Ten Times Guilty

by Hill, Brenda

  TEN TIMES GUILTY

  By Brenda Hill

  Copyright © 2005 by Brenda Hill

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotes in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons or events is entirely coincidental. For information, contact author through her website: http://www.brendahill.com

  Hill mesmerizes with the horrific details of rape, self-blame and the will to live. Tracy's tale speaks for all victims who have been brutalized and fought back. It also speaks for those who suffered and died without ever seeing their attacker brought to justice. A compelling tale of pain, courage and hope.

  Faith V. Smith

  Romantic Times Book Reviews

  Kudos to Brenda Hill for having penned one of the finest suspense novels this reader has come across in a decade. Angry, yet compassionate, edgy, and yet, eloquent, Ten Times Guilty is a beautifully written tale of hope, suffering, and ultimately, of courage.

  M. Jean Pike

  Heatherfield

  Waiting for the Rain

  This suspense thriller is truly an outstanding novel. The author displays her skill right from the first few sentences, which really grabbed hold of me, dragged me into the story and would not let me go.

  Lillian Brummet, Book Reviewer

  Trash Talk

  Towards Understanding

  Purple Snowflake Marketing

  Acknowledgements

  No one writes in a vacuum. I have needed advice, encouragement, and rescue, all qualities I received from two business, computer, and life experts as well as two wonderful human beings—Roger & Debbie Bowman. Each has, numerous times, dropped everything to respond to my SOS.

  No one can produce an error-free manuscript. Thanks to Candace Simar, Donna Peterson, Maxine Piotrowski,, all friends who help when my writing slip shows.

  Lila Moen, former administrator of the ER Dept at St. Joseph's Medical Center in Brainerd, MN, for graciously explaining ER procedure.

  Mike Midthun, Sr. Records Mgr/Evidence Tech, Crosby, MN Police Force, for freely giving his time to answer my questions.

  Amanda Bowman, a beautiful young woman who read the early draft and liked it, nectar to my soul when I doubted myself.

  To all of you, thank you. I could not have done it without you.

  And to the counselors and volunteers at the safe houses and crisis centers, thank you for your services. The world is a better place because you care.

  TEN TIMES GUILTY

  Chapter One

  He waited in the stand of poplars behind the bus shelter, his black sweats fading into shadows cast by the midnight moon. A ski mask covered his face.

  At twelve-seventeen, a Denver city bus approached the residential shelter. Air brakes hissing, it rolled to a stop and Cindy Harris, a sweater draped over her blue scrubs, stepped to the pavement. Glass shards from the streetlight crunched under her feet.

  She glanced at the shattered light, then to the houses lining the gloomy street. The older frame bungalows, many with porches holding swings and chaise lounges, stood dark and silent.

  Where were all the people? Surely someone was still awake, but there were no lights, not even from an upstairs window. She felt like a lone astronaut landing on a stark, barren planet.

  With a whine of the engine and a cloud of exhaust fumes, the bus pulled away. Cindy desperately wanted to run after it and beg the driver not to leave her alone, but she’d never get home if she stayed on the bus. And she needed to fall into her bed for at least a couple of hours sleep before she had to get back to the hospital for another sixteen-hour shift. Nurse’s training had been grueling, but she hadn’t known rough until several nurses called in sick and she’d had to pull three double-shifts her first week. She would get through it though; she’d be the best nurse County General ever had. Registered nurse, she thought, fingering her shiny new pin.

  Straightening her shoulders, she left the shelter. At least she had only two blocks to walk. That wouldn’t be so bad.

  “Always call for a guard to walk you to your car,” the hospital manual quoted for night personnel, “or walk in groups. Above all, think safety. If you find yourself alone, carry something for defense and walk with determination and purpose. Do not advertise yourself as a victim.”

  Good advice, Cindy thought, but not so easy to follow, especially on a night like tonight. She walked at a rapid clip and searched for a beacon in the blackness, a porch light, a light in a window, any proof that another human being was alive.

