The Unforgivable Fix

by T. E. Woods

  Lydia exaggerated her shudder to encourage her patient. “Ah, the joys of undergrad freedom. Please tell me you’ll never let yourself get into that situation.”

  “Not me, Dr. C.” He held up his hands in protest. “I like my mornings too much. Anyway, when this jerk’s throwing up, my buddies are laughing and I felt my anxiety rise.”

  “Give it a number,” Lydia reminded.

  “I’m sure it was a six…maybe even a seven. All I wanted to do was turn and run. But I didn’t. I forced myself to walk right up to it and look at it.”

  “And what happened?”

  “My anxiety climbed…high.” Tim’s eyes were wide. “But I focused on the mess in front of me. I tried to figure out what the guy had eaten instead of thinking about how afraid I was.”

  Lydia knew the power of the intervention. Still, she was impressed when folks made the decision to do the tough work necessary to rid themselves of self-imposed limits. “What did you come up with?”

  “Near as I can tell it was tacos. I could see the salsa and lettuce—”

  “Hey. I’m not the one who needs the exposure here. What happened next?”

  “It was just like you told me,” he said. “Somewhere in there, while I was playing food detective, I realized my fear was gone.” Tim looked up at Lydia. “Why did I wait so long to do this?”

  “Who cares? You’re doing it now, Tim. And it’s working. I’m not saying you’re cured. I can pretty much guarantee that you’ll hit a patch where you’re feeling sad or lonely, or maybe just tired. You’ll be vulnerable then to the old fears.”

  He nodded. “But now I know what to do, Dr. C. It’s like you say, I have to do what makes me scared. Or else my world gets so small it’ll squash me.”

  —

  The aroma of long-simmered spices greeted Lydia the moment she opened her front door. Mort’s Honda was parked in her driveway. She set her keys on the entryway table, leaned her briefcase against the wall, and walked into the kitchen. Mort and Allie sat at the breakfast nook table, both focused on a large scrapbook. Mort’s murmuring was warm and gentle. His left arm rested on the back of his daughter’s chair while he pointed to things with his right. They hadn’t realized Lydia had entered the room.

  Lydia scanned the kitchen. Three pots were on the stove. The counter was strewn with onion peels, celery stalks, an empty pasta box, and two opened cans of kidney beans. The bowl from her food processor and her copper colander peeked out of soapy bubbles in her sink. Pieces of gristle remained on a cutting board next to the knife she’d purchased years ago in Japan. A dusting of what Lydia assumed was flour clouded the floor.

  Allie chuckled and leaned her head against her father’s shoulder. Mort responded by lifting his hand off her chair and squeezing her arm. Lydia felt herself grow smaller and wondered if she could quietly step back. Out and away from this moment of tenderness between father and daughter she’d invaded.

  But she couldn’t move. She kept her eyes on them and marveled at the loving forgiveness Mort bestowed upon his errant daughter, suddenly returned to him from her life on the dark side. She’d never seen Mort like this. So relaxed. So easy. So comfortable with the person who had given him years of heartache.

  I don’t belong here. I need to go. More aggressive thoughts intruded. This is my house. It’s my kitchen that’s a mess. Those are my utensils smearing sauce across my counters. That’s my table. That’s my—She shook that thought out of her brain before it could be completed.

  “I’m home.” She forced herself to sound pleasant.

  The pair turned in unison. Mort stood and greeted her.

  “Dad’s been strolling us down memory lane.” Allie wore the apron Lydia kept on a shelf in the pantry. “I swear the man had a camera grafted to his hands my entire childhood.” She got up and went to the stove, her face a picture of pride. “I hope you’re hungry. I felt like creating. Called dear old Pop and told him to come join us for some chow.” She lifted the lid off Lydia’s largest casserole and a fresh wave of smell wafted across the kitchen. “A special beef dish I learned in the islands. The trick is to simmer it all day long.”

  “Where did you get the beef?” Lydia asked. “I had salmon steaks thawing in the refrigerator.”

