Fugue State

by M. C. Adams

  Simple and direct, but will it work? The court fell into recess for the jury to decide on a verdict. Appleby said it should be quick. With nausea churning in her stomach, Alexa headed to the ladies’ room. She hovered over the toilet while her stomach went into convulsions, and the blueberry bagel came back up in chunks. The vomit burned her throat. She soothed the burn with cool water from the faucet, scooping it by hand to drink, and then rinsed her mouth thoroughly. She had just stepped out of the restroom when she stumbled into the thin black lady from the day before. It was as if she had been waiting for Alexa.

  The woman wore a similar outfit to the prior day, with the same orthopedic shoes. Her hair was pulled back neatly, and the boy with the overbite still clung to her side. “Miss DeBrow, I’m Kensie Phillips,” the woman said quietly. There was something about the woman’s timid nature that drew Alexa toward her.

  “Yes,” Alexa responded, stepping closer to the woman.

  “I know that man you kilt.”

  A twinge of pain hit Alexa’s stomach.

  “He raped me outside the library on Third Street a few years back.” The woman spoke with an odd little accent; although southern and sweet, it came out all wrong. Alexa’s forehead wrinkled into a state of confusion. “He raped me a few times, that’s how I know for sure it was him. He would wait for me to get done cleaning the library. I walk home about eight blocks after that. He found me a few times, beat me pretty good, too.” Her voice turned quieter; it hovered just above a whisper. “He stopped the first time he saw my pregnant belly.”

  Alexa stared at the woman in disbelief then looked down at the little boy, wondering how his mother could speak so candidly about something so awful with him in earshot. Kensie must have known what Alexa was thinking, because at that moment she pulled her child in front of her and covered the boy’s ears with her hands. “I just wanted you to know you weren’t alone. I thought it might help you to know there were other women that he hurt, too.” Kensie’s lips formed a simpleton smile.

  Alexa nodded and placed a hand on Kensie’s shoulder, mumbling “thank you,” as she turned away. She walked back into the courtroom while the woman’s words sank in.

  Anger. She felt the anger rise, but it took a moment to pinpoint the source. Kensie’s confession came too late. She said that Jamar had raped her multiple times, yet she waited, almost strategically, until the point in the trial in which witnesses could no longer testify to admit that Jamar had other victims. Kensie could have been a key witness if she had only come forward sooner. If she had told the jury about her attack, it would have solidified the defense’s theory that Jamar was a serial rapist — an abomination to society. Kensie Phillips held crucial information that could have helped clear Alexa’s name; yet she never offered to take the stand. More than angry, Alexa felt defeated.

  That boy clinging to her skirt. Could he be Jamar’s child? Is that why Jamar stopped raping her, because he knew he’d knocked her up? Alexa shuddered at the thought. She couldn’t imagine any product of Jamar remaining in this world.

  Her mind raced now. Kensie was raped repeatedly, yet she never fought back. She just let it happen. But she could have planned for the attack. She could have carried a gun, arranged for someone to walk with her, called the police, even. Yet, she did nothing. The fury rose to unbearable levels. If Kensie had bothered to call the police just once, maybe Jamar would never have attacked me. Maybe he would have been in prison where he belonged. Alexa stewed on her rage while the court reconvened.

  The jury had reached a decision. The anger blinded her nerves. If Kensie had bothered to testify, I doubt I’d be standing trial right now. Alexa stood to face the jury while they announced the verdict. Chin up, buttercup. Here it comes.

  The clerk read the outcome aloud: “Superior court of Texas in the county of Travis, in the matter of the people of Texas against Dr. Alexa DeBrow, we the jury in the above entitled action find the defendant, Dr. Alexa DeBrow, in the charge of second-degree murder of Jamar Reading, section 19.02: Not guilty.” The clerk then polled the twelve jurors. The same followed for the charges of manslaughter, section 19.04, and criminally negligent homicide, section 19.05. Not guilty on all accounts.

