by Alana Terry
Ten minutes later, she lay with her foot reclined on pillows, a light afghan over her, and ice on the ankle—exhausted. She should have been utterly comfortable—as much as one can be while an ankle throbs with pain—but she needed the bathroom, too. Murphy’s Law seemed to silence the call of nature until she was least ready to hear it.
She needed help—just to get situated. But who? “Wilma.” Though she noticed that once again, she’d spoken aloud, Alexa chose to ignore it. Nature no longer called—it screamed. If she didn’t get help soon, things could get ugly.
Within minutes that seemed like eons, Wilma sat on her coffee table, wrapping her ankle and foot in a sport bandage. Boy Scout Wilma had come prepared with everything—including crutches. She helped Alexa stand, passed the rubber-topped metal sticks, and pointed to the bathroom. “Just go do your thing. I’ll bring you a nightgown if you have one...”
“First door on the left, second drawer down on the right—something I can answer the door in, please.”
“Good. It’ll be easier than pajamas for bathroom trips.”
Mortified, Alexa hobbled to the bathroom. For someone who valued her independence, having someone— The bathroom door opened and a nightgown flew across the room and landed, somehow, on the hamper. “Lord, help!” she whispered.
It took another half an hour to recuperate from the ordeal of changing. Wilma, however, was a natural nurse. She gathered a basket of essential items to keep near the couch, brought ibuprofen, stuffing the bottle in the basket when Alexa was done with it, and tried to keep her hydrated.
As she worked, Wilma chatted about her son and his children. “It’s my turn to have Christmas at my house—been baking for days.”
“Sounds delightful. Joe said you make the best cupcakes he’s ever eaten.”
“I almost didn’t, you know. I mean, after—but then I realized I was being silly. You didn’t write that the woman killed someone else, so I decided it was safe enough.”
“I didn’t write that she killed anyone, actually. It was someone else, remember?”
Wilma nodded. “That’s right. That’s why Officer Joe believes me.” She picked at her fingernails before asking, “Have you written more?”
Alexa almost didn’t tell her. Why risk having any more information “out there” than necessary? Then again, telling meant she could watch the woman’s reaction. So, she described the latest scenario. “I thought it was a great idea, but it failed. If anything, I think I irritated the guy.”
Wilma looked thoughtful as she refilled Alexa’s glass and brought a can of nuts for them to nibble. Alexa didn’t have the heart to admit she was still stuffed from lunch. Just as she started to ask what was on Wilma’s mind, the woman turned to her with an interesting spark in her eyes. “I think you had the right idea, but you did it backwards. You created an almost impossible to replicate crime—something simple but impossible. What if you did the reverse?”
“Such as?”
“Well, like... blowing up half a town.” The woman blushed. “Ok, not that extreme, but extreme enough that most people couldn’t or wouldn’t try it, but not impossible for them to do.”
Alexa immediately saw the point and it was brilliant. It had the safety issues of Joe’s idea without the insult to the killer—a challenge he would want to try. If she wrote it well, she could make sure the elements were such that it would be easy to predict movements and catch the guy. If she did it well, he might take the bait.
Alexa fumbled for her laptop and flipped it open. She stared for a few seconds before she deleted a huge section of text. Wilma’s whimper caught her attention mid stroke. “Wha—”
“All those words—all those things you wrote that no one will ever read.”
“Well, the last person who read them threatened me. I’m fine with losing them.”
The seconds and minutes ticked away as Alexa wrote her scenario. It felt like an odd sort of cross-gender Déjà vu—someone watching as she wrote, erased, rewrote, researched, and wrote some more. Google roamed the Internet, searching for the information she needed to create the crime she hoped would never succeed.
Once finished, she handed Wilma the laptop and struggled to her feet. As she hobbled to the bathroom, Alexa swore to avoid all liquids until she could put weight on the foot again. She’d need a nap to recuperate from getting to and from her bathroom each time.
