by Alex Kava
“My, my, what a mess,” the state trooper called out, his hands on his belt buckle as he approached.
He glanced at Maggie’s car then continued to the bumper where he came to a stop. He looked from one vehicle to another then back, shaking his head, his mirrored sunglasses giving Maggie a view of the wreckage in reverse of what he saw.
He was young. Even without seeing his eyes she could tell. A bit short, though she didn’t think the Virginia State Police had a height requirement any longer, but he was in good shape and he knew it. Maggie realized his hands on his belt buckle wasn’t in case he needed to get at his weapon quickly but rather to emphasize his flat stomach, probably perfect six-pack abs under the gray, neatly tucked shirt.
“Let me guess,” he said, addressing Maggie as he watched the owner of the pickup stomping around his vehicle. “You lost control. Maybe touching up your makeup.”
“Excuse me?” Maggie was sure she must have heard him wrong.
“Cell phone, maybe?” He grinned at her. “It’s okay. I know you ladies love to talk and drive at the same time.”
“This wasn’t my fault.” She wanted to get her badge from the glove compartment.
She glanced back just in time to see her mother shoot her a cautionary look and she knew exactly what she was saying with her eyes, “See it’s always worse when the cops get involved.”
“Sure, it wasn’t your fault,” he said, not even attempting to disguise his sarcasm.
“He was the one driving erratically.” Maggie knew it sounded lame as soon as it left her mouth. The boy trooper had already accomplished what he had set out to do – he had succeeded in making her defensive.
“Hey, sir,” he called out to the pickup owner who finally came over and joined them, standing over Maggie’s mangled bumper, looking at it like he had no idea how it had gotten there. “Sir, were you driving erratically?”
“Oh for God’s sake,” Maggie said then held her breath before she said anything more.
She wanted to hit this cocky sonofabitch, and it had been a long time since she had wanted to hit somebody she didn’t know.
“I was trying to pass and she shoved right into me.”
“That’s a lie,” Maggie’s mother yelled over the top of the car. Both men stared at her as though only now realizing she was there.
“Oh good,” the boy trooper said, “We have a witness.”
“My mom’s in the pickup,” the guy said, pointing a thumb back behind him.
They all turned to see a skinny, white leg sticking out from the passenger door. But that was as far as the old woman had gotten. Her cane hung on the inside door handle. Her foot, encased in what looked like a thin bedroom slipper, dangled about eight inches from the running board of the pickup.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to just take a look and see what happened. See whose story’s most accurate,” he said with yet another grin.
Maggie couldn’t help wondering where he had trained. No academy she knew of taught that smug, arrogant grin. Someone must have told him it gave him an edge, disarmed his potential opponents. After all, it was tough to argue with someone who already had his mind made up and was willing to humiliate you if you didn’t agree. It was a tactic of a much older, mature lawman, one who could afford to be cocky because he knew more than he ever cared to know about human nature. One who could back up that attitude if challenged or threatened. This boy trooper, in Maggie’s opinion, wasn’t deserving of such a tactic.
As soon as she was close enough to see his badge and read his nametag she decided she knew a few tactics of her own. One stripe to his patch meant he was a trooper first class. He hadn’t made corporal or sergeant yet. “The skid marks should tell an accurate enough story, Sergeant Blake,” Maggie said, getting his attention. Then she let him see her eyes glance at the insignia and added, “Sorry, I guess it’s Trooper Blake.” The grin slid off his face. It was one thing to know his name, quite another to address him by his rank. Most people didn’t have a clue whether state troopers were officers or deputies, sergeants or troopers. “Sure, sure. That’s possible,” he nodded. “I need to see both your driver’s licenses before I check out skid marks.” And he put his hand out.
Maggie resisted the urge to smile at what seemed a transparent attempt to gain control, to keep his edge. No problem. She already had hers ready and handed it to him. The pickup driver started digging in his shirt pocket then twisted and patted at his back pants pockets when suddenly there came a screech – something between a wail and a holler.
