Blood and Bone: A Smattering of Unease

by Noble, Shannon Rae

  Her husband and daughter were taken from her by an angry, confused teenager.

  Now, her family pet had been taken by an ignorant, spiteful bitch.

  Lauren started making plans.

  * * *

  Two days after the accident, an unfamiliar number came across Lauren’s cell phone display. She normally ignored unfamiliar numbers and sent them to voicemail, but this time, she answered.

  “Is this Lauren Lattimer?” A man’s voice said.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m sorry, it’s Jack Phillips. Um . . . I’m the one who hit your dog.”

  “What the hell? Why are you calling me? How did you get my number?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, your friend Rita told me I should call you and try to help you.”

  “How do you think you can help me? You killed my dog.”

  “Like, maybe help with his expenses . . .”

  Lauren hadn’t even begun to think about arrangements. Jack’s phone call was a grim reminder that she had to take care of Mop’s body as soon as possible. And then she thought, he was speeding . . . but he was set up, too . . . it wasn’t all him . . . but it could have been. Even if Rosalie hadn’t been there, there was a good chance that Jack would have hurt someone, sometime. But Rosalie had been there, and if it hadn’t been for her actions, Mop might still be alive. And at least one of those responsible for his death was coming forward, and last rites, even for a pet, were expensive. She should accept the offer.

  “Um . . . okay. I’ll send you the bill. You can reimburse me.” She took down Jack’s address and phone number.

  After another two days, Mop’s ashes lay in an urn beside the other two on the living room shelf, his framed photograph together with the photographs of Michael and Allison. Lauren had missed the previous four days from work, and decided that it made no sense to return to work on a Friday, so she took the day off and returned to work the following Monday.

  She didn’t tell the Williams that she had overheard them. She knew that if anything happened to her and they knew she had heard their conversation, they would feel guilty and want to take the blame. Lauren didn’t want that. What she intended to do was her own decision, and she would accept the consequences of her own actions.

  * * *

  She wore a black pair of jeans, black sweatshirt, black jacket, and sneakers. The autumn nights had grown colder; a good excuse to tuck her long brown waves into a black winter cap. When she got home from work every day, she ate a small meal and went to bed to try to catch a couple of hours of sleep so that she could be awake and alert at 10:30 p.m. – right when Rosalie Preacher left on her lonely evening walk to work.

  Lauren watched out the window from her darkened bedroom. When she saw Rosalie leave her house, she waited five minutes and slipped out her back door, out the gate and up her driveway. Keeping Rosalie just in sight and staying to the shadows, Lauren tailed her every night for the next several weeks.

  Lauren found that she could set her clock by the scrawny older woman. She left her house at precisely 10:30 every night. She carried her mid-shift meal in the same light blue lunch bag. She walked at the same speed, took the same route, and reached work at the same time each night.

  Lauren also noted another detail that helped her formulate her plan. Rosalie Preacher crossed the Marshall Avenue train tracks just ahead of the 10:53 train.

  Without fail.

  Lauren decided on the date to fulfill her goal: Halloween. She didn’t want to wait too much longer than that. The snow would soon fly, and she didn’t need the added complications of footprints leading back to her.

  * * *

  One dark night, Bert Williams, ever the insomniac, sat in the shadows of his front porch, quietly smoking a cigarette. He wore a knit cap and quilted flannel jacket against the cold.

  He had just butted his smoke and was about to open his front door to go back inside when he saw motion from the corner of his eye. He looked on silently as Lauren walked quickly through the shadows, following Rosalie preacher.

  He mentioned his misgivings to his wife. “She’s up to something,” he told her over dinner one evening. “She’s going to get herself into trouble.”

  “Well, what do you want do about it?”

  Bert sighed. “I don’t know what to do about it if I don’t even know what she’s doing.”

  “You know what I think?” Rita tipped the salad bowl and spooned a second helping onto her plate. “If it were me in her shoes, I would want revenge.” She speared a tomato wedge and popped it into her mouth.

