Screaming To Be Solved

by Lauren Hope

  A fragment of it blasted off, catching Marxie on the arm. She let out a quick scream and put a hand to her bicep to check for bleeding. There was a little, but the wound was minor. It couldn’t be any worse than the pain radiating in her lip and down her jaw.

  When the incessant shooting slowed, she hunkered into a tighter ball and tried to bury her fear. “They shot Rita too,” she cried to Grant who’d scooted to crouch beside her. “She’s dead.”

  “What?” He glanced at her briefly, surprised, and shook his head, deftly ejecting the empty clip of his gun in the process. “I must’ve gotten here after that. I think I would’ve heard the shot.”

  “You’ve been here?” She noticed his clothes were soaked and wondered how long he’d hid behind this pole, waiting for the right moment to help her. “But how . . . Why are you here?”

  “To get you.” He pulled a new clip from his holster, looked at her for a moment like she was crazy, then a quick smile broke out on his face. “Glad you’re all right.”

  She stammered, “Yeah, me too.”

  While curses and loud, flustered demands were shouted from the dark corner across the lot, and Grant jammed the loaded clip into his pistol, she added, “I’m glad to see you.”

  “Same here.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, and pulling her close, swiftly and firmly kissed her.

  “Ouch,” she winced. He pulled away, eyes narrowed. “My lip,” she pointed, “connected with Beau’s gun. It hurts . . . Sorry.”

  Grant didn’t say anything, but rubbed a gentle thumb over the throbbing skin, pushed her matted hair from her face, and turned newly vicious and watchful eyes on the men who, for the moment, had stopped their shooting.

  “They’re reloading,” Grant mumbled, more to himself than Marxie. “We don’t have long.”

  “What’re we gonna do?”

  “Shh.” He pressed a fingers to his lips, strained his neck. “Someone’s coming.”

  Marxie’s heart leapt in her chest and she wondered how Grant could hear anything after all the shots. Her ears were ringing like small, tingling bells.

  But when the distinct sound of splashing water sloshed nearby, she knew that was no bell.

  One of the men was coming toward them.

  “Don’t move,” Grant said sternly.

  He rose rapidly, shot once.

  Someone screamed. Marxie leaned deftly around the poll and watched as Chief Raines went down.

  “Dad! Dad!” Beau yelled.

  “Is he coming this way?” Marxie cried to Grant who stood a few paces away, gun still raised.

  “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  Grant pulled a cell phone from his pocket, punched a button. “Simmons, Carter here,” he bellowed into the mouthpiece. “I need back-up now. Pembroke PD. Officer down. Second victim inside. Put out an APB on Rick Williams and Beau Raines ASAP.”

  “GBI,” he yelled toward Marxie, tossing her the phone. “Tell them what’s going on, they can get some guys out here.” And with that, he sprinted off while car tires squealed, leaving her sputtering into the phone to a man called Simmons.

  ****

  Four days later, Marxie chatted on the phone, balancing on a stool in Grant’s kitchen while he gathered up lunch. She looked radiant, even with her swollen lips and bruised jaw. She had just missed fracturing her jawbone, but she was going to heal fine.

  She and Liz were staying with Grant for a few days while the remainder of the damage from the break-in to their townhouse was cleaned up. After that, they’d both decided to put to it on the market. Marxie said they had a new place in mind.

  Marxie and Sally—the assistant that had saved her business in her absence, according to Marxie—were going in together and renting a new, small shop for E. M. Vaughn Design on a quaint, well-populated little strip in Savannah.

  There’d been lots of changes in her world in the last few days and Grant was glad for it. She seemed happier than she had since the moment he’d met her, and even though the trauma from four nights ago still lingered, two of the three culprits were already paying for their sins.

  Chief Raines was in the hospital, recovering slowly but steadily from his chest wound. The GBI didn’t take pity and wait to ask questions. He’d broken down pretty quickly under their interrogation, letting out all the details, and more, of what he and Beau had confessed to Marxie.

