by Harry Kraus
She fumbled as she undid the buttons on the front of her blouse. With that done, she began to pull the blouse apart to reveal —
The deputy lunged forward, knocking Tyler against the wall, pushing the gun into the air. It appeared the officer held Tyler’s wrist, but Tyler quickly twisted away and shoved the butt of the pistol into the deputy’s abdomen.
Claire heard two muffled shots and watched in horror as the officer dropped to the floor.
“Plans have changed,” Tyler quipped. He grabbed Claire by the hair and pulled her into the hallway.
Claire screamed.
Lucy stood holding the receiver of the wall phone up to her mouth, which was frozen in a circle.
Tyler squeezed off another round at close range into the phone.
Claire stumbled forward as Tyler pushed her toward her office. There, he saw her purse on the desktop. He pointed with the pistol and shoved her toward the desk. “Empty your wallet.”
She shook the contents of her purse onto the desk and pulled out forty-two dollars.
In the hall, she could hear her employees’ cries as they ran to the front of the building.
“Sit over there,” he motioned. “Face the wall.”
She obeyed and heard the rustle of clothing, a zipper, and the crinkle of her cash being slid into a pocket. He cursed her. “Maybe you’d like to take a little trip with me?” he said.
Then, hearing the front door open as her employees ran, Tyler cursed again.
“I won’t forget what you did to me. I have a score to settle.” He opened the back door. “I will see you again, Claire.” He glared at her with eyes of steel. “Don’t worry, doll. I’ll be back to finish the fun as soon as my leg has healed.”
With that he ran through the back door, sprinting toward the police cruiser.
She rushed to lock the door behind him, and then returned to the exam room. There, she found Lucy kneeling beside the officer. His face was pale, his chest unmoving.
Claire felt for a carotid pulse before looking up into the face of her nurse. “He’s dead, Lucy,” she cried. “He’s dead.”
Chapter Ten
That night, Claire and Della stayed at the Days Inn on University Boulevard in Brighton. No amount of convincing could have kept Claire at home that evening.
In fact, as she lay on the double bed staring at the TV waiting for the late news, she wondered if she’d ever be able to stay at home again. She looked at the loaded gun beside her bed. As long as Tyler Crutchfield was on the lam, the gun would be at her bedside. She sighed and picked up the gun, turning it over and weighing it in her hand. She had packed it away for good only a week ago. Slowly she took aim, laying the bead on the forehead of the news anchor.
Della opened the door from the bathroom. “What are you doing?”
Claire shrugged. “Just aiming, Mother.”
“Put that thing down, please. It was one thing with you sleeping with it beside your bed at home, but now I’m your roommate, and I don’t like it.”
Claire grunted.
“You’re going to get one of us killed.”
“The safety is on,” she said, replacing it on the nightstand. She glanced at the door. The security latch was folded over to prevent it from opening more than a few inches if someone obtained a keycard to unlock the door.
“John left?”
She nodded. “He volunteered to sleep on the floor, but I sent him home. Besides, no one knows we’re here. Tyler couldn’t possibly find me.”
Della waved her hand toward the TV and sat on the edge of her bed. “Turn it up. Here’s the report.”
The anchorman brought the top story. “In the news tonight, a county deputy is dead, the result of a vicious attack by an escaped prisoner over in Stoney Creek. We go live to the Stoney Creek Family Practice Clinic where Linda Adams is standing by. Linda?”
A young reporter stood in the clinic parking lot. A yellow police tape cordoned off the building behind her. “Dave, this serene country doctor’s office was the location of a brutal slaying today. The suspect, an escaped prisoner of the county jail, is Tyler Crutchfield, a patient and former employee of the clinic. Today, during a patient visit, Crutchfield overpowered his guard and escaped after killing Kevin Sandridge, the deputy responsible for guarding him. I have Randy Jensen, a deputy with the sheriff ’s department, for comment.” The officer moved in next to Linda. “Officer Jensen, what can you tell us about this prisoner and your current investigation?”
