by J. E. Neiman
Susan wanted to choke the man but snorted instead.
Sheriff Kruger chuckled. "Now, calm down, missy. I'll give him a call and tell him to stay off your property. Okay?"
Susan's face flooded with color. "This is not a laughing matter and my name's not Missy. I'm not excited . . . I'm freaking terrified. Gilbert crippled one of my daughters for life."
"It was a car accident. Gilbert didn't mean . . ."
"You're forgetting something. I was there. The bastard aimed his car at us and drove us off the road. He was found guilty of attempted manslaughter." Susan now shouted into the phone, "You tell him if he comes on my property again, I'll shoot his balls off."
Chapter 8
Denver, Colorado
Viewing Pauly's remains compelled Allie to wonder if she had become a forerunner for violence and death. A strong sense of guilt washed over her and she wanted to scrub it away.
After taking a long shower, she looked at the clothes she'd worn at the crime scene. She wished she could burn them. Instead, she shoved them into a plastic sack and tossed it down the trash chute, telling herself that she was doing her best with the life she'd chosen.
Now she paced the floor of her sixth floor apartment and gazed out the glass terrace door at brilliant streaks of color in the sunset behind the Rocky Mountains. To the north, headlights of rush hour traffic crawled on Denver's freeways.
She started to pick up the phone to call Dan, forgetting for a moment that they were no longer a couple. She missed him.
The last time they were together, they'd found Allie's company car spray painted with hostile words and phrases. "Burn the Witch," "Go to Hell," and "Die" to name a few.
"Allie," Dan had said. "This has to stop. You've made many enemies. Not only the criminals but also you embarrass cops and detectives. You'll end up in the morgue one of these days." He clenched his fists at his side.
"Embarrass?" She raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me. Maybe if law enforcement did their jobs, it wouldn't be an issue." She tried to wipe some of the words off the car with the palm of her hand. It was a futile attempt. "And this happened right in front of the FBI building, for God's sake." Allie pulled a digital camera from her briefcase and snapped pictures of the graffiti on her car.
Dan shook his head as he circled the vehicle parked on the street. "You don't get it, do you? You're a threat."
"Good. That's what I want to be, a threat to the bad guys and maybe an incentive to the detectives." She unlocked the door and crawled inside. "I'm going home."
"Allie." Dan's voice became composed and low. "It's not just your car. You've even been shot at." He paused. "You need to cut back on cases and stay away from the press."
She started her car engine and leaned out the window. "I don't think you get it, Dan Foley. We're both FBI agents. Danger and threats are inherent in our line of work. I wouldn't ask you to cut back." Allie buckled her seat belt. "Don't patronize me or insult me." She roared off, watching him disappear in her rear view mirror.
Her cell phone rang. "Leave me alone Dan." No one answered. She glanced at the caller I.D. Unknown. Listening closely she heard Toby Keith singing in the background, "There's things here the devil wouldn't do . . ."
Chapter 9
1875-Near Ft. Wicked, Colorado Territory
The air had become thick with smoke from our burning wagon. I had to find Mama before the last minutes of twilight slid away. Joey still held his rifle. I begged his forgiveness and lifted the gun from his dead hands. I untied the cord that held a leather pouch to his waist, removed it, and retied it under my apron band.
I squinted at the fiery scene. Something near the far end of the wagon caught my eye. It was the buckle from one of Mama's shoes. I dropped the gun and crawled beneath the smoke to where she lay sprawled in the dirt. Her raised dress revealed her pregnant belly and her privates. Dried blood trails lay at the corners of her mouth and nose. A bullet hole was in the middle of her forehead.
"Mama. Oh Mama," I whimpered. I held one of her limp hands to my cheek. "You should have trusted me when I told you this was an evil place."
It was useless, but I pressed my ear to her chest then down to her bloody belly, praying for a heartbeat. There was none. She and the unborn child were dead.
I smoothed my mama’s skirts down to cover her, grabbed her arms and pulled her away from the fiery wagon. I managed to drag her between my brothers' lifeless bodies.
Coughing from the thick smoke, I hurried to my grandma. Blood seeped from her privates. I kissed her forehead and stroked her white hair. It was as soft as satin, feeling alive--not dead.
