Blue Tears

by Ninie Hammon

  Shoving some clean towels out of the dryer back into the washing machine, she turned it on. Then she picked up a couple of pairs of old tennis shoes, popped them into the dryer and turned it on. The instant clung-clunk-clunking of the shoes was deafening. Stepping out into the kitchen she gestured toward the noisy dryer in the next room.

  “Sorry. They’ll be dry in a few minutes.”

  “I thought you were going to take a shower.” Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “Since you’re down here, taste this. I think it needs more salt.”

  She forced herself to stop and take a taste. Somehow managed to keep a pleasant enough look on her face and her hands from trembling. The chili was probably delicious. She couldn’t taste a thing.

  “You can add salt at the table” — she affected a twangy West Virginia accent — “but ya cain’t un-salt it.”

  He said something about her spending too much time around T.J. as she left the room, turned and raced up the stairs. She put her change of clothes, the gun, and her pearled purse into an old Walmart sack from the hall closet, hurried down the stairs and set it beside the front door.

  Then she stopped, took a deep breath, and another.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Brice was polite, didn’t go barging into Crenshaw’s private office like Sherman marching on Atlanta. He did make sure, however, that the man’s assistant knew he was here “on official business.”

  The office was as ornate-but-tasteful as everything else in the beautiful casino — well, except for the current Grinch Stole Christmas decor. Even to Brice’s untrained eye, the gigantic green Grinch he’d seen in the restaurant when he came into the building was a swing-and-a-miss in the stylish ornamentation department.

  The office nestled in the glittering punchbowl casino building, provided a view out across the lake which on a summer day would be crowded with the colorful sails of boats against the water reflecting the green forest hillsides. Even on this winter day, with the trees bare, it was still an impressive sight.

  The walls were paneled with some kind of dark teakwood like the bar in the restaurant, which had likely required the decimation of an acre of South American rain forest to acquire. You could get lost in the multihued swirls in the wood grain.

  Crenshaw, a man who never missed an opportunity to grease the skids, kept him waiting in the outer office for only a few minutes before having him ushered into his private enclave, which was all glass, chrome, sharp angles and bright colors. The four pieces of original art on the wall were probably worth more than Brice’s house. Each featured a different primary color, smeared and splashed around the canvas — the kind of art Bailey said was produced using the monkey-in-a-paint-fight technique.

  The thought of her brought her face instantly to mind, along with a pain so layered and tangled he could never hope to sort it all out. He loved her, had tried his dead level best … but it had happened to him without his consent and he’d only admitted it to himself when he feared she had been killed. Now that he could no longer hide from his own feelings by lying to himself, he’d had to make some deeply painful adjustments in how he lived his life. He’d planned to begin implementing those as soon as the holidays were over. A slow withdrawal from her life. A conscientious rebuilding of the wall he kept between himself and all women, the one she’d come crashing through with a bullet in her brain and a magical gift.

  Nothing in life was simple, but his relationship with Bailey had left simple in the dust months ago. It seemed that the moment she opened her eyes in the hospital, with Oscar in her brain, their every interaction was out-of-control turbulent and he’d merely been bouncing along in the back of the bus as it careened down a mountain road toward a cliff. Now, he was trying desperately to keep the woman he loved alive long enough for him to extricate himself from her life and walk away.

  “Sheriff …?”

  The voice came from behind him, in a tone that indicated this wasn’t the first time he’d spoken. Brice turned around and stopped himself from burping out something like, “… lost in thought.” He merely put out his hand.

  “Mr. Crenshaw.”

  “Sheriff McGreggor, how can I help you today?”

  Brice reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He’d put a copy of Bailey’s birthday picture on it.

  “What can you tell me about this man?” He held the phone out to Crenshaw. “The guy in the background with the pointed beard and the eyepatch.”

  Brice was carefully watching Crenshaw’s reaction — his eyes, did they narrow? Did he blink? Since Crenshaw was a practiced gambler, he’d be more able than most to keep his feelings off his face, so his reactions would be subtle.

  Except they weren’t.

  He literally whirled on his heel and turned his back to Brice, walking rapidly to his desk, tossing his next words over his shoulder.

  “Don’t believe I’ve ever met the man.” He sat down in his office chair, ensconced behind a big desk that gave him a king-on-a-throne psychological advantage over the person he was talking to and looked up at Brice. Didn’t meet his eyes, though. “Surely, you don’t think I’m on a first-name basis with everyone who comes into my casino. Sorry I couldn’t help you, but I’m really very busy. If you’ll excuse me …”

  The man was clearly rattled and off balance. A good place to have someone from whom you wanted information. Now, Brice needed to up the ante.

  “Surely you don’t think I don’t know you have private card games for high rollers just like this guy.”

  Crenshaw was scrambling, struggling to get his mojo back. He cleared his throat, stalling, trying to judge which route to take with the sheriff. Brice saved him the trouble.

  “Don’t bother to deny it. Don’t think I wouldn’t have landed on you with both feet if I had enough evidence to prove what we both know is true. I’m not on either of your payrolls, public or private. Right now I don’t give a gnat’s eyelash about an illegal card game. I’m only interested in what you can tell me about this man.”

