by Karen Rose
‘The Professor’s also connected to nurses,’ Kate mused. ‘He met Eileen Wilkins through her boyfriend, who was a customer via the college gym. Eileen was using opioids she stole from the hospital, part of a national epidemic of nurses who have substance abuse issues. Another group who have substance abuse issues are . . .’ She looked up. ‘Middle-aged soccer moms. Career women with kids in general. Too much to do, too little time. They need a pick-me-up, and an afternoon latte from Starbucks just won’t cut it anymore. Or they get sucked in via prescription painkillers, then switch to heroin. How would he recruit these mothers?’
‘Schools?’ Troy shrugged. ‘PTA. Grocery store. Zumba at the gym, hanging in the bleachers. Too many places.’
‘But some of these soccer-mom addicts have to have gotten clean,’ Decker said. ‘Stone went through rehab and only Diesel knew. But what if we talked to someone who works at a rehab center – like Bailey Beardsley. She’s not going to tell us about current clients, but what about successful ones?’
Troy looked doubtful. ‘If they were going to talk to us, they’ve had twenty years.’
‘Maybe they’re afraid,’ Kate said softly. ‘We learned tonight that this guy isn’t above using a child to get to a parent, or taking out an innocent kid like Charlie Chalmers. If they believe their family’s in danger, they’re not going to talk. But it certainly can’t hurt to ask. Maybe if we ask, someone will have the courage to answer us.’
His stomach finally full, Decker was swamped by a wave of exhaustion. ‘I’ll talk to Bailey in the morning.’ He yawned so widely that he heard his jaw crack. ‘I think I just hit the wall.’
‘Thank God,’ Troy said fervently. ‘I was about to cry uncle, trying to stay awake with you. We’ve got a few hours till morning meeting. Let’s get some more sleep.’ He put his dishes in the sink and went back to his room.
Decker stood up, grateful for the walking stick he’d borrowed from Keith O’Bannion, because the room had gone all wavy. ‘Shit. I really did hit the wall. You coming?’
Kate put her knitting back in the yarn bag. ‘Sure, but if I can’t sleep, I’ll come back out here and work so that I don’t disturb you.’
There was an odd reluctance to her movements as she walked to the bedroom and climbed into bed. Decker thought he knew why – or at least part of why. But he needed to know more so that he could help her. He got comfortable beside her, drawing her to his side, her head pillowed on his chest, before turning out the light.
Then into the darkness he murmured, ‘You had another nightmare.’
She went still against him. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you going to tell me why?’
A long, long moment of hesitation. ‘Yes.’
After an even longer moment of silence, he brushed a kiss over her hair. ‘I can’t help you if I’m flying blind.’
‘I don’t think you can help me at all, Decker. There’s nothing to help. I did what I did. I can’t undo it. And I wouldn’t if I could.’
‘But you’re not dreaming about what you did, are you? You’re dreaming about what Jack did.’ He felt the warm puff of her sigh on his bare chest. ‘Do you think I’ll think less of you?’
‘I don’t know. But if you did . . .’ Her voice trembled. ‘I’m not sure I could stand it.’
He wanted her to trust him. But after such a short time, that wasn’t really reasonable to expect. Not unless he made it reasonable. He drew a breath, then quickly spoke the words he’d never uttered aloud before he could lose his nerve. ‘I killed the man who killed my sister.’
She petted his chest with her fingertips. ‘I know. I figured it out for myself.’
But he hadn’t said it out loud. Ever. ‘I hit him on the head with a baseball bat. Hard. I heard his skull crack. Then I pushed him in the river. He was still alive at the time. He drowned without regaining consciousness, according to the coroner’s report.’
Her voice hardened. ‘He got off easy, then.’
‘Probably so. I thought I’d be okay with it, but even though I would do it again, I . . . I wasn’t okay with it. I’m still not.’
She sighed. ‘Decker, if that was a test to see if it would make me bail . . . it won’t. If it was to make me more comfortable spilling to you, I appreciate it. I really do.’
‘But?’
‘No buts. I owe you the truth. It’s just hard to say. Hard to remember. Impossible to forget.’