It came from inside his vehicle, “Harold? Harrrold?”
All of them stopped and turned, but nothing more had immerged from the pickup. Nothing besides the white leg still dangling. Then Maggie, her mother and Trooper Blake all stared at Harold, watching as a crimson tide washed up his neck, coloring his entire face. His ears were such a brilliant red Maggie wondered if they actually hurt or burned. But just as he had paid her no attention in the diner, Harold made no attempt to acknowledge the old woman now. Instead, he pulled out a thick, bulging wad of leather that was his wallet and began to rummage through it.
While Trooper Blake took their drivers licenses and headed back to his patrol car, Harold surveyed the damage to his pickup once more. He shook his head while making that annoying “tsk, tsk” sound that Maggie’s mother had used earlier. He still hadn’t checked on his mother. Instead, Harold stomped up to the highway. Evidently he wanted to see what evidence had been marked in rubber.
Maggie stayed in her own territory, wanting to tell Harold that he should be grateful. His damage was minimal compared to her ripped-off bumper and smashed driver’s side. The gaping wound in her car’s front end now had protruding pieces of metal shards like daggers. What a mess! There was no way she was taking blame for any of this.
She hadn’t been paying much attention to her mother and certainly not keeping track of her whereabouts. It had been several minutes before Maggie noticed Kathleen O’Dell now standing in front of the opened passenger door of the pickup. Her hands were on her hips. She was tilting her head and nodding as if concentrating on what the old woman inside the vehicle had to say. Just then her mother looked back, caught Maggie’s eyes and waved her over.
Maggie’s first thought was that the poor woman was injured. Harold hadn’t even bothered to check on her. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? She rushed to her mother’s side, glancing over her shoulder but both men were focused elsewhere.
The two women were whispering to each other. From what Maggie could see of the old woman she didn’t look like she was in pain. However, there were several old bruises on her arms – old because they were already turning a greenish yellow.
The woman’s arthritic fingers tapped the seat with an uncontrollable tremor. Maggie remembered how slow and vulnerable Harold’s mother had looked back at the diner. She seemed even smaller and more fragile here inside the cab of the pickup with her spine curling her into a constant hunched over position.
“He does scare me sometimes,” the woman said to Kathleen O’Dell although her eyes were looking over Maggie.
“It’s not right,” Maggie’s mother told the woman. Then realizing Maggie was by her side she turned to Maggie. “Wanda says he hits her sometimes.” She pointed to the woman’s bruises and Wanda folded her thin arms as if to hide the evidence.
“The accident was his fault, Kathleen. He ran right into the side of your car. But you know I can’t say that.” She rubbed her shoulders as if they too were sore and bruised underneath her cotton blouse. Maggie watched the two women, surprised that they spoke to each other as if they were old friends. Why was it that Kathleen O’Dell could so easily befriend a stranger but not have a clue about her own daughter? “Wanda says that sometimes he comes after her with a hammer at night,” she whispered while she glanced around. Feeling safe, she continued, “He tells her she might not wake up in the morning.”
“He’s a wicked boy, my Harold,” the old woman said, shaking he
r head, her fingers drumming faster now as if out of her control.
“What’s going on?” Harold yelled, hurrying back from his examination of the skid marks.
Maggie watched the old woman tense up at the sound of his voice.
“We’re just chatting with your mom,” Maggie told him. “That’s not a problem, is it?”
“Not unless she’s telling you lies,” he said a bit out of breath. “She lies all the time.”
Maggie thought it seemed a strange thing to say about your mother, but Harold said it as casually as if it were part of an introduction, just another one of his mother’s quaint personality traits. He didn’t, however, look as casual when he noticed Trooper Blake approaching them.
“Funny, she was just saying the same about you,” Kathleen O’Dell said.
Maggie wanted to catch her mother’s attention long enough to shoot her a warning look. No such luck.
“What’s going on?” This time it was Trooper Blake’s question.
“She says you beat her,” Kathleen O’Dell didn’t hold back.