  The spiteful, old man really had supported the murder of an innocent officer, all for money and reputation. It still blew Grant’s mind.

  Chief Robert Raines had cried some, mumbled about feeling horrible and so ashamed, how his wife and son expected wealth and high society. But remorse didn’t bring back that sweet dispatcher that was Marxie’s friend, as well as a beloved mother and grandmother, or the new dispatcher, Linda, who’d taken a bullet from Rick’s gun and was found slouched in her chair, dead from blood loss. Nor did it give back Evan Vaughn the future he was robbed of or ease his widow’s pain.

  He couldn’t even think about what would have happened if he hadn’t decided to leave his car down the tracks, walk up to the station after he saw the familiar cars parked in the lot, Marxie’s included. She could’ve been their next victim. Would’ve been had he not seen them taking her from the building, trying to force her in that car.

  But she’d fought, got away, helped him help her.

  And there were other comforts in the night’s events: Rick had been picked up only hours after the showdown. The lawyer—and now more appropriately deemed drug lord and murderer—hadn’t gotten too far in that Lexus of his before the cops closed in on him and hauled him in. He wasn’t talking near as much as Chief Raines, but the apparently guilt ridden Chief was offering up more than enough to convict all three of the primary parties involved. The only orders Rick Williams would be giving were to big, burly inmates . . . for a long, long time.

  That knowledge brought relief to Grant’s mind, even with all the tragedy. Rick couldn’t hurt any one else, including the woman sitting in front of Grant now, saying her goodbyes to Liz on her cell phone.

  When his home phone rang, he shifted from the stove and reached over to grab it on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Carter, it’s Simmons.” John Simmons, Grant’s long time friend and one of the original investigators in Caroline’s case was a reliable cop and always a useful source of information.

  “What’s up?” Grant asked, turning his back to Marxie as she ended her conversation with Liz and tuned in to his concerned look.

  “We’ve got him.”

  “Raines? You picked him up?”

  Marxie shot up from the stool and came to stand behind him, putting a tense hand on his back.

  “Yep.” Simmons said proudly. “Trying to get to Cuba. He was down in Florida, gearing up to go. Dyed his hair, changed his eyes with colored contacts, had a lot of cash on him too.” Simmons made a sound of disgust. “He was ready to leave his old man lying up in the hospital. What a guy, ‘ey?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time he’s bailed on his old man,” Grant observed, thinking of Beau’s break-neck sprint to his car after his father was shot.

  Because Marxie was stiff as a statue beside him, he covered her hand with his and placed them on the cool counter. Giving her a reassuring look, he squeezed her hand while he thanked John and made sure his friend would be available soon to help Grant reduce and possibly drop all charges on a wrongly accused inmate named Chaz Henry.

  “What? What?” Marxie asked breathless as he replaced the phone on the receiver.

  “They got him, Marx. They got Beau.”

  “Really?” Her eyes widened, glossing over with newly sprung tears.

  “Really,” he smiled triumphantly, wanting her to do the same and feel the ultimate relief he did. “They’ve got him in custody down in Florida. They’ll transfer him up here after the weekend I’m sure.”

  He picked her up, swung her around gently before placing her on the ground and lowering his forehead to h
ers. “It’s over, Marx. It’s over.”

  “I can’t believe it. It’s like a dream.”

  “Well believe it.” He raised his head and smiled. “This is what we live for, guys like Simmons and me. Getting the ones who deserve it. And this time it feels so good.” He squeezed his hands around her waist and hugged her tighter.

  After a moment, she smiled up at him. “It’s over Grant. It’s really over. Thank you so much.”

  “You put just as much work into this as me.” He pulled her back, narrowed his eyes. “Even if you were absolutely unsafe about some of it, I’m happy for you. I’m sure it’s a kind of peace, for you and Evan.”