  There was nothing. Even the slice of moon had disappeared behind black clouds.

  Lightning streaked across the sky, followed by the low rumble of thunder. A sudden breeze blew Cindy’s blonde hair back from her oval face and she felt moisture in the air. Great. A spring storm and no umbrella. Without slowing, she pulled on her sweater and hoped she could make it home before the rain started.

  From behind, she heard a faint rustling sound.

  She whirled around. Nothing but a few scattered leaves on the sidewalk. That’s all it was. Still, she scanned the spacious lawns between the houses and peered between the mature cottonwoods, aspens and blue spruce.

  Tree branches swayed gently in the breeze. Nothing else moved.

  She quickened her pace and tried not to look over her shoulder. Of all times for her old Pontiac to be in the shop. It needed new belts or some such thing. Cindy had memorized symptoms of a vast number of diseases but the mysteries under a car hood were beyond her. A few paychecks and she could trade her old clunker for that sporty little Saab with the custom red leather seats.

  At the end of the block, she turned right and cut across an expanse of lawn on the corner lot. Only half a block to go. She glanced ahead to her apartment, hoping to catch a glimpse of her porch light, but it was still too far. A few more steps and there! Now she could see it through the branches of the aspen tree. She relaxed for the first time since getting off the bus. One thing for certain, she’d stop by that shop tomorrow and get one of those pepper sprays, just in case she worked late again.

  From the depths of the yard on her right, she heard that rustling sound again, only louder.

  The fine hair on her neck and arms prickled as if the air were electrically charged. Her heart thudded. She walked faster, almost running. Probably a cat, lots of cats in the area. Think of something good, something good. Nothing came to mind except her mother’s face, beaming at Cindy’s graduation, holding back tears because her daughter had accepted a job in Denver instead of returning home to Pine Bluffs, Minnesota.

  Behind her, a twig snapped.

  That was no cat!

  Heart racing, she spun around. Her frantic gaze raked the trees, the shrubs, the black spaces between the houses. Something moved…a shadow, big, like a man.

  It advanced toward her.

  Cindy screamed and ran.

  He grabbed her from behind and clamped his hand on her mouth. She stumbled; he yanked her against him. She flailed at him, kicking backwards and clawing with both hands.

  He shifted her, just enough for his groin to rub her buttocks, then he was dragging her, kicking frantically, to the back yard of the vacant house. Next to the garage, he threw her to the ground.

  She hit hard. When she caught her breath she tried to scream; nothing escaped but whimpering sounds.

  He flipped her onto her back and dropped down on top of her. Grabbing her hands, he held them in one of his while the other clamped down on her mouth and nose.

  Gasping for air, Cindy bucked and squirmed.

  “Mmmm,” he chuckled, “I like that. Keep it up.” He released her hands to unbuckle his belt.

>   Suddenly, her hands were free! She grabbed his hair and jabbed his eyes.

  He drew back and punched her in the mouth.

  Cindy’s world exploded into jaggers of light, then to the edge of blackness. A moment or an hour later, things began to take form.

  He sat above her, watching, waiting.

  Her ears rang; tears sprang to her eyes and overflowed, smearing the smudged dirt on her face. Blood ran from her lips and her teeth felt loose. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head.

  “Look at me,” he whispered, his voice raspy. He grabbed her chin and forced her to face him. “Watch me, you little bitch. Watch just how much fun I’m having screwing you. For every time you wouldn’t talk to me, for every time you passed right by with your nose in the air.” He grabbed her hands and held them over her head. Pushing against her, he shoved himself in.

  A few moments later, he withdrew and released her hands. She slapped at him, thrashing the air with weakened arms. She snagged his mask and yanked it off.

  “Karr!” The night watchman at the hospital.

  He hit her with his open hand. Blood covered her teeth.

