Live and Let Die

by Bianca Sloane

The only black mark was when he’d have to pull her back in line. Sometimes she forgot. He’d wonder if he should adjust her dosage, but always decided against it. Give her too little, she’d start to remember, give her too much, she’d be catatonic. He’d just have to supplement the chemistry with his words and actions. What was it they’d called it in the handful of psychology classes he’d taken? Positive reinforcement. It usually worked and everything would settle back down to normal.

  He would do whatever it took to keep his perfect world perfect.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Don Keegan shook his head as he watched the Channel Four news and the exposé of the Tracy Ellis/Carol Henderson debacle. He knew Phillip Pearson was a sick fuck, but he had no idea just how deep it ran.

  Don would forever rue the day he got mixed up with that guy.

  Years ago, he’d been a high-flying psychologist with a thriving private practice, a Lincoln Park mansion, a Porsche in the garage and a bevy of hot blondes on his arm.

  He also had a raging drug addiction, courtesy of a back injury from slipping on pool tiles during a vacation in the Caymans. Physical therapy wasn’t cutting it and surgery made him skittish—hence why he wasn’t a surgeon. He started with Vicodin, moved on to Percocet, before falling prey to Fentanyl. He became desperate in his attempts to secure drugs, going so far as to falsify prescriptions using aliases, multiple addresses and skipping around to different pharmacies in the suburbs and city. He stuck to large pharmacies, where no one was likely to remember his face.

  Except he’d tripped up and gone to Phillip’s pharmacy twice in one week.

  Phillip threatened to turn him in and a terrified Keegan had begged him to keep quiet, swore that he’d get help if Phillip kept his secret. Phillip agreed, but promised he’d be calling on him for a favor one day. A desperate Keegan had agreed to the terms before he checked himself into rehab the next day.

  Rehab had been a grueling exercise that alternated between humiliation and torture. By the time he was done, his life was in a shambles. He’d been away from his practice too long, resulting in lost patients, lost income, and lost reputation. Patients who’d caught a whiff of his troubles started to sue, claiming a hopped-up shrink was unfit to provide competent medical care. The lawsuits had grown to impressive levels and time he could have spent rebuilding his practice was lost to long sessions with his attorneys trying to settle the damn things. The Lincoln Park mansion fell into foreclosure and the Porsche was repossessed. He’d barely escaped homelessness by convincing one of his old bedmates to let him bunk on her couch for a few months.

  Once he’d made the last settlement, a med school buddy was able to get him a position on staff at a mental hospital in Berwyn of all places. He hated the suburbs. And the work was everything he vowed he’d never get into. It made him long for the days of listening to Gold Coast socialites drone on about their prick lawyer husbands putting them on a shopping allowance and their lover’s demands for more spending money.

  He knew he wouldn’t do it forever. Still, it had gotten him back into treating patients and allowed him to begin rebuilding. He’d even managed to get back into Lincoln Park, even if it was a one bedroom apartment. It was a start.

  The jungle drums had told Phillip where Don had landed and on that cold January night three years ago, he’d made good on his promise to cash in his favor.

  It wasn’t until Don saw the photographs of Tracy Ellis and Carol Henderson splashed across the front page of the newspaper that he’d put two and two together.

  Sick fuck, indeed.

  Don picked up his cell phone from the small glass coffee table in front of him. He twirled it in his hand, his eyes still trained on the TV, which had now moved onto weather. It would be sunny, a high of eighty-five.

  Maybe he could make it rain on Phillip tomorrow.

  Don punched up the Channel Four website on his phone in search of the station’s phone number.

  SIXTY-NINE

  It was late afternoon before Paula’s nausea subsided. Fortunately, dinner that evening was easy—spaghetti with meat sauce, garlic bread and salad. She’d forced herself to be as upbeat as ever for Phillip that evening, even though she felt like dropping to the kitchen floor and staying there all night. She held her breath as her hands squished into the raw beef she would use for the sauce, struggling not to let the smells or cold, wormy texture dislodge her stomach. She managed to stumble through the torture with a smile on her face, not daring to show Phillip her pain.