  CHAPTER 10

  The court dispersed in a frenzy of media and commotion. Appleby swept Alexa under his arm while microphones waved in her face. He quickly coaxed her out the door and into a private car so he could give a statement on her behalf.

  Appleby stood on the steps of the courthouse addressing the many reporters who surrounded him when the private car started its way through the crowd. Through the heavy tint of the windows, Alexa knew no one could see her inside, but she still saw their faces, and most didn’t look happy. Why must they be upset? She wanted to feel like she’d won, but tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

  A familiar floral cardigan topped with a Jackie-O bob carved through the crowd. Mom? Alexa’s heart heaved in her chest as the figure dissipated in the masses. Real or hallucination? she debated, her eyes scanning for the cardigan through the camera flashes as the car inched its way through the sea of people.

  The passenger door opposite her swung open and quickly slammed shut as a new figure slid into the seat. Alexa stared into the teary eyes of her mother.

  “Mom! I can’t believe you’re here. I didn’t think you could handle the media or the crowds.”

  Tess DeBrow’s hand nimbly flicked the door locked without losing her daughter’s gaze. “Alexa,” she said, her voice hovering just above a whisper. “I’m so glad this is all finally over for you. I know everything will be all right now, and you can get your life back on track after this horrible incident.” Tess forced a prim little smile that Alexa knew was typically reserved for public speaking and social banalities.

  The proper, well-kept, sensible attitude her mother maintained was too much for Alexa to bear, and she became painfully aware of the distance between them on the bench seat they shared. Both women clutched the door handles beside them as if their bodies were adhered to the doors.

  “I’m not sure anything will be all right, Mom. I’m afraid I’ll carry this stigma with me everywhere I go. Everything is different. I’m different.” She begged her mother to allow her to fall apart just this once.

  “These things happen in life, Alexa. Bad things happen. People can beat you, they can rape you, but you should never let them change you.” She looked deep into Alexa’s eyes. The pools of blue looking at Alexa were a reflection of her own.

  I look so much like her. The prominent cheekbones, the slope of her nasal bones; only the dyed chestnut hair and the age separate us.

  “You were such a good girl.” She slid a hand across the seat toward her daughter.

  Alexa frowned hard and pulled her own free hand away. Yet, we are infinitely different. You work so hard to keep face while Camelot burns to the ground, and I run around screaming. “Why must you look at me like that? You look at me like I’m a stranger.”

  “I’m looking for my daughter,” Tess stated grimly. “I feel as though I’ve lost her completely. I’m trying to look past the anger on your face. Trying to see beyond the vengefulness you display. I don’t know who you are anymore. I want my daughter back.” Her mother’s stare burned as if she were a priest trying to exorcise a demon from Alexa’s soul. Tess retrieved her outstretched hand and wrung them together in her lap.

  “Why do you keep judging me? You never did that before.” Alexa resisted the urge to open up and succumbed to the defensiveness to which she had grown accustomed. Feeling the tension grow, she tried to think of a way to steer the conversation another direction. It seemed as if the same argument unveiled itself every time she hoped to make amends.

  “I think you should see Father Andrew, Alexa.”

  Seriously? The priest from couples’ counseling? Yes, she’s planning an exorcism.

  “He can help you forgive yourself and find peace with the situation.”

  “No. Not happening. I don’t want or ne
ed forgiveness. I’m fine.” You shouldn’t have come. She hung on the thought for a moment and debated whether to unleash the wrath of her words. She paused, lowered the privacy screen, and muttered her parents’ home address to the driver. Her rage refused to subside. She raised the screen, and her head snapped back toward her mom. She’d bottled up too much for too long. The cork popped off, and she overflowed.

  “You show up for the finale, but you missed some really great stuff in the middle, Mom.”