‘Just tell it like a story, then. Once there was a woman named Kate who loved her husband.’
Her swallow was audible. ‘But he got brain cancer and it wasn’t operable. So he had the hard talk with the people who loved him the most – his fiancée and his brother. He decided he didn’t want to do chemo because he wanted to enjoy the time he had left, and he asked them to respect his decision and not to try to get him to change his mind. It was hard, but they agreed. He was supposed to have a whole year. So he made a bucket list. He and his fiancée went skydiving and Rocky Mountain climbing. And . . .’ Her voice wobbled. Broke.
Cracking a piece of his heart right along with it. ‘And two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Manchu?’ he asked, getting the song reference.
‘No. He was too sick by then and he didn’t want to hurt a bull anyway. So his fiancée found a mechanical bull and rode it for . . . well, not quite two point seven seconds. But long enough to make him smile. And then she photoshopped a Fu Manchu mustache on the mechanical bull in a photo that he took while she was hanging on for dear life.’
He kissed her forehead, then leaned back into the pillow. ‘I hope you still have those photos. I’d like to see that someday.’
‘They’re on the iPad I loaned you. All the photos are.’
He was so glad now that he hadn’t sneaked a peek at them when he’d had the chance in the hospital. ‘You can show them to me when you’re ready. So . . . he got worse.’
‘Yes. And he had to quit his job that he loved. His students cried. He cried. His fiancée . . . didn’t. Because she was strong for him. But then she cried later, when she was alone, because nobody’s that strong, you know?’
‘Yeah. I know.’
‘They’d planned their wedding for June, on his parents’ anniversary, because they’d died in a car wreck and both he and his fiancée had loved them and had wanted to honor them. But his fiancée found out that she couldn’t take leave under the family leave act for a fiancée, only for a husband, so they got married at the courthouse with his brother as their witness. They figured they could always have a wedding in June for their friends. But he got much sicker really fast and they didn’t make it to June.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Me too.’ He felt the warm wetness of her tears on his chest. ‘Anyway, he was fading so fast. And one of the things we’d discussed in that hard conversation when he was first diagnosed was that he wanted to die at home and on his terms. The doctors told him that at the end he’d forget us. That he’d be in pain.’ Her chuckle was watery. ‘Johnnie didn’t like pain. He was a big wuss. Got hysterical over a paper cut.’ She cleared her throat. ‘He didn’t want to die a shell of himself, a man we no longer knew. So he made us promise . . .’
The wetness on his chest spread and her shoulders shook, and Decker was helpless to do anything but hold her.
‘He made us promise that when he had his first episode of forgetting us, if he came back to himself, we’d let him go. He made us promise that we’d leave his pain pills out for him and let him end it on his own terms. I didn’t want to promise that and Jack really didn’t want to promise, but Johnnie . . . he could charm the skin off a snake too, and he talked us into it. And then the day came. In March. It was cold and snowing and he woke up one morning screaming. He didn’t know where he was, who he was, who I was, and he was afraid. I gave him something to help him sleep. Just a little. And I called
Jack, who came as quickly as he could. He was in Iowa, because he coached at the same high school we’d all graduated from. He drove through a blizzard and got there just as Johnnie was waking up. I thought Johnnie might not remember his episode, but he did. And he reminded us of our promise.’
‘Did Jack try to change his mind?’
‘No. He tried to get me to change Johnnie’s mind, but I wouldn’t, and he was so angry with me. But we’d promised, and Johnnie was in pain. The thing was, we couldn’t figure out who would actually leave the bottle out. It’s not as easy to do as you’d think.’
‘How did you decide?’
She huffed a sad, sad laugh. ‘Rock, paper, scissors. I could always kick Jack’s ass in that. I almost let him win. If I could change anything, that would be it. I’d have let him win and I would have been the one to leave the bottle out for Johnnie. But I played it straight and Jack lost. He put the bottle out, kissed Johnnie on the forehead, then ran out of the house like a bat out of hell. Found himself a bar and got rip-roaring drunk.’
