners and civility that
went with being in such situations usually gave me pause.

Handel opened the door of the Porsche and I
slid into the leather seat. He climbed in behind the wheel and
started the engine before turning toward me. “What’s going on?” he
asked, reaching out to trace the curve of my cheek with the pad of
his thumb. “You didn’t appear to be enjoying yourself like I
thought you would. You seem distracted.”

I reached up and took his hand, pressing his
palm against my cheek, needing the nearness, the calm assurance of
his skin against mine. “I’m sorry. I usually love the symphony, I
really do.” I released his hand and he put the car in gear and
backed out.

“Why don’t we take a drive and you can tell
me about it.” He didn’t wait for an answer but headed out of town,
the lights of the city fading behind us as the car sped into the
night.

After a few minutes I leaned my head back and
spoke with eyes closed. “I’ve been having nightmares since I came
back here, Handy,” I said, his pet name rolling off my tongue
easily as though we were children again sharing confidences in the
vineyard. “I haven’t been sleeping. And I’m starting to remember
things…”

“You mean your memory is coming back? That’s
a good thing, isn’t it?”

I made a small sound of derision. “What don’t
you understand about the word nightmare?” I asked, then instantly
regretted my hasty words. “Sorry,” I said, opening my eyes and
turning my head toward him. “I don’t mean to take it out on
you.”

He glanced my way, his eyes searching. “These
nightmares and memories are related?”

“Yes.” I turned to look out the window on my
side of the car, watching the dark scenery rush by, a blur of
incoherence. I didn’t know how to tell him that I suspected my
uncle, his friend, of committing a crime so heinous that I’d
blocked it from my mind for twenty years. Would he believe me, or
think I was deranged?

The silence between us was palpable, a third
entity hovering thick and black as the night outside. Finally, he
cleared his throat. “What sort of nightmares?”

The headlights cut a swath of brilliance
before us on the two-lane highway as the car ate up mile after mile
of road, never exhausting its appetite. Handel listened gravely,
his hands tightening on the wheel when I told him what I’d found in
the cellar and the memories that surfaced because of it. I glanced
at his profile in the dark, afraid of what he must think of me, his
opinion suddenly looming more important than anything.

My voice shook, as I put into words the awful
feeling I had that Uncle Jack was not what he seemed to be, but a
monster, completely evil with no redeeming virtue. “The cellar was
his private domain. No one else had a key. The mask was there. It
happened there. I remember.” I stopped and drew a deep breath,
clasping my hands tightly together in my lap. My heart beat a
ragged tattoo within my breast, anticipating Handel’s reaction.

He kept his eyes on the road but reached out
with one hand and covered my own, the warm pressure of his fingers
reassuring and calming. I told him of my visit to Dr. Berger,
wanting him to see that my perception of reality had a clinical
seal of approval.

Finally, he slowed the car and pulled off
onto a gravel turnabout area. The road was empty, no sign of
approaching traffic in either direction. He opened his door and
climbed out. I didn’t wait for an invitation but followed his lead,
stepping out on the loose gravel in stiletto heels. I tripped and
nearly fell but he was suddenly there to right me. He walked me to
the front of the car and lifted me up to sit on the hood. “I don’t
let just anybody sit on my Porsche,” he said, his voice serious as
taxes. “But you’re a special case.”

“I appreciate that.” I tried to smile but
failed.

He gazed up at the sky a moment as though
collecting his thoughts. “You said Dr. Berger told you there may be
discrepancies between what you remember and the actual
circumstances.”

I shook my head, putting up my hands to
defend myself. “No. She said I might perceive things differently.
That doesn’t mean I’m not remembering the truth.”

He caught my hands and held them still
between us. “Okay, but you said the man who attacked you was
wearing a mask. You couldn’t see his face. So, you can’t be sure if
it was Jack or someone else.”

“Yes.” My answer was soft, a breath of
insecurity. “I admit that, but the mask was in Jack’s cellar,” I
said, my voice gaining back some firmness. “Why would it still be
there?”

He shrugged and released a weary sigh. “I
don’t know. Maybe the man dropped it and Jack threw it in a box,
not knowing the significance.” His explanation didn’t ring true but
I knew he wanted to believe it.

I nodded. “Okay, I’ll give you that scenario,
but then what do we do with the fight between my father and
Jack?”

“What do you mean?”

“It happened the same day. I know that now.
My father found me and took me to the house. He told me to pack,
that we were leaving. Do you really think it possible that the
attack on me and their fight are unrelated?”

He ran a hand through his hair, and then
stared off into the distance shaking his head. “I honestly don’t
know.”

“I’m sorry. I know Jack was your friend and
you trusted him. Obviously, at one time I trusted him too.”

Handel leaned in and lifted me down from the
car. We stood for long moments that way, his arms wrapped around
me. When he spoke his voice was low, hesitant. “Sometimes in cases
like this, after many years, a victim’s memories can be muddled.
They sincerely believe they’ve recovered a memory of abuse by a
particular person, accuse them, and then find out they’re wrong.
The law is a funny thing, Billie. A person is innocent until proven
guilty. I know you think it’s an open and shut case, but could you
hold off publicly accusing Jack until we have definite proof?”

I stiffened in his arms, feeling he’d somehow
turned against me with the question. Apparently, he didn’t believe
me. I felt as though I was the accused and I didn’t like it. I
pulled away from his embrace. “How dare you?! I was raped as a
child, the whole thing was obviously covered up, and now you act as
though I’m somehow wrong in pursuing the truth.” I turned and
started away, not knowing where I was going or how I would get
there. In fact, my heels had no intention of letting me have a
graceful and proud exit but immediately tripped me up and I twisted
my ankle. “Damn!”

Handel was beside me in an instant, helping
me back into the car and closing the door as though I might try to
escape again, hurt myself, and then sue him. He hurried around to
the other side and slid in behind the wheel, a worried expression
on his face as he glanced my way.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t want to see you get
hurt all over again. Jack’s dead. Questions about the past might
tarnish his reputation, but they can’t hurt him. On the other hand,
you’ll be living with those repercussions in real time, probably on
the front page of the local newspapers.” I felt a moment of regret
for doubting him, but stared out the window, stubbornly refusing to
acknowledge the chance that he could be right. I didn’t know how to
do that without feeling as if I were giving part of myself
away.

The ride home couldn’t have been quieter if
I’d been the passenger in a hearse. But my thoughts were anything
but quiet, tumbling about like rocks in a polisher, my feelings for
this man becoming clearer and more vibrant. I felt I could trust
Handel and yet I still held him at arms-length, lingering cynicism
from past relationships clouding my confidence meter.

He pulled up to the house and parked the car.
“Billie.” He shook his head slowly. “I hate that this happened to
you and I wasn’t there to stop it.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and bit my
lip to keep it from trembling.

Handel leaned over and cupped my chin in his
hand, turning my face toward his. He could probably see tears in my
eyes, but I no longer cared. “Give me the chance to protect you
now. Don’t close me out. Please.”