Bonita Palms

by Hal Ross

  And where’s Sara? Is she also hurt? Possibly dead or dying?

  I turned to Mrs. Stafford. “Debbie, you know me. I’m Miles Delany, deputy sheriff. I’ve been to your house.” Not wanting her to feel threatened, I replaced my gun in its holster and showed her both hands. “There,” I said, “I’m not going to harm you.”

  It was like talking to myself. The woman facing me had a human face and body but was residing somewhere else.

  I moved toward her, unable to afford another moment’s delay. Mrs. Stafford raised the knife to her throat, pressed it into her flesh until a sliver of blood began to drip out.

  “Don’t,” I said, moving back. No matter what, I needed her alive; needed to know what she’d done to Sara.

  The knife stayed poised.

  I racked my brain, trying to find a way to get to her.

  The sound of sirens bellowed in the distance. Debbie’s gaze shifted, and that was my opening. I leaped to grab the hand holding the knife. She spun out of the way and brought the knife down in a blur, slicing my right shoulder.

  Her quickness shocked me; someone her size shouldn’t be able to move like that. Before I could recover she slashed again, catching the back of my right arm. I threw myself into her with everything I had, left shoulder first, hitting her square in the stomach. We both went down. I rolled one way, she rolled the other. Blood was now gushing out of both wounds and I feared losing consciousness.

  I got back on my feet and reached for my gun with my left hand. It wasn’t there. And then I spotted it, behind Mrs. Stafford. It must have come out of the holster when I fell. There was no way I could get to it. At least, not immediately. The knife had slipped out of Debbie’s grasp when she hit the floor. But she retrieved it in a nanosecond, bounced to her feet, and faced me.

  I realized there was nothing more I could say. Her glazed-over eyes told me she was unreachable. I feinted left then right. Each time she slashed with the knife, missing me by a hair.

  I launched myself in the air, my left arm forward, in a tackle I hadn’t tried since my high school football days, and we tumbled into the adjoining great room. A built-in entertainment system at one end, fully stocked bar opposite, and a white leather couch with a two-foot bronze statue of Jesus—His arms and hands in a supplicating pose—standing on a pedestal beside it.

  The fall broke us apart and we both got back on our feet. A wave of dizziness washed over me from the loss of blood. I commanded myself to hold on.

  Debbie continued to flail away. I backed up. The heel of my shoe caught the edge of the area rug and I went crashing down, the back of my head clipping the pedestal. I looked up just in time to see the Jesus statue wobbling above me, then beginning a cascade toward my face.

  At the same time, Mrs. Stafford dropped on top of me, in a sitting position, raising the knife above her head with both hands to plunge into my chest. I caught the falling statue with my left hand and, in a continuous motion, swung with all I had left, cracking it into her temple.

  A peculiar sound escaped her lips as she collapsed to the floor, either out cold or dead. As I turned toward her to see if she was still breathing, everything went dark.

  53

  April 10 to 25

  Bill Miller’s body was found, partially eaten by scavengers—presumably coyotes—lying next to a rented van. His financial shenanigans came to light during the probate of his will. With the cooperation of Bill’s sons, the FBI found numerous documents containing his late wife’s signature. Through forensic analysis it was determined that some if not all of those signatures had been forged. It remained uncertain as to what blame should be placed on either party, but considering that both were deceased, it was a moot point. What remained irrefutable was the fact that dozens of Bill’s clients, many of whom lived in Bonita Palms, had been bilked out of some or all of their investments.

  Bill, however, was saved from a pauper’s funeral. His sons—who had never been close to their father—paid for his remains to be transported to Buffalo. In a twist of fate that he would not have found amusing, Bill was laid to rest next to Barbara.

  * * *

  Denise Gerigk awoke in a private room at North Collier Hospital in Naples. Her wound had been serious, a cut three inches deep just below her heart. No vital organs damaged but a dangerous loss of blood. She didn’t remember coming out of surgery or very much of anything else until now.