‘Leaving you to watch Johnnie die alone?’
‘Yes. I’d always known Jack couldn’t do that. So . . . I climbed into bed with Johnnie and held him, and we watched his favorite movie, and by the final credits, he was gone.’
Decker blinked hard, his own tears running down his temples. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m not. Like I said, I’d do it again. It was against the law and it shouldn’t have been. It was his right to die the way he wanted. When the coroner came to take him away, he asked me how Johnnie had gotten the pills, and I lied. I said we’d kept them in the bathroom and that he’d managed to get in there himself. That I’d fallen asleep and by the time I woke up, he was gone. But Johnnie hadn’t been able to walk on his own for a few weeks at that point. And I think the coroner knew that. But he didn’t press. I got the death certificates and everything said “cancer”. Not suicide. Certainly not assisted suicide. I would have been charged.’
‘Because you wouldn’t have implicated Jack.’
‘I couldn’t. He hadn’t wanted to do it. He barely made it through the memorial service, he was so drunk. But he was out of his mind with grief, so nobody knew. Johnnie’s students came to the service and they sang . . .’ She exhaled raggedly and sniffled. ‘They sang “Wish You Were Here”. That part about two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl, year after year . . . It always rips my heart out, because after Johnnie died, Jack and I were the lost souls.’
‘That explains a lot,’ Decker whispered. ‘I heard you singing it the night I woke up. I heard you crying. I wanted to help you, but I didn’t know how. I still don’t know how.’
‘You’re here. You’re listening. You haven’t called me a murdering bitch who was too selfish to take care of a dying man for a few more days. That’s helping.’
He caught his breath. ‘Jack said that to you?’
‘Oh yeah. That and a lot more. I chalked it up to grief. Figured he’d work his way through it, but he never did. He kept drinking and drinking. He took pills to stay awake long enough to get through the school day, and pills to sleep, and it’s a wonder he didn’t kill himself that way, because he never stopped drinking. He actually managed to stay functional for more than two full school years, but finally he lost his job and things really got bad. He’d call me at all hours, threatening to tell. So that I’d lose my job. Because I’d loved my job more than I loved Johnnie. He said that Johnnie would have lived months more if I hadn’t pushed Jack to kill him. That I’d just wanted to get back to my job. Of course none of that was true. Jack was unraveling and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do. I tried to get him into rehab, but he fought me.’
She sighed. ‘I should have insisted. I knew that if I forced it, he’d tell what we did, but by the end, I was ready to do that. At least I hope I was. I never got a chance to find out. Jack disappeared. Nobody could find him. He’d been gone for nearly a month when I came back to my apartment from a case in another town. I’d been in DC for three years by then. My apartment was a third-floor walk-up. I came home with my suitcase and climbed the stairs like always, but my door was open. Just a crack.’
Oh God, Decker thought. This is it. He could hear the grim finality in her voice.
‘I thought I had an intruder. I actually started to call 911 from the landing outside my front door, but then I heard his voice. Jack’s voice. Turns out he’d made a key at some point. So I hung up before I dialed the final 1, and opened the door, and there he was. Sitting in my easy chair with my gun in his mouth. Not my service revolver, but one of my other guns. He’d figured out the combination to my gun safe. Not too hard. It was my wedding date. Although they found another gun on him later, so he’d come prepared either way. He’d thought it out, down to taking the afghan off my bed and draping it over the recliner. My grandmother had made me that afghan. It was the only thing I took from home when I left after my dad hit me.’
‘Which Jack knew because he was your best friend back then.’
‘Yes. I tried to talk him out of it. I begged him not to kill himself and he laughed at me. Told me that I needed to make up my mind. Either he should kill or not kill. Then he pulled the trigger.’
Decker flinched. ‘He wanted you to see.’
‘Yes. And he wanted me to know. So he left me a recording. He’d made it sitting right there in my living room. Said he’d been there for two days, waiting for me to come home. He was so angry. Told me that I’d made him hate himself. That he wasn’t sure if he’d killed his brother out of mercy, cowardice, or selfishness. It was a rant. It made no sense, except to show how much pain he was in. That’s what I dream, over and over. I run up the stairs and he’s always in my chair. He always laughs. And he always shoots himself. And I’m always . . . helpless.’
