On His Watch

by Susanne Matthews

  He yelled at the deputy, “Buck, come through the garage. We’re in the kitchen.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Buck exclaimed, entering the room. He stumbled as he took in the grisly scene, trying not to step on any of the evidence he saw before him, and raised his hand to tip his hat back. “What the hell happened here? It’s like something out of a horror movie.”

  “Home invasion, maybe something else, probably personal, judging from the writing on the wall,” Jason said softly. “She’s still alive. I’m going to stay with her. I don’t think she’s going to last long.”

  He knelt down on a relatively blood-free section of the floor. She slowly pulled her hand out of the pocket of her top and dropped the cellphone on the floor beside her. She lifted her hand, and he took it in his, squeezing her fingers gently in an effort to reassure her. She responded weakly.

  “Hang in there.”

  She seemed to be trying to speak, and he bent closer to her face, but she didn’t make another sound. He heard Buck’s footsteps as he came around the table. “Holy shit! Where’s Mandy?” he cried. “She’s their five-year-old. She and my daughter Lily are friends.”

  Jason looked up at Buck and straightened. Christ, how many rookie mistakes had he made here? He hadn’t checked the place. Hell, the bastard who’d done this could still be inside.

  “I haven’t been through the house,” he admitted, and saw Buck’s frown. “I didn’t realize there was anyone else in the family,” he added defensively, and looked down at Mrs. Hart once more. Her eyes were closed and her breathing shallow. “Where the hell’s that ambulance? If there’s a kid here, she’s got to be upstairs. The doctor’s in the backseat of his car. You can search the house if you think you can handle it, but be careful. Whoever did this could still be up there.” The state of the kitchen didn’t bode well for the missing child, and finding Mandy’s body would be hard on someone who was a father like Buck. “Or you can wait for backup and the forensic unit.”

  “Holy shit!” Pete, the youngest deputy on the force, came into the room. His face blanched as he took in the carnage. He turned away, raced to the sink, and vomited as Jason had done.

  “No. I’ll do it,” Buck answered, looking first at the young deputy and then at Jason. Sympathy and anger were obvious on the man’s face. He opened his holster and pulled out his Colt revolver, the gun made like its predecessors from the Old West. “Our town, our crime. I want to catch the bastard who did this. I knew her and the boy—took him fishing last weekend.” He gulped and pointed at the bloody printing on the wall. “It says the father’s sin. My mother’s family is Italian. This looks like a drugged-up psycho orgy and robbery, but from the words, I’d say it was some kind of hit. I’ll go look for Mandy. If she’s alive …”

  Buck didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. They both knew the possibility the child had escaped the massacre was slim at best.

  Jason ran his left hand through his hair and glanced up at his young deputy. The youth, shame and horror imprinted on his face, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “It’s okay, Pete. I did the same thing. This crime scene is contaminated, and the techs will have to deal with that. We’ll give them our boots and DNA swabs so they can eliminate our contributions from the evidence. No one should ever have to walk in on something like this. The doctor didn’t drive that car here. Why don’t you check the clinic down the street? Be careful. You don’t know what you might be walking into. See if anyone saw anything suspicious.”

  “Right away, Jason.”

  He prayed Pete wouldn’t find anything worse at the clinic, but doubted it. Jason recalled the young nurse who’d removed his stitches back in April and prayed she hadn’t been at the clinic when all this happened. The only way for the doctor to get here in the back of that car had to be if the party started elsewhere. The siren came on again, and the tires squealed as the vehicle drove away.

  Jason continued to sit beside the injured woman, whispering to her, telling her things would be okay. He tried to suppress the rage he felt.

  How can this ever be okay?

  Five minutes later, Buck’s feet stomped down the stairs, and the man called to him, his voice filled with excitement and joy. He didn’t enter the room.