Jensen’s tone was pure business. “This man, Tyler Crutchfield, is a suspect in the rape of three women and the attack of a fourth, the clinic’s current physician, Dr. Claire McCall. He was awaiting trial before an anticipated transfer to the state penitentiary.”
“Can you tell us what happened here today?”
“The prisoner, Mr. Tyler Crutchfield, was seen here by Dr. McCall. During the patient visit, he somehow obtained a surgical knife and held the physician hostage until our deputy surrendered his gun. Then Mr. Crutchfield made his escape, killing our deputy in the process. He robbed the doctor of her cash and fled the building, wearing our deputy’s clothing and driving a county patrol vehicle.”
“Thank you, Deputy Jensen.” The camera focused in on the reporter’s face. “Dave, as you know, this fugitive is still at large and the vehicle has not yet been located. People in the Stoney Creek – Fisher’s Retreat area are warned to stay indoors and be careful. This fugitive is considered armed and dangerous. Dave.”
Dave, the news anchor, reappeared. “Thank you, Linda. It is interesting that this man was being treated by the very woman physician he tried to rape. Any clue as to why she may have agreed to treat him?”
Linda appeared on screen again. “The temp making the appointment did not recognize the patient’s name. When I posed the same question to the sheriff ’s office, it seems that important details slipped through the cracks somehow. The Stoney Creek Clinic has a contract to provide care to the prisoners, so the prison officials were merely following protocol.”
A picture of Tyler Crutchfield filled the screen, sending a shiver down Claire’s spine. “Tyler Crutchfield is medium build, five-feet-eleven-inches tall, with short dark hair. He will likely walk with a limp because of a recent injury.”
Claire flexed her jaw. “I should have killed him.”
“Claire!”
She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mom, but that’s the way I feel. Some people don’t deserve to live.”
Her mother glared at her. “I didn’t teach you that.”
“Life taught me that.”
Claire snapped off the TV as they started into the next story. Her mother prepared for sleep.
Claire sniffed. “What day is this?”
“Tuesday.”
Claire shook her head. “I was supposed to meet with a videographer for the wedding this afternoon.”
Della put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “You’ll make it through this, honey. We will. Always have and always will, by God’s grace.”
Claire was warmed by the gesture. “Just don’t quote me Romans 8:28. I’ve whispered it to myself a hundred times today alone. It doesn’t calm my mind.”
“That’s because pain is experienced here,” she said, sitting beside Claire and pulling her hand to her chest. “Not here,” she added, moving her hand to her daughter’s forehead.
Claire nodded, unable to keep back the tears again.
Her mother hugged her. “Try to get some sleep.”
A few minutes later, Claire closed her eyes to the vivid images of violence that had haunted her day.
A slumping policeman with a widening red circle on his abdomen.
The frozen image of Lucy holding the phone with her mouth open.
And a man who promised that he’d see her again.
Margo switched off the late news and breathed a prayer for her sister. She looked over at Kyle, still hiding behind the newspaper he’d lifted after two hours of TV.
In
the weeks that had passed since the family reunion Kyle had gone from gift giving to sullen. His interactions, particularly with their newly teenaged daughter, Kelly, were strained, etched with too-sharp criticism or nothing, a quietness that Margo feared was a silent mist hanging above a dormant volcano.
Margo watched a pattern. He awoke early, sometimes at 4:00 or 4:30, tossing and turning, keeping her from sleep until he’d retreat to his desk to feign interest in a business ledger. Depressed. Irritable. Something was simmering beneath the surface, threatening to destroy the fragile bonds they’d made since his affair.
Was he still falling into the arms of the other woman? She cringed at the thought, wondering how far her willingness to forgive could be stretched. She took a deep breath. Coming to grips with her own need for grace had made it easier to forgive her husband’s infidelity.
She tapped on the newspaper. “You alive back there?”