“Kathleen, you promised,” Wanda wailed at her.
Maggie grabbed her mother’s arm and tried to lead her away, but she pulled free and continued. “She said you come after her with a hammer.”
There was no grin on Trooper Blake’s face now, and Harold’s resumed a softer crimson color than the earlier shade
"For God’s sake,” he muttered with an attempted laugh. “She says that about everybody. The old lady’s crazy.”
“Really?” Trooper Blake asked and Maggie noticed his hands on his belt were a bit closer to his weapon.
“Two days ago she said the same thing about her mailman.” Harold wiped at the sweat on his forehead. “For God’s sake, she lies about everything.”
Maggie looked back at Wanda who had pulled herself deeper inside the pickup, and now she had her cane in her shaking hands as if worried she might need a weapon of her own.
Maggie wasn’t sure what happened next. It all seemed like a blur even to a trained law officer like herself. Too often that was the way things happened. Words were exchanged. Tempers flair and suddenly there’s no taking back any of it.
Trooper Blake said something about taking Harold in to answer some questions. To which Harold said he had had enough of “this nonsense.” He started to walk away, going around to the driver’s side of the pickup as if to simply leave.
Maybe a more experienced state trooper would have been more commanding with his voice or his presence. Trooper Blake felt it necessary to emphasize his order by reaching out and clamping down on Harold’s arm. Harold shoved at the trooper. Blake grabbed at him again and the two men fought.
Before Maggie could interfere Harold broke free but stumbled backward. As he fell to the ground, the back of his head cracked against the ripped metal of his own pickup. The sound made her wince – a sickening thump. Harold’s eyes were wide open, but that blank stare told her he was dead even before she bent over to take his pulse.
THREE HOURS LATER Maggie and her mother took Wanda home. Maggie tried to follow the woman’s directions despite them changing several times in route. For a few minutes it felt as if they were going around in circles. But Maggie recognized the woman was in shock and she patiently waited for her to issue a new set of directions each time.
Other than getting a bit mixed up, Wanda hadn’t said much. Back at the state police station, Kathleen O’Dell had asked if there was someone they should call. Even after Maggie decided to drive the old woman home, Kathleen still kept asking if there was anyone who could come stay with her. But Wanda only shook her head.
Finally they pulled up to the curb of a quaint, yellow bungalow at the end of a street lined with huge pine trees and large green lawns.
“We’ll help you to the door,” Maggie said and she started unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching for the door handle.
“No, no. I’ll be fine. You’ve already done enough.” And she opened her car door. As she began climbing out she stopped and all of a sudden Wanda said, “I don’t know what I’ll do without that boy. He was all I had.” For the first time, she sounded sad.
There was silence. Maggie and her mother looked at each other. Was it simply the shock? Survivor’s guilt?
“But you said he beat you?” Kathleen O’Dell reminded her.
“Oh, no no. Harold would never lay a hand on me.”
“You said he came after you at night with a hammer.”
This time both Maggie and her mother turned to stare over the seat as if emphasizing their confusion.
“My Harold would never hurt me,” Wanda said quite confidently as she eased herself out of the car. “It’s that wicked Mr. Sumpter, who brings the mail. I know he has a hammer in that mailbag,” she said without hesitation. Then she slammed the car door behind her and without another word, she started waddling up the sidewalk.
Maggie and her mother stared at each other, both paralyzed and speechless. It wasn’t until Harold’s mother was climbing up the yellow house’s front porch that Maggie noticed the woman no longer struggled. She was walking just fine despite leaving her cane in the back seat of Maggie’s vehicle.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: “Goodnight, Sweet Mother” was first published in 2006 in the anthology, “Thriller: Stories to Keep You Up All Night,” edited by James Patterson along with 29 other original short stories written by some of the best thriller writers in the business.
A BREATH OF HOT AIR
PENSACOLA BEACH, FLORIDA
THE POUNDING CAME FROM somewhere outside her nightmare. Maggie O’Dell fought her way to consciousness. Her breathing came in gulps as if she had been running. In her nightmare she had been. But now she sat up in bed and strained to hear over the drumming of her heartbeat as she tried to recognize the moonlit room that surrounded her.
