Dan did have a slight paunch gathering around his waist. Some heft. A bit of a girth. He actually liked himself better with it. That middle age spread. Even though he hated the thought of being middle aged. Just turning thirty six, Dan didn’t really consider himself old yet but, according to his insurance company, he was. Dan needed a shave. He’d feel a hell of a lot better with a shower and a toothbrush. A little breakfast wouldn’t hurt either. Maybe stop thinking for a second. Cease the incessant tape looping around in his brain like a manic pinball machine.
He fantasized about walking up those steps and turning the doorknob to the cottage and entering into the smell of breakfast cooking on the stove. Alexandra would jump up into his arms, all slobbery and wet, screaming, “Daddy, Daddy!” And Dan would tell her how adorable she was, and did she happen to look into the mirror this morning and see who the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world was? Then, he would saunter over to the stove and give Gina a gentle pinch on the ass. She hated that, but he would do it anyway. Just to provoke her. Then Gina would tell him to sit down. She would insist Dan wash his hands from all that crime he’d been dealing with. She would plop down on to his plate two over medium eggs beside a patch of well done, crispy bacon. Extra crispy, just the way he liked it. Gina made a fantastic breakfast.
“I already washed my hands,” Dan would tell her, but of course, he hadn’t.
In real life, the front door did open. Alexandra came barreling out from the house, Gina running fast behind her. She scooped up Alexandra into her arms, not an easy feat for a five year old, and together they laughed and giggled and hugged. He could almost hear them. He imagined he could, anyway. Gina was an excellent mother. That much he gave her. She was probably an exceptional wife, too. How would he know?
He looked up at the house with its large gray porch, whitewashed wooden railing and hunter green crooked shutters. He lived in squalor so his daughter could have a nice place to grow up. Personally, he felt the Isle of Palms was an ideal spot to raise a child. Lots of sunshine. Fresh ocean air. Good schools. Progressive, they were told, when they were out shopping, scouting for options. Gina picked the school herself. All on her own, which was unusual. Gina tended to be the dependent type, needing a lot of attention.
Alexandra was busy with her coloring book, lying on her belly, legs dangling, completely absorbed. Gina looked out over the porch railing. She cleared a wisp of dark hair from her eyes allowing some midday sun to kiss her face. Tall and tan, Gina was an attractive woman. She had legs that seemed to go on forever and the sexiest, tiniest ankles. Dan happened to love ankles. She looked down at Alexandra, made some comment about her coloring talent, and then back up again. Casually, Gina looked in Dan’s direction, instantly recognizing his car.
Damn!
Gina pulled her sunglasses down from off her forehead. She zoomed in and took a closer look, identifying Dan sitting in his shitty, run down car.
He turned the ignition over. He wouldn’t want to mess up Alexandra’s schedule. As he passed by the house, he noticed her holding onto her picture, waving it for Gina to look at. Dan fantasized her showing it to him. He would be over-the-top with his compliments. He would let her know what a talented artist she was, what a terrific young lady she was becoming and all that he was missing.
He turned right onto Palms Boulevard toward Mount Pleasant and on into Charleston. A killer was on the loose.
Somebody might actually need him.
Friday
12:43 PM
18
Susan knew immediately. What could possibly be said about somebody who’d lived their entire life for somebody else, been beside them, with them, for so many years? There’s an intuitive understanding. A sixth sense. An incredible familiarity. It brought a smile across Susan’s face. Her eyes became soft and ageless. Even now, in her painful state, she got it. Harry was at his best while he was working. Perhaps it gave her faith. Some confidence surrounding her own life that it wasn’t yet reaching its dramatic conclusion. Life went on. People got up, went to work, had families… survived.
Who really knew what Susan was thinking?
Nancy, their daughter, sat uncomfortably on a wooden chair beside Susan’s bed, unsuspecting of anything. She massaged Keri lotion onto Susan’s hands.
“Harry?” Susan’s voice was pregnant with intrigue.
Nancy looked up, then back to her mother. Her brown ponytail flip-flopped in the air with each over reactive move. “What?”
“There’s a problem in Charleston. They found a body. A young girl, thirteen years old. Another one is in Intensive Care.”
Susan shook her head and reached up for Harry. “Come here, you.”
Harry walked over to the bed and leaned toward her. He could smell the lotion. He could feel Susan’s skinny arms fumbling to reach around his wide back. “What’s the world coming to?”
Harry heard himself say, almost mechanically, “I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.”
“Sometimes, Harry, I think I’m better off.”
Harry pulled Susan’s frail body close. He could feel her rib cage, the pure exertion it took for her to hold on. He caught Nancy’s expression of shock, audibly digesting the information he’d just announced. It was obviously giving her horrendous indigestion.
“Don’t tell me you have to go to Charleston!” Nancy interrupted. An aggressive tone was building in her voice, gathering momentum, a storm about to break. “I’m sure the FBI has other people they can send. Right?”
