Bitter Truth

by C. J. Carmichael

  “Could she be that awful? Maybe when you were kids, but now...?”

  “I gave up trying to figure my sister out years ago. I’ve always tried to assume the best, especially since she does so much for me. We’ll just have to wait until she comes home to ask her.”

  “She will come home, won’t she?”

  “Where else would she go?”

  That was a good question and it reminded Tiff of how little they knew about Marsha’s life outside their family circle.

  “We could try phoning Dr. Pittman.”

  “Maybe in the morning,” her mother suggested. “Though Marsha will probably be back by then.”

  Tiff made her mother tea, then carried it up to her room for her. As they said good night she noticed how clear her mom’s eyes looked in that moment. Maybe tomorrow would be one of her good days.

  In her room Tiff read for a while, but thoughts of Kenny kept interrupting. She longed to tell him all that had happened, and get his perspective on what the problem was with Marsha. He’d seen Marsha’s dark side before she had. Maybe he had more insights. But the way they’d left things last night, she doubted he would welcome a second unannounced visit from her.

  Eventually she fell asleep. At some point in the night she heard her aunt’s car, then the motor of the electric garage door opener. That’s strange, she thought. Aunt Marsha hardly ever uses the garage. Must be snowing...

  She wanted to get out of bed and talk to her aunt, but she was so warm and cozy, and so emotionally exhausted, she let herself drift and drift until deep sleep sucked her down.

  Loud banging invaded the fog of sleep and Tiff rolled over in bed, covered her head with her arms. Another loud bang. What the heck? Groggy, she tried to open her eyes but she was so exhausted.

  Be quiet, I need to sleep. Just as she was sinking back into the most delicious sleep she’d had in years, the pounding started again. And shouting.

  Something was wrong. Clawing awake through the strange fatigue weighing her down, she pulled herself to a sitting position. Her head felt four times heavier than normal. She groped for her phone, turned it on so she could see what time it was.

  Two in the morning. For God’s sake.

  For a few seconds all was quiet. Then a loud smash shattered the stillness. It sounded like someone had broken a window.

  Tiff jumped to her feet, but her legs wobbled and her head spun. Woozy, she collapsed back onto the bed. The noise. Someone breaking inside. Danger. Her mom. She had to get her mom.

  But her body wouldn’t move. Was she sick? Hallucinating? What was wrong with her?

  “Mom! Can you hear me? I think someone’s breaking in. Lock your door!”

  She wanted to call 911, but at this time of night the call would be handled by the Missoula call center. Too far away. She dialed Zak instead.

  Her friend sounded so alert it was almost as if he’d been awake by the phone.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Banging...breaking glass.” Terror choked the air from her lungs. “Someone’s in here!”

  “Get your mom and your aunt and run if you can.”

  “I can’t walk! There’s...something wrong with me.”

  She heard footsteps racing around the main floor of the house, a man’s voice shouting. And then there was pounding up the stairs. Tiff screamed and dropped her phone as she grabbed for the edge of her nightstand. Oh, God...oh, God...

  A man appeared in her doorway. It was Kenny. Wild relief made her laugh when she wanted to cry. She tried to run to him but her legs wobbled again. Kenny cursed and ran to catch her before she fell.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “It isn’t safe. You need to get out of here.”

  His words came too fast for her to make sense of them. Something about the garage, and doors and windows.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I-I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll help.” He put one arm across her back and supported the majority of her weight. Then he half-carried, half-dragged her down the stairs and pushed her out the door onto the wooden porch floor. “Stay,” he barked, as if she was a dog.

  Confused, she did exactly that. Not that she had much choice. She was so weak she could hardly crawl to the wicker chair on the porch, and pull down the fuzzy blanket folded over the arm.

  She drew the blanket around her shoulders, shivering in the frigid air. Her head ached and she couldn’t think straight.

  Was the house on fire? Kenny must have seen flames from the guest cottage and come running. He would have found all the exterior doors locked, as per usual. So he’d broken one of the kitchen windows. That explained the crash she’d heard.