  “I told you, I don’t …” He didn’t bother to try to float the rest of it because it was clear Brice wasn’t buying what he was selling. “Say I do know this gentleman. An acquaintance. What could I possibly tell you about him that would help you in any way?”

  Crenshaw’s reactions were way over the top. He was massively freaked out that Brice had shown up with Mikhailov’s picture. Why?

  “This picture was taken in October. Has he been back to the casino since then?”

  “No, I don’t believe he has.” Textbook lie.

  Rudimentary deception detection: if you asked a right-handed person a question about a past event — When did you see the new Star Wars movie? — that person will look up momentarily, because that’s what the human eye did when you were thinking. If he looked up and to the left, he was accessing his memory, and what he tells you is what he remembers. If he looked up and to the right, he was accessing the creative portion of his mind, because he was about to make something up.

  So Mikhailov had been back here in the past month. Twice in five weeks. Brice broke out in cold chills. What could he say to keep Crenshaw off balance?

  “Maybe you don’t know that this particular junkyard dog’s not just mean. He’s rabid.”

  “What are you—?”

  “He’s crazy. Nuts. Psychotic.”

  “Mr. Mikhailov?” Crenshaw was incredulous. He was also scared.

  “Oh, he’s always been a killer. Just the price of doing business in his line of work. But at least in the past he was sane. Not anymore.”

  “Why would you say a thing—?”

  “He beat his own son to death with a fireplace poker. Did you know that? Beat him until he wasn’t just unrecognizable. It was hard to tell he was human.”

  All the color had drained out of Crenshaw’s face and Brice was scrambling to put the pieces together. Why would it so upset him to know that Mikhailov was insane? Why would it matter to him that a man who’d been to the Naut
ilus at least twice to play poker … or was there more to it than that? More to their relationship than that?

  “If you’re engaged in any business dealings with Mikhailov, you’re in way over your head. The man has dementia, a brain tumor, advanced stage syphilis … take your pick. Something’s eating his brain and spitting out violence. He now kills randomly, irrationally, just for the pleasure it gives him.”

  Crenshaw rose unsteadily to his feet, had managed to crawl back into some semblance of a calm facade. The giveaway was the pen he gripped his hand, holding it so tight his fingers were white.

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, Sheriff.”

  Brice leaned over the desk and spoke quietly,

  “Oh, but you do know what I’m talking about. You’ve seen the craziness — haven’t you?”

  “I’m sure if Mr. Mikhailov is in need of psychiatric care he will seek it. Now, I really must ask you to leave. I have business to take care of.”

  Brice stood looking at him.

  “You’re hiding something, Mr. Crenshaw. You know a whole lot more about Sergei Mikhailov than you’re saying.” Brice held up both hands to ward off Crenshaw’s protest. “Just know this — the man is completely, irreversibly insane. He kidnapped a young woman in Boston yesterday and is holding her hostage. There’s a massive manhunt — federal marshals, FBI, local authorities. If you know anything about that, anything at all about where Mikhailov is or where he’s hiding his hostage, when he goes down — and I guarantee he will go down — I will see to it you go down right alongside him. An accomplice after the fact to kidnapping … maybe murder. You can’t bribe your way out of this one, Crenshaw. Is that really what you signed on for?”

  Crenshaw’s voice did not waver, but it was airless and raspy, sand blowing across stone.

  “If you’re going to accuse me of a crime, I will not say another word without my lawyer present. I’m asking you to leave — now.”

  Brice found himself standing in the broad hallway in front of Crenshaw’s office, his mind on spin cycle over the bizarre turn the conversation had taken, trying to figure out his next move.

  The elevator doors on the other side of the hallway opened, two men got out, he crossed the hall quickly before the doors could close, got in and rode the elevator to the first floor.

  If only he had a wire-tap on Crenshaw’s phone. He’d bet T.J.’s pension that right this minute Crenshaw was calling Mikhailov.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The distance between the front door and the parlor where Bethany lay sleeping was roughly the space between the earth and the moon.

  Bailey eased the door open. Started to tiptoe — thought of Aaron and didn’t — to the couch where Bethany lay crashed out on her back, both minion blankets on the floor beside her. Sparky got to his feet when she approached. Then just stood, looking at her.

  Sometimes — no, often — that dog was downright spooky.

  She tried very hard to look upon the child with gratitude, with absolute love and gratitude that she had been granted this last time with her, this tiny space of knowing her before the end. But she wasn’t that strong. Jessie Cunningham wasn’t that strong and neither was the new and improved Bailey Donahue.

  She couldn’t find it in her soul to feel gratitude for being allowed to see her daughter again, touch her, hold her, sing to her, love her — and then have her snatched away again.

  It’s not fair!

  She wanted to wail the words and wanted to tell the T.J. in her head that if he opined “the only fair I know gives prizes for livestock” she’d punch him in the face.

