Woulds

by J. L. Wilson

  I tuned her out, focusing all my energy on getting to the stool and sitting. If that pot was another foot further, I would’ve collapsed. As it was, I was hard pressed to make a graceful landing. “I’m good,” I said, leaning on the nearby sink. “You can go.”

  The nurse eyed me warily. “I’ll be right here.”

  “And I’ll be right here. Go. I need some privacy.”

  “There is no privacy in hospitals, don’t you know that?” But she obligingly moved to the doorway and closed it part way.

  Ten minutes later I was back in bed with the nurse tucking the covers around me. “I’ll make sure to mention to the doctor in the morning you decided to take a walk,” she said, disapproval evident in her voice.

  “You do that. And tell him I want to go home.”

  “We’ll see how you’re doing in the morning.”

  “Yes, we will.” I lay back and closed my eyes. I was asleep before she left the room.

  By mid-morning the next day, I was ready to escape. I felt like crap, but I hated the hospital. There were too many sounds and smells going on around me. I wanted my own quiet little house with familiar sounds and smells.

  I discovered that escape from a hospital could be accomplished in two ways: legally, by waiting for a doctor to appear and certify you to be fit to leave, or illegally, in which you get dressed and walk out. I was seriously considering the latter option when Isabel Fitz entered my room shortly before lunchtime.

  She didn’t seem like my idea of a grieving widow. In fact, she appeared pretty damn rested and relaxed. Her dark hair was pulled back into a bun, but it wasn’t severe. It softened her features, with a few wisps free to dance around her cheeks. Her black slacks and black-and-white top probably fit the convention of widow’s wear, but it was also perfect for lunch and a hand of bridge with the girls. All in all, widowhood was treating her just fine.

  “I wanted to apologize for calling you the other night,” she said, after a polite exchange of I hope you’re doing okay, and I’m fine, can’t wait to go home. “I drank a bit too much.”

  I waved it away. “Not a problem. It happens to all of us.”

  She smiled, her cheeks dimpling. I never noticed them before. Of course, I didn’t spend much time with her and the last time I saw her, she was pissed off at her husband and not smiling. “It has happened very seldom to me. I wanted to thank you, too. Our conversation in your pub gave me, oh, I don’t know, maybe a sense of hope?” She hesitated. “After we spoke I told PJ I wanted a divorce.”

  I gaped at her. I could barely remember our conversation in the bar. “Well, geez. That’s a shocker.”

  She smoothed back her hair with her left hand, a hand now devoid of a diamond or wedding ring. “I realized the kids are grown and if I want to live my life, it’s time I started doing it. So I told PJ I wanted a divorce. To my surprise, he broke down. He promised he’d be faithful to me from here on in.” Isabel rolled her eyes. “I told him he was crazy. I was never sure if he used a condom. I told him that unless he used condoms, I’d never sleep again with him.”

  “Uh, makes sense to me,” I said, mentally screaming TMI, too much information, thanks for sharing, but I really don’t need to know this.

  Isabel flicked a piece of lint off her slacks. “It would be poetic justice if sex killed him, wouldn’t it?” She raised her head and I saw a hint of mischief? maliciousness? in her eyes before her expression smoothed and once again the proper society woman was in place. “But that’s not why I came here. I was wondering if you know if Alan has any need for another chef.”

  I gaped at her again. “Say what?”

  “Iowa is not a community property state. I can’t expect a judge to side with me against the Fitz family. I may very well need to earn my living soon.”

  “I’m not sure. I mean, yes, I think he’d like help, but are you sure you want to plan that far ahead? After all, you’re a widow. I mean, you’ll inherit, won’t you?”

  Isabel’s face stilled. “It all depends on PJ’s will, doesn’t it? And it depends on the executor of the will.”

  “But haven’t you seen his will?” Surely she had, hadn’t she? They were married, for cryin’ out loud. Surely she knew what was in his will.

  “It’s irrelevant. Richard is the executor. I don’t think I can expect any generosity from him.” She didn’t sound upset, but resigned to the fact.

