by K. E. Garvey
Amy nodded.
“Can you think of anyone who would want to harm you, Miss Bloo? Anyone with a grudge, maybe. Have you exchanged harsh words with anyone recently?”
Sali answered before she could. “No. Amy has no enemies. She’s been in Paris for the last year and only returned home last week.”
His eyes remained on Sali for a moment longer than what seemed necessary before turning to Amy. “Would you agree?”
She nodded again.
“Were you seeing anyone while in Paris?”
“No. She has… had a boyfriend at home. They broke up a few weeks ago.”
He lowered the hand holding the pad to his side, and faced Sali full on. “No disrespect intended, but I’d like to hear your sister’s answers from your sister.”
Sali lifted her head a bit. “Amy has two puncture wounds in her left lung. Talking winds her quickly. I’m sure you’ve noticed she nods without words when able. Trust me, if I were to tell you something inaccurate, she would correct me.”
Amy nodded once again when he looked in her direction.
“Fair enough, and I am sorry to have to do this to you while you’re still recuperating. Necessary evil.”
Amy looked to Sali, waiting to see if she would accept his apology and relax. When her sister’s posture softened, she turned her attention to Detective Johnston to encourage him to continue. Suddenly fatigued, she wanted nothing more than the questioning to end and him to leave.
“Your ex-boyfriend, was it a clean break?”
“Clean?” Amy asked.
“Was it mutual? Amicable or heated when it happened?”
“I didn’t see it coming, but there was no argument. A half-baked reason and he was gone.”
“Have you had any contact with him since?”
She shook her head.
“Anyone else, someone at work maybe? Did you have words with anyone at the race?”
Before she could answer, Sali cut in. “You don’t think it was random, do you? You think the shooter knew her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your questions are certainly pointing in that direction.”
“At this point, we don’t know whether her assailant knew her. We’re following several theories. Each piece of evidence helps us to narrow it down.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Good morning, Amy. Time to check your bandage.”
Detective Johnston turned back to Amy. “I have a few more questions, but I can come back later.”
Stella said, “Of course, it’s up to her, but if she doesn’t mind you can stay. I’m only changing the outer tape to check that she’s not oozing.”
He looked to Amy who nodded her approval.
The detective remained at the foot of the bed while Sali moved to Amy’s right side. Stella pulled on gloves and began to gently peel the tape from the bandage. It was a large bandage beginning at her shoulder and ending just to the left side of her neck. Amy looked toward Sali as Stella worked in silence.
Once the tape was removed, Stella said, “Excellent, no seepage. I’m just going to re-tape and we’re done.”
She was no longer paying attention to what Stella was doing. Her attention had turned to Detective Johnston. She watched his expression change as he stared at her wound. Was it that hideous that he couldn’t take his eyes off it? Had he never seen a bullet wound before? Unlikely.
When he glanced at her, she said, “That bad?”
“Excuse me.”
She pulled in a deep breath. “You’re staring at a bandaged wound as if you’d never seen one before.”
He looked to the bandage and then back to her. “Actually, I was looking at your tattoo. It’s rather unique. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”
“My emblem.”
“Amy’s an artist,” Sali added.
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“I created it a long time ago.” She tried to laugh, but it came out as a puff of air. “Picasso had his gun, I have my emblem.”
He took a step closer. “Do you mind?”
She shook her head.
Stella stood next to him, poised with fresh gauze. He studied the tattoo for several seconds before straightening himself and stepping back.
“That certainly is unique. Do you sell artwork of just your emblem?”
She forced a smile and shook her head.
“There you go,” Stella said. “That should do you until tomorrow, and I learned something new. If I ever see that tattoo on artwork, I’ll know it’s one of yours now. Pretty cool.”
Amy forced another smile and squirmed under the sheets. As if on cue, Sali said, “If you’re through, I think Amy needs to rest.”
Detective Johnston opened his mouth as if to protest, but instead, closed it and smiled. “I have something I have to check on anyway. I thank you for your time. It was nice meeting you, Miss Bloo, and I wish you a speedy recovery. I’ll be in touch.” He gave a short nod to Sali and disappeared into the hallway.
Once she was certain he was out of earshot, she said, “What did you make of that?”
Sali shrugged. “Routine questions, why?”
“Too much interest in a tattoo, wouldn’t you say?”
“It is unique. Who knows, maybe he’s got a thing for tattoos.”
She wasn’t completely satisfied with that explanation, but she had become too tired to give it anymore thought. She sighed. “I suppose.”
“I’m going to head out myself. How about I come back in… say… two or three hours? I’m going to see if I can track down the doctor before I leave.”
Her eyes had already closed and she hadn’t the energy to reopen them. She murmured, “Mm,” and turned her head to her left, away from her sister. Her eyes fluttered when Sali kissed her on the cheek, but she never heard her leave.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Gail - 1997
Their voices were beginning to echo in the small, but near empty, clapboard house. Gail didn’t remember living anywhere other than this house, and the thought of leaving it for good was more frightening than it was exciting, as her mother claimed it would be. She supposed moving to Aunt Katherine’s was a small price to pay to never have to see Warren again, but the negative feelings she harbored over the move had cancelled out the relief she had felt after hearing of Warren’s unexpected death.