Grandma had agreed with me that we should not camp in this spot. But Mama didn't trust intuition and she wouldn't listen to either of us.
I dragged my grandma next to the others. Then I covered all four of their faces with Ben's quilt. I held my head in blood covered hands and wept. My lungs burned, my heart ached.
The wind shifted, and the flames caught the prairie nearby. The fire seemed to explode.
"Go ahead," I screamed. "Burn me to death."
Chapter 10
Breckenridge, Colorado
Even though it was chilly in Eagle’s Nest mansion, Jake didn't bother to turn up the heat. He laced his fingers behind his head together and cracked his knuckles. As he settled down into the leather sofa, he thought about the piece of white trash he'd picked up in Denver. What did she expect? A free ride? No one gets anything for nothing. She should have learned that long ago.
When Jake was her age, he worked on Mr. Packman's chicken farm. Every day after school, he cleaned hundreds of chicken cages by crawling inside the filthy contraptions and scraping shit from the wire sides. He earned a pittance for the chore. The only way he made a decent amount of money was to let Packman have his way with him. It made him ill to think about either one of the jobs. He remembered the third time he'd tried to tell his dad.
"You've an evil mind to think such things about Mr. Packman. He's a fine Christian. Generous with the church." Reverend Tansey shook his head at Jake. "He only gave you a job because you're my son. Get down on your knees boy. We'll pray the Lord will forgive you."
Jake ran out of the room.
His dad stomped up the stairs, snappy his leather belt in his hands. "Jacob Tansey," he shouted, "may the Lord have mercy on your soul."
His mother cried out from a closed bedroom door, "Reverend, don't beat the boy. Oh, dear God. Our Father who art in heaven . . . ," her voice trailed off in prayer.
But Jake didn't dare enter her room. The reverend wouldn't hesitate to whip her either.
He stopped, turned to glare at his father's reddened face and threw his hands out in front of him, ramming his palms against the man's chest. "You ever touch me again, you're dead."
Reverend Tansey collapsed to the floor and screamed, "You'll rot in hell. You're not my son. You're a son of the Devil."
"And you're a stupid old man who preys on the weak. You're a quack. A swindler. A charlatan." Jake marched into his bedroom, slammed the door and put on his Walkman.
* * *
In the Eagles Nest's master bedroom, Molly wrenched in agony struggling to sit up. The room spun as she inched her body toward the edge of the bed. Moonlight created forbidding shadows around her. She put one foot down on a white, fluffy rug. “God, help me . . . ," she murmured.
Chapter 11
Red Willow, Nebraska
After Susan finished walking her little dog Callie, she glanced at her watch. 6 pm. It was time to leave for the Red Willow Hospital where she worked part-time as a nurse. She hurried to her red jeep parked in front of the house.
Two large crows swooped down in front of her as she drove out of the ranch. She did a fast count of the Angus cattle in the north pasture as she passed. The herd was intact. Rain hit the windshield and the sweet, fresh smell mixed with the livestock odor. She tapped her thumbs to the beat of the wipers.
When she reached the county road, she stopped. She felt the
presence of Gilbert even though there was no one in sight. Susan thought of Sheriff Krueger's condescending attitude when she had called him earlier that day. How dare Krueger insinuate that Gilbert had not tried to kill her and her daughters. After all, he'd been arrested, tried and convicted of attempted manslaughter. Thankfully, Charlie, her ranch manager, would be back on the premises in the morning. And, she would make sure the shotgun was loaded with buckshot when she got home tonight.
Susan turned into the staff's dirt parking lot at the Red Willow Medical Clinic. She pulled into her designated space and listened to Jimmy Buffett’s, "One Particular Harbor." Nebraska was far away from any ocean but Buffett's songs about the sea filled the empty space she felt when she was not flying or working the ranch.
She turned off the engine, sat motionless and noted the ticking sounds of the engine as it cooled. By the time the patient charts were completed, she would be lucky to get home before one in the morning. Her three shifts a week helped pay some of the ranch expenses as falling beef prices did not meet rising feed costs, let alone pay salaries for the hired help.