Wilma sat with the laptop closed and seemingly lost in thought. She set it aside to help Alexa get more comfortable, but still said little. Then, as if she couldn’t resist any longer, she blurted out her thoughts in a rush. “I don’t know how you do it. How can someone who lives in such beauty—elegance really—write such evil? Aren’t you a Christian? How do you reconcile what I just read with your faith?”
Alexa’s attempt at a smile belied the pain in her heart. People often questioned her morality, her femininity, and her Christianity because of her chosen genre. Murder is not something “lovely” or “of good report.” The brutality of murder—its vile tentacles that wrap and suffocate the joy from life—seems too intense and ugly for a feminine spirit. It certainly is not something people expect a “good Christian woman” to write.
She stopped Wilma’s apology before the woman could utter her second word. “I understand—really. People often wonder the same thing. To some, John Keats’ words, ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty’ is scripture rather than the words of a poet.”
“So, because murder happens, it is good for us to read it? The mere fact of its existence makes it true and therefore something we should embrace and dwell on?” The older woman’s voice held a trace of derision that Alexa knew Wilma was not aware she felt. “I know it sounds hypocritical of me even to ask.” The woman blushed and swallowed hard before continuing. “I mean, we both know I’m a huge fan of yours—have all your books. I think that fact—and the fact that I bookmarked the article in the paper about the light bulb murder on my computer—that got me arrested.”
“You bookmarked the article?”
The woman’s blush deepened. “When I read it I thought it sounded something like you’d write, so I thought I’d email the link, but I had something in the oven, and the mail was coming soon—” Wilma choked.
“I’m so sorry about your friend.” Alexa stared at the scar where the marks of her recent injury destroyed her natural palm lines. “Interesting,” she mused.
“I know it was silly. You don’t need my help, but at the time it seemed like a good idea. Now it seems silly.” A few seconds passed before she added, “So why do you think it’s good to read about the ugliness of murder? Why should we surround ourselves with sin? Simply being real or true isn’t enough.”
Wilma’s return to the original topic was a conversational skill that Alexa appreciated and few possessed. Her mind shifted back to the original discussion and reluctantly tried to explain her thoughts. “I don’t think we ‘should’ surround ourselves with sin. If my books ended with the murder or gloried in the descriptions of the foul acts of lost man, they would be ugly—vile. What I attempt to do with my writing is show a poor imitation of what God gives or shows us—that there is a great mystery in life. God created us knowing we would fall. He knew the end game. Satan, using the very picture God created, would brutally murder His Son.”
“So, you write murder because people murdered Jesus? That doesn’t make sense.”
She hated this part. It wasn’t a simple answer. She couldn’t summarize her motives in a fifteen-second soundbite. “Where is the justice in the mutilation and murder of an innocent man? Even with man’s redemption, Satan seems to score a victory. Sure, God gets man and can redeem him now, but Satan gets God. Even after the resurrection, I can still see Satan gloat. ‘I still got him. I killed God’s precious Son. I tortured that do-gooding freak. I won. I put Jesus in a position that I’ll never be in.’”
Again, Wilma shook her head. “But what does that have to do with you writing about murder?”
“I know i
t doesn’t seem to make sense, but it’s behind what I do. It’s why, as a Christian, I feel strongly about writing the books I write.” Alexa took a deep breath. “While we wait for final justice for Satan, we see the pain of sin and the filth it leaves over each one of us. We want more. We’re not God; we’re not patient. We need and we want proof that this is going to end someday—that justice will prevail. That Justice will prevail. So, we read books about love, redemption, mercy, and justice.”
“And you write about justice,” Wilma whispered, slowly nodding.
“I write about justice. Others write about redemption or love, but the human heart was designed to crave all four. Because in all four, we see a bigger picture of God. I write the one best suited for me. I could do it in other ways, of course, but my talent lies here.”
“I guess,” Wilma admitted, “life full of syrupy sweet books about love and kindness and gentleness would get old and unsatisfactory after a while.”
“For many of us, yes. We need to see the bad guy lose. It helps keep our hope focused on the ultimate destruction of the ultimate ‘bad guy.’”