  Tom had flown in from Toronto and was at her side ever since. The waiting had been hell. No matter what assurances he received, his mind stayed in flux until this very minute, when his wife’s voice eliminated whatever doubt there was about a full recovery.

  Denise was feeling the need to unburden herself: “I thought it was Miles Delany, the deputy sheriff, ringing the doorbell,” she said. “He’d made an appointment … or someone in his office did. I opened the door without a second thought, and there stood Debbie Stafford.

  “She looked normal, or at least what would pass as normal for her—sort of stressed out, yet able to function. She even asked how I was doing. I remember that very clearly. Her exact words: ‘How are you, dear?’ Then she began to clear her throat as if it were irritated and said she’d appreciate a glass of water with ice. I led the way into the kitchen and went to the cupboard for a glass. But something, some sort of intuition, made me look back. And I would’ve panicked if given half the chance but there wasn’t even time for that. Debbie had snatched a knife I’d left on the counter and began to wield it like a madwoman. I tried to get away, which was when she stabbed me…”

  Denise couldn’t continue. Tom leaned over the bed, was about to embrace her, when he reeled back, alarmed. “Your arms!”

  Time to reveal the truth, she admitted to herself. “I’m … sorry, Thomas. We were never to keep secrets from each other. But you’ve had so much on your plate, I didn’t want to burden you.” She flipped her arms from back to front. “Debbie Stafford had nothing to do with this. My anxiety was getting worse, so I took it upon myself to increase the dosage of my medication … which was when I started losing control. Not only in a physical way but a psychological one. Something mysterious was happening to me that I was powerless to resist. I’m the one who did this.” She presented her arms again.

  As she gulped in air, Tom asked: “How long has this been going on?”

  “For … months, I think. I honestly don’t know for sure.”

  “What’s the name of the medication?”

  “Narvia.”

  “Narvia?” Tom was stunned. “My God! The Internet is buzzing with rumors. Numerous complaints about side effects from the drug. A class-action lawsuit is underway.” He paused and took her hands in his own. “Denise—you’re not the only one who’s been affected.”

  Her eyes went wide. “You mean, others have been cutting themselves?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know about cutting, specifically. But other people have been going into a blackout state and hurting themselves or exhibiting varying degrees of aggression toward others. They’re blaming it on Narvia.”

  Relief washed over her and tears came to her eyes. Having the urge to cut herself, and recently to cut others, had frightened her to her core. She now realized there was a reason for her behavior. Surpassing the recommended dosage to her prescription medication is what most likely put her at risk.

  “Denise?”

  She seldom cried, especially in front of Tom.

  “Hey—” he leaned over the bed and put his arm around her. “I have something to tell you. The Canadian government went to bat for us and put pressure on Arrow. There’s a good possibility they’ll be paying about seventy-five percent of their I.O.U.”

  “They will?” Denise blinked her eyes in amazement.

  “Uh-huh.” Tom kissed her forehead. “We’re going to get through this. I promise.”

  * * *

  The mayoral electi
ons for Fort Myers and Bonita Springs were held on a Tuesday in mid-April. The incumbents—Hillier and Torbram—took full advantage of the Bonita Palms murders being solved on their watch in their respective campaigns.

  Even so, the vote was far closer than predicted by the various pollsters. In Hillier’s case his only competitor was Ron Atkinson, a fifty-two-year-old lawyer who was new to politics. Torbram, on the other hand, had two competitors—Jane Flower and Karen Ray—both city council members and well qualified. On election-eve the talking heads on television made the most of it, graphs and charts boldly displayed, stomping upon each other’s words as the pendulum shifted throughout the night.

  In the end, it was politics per usual and both men were reelected.

  * * *

  Sheriff Dean Norman, finally retired, followed the mayoral elections with some amusement. He’d never been a fan of either mayor but, for political reasons, kept his opinion to himself.

  Currently, he was having a beer in the bar at Highland Woods, having just completed a round of golf with three of his closest friends, each of whom was also recently retired. As the men conversed with each other the sheriff let his mind drift.

