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by Bart Hopkins

  “What am I supposed to do with you, Jennifer? Huh? Let you go?”

  She shook her head up and down rapidly: yes!

  “And my guess is you won’t tell anyone what happened here today, right? Our secret.”

  She nodded vigorously, but he just stared at her with eyes that were humorless—lifeless —and then he sighed. How did those hideous eyes escape my notice, she wondered; and then sadly, and how was I such a fool?

  Her friends from high school and college were all married. They had husbands and kids … and for some reason those things had simply eluded her. She knew that it was her fault. For some reason, she’d gone after the wrong guys, continued drinking when everyone else stopped, and refused to grow up. It wasn’t that she didn’t want those things, she was simply afraid that life wouldn’t be fun if she grew up, and she didn’t want the fun to end.

  Instead of the customary middle-age undertakings of soccer games and ballet class that should be filling her days, she’d hooked up with a homicidal ex-student, who was at this very moment contemplating her death.

  Silent tears fell down her face.

  “I just don’t think that’s going to happen, Jennifer,” he said and grinned. He held his fist up in front of her face, pulled his arm back, and swung forward with all his might.

  Chapter 33

  Rose, Claire, Greg, Paul, and Jennifer

  Rose didn’t see the first message from Jennifer until a couple of hours after it was sent. She didn’t have a smart phone, and alerts weren’t set up on her computer. And, when she finally saw the message, she wasn’t sure what to make of it at first. There was concern for her friend, of course, but she knew from experience how strange these situations could be.

  I think Paul hurt that guy in a coma on the news. I don’t know, but I’m really scared, Rose.

  She fired off a quick reply and told Jennifer, again, to call her right away if things got bad.

  Leaning back in her chair, she recalled the abusive relationship she’d been in years before. The guy’s name had been Wayne Stackhouse, but everyone called him Whitey. By everyone, she meant the dealers they knew and the other drug addicts who were their friends. A delightful crowd, to be sure.

  It was a nickname bestowed upon him not because of his race, or an unnatural pallor, but instead because of the massive quantity of cocaine that he snorted for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  She grimaced at the memory.

  Whitey Stackhouse. Life of the party. Tall, wiry, charismatic, and he could break up a room full of people whenever he wanted to be funny. She laughed a lot with him. Unfortunately, he got crazy from the coke sometimes, and he would rage about this or that. When he was in one of those moods, she tried to stay clear of him. She couldn’t count how many times he’d punched her. He seemed to enjoy punching her in the stomach the most, and if she tried to block it, he would hit her more.

  One time, he elbowed her in the face and knocked out two of her teeth. Whitey drove 90 mph down the streets of Dallas to get her emergency dental work. They’d been holed up with Whitey’s cousin Ray and getting high every day, at the time. A vacation from the vacation.

  They were scary times, and fear was a normal part of each day. So she wasn’t sure that Jennifer’s fear was anything beyond that of any sane person who’s tired of being treated like a punching bag.

  She opened Google and did a search for someone in a coma in Austin, Texas. The results were all over the place. After some thought, she searched the local news channels for recent news, and hit pay dirt almost right away.

  “Barry Webster, coma, found in his apartment, beaten, broken ribs, severe blunt force trauma to the head,” she read, scanning the article. Webster had apparently been attacked in his own home and apparently nothing was stolen, which led police to believe it was an act of passion from someone he knew.

  Rose shivered.

  As she was trying to decide on the best action to take, she got the next message.

  Plz help he try kill me

  Her blood practically froze in her veins at the obviously rushed message.

  “Where are you, girl, where are you…” Rose called twice, but was sent to voice mail each time.

  She scanned through her messages for some clue as to where Paul or Jennifer lived, but she had nothing.

  “Think, damn it!” she said aloud.

  Friends!

  She clicked on Jennifer’s Facebook Friends and scrolled around. Her best friend was a teacher, she remembered. They worked at the same school. It only took her a few seconds before she recognized the name.