Susan opened the car door, reached into the back seat for her tote bag, then stepped down onto the wet ground. Cautiously, she maneuvered up the steps with her crutch. Byron, the maintenance man, threw open the door just as she reached it.
“What’s going on?" Susan touched his shoulder. "You okay?”
In his early forties, Byron Matthews had been diagnosed as a complex autistic savant. He worked hard to be an integral member of the clinic's team and knew the lyrics to nearly every rock song published in the eighties and nineties.
"Sus . . . an. Be . . . careful. There's a witch . . ."
"A witch? I don't think so. Let’s go inside. It's raining out here."
“Nurse . . . told me . . . woman screaming gonna get me." Byron pulled away from Susan. His big hands dangled at his sides and his large eyes were so blue they seemed stolen from a bag of marbles. Six-foot tall and stocky, he was soft and puffy like a Pillsbury doughboy.
Susan stepped inside the clinic and held the door open. “Byron, do you trust me?”
"Yeah." He moved to where she stood. "You good to me."
She smiled. "Okay, come inside. I'll buy you a cola."
"I . . . I can't. Nurse told me I can’t drink on the job."
Nurse Greta Reinhardt's cruelness to Byron broke Susan's heart, although the woman was malicious to nearly everyone except the doctors. "Byron, she's going home soon. You can have a soda. Don't worry."
Susan stuffed her backpack into her locker, grabbed a few coins and bought Byron a cola from the vending machine. "Please, sit down." She sat beside him and placed a hand under his chin. "Look at me. You're safe now. Got it?"
He sloshed his drink around in the can. "Okay, but I’m still scared."
Susan pulled her dark-blonde hair into a ponytail, securing it with a rubber band. She heard Byron muttering something about and not taking it anymore as she walked to the workstation. She recognized the words to ABBA's "Burning Bridges."
A woman wearing an old-fashioned, white nurse's hat wrote in an open chart as she stood at the counter. Slightly plump, and like most women in the area, she wore a tightly permed helmet of hair.
"Hi. How’s it going tonight?"
Reinhardt, or No-Heart, as she was called behind her back, didn’t respond.
A scream came from room number ten. Susan closed her eyes and grimaced. An image of Mrs. Watkins lying at the bottom of concrete stairs came into her mind. The next flash revealed a naked girl running down a snow-covered hill, bleeding. The name Molly seemed to echo in a cold wind. Susan knew the two images were not connected.
"Wake up, gimpy," Nurse Reinhardt scoffed. "That's old lady Watkins yelling down there."
Susan could feel the tips of her ears turn pink, but did not respond. Reinhardt tried to control people by finding a weak point in their personality or physical stature. She’d assault that fragile spot, like picking off scabs before the skin underneath had healed. Susan had lived with her disabilities since the age of five, so Reinhardt's stabs usually flew past her. "Is she the only patient tonight?"
"Everything's in the charts," Reinhardt said. "Her smelly husband's in there too. Oh, Dr. Stanton has Mildred Fatcow coming in to have her fifth or sixth baby tonight."
"It's Patchow and you know it."
Reinhardt feigned a smile. "You're so sweet. Makes me want to puke." Reinhardt threw her olive-green coat over her shoulders and imitated Susan's limp as she walked down the hall.
"Wish I had a trip wire for that old bitch," Susan whispered. She recited a family saying, "If wishes and buts were candy and nuts, it'd be Christmas all year long." It made her grin.
Susan heard Dr. Stanton's adenoidal breathing before she saw him. She glanced up to see the tall man with wavy mouse-brown hair amble over to her. He once told Susan that he was passive by nature and had chosen Red Willow's hospital to get away from conflict. But he'd found that antagonism existed even in this small Nebraska community.
His thick glasses slipped down his nose. "Susan, glad you're on duty tonight." He paused. "I heard Reinhardt."
Any disagreement caused the man to breath heavier. Susan felt that the doctor might not be far from being a patient.
Dr. Stanton looked toward the front door where Reinhardt had disappeared. "Wish we had more nurses to choose from in this area. You okay?"
"I'm fine. But I am worried about Byron. Reinhardt told him that the screams are coming from a witch. He's afraid to finish his work."
"Oh God." He waved one hand, as if hoping to pluck just the right words from the air. "I'll tell him that Mrs. Watkins is in lots of pain. Could you get her vitals?"
"Of course. But Dr. Stanton, I saw an image of Viola Watkins lying at the bottom of basement stairs. Is that what happened?"
"Mr. Watkins said he didn't know what was wrong with her." The doctor sighed. "I'll call the Sheriff. Wouldn't be the first time the woman's been abused."
As Dr. Stanton picked up the phone, Mr. Watkins shuffled toward them with his wife's limp body in his arms. "She's dead," he said.
Dr. Stanton and Susan took Viola’s limp body from Mr. Watkins and laid it onto the floor.
“Watkins, go to the lobby now.” Dr. Stanton ordered, as he flipped the code blue alarm. The man shuffled away.
The doctor and nurse worked to resuscitate Viola. Fifteen minutes later, they knew it was over and declared the time of death. As Susan covered the thin body with a white blanket, Dr. Stanton picked up the phone to call the mortician.
Jody Higgins, an LPN, stepped into the room. Her clothing and hair reeked from cigarette smoke. "Sorry, didn't hear the alarm. I was outside on break." Jody glanced at the covered body and frowned. "Uh . . . Mildred Patchow's here. The baby’s coming."
"Susan help me lift Viola into room ten," the doctor said in a raspy voice. "Jody, go to the delivery room and start preparing Mildred. The Sheriff and the mortician will be here soon.”
Three hours later the clinic was quiet. Since they didn't have a morgue, Viola's body remained in a hospital room waiting transfer to the medical examiner's office in Omaha. Dr. Stanton rested in room nine and Mildred Patchow held her seventh son, in room eight. The five-bed facility was near capacity with only two empty rooms.
When Red Willow County opened the clinic twenty years ago, someone had the bright idea to number the rooms from six to ten. Somehow, they believed that this would make the hospital appear larger. If someone asked about it, the standard retort was, "Would you want to be in room number one?"
Helen Whaley, Susan's replacement, rushed down the hall. "Sorry, I'm late. Couldn't get away from horny Les." She threw her jacket on the counter.
Susan grinned at the young nurse. "Could it be vice versa?" She paused and her face reflected the trials of the evening. "This was a difficult shift." A hand went to her forehead. "We lost Viola Watkins tonight. Her husband, Fred, kill—. He's at the police station. The mortici
an will pick Viola up to transport for autopsy.” She handed Helen stacks of paperwork. “ It's all in there."
"Shit. You weren't kidding about a rough shift." Helen opened a file.
Susan stood and rubbed the desk with her hands. She wished she could erase Viola's death. "I can't wait to get out of here."
"Why don't you stay at our house until dawn? It looks stormy out your way."
"Thanks, but I need to get home. Have wranglers coming to the ranch at six to help castrate twenty bulls." She glanced at her watch. "That's five hours from now. Gotta run." She leaned and gave Helen a quick hug. "Have fun."
As she walked out to her car, she gazed at the sky. Lightning bolts illuminated a large anvil shaped cloud in the direction of the ranch. Susan took a deep breath of fresh air, happy to expunge her lungs from the smells of the clinic.
She decided to take the longer way home. The Pole road was better maintained even though it passed Gilbert Martin's place. He'll be in bed, she thought. Still the idea of driving by his house nagged at her. He had repeatedly threatened to kill her before, during and after she had testified at his trial.
"Get a grip, Susan," she mumbled and pushed play on the CD drive. Jimmy Buffet's music filled the SUV and the lyrics were apropos for the lengthy drive home. "Oh, it gets so damn lonely . . . when you're all alone."
She grabbed her cell to call Allie or Maddie. Perhaps one of her daughters could visualize if she was, in fact, in danger. Susan sometimes had difficulty doing readings on herself or her family. She glanced at the clock. It's too late to call either one of them, she thought.
Susan pulled a can of pepper spray out of her tote. "If you're waiting for me Gilbert Martin, I'll put up one hell of a fight with this and my crutch."
Chapter 12