He dropped the paper in his lap. “Are the girls in bed?”
“Two hours ago.” You should have noticed. You should have been tucking them in.
He grunted and began to lift the paper.
Margo stopped him, laying her hand against the sports page. “We need to talk, Kyle.”
He looked up, unable or unwilling, holding his silence. She studied the man she loved. Normally athletic, friendly, and outgoing, he’d pulled in, isolated, protected.
She placed her hand against the muscles of his chest. “I need to know what’s going on.”
“Going on?” She felt him stiffen, his defenses going up.
She took a deep breath. “You smother me with flowers, a new van. You give me an expensive guitar for my birthday.” She hesitated. “But now you’ve changed. You barely speak to us. You hide behind that paper night after night.”
“I thought you liked the gifts.”
“You don’t get it. I love flowers. I love my van, my guitar.” She sat on the ottoman in front of him. “But I want you to know you don’t have to purchase anything for me. What is it that you need? Love? Forgiveness?”
“Margo, I — ”
“The gifts were a guilt offering, is that right?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Or is it business? Are we in trouble?” Kyle had always been lord over their finances, rarely involving Margo in any decisions. He conducted business deals, ran his Wendy’s franchise, and made investments without her input. “Did the gifts stop because the money is gone?”
He pulled his hand through his hair. “Some things haven’t gone according to plan. But we’ll be on track soon, I promise.”
“According to plan?” She put the statement in quotation marks with her fingers. She paused. “You borrowed for a new franchise. Is there a problem?”
He shook his head. “It’s not business.”
“What then? Talk to me, Kyle.”
His expression hardened. For a moment she looked at him, following his eyes around the room. The TV. The guitar in the corner. The new vase he’d brought home from a business trip. Anywhere but meeting her gaze.
Margo leaned forward, touching his hand with hers. “Am I wrong?” She held her breath.
He didn’t speak.
“Are you still seeing her?”
His breath escaped in a snort. “No!” He fell into silence and stared at the wall behind her.
She sighed and met his silence with a forced quietness of her own.
After a minute, he looked over. “You don’t remember that night, do you?”
“That night?”
“The one Claire just had to dig up, the night she went out with Shelby and Tommy.” His eyes bore in on hers. “I saw them in Briary Branch together. I was out buying beer.”
She couldn’t follow the connection. “So?”
“Why would I remember a specific night, Margo?”
She held up her hands in surrender. She didn’t understand.
“You don’t remember why I was out?”
She looked at him, unspeaking.
“Remember Conner Miles?”
Memories of her own misdeeds came flooding back. Her hand went to her chin. Conner Miles? She sensed her own defenses rise. “That’s what has you so upset?”
He stood up. “You asked me why I reacted the way I did. So now maybe you understand.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Well, pardon me for having a good memory.”
His sarcasm bit deep. She spoke to his back as he disappeared into the hall leading to their bedroom. “I was eighteen years old!”
He turned to face her. “I didn’t bring this up, okay? I wanted to move on. But this is what Claire is digging up. Pain for me, and pain for you.” He turned and walked toward the bedroom.
Margo listened to water running in the bathroom and the whir of his electric toothbrush, followed by a familiar creak of their bed.
So this is about me? He can’t be bitter about Conner Miles now. She felt an old ache of guilt and shoved it aside. Kyle is hiding something.
She pulled a blanket from the hall closet and curled herself into their new couch. She was too angry and confused to sleep in the same bed with Kyle. Maybe if she stayed here tonight, he would get the message that she wouldn’t tolerate his adolescent behavior.
A minute later, she felt a twinge of guilt when an image of Conner’s muscular form drifted into her thoughts. Her next thought scared her even more. I wonder if that Tyler creep knows that I’m Claire’s sister.
She felt her pulse quicken as she checked the locks on the front, back, and garage doors. Back in the living room, she looked at the couch and glanced down the hall toward her bedroom. Kyle, however childish in his behavior, did seem a safer option. She shook her head. I’ve still got the old McCall vinegar in my veins. She yawned and curled up on the couch.