  Claire Thomas!

  There was no phone number. Of course. Would have been too easy. She sent Claire a quick message with her phone number, begging her to call, but she couldn’t wait to find out if that worked. For all she knew, Claire was one of those rare people that didn’t check her Facebook all the time.

  She picked up her phone and called the operator.

  “Do you have a listing for Claire Thomas?” she asked, but the operator said the number was unlisted.

  “But it’s an emergency,” she told her.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I suggest you call the police.”

  Rose felt like screaming, and probably would have, except just then, her phone rang and she answered: “Hello?”

  “Hi, is this Rose? This is Claire Thomas.”

  “Claire? Oh, thank God!”

  <<>>

  “Greg, I need your help—right now.”

  Greg sat up on the couch in his study, blinking. The latest John Grisham fell off his chest and hit the floor with a thud; he had dozed off while he was reading. He gradually realized that Claire was talking to him.

  “Yeah.”

  “Jennifer’s in trouble,” she said. Then, only a second later, “Bring your gun.”

  Greg’s eyebrows shot up questioningly, but the tone in her voice was serious, and he moved quickly, without question. Threw on his shoes. Grabbed his Smith and Wesson 686 from the safe and popped open the cylinder to make sure it was loaded.

  “Let’s go.”

  <<>>

  When Rose got off the phone, she was still worried, but felt like things had regained some semblance of control. Claire and her husband were going to check on Jennifer, and she’d asked Rose to call the cops. So she dialed 9-1-1.

  “Austin nine-one-one, please state your emergency.”

  “My friend is in trouble. Her boyfriend hits her, and she sent me a message that said she thought he was going to kill her. And now she isn’t answering her phone or her messages.”

  “A little slower, ma’am. Are you talking about phone messages?”

  “Facebook messages.”

  “Right,” the dispatcher hesitated. “Address?”

  Rose gave her the address … hoped she was getting it right since her memory was addled with holes like Swiss cheese from her decades of drug use. It didn’t matter … the police gave her what felt like a form-letter response.

  “All units are currently busy, but the next available will drive by the apartment.”

  There was no guarantee the police would make it there in time. It didn’t take Rose long to make up her mind; she ran to the Taurus and jammed the address into her GPS.

  <<>>

  Greg and Claire arrived at Paul’s apartment complex and found out that it was gated.

  “We need a code,” he said.

  “Let’s park outside and look for a walk-in gate. Or run in with the next car.”

  “Okay.”

  The closest open spot was a block away. Claire’s instincts told her they should move faster, so they jogged back to the gate.

  Greg had his pistol in a messenger bag resting on his hip, and he tried to keep it from bouncing as they ran. He had a permit to carry a concealed firearm; however, he’d left his shoulder holster at the house in his range bag. His Ruger L-C-P, a smaller weapon than the Smith, was what he favored for concealment, but he’d made the split-second decision before they
left that he’d want more stopping power. The Smith was loaded up with .357 rounds.

  You could never be too prepared.

  A car moved through the gate as they approached. Greg figured he could scale the six-foot fencing, but he wasn’t sure about Claire, so they sprinted inside as the other vehicle moved away. The driver didn’t seem to notice.

  “What number is the apartment?” he asked.

  “Twenty-three,” she replied.

  He looked left then right.

  “This way,” he said. They were whispering, which was probably unnecessary, but something they both instinctively did.

  They conferred quickly at the door.

  “Should we knock?” she asked.

  “What if he doesn’t open the door?”

  “I’d say he probably isn’t going to open the door, especially not to us, no matter what we do,” she replied.

  “Then knocking’s a waste of time,” he said. He walked over and gently tried the knob. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. He placed his hands against the middle of the door to gauge its strength. There was a large bay window, as well. Neither of them could see beyond the curtains.

  “Door feels solid. Not sure I can break it down.”