  “You told me not to go to court anymore. It was such a cause of tension — for you, me, your father. All we did was fight. All we do is fight. You won’t let me help you. You only push me away. You’ve become very good at pushing people away, Alexa. I can count them on both hands. . . .”

  “You tell me what I should feel and should think and should do. But you’re not me. If I push you away, it’s because you’re not willing to accept me.” I told you not to come to court if you were going to side against me. She shoved her head back against the seat. “Were you planning to say goodbye today, Mom, thinking they were going to lock me away? Do you think I should be in prison?” Her lips spat bitter sarcasm.

  “It’s not like that —”

  “You shouldn’t have come.” There. Done. No more lectures.

  The silence that followed fractured the roots that bound them. Endless blocks passed before either spoke. Saltwater pools formed in Tess’ eyes. “It’s cruel the way you shut me out. My daughter would never shut me out like that,” she whimpered.

  Okay. Maybe I went too far, but her words cut deeper than Jamar’s knife. Alexa refused to back down. “I am your daughter!” she half-shouted with an exaggerated eye-roll.

  Tess sighed. “My daughter wanted to help people, not hurt them.” Their conversation slowed, each remark separated by awkward pauses.

  “Mom, let it go. So what if he’s dead? I’m alive. Your daughter is alive.”

  Tess frowned. “Of course I’m glad you’re alive. Don’t act like I don’t care about you, Alexa. You’re my blood, and I’ll always love you. I just never thought you were capable of such hate, such violence.” She shuddered. “You wanted to help people; it’s why you became a doctor.”

  “Not anymore. I quit, Mom.”

  Tess turned her head from her daughter to look out the window.

  “I see. What will you do?”

  What a condescending tone!

  “I don’t know. I need to figure things out. It’s complicated.”

  “You can come home.”

  Alexa searched for real sentiment in the offer. Hmm. Sounds a little cold.

  “No. That won’t work. Besides, the media isn’t ready to let this die down. I need to get away from here.”

  The car stopped. Alexa recognized her parent’s massive English Tudor home, and her inner child yearned to retreat to her safe place — curled in a blanket, sitting in her grandmother’s rocking chair in her bedroom. A news crew perched on the front lawn where she used to play.

  Alexa looked at her mother. She had nothing more to say. Tess reached over to hug her daughter. Numb after the day’s events, the embrace seemed lifeless.

  “Why does this feel like goodbye?” Tess pleaded.

  Alexa shrugged.

  “Give me some time, Mom. I’ll let you know.”

  Tess nodded and turned away quickly, wiping away a tear as she exited the car.

  CHAPTER 11

  Appleby sent Alexa to the Four Seasons that night, knowing her residence would be swarmed with media. She checked in under a fake name and had her food sent to her via room service. Although not guilty, she hid from the world like a criminal. Her mind toiled while she sat there alone for over an hour. I should feel relieved, she told herself, trying to unwind. Her fidgeting fingers reached for the phone, and she called Smokey Joe. The sun had set, and she wasn’t sure he would still be at the range. She waited three rings before the familiar gruff voice answered.

  “Otter Creek Shooting Range and Gun Club.”

  “Joe!” she declared, ecstatic.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Joe, it’s Alexa.”

  “Shoot, girl. I thought I’d lost you.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Her voice turned shaky.

  “You’re lookin’ for some target practice tonight, I reckon?”

  “Yes, Joe. If you’re up for it, that is. It’s late, I know.”

  “All right. I figure you deserve it after the day you’ve been through.”

  He’s alluding to the trial. Damn. Why must everyone watch the news? She had assumed as much.

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Alexa stated, making mental notes of everything she would need to do to get there that quickly.

  “Not this time. I’ve got a better idea for tonight.”

  Alexa jotted down directions to somewhere just outside of town. She hung up and called for a cab. She grabbed comfortable hospital scrubs and tennis shoes and tucked her hair under a ball cap pulled low over her face. She glanced at the silly disguise in the mirror and hoped it was enough to keep the attention away from her. What a perfectly unattractive ensemble!