She heard it in her tone—that lecture quality that came when she was tired of defending her genre choice. Just as Alexa started to apologize, a phone jingled some odd tune in Wilma’s purse. The woman’s eyes widened. “I think—that’s my phone. It never rings. Must be Jimmy.”
Alexa listened to one side of the conversation for the next few minutes. Wilma’s son had obviously arrived twelve hours earlier than expected to surprise his mother and found the house empty. She signaled for Wilma to go home, mouthing, “I’ll be fine. Go.”
Wilma, visibly torn between the desire to help and the desire to rush home to her grandchildren, hesitated. “I don’t know... you’ve been so good to me. I haven’t even told Jimmy about being arrested yet. I can’t just leave you here. What if you need help?”
“Then I’ll call Joe, the church, a neighbor. I’ll be fine. The only reason I called you over anyone else was that I knew your family wasn’t going to be here until tomorrow. I didn’t want to interfere with someone’s holiday celebrations, but now I am. Please go enjoy your family.” At the look of doubt still hovering around Wilma’s eyes, she added, “I’ll call someone—even you—if I need help. I promise.”
LIGHTS ON AT ALEXA’S—AT two in the morning? That seemed odd. Joe pulled up to her house and climbed from the cruiser. The clock said it was his “lunch break.” He could stop in long enough to see that nothing was wrong.
A fence board leaned against the house next to the front door. A glance behind him didn’t tell him enough. He couldn’t see one missing, but it was dark with the light shot out. City maintenance needed to get on that right away.
As he did the cold man shuffle, he checked the door. Nothing. He knocked. Surely, if she was awake, she’d answer, and if not, a quiet knock shouldn’t wake her.
A weak, befuddled voice—clearly Alexa’s but not any tone he’d ever heard—called out, “Who’s there?”
“Joe—saw your lights on. Are you ok?”
“Coming... just give me a minute.”
His eyes widened as the door opened. “What are you doing on crutches?”
“Remember the ice I warned you about?”
“Mrs. Malone?
She shrugged. “Well, I wasn’t paying attention... get in here. It’s cold.” As she hobbled to the couch, she asked, “Are you on duty?”
Joe nodded, moving to the stove. “Stove’s cold. Guess it’s hard to have a fire going if you can’t carry wood?” He glanced at the door. “Probably explains the fence board next to the front door too, eh?”
“Yes—feel free to turn down the thermostat and start one.”
Joe started to layer a fire, but the awkward way she tried to settle back on the couch brought him to her side. “Want the blanket or...”
“Just hang it over the end of the couch, please. Thanks. If it hangs on the foot, it hurts.”
“That sounds like a bad sprain if that little weight—”
Alexa interrupted him, making him wonder if she was avoiding something. “It’ll be fine by morning, I’m sure. I’m just babying it to make sure it is.”
“I’m on my lunch break—can I get you anything?”
“I am hungry,” Alexa admitted. “I’d offer to make you a sandwich or something, but the swelling is almost gone. I don’t want to fall on it and bring it back. I just got to where I can leave off the ibuprofen.”
For the next several minutes, completely hidden from view, Joe utilized every opportunity to create a concerto of kitchen mayhem. He spread mayonnaise on bread and banged a colander against a pot hanging above the stove. He layered lunchmeat and then rattled glasses on the shelf next to the sink. After adding cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes, he opened a few drawers more loudly than any reasonable person ever would and knocked a few cans off the shelves of the pantry. The only sounds he didn’t make were the gales of laughter he suppressed as he lifted pans on and off the stove, opened and closed the oven, and once, cried “Yikes!” as he banged a knife against the cutting board.
Though tempted to wrap a catsup stained napkin around his thumb, Joe resisted. He shouldn’t overdo it. Once the food was fixed, he rearranged his face into the best semblance of nonchalance he could and carried two plates into the living room.