  “You shouldn’t a done that,” he said. “Now I have to kill you.”

  “No, please, I won’t tell...”

  Karr studied her, his eyes as cold as his voice. “You breathe a word about this, I’ll make a little trip to Pine Bluffs.”

  She gasped.

  “I know everything about you,” he whispered. “I got connections. Your mother, she’s not so old. I could have lots of fun with her.”

  Tears rolled down Cindy’s temples. “I won’t tell, I promise. Please...”

  He smashed her with his fist, again and again, reducing her face to a bloody, pulpy mess.

  Her hands fell to her side; her eyes rolled into her head.

  Chapter Two

  Inside a restored Victorian mansion near downtown Denver, Tracy Michaels wandered the parlor, wishing she could escape out the back door.

  She paused in front of the marble fireplace, sliding the gilded candleholder a quarter inch from where she placed it when dusting an hour before. She eyed a deck of Tarot cards on the antique desk, nestled in a square of red silk.

  What had she been thinking when she agreed to sit for a practice reading? Carrie had made it sound fun, like an adventure. But now, an hour before closing time, waiting for Carrie with the house lights dim and thunder from a spring storm rumbling in the distance, Tracy wasn’t so sure.

  What if the cards told of nothing but misfortune? Could she handle more tragedy in her life?

  From the lobby, she could hear Carrie on the telephone, reciting the mansion’s hours and admission price. She picked up a scrolled-nickel cardholder and set it down again.

  Everyone knew divination was not to be taken seriously. So why waste the time, time she should be gathering her belongings and heading home to her son.

  And yet...

  She sat at the rosewood desk. Could it be possible, even remotely, the cards held answers to her future? If they could, she needed to know, needed some encouragement to get her through the long nights when she couldn’t sleep, worrying about whether she could pay the rent and buy what a baby needed.

  Carrie breezed in from the lobby of the mansion and slid onto the opposite desk chair. Like Tracy, she wore a guide’s uniform, an ankle-length skirt and a long-sleeved white blouse.

  “Sorry for the interruption, just some people asking about the tour.” She picked up the cards and shuffled, her heavy silver bracelets clinking together.

  Tracy willed herself to relax. Soft light from the hurricane globes shimmered on the polished oak paneling.

  “If we get right to it,” Carrie said, glancing at her watch, “we should be able to finish before your shift is up.” She held the cards out to Tracy. “Shuffle. They need your vibrations.”

  Lightning flashed. Sudden thunder shook the house. Tracy rose, pushed aside the sheer curtains at the bay window and peered at the sky. Black clouds were rolling over Denver. Tracy caught the dank scent of moisture and hoped she could make it home before the storm broke. Five blocks could seem like five miles in a cloudburst.

  It wasn’t a cosmic warning, was it?

  “Maybe we should do this another time,” she said. “I need to close up and get home to Ritchie.”

  “I happen to know you did everything earlier so you’d have time for this reading. Besides, if you left anything I’ll catch it. I have to stay late to go over the books. Now shuffle,” Carrie instructed, “and think of a question you want answered.”

  One question? How about a dozen, starting with the Hotel Management course at the tech school. After two years, Tracy would have the skills to make a good salary at one of the resort hotels in the city.

  But could she manage classes? Just this morning she had searched all the nooks and crannies for change because Ritchie needed milk. She already lived on spaghetti or rice and beans. How could she possibly stretch her paycheck even further? She had to find a way; Ritchie deserved a better life.

  “A question,” she said. “That’s not hard. Will I be able—”

  “Don’t tell me! I’m not supposed to be influenced.” After Tracy shuffled, Carrie took the cards and spread them in a fan. “Select thirteen that call to you.”

  “Call to me? ”

  Carrie sighed. “Just pick thirteen.”

  Tracy made her selection and Carrie began laying them in a loose “t” formation. “This is the Celtic Cross,” she explained, then pointed to the first card. “Turn this one up.” It was a picture of a nude woman kneeling by a stream of water.