There, in the dim light of the living room, Margo began taking inventory. She’d always thought there would be happiness around the bend. To be free of an abusive father. To find a husband. A family. A new house. Every new goal held out the hope of satisfaction, but with the arrival of each one, it seemed that happiness slipped along in front of her, the carrot on a stick that she could chase forever and never catch.
And now, the marriage that she’d cherished seemed destined to crack. Kyle was rocky ground, impenetrable by the gentle rain of forgiveness. He seemed intent on wallowing in past sorrows, unwilling or unable to forgive himself or Margo for their infidelities.
She felt so inadequate and powerless to change her situation. The tears welled in her eyes as her aching heart began to melt. If only I had the faith of my sister. She shook her head and took a deep breath. Then maybe I could believe in fairy-tale happy endings.
Chapter Eleven
John Cerelli lowered his head onto his desk and closed his eyes, a futile attempt to block out the throbbing pain which centered beneath a jagged scar on the top of his head. After leaving the hotel he’d stayed up late worrying about Claire, and now he was paying the price for his lack of sleep.
“John?” The voice was feminine and preceded by the familiar click of her high heels.
He looked up and blinked. Ami’s face reflected her concern. “Hey,” he said.
“Rough night?”
He rubbed the top of his head. “It’s nothing. Just a little headache.”
“From your accident?”
He shrugged. “Probably.”
She placed a folder on his desk. “Here’s the copies for the Brighton Orthopedic presentation.”
He nodded and mumbled, “Thanks,” as she disappeared. He searched his desk for ibuprofen and reached for his coffee. A minute later, Ami was back, this time carrying two small burning candles. She set them on the corners of his desk and turned off his fluorescent light.
“Ami, I — ” he began to protest.
“Hush,” she said, moving around behind him. She began kneading the back of his neck with her fingers.
He tensed. He shouldn’t let her touch him. He put his ha
nd on hers to arrest her massage. “It’s okay. I took some medicine.”
“Shh. It’s not a crime to let me help you.” Her voice was just above a whisper.
He closed his eyes. It did feel so good.
“I always light candles when I’m discouraged. The fire reminds me of hope. Renewal.”
“Fire?”
“My counselor suggested it,” she said. “It’s a way of looking on the bright side. My house burned when I was a child. We lost everything.” Ami’s fingers touched the edge of his jagged scar, lightly tracing the path through his short hair. “But something good came out of our pain. My mother met a fireman.” She sniffed. “He became my stepfather.”
Her hands moved to his shoulders. “Relax,” she coaxed. “You’re in knots.”
If she wasn’t so pretty, John thought, maybe this would feel more like therapy instead of temptation.
“So I light a little fire whenever I’m in pain, John.” He felt her finger running along his scar again. “To remind myself that joy can come out of pain.”
John shrugged. “Cool,” he said. He reached back for her hand, giving it a little that’s-enough squeeze. “Thanks. You’d better get to work.”
“Sure,” she said, returning the squeeze. She let her fingers linger for a moment on his scalp, then ran them slowly down his neck and across his shoulder to rest on his arm before she separated from him, leaving his skin feeling hot, afire with an imprint of her touch.
John watched her leave and inhaled the scent of the candles.
That’s funny, he thought. My headache’s gone.
Margo yanked her hands from under the kitchen faucet and massaged the ring and small fingers of her right hand.
Casey’s eyes widened. “What’s wrong, Mommy?”
“Just an old scar. It’s nothing.” She looked at the thin pink skin on the tops of her right fourth and fifth fingers. Hot water on the old burn scar could still bring tears to her eyes. She turned to her daughter. “Get your shoes on, honey. The bus will be here soon.”
A minute later, with Kelly and Casey out the door to school, Margo rubbed the pain from her fingers again. It was a sensitive reminder of a regrettable moment.