  “I’ve found her, and she’s alive, Jason. She was in a sleeping bag under the bed in the guest room. Don’t ask me what she was doing there. There’s no one else up there, but someone tossed the master bedroom. I’m taking Mandy home to Trudy for the night. We’ll contact child services in the morning. The kid was asleep. She doesn’t know what happened, but I scared the daylights out of her when I yanked her out from under the bed. I’ll be back as soon as I get her settled. The coroner and the troopers are here.”

  Jason cleared his throat to answer, but the emotions clogging it wouldn’t let him speak. Tears of gratitude spilled down his cheeks. Thank God. That was one less sin he’d have to account for.

  Chapter Three

  She floats on a blood red sea of fire. Pain, so much pain. There’s nothing here but agony. Something forces air into her aching chest and sucks it out again. Hot knives stab her brain. This torture is unbearable. What has she done to deserve this suffering?

  She wants to open her eyes. She needs to tell someone something important, but her mouth won’t cooperate. Her body no longer obeys her commands. Instead it sinks and bobs up again in this ocean of agony. Make it stop, make it go away.

  A body drifts over to hers, its large brown eyes open, condemning her. “Why did you let this happen?” it asks before sinking beneath the surface. A smaller body bobs up, lets out a mewling cry, and disappears. Dead mice float all around her, and she tries to get away from them, but she can’t move. The Cheshire cat grins at her and drops more vermin carcasses into the sea.

  A fire-scarred demon, wearing a necklace of diamonds and blood-red-tipped fingers, rises Poseidon-like out of the water, sneers at her, and walks away, a metal instrument clutched in its clawed hand.

  Strange voices yell disconnected phrases into the gloom. “This is all your fault . . . You asked for this, bitch . . . If you hadn’t mollycoddled him like that, I wouldn’t have to discipline him . . . Dogs are vile creatures. I won’t have them in my house . . . So, you like it rough . . . It’s what our employer said to write . . . There’s no one upstairs.”

  She flinches at each phrase as if the words are on the end of a whip, branding her with each stroke. Other voices speak from far away, their words low and garbled. The torturous ocean swallows them and leaves only their faint echo behind.

  The sea bubbles once more, and her fear intensifies. He’s coming for her. A black-haired demon walks along the surface coming closer and closer. She tries to flee. The pain he’ll inflict will be more than she can endure. Her body is a seething mass of confusion, fear, and anguish. Is this Hell? He reaches out a skeletal hand and grips her shoulder. Cold fills her, and the pain increases. She can’t take much more of this. Suddenly, it’s gone. Warmth fills her. He’s back. He’ll keep the monsters away.

  • • •

  She fought her way out of the emptiness surrounding her. She’d tried to do it earlier, but there’d been so much pain that she’d descended into the oblivion of nothingness again, where the demons chased her and the angel came and comforted her. She moaned softly, and the sound vanished into the hiss of noises filling the room. She was stiff and sore, as if she’d been in the same position for an eternity. She opened her eyes, but the left one didn’t want to cooperate. The bright light hurt, and she closed her eyes once more.

  She ached, and the pain seemed concentrated in her left hand and inside her head, like the worst hangover she could imagine. That must have been quite a party—why didn’t she remember it? Just how much did she drink?

  And what the hell did she do to her hand? It was rigid, throbbed like the dickens, and she didn’t seem to be able to move her fingers. She slowly opened her eyes again, looked down, and found her hand encased in a p
laster cast. She tried to turn her head, but her neck was stiff, and the slight motion sent pins and needles careening through her body and stabbing pain through her skull.

  What the hell happened to me?

  The room wasn’t familiar, but she recognized it for what it was—a private room in a hospital. She slowly forced her head to turn to the left and stared at a white-haired woman sitting in the chair under the window, holding rosary beads, her head bent in prayer. There was nothing familiar about this person, and when she tried to think about it, her head ached even more.

  “Water.” She forced the word from her dry throat. If the woman was going to hang around here, she might as well be useful.

  The woman jumped to her feet. “Nicole! Nicole, you’re awake, honey? The doctor said you’d wake up today, but I didn’t dare hope.”

  Nicole? Who the hell’s Nicole?