She had been certain the police came to take her mother away for shooting at Warren. Never in her most hopeful dreams did she think they came bearing the best news of all. Warren was dead. The nightmare was over, after all, death was as final as it got. So, why did they have to move?
She tried not to think about her part in his death, but like water into an old basement, it worked its way into her thoughts. She had found the courage to ask her mother if they would perform an autopsy on him even though he was killed in a car accident. She had learned about autopsies and what they could reveal from watching the true crime shows Warren had liked so much, but knew little about what caused them to perform one on one person and not another. Her mother said she highly doubted it, which helped to ease her worry. But still, if they were able to detect antifreeze during his autopsy, as soon as her mother was over the initial shock of his death she would surely remember that it was her oldest daughter who had delivered the deadly.
At one point since his death she asked her mother if they could go to where his truck had been towed, just to get a last look. Her mother fanned her face as if she were about to faint and said such thoughts were morbid and should be laid to rest alongside him. Her reason for wanting to see his truck had nothing to do with morbidity, and everything to do with needing proof. Proof the bastard was truly dead. Not that a wrecked truck would prove anything, but the worse it was mangled the easier she’d rest.
“Girls, can you give me a hand in here?” her mother called out from the kitchen.
She entered with Cheryl following closely behind. Their mother stood at the head of the table
, behind what used to be Warren’s chair. In the center of the table was a cake, ice cream cake at that, topped with chocolate and strawberries. She had never seen a more beautiful cake in her life.
“Wow. Whose birthday is it?” Cheryl asked as she slid onto a chair.
“Nobody’s birthday,” her mother replied. “I just thought we could all use a pick-me-up after—. Who wants cake?”
Oblivious to everything except for the dessert directly in front of her, Cheryl raised a hand as her mother buried a knife in the cake. Gail pulled out a chair and sat. When her mother pushed a plate toward Cheryl, she looked at her, and asked, “Gail, honey, you want a piece?”
She shrugged, and added, “Sure,” although she hadn’t been able to eat much since the night Warren died.
“Here you go.” Her mother pushed a plate across the table and then sliced a piece for herself.
The room grew silent as they ate, but Gail’s mind spoke enough for all of them. When her questions began to make her head hurt, she said, “Mom, why haven’t you cried? Mothers always cry when fathers die on TV.”
Her mother took another bite of her cake and nodded as she let it melt in her mouth. Once she had swallowed, she looked to Gail, and said, “TV isn’t real. You know that. And it would do no good for me to fall apart when I have two girls to raise up on my own now.”
Gail accepted the answer, but wasn’t convinced that’s all there was to it.
“Besides, no one told him to drink himself silly and then hop in a vehicle. Your father had no respect for the law. Or much else for that matter.”
Finished with her cake, Cheryl joined the conversation. “Are we moving tomorrow?”
“Day after,” their mother replied. “And you need to go wash your face. Looks like you wore as much of your cake as you ate.”
Cheryl slid off her chair and headed to the stairs.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” her mother asked.
Cheryl looked from Sali to their mother, her mouth dropping open when the answer hit her. She said, “Sorry,” and walked her plate and fork to the sink.
It wasn’t until they could hear Cheryl’s bare feet padding across the upstairs floor that her mother looked at her with that look, the one that said it was time for a talk and it wasn’t going to be pleasant.
“I’d be having this talk with your sister, too, but she’s still a bit young to comprehend the big things. Gail, I know what you girls saw the other night, but it wasn’t what it looked like. I’m not going to sit here and lie to you about something you saw with your very own eyes. I did have a gun, and I did point and shoot at your father. But that’s all I did.”
“That’s a lot.”
Her mother’s face twisted. “It is. But he’s been doing a lot of wrong lately. I borrowed the gun from Seth Corbin to scare him. That’s all. And I did. I scared him so bad he tore out of here as if he’d seen the devil. But I didn’t hurt him. I couldn’t hurt him. No matter what he’d done, two wrongs never make a right. Do you understand what I’m saying? Some might say pointing a gun at your father was wrong, but I think as long as I didn’t shoot him, God can forgive me.”
She couldn’t bring herself to lift her gaze from a spot on the table she’d been using to anchor her emotions. Her mother lowered her voice, and said, “Are you mad at me? Do you blame me for his accident?”
Her head snapped upward. “No. It wasn’t your fault. It was his fault. Everything was his fault. He’s gone and he’ll never be able to hurt anyone ever again.”
Her last words came out unintelligible through her sobs. She squeezed her eyes shut as her mother wrapped her arms around her and let her sob into her chest. Her mother’s gentle touch and the smell of her perfume helped soothe her calm.
“It’s OK. It’s over,” her mother whispered into her hair. “Everything will get better from here on out. You’ll see.”