  Tiff was still putting together pieces of the puzzle when Kenny ran through the front door again, this time carrying her mother. Rosemary was limp in his arms.

  “Is she okay?”

  “Unconscious.” Kenny said between ragged breaths. “I’ve got to get her to the clinic. I’ve called Dr. Pittman. He’s going to meet us there.”

  “Is the fire on the other side of the house?”

  “Fire?” He stared at her a moment, then shook his head. “Don’t move,” he repeated. “I’m going to get my truck.”

  Carefully he set her mother down beside her and then he disappeared into the night.

  It was snowing again and Kenny was soon out of sight. Tiffany placed the blanket over her mother’s still body. She wished she could run into the house to grab their coats and boots, but Kenny wanted her to stay here, and she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to walk anyway.

  The cold air helped clear her lungs though. She took several long breaths and felt the fog in her brain begin to lift. Funny she hadn’t smelled any smoke. She still didn’t smell any smoke. Or hear the crackling of fire.

  And that’s when she remembered her aunt Marsha. She’d gotten home very late and parked her truck in the garage. She was probably in her room right now!

  Tiff grabbed the porch railing and pulled herself to her feet. A little stronger now, she let go of the railing, testing her weight and her balance. And then she headed for the door.

  She was almost inside when Kenny called out.

  “Tiff! Stop!”

  She spun around and almost fainted on the spot. A moment later Kenny’s arms were around her.

  “Why were you going back in, you fool?” He pressed her tightly to his chest.

  “Aunt Marsha’s in there. We have to save her, too.”

  “Tiff, babe, I’m sorry. Your aunt is in her truck in the garage. We can’t save her now but we have to get your mom to the clinic.” He led her down the stairs, along the path to his truck.

  Tiff twisted, trying to see inside the garage. The door was open. She could see the rear end of her aunt’s truck. “Why is she still in her truck? I heard her drive home. It was hours ago.”

  “She’s dead, Tiff.”

  “No!” Tiff slumped back to the ground. “That can’t be...no, no, no.”

  But the look on Kenny’s face said it was somehow true.

  “How...?”

  “Carbon monoxide poisoning.” Kenny helped her stand, helped her keep moving.

  It wasn’t a fire Kenny was trying to protect them from, but noxious gas. “I don’t understand.”

  “Your aunt left her truck running in the garage. She also propped open the door between the garage and the house.”

  Tiff couldn’t follow all these twists and turns. Nothing Kenny was saying made any sense. “Why would she do that?”

  “By the time her truck ran out of fuel, all three of you would have been dead.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Tiff? Goddammit, Tiff, talk to me!” Zak leaped out of bed and pulled on his jeans. When it was clear Tiff either didn’t intend, or wasn’t able, to respond, he hit his speed dial number for the sheriff.

  “What the hell?” The sheriff’s words came out slurred. He was either sleeping or very drunk. Zak hoped it was the former.


  “I had a call from Tiff Masterson. She said someone was breaking into their house, and then suddenly she stopped talking. I’m on my way over to Raven Farms right now.”

  “Jesus, Zak. Hang tight. I’m right behind you.”

  Zak pushed his truck, squinting through the falling snow, praying that some deer or moose wouldn’t pick this of all times to meander across the road. He’d never spot it in time to avoid a collision.

  When he pulled into Raven Farms he could see a tall man with a woman draped over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. The man seemed to be heading toward a truck with an open passenger side door. Zak pulled up parallel to the truck and slammed on the brakes. He was out the door while the truck was still rocking.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Need to get her to the clinic.” Kenny grunted.

  Zak helped him get the woman—it was Rosemary, pale and lifeless—settled into the passenger seat. “What happened?”

  “Carbon monoxide poisoning. Tiff has it too, only not as bad. Marsha’s in the truck in the garage. Dead.” Kenny tucked Rosemary’s legs into the floor well, covered her with a blanket and closed the door.

  He ran to the driver’s side of his truck, then looked over at Zak. “Tiff’s on the porch. You take care of her, Waller. Get her to the clinic.”