  She nodded, smiled thoughtfully. “It is.” She pulled away from him. “Of course, there’s court to think about, testifying, seeing Beau and the chief and Rick again—”

  “Hey,” Grant held up a hand, “not today. The worst part is done. You’re alive and you know the truth. You got what you wanted—justice for Evan. And there’s no way those men are gonna slip through the cracks. They’ll be right where they belong. Today is a celebration. Starting over. Right?”

  Bringing her eyes to his, she nodded. “Yep.”

  “So, you ready for lunch?”

  “Much more than I was ten minutes ago,” she grinned, rubbing her stomach.

  “All right, let’s eat then,” he chuckled, heading back to the stove and the condiments littering the counter. “I thought about having spaghetti, but then I remembered you were cooking that.”

  “Yeah, don’t steal my ideas.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” After a moment, he turned his head, spoke over his shoulder as she text the good news out. “By the way, I’m taking your advice.”

  “What advice is that?”

  “I’m spicing up my place, giving it a facelift.” He looked around the old kitchen, thinking it really could be grand if someone put some thought and work into it. “I figured the outside was so nice, I oughta be fair and get the inside looking great too.”

  “Really?” her eyes brightened. “That’s wonderful. So much could be done in here. In every room really. I mean, I don’t mean that bad, but . . . well, my first time here I mentally decorated every room we went in. I can’t wait to see how it turns out.”

  “Me either. I’m calling a decorator first thing in morning.”

  “Oh,” she said, slumping back in the chair. “Well, good luck.”

  “Thanks. I’m sure you’ll be just as glad as me to see the finished product.”

  “Yeah. It’ll be great, Grant.”

  Suppressing a grin, he turned and finished frying the bologna in the shallow pan.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Marxie sat in front of the fresh grave and ran her fingers over the clumpy dirt.

  She smiled as a little blonde girl in red tights skipped by and waved. The child stopped at a large headstone a few feet away and bent down, kissed it. “My Grandpa,” she smiled at Marxie. “He’s in heaven.”

  Marxie nodded, pointed at the ground in front of her and the round, grey stone. “My husband.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Evan.”

  The girl nodded eagerly. “My Grandpa’s name was Grandpa . . . and William.”

  “William is a wonderful name,” Marxie smiled.

  “Uh-huh.” The curly-topped girl beamed and plopped on the ground in front of Grandpa William’s stone, began quietly plucking and gathering the little yellow wildflowers into a small bouquet.

  Satisfied with their interchange, Marxie turned and spoke to someone else.

  “Hey Ev,” she began softly. “Hope you like your new spot. I changed it because it didn’t feel right, knowing the first time it wasn’t really you. Anyway, you’re here now. And you’ve got your justice and your peace I pray.” She glanced to the child who was prancing away to her waiting mother. “I think you’re in good company.”

  Smiling, she cast her eyes to the sky, hoping that the bright sunlight would somehow keep the tears at bay. She sighed and looked back down to the headstone. “What do you think about me and Liz living apart? I’ll be on my own for the first time since you’ve been gone. I’ll make it though. And Liz won’t be that far away.” She chuckled. “Just the next door over. We’re getting a duplex on Roland. It’ll be nice. I’ll miss you there . . . and wonder what it would be like if you lived there with me. But, you’re here, aren’t you, Ev?” She patted her heart and it beat heavy in her chest. “Right here.”

  Now she did let the tears fall, but they were brief, and more tears of joy and acceptance than of grief and pain. “I’m so sorry for what you went through. So sad I couldn’t be there for you, to help. I wonder if you were scared. I know you thought of me. I thought of you when I was afraid, when I was sure Beau was going to kill me.”

  She wiped a tear from her cheek and sniffed.

  “Hey look,” she said leaning forward and pointing to the jewelry grazing her chest, “my ring is here now. I wear it everyday. Isn’t it lovely? Grant did it. He found it after the guys Rick hired to break-in me and Liz’s place left his office and dropped it.” She frowned at that thought and Rick’s arrogance at getting involved in her life just for pride’s sake even after taking her husband from her. But as the sun reflected off the dainty diamond, she renewed her focus on her hope and happiness for a brighter future. “Now you’re with me everyday. I think you’d like Grant by the way. He’s strong and courageous and really gentle and loving once you get to know him. He fights for what’s right . . . like you did.”