  It had been a strange couple of weeks. Golf too frequently at first, then less so, with the majority of his time devoted to his favorite charity—Hope for Haiti—organizing volunteers, soliciting donations. He was seldom bored and that surprised him. He’d been wondering what a life of leisure would be like. Now he wasn’t as concerned.

  * * *

  Hugh Bostwick, the president of Foster Pharmaceuticals, dressed in a navy Armani suit and blue and mauve Leonard tie, was in a foul mood as he addressed his in-house legal counsel, Charles Stedmore, a middle-aged, handsome man with dark hair, attired more casually in a Hawaiian shirt and brown slacks.

  They were in Bostwick’s office on the fiftieth floor, seated across from each other at his oversized desk.

  “What about the FDA?” Bostwick said irritably.

  Stedmore’s face remained tranquil. “What about them?”

  “Have you spoken to them?”

  “Yes, but we’re not going to get a quick response. They’ll pass the buck from one committee to another.”

  “Keep after the bastards,” Bostwick snarled. “I don’t want them shirking their responsibility. And I definitely don’t want them siding with the consumer.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Stedmore said, unconcerned.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Hugh,” the lawyer smiled benignly, “the FDA approved Narvia. They’ll do everything possible to stay out of the fray. So as far as the government is concerned, you have no worries.”

  Bostwick let out a sigh. “Tell me the number again.”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “And counting?”

  “Appears that way. We’re receiving new writs on a daily basis.”

  “So why doesn’t this bother you?”

  “We’ve been through these lawsuits before. Nothing but a nuisance,” Stedmore snorted. “These fools actually think they can hurt us? Bring us to our knees? Put the fear of God in us?”

  Bostwick liked it when someone spoke his language. “So, you really think we’re in the clear?”

  The lawyer waved a dismissive hand. “We’ll crush them on the witness stand. I’ll keep asking for continuances. Should we lose a lawsuit, there’ll then be the almost endless appellate process. I’ll wear them down until they’re ready to settle for pennies on the dollar. Though I don’t even think it will come to that. You see, I’ll place the blame on the consumers themselves. Their doctor-prescribed dosages are clearly printed on the labels. It’s not our fault if they exceeded them.”

  Bostwick looked doubtful. “And you believe your argument will hold water?”

  “Of course, I do.” Stedmore said with a gleam in his eyes. “Look—what’s the speed limit on I-95?”

  “Sixty-five miles per hour.”

  “And how fast will your Ferrari go?”

  “Over 180.”

  “So, if you’re speeding, lose control, and get killed, is it Ferrari’s fault?”

  Bostwick nodded in comprehension.

  “I’m telling you with complete confidence,” Stedmore beamed, “what you’ll ultimately end up paying will be akin to a slap on the wrist.”

  The president of Foster’s smiled for the first time since the meeting began, then tapped his forearm from elbow to wrist ala David Byrne. “Same as it ever was.”

  The lawyer repeated the motion and echoed, “Same as it ever was.”

  * * *

  Frank Sinclair was growing tired of Thailand, its oppressive heat, the laidback style of living. On a public beach under a huge umbrella, one eye observing his latest conquests, twins of indeterminate age—in their mid-teens, if he had to guess—giggling and laughing as if they were children. They’d been living with him for a little over two weeks. In exchange for sex, he clothed and fed them. Bored sooner than he could’ve imagined, for half that time he’d been trying to break it off; found it was far easier to maintain the status quo.

  He looked up and noticed a German fellow passing by. He’d met him before on the same beach. Stringy white hair. Around sixty years of age. Black bikini practically hidden by his excessive girth. An ugly sight made worse by the anorexic-looking Thai girl, maybe as much as thirteen years old, whose hand he was holding.

  Frank brought his attention back to the newspaper he’d been reading. He only got as far as page six. A story datelined Bonita Springs, Florida caught his eye, revealing the identity of the person responsible for the murder of four women, including his own wife.