  “I will,” Zak promised. As the truck screeched off, he turned to the porch. Tiff was sitting on a wicker chair, staring at him. Tears streamed down her face, her eyes were wild with stunned shock. Wearing only pajamas, Tiff visibly shivered and rubbed her arms.

  “Zak! Marsha’s in the garage. Kenny says she’s dead.”

  Zak hesitated. He’d promised Kenny he’d take Tiff to the clinic, but he couldn’t leave without checking on Marsha. “Hang tight. I’m going to see if I can help.”

  He removed his jacket and placed it over Tiff’s shoulders. “Zip up. It’s twenty below out here.”

  Cold enough to freeze a witch’s tits, his father would have said. How strange to have his old man’s voice in his head at a moment like this.

  As he started to run he heard a siren in the distance. Good.

  Soon he smelled noxious exhaust fumes. He pulled up his sweater to cover his nose and mouth as he approached the white truck parked inside the garage. Ahead he could see the door to the house was propped open with what looked like a can of paint.

  He approached the driver’s side of the truck cautiously. “Marsha?”

  Through the window he could see her slumped over the steering wheel. In his brain a narrator was reciting a checklist he’d learned in one of his courses. Stay calm. Secure the area. Get help for victims. Don’t disturb evidence if possible.

  He felt remarkably calm as he opened the door and felt for a pulse on her neck.

  None.

  Thankfully Marsha wasn’t wearing her seat belt. He grabbed her under the arms and pulled her dead weight from the vehicle, through the garage and out to the fresh air. The sirens which had been growing louder and louder were suddenly silenced as the sheriff’s official SUV pulled up ten yards from where Zak was standing.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Ford’s coat was open, revealing a misbuttoned shirt and an unbuckled belt.

  “Carbon monoxide poisoning. Marsha doesn’t have a pulse.” As he spoke he arranged Marsha so he could begin compressions. “Get Tiff in the truck, then we’ll transfer Marsha.”

  Instructions from his first aid course, upgraded just last March, popped helpfully into Zak’s brain. He loosened the jacket from Marsha’s chest, and searched for the tip of her breastbone. His heart raced, hot adrenaline pumped through his veins, but his thoughts remained clear.

  He stacked his hands the way he’d practiced and pressed down. Hard and fast, he aimed for about one hundred compressions per minute.

  Dimly aware of the sheriff helping Tiff into the front passenger seat and instructing her to do up her seat belt, Zak kept up the compressions. When Tiff was settled, the sheriff came and helped him carry Marsha into the back seat.

  Zak continued the compressions as the sheriff hurried to the driver’s seat.

  “Where’s your mom?” the sheriff asked.

  When Tiff didn’t answer, Zak said between compressions, “Farm manager has her. Driving her to clinic.”

  “Huh. I think I passed them on the way here. Almost stopped the guy for speeding. But figured this was more important.”

  Great deduction, Sherlock.

  The truck started moving. Zak lost his balance as Ford pulled a tight three-sixty. Pushing against the side of the door he righted himself. Within seconds he’d regained the rhythm of his compressions even though it was probably too late.

  Tiff stopped crying. Every few seconds she sniffed, but other than that she was quiet.

  Ford phoned Nadine from the road, instructing her to get to Raven Farms and collect evidence from the garage, in particular Marsha’s car. Then he tried to get some details out of Tiff, but she seemed beyond words at this point and after the third unanswered question Ford gave up.

  All the while Zak was counting in his head, thirty compressions, two breaths, thirty compressions, two breaths, thirty compressions...

  Lights were on at the clinic when they arrived. Kenny rushed out to meet them.

  “What the hell took so long?” He opened Tiff’s door and led her inside. “Your mom’s on oxygen. She’s regained consciousness. She’s going to be okay.”

  The same did not hold for Marsha Holmes. Ten minutes later a shaky Doc Pittman gave an official pronouncement of death. The doc looked like he was on the verge of collapse, himself, Zak thought.

  It had been a hell of night. Thank God more lives hadn’t been lost.

