by Julie Cave
With one hand jammed into the freezer on a packet of frozen peas to treat the burns, Dinah used her other hand with the dishtowel to flap at the smoke alarm, trying to coax it into silence. It ignored her. Finally with desperate frustration, she screamed: "Shut up!"
The smoke alarm, at that exact moment, fell still. Then she heard her neighbor, a cantankerous old man who spent his time snooping out of his windows, thud on their shared wall and yell back, "You shut up!"
Dinah took several deep breaths, closing her eyes and trying to control her temper. It didn't work. She was too angry that she'd ruined dinner, she'd lost her train of thought in regard to the crime scene photo, her fingers ached, and she just really badly wanted a drink.
It's not fair! she stormed to herself. Anyone else who is stressed can just have a glass of wine. Why is this such a problem for me?
Restless, Dinah roamed the house, trying not to think of the overwhelming desire to drink and trying to ignore the self-pitying voice in her head. Then she jammed her feet into her sneakers and threw on an old sweatshirt, determined to run off the anger. As she ran, she thought about her own volatility. She was constantly on edge, waiting to fall over the precipice. It was ridiculous that something as inane as burning dinner could have such a profound effect on her. Had she been this angry while she was an alcoholic and not realized it because she was always numb?
Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking, she commanded herself. She tried to empty her mind and focus on running. She rounded the final corner to head home and suddenly stopped. In front of her loomed the liquor store where she had been a frequent customer only a few short months ago. She'd known the layout intimately. She'd known where to find her favorite wines and vodka. It had been a place of comfort to her, like a library to a booklover, or a theater to a movie buff.
Dinah swallowed and wiped sweat from her brow. She stared, tortured and besieged, at the glowing neon lights.
I have to go. I must go. Time to go home.
Yet she couldn't bring herself to move in any direction except toward the doors of the liquor store. She put her hand in her pocket and suddenly realized she hadn't brought her purse with her. Then, startled, she thought how close she'd come to actually setting foot in the liquor store.
Dinah backed away and began sprinting toward her apartment. Inside, she was crushed with guilt and disappointment and self-loathing. Once home, she ignored the mess in the kitchen and threw herself on her bed.
Lord, I can't do it, I just can't do it. Dinah was overcome with feelings of frustration and impotence.
Finally, she picked up her cell phone and dialed her mentor. Faith Kuijt had been a trained addiction counselor for many years, but the main reason Dinah had connected with her was because she was a Christian. The facility in which she'd completed her rehabilitation had been a Christian organization, and it made sense that their outpatient counselors were also Christians.
"Hello?" Faith answered, her warm voice infused with compassion.
"It's Dinah …I'm having some trouble." Dinah's voice was shaky as she explained the kitchen incident, followed by the temptation she'd faced outside the liquor store. "I don't know why I'm so angry. It's such a small thing, yet I completely lost it. And the first thing I want to do is drink to calm down."
"I understand," said Faith. "What you're experiencing is perfectly normal on the road to recovery. The most important thing you can do is reach out for help when you feel this way. Perhaps you should have rung me instead of going for a run."
Faith's sensible approach soothed Dinah and she felt the tension begin to slowly melt away.
"Listen," said Faith. "I'd like to point something out to you. Anger that is uncontrolled is dangerous for many people, but is lethal for you. Psalm 37:8 says to forsake anger, for it only brings harm. In your case, anger is a pathway down which you will find yourself drinking again. Do you understand?"
Dinah sighed. "Yes, I do. If I don't get my temper under control, having a relapse is likely, right?"
"Right. Most importantly," said Faith, "you have a relationship with a God who is awesomely powerful. He promises in 2 Peter 2:9 that the Lord knows how to deliver the godly out of temptations. Pray about this, Dinah. Ask the Lord for strength when you are in your hour of greatest weakness and ask for wisdom when you feel strong. He will give you everything you need and more."
Dinah felt tears spring to her eyes. "Faith …it's just so hard sometimes."
"I understand, Dinah. Remember that I'm praying for you every day, okay?"