  Claire looked around, saw a giant rock in the flowerbed by the patio, and hefted it in her hands. “I’ll use this on the doorknob—”

  “Hey, no freakin’ way,” Greg’s urgent whisper cut her off. He dropped down and dug his fingertips into the dirt where the rock had lain. When they came up from the soil, there was a key between them.

  Mentally crossing his fingers, he walked over and placed the tip of the key against the lock. It slid in easily. He grabbed the knob, turned, and pushed the door open. Looking around for any sign of movement, Greg withdrew his 686 and moved forward a few steps, beyond the foyer.

  Lights were on all over the place and ESPN played quietly on the television. In one direction he saw a bar. One end was loaded with the accouterments to mix drinks. In the center, there was a glass with the remnants of ice in it. Beads of condensation were visible on the sides … it hadn’t been there long.

  Glancing back, he saw that Claire was coming in close behind him. At some point she’d gotten rid of the rock. He reached into his jeans and gave her his pocketknife. It was used frequently to tighten light switch covers, open bags of mulch, and perform last-minute fixes at properties. It was never meant for protection.

  But they didn’t know what they were going to find. Claire understood and held that buck knife at the ready, knuckles white, face deadly serious.

  As the adrenaline surged through Greg’s body, he had the most bizarre urge to laugh. Or scream. He and his wife were armed and raiding someone’s upscale apartment, plush with 1960s drink-mixing station.

  They reached what seemed to be the nexus of the dwelling. The living area was behind them—to his left were the kitchen and laundry rooms—and, in front of him, a hallway with three closed doors.

  Light puddled underneath the door at the end. Greg could hear someone talking, and he and Claire shared a look.

  “And, my guess is you won’t tell anyone what happened here today, right? Our secret.”

  They moved forward to the door, and stopped.

  “I just don’t think that’s going to happen, Jennifer,” came through the door, followed by a wet, pounding crunch.

  The hair on Greg’s neck came to attention; he checked his pistol one last time, then pushed the door open.

  It was insanity.

  Paul’s broad back was to the door. On the bed in front of him, bound, mouth taped shut, a bloody tangle of flesh where there should have been a nose: Jennifer. The shock hit Greg like a gale force wind; he was momentarily unsteady on his feet and felt like he might fall over backwards from the force of the scene.

  He could see urine spreading out on Jennifer’s jeans … she’d soiled herself recently, though she lay unmoving. Fury finally replaced his impotence, he gritted his teeth, and raised his revolver. Claire screamed something behind him, but he didn’t register the words; her tone was one of surprised rage.

  In slow motion, Paul turned, saw him, and charged.

  Greg went into a modified weaver stance and pulled the trigger. The courses he’d taken to get his license, and the hours on the range, paid off when the muscle memory took over.

  Paul’s body jerked as the bullet tore into him, and he lost his forward momentum. He dropped to his knees in front of Greg and stared disbelievingly up at him for a moment. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, showing whites, and his body collapsed to the floor. Blood seeped from the hole in the upper left side of his chest, just below the clavicle. Greg kept his pistol trained on Paul’s body.

  “Claire!” he called, but she was already moving, pulling at the gray tape covering Jennie’s mouth. Strands of blood and saliva made it difficult to get a purchase with her fingers, but she finally worked it off.

  “You’re okay now, baby,” she whispered to Jennifer, moving to the nylon straps on her hands and feet. Greg put three fingers on Jennifer’s neck.

  “Pulse is strong,” he told Claire. He watched Paul, who remained motionless, probably unconscious, on the floor. It crossed his mind that maybe he should shoot him again, double-tap, but he just wasn’t wired that way. If Paul didn’t die, they’d find justice through the law. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 9-1-1.

  “Austin nine-one-one, please state your emergency.”

  “We need an ambulance, right away, please, our friend is in bad shape,” he started. “And the police … I … I shot someone.”