  Bailey collapsed to her knees, heard the clunk of them on the floor and was afraid the sound would disturb Bethany. Wake her up. And if that little girl opened her eyes … Aaron’s eyes. Aaron! If the child looked at her with the eyes of her father, Bailey could never leave her. She would never be able to do what she knew she had to do, make the sacrifice she had to make to ensure the little girl had a future.

  She could do that. She would do that. But not if Bethany woke up. All bets were off if she woke up.

  But she didn’t rouse at all at the noise. Aaron had been right, of course. He had been right about everything. Bethany’d adjusted to noise. Bailey would sooo have coddled the little girl, wrapped her in cotton bunting and never allowed any harmful thing to get near her.

  Aaron wouldn’t have let her do that, spoil her. Aaron would have been at her side. Should have been at her side. But the monster with the eyepatch and the pointed beard had murdered him, had started all of this and now Bailey had to finish it. To do that, she had to find a way to walk away from Bethany.

  She sat on her knees beside the couch where the little girl lay, watching the even breathing, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. She wanted to reach out and push her hair behind her ears but that would surely wake her. As would kissing her. Even on the forehead, on the hand.

  She couldn’t touch her.

  Bailey rocked back on her heels, tilted her head toward the ceiling and screamed a shrieking wail of savage misery and grief, so loud it shattered the windows in her soul … without making a sound.

  Noooooo!

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She was supposed to get her little girl back, play with her, love her, kiss her boo-boos, teach her to ride a bicycle and fasten the hooks on her prom dress.

  But she had to walk away from all that. Not just the right-now, the little girl lying asleep on the couch. She had to walk away from all the tomorrows out there stacked one on top of the other that she would never see.

  Somewhere inside her crumpled. Her will left her and she knew she had only been fooling herself. She couldn’t leave Bethany, couldn’t give up the precious child. She was a fool to believe she’d ever be able to pull it off.

  She flat out wasn’t strong enough. The universe would just have to understand that.

  No. Not Bailey.

  Uh uh!

  She could not give up all those tomorrows with her precious Bethany. Couldn’t.

  She took one breath.

  Another.

  But the expected blow of realization didn’t come. She wasn’t knocked off her knees by the power of understanding, acceptance and strength.

  It was just somehow … there.

  She would give up the tomorrows either way. On her terms. Or on Mikhailov’s. She would kill him and save her daughter. Or she would keep her daughter … until the day he chose to come and murder them both.

  Resolve stiffened her spine.

  Was this what courage was? Yeah, probably. That thing you got right at the end when everything else in your whole life that mattered was gone. This was what was left when you scraped the bottom of the bowl of existence. The last spoonful.

  She became aware of Sparky then, sitting beside her. Just sitting. Not angling for a pat on the head. Not licking her hand or her arm, just sitting, looking at her with his huge wise eyes. At that moment, she believed that Sparky understood on some level what she was doing, that she was telling Bethany goodbye. Then he turned and hopped up on the couch beside the child, stretched out beside her and laid his head gently across her chest.

  And looked at Bailey.

  I’ll be here for her. I’ll love her when you can’t. I’ll take care of her.

  She couldn’t kiss the child, but she could kiss the dog. And she did. She got to her feet, leaned over and planted a kiss on his snout between his eyes and his nose, held his look for a moment, then turned her back and walked with purpose out of the room, shutting the door behind her. She never looked back.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Mikhailov listened to the semi-hysterical babbling of the man on the other end of the phone.

  “Silence,” he roared, and the three men in the room with him turned, but said nothing.

  He couldn’t let the red drain down over his vision now. When it did, he lost control, and while the violence was gloriously fulfilling, he had to be practical no
w. He had to hold it together.

  Forcing his voice to remain level, he spoke again.

  “Start at the beginning, Dmitri. Tell me what you saw.”

  “It’s him, the guy I shot in that girl’s apartment in Boston. He’s supposed to be dead. But I just saw him get in an elevator in this building. He’s a cop, a sheriff or something!”

  “Where?”

  “He was coming down the hallway from the private offices on the second floor.”

  A light on Mikhailov’s phone started to blink, another incoming call.

  It was Crenshaw.

  “Find this man! Do not let him leave the casino. Send someone to catch up with him and … tell him Mr. Crenshaw wants to talk to him. Has something important to tell him. Then bring him to me.”

  Nothing she was doing was an act of conscious will. She was just along for the ride in the body of Bailey Donahue, who was so hollow right now there was no substance to her at all. Nothing connected the pieces of who she was. A chilly wind was blowing through the tatters, the snippets of her personhood, and they danced gaily, like the little white seeds off the top of a dandelion.

  If she stopped. If she paused for even an instant. If she asked for control of the body she had put on autopilot, with a flight plan filed and engaged, she would falter. If she faltered she would fail. Even a moment’s hesitation and all was lost. If she so much as took an additional breath, she would not be able to walk away from the little girl asleep on the couch … and never see her again.

  She picked up the sack beside the front door and went out, closing it and the screen quietly behind her. Then she walked — was she walking, she couldn’t feel her legs moving, it was like she was gliding along on a column of air — to her car.