Girls of Summer

by C. E. Hilbert

  “What do we have?” One of the medics asked as he squatted beside Mac.

  “I think she was thrown about ten feet or so with the explosion. She has a large gash on the back of her head and on her forehead, but I don’t think she’s broken anything. There’s a bunch of cuts and scrapes that I can see. She passed out a few minutes ago.” His breath slowed.

  The first medic snapped plastic gloves on his hands as he glanced down at Charlie. He nodded to his partner who jogged back to the ambulance. Kneeling opposite Mac, he ran his fingers down Charlie’s body. With swift precision, the medic secured a neck brace to stabilize her. He shifted his gaze. “Sir, you’ll need to let her go so we can do our job.”

  Mac swallowed past the thick lump in his throat. “What about her head?” He heard the firemen spraying down the last embers of the car, but he couldn’t pull his focus from Charlie. She still wasn’t moving.

  “Let me take a look.” The lead medic slid his hand under her head, replacing Mac’s own hand. Glancing at the wound, he yanked a roll of gauze from his bag. With the calm of experience, he wrapped her injury, handing Mac the bloodied handkerchief.

  The second medic rolled a gurney to a stop. The two men worked efficiently strapping Charlie to the spine board to move her to the ambulance.

  Mac stood as they raised the gurney. The medics’ voices were low as they shuffled toward their ambulance. “Where are you taking her?” Mac hollered.

  “Memorial. Do you want to ride with her? Are you family?”

  Mac shook his head.

  “You can follow us.”

  Above the din of the firefighters and the arriving police cars, the slam of the ambulance doors ricocheted through the garage. Mac crumpled his now bloody handkerchief in his tightened grip and watched until the vehicle disappeared. Pivoting, he ignored the shooting pain coursing through his knee and jogged to the staircase, hoping to avoid the police. If they started asking questions, he’d never get to Charlie. And he needed to get to her. He didn’t have time to question why. He just needed to be with her.

  4

  Charlotte blinked. The pain of bright lights seared her vision. Involuntarily, she snapped her eyelids closed. Beeping pierced the fog cloaking her brain. With force rivaling a heavy-weight squatter, she opened her lids into a squint. Through blurred vision, she recognized the sterile, white walls of a hospital room.

  She tilted her head to the side. She must be hallucinating.

  Stretched out in the chair beside her bed was Mac Taylor. His chin, with a day’s growth of salt and pepper stubble, rested against his chest. Normally pressed and crisp, his white dress shirt looked as if it had been yanked off of the floor of a seventeen-year-old’s room. A seventeen-year-old who’d held someone bleeding in his arms.

  Whose blood was it?

  Snippets of the explosion flashed through her mind with warp speed. Had anyone else been near her car? Tears trickled down her cheeks. The thought someone else may have been injured today overwhelmed her. The tube attached to her arm tugged against the bed, triggering an alarm.

  “What?” Mac shot to standing, knocking a water pitcher to the ground. Reaching for Charlotte’s hand, his eyes reflected the worry in his sleep-husky voice. “Are you OK?” He rested his hip on the edge of the bed.

  She nodded.

  “Are you crying?” He reached forward to touch her cheek.

  She jerked her hand from his and wiped her cheeks. “I’m fine. I pulled my IV out. The tears were a reflex.”

  His eyebrows drew tight emphasizing the deep crease at the bridge of his nose.

  The door opened and a nurse, nearly as wide as she was tall, shuffled into the room. “Are you OK?” she asked.

  Mac moved from the bedside as the nurse squeezed between the bed and the chair. She glanced at Charlotte’s arm. “Why did you pull out your IV?”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  The nurse lifted an eyebrow and shook her head. She extracted a pair of gloves and quickly replaced the IV, resetting the alarm. “Don’t be so careless, Miss Dixon.”

  “When can I leave?”

  “When the doctor releases you. But if you keep yanking on your IV, you’ll be with us through the new year. Sleep tight.” The nurse scooted out through the doorway.