Instead of a long, elaborate explanation, Harry went for few words. Clarity. “I have to go.”
“What do you mean, you have to go? What about Mom?”
Susan took hold of Nancy’s hand. “It’s okay, dear. I’ve been through this a thousand times…”
“I know, but…”
“It’s his job. He loves it.”
Harry chimed in, attempting to make his case stronger. “A friend of mine called. From Columbia. I worked with him before…”
“Excuse me, but I think this situation needs a little of your attention for the time being.” Nancy stood up from her chair. She moved to the window. Her body language was closed and protective. Sunlight danced off her face. Small crow’s feet gathered around her eyes as she squinted into her reflection. Even Nancy, their little girl, was not immune to the assault of age or time. She tightened her arms above her waist. “What’s going to happen when you retire? I mean…”
Harry sat down beside Susan. The mattress sighed. “Charleston isn’t that far, Nancy. If you need me, I can get back here in four or five hours. Quicker if I fly. I’ve already discussed it with your Mother’s doctors.”
“Dad…” Nancy faced Harry, interrupting his explanation. She could care less. Her expression was tense. Hard. “You should hear yourself, what you’re saying. Mom needs you. What do you mean, four or five hours? We might only have four or five minutes…” She covered her mouth with her hand, controlling her rage.
“Nancy, stop this.” Harry stood. “Enough is enough.”
“… you really can’t go through with this. Not now, Daddy.”
“Will both of you please stop talking as if I’m not even in the same damn room.” Susan grabbed Harry’s arm. She gave a slight tug, as much as she could.
Harry wasn’t making much progress. It was evident staying with Susan meant being here for Nancy as well. Harry couldn’t blame her. Her Mother was dying. The first death the family had had to deal with, witness, absorb. It was a shock and extremely difficult. For all of them. Witnessing mortality and getting in touch with their own.
Until now, all Nancy had experienced was overtures. Life and birth and celebration. To be called upon so prematurely to watch the woman who gave her life, and who resembled her physically in so many wonderful ways, march headlong into death must be excruciatingly painful and overwhelming. No words could describe Nancy’s pain right now. Not even his. And in Harry’s career, witnessing death act itself out in so many dissimilar wa
ys, at so many diverse levels, one would think it would never get under one’s skin. Not the way it used to when Harry was younger. But he was mistaken. When death hits home, it changes everything.
Perhaps Nancy read his mind. Her chin quivered in that special way it used to when she was a child, holding back tears. Not wanting Harry to notice, she cast her eyes down onto the bleached white sheets.
“It’s okay, Nancy. Really. I’m going to be fine. For a while.” Susan tried in vain to comfort her.
Silence.
Horrible, horrible silence.
Harry tried cutting the ribbon of tension holding the room hostage. “Hey, where are my two favorite grandchildren?” He clapped his hands together. It startled Nancy. She jumped slightly then returned to the window.
“With Thomas. Getting ice cream. They should be back any minute.” She stared blankly out the window before ambling back to the chair and sitting down. Her body language was far from open. Far from this hospital room. She too, longed to escape this place, this process, this unfortunate reality.
Harry opened a pack of lemon glycerin swabs from the bedside table. He dabbed one of them lightly over Susan’s dry, cracked lips.
“Do you want some water, or some juice, honey?” He asked.
Susan mouthed “no.” It had become painful to swallow. The cancer had metastasized to her throat. Cancer. The deadliest serial killer of them all. Susan’s arm looked like a purple pin cushion, bruised and pricked from nurses sticking needles into her every two hours. Recently, the doctor had installed a morphine shunt into her sternum. She was sore for a while, but the “as needed” morphine could be administered much easier. “A losing battle,” the doctors had said. Surgery was not an option.
Harry rubbed Susan’s pale forehead. Her skin was translucent. Spidery veins ran haywire then disappeared into her slight hairline. He reached out for Nancy’s arm. She changed her position in her chair and pulled away.
“When do you leave?” Susan’s voice, paper-thin, whispered in Harry’s ear. He could still hear her. Susan’s distinctive tone. He regressed. He remembered her yelling out for dinner. Standing on the front porch, years before, when the kids were still young and in school. She would get so damn angry if they weren’t at the table when they were supposed to be. Back then, when she was strong, her voice carried. The whole neighborhood could hear her reveille. Every night at six o’clock sharp. Right after the news.
Harry looked at his watch.
“Are you kidding?” Nancy made no bones about her unhappiness. She kept pushing, challenging, and provoking Harry. Subtle gestures took on enormous attitude. The rolling of the eyes. The way she defiantly shook her head. Exaggerated sighs. Stubborn qualities she unfortunately inherited from Harry.
“They’ve established a task force.” Harry tried sounding convincing. On a mission. “They’re afraid he’ll hit again.” Harry felt like a teenager, persuading his parents for the keys to the car. I promise. I’ll be home early…
Nancy wasn’t interested. She could care less about a task force or even a serial killer for that matter. Her Mother was dying and she was pissed off. “Can you at least wait until the girls get back?”