  “That’s you, the Star.” Carrie said. “The Star is our link to the higher plane. It means to grow in spirit, awareness, and knowledge.”

  Tracy liked that and found herself intrigued by the cards. Each held a different illustration, from muted reds and golds highlighting a magician, to indigo blues and vivid greens surrounding swords dripping with blood.

  When Tracy turned up two more cards, Carrie sucked in her breath. “That isn’t good.”

  Tracy’s brown eyes fixed on a red-shrouded figure holding a sword. “That’s the Death card, isn’t it?”

  “I meant this one.” Carrie pointed a blue-lacquered nail at the Ten of Swords. “That’s the one to worry about.”

  “Worse than death?”

  “Don’t get all shook. The Death card doesn’t mean you’re going to die. It just means the end of something, a way of life, or a beginning of something new.”

  That wasn’t so bad. Tracy released the breath she had been holding. “What does the Sword card mean?”

  “Lemme finish.” Carrie placed the remaining cards on the desk, sat back and worried her bottom lip.

  “Well?”

  “Just a minute. I want to make sure.” Carrie pulled out a tattered book from a small pile next to the cards, opened to a marked page and read. “Okay. Around the Star, that’s you, are Death, the Tower, Strength, and Wands.”

  “Tell me about the Ten of Swords.”

  They both studied the dark card, showing a bleeding figure lying on the ground with ten swords stuck in its back.

  Carrie sighed. “It’s not good. Says there’s misfortune in your future. And great loss. The Tower means drastic changes and disruption, so, sitting next to each other, it looks like some hard times ahead.”

  “Try being a single mom on a minimum-wage job and then talk to me about hard times.”

  “No, this is something new, something major. And drastic. There’s, well, I don’t know how to put it, except desolation. Desolation so severe it’s ‘beyond enduring’, the book says. I’m sorry.”

  Speechless, Tracy shot from her chair. “That’s it. I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this. I already have too much to worry about without some dire prediction hanging over my head.”

  “Wait. It’s not all bad.”

  The approaching storm darkened the room, throwing shadows in every corner.
/>   “I’ve got things to do.” Tracy snapped on the floor lamp, setting the glass fringe tinkling against the crimson globe.

  “Look,” Carrie said. “I feel just as bad about this as you, but the cards never tell anything bad without suggesting how to overcome it. Come on, you can’t quit now; you promised.”

  “All right, we’ll finish this thing.” Tracy headed for the chair, yanked it out and sat down. “Then I never want to hear about it again. Agreed?”

  “God, what a shit.”

  “You said it’s not all bad. Does it say anything about school? Is there anything in all those drawings to tell me if I’m going to manage some classes? Surely there must be something good in my future.”

  Carrie pointed to the shrouded figure. “This can be good. Placed here, at the top right, the Death card means a matter concluded, a rebirth, and a transformation. A lesson will be learned. And it shows your strength of character. Your bravery, too.”

  Tracy sighed. There wasn’t much bravery in plodding to work every day or staying home each night with a ten-month-old child. Not much character in pulling out her hair trying to stretch one dollar into ten and still trying to budget for classes.

  If only she would give in and let the State help. But when she felt she couldn’t manage another step, she thought of her grandfather, a French immigrant who arrived in New Orleans at six years old and couldn’t speak a word of English. And her Irish grandmother, who always told Tracy to work hard and believe in the impossible. They survived insects and alligators in Bayou Creek and a house on stilts, built to discourage deadly water moccasins and cottonmouths. But their home was filled with love and laughter, with neighbors sharing pots of fresh shrimp gumbo and their special music of fiddles, guitars, washboards, and accordions.

  “Never take anything you don’t earn,” her fiercely proud grandmother counseled. “If you do, you’ll be beholden. When that happens, you’ll never be able to do what you feel here, in your heart. So take your licks, stand up straight, and try again.”