  “Yeah?”

  “Think about it. Justice was never served with that boy that shot Mike and Allie. Lauren is still dealing with that loss. Then you get that old skinflint over there, scratchy, harsh, ignorant, and mean enough to do what she did, all because Lauren kicked her off of her porch.”

  Bert sat for a moment, contemplating his plate. He shook his head and looked at his wife. “I don’t want to think it,” he said.

  Rita put her plump hand on his thin, bony one. “I don’t either.”

  * * *

  When Lauren visited Rita on occasion during those few weeks, secrets hung in the air, invisible, between them. Lauren didn’t volunteer any information about her nocturnal activities, and her friend acted as though the only reason for Lauren’s preoccupation was the loss of her family pet. Bert said very little about anything, but that wasn’t unusual. Lauren didn’t notice the glances the couple exchanged.

  Rita visited Rosalie Preacher twice more after day of the accident. Because Rita was the neighborhood busybody and none of the neighbors on their block were exempt from her periodic drop-ins, anyone who might have seen her entering or leaving the Preacher house wouldn’t think twice about it.

  Her last visit was on Halloween afternoon, and Rosalie took a pie with her – an individual pie.

  “Now Rosalie, honey, you’ll want to eat this pie up all on your own. Don’t share it, it’s a gift just for you. And make sure you eat it tonight, after dinner. This brand of pumpkins spoils quickly, so you can’t let it sit long, at all.”

  Rosalie Preacher obliged and ate the pie while Mack took Elaine and Brandon trick-or treating.

  That evening, Lauren went over to help Rita hand out candy. The trick-or-treaters came and went, some in large groups, some in-between stragglers. Most of the parents stayed down by the sidewalk, allowing their children the illusion of independence. Others whose kids were still toddlers accompanied them to the door, coaching them on how to push the doorbell or knock on the door and yell “Trick or treat!”

  As the hour grew later and the throng slowed to a trickle, Rita looked at Lauren’s wan face with concern. “Are you all right, dear?”

  Lauren shook her head, her hazel eyes brimming with tears. “I should have been out there with Allison tonight.”

  Rita put an arm around her. “I can’t even begin to imagine how this must feel to you. I wish that I could help.”

  Lauren was silent for a few moments as she tried to calm her emotions.

  “Would you like to stay with us tonight? There’s no reason for you to be alone. Why sit home by yourself?”

  “Oh no, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  “Are you sure, dear? We’re right here. We have the room. We would love to have you as an overnight guest. Right, Bert?”

  “Yep,” Bert said from the armchair where he sat watching Jeopardy.

  “See? Stay with us, Lauren, please. There’s no reason to leave.”

  “Thank you so much, Rita, I really appreciate your offer. And I know you’re really trying to help, but tonight I kind of feel like I need to be alone.”

  “Okay, but we’re right here if you need us. For anything at all. Okay?”

  “Yes, thank you. You’ve been a wonderful friend to me, and I am really grateful. I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

  Rita forced a smile. “Of course, you will, dear. Have a peaceful night.”

&nb
sp; After the door closed behind her young friend, Rita turned to her husband. “You’re tagging along tonight, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Can you say anything besides ‘yep’? I’m afraid for her.”

  Bert turned and looked around the side of his armchair. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered. You did your part, I’ll do mine. It’ll work out all right.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He grasped her hand as she came to stand beside him. “Positive.”

  She sat on the arm of his chair and leaned over to hug him. “Aw, Bert, I knew there was a reason I married you.”

  “Got that right.”

  Wanting to be alert and refreshed for her evening’s activities, Lauren napped for a couple of hours. By the time she woke up, the trick-or-treaters had dispersed and most of the houses on her section of Blackberry Lane were dark.