  Allie waved her hand. “We can grill those tomorrow. I wanted to do something special.”

  “Where did you get the beef?” Lydia repeated.

  Allie’s coquettish attitude disappeared. She looked to her father. Mort stepped toward Lydia with a “settle down” look on his face.

  “Would you prefer salmon, Liddy?” he asked. “I can broil them if you’d like.”

  Lydia ignored him. “I want to know where you got the meat, Allie.” She pointed to the mess on the counter. “And the vegetables. And those beans. Where did you get them?”

  Allie again looked at Mort before answering. “I went into town. That lovely Bayview Market had everything I needed. I only got lost once coming back…which is saying something. I mean, this place is really out in the boonies.”

  Mort’s face hardened. “You didn’t tell me you left the property, Allie.” He turned to Lydia. “I assumed you had this stuff here.”

  “How’d you get into town?” Lydia asked Allie.

  Allie walked down the hall, opened the top drawer of the entryway table, and pulled out a set of keys. She jangled them. “You were out of here at the crack of dawn. Busy, busy. I can’t believe people want to get their heads shrunk so early in the morning.” She came back into the kitchen. “Anyway, you were gone, I had the itch to cook, and you have that shiny SUV just sitting in your garage. Don’t worry, I filled up the tank.”

  Mort exploded. “You are not to leave this house. You know the rules, Allie.”

  Allie tossed the keys on the counter. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I made us all a nice dinner. Where’s the harm in that?”

  “Did you stop for a minute to think about the possibility someone could see you?” Mort demanded. “The whole idea of you being here is to keep you out of sight. Dammit, Allison.”

  “Nobody’s going to look for me in Olympia, Daddy.” Now Allie was yelling. “Especially not in a grocery store. I was gone maybe an hour. If that. You can’t keep me locked up like some sort of prisoner.” She turned to Lydia, her voice quieter. “You understand that, don’t you, Liddy?”

  Lydia flinched at Allie’s use of Mort’s nickname for her. She shared his concern for security. Allie had acted recklessly. But the fact that Allie had found her car keys, her apron, her food processor…that was of greater concern to her than the possibility she might be seen by Patrick Duncan or Vadim Tokarev or any other drug lord from Allie’s recent sojourn in a life of crime. If Allie didn’t mind opening drawers and cabinets looking for what she needed, what else might she find? Lydia didn’t need Allie getting curious about the numbered keypad on the door leading to the lower level. She shot Mort a “you take care of this” look.

  “I’m going to my room.” Lydia looked around the kitchen. “And if you think I’m going to clean up this mess, think again.”

  —

  Lydia took her time changing from her work clothes into yoga pants, oversized T-shirt, and running shoes. She pulled her auburn hair up into a ponytail. By the time she returned to the kitchen, Mort was setting the table and Allie was cleaning up the chaos her cooking had created. Allie seemed reserved, and Lydia assumed Mort had done his best to impress upon his headstrong daughter the need to stay put.

  Lydia uncorked a bottle of pinot noir, but it did little to ease the tense conversation at dinner. Mort asked Lydia about her day. He seemed interested in her work as a supervisor to Zach.

  “So he sees the patients and then talks to you about what he did?” he asked. “What if he screws up?”

  Lydia assured him Zach was a well-trained psychologist completing the last step before practicing independently. “Besides, he records his sessions. I listen to them. It’s like I’m in the room.”

  Mort raised
an eyebrow. “Yeah…after the fact. But who am I to say? All I know is he’s got the best teaching him.”

  Allie started talking about Barbados. She seemed to have genuinely fallen under the spell of the tropical paradise that had become her home. She regaled them with the history of the island and the accomplishments of its citizens. “Did you know it’s the only country in the world with a one hundred percent literacy rate?” She went on to discuss Barbadian arts and music and, of course, food. The mood lightened when she told of the many ways she’d eaten goat.

  Lydia reflected on Allie’s gift of charm. You have your father smiling at you through the candlelight. So funny. So glib. Not one mention that your time in the tropics was bankrolled by one of the world’s most notorious criminals.