  Charlotte released an audible sigh. She shifted her gaze to Mac, who was leaning against the wall, his hands shoved into his pockets. “You don’t need to stay,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  Stepping toward her, he rested his hip on the edge of her bed. “I know you’ll be fine. You’re always fine, Charlie.”

  “Charlotte.” Charlie. She hated how her father’s nickname for her warmed her aching heart.

  “Yep, see. You’re always fine.” He chuckled. “But I promised Georgie I’d stay here until you were ready to go home.”

  Charlotte narrowed her focus. “Georgie was here?”

  Mac nodded. “And your Aunt Savvy, Mellie, Remy, and Georgie’s friend, Cole.”

  “Who?”

  “That senior analyst in finance who’s been helping Georgie understand the business.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Why were they here? Why were they here when their relative and friend was rushed to the hospital–unconscious, after her car exploded less than thirty feet in front of her? Why? Your family was worried. I was worried.” He patted her hand. “Worried people come to the hospital.”

  Trying to ignore the warming blush she felt creeping up her neck and cheeks, she glanced through the crack in the curtains where the hint of streetlights spangled against the dark sky. “How long have I been asleep?”

  Mac glanced at his watch. “About fourteen hours. You were in and out for a while, but they sedated you to help with the pain.”

  “I wondered why I didn’t hurt.”

  “Miracle of modern chemistry.”

  “Why did you stay? Here, I mean? If I was sedated, I didn’t…don’t need a babysitter. That’s why they have nurses.”

  He moved away from her bed, but stood nearby. “Charlie…Charlotte, you were knocked unconscious. By an explosion. In your car.”

  “So?”

  “So?” He shook his head. “So? You could’ve died. Someone could be trying to kill you.”

  Her whole body went rigid. “Why would someone want to kill me?” Other than the obvious reasons known only by Mama and the men with slicked back hair and shiny suits. “Are you sure it wasn’t just some faulty wiring? The car is pretty new.”

  “New cars don’t just blow up. The sheriff and the FBI already have their investigators looking into it.”

  “The FBI?”

  He nodded and slid his hands in his pockets. “Special Agents Murphy and O’Neal came by earlier. They might still be loitering in the waiting room. If you are up to it, they probably would like to talk to you.”

  She bit down on her bottom lip. Searing pain shot through her body as a trickle of metallic salt filled her mouth. But, she was thankful for the sting. The ache stopped anxiety from engulfing her. Closing her eyes, she willed the pooling tears to stop.

  Control.

  She needed to maintain control. And, she desperately needed a viable reason for the explosion. Any reason to shift the focus away from reality. But most importantly, a reason rectifying her mistake of the day: Talking to the FBI. She’d made so many errors in judgment in the last year. Today’s message was loud and clear. Somehow they knew the FBI had paid her a visit. She was being warned.

  Silence was golden.

  Sharing was deadly.

  5

  Georgie Dixon scrolled through her favorite social media site. The smiling faces and well curated photos of friends and barely acquaintances did little to calm her worry as she sat vigil for her sister Charlie.

  Err, Charlotte. One day she would remember her half-sister deplored their father’s nickname for her. Rubbing the heel of her hand against her damp cheek, she tried to stop the seemingly endless stream of tears that had started wh
en she’d received the panicked call from Mac explaining Charlotte was injured and he was headed to the hospital.

  Hours ago, the doctor told the family Charlotte would be OK. Her sister needed rest, but she would likely be released the next day. There was nothing more Georgie could do for Charlotte, but despite agreeing that Mac should be the one to stay with her, because the FBI seemed to be shadowing her sister’s every move, Georgie couldn’t leave.

  They were sisters. Sisters stayed. Sisters supported each other. Sisters protected each other. Even if they had been separated for the majority of their lives, Georgie felt an inexplicable connection with Charlotte.

  From her lone chair at the end of the hall, she glanced toward the waiting room where the two FBI agents sat. They’d arrived just before the doctor’s positive update. But, when the others left the hospital, Georgie chose to remove herself from the Special Agents’ line of sight. She didn’t know what they wanted with her sister, but she wasn’t about to unintentionally incriminate Charlotte by nervously chatting with the two men who had kicked off the Watershed gossip mill.