  The twins inquired about the elevation in his mood. He lied and said he was just happy to be with them. The next day he was on a flight to Florida via New York. Coming back to America an exonerated man felt too good to be true.

  He renewed old acquaintances, even with men he’d never particularly liked. He joined a golf group that played on Wednesdays. Life was almost back to normal when he learned his two-million-dollar investment in The Bill Miller Fund had vanished, and Frank was livid. When he’d sold his six restaurants eleven years ago and retired to a hedonistic life, he often took money for granted and spent lavishly on himself. Now he was down to his last million and a half and knew he’d have to be far more frugal. For starters, his condo in Sarasota would have to go, along with his membership in the Zanzibar Club.

  A FedEx delivery arrived. Frank realized, even before opening the package, that it was going to be more bad news.

  Inside the sleeve was a standard white business envelope. He stood for a few minutes staring at it, tempted to tear it up unread. Until curiosity got the better of him…

  HELLO GEORGE:

  OUR PRICE HAS GONE UP. ATTACHED ARE WIRE INSTRUCTIONS TO OUR BANK IN SWITZERLAND FOR YOUR FIRST INSTALLMENT OF $10,000. ANY PAYMENT NOT RECEIVED ON THE FIRST OF EVERY MONTH, AND THE PICTURES GO VIRAL.

  YOURS TRULY,

  MELANIE

  * * *

  Larry Stafford was seated in reception at the medical wing of Milestone Prison for Women on Sanibel Island. He reflected on the past seven days and wondered if he’d ever get over the shock and humiliation, as well as the guilt.

  Larry felt his conduct in the past number of weeks was reprehensible. And the recent revelations barely gave his conscience a reprieve. Prescription medication may or may not have played a significant role in Debbie’s behavior. The nationwide debate was on as to what blame, or at least partial blame, should rest with the pharmaceutical industry. But the fact that he didn’t do more to get his wife the help she needed made all of this a moot point, at least to his way of thinking.

  “Mr. Stafford?”

  He looked up.

  A hospital security guard in his mid-forties—”Mahoney” read the tag over his right chest pock
et—was standing there. “Understand you want to see your wife,” he said with malice. “I’ll have to search you first.”

  Larry was roughly patted down, then scanned with a metal detector. He followed Mahoney along the corridor to a restricted area. When they came to Room 5, a refrigerator-size policeman standing at the door, equipped with a Glock and Taser, shot a questioning look at Mahoney. The security guard nodded a yes back to indicate Larry had been searched. The double-locked door was opened and Mahoney, with hand on his nightstick, led the way inside.

  The room was larger than average, with steel bars on the lone window. Debbie was four-way strapped into bed, by each arm and leg. Her head was still bandaged from the blow with the Jesus statue. She’d suffered a subdural hematoma. By her unfocused eyes Larry could tell she was heavily sedated.

  His wife’s arrest was still fresh in his mind. As was his own. It was mid-morning. He’d forgotten his golf hat and glove and was returning to the Augusta subdivision in Bonita Palms when he was surprised by all the cars from the sheriff’s department, lights flashing, surrounding his home. He pulled over, stepped out of his vehicle, and introduced himself. But before he could ask any questions, he was immediately cuffed, put into the back seat of a patrol car, and driven to the station for questioning. The news about Debbie had devastated him, and he soon discovered he wasn’t off the hook himself. Questions fired at him, relentless and without a break. It seemed no one wanted to believe that Debbie had acted on her own.

  In the end he was saved from being charged as an accessory to murder by his complete cooperation. Larry supplied full details of Debbie’s infatuation with religion, her irrational mood swings, and the overindulgence of her medication. Most importantly, he revealed the secret prayer room in Debbie’s office and told them how to access it through the bookcase.

  Larry noticed how pale his wife was, moved closer and touched her cheek. Her eyes focused somewhat and she muttered his name.

  “Sir—you are not to stand that close,” Mahoney warned.