  “Lunchtime,” a cheery voice said from the doorway. A different nurse than my bathroom partner swept into the room, tray in hand.

  Isabel immediately got to her feet. “I wanted to thank you, Tucker, for giving me such encouragement. I’ll give Alan a call in a week or two.” She moved aside to give the nurse room to rearrange my meager furniture. “Thank you.”

  “Sure. Whatever.” Then she was gone.

  “Nice to have visitors,” the nurse commented.

  “Yeah,” I said thoughtfully. What the hell was that about?

  I mulled it over through lunch, which I barely noticed, probably a good thing because it was tasteless and unappetizing. If PJ wrote a will and excluded Isabel, she could contest it. But if she didn’t have money of her own, how could she pay a lawyer? I guess a lawyer would take the case on contingency, but she made a good point. The Fitz family was a powerhouse not only in Barnsdale, but in the state. Would a lawyer want to butt heads with the Fitz family?

  I tried to remember our conversation in the bar, but it had made little impression on me. Apparently it made a big impression on her, though. It took a lot of guts to ask PJ for a divorce. She had a good life, a cushy life, if she could ignore the son of a bitch and his philandering. I started to smile. Yes, it would be karma if sex killed PJ.

  What killed him? I made a mental note to ask Alan the next time I saw him.

  I napped for an hour or two before the doctor finally put in an appearance. “Yes, you can go home,” he said in answer to my insistent question. “But I want to make sure someone is there with you.”

  This was a different doctor than my emergency room doctor. “I live alone,” I explained. “There is no one to be there to take care of me.”

  “Can someone check in on you from time to time?” He regarded me with that patient, non-compromising stare all doctors are taught in med school.

  “Can I go to work?” I asked. “If I can go to work, the whole town can see me.”

  He sighed patiently. “You have badly bruised ribs. Two fingers on your left hand are broken. You have a mild concussion. A cut on your forehead required stitches. Those are on top of the other injuries you’ve sustained in the last . . .” He examined the file on his lap, “. . . four days. I think you’d better take some time off.”

  “It’s not hard work. I’m a bartender.”

  “Do you have to lift anything?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s hard work.”

  “I’ll get somebody else to do the lifting.”

  He sighed again. “Most people look forward to time off of work.”

  “Most people don’t own the bar. I’ll be careful. I won’t work a full shift. I’ll get somebody in to help.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “Heck, somebody already is covering my shift. I usually start work at two o’clock. It’s almost four. So I won’t go in today. That gives me a full night to rest up. Tomorrow is . . .” I hesitated, still not sure how much time I lost. “Tomorrow is Wednesday. I’ll go in late, work a short shift. Thursday is my regular day off.” I regarded him with a calm, let’s be reasonable about this expression.

  The doctor stood, leafing through the papers in his hand and signing them while he spoke. “I talked to Mr. Dale. He said he will either call you or stop by to see you regularly. If you experience any dizzy spells, nausea, or vomiting, call 911 immediately. No heavy lifting for a week. Try to keep your left hand immobile, at least for the first few days. I’ll give you pain medicine to take with you and I can give you a prescription for more if you’d like.”

  I shook my head immedia
tely. “I don’t take pills.”

  “Your ribs and your hand will hurt once the injections we gave you wear off,” he warned.

  “I don’t do pills.” I didn’t explain that my no-good brother was a drug addict and there was no way in hell I would set a toe on that path.

  “I’ll call in a prescription for you. You don’t have to get it filled, but it will be there if you need it.” He jotted another note on the file before closing it. “You had a bad accident. You need to take it easy for a few days.”

  Accident, my ass. “Will do,” I lied.

  I waited another two hours for all the paperwork to be processed. I sat there kicking my heels, clasping a plastic bag full of hospital junk—wash tub, toothbrush, tissues, and the like, which apparently were now mine by virtue of me touching them. I was dressed in the jeans and blouse I wore a day earlier, now wrinkled despite being neatly folded in the closet in my hospital room. Thank God they didn’t cut the clothes off of me. Lord knows what I would have done if that happened.