That, he thought, was the key. In that moment right before Jack had pulled the trigger, she’d been helpless. It was probably her worst fear. ‘Who did you call to help you?’ he asked softly.
‘My boss, Joseph Carter, and his wife, Daphne. Daphne had become a friend to both Deacon and me when we worked for Joseph. She tried so hard to make me feel better. I think Joseph knew there was more to Jack’s suicide than simple grief, but he never pressed. And when I asked for a transfer, he helped make it happen.’
‘Then I’m glad you had them,’ Decker said simply.
She rolled up on her elbow to study his face. ‘You’re not upset?’
‘Of course I am, but only because it hurt you. Kate . . . I saw men in pain when I was in Afghanistan. Picked up the pieces, sometimes when there wasn’t much of them left, but they were still alive and they were suffering. You helped the man you loved die with dignity. I think that makes you . . . strong.’
She swallowed hard. ‘Thank you. But I don’t feel strong most of the time.’
He smiled at her. ‘You fake it well, though. Sometimes that’s all you can do.’
He could see the shine of her eyes even in the darkness, so he was unsurprised when tears streaked down her face. ‘I’m so glad I dropped out of that tree behind you,’ she whispered.
He pulled her down for a kiss, as sweet and tender as he could make it. ‘Me too. Let’s sleep now. You have to keep up your strength to keep faking it as well as you do.’
She snuggled into him, her head on his shoulder, her arm around his waist. ‘Okay.’
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Saturday 15 August, 8.45 A.M.
Mallory’s hands shook as she poured his coffee. He’d woken angry and in pain this morning, and so far nothing she’d done was right. His eggs were too runny, the house was too hot, she’d bought the wrong brands of treats for his young guests, who’d be arriving soon.
At least Gemma had given him a good report, because he hadn’t mentioned it. Unless he was saving his accusations for another time.
She hoped she’d don
e the right thing by emptying the antiseptic spray bottle last night. If nothing else, it would give her a reason to go to the drugstore. She’d find someone there to call the police and pray that they believed her enough to put Macy under protection until he was arrested and unable to make good on his threats.
Although that was still going to be a nearly impossible sell. Nobody was going to believe Macy was in danger. Not until it was too late. Macy’s adoptive father was a cop, for God’s sake.
Years ago, Mallory had tried to tell Macy’s father what his brother-in-law was forcing her to do. He’d backhanded her into a wall and threatened to have her put in a home so far away that she’d never see Macy again. And then he’d told his wife, and Gemma had told her brother.
Who’d locked Mallory in a dark closet for three days. When he’d finally let her out, he’d had a little surprise for her – a new studio. A new partner. Woody McCord.
Mallory shuddered at the memory of McCord’s hands on her. He was the one reason she hadn’t killed the doctor years ago. If something happened to the doctor, McCord would take over, and he liked girls Macy’s age.
That could never happen. I’ll kill them both first. Although . . . She frowned. McCord hadn’t been around in a long time – nearly a year. Something might have happened to him.
She felt a spurt of hope that allowed her to steady her hands enough to place the coffee cup on the table without spilling any.
He looked up from the slice of ham he was struggling to cut, his mouth curled into a snarl. ‘Cut this,’ he snapped, shoving the plate towards her.
Obediently she sliced the meat into small pieces, wishing she had the courage to stab him with the knife. But it wasn’t a big knife, and it wasn’t very sharp. Which was why he was having such trouble cutting his meat with it, but there was no way she was saying that out loud.
‘I need you to change my bandages before my guests arrive,’ he said, unbuttoning his cuff. ‘Go get the first aid kit.’
She focused on breathing normally. This is it. ‘Yes, sir.’ She went to get it from the closet and heard his vile curse. When she went back into the kitchen, she couldn’t control her gasp. ‘Oh God.’ His arm was dark red, the cut angry-looking. Infected. Oozing pus. Gross.