  She dressed carefully, tucking her brown waves up into the wig cap before arranging the short wig upon her head. It was a man’s hairstyle. She taped the bulky padding around her midsection and thighs. She pulled on Michael’s old nondescript gray-blue sweatshirt over a thermal shirt and long-sleeve t-shirt, and completed the outfit with a pair of his blue jeans. She hadn’t yet been able to bear sorting and donating his clothes. His larger clothing accommodated the extra padding.

  She donned a pair of old platform boots that added two inches to her height while retaining stability and balance. She had considered wearing a fake moustache and a baseball cap to further disguise herself, but decided against it, thinking that too many props would make her more identifiable. Instead, she went subtle and used brown-tinted contact lenses over her hazel eyes and opted for a little fake stubble. Less is more.

  Anyone who might have seen Lauren as she walked down Blackberry Lane that Halloween night would have described her as an average white man, twenty pounds heavier and two inches taller than she actually was.

  The night was chill and empty as she slipped after her prey. It was easy to keep to the shadows. Clouds had created a canopy that obscured the moon and stars, leaving the street cloaked in darkness, except where the yellow light pooled beneath the streetlights.

  Rosalie Preacher seemed never to sense the presence behind her. On the evenings that Lauren had previously tailed her, the sharp-faced woman had never so much as looked backward over her shoulder. Tonight was no different, except that Rosalie Preacher walked a little slower than usual . . . and she seemed to have picked up a slight weave to her gait.

  Lauren kept an eye on her surroundings as she moved along, making sure that she was unobserved. Except for the occasional passing car, there was no traffic. She could hear the tracks vibrating with the rumble of the approaching 10:53, and could feel it travel through the ground, up through her feet. Its horn brayed through the crisp night air.

  She stopped at the brick corner of the now-defunct train station. This part of the street was unlit. She looked around, checking that the surrounding environment was empty of witnesses. She took long, slow breaths, trying to calm her pounding heart. She was loud and boisterous sometimes, sure; but she was not normally a violent person. Even though she did harbor negative feelings about some people, she had never truly wanted or planned to bring harm to anyone else – until now.

  She gathered her resolve and stepped forward to close the last few feet between herself and Rosalie Preacher. The train’s horn sounded, coming closer every second. She couldn’t hesitate. Rosalie needed to be down on the tracks with plenty of time for Lauren to remove herself from the vicinity and from the view of the train.

  But Lauren slowed as she saw Rosalie Preacher stagger, weaving to and fro at the side of the road. Then the woman crumpled to the ground. Lauren hesitated, then ran to her on tiptoe. Rosalie had fallen across the first rail. Lauren looked down the tracks; the train was less than two minutes away.

  She squatted and touched the woman’s bony wrist. She was warm and had a pulse. As Lauren bent over the unconscious woman, she caught a whiff of alcohol. Rosalie Preacher was going to work drunk! The woman had put herself directly into the position that Lauren had intended to contrive. She could just walk away and leave this unpleasant human being to the end of her own making. There was nothing to indicate Lauren had ever been there.

  She knew that her conscience would weigh heavily on her mind if she took that route. Was she a murderer? If she went through with this, she would be just like the boy that had taken Michael and Allison from her. She would be like Rosalie Preacher, whom she believed had set up Mop’s death.

  Was she like Rosalie Preacher? Did she want to lower herself to that level? Did she really want to perpetuate this cycle?

  The train was drawing near. Lauren had to make a decision.

  She hooked her hands in the woman’s bony armpits. Knees bent, she pulled, taking several steps backward. She dropped Rosalie Preacher a few feet outside the rail, then scanned the sandy dirt for any marks she might have left, but night’s darkness cloaked any footprints or drag marks there may have been.

  She was out of time, anyway. She left Rosalie preacher where she had dropped her and disappeared into the shadows at the back of the old railway station seconds before the train’s headlight bathed the crossing with yellow light.

  That night, Lauren slept like a baby in her otherwise empty bed.

  Bert tossed and turned.

  But that was nothing unusual.

  * * *

  “Lauren, you need to come over!”