  Gossip spread like infield dirt during a windstorm at the Watershed offices. Georgie heard about the FBI’s visit to Charlotte’s office before the two agents had left the building. She wondered why the FBI agents were talking to Charlotte. And why hadn’t Charlotte told her sister? Sisters were supposed to share everything, but not Georgie’s sister. Rather than confiding in her, Charlotte had ignored Georgie in the two meetings they both attended that morning, fueling even more questions in Georgie’s mind.

  She wasn’t alone in her curiosity. By mid-morning nearly every conversation in the office seemed to be speculating guesses as to why the FBI had visited Charlotte. As Charlotte abruptly left the scouting report with no excuses, the head of baseball operations jokingly guessed Charlotte had only joined the meeting to avoid talking with the “Feds”. The group, a mix of rough-talking, former journeyman ballplayers and coaches, spent the next few minutes theorizing what crime Charlotte could have committed to have the FBI on her corporate doorstep.

  Their imagined indictments ranged from turning a Fed to stone with a single look to causing another’s ears to bleed with clipped words from her Yankee mouth. Each crime was more ridiculous and defaming than the last. Georgie should have stopped them and defended her sister, but in the moment she froze, agreeing with the men by means of her silence.

  Their mean-spirited guesses suddenly ended when the main building felt as if an earthquake had rumbled the ground beneath them.

  How could Georgie have known the tremor she felt nearly killed her sister? The same sister she had allowed a room full of arrogant men to slander. The memory of their words continued to burn in her spirit.

  By the time Georgie was able to extricate herself from the sheriff’s deputy’s initial questions, streamers of yellow crime scene tape were wrapped around the executive lot. The space seemed to transform from simple lined parking spots, to a veritable forensic playground for a half dozen local crime scene investigators in under an hour. Even with only a quick glance at the accident scene, the image was seared in Georgie’s brain.

  Several hours later, as Mac instructed Savvy, Mellie, Cole, and Georgie to leave the hospital, the picture of the parking garage continued to flash in her mind. She walked with her aunt and friends to their waiting cars, but she couldn’t leave. She may have missed the opportunity to defend her sister to a room full of toxic jocks, and she may not be able to do anything for her medically, but she could stand in solidarity outside her room. And so she did.

  Entrusting Savvy and Mellie to her friend Cole, she trudged up the four flights of stairs to the backdoor entrance of the hall where her sister was sleeping. She chose a single seat three doors down from Charlotte’s room. From her vantage point she could watch the still lingering FBI Special Agents. The fact the spot was likely hidden from Mac’s view should he leave Charlotte’s side was an added bonus. She had known him most of her life and he would be furious if he knew she’d stayed behind.

  Scrubbing her face with her palms, she leaned back into the chair feeling the weight of exhaustion drape over her.

  Holy Father, please protect Charlotte. You know what she needs. Please, Father God, grant her safety and health. Show me how I can help her. Please Father.

  “What in the name of all that is holy and right in this world are you doing here?”

  So much for a good hiding spot. “Hi, Mac.”

  “Georgiana Dixon, I told you to go home with Savvy and Mellie. Why are you still in this hospital?”

  “I am an adult, not a little kid. You can’t tell me what to do.” Of course to her ears she sounded more like a fourteen year old than a woman of twenty-four. Perhaps a little stomping would emphasis her adulthood.

  “Not an answer.”

  “I couldn’t leave. I tried. I really tried, but something made me stay. You know what I mean. You have brothers. Could you leave if they were in the hospital?”

  Kneading the small tendons connecting his shoulders to his neck, Mac’s body seemed to deflate. “Slugger, I wanted you to leave because I don’t know why the FBI is so interested in your sister. Or why her car inexplicably imploded. Or whatever it is your sister has been hiding. What I don’t know far outweighs what I do. I can’t protect either of you if I don’t have as many of the facts as possible, and until I have the facts could you please help me out and do what I ask?”