Dinah ruefully admitted that she needed all the prayer she could get and hung up. Feeling suddenly exhausted, she sank down on the living room couch and closed her eyes.
Eventually she collapsed on her bed, and prayed for strength until sleep overcame her. Then she dreamed of a great and holy presence, filling her with awe and fear as it approached. It wrapped unseen arms of love around her, soothed her spirit and told her: I am watching over you, my child.
Chapter 4
Ella Barnett had been so exhausted upon falling into bed at midnight that she was asleep almost the minute her head touched the pillow. Her father had refused to go to bed, positive that she would harm him if he fell asleep. Despite the fact that he was an old man, he was still too strong for Ella to physically drag to bed and so she'd stayed up with him until he'd relented. She no longer dared to leave him alone, knowing that he could escape or hurt himself or hurt someone else.
For that reason, she didn't hear him wake before her, walk downstairs and let himself out of the front door. She continued her deep, dreamless sleep.
Ella didn't know what woke her — but she suddenly sat up straight in bed, darts of fear driving into her heart. Then she heard a faint but unmistakable voice yelling from somewhere outside and her stomach turned to ice.
Hastily she dressed and checked that her father wasn't in the back yard before rushing out into the street. It was a quiet morning, but she could see him standing on the sidewalk outside a house. In the warm air, his voice fell on her ears like tiny pieces of broken music.
As she got closer, she recognized the rhythm of his words. "Peter! Henry!" he called, facing the house in front of which he stood. "Come out! I know you're in there!"
The middle-aged lady who lived in the house stood on her front porch, looking uncertain and miffed. "Nobody by that name lives here," she said, in the irritated tones of somebody who has repeated the message many times. "There are certainly no young children here. It's just me and my husband."
"Dad! What are you doing?" asked Ella, approaching him in full view so as not to scare or upset him.
He turned to look, but there was no flash of recognition in his eyes today. "Young lady," he said, authoritatively. "I must speak with Peter and Henry. Now, where are they?"
"Who are Peter and Henry?" the middle-aged woman asked.
"Two boys, eight and nine years old," explained John Barnett. "If you won't help me, I'll speak to your supervisor."
Bewildered, the woman asked Ella, "Do you have any idea what he's talking about?"
"He asked me the same thing," piped up a male neighbor from over the fence. "He's been wandering up and down the street yelling at all the houses. I don't know what he wants."
"He has Alzheimer's," said Ella. "Nobody knows what he's talking about. I'm sorry he's disturbed you. He's very confused."
The woman nodded, her face softening a little. "I'm sorry to hear that. Good luck."
From her porch, she watched as Ella took her father by the arm. "Come on," she said. "Perhaps you'll find the answer at home."
Please just come home, prayed Ella frantically. Please don't make a scene here. Thankfully, John Barnett agreed to go with her peacefully. Ella noticed curtains twitching as she walked by. She felt a sudden surge of anger. Nosy neighbors, she thought, but won't come to help.
As if she'd read Ella's mind, Margaret appeared from her house and came to take John's other arm. "Hello, dear," she said kindly. "H
ad some trouble this morning?"
"He's obsessed with two boys named Henry and Peter," said Ella, her voice tight with frustration and embarrassment. "Maybe they're from his past, but I have no idea how to help him."
They arrived back at the house and Ella settled her father in his favorite chair while Margaret made tea. In the kitchen, Margaret inquired, "Have you thought about getting some residential help for your father?"
Ella frowned. "What do you mean?"
Margaret handed her a mug of hot, sweet tea. "He's quite advanced in his disease," she said. "There's a limit to the care you can provide him. He may be better off with professional care."
"You think he should be put into a home?" asked Ella.
"I realize that you love your father very much. But he has an awful disease that is getting progressively worse. I think professional care should be the next phase before you wear yourself out entirely." Margaret watched the young woman from behind her teacup.
"I've thought about it," admitted Ella, at length. "But I just can't bring myself to do it. Dad means so much to me. I just couldn't put him in a strange place full of people he doesn't know. Anyway, that's a bad thing to do for someone with dementia. He needs familiarity and his own things."