  They finished their dessert of peaches broiled in a brandied sauce, served warm over vanilla ice cream, and the conversation turned to Grant family memories. Somewhere around the fourth “Remember the time when…” Lydia excused herself. Mort and Allie continued their conversation without pause as she carried her cup of tea out to the deck.

  The night sky was sprinkled with stars. The moon threw silver coins from a cloudless sky to float on the waters of Dana Passage. Lydia settled into a lawn chair and reminded herself why October was her favorite month. The evenings were cool. The rains took a bit of a break. The grim grey of winter was still weeks away. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and tried to relax.

  She opened her eyes when Mort came out to say good night. “I’m heading home. I’ve got a budget meeting first thing, but I’ll be back down as soon as it’s finished.” He nodded back toward the kitchen. “Don’t worry about Allie. She won’t be taking any more unauthorized field trips.”

  Lydia stayed quiet and recalled Allie’s admission that, to her, men were merely useful tools. She wondered if that included her father.

  “You okay? If you want me to stay, I can get an early start and still make the meeting with the bean counters.”

  “Go,” Lydia said. “We’ll be fine here.”

  Lydia tried to tune out the warm words Mort and Allie exchanged as they said goodbye, but the part of her brain dedicated to self-torture wouldn’t let her. She heard the front door close, followed by the sound of Mort’s Honda pulling away. The clinking of dishes and glass told her Allie was clearing up. Lydia imagined it would be polite to go in and offer to help, but she had no interest in participating in whatever act Allie had planned for her evening’s entertainment. Instead, Lydia returned her attention to the starlit stillness of her property.

  She heard the hoot of an owl, looked up, and tried to orient herself to the direction of the call. The owl cried out again. Lydia looked high and to the south and saw nothing. The owl was hiding in the Douglas fir on the far corner of her property. She hoped it was the little fellow she’d rescued, and sent her good wishes up into the boughs.

  The owl hooted again. Lydia sat up. Owls sounded only in warning. His first call would have been to let her know he’d seen her. A second sounding was unnecessary. She hadn’t moved or given him any indication of threat. Lydia had seen foxes over her years on the high cliff overlooking the sea. Was one on the prowl? She sat motionless and surveyed her lawn.

  Again the owl hooted. Lydia heard the faint rustle of a bush far on her left. Slowly she pulled her feet back under her chair and shifted her weight. The lights of the interior spilling out onto the deck should keep any fox at bay, but she wanted to be ready to move should the predator dart toward her.

  A tight, red beam shot from the far bush across the width of her yard. It was met by another coming across from the right. The beams intersected forty feet in front of her, crisscrossing in the darkness.

  Lydia stood slowly and inched her way to the door. She kept her eyes on the laser sights sweeping her lawn. She opened the door, stepped back in the house and into the kitchen, where Allie was humming over a sink filled with suds.

  “Go to your room right now, Allie.”

  “What are you—” Allie’s protest was cut short when Lydia grabbed her by the arm. Water and soap dripped as Lydia dragged her along and shoved her into the guest bedroom. “What’s going—”

  “Quiet!” Lydia’s whisper was fierce. “Not one word. Stay here until I get back. Keep this door locked.”

  Lydia closed the door on the wide-eyed Allie and hurried across the house. She punched in the code on the door leading to the lower level, scrambled silently down the stairs and straight to the bookcase in her office. She reached to the lower shelf, pulled out her copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, and pressed the red button mounted behind it. The bookcase swung wide, revealing her arsenal. With the quick precision born of practiced drills, Lydia grabbed a laser scope, night-vision goggles, and an AK-47. She opened the second drawer of the wide chest on the far wall and pulled out two additional magazines. Thirty shots were loaded into her automatic rifle. Each magazine held thirty more.

  She hoped that would be enough.

  Lydia tucked the magazines into her waistband and hurried up the stairs. She held her ear next to the door at the top of the landing. Hearing nothing, she clicked the safety off her weapon and threw open the door.