  She had the cab driver stop at a liquor store to get a gift for Joe. She bought him a bottle of Tennessee White Whiskey. It was one of his favorites.

  The address Joe had given her was another twenty minutes beyond the edge of the city limits. Finally, the cab turned onto a long dirt driveway. Alexa saw Joe standing in front of a clearing lit by a few large spotlights. She thanked the cab driver with a generous tip before turning to Joe.

  “Why did you want to meet here?”

  Joe grinned. “This here is my private shooting range.” He motioned to the lighted clearing surrounded by trees and pasture. “I’ve got something special for tonight, kinda celebratory, given the situation.”

  Joe’s reference to the trial made Alexa uneasy. She handed him the whiskey in an attempt to change the subject. Joe accepted the bottle and nodded his head in approval; gratitude sparkled in the old man’s eyes.

  “You ever tried this stuff?” he asked. Alexa shook her head.

  “Give it a swig. Ladies first.” Joe opened the bottle and passed it to her.

  The liquor smelled strong and sweet. She took a long gulp and hoped the alcohol would wash away her memories. The whiskey burned the back of her throat, still sore from vomiting earlier. She forced a swallow and passed the bottle back to her friend.

  Joe chuckled to himself. “Yeah, it’s pretty strong stuff straight up. But you get used to it. Come on. We better get started. I’ve got a lot to show you.”

  Alexa followed Joe into the clearing, and she realized he had a small arsenal laid out on a bench before them. She viewed the array of handguns, small semi-automatics with sights, and rifles. Only one of the guns looked familiar. On the ground behind them were multiple two-liter and twenty-ounce plastic soda bottles. Some bottles were spray painted in neon green, others were clear with the labels stripped away.

  Joe beamed. “Target practice. Time we bumped you up to some moving targets.”

  “Nice. I like a challenge.”

  Joe handed her a simple handgun. He grabbed a neon green two-liter and threw it high into the air and about twenty yards in front of them. Alexa hit it on the second shot.

  “All right, you’re gonna have to do better than that if this is gonna be any fun.”

  Alexa blushed. He threw another two-liter high into the air. This time she only needed one shot.

  “Better. Now close your eyes, and open them when you hear me say so.”

  She obeyed her instructor and opened her eyes at his command, quickly firing before the bottle landed. When the bullet hit the two-liter, it exploded into a small ball of fire. Her eyes widened in amazement.

  Joe laughed heartily. “Good thing you hit that one. It would have been a shame to miss your response. Told you I had something special out here. You can’t have fireballs indoors, you know. Don’t worry. We’ve got more to come. Close your eyes. F
ace me. This time, I want you to hear me throw the bottle. Then turn, spot it, and fire.”

  Alexa nodded.

  She listened for the sound and turned, too late. The bottle had already hit the ground.

  “Again,” said Joe.

  She turned back to face him and closed her eyes. She didn’t hit the bottle with this approach until the third try. Another fiery explosion confirmed the hit.

  The game continued for a total of twelve bottles, the last six being the smaller twenty-ounce variety. Alexa hit only seven of them.

  “Not bad, for a girl. Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

  Alexa flashed a mischievous grin. “Where’d you learn to throw like that? Don’t tell me you were the high school quarterback.”

  “A long time ago, I was a lot of things — football, baseball, you name it, I did it. That was before the army.” His eyes fell to the ground.

  “It’s impressive — your throwing, that is,” she added.

  Joe frowned.

  You don’t like compliments, Joe? Funny, how we’re similar in that way.

  Joe took another swig of whiskey and motioned back to the clearing. “You’ve got more work to do.”

  He grabbed one of the small, semi-automatic weapons and crouched down behind the bench where the remaining weapons lay. “Like this,” he told her. “You don’t fire until the bottle crosses below the top of that pole.”