She had given up on her life getting better a long time ago; but somehow, hearing the promise spoken in her mother’s tender voice, she believed it could happen.
After a few moments, her mother released her, rested her hands on her daughter’s shoulders, and said, “Why don’t you go up and help Cheryl with the last of her things while I finish up down here. The movers will be here first thing in the morning, and we need to be up and ready.”
They shared a smile, but for her, there was hidden meaning. Hope. A promise. A life she hadn’t allowed herself to wish for. Her smile was genuine for the first time in ages, and it felt good. Warren was gone, and he hadn’t taken the hope for a better life with him. Her smile lasted all the way to her bedroom.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Warren - 2018
For the third morning in a row, Warren was up before sunup. He had gotten good at moving around the house without making a sound or waking Rodney. This morning was his personal best: dressed, lunch packed, microwaved coffee downed, and out the door in under six minutes.
His ride pulled up at six-fifteen sharp each morning and drove him to the factory in silence. He wondered why the guy had agreed to take him in only to ignore him as if he weren’t in the same car. He wondered, but didn’t really care. It didn’t make a difference. He had only planned his days to include the moment he killed her, and not a minute more. The job was a current necessity, but certainly not something he planned to stick with a day longer than he had to.
The door let out a soft click as he pulled it shut behind him. Five fifty-four. That gave him twenty-one minutes to walk to the nearest house, thumb through their newspaper in the dim light, and return in time to catch his ride. There was a definite risk involved each time he crept onto their porch as the sun cast just enough light to see images by, but he had left the only working flashlight he could find in Rodney’s pigsty of a house behind after the shooting. He had thought about taking the paper with him to reduce the risk of being seen, but decided the missing paper might draw more attention in the end.
There had been little mention of the shooting in yesterday’s paper. Maybe it had happened too far away to be relevant here. Or maybe the majority of the details had been shared over the weekend, and he had missed them. As far as he could tell, they still hadn’t released her name. That seemed odd to him, but maybe that was the way they did things now. Much had changed since he’d been away, so nothing surprised him anymore. Either way, he still didn’t know her condition. Would she pull through? Would she tell the police about him? But more pressing, would he get another chance? How could he plan as far as a day into the future until he knew for sure?
Light from a window on the side of the house lit the yard as he came through the tree line into the open. He mumbled, “Shit,” under his breath and pulled tight against the nearest tree. As much as he had wanted to see the morning paper, it was probably no longer on the porch. That one light told him the risk of being seen was too great while the odds of the paper still being on the porch were so slight.
The walk back to Rodney’s went by quickly as he thought of how he would obtain the information he was after. The hospital would only say that the woman brought in on Saturday was still there, but nothing else. He had told them he was a spectator at the event that day, and was concerned. They seemed to buy it without question, but would give out no other information. She must have received the flowers he had sent, but had she seen them? Had she read the card? He didn’t even know if she was conscious. If she was, and read the card, would her mind race to the obvious, or would she find the thought too absurd after all this time?
Dammit, he had to find a way to get Rodney away from the TV long enough to watch the news. The computer would have given him everything he needed to know if Rodney hadn’t taken the extension cord while he was out of town the past weekend. A thorough scan of the garage turned up not a single power cord among the junk strewn all over leaving him without computer access. He had even tried moving the machine to another spot, but the house was so cluttered, no matter where he set it, he needed an extension to reach an ou
tlet. He had had the urge to drop the computer on Rodney’s head as he snored through another episode of that Beavis show.
When he glanced up at the house as he came to the driveway, he spotted the backend of a pickup behind the house. He’d seen that same truck the first time he walked into town. That must be the sister. He’d been fortunate to have missed her during previous visits, and today wasn’t the day for how-do-you-dos. He continued walking until the house was out of sight. He looked at his watch. Six-eleven. He cast his eyes upward, and said, “Four minutes. I need her to stay at least four more minutes.”
~
If he screwed up many more times, they’d can his ass even before he was ready to leave on his own. It was in his best interest to remain a model employee for the time being, but he was finding it next to impossible to keep his mind on the job. He couldn’t get her out of his head, but it was more than that. The heat, the metallic smell, the sweat that poured out from under the heavy welding helmet, each worked to wear him down both physically and mentally. He didn’t remember the job being so hard on him years ago. Simply pulling the apron on each morning caused him to feel like a decrepit old man. His back sagged under its weight. His headache grew worse each day. Zinc fume fever. He had had a bad case of it once when he first began welding. At one point during the worst of it, he actually believed it might kill him. His father had called him a hypochondriac, said he’d go to any length to get out of making an honest living. While he lay in bed, wanting to die, he prayed for something equally horrible to put some manners on his old man.
“Grissom.”
He looked around, but didn’t see anyone looking in his direction. Maybe he imagined hearing his name.
“Grissom, over here.”
This time he spotted Vern, the kiss-ass foreman, coming toward him. He lifted the shield of his helmet.
When he got within earshot, Vern called, “Someone here to see you. She’s waiting in the lobby.”