  Tuesday, December 12

  Zak had always wondered how he’d cope under pressure, when lives were at stake. He was relieved to discover he’d been fine. Better than fine. Last night at the Mastersons, then later in the clinic, he’d been focused and clear-headed. He felt like he was functioning at a higher level than normal—much the way he felt when he was in the middle of a good run.

  The minute he got home, everything changed. He started to shake. Then he vomited.

  Images flashed through his mind. Kenny lugging Rosemary toward his truck like she was a sack of potatoes. Tiff’s shell-shocked face when she told him her aunt was dead. The zombie-like weight of Marsha’s body when he dragged her out of that truck.

  He put on the TV, found a mindless comedy to distract himself from the horror of the night.

  But when he drifted back to sleep he dreamed he was blowing air into Marsha’s mouth when suddenly her eyes popped open.

  Stop it, she said. Can’t you see I’m dead?

  He awoke in a sweat, Watson curled beside him. He stroked the cat, forgiving him for all his aloof stares and indifferent yawns of the past. When the chips were down, his cat was here for him.

  The next morning a run was out of the question. Zak had an extra-long shower and two cups of coffee, but still felt less than human as he made his way to the office. For the first time in his dispatching career he was late—by an entire five minutes.

  Nadine had let herself in and started the coffee.

  “Last night was intense. I’m still not sure I understand what happened.”

  “Me either.” Before he could ask how she’d made out collecting evidence the sheriff called. “I’ve got a breakfast meeting and won’t be in until around ten.”

  “Right.” No doubt Ford’s meeting was with his pillow and comforter.

  “We need statements from Kenny and the Mastersons,” Zak reminded him.

  “Send Black. I know you’re only a goddamned dispatcher Waller, but you were there last night. You better go with her.”

  “So what was it like last night?” Nadine asked on the drive out to the farm. She was behind the wheel, eyes hidden by her aviator sunglasses.

  The sun had chosen to come out today and the reflection off the fresh snow was blinding. The temperature had also d
ropped another five degrees. It was one of those bitter cold days that made Zak’s teeth ache.

  “It was a nightmare.”

  Nadine turned to him, lifted her glasses enough so he could see her eyes. “You want to talk about it?”

  “Later.”

  Tiff answered the door seconds after he knocked. From the road he’d texted to warn they were coming. Her eyes were red and watery. She said hello to Nadine, then threw her arms around him.

  “You and Kenny. You saved our lives.”

  “It was Kenny who saved you.” Zak looked over her shoulder. “Is he here?”

  Tiff nodded. “In the kitchen with Mom. Come on.”

  She led Zak and Nadine past a framed family portrait to the back of the house. The morning sun was bright in the kitchen, making the events of the previous evening seem all the more surreal.

  It was Kenny who poured the coffee and put a plate of cookies on the table. Tiff sat next to her mother and took her hand between both of hers. Rosemary leaned slightly toward her daughter, as if her physical closeness offered comfort. She glanced up at Zak. Shook her head. “I don’t believe this.”

  Tiff squeezed her hand. “Have a cookie, Mom. You haven’t had a bite all morning.”

  “It’s a lot to process.” Zak hesitated, wondering what you said about the death of someone who had tried to kill you. He decided to keep it simple. “I’m sorry about Marsha.”

  Both Tiff and her mom acknowledged his condolences with a simple nod.

  “What time were you released from the clinic?” Zak asked.

  “Just before seven. Kenny drove us home and we’ve been sitting here drinking coffee and tea ever since. We’ll all need a nap soon. We didn’t sleep much at the clinic.”

  “We’re here to get statements from each of you about last night,” Nadine said. “If you’re not up to it now, we could come back after lunch.”

  “Mom might need some time but I’d like to get it over with,” Tiff said.

  “I’m good to talk now,” Kenny agreed. “I take it you’ve already been through the garage?”

  “I was here last night,” Nadine explained. “I took some prints and photographs.” She directed her gaze to Rosemary. “It appears your sister swallowed a bunch of sleeping pills last night as well. I found an empty vial in the console as well as a half-empty bottle of water.”