  “Wha? Why?” Lauren asked sleepily, turning over, cell phone to her ear.

  “Just come over! Keep your pajamas on, it doesn’t matter, just come over, I’m brewing coffee! I have big news!”

  “Ughhhh,” Lauren said, clicking the “End” button on her cell phone.

  Twenty minutes later, Lauren sat in Rita’s kitchen, a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. “So what the hell is going on that you had to roust me at—” she looked at her cell phone, “—Seven-sixteen a.m. on a Sunday morning?”

  Rita slapped the Sunday paper down on the table. “Front page news!”

  Lauren looked at the photo. “That’s the very recognizable face of our new neighbor.”

  Rita nodded excitedly. “Read!”

  Lauren read, her lips moving. “Found beside the train tracks . . . smelled of alcohol . . . police are investigating . . . autopsy will be performed?” She looked up, her heart pounding, hands trembling.

  “Why, honey, you’re as white as a sheet! Are you okay?”

  “She’s dead!”

  * * *

  “Do you think we should tell her that I planted your pills in Rosalie’s bathroom and drugged her pie?” Rita asked Bert over dinner that evening.

  “Nope,” said Bert, shoveling a forkful of Rita’s homemade macaroni and cheese into his mouth. “I wouldn’t want her thinking badly of us. Plus her knowing would be on her conscience.”

  Rita looked worried. “But she’s probably scared out of her mind that she’s going to be charged with murder.”

  “But she won’t be.” Bert shrugged. “It isn’t Lauren’s fault the woman is a drug addict who took too many pills and got drunk at the same time. There was no evidence anyone else was there. I checked after the train ran through.”

  “She doesn’t know that.”

  “Leave it alone. It’ll work itself out. ”

  A couple of Fridays later, Lauren drove down Blackberry Lane, slowing to steer around the police cars that were parked front of the Preacher house. There were three, plus an unmarked van in the driveway. It looked as though they were getting ready to leave; there was someone in the back of one of the cars.

  She kicked the snow off of her boots as she climbed Rita’s front steps. Rita opened the door before Lauren even had a chance to knock.

  “Come in, come in, have coffee, get warm!”

  Lauren gladly let her friend lead her into the warm kitchen, where the smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air. “Cookies, have cookies!”r />
  Lauren sat and sipped the hot coffee, feeling its heat spread from her stomach, warming her, and the sudden alert state that the caffeine brought. “So what’s going on across the street?”

  “I don’t exactly know,” Rita said, taking a sugar cookie from the plate she’d set in the middle of her kitchen table. “They arrested that Mack. Cuffed and stuffed him. And the woman, I think she’s a social worker, took the kids and put them in the van.”

  “Wow.”

  “I don’t know why. But it will either be on the local news or in the papers tomorrow. We’ll find out.”

  “Yeah.”

  Rita knocked on Lauren’s door the next morning. “I found out!” She squealed, brandishing the Saturday paper.

  “Come in, come in,” Lauren yawned. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock, so the two began where they’d left off the evening before: with a fresh pot of coffee.

  Lauren read the article that Rita shoved beneath her nose. “Kidnapping? Those weren’t Rosalie’s sister’s kids?”

  “Nope. Rosalie and Mack took them from Virginia. It isn’t the first time, either.”

  “Authorities are unsure at this time whether the couple abused the two children . . . wanted for questioning in another child’s disappearance in Virginia. They were a couple?” Lauren shuddered. “Martin Bishop was arrested at his home yesterday . . . children were remanded to the care of Children’s Protective Services . . . Robin Bishop was found alive beside the train tracks, passed away at the hospital . . . was under the influences of illegally obtained prescription drugs and alcohol . . . her death has been ruled an accident; no foul play is suspected.” She stopped and took a deep, quiet breath.

  Rita watched her carefully. “Do you feel better now, dear? I think you may have been worrying that your argument with the deceased might get you into trouble.”

  “Yes, I was anxious about that. I was worried that they would come and ask me questions.”