"I do agree with you, to a point," said Margaret. "But he's getting to the stage where he doesn't recognize you or his home. The disease has stolen his ability to even have familiar things and people around him."
Ella sighed. Margaret was making sense, of course, but Ella just couldn't fathom abandoning her father into a nursing home. She had promised to take care of him when he was well enough to understand that vow, and she couldn't break it now.
"I'll think some more about it," she told Margaret. "I'm coping, at the moment. I'll see how things go."
"Okay." Margaret drained her teacup and placed it on the kitchen sink. "I'm always here if you need me, dear."
"Thanks, Margaret. I do appreciate it." Ella embraced her neighbor briefly, and then saw her out the front door.
Back in the living room, her father was napping and he looked almost like he used to, before the disease had stolen his memory, personality, and pride.
Ella put her head in her hands and tried to think. Oh, Dad. What am I going to do with you?
****
Dinah Harris had a free morning, having agreed to meet Detective Samson Cage later in the day to talk to the crime scene lab. With new energy, she attacked the congealed burnt dinner from last night and cleaned the whole kitchen.
As she cleaned, she fell deep into thought. Last night had been a close call, but she'd pulled through — just. She felt as though she was in a battle for her life: on one side, her old, alcoholic self trying to seduce her back into addiction, and on the other side, a beacon of hope and a source of power. Yet it was so much easier to slide back into addiction than it was to climb the mountain toward hope. She knew she'd be in a war against alcohol all her life, and that the battles would get easier in time. In fact, every morning that she awoke with a clear head, still sober, brought her an added measure of hope for the future. She was beginning to accept that Sammy and Luke would never come back, but she could certainly begin to build a new life.
As Dinah scrubbed the stove, she thought about how close she'd come to ending her own life during the Smithsonian case. It was by God's grace that she didn't succeed. It wasn't until she'd almost died that she realized she wanted to live.
Dinah stood, surveyed her clean kitchen, and snapped off her rubber gloves just as the doorbell rang. Answering it, she saw a DHL deliveryman waiting with a long, oblong box.
"Delivery for Dinah Harris?" he said.
"Thanks," said Dinah, bemusedly looking at the package. She didn't know anyone who would send her a gift so unexpectedly.
Inside her apartment, she opened the package and her stomach turned to ice. Nestled inside was a bottle of Smirnoff vodka with a bright red bow tied around the neck. Alongside the bottle a small card poked out of the tissue paper. With shaking hands, Dinah opened the card: "Thinking of you always. Hope you enjoy. David."
It was an innocuous message to anyone except Dinah. "David" just happened to be Senator David Winters, the mastermind behind four murders during the Smithsonian case. He'd been smart enough to leave behind no clues or evidence inculpating him, and only Dinah knew the truth. He'd confessed his involvement as a precursor to having her killed, but thanks to her old FBI partner Ferguson, she'd escaped. The only thing that ensured she would avoid his murderous hand now was a sworn document ensconced in an electronic vault with instructions for it to be made public if she died.
Furthermore, Senator Winters knew that Dinah was an alcoholic, and the gift was both mocking and cruel — an invitation to self-destruct. This was his way of letting her know that he was watching her for an opportune time to get rid of her.
While he sought to be president, she was safe. Even a whiff of a scandal involving four murders would be enough to end his campaign. After that, Dinah knew he would use every one of his formidable resources to hunt her down.
She picked up the phone and dialed the direct number to his office. His secretary, a woman skilled at allowing virtually no one to speak to the senator, answered.
"I need to speak with Senator Winters," Dinah said.
"I'm sorry," said the secretary superciliously. "I'm afraid you can't. He…."
"Tell him it's the woman who came back from the dead," interrupted Dinah shortly. "I can guarantee you he'll want to speak to me."
There was an outraged sniff, then the tone of a transfer being made. Even the hold music managed to sound offended at Dinah's tone.