  Chapter 34

  The Donahues

  Susan took the rest of the week off from work and drove from Austin to San Antonio each day to see Jason. Even though it was seventy-five minutes each way, it was an easy route—just a straight shot on I-35. She took advantage of the downtime and listened to audio books she’d picked up and never gotten around to playing.

  Danny went to school, unaware that his mom was leaving town every day instead of going to work. It was a solution that she and Jason thought worked well. They didn’t want to worry him, and he’d find out soon enough … there was a surprise ending in store for Danny.

  Dr. Reynolds was good enough to give her the entire week off. Paid! When Susan thought about his kindness, she found herself speechless … he was definitely cut from a different cloth. She hoped to pay him back somehow one day, when everything was back to normal.

  It wasn’t hard for her to adjust to her new routine. Each day at Wilford Hall started in a similar way.

  “Hey, babe,” Jason would say.

  “Hey.” Susan would cross the room and climb into his arms and hug him like she hadn’t seen him for years, but gently. The crying was over and smiles were the new status quo.

  It had taken a few days to convince him that his new facial scars didn’t bother her.

  “How on Earth could I be bothered by you defending freedom?” she had asked him. “Not only does it not look bad, it’s going to to remind me every day of how bad ass my husband is.”

  He’d laughed at that, pleased inside because he knew it was true: she loved her Marine.

  They talked about the house and work and Danny—about life—in between doctor visits, the occasional test, and bad hospital food.

  All in all, they knew Jason had been lucky. Scarring covered most of the left side of his body, and part of his ear was missing, but his body functioned nearly flawlessly—an amazing feat, considering the blast was almost directly underneath him.

  Best of all, he was going to be released that Friday to return home.

  “So, I’ve been thinking…”

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  “Why don’t we go to Danny’s school … surprise him on Friday.”

  “You think he’d like that?” Jason looked thoughtful. He was inclined to keep things low key regarding his return. Susan would have mentioned it as one of the things she admired about him, how humble h
e was about his heroism. Or that he would have said he wasn’t a hero. But she knew him, and knew how to maneuver around his natural objections.

  “He would love it … having his dad come to school, in uniform? His buddies would think he was the coolest kid around.”

  Jason rubbed his chin, the thick bristle making a soft chhh-chhh-chhh sound under his fingers.

  “Okay,” he smiled. “As long as you’re there, too, right next to me.” He had also learned a trick or two about her, and he figured keeping Susan close would help save him from being in the spotlight.

  “Deal,” she told him and returned the smile.

  There was a knock at the door, and Jason called out: “Clear!” They were both surprised when General Shapland poked his head into the room.

  “Sergeant Donahue!” he said, his voice a strange combination of brusque and chipper. Curt and happy. “Mrs. Donahue,” he added and tipped his head toward her.

  “Sir,” Jason said, trying to sit up in his bed. “Good to see you, and thanks for helping Susan.”

  Shapland shook Jason’s hand, and his eyes crinkled in good humor. “Not sure I had an option, son. Your wife doesn’t do well with taking no for an answer.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jason nodded his head and smiled.

  “Flying over to Camp Pendleton and Miramar to observe some training. Rub elbows with my boss’s boss. Thought I’d stop by and check in on you. Are the Zoomies treating you okay?”

  Susan knew some of the old timers called the Air Force guys Zoomies. With some effort she stopped herself from smiling.

  “They’re treating me good, General. Docs are friendly. Everything’s great. Well, almost … the chow is worse than field rations.”

  “Hospital food is universally bad, Staff Sergeant,” he said. “But now that you mention it, I recall my son saying the same thing when he was here.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “Ma’am … no issues, problems?”

  “No, sir. Like Jason said, I just want to say thanks again for taking care of us. Jason is getting great care … and we have a VA hospital nearby for the PTSD counseling. Oh, and since he’ll be home Friday, we’re going to surprise our son at school. We haven’t told him about…” she waved her hands around, indicating the hospital and situation.