  She dropped and rolled to the far wall. She sat for two minutes, holding her gun and surveying the house.

  They weren’t inside.

  She headed through the garage and out the door leading to the backyard. She stayed close to the house and circled right.

  Lydia cross-stepped around, sweeping her eyes across her wide lawn, looking for any signs of movement or laser sight. She was thankful the windless night offered no buffer for any sound. She crossed in front of her deck, step by slow step, watchful as she went.

  The owl hooted high and behind her. Lydia heard a muffled puff of air followed by the splintering crack of a cedar roofing tile. She threw herself flat against the grass. The silenced bullet that hit her roof seconds ago would have come from the low row of bushes to her right, off near the cliff’s edge. She looked up and saw the owl soaring above her, tacking straight for a copse of tall evergreens a hundred feet away. She wiggled herself around, trained her rifle on the bushes, and waited. Less than thirty seconds later, the shrubbery shifted and a figure emerged. Eerily green in Lydia’s goggles, it ran toward her. Lydia inhaled softly, held her breath, and pulled the trigger. The figure dropped to the ground.

  She stayed flat against the grass and waited. No sound. She watched the glowing green mass in front of her. No movement. She counted slowly to one hundred. Hearing and seeing nothing, she pulled herself back to her feet and continued her reconnaisance toward the left. Minutes later, when she’d rounded one corner of the house and was approaching the next, she heard another shot. Not muffled this time. A rapid three-shot sequence she knew instantly came from a high-powered automatic pistol. She flattened herself against the house and waited. She kept her eyes trained on the shadows, her gun steady at her hip. Within fifteen seconds, a second man passed in front of her, oblivious to her presence. Lydia kicked out hard and the man went down. He rolled and trained his gun on her. Lydia pulled her own trigger and sent four rounds into his chest.

  She stepped over the corpse. She’d seen two red sights and now had two dead shooters. Still, she wanted to make one more pass to be certain she’d contained the threat. She circled the house, the luminous moon assisting her powerful night-vision lenses. She passed the sprawled body of the first man and continued around the house until she returned to where the second body lay. She allowed herself a long exhale but kept her finger on the trigger of her weapon.

  Lydia trotted to the edge of her backyard. She looked down the 150-foot cliff and saw no sign of a dinghy, kayak, or canoe. She scanned the waters. No boats were anchored. She gave one last look back to her house. Warm amber light spilled out from large windows. Was it just a half hour ago she was sharing dessert with Mort and his daughter? She looked up and hoped her owl was watching as she headed down the stairs. She descended cautiously, looking for signs of
ropes or climbing gear, but the tide was high. The beach, which at low tide streatched for nearly twenty feet, was now completely underwater. There would be no staging area to mount a climb. There was no sign of anyone or anything to indicate the invaders had come by water. She climbed back up, taking her time. Once she was back on her property, she jogged down her long driveway, still looking for how the two men got to her place.

  She saw no car along Island View Drive. These guys were dropped off. Lydia went back to the bodies. They must have some way to contact the mother ship when whatever they came to do here was done.

  She frisked the first corpse and found no cell phone or sign of identification. She did find two additional handguns and a heavy-bladed gutting knife. Lydia pulled off his black knitted cap and stared down at a white man with no visible scars except for the darkened bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

  She jogged to the front of the house and grabbed the shoulders of the second body. Lydia dragged him back and laid him next to his partner. A similar frisk revealed no identification or communication device, but plenty of additional weapons. She tossed them in a pile and pulled his cap off. Another white man, this time with no facial blemishes. Lydia had shot four quick bullets into his chest.

  Lydia stood over the two dead men. Whoever sent them would be waiting for a report. When none came, they’d send more.

  The pounding crash of surf suggested her next move. She dragged each body to the edge of the cliff. The owl screeched overhead. Lydia kicked one corpse over the side and waited for the splash announcing the sea had accepted it. Then she kicked the second man down. Lydia knew the tide and current patterns would carry their bodies far from her home. They were likely to be found miles apart, if they were discovered at all.