  Fingering the necklace, she sighed. “I’m so glad I know now. I know what you went through. I deserved to. You deserved for me to know. And you deserved a rightful place here.”

  Rising, she bent and placed the white bouquet of flowers his mother had sent as a stand-in until his parents could travel to his new grave to see it themselves. A year after his death, they’d moved to Colorado to be closer to Evan’s aging maternal grandparents. Marxie was glad they were coming back to honor this place.

  She was glad she’d decided on it herself, to move his burial site to a new cemetery. It was sunnier here somehow; brighter, more peaceful. And today’s sunshine and blue skies were so different than the stormy clouds that dampened the day two years ago. She gazed up at the blue, let the heat cover her face and warm her within.

  Stepping back, she stared down at the carved inscription.

  Evan James Vaughn

  1983– 2010

  If love could have saved you, you’d have lived forever.

  Our beloved Son, Brother, Husband

  Content with her chosen words, she patted away the rest of the tears, and as a nice summer breeze blew past her face, she whispered, “I love you, always.” With a new peace settling in her heart, she walked away, still smiling.

  When she reached her car, she climbed in and started off to meet Liz at what would be their new home. She couldn’t wait to take a look at the old duplex and see what her hands could do with the place.

  When she came to the end of the road, stopping at the four way intersection, her cell phone rang. Reaching, she grabbed it out of the cup holder where it was habitually tossed and flipped open the top.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Marxie Vaughn with E.M. Vaughn Design?”

  “Yes. That’s correct.”

  “I’m looking for a local designer, and I heard you were the best.”

  She smiled and turned on her left blinker to continue down the traffic-free street.

  “Well thank you. Yes, I’ve done a lot of local work, personal residences and businesses. What do have in mind?”

  “Renovating my home.”

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded, pressing the phone closer to her ear. The man’s voice was muffled, almost as if he was trying to disguise it, she thought, her heart skipping a beat. No, calm down, Marxie. Things are fine now. She cleared her throat. “Renovating your home. Are you wanting changes throughout or in specific rooms?”

  “The wh
ole place.”

  “And where do you live?”

  “Isle of Hope.”

  Her cheeks pinked as the voice became clearer and easily recognizable. “Grant?”

  She heard a deep chuckling and wanted to reach out and strangle him. “Hi.”

  “You’re a creep, you know that? You scared me for a second.”

  “No more reasons to be scared. So is this a no to taking the job?”

  “Are you serious? You really want me?” she asked, easing off the brakes and turning onto the main road.

  “You are the best, aren’t you?”

  “Well I’d like to think so, but you said you were calling someone else.”

  “Nope, I just said I was calling a decorator. Isn’t that you?”

  She sighed heavily. “Oh, you really are a creep.” But she was smiling, inside and out.

  “So, are you up for it?” he quipped. “I have a sense that you’ll put something special into the project as you seem to have a particular love for my humble dwelling.”

  “It won’t be humble when I get done with it, Detective. And yes, you’ve got yourself a decorator. The best there is.”

  “Fantastic. Our first consultation?”

  “Whenever you’d like.” She shrugged as she neared the exit ramp for her turnoff.

  “How about tonight, over dinner. My treat.”

  She hesitated briefly, then went with her gut. “Perfect.”

  “Great. We might even spring for spaghetti and milk, and a late night showing of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Trying things we’ve both never done.”

  She laughed and sighed, feigning resignation. “If we must.”

  “Marxie,” he said as she turned into the small parking area for her new home.

  “Yes?”

  He paused before sucking in a breath. And even though she couldn’t see him, she could picture him, broad shoulders, a hand in his pocket, grinning at her with that cautiously beautiful smile. “I’m looking forward to . . . everything.”