In a few moments, the senator answered. "How nice of you to keep in touch," he said, a sneer evident in his tone.
"I'm just calling to thank you for your thoughtful gift," said Dinah.
"I meant what I said in the card," replied the Senator. "I think of you often."
"You can be assured I'll keep working on your case, no matter what it takes," promised Dinah.
"I hope you're not working too hard!" chuckled Winters. "Well, perhaps a glass of the vodka will relax you."
Dinah ignored the jibe. "How are your presidential aspirations?"
"Wonderful. I have some kind contributors to my campaign. How are things at the FBI?" Winters knew full well that Dinah had been fired.
"I wonder how well your contributors know you?" mused Dinah. "I'd hate for them to get a nasty phone call or an anonymous letter."
"They don't wish for their identities to be made public, unfortunately," replied Winters curtly. "It wouldn't be in anyone's best interest for that to happen."
"Never mind. I'm sure the truth will be revealed eventually," said Dinah. "Then you won't have to worry about it again. The truth will set you free."
"Quoting from the Bible, are you?" scoffed Winters. "Have you had a big conversion, become a born-again or something?"
"Actually, I have," said Dinah calmly. "It's precisely why you don't scare me."
Winters laughed. "Then you'd better say your prayers every night, Harris. I haven't noticed God stepping down from heaven to stop me from doing anything so far."
"Perhaps He's waiting for you to see Him up there," suggested Dinah.
Winters laughed again. "If I was a different person, I'd feel sorry for you all over again. Not only are you a miserable alcoholic, but you're also a pathetic born-again. You should run along to church and sing songs about how grand the world is. Meanwhile, I'll concentrate on running it."
Abruptly, he hung up.
Dinah massaged her temples, a headache flaring behind her eyes. She'd made a powerful enemy, but she was determined that one day she'd bring him to account for all that he'd done.
Dinah prepared to meet Detective Samson Cage and left her apartment a short time later.
She didn't know why she didn't pour the vodka down the sink.
****
Dinah met Detective Samson Cage at the crime laboratory on Constit
ution Avenue. It was a different crime lab than the one used when she'd been in the FBI. She was unfamiliar with it, and so she arrived a little early and stood out in front, waiting for the big detective to arrive.
When he eased the unmarked Crown into the parking space, Dinah noticed that the outside of the car was scrupulously clean. Suspiciously, even the alloy wheels shined a little too much. She couldn't help but smile as she waved at Cage.
They walked through the front doors together and Dinah asked, "Do you actually wash that car?"
"I'm the only one who drives it," replied Cage. "Why wouldn't I?"
"It doesn't belong to you, for one thing," said Dinah. They waited for the lab technician who was working on their case to come and get them. "It's state property. Isn't it someone else's job to take care of the fleet cars?"
Cage smiled. "If I'm the one who has to be seen in it, I want it to be clean. If I wait for the fleet guys to wash it, it would be filthy all the time. So I do it myself."
Dinah thought about that while they waited. Appearances were important to Samson Cage, it seemed.
"Dinah! What are you doing here, man?" A skinny guy with bleached, platinum hair and multiple piercings appeared in the doorway, a huge grin on his face.
"Hey, Zach!" Dinah stood to greet the lab technician. He had worked closely with her on the Smithsonian case and was one of the best, if not unconventional, technicians in the city. He wore square-toed, alligator-leather shoes with his lab coat, together with several studded, leather cuffs on his wrists. His hair was spiked to resemble a mohawk, and a particularly shiny jewel winked from the piercing in his eyebrow.
"I'm helping Detective Cage with a case," Dinah explained. "I thought I'd lend some expertise."
"You guys must be doing it tough," lamented Zach, turning to Cage. "You're really scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren't you?"
"Well, we have a very low budget," said Cage, his face perfectly straight. "You get what you pay for, I suppose."
Zach slapped Cage on the back and laughed uproariously.
"You two are very funny guys," muttered Dinah scathingly, following them down the hallway. "What are you doing here? Don't you work for the FBI anymore?"