Joe almost lost any hope of composure at the sight of Alexa’s face. Her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline, and if she didn’t close her jaw, she’d never manage a bite of food. Praying his voice wouldn’t crack with repressed mirth, Joe smiled at her and nudged her plate. “Eat up.”
“Are you ok?”
Had she not been tired, it not been two o’clock in the morning, or pain been befuddling her brain, he knew he would never have pulled off his charade. With what he hoped looked like a nonchalant shrug, Joe said, “Fine. You have great stuff for sandwiches in there. I need to learn how to shop for the good stuff. Maybe I’d eat out less.”
Halfway through her sandwich, Alexa struggled to her feet. Joe offered to help, but she waved him back to his chair, insisting she could take care of herself. He choked on a mouthful of roast beef on rye as the sounds of banging pots and pans and the door oven echoed from the kitchen. Between chortles, he hurried into the kitchen and half-carried Alexa back to the couch.
“I can’t believe you did that!”
“I couldn’t resist once I figured out what you were doing. I must be more tired than I thought.”
Joe readjusted the blanket around her, but Alexa cringed. “Did I hurt your ankle?”
A wince and a look of irritation crossed her face before she answered. “No, actually, I think I’ve just been half-lying on this side for too long. I need to switch sides for better circulation.”
He helped her to her feet again, and reshuffled her pillows while she leaned on his other arm. To his dismay, she tried putting weight on her foot. It didn’t look bad, but who knew with a bandage just how swollen it was.
“How is it?”
She grinned, and Joe snickered inwardly knowing she’d be embarrassed when she saw the piece of lettuce in her tooth later. “I could walk on it if I had to. I’ll be fine before my trip on Thursday.”
That statement surprised him. She’d been home for several days, and during those days, he’d spent a lot of time with her. She hadn’t even hinted at going anywhere again anytime soon. Shannon, the girl he went out with now and then, would have told half the town the moment she made plans to go anywhere. The difference in the women astounded him.
“Where are you going?”
He wondered at her silence. Why didn’t she answer? That seemed odd. Just as he started to ask if he had offended her, she said, “Chicago.”
“Really? Friends or family there?”
“Friends—new ones. When I was there a few weeks ago, I met a girl in a hospital. She’s doing better now, so I’m taking her to the New Year’s Eve Ball at the Drake.”
Joe whistled low. “Nice
.”
His mind still on the novelty of not knowing that a woman he knew was taking a trip, Joe said, “I cannot imagine Shannon planning a trip to Chicago, seeing me every day for several days afterward, and never mentioning it once.”
“Shannon?”
“Dougherty—works at the kid’s boutique. We go out sometimes. She’d never—” Joe’s train of thought derailed as he realized what Alexa said. “Wait, you’re flying to Chicago, staying at the Drake, paying for expensive tickets to the New Year’s Eve Ball—for someone you met once?” Before she could reply another thought slammed into him. “You’re providing her dress too, aren’t you?”
She grew quiet and thoughtful before asking, “Does it seem pretentious?”
“No,” he admitted. “But it does sound crazy. Why would you do that for someone you don’t know? How did you meet her? Is it at all possible that she could be connected with the killer?”
Her laughter did little to reassure him, but as she explained how she met the girl and her father and why she had gone to the hospital, he relaxed. Her summary, “Sometimes I just want to do something different, so I do,” made sense coming from her.
“So, what’s wrong with her? Why is she in the hospital so much?”
Alexa frowned. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” How could she possibly think it was a good idea to visit someone in the hospital if she doesn’t even know what’s wrong with them?
“I didn’t ask. The way they talk makes it sound like bone marrow cancer or maybe leukemia—but I didn’t hear anything about oncology, so whatever. I do know that organ failure is a concern.”
“How could you not even ask? What if it’s contagious?”
“If she was contagious, Joe, they wouldn’t have let me in.”
“But still—you didn’t ask.”
Alexa sighed as she shifted to get more comfortable. “As I introduced myself, I realized that they probably have to talk about it all the time—tell every new person they meet. I just thought maybe they got sick of it. They can tell me or I can ask if it ever becomes an issue.”