  She tried to speak again, but her throat was so dry all she could manage was a grunt and “water.”

  The woman quickly pressed the call bell, reached for the glass on the bedside table, and held out the bent straw. Relief was so close now. She lifted her head slightly, drank, but after no more than a few sips, she fell back on the pillow, exhausted. Her eyes closed. No! She fought to stay awake. She needed to know what was going on.

  She compelled her eyes to open and looked directly into the woman’s unfamiliar blue eyes brimming with tears.

  “I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up, darling.” The woman wiped her hand across her face, brushing away the moisture on her cheeks. “The nurse and doctor will be here in a minute, but I want you to know that Amanda is safe.”

  Nicole? Amanda?

  Neither name seemed the least bit familiar to her.

  Before she could put together a coherent thought, let alone a question, the door opened, admitting two women, one in green OR scrubs, the other, obviously pregnant, wearing a bright pink and blue nursing smock with matching pants. A great sadness suffused her.

  Why should the sight of a pregnant woman upset me?

  Her head throbbed. She was so tired . . . Her eyelids were heavy.

  “What did I tell you, Mrs. Lincoln? I was only off by a couple of hours. We doctors can time it pretty accurately these days.”

  The woman walked over to the right side of the bed, forcing her to slowly turn her head. The doctor smiled down at her.

  “Hello there. Nice to see you’ve got movement. I’ll bet you have a doozy of a headache, too. I’ll give you something for it in a few minutes. Welcome back to the land of the living. I’m Dr. Marion. We’ve been keeping you asleep for a while, and gradually reduced the drugs to wake you up. The headache is from that process and should ease as the day wears on. How does the rest of you feel?”

  A penlight flashed in front of her right eye while the nurse took her blood pressure.

  A forest of IV poles, tubes, and machinery surrounded the bed. Her face was stiff and when she tried to open her mouth wider to speak, she couldn’t do it. With great effort, she raised her right hand, which seemed to weight a ton, and touched her face. Bandages? Why was her face bandaged? She inhaled shakily and realized and there was an oxygen cannula in her nose.

  Disconnected images flitted through her mind but nothing made any sense. Words flashed against a blank canvas but vanished before she could latch onto them. She needed to speak, had to say something, but such action required too much effort and caused the pain to intensify. The doctor continued to stare at her, the woman’s brown eyes compelling her to answer. She wanted to, but the word she needed were just out of reach.

  The doctor smiled. “If you can understand me, blink your eyes twice.”

  She slowly complied with the doctor’s request.

  “Good, now how are you feeling?”

  “Sore,” she croaked, successfully grabbing the elusive word she needed. Her speech was slurred. More words and images came to her, and she struggled to voice them. “Head, hand, hurt.”

  The few words tired her out, and she welcomed the soothing darkness that enveloped her. She knew the people were still there, but she didn’t care. She heard the doctor’s voice as if from afar.

  “You’re doing great. I think that’s enough for the moment. Here’s something for the pain. Sleep. It’s the best thing for you right now.”

  She relaxed and allowed the comforting blankness to enfold her again. Would the angel be there?

  • • •

  Everything is dark, but she can’t move. She’s shackled in the center of the void. A checkerboard appears in the gloom. It speaks with a foreign accent. The evil voice in the board sniggers and the black and red surface swirls the way a windmill does. The red and black disks fly around and she ducks, but each time one touches her, the pain increases. Red seeps from her pain-racked body—her blood pouring from her in an unending stream, her life oozing out with it.

  “It’s nothing personal,” the disembodied voice says. “You have to suffer.”

  The checkerboard grows in size until it’s all she can see, and then just as quickly shrinks down to become the elements in a painting—the red of an ocean sunset, the black, the silhouette of a man standing on a bluff looking out at the sea. His loneliness calls to her. She tries to move toward him, but the chains hold her in place.