It was the breeze coming through the patio door that jumpstarted her memory. Hot, moist air tickled free the damp hair on her forehead. She could practically taste the salt of the Gulf waters just outside her room.
The Hilton Hotel on Pensacola Beach, she remembered.
A digital clock beside her with glow-in-the-dark numbers clicked and flipped to 12:47. She was here on assignment, despite a category 5 hurricane barreling toward the Florida Panhandle. But forty minutes earlier all had been calm. Not a cloud in sight to block the full moon. Only the waves predicted the coming storm, already rising higher with white caps breaking and crashing against the shore. Maggie liked the sound and had left the patio door open – but only a sliver – keeping the security bar engaged. She had hoped the sound would lull her to sleep. It must have worked, at least for forty minutes. That’s if you considered nightmares with fishing coolers stuffed full of body parts anything close to sleep.
She hadn’t been able to shut off the adrenaline from her afternoon adventure, hovering two hundred feet above the Gulf of Mexico in a Coast Guard helicopter. It hadn’t been the strangest crime scene Maggie had ever visited in her ten years with the FBI. The aircrew had recovered a marine cooler floating in the waters just off Pensacola Beach. But instead of finding some fisherman’s discarded catch of the day, the crew was shocked to discover human body parts – a torso, three hands and a foot – all carefully wrapped in thick plastic.
However, it hadn’t been the body parts that had tripped Maggie into what she called her “nightmare cycle,” a vicious loop of snapshots from her memory’s scrapbook. Some people slipped into REM cycle, Maggie had her nightmare cycle. No, it wasn’t the severed body parts. She had seen and dealt with her share of those. It was the helicopter flight and dangling two hundred feet above control. That’s really why she had opened the patio doors earlier. She desperately wanted to replace the thundering sound of the rotors.
The pounding started again and she jerked up, only now remembering what had wakened her.
Someone was at the door.
“Ms. O’Dell.” A man’s voice. High pitched. No one she recognized.
Maggie st
umbled out of bed, pulled on khaki shorts and a T-shirt over damp, sticky skin. She had shut off the room’s A/C when she opened the patio door and the air inside was now as hot and humid as it was outside. Florida in August. What was she thinking shutting off the A/C?
She picked up her holstered revolver on the way to the door. Her fingers slid around the handle, her index finger settling on the trigger, but she kept the gun in its holster.
“Yes, who is it?” She asked, standing back and to the side of the door as she waved her other hand in front of the peephole. An old habit, borne of paranoia and self-preservation. If there were a shooter on the other side, he’d be waiting for his target to press an eye against the peephole.
“The night manager. Robert. I mean Robert Evans.” The voice sounded young and panicked. “We have a situation. My boss said you’re with the FBI. I’m sorry to wake you. It’s sort of an emergency.”
This time Maggie glanced out the peephole. The fisheye version made Robert Evans look geekier than he probably was – tall and lanky with nervous energy that kept him rocking from one foot to the other. He tugged at his shirt collar, one finger planted inside as though it was the only thing keeping his company issued tie from strangling him.
“What kind of an emergency?”
She watched his bobble-size head jerk left then right, making sure no one else was in the hallway. Then he leaned closer to the door and tried to keep his voice low but the panic kicked it into a whispered screech.
“I think I got a dead guy in Room 347.”
TIKI BAR, HILTON HOTEL PENSACOLA BEACH
GLEN KARST SIPPED HIS bourbon from a corner stool at the outdoor tiki bar. To his left he had a perfect view of the hotel’s back door and to his right was a sight that looked like it was taken off a postcard – silver-topped waves shimmering in the moonlight, lapping at sugar-white sands. If he ever decided to afford himself a vacation this would be a great place, that is, if he didn’t mind sweating. After midnight and it felt like he had a hot, damp towel draped around his neck that he couldn’t knock off.