“Of course.” Harry understood. He was pissed off, too. He reached for Nancy’s arm. “Of course, I can.”
Time passed. The sun shifted its position in Susan’s private room. Warm spots moved like water bugs across the wall and ceiling and bed. Harry held onto Susan’s cool hand as she quietly slept. Eventually, he held Nancy. And later, before the girls arrived with sticky hands from chocolate ice cream, Nancy softened and allowed herself to cry. An explosion of pent up emotion, pain, sadness and grief.
Another wonderful quality she’d inherited from… Susan.
Friday
3:32 PM
MUSC
Charleston, South Carolina
19
She heard voices.
Beside her.
Familiar and comforting.
Blood pulsed through her thick body, keeping a steady, slow cadence. The solid sound of beeps was nearby, next to her head.
Where was she?
Her eyelids felt heavy, weighted down. Fat. She tried conjuring up an image. Miniature dumbbells attached like false eyelashes. But the logic wouldn’t allow her to connect any. Her wiring had been shorted out. Her fuses were blown. But those voices…they continued…
Please, keep talking. Please…don’t let me go…
* * *
For fifteen minutes, he’d been watching the door, left open earlier by that cute, attractive female nurse. She’d come in to change Angie’s IV, check her heart rate and blood pressure. Everything was fancy now. State-of-the-art. A computer screen told them what they needed to know. What they needed to do. Wires and gadgets were hooked up all over Angie’s body. It sent information to the nurse’s station remotely, within seconds. Not like in the old days when nurses would wake you up every couple of hours just to see if you were alive! That nurse was a cute thing, though. He had always been a sucker for a uniform. Fantasy. Yeah, pure fantasy. She scurried in and checked Angie’s monitor, recorded a few things in her chart and left, back to the activity and commotion of the hallway.
Meanwhile, there was no activity in this room. No movement at all. Nothing. They kept waiting for Angie to move, wink, cough, or blink. Anything. Hell, they would be happy if she farted, for God’s sake. Absolutely ecstatic. But she hadn’t. She just lay there. Asleep. And each time he considered getting up to leave, he changed his mind. Instead, he would readjust his ass on that damn uncomfortable hospital chair and look at Sarah, his wife. Call it guilt, he guessed. He tapped the box of his Marlboros in his front shirt pocket with his index finger. He kept time with the beeps. Finally, he’d had enough. “I’m going down to the cafeteria, Sarah. You want anything?”
“What?” Oh, the look on Sarah’s face. Like he just committed manslaughter or something worse. “I can’t believe you’re leaving. What if Angie comes to? What if our precious little Angie wakes up and you’re not here? Huh?”
He was half-tempted to just shut up and sit his ass back down. Hell, he loved his daughter, too. Besides, Angie would want him to take a little cigarette break. Wasn’t he the one who didn’t rat on his own daughter when he caught her smoking after cheerleading practice with her girlfriends in the garage? “Sarah, I want a cigarette, if that’s okay with you.”
“You are leaving your daughter who is practically…” Sarah whispered, softly, shielding her mouth with her hand, “… comatose…” Then louder, with conviction “… to have a damn cigarette. You should be ashamed of yourself, Donald Kessler. Shame on you!”
“Keep your voice down, Sarah. There’s no need for that kind of talk. We’ve both been here all night. Remember? I was here, too, you know. You need a break, yourself.”
“Never. I don’t even believe you. Leaving your daughter to have a cigarette! That just burns me up.” She turned back to Angie and shook her head. That little action really pissed him off. Then, to make matters even worse, she started talking to Angie. “Your Father is leaving to go have a cigarette, dear.”
That was it! He’d had enough. “Sarah, may I please have a word with you out in the hallway?”
“Absolutely not. I am not leaving my baby. Not for one red second.” She tugged at her knit sweater, securing it around her waist. He could see tears forming in the corner of her eyes. He could shoot himself for getting her so riled up. Him and his damn smoking anyway. He should have quit years ago. He put his hand on her shoulder, but she pulled away.
“I’m sorry, Sarah.” He bent down to kiss her, tenderly on the cheek. “I’m really sorry. I’m a jackass. You hear me, Angie?”
He had never seen such pain in Sarah’s eyes. Ever. “What did we ever do to deserve this, Donald? Can you answer me that? Can you?”
Sarah leaned up and touched Angie’s forehead. A small patch of skin was left exposed between her eyebrows. The rest of her head had been wrapped with ste
rile gauze and tape.
“I don’t know, honey. But, we need to take a little break.” He attempted to check his watch. He could not believe it. “We’ve been sitting here for almost sixteen hours.”
Sarah looked at him, her brown eyes red and swollen. It appeared as if she’d aged ten years in one night. “Go ahead. I’m sorry, hon.” She took his face in her hands and pulled him close. “You’re a good man, Donald. I’m sorry. This is just so difficult…”
Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1) Page 14