  “Who is he, you two-timing bitch?” shrieks a demon, his face so contorted with jealousy that she can’t identify him. “How can I trust you?” He tosses paintbrushes at her, which become knives as blow after blow reach their intended target. Blood pours from each wound.

  The man in the painting turns toward her, but he has no face, no mouth, and the painting begins to spin and spiral like water going down a drain. The demon approaches, a knife held high in his claw-like hand. Terrified, she tries to make herself smaller, pulls against the chains that keep her upright . . . The soothing voice of her angel calls to her. She slides into a comforting nothingness and lets it claim her.

  • • •

  The next time she awoke, Mrs. Lincoln—that was what the doctor had called the guardian stranger—was standing by the window, looking outside. Breathing seemed easier, the bandages were gone from her face, and the oxygen cannula had been removed.

  It has to be a good sign.

  The number of IV poles near her seemed to have dwindled as well. She turned her head to the left and tried to reach for the carafe and tumbler on the side table. The movement alerted the woman at the window. “You’re awake again. Thirsty?” The woman stared at her, examining her face. What was wrong with it?

  “Yes,” she whispered through her dry lips. Her voice was hoarse and unfamiliar. She sipped greedily from the straw and lay back. As Dr. Marion had predicted, the pain in her head wasn’t as bad this time, although she still had pins and needles throughout her body, and her hand ached.

  “The doctor says once you’re taking in sufficient liquids, they can remove the rest of this.” The woman indicated the bags of IV and the tubes.

  That voice was loving and friendly. She remembered her name—the doctor had used it—but she didn’t recognize the woman. She was about to ask when the door opened and Dr. Marion entered.

  The doctor walked over to the bed, checked the dials on the machines, and took a syringe out of her pocket. She placed it on the bedside table.

  “Welcome back. How’s the head?”

  “Better. Where am I?”

  The question, which had slowly formed in her head, was painstakingly uttered through cracked lips. The words were slurred.

  Dr. Marion smiled.

  “Curiosity is a great sign. You’re at the UCSF Medical Center in San Francisco. You are one stubborn, determined lady.” She turned away and spoke to the nurse who’d just entered the room. “Cassie, I think we can take off most of this stuff. Leave the IV bag and the catheter. We won’t try making her stand or walk for a couple of days yet.”

  I can’t walk? Oh my God, this is worse than I thought.

  Her heart pounded, and she concentra
ted on moving her toes. She stared at the foot of the bed, saw the blanket move slightly, indicating that she hadn’t imagined it, and relaxed.

  Not paralyzed, just damn stiff and sore.

  “You’ve been severely injured, and frankly, your recovery is nothing short of miraculous. You had some internal damage we were able to repair and, despite a few close calls, you’ve healed well. Your left hand was broken and your ring finger severed, but it’s been set and the finger reattached, although it’s healing slowly. I wish I could tell you that you’ll regain full use of your hand, but we won’t know until the cast is removed and you begin physiotherapy. The reason you’re stiff and sore is because you haven’t moved in more than six weeks. After the surgery to repair the internal damage, infection set in, slowing the healing process. We’ve kept you in a coma to allow your brain to heal along with your body. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, stunned to realize how seriously she’d been hurt. “Go on.”

  “The final test results on your lungs came in this morning, and the infection is clear. You’re going to be weak and tired for some time. The human body wasn’t meant to bounce back quickly from injuries like these.” The doctor leaned forward and examined her face closely, gently tipping her chin to the left and the right. She smiled and stepped back. “You required some plastic surgery to repair the damage to your face. Cassie will bring you some cream to rub on your face if it itches.”

  “Thank you,” she mouthed the words, overwhelmed by what she was hearing. A scene from an old black-and-white movie played through her mind, and she saw a man in a satin jacket, his head swathed in bandages, waiting to have the bandages removed to reveal his new face.

  Plastic surgery? Is that why Mrs. Lincoln stared at me? Do I look like some kind of monster? Who the hell is paying for all this?

  The headache intensified, and she closed her eyes.

  “Do you want something for the pain? We can continue this later. There’s no rush.”