  Adding to Mac’s pile of worry was not her intent. He was right, as usual. No one really knew what was going on with Charlotte or her involvement with the FBI. They had no idea what kind of dangers could be waiting for any of them. “I will leave, but you have to promise you will tell me everything. I’m so worried about her, Mac. What could she be involved with that would cause the FBI to come to our offices. The FBI, Mac. The F…B…I…”

  “I know. I’m worried, too. But speculating isn’t getting us anywhere. When Charlie is ready to share, she will. And until she is, it’s my job to keep you both safe. Now, I need you to leave down that back staircase I should have been smart enough to realize was there waiting for you to be sneaky.”

  He snatched her into a quick three pat hug and then stepped back. “Promise me you will go straight home. You can’t do anything more for Charlie. At least, not now.”

  With a nod, Georgie turned away. She would leave the hospital, but she would find a way to help Charlotte. She would defend her sister against whatever the FBI threw at her. She only hoped they didn’t have any change-ups in their arsenals.

  6

  Cade Murphy absently scanned the contents of the hospital’s fourth floor vending machine, amazed a place promoting health and wellness would supply slow death in shiny wrappers. Although he appeared to be weighing his options between sweet and salty, the glass of the vending machine allowed a perfect reflection of Georgie Dixon, Charlotte’s younger sister. With all of his research, he knew the half-sisters were more than estranged, so he was more than curious when he saw her not so stealthy return up the back stair case fifteen minutes after a grand exit with her family. Why was she sitting vigil for a sister she barely knew?

  “Buy me a candy bar. I’m starving.” Dylan barked from behind the pages of the two-week-old magazine he was scanning while they waited to question Charlotte Dixon for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

  Cade tossed a power bar he’d pulled from his suit jacket, hitting O’Neal squarely in the chest.

  Dylan picked up the rectangular package and turned it over in his sausage fingers. His face twisted in a grimace. “This is not candy.”

  Cade dropped onto the well-worn seat beside his partner. He draped his arm over Dylan’s shoulders. “Dude, you need more candy like a kid going to the dentist to get seven fillings. Eat something healthy for once.”

  “You and the healthy stuff.” Dylan grunted as he read the back of the package. He ripped open the foil with a snap, chomping a generous bite. “Ugh. This tastes like glued sawdus
t.”

  Cade chuckled. “How would you know what glued sawdust tastes like?”

  “Taste bud imagination. It’s an acquired skill from watching so many cooking shows.”

  Shaking his head, Cade pushed back the sleeve of his jacket to reveal his watch. 1:15 AM. Three hours in the waiting room. His patience was rapidly fraying. Lifting his sleeve to his nose, he grimaced. The stench of sweat, sewer, and sludge made for a heady aftershave. He recognized the remnants of their failed trek through the swamp yesterday afternoon, the stakeout that wasn’t when neither Reynard nor Miss Dixon showed. He wanted and needed a break in this case.

  With every memo he typed and every evidence bag he logged, the demand for justice pounded through his body. The tentacles on this investigation stretched from drug trafficking to human trafficking. The money laundering he was convinced Miss Charlotte Dixon and her mother were facilitating was merely the cherry on top of the wretched sundae.

  He wanted justice. Justice for all those who were lost. Justice for the ones who were lost even today, locked in basements, shipped across the ocean, or strung out on the latest drug cocktail. He’d lost his brother and his fiancée to the horrors of drug abuse, and if he had the opportunity to cut off one of the dangerous snakeheads supplying the drug pipeline he would gladly swing the saber. If he took a few other corrupt activities with the blow, he would celebrate all the louder.

  A crumpled wrapper hit him in the face, and he jerked his head to the right ready to curse Dylan. His partner nodded toward the corridor where he noticed the beautiful Georgiana Dixon was no longer sitting vigil. Instead, Mac Taylor, lead counsel for Watershed International, walked toward them filling the hall with an air of defeated exhaustion. With his bloody shirt, he looked less distinguished than yesterday morning, but nearly seeing the death of one of your company’s owners could shake even the strongest of guys.