  It worked, since Phillip had commented how she seemed to be improving in her duties. He’d even kissed her on the forehead and congratulated her on a job well done. Paula had breathed a sigh of relief that she’d passed inspection. She couldn’t take a night in the closet. She was just too worn out. That night, she clutched her pillow against her stomach, feeling comforted as she drifted off to sleep.

  SEVENTY

  “You seem rather chipper this morning.”

  Paula smiled as she placed a cup of coffee in front of Phillip.

  “Oh, I am. It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day outside.”

  Phillip looked over Paula’s shoulder to the kitchen window behind her. “Yes, I guess it is going to be a nice day today.”

  “I think I might shampoo the carpets today. It will be good to do while the roast for tonight’s dinner is cooking.”

  “Well, you know what I always say. Efficiency is the hallmark of a well-run home.”

  Paula placed a stack of steaming pancakes on the table. “Oh, thank you dear. I’m so glad you’re happy.”

  Phillip nodded as he waited for Paula to butter the pancakes before drenching them in maple syrup. She ducked back into the kitchen for a plate of turkey sausage links and patted Phillip on the shoulder. “Eat well, dear.”

  Phillip smiled and bit into a link. “I intend to.”

  Paula busied herself finishing Phillip’s lunch of ham and cheese on wheat, a chocolate chip cookie, and a baggie of six carrot sticks. The trauma of yesterday had passed and she couldn’t remember when she’d felt so good.

  If ever.

  Phillip cleared his throat and Paula whirled around as if she was floating on air, the brown paper bag with Phillip’s lunch in hand. She handed him the bag and picked up the dishes in one fell swoop. She ran over to the closet to extract Phillip’s blue blazer. She turned around to find him holding a glass of water and her vitamins.

  “Open wide, Paula.”

  She stopped and hesitated a moment, debating whether or not to tell him she no longer needed the vitamins. She thought better of it. He wouldn’t like it. Better to let him go on thinking they were still necessary. For now at least. She plastered on a smile.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said as she opened her mouth and took a hearty gulp of water.

  Phillip nodded and set the glass down on the coffee table before he let Paula slip his jacket on for him.

  “Have a good day, dear,” Paula said.

  “You, too,” Phillip said as he gave her a peck on the cheek. “I look forward to seeing what you do with the carpets.”

  Paula chuckled and gave him a wave. She waited until he was out of the driveway before she spit the pills into her palm. She rinsed them down into the garbage disposal and washed her hands before filling a glass with water and gargling to wash the bitterness away.

  She glanced up at the clock on the stove. She should take the meat out to defrost for dinner. She didn’t want to get behind schedule.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  It was almost 11 P.M before the flight finally left JFK. The flights Sondra had taken across the globe while doing her documentaries couldn’t compare with this two hour, nine minute flight, which was turning into the longest of her life. The flight attendants got tired of giving her cups of ice; they finally plunked a plastic bag of it on her tray table. Her fingers were so demolished, at one point she sat on them. But then she couldn’t help herself and was gnawing on them again as they began their final descent. She foun
d the last rental car available in St. Louis and when she finally dropped into the hotel bed, she didn’t know whether to sleep or stay awake.

  She compromised and settled on a few hours of sleep. She was up at seven and was now sitting in her rental car in front of the clinic where Phillip worked. If things had gone how she originally planned, she would have been able to go to his house last night. So it goes. She checked her watch again. It was eight-thirty and the hours on the door said they opened at nine. She took another sip of coffee and sighed. A burgundy Mazda pulled into the parking lot and she sat up, peering closely to see if it might be him. A few minutes passed before the door swung open and a petite black woman dressed in a multicolored pharmacy smock and green scrub pants got out. Sondra blinked several times.

  “Oh, my God. That’s his wife. That’s Paula.” She remembered what Phillip’s letter had said. “I thought he said she was a housewife,” Sondra muttered. Shaking her head, Sondra flung the car door open and ran over to the woman who was getting something out of the trunk.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me,” Sondra called out as she reached the woman.

  “Yes?”

  Sondra held out her hand. “Hi,” she said, slightly out of breath. “I’m Sondra Ellis. Phillip’s sister-in-law. Well, I guess former sister-in-law. He still works here, right?”

  The woman eyed Sondra, skeptical. “Yes, he works here,” she said. “He should be here any minute.”

  “Oh. Oh, good! I’m actually glad we had a chance to talk before he got here. Forgive me if I sound rude, but I thought he said you stayed home?”

  The woman placed her hand on her hip and stared Sondra down. “I’m sorry, but what do you want?”

  “Oh, gosh, Paula, I’m sorry to—”

  The woman cut her off. “Paula? Wait, did you just call me Paula?”

  Sondra frowned. “Yeah?”

  “I’m not Paula. That’s his wife. I’m Camille. I just work for Phillip.”

  Sondra saw the words tumble out of the woman’s mouth, but wasn’t quite able to catch them. “Excuse me?”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “Paula is his wife. Phillip and I just work together.”

  “Oh, my… God, wait, wait a minute.” Sondra groped inside her bag for the picture. “Phillip sent this picture of the two of you to my mother and said you were married.” Sondra held the picture up in front of Camille, an anxious look on her face. Camille took the picture and looked at it a moment before she handed it back to Sondra.

  “Yeah, that’s me. It was taken at our Christmas party last year. Are you sure that’s what he said?”

  Sondra looked back down at the picture clamped between her trembling fingers. “I don’t understand. I know he said—” She glanced back up to see an irritated Camille gazing at her. Sondra gave up, knowing if she tried to explain this whole mess, the woman wouldn’t believe it anyway.

  “You know, I’m mistaken. He never said that.” Sondra dropped the picture back into her bag. “Look, I would appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to him about this. I want to surprise him… kind of a family thing. Please? Don’t say anything?”

  The woman set a hard stare on Sondra for a few seconds before she rolled her eyes and nodded. “Yeah, fine whatever. I gotta get to work.” She pulled a duffel bag out of the trunk, slammed it shut and went to step around Sondra.

  “Oh, um, just one more thing.” Sondra opened up the crumpled piece of paper that she had shoved into the pocket of her jeans before she left New York. “Can you tell me how to get to Red Rose Lane?”

  Camille rolled her eyes again. “Yeah, just go out to Miller Road here, make a right, take that about three miles until you see a sign for The Crossings, where you will make a left. Then make another left at Red Rose Lane. Can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks so much,” she said as she turned back towards the rental car. Sondra slid into the front seat, replaying her encounter with Camille.

  She heard her phone jangle from inside her purse. She dropped her hand inside until her fingers closed around it. It was Cecily.

  “Hi Cecily, I can’t talk right now.”

  “Sondra, listen, it’s important.”

  “If you’re gonna tell me to go to the police—”

  “We got a call from a guy who knows Phillip. A doctor.”

  “What kind of a doctor?”

  “A psychologist. Sondra, listen, I need to let you know what he told us.”

  Sondra gripped the steering wheel. “What?”

  Cicely sighed. “According to this guy Keegan—”

  Sondra’s phone went dead. She groaned and looked at the battery and realized she’d forgotten to charge the phone.

  “Damn,” she muttered and threw the phone onto the passenger seat. She’d have to call Cicely when she got back to the hotel. She sighed again, wondering what to do about Phillip. She checked her watch and bit her bottom lip. Paula. She’d visit with Paula. Maybe she could glean some insight about Phillip. Sondra wrinkled her nose as she started the car. Paula could be the key to all of this.

  Paula.

  Why would Phillip try to pass another woman off as his wife?

  Paula.

  What didn’t he want them to know?

  Paula.

  Carole.

  Camille.

  Tracy.

  Paula.

  Carole.

  Tracy.

  Tracy.

  “Fuck!” Sondra pounded the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

  Tracy had been alive all along.

  “That son of a bitch. He lied and lied. To all of us. He killed Carol and said it was Tracy, he said Camille was Paula and… ugh… dammit.” Sondra slammed her foot on the accelerator, racing to get to her sister. Too late, she realized she had skidded through a red light as she saw the blur of lights and heard the sickening crunch of metal right before she passed out.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  Paula stepped back to admire her work. The white tufts of carpet gleamed and the scent of lilies from the shampoo mixed with the roast cooking in the oven. She smiled as she hauled the steamer back into the laundry room and started humming. She stopped. She’d never done that before. She shook her head and smiled, elated as she realized she didn’t need the vitamins anymore. She wanted to wait a few days before she told Phillip. She knew he only did what he thought was right. She just didn’t need them anymore. Surely, he would be happy to know all his good work had enabled her to feel better than she ever had.

  She still didn’t believe that Cindy Cross woman that one of her vitamins was to keep her from getting pregnant. Paula shook her head. Like she had a medical degree. Paula pulled out her roast to baste it before shoving it back into the oven. She went to the pantry to pull down her ingredients for the peach cobbler they would have for dessert that night. The buzzer on the dryer sounded and Paula loaded her laundry basket with Phillip’s shirts and khakis. She tiptoed across the still-damp carpet to the bedroom and turned the basket over on the bed. She went to grab a handful of hangers out of the closet when she frowned and looked at the plastic hanger in her hand. Had she always used plastic? Didn’t she use wooden hangers once? Paula looked over at her side of the closet and had another flash as she looked at the array of housedresses. She blinked as an image of a long white coat with black piping flashed across her mind. Paula shook her head to wipe away the image.

  “Silly,” she mumbled as she quickly hung up Phillip’s clothes. She’d iron everything later. Paula headed back to the kitchen to start work on her peach cobbler.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  Sondra moaned as her eyes drifted open. It felt like someone had thrown a pile of bricks on top of her head. She could hear a faint beeping in the background. She was lying in a bed and wherever she was, it was dark. She went to put her hand to her forehead and realized an IV was snaking out of the vein in her arm.

  “Holy shit,” she mumbled as she looked around. The hospital. She was in a hospital. The accident came rushing back to her. She’d run a red
light and didn’t have time to swerve before a black SUV came screeching towards her.

  “Oh, my God,” she said as she felt pain jolt through her. The door creaked open, bringing a flood of fluorescent light. A tall redheaded nurse came into the room, a bright smile on her face.

  “I’m glad to see you’re awake. You’ve been out all day.”

  Sondra ran her tongue across her parched lips. “Where am I?”

  The nurse checked the machines and wrote some things on a chart. “You’re at Memorial General Hospital. The ambulance brought you in. You’re pretty banged up. Nasty concussion,” she chirped in her Midwestern twang. “We have to keep you overnight.”

  “Oh, no, no.” Sondra shook her head as she struggled to sit up and ran smack into the brick wall in front of her. She sank back against the flat concrete pillows. “I can’t stay, I have to get to my sister—”

  “Ms. Ellis, I’m gonna need you to lie down. You’re really hurt.”

  Sondra shook her head and once again licked her dry, cracked lips. “Tracy. Have to get to Tracy.”

  “Does she live here? We found a number for a Gary Tate in New York in your wallet for an emergency contact number. He’s on his way.”

  Sondra swallowed, her mouth crammed with paste. “Jesus, I wish you hadn’t done that.” She blinked several times, trying to get oriented. “I told you, I can’t stay. I have to go.”

  “Ms. Ellis, you aren’t going anywhere. You are seriously hurt. Now, lie down and the doctor will be in shortly to see you.”

  The nurse turned to leave the room and Sondra waited until she was gone before she slowly pushed the fraying blue blanket away from her body. She moaned and waited a moment before trying to move again. Every part of her screamed out in pain, but she didn’t care. Her eyes darted around the room looking for her clothes. She spotted them folded up in a plastic bag on a wooden chair with an orange pleather cushion. Sucking in her breath, she eased out of bed and stood up. She swayed back against the bed, panting. Taking a few deep breaths, she again attempted to stand up. The IV stand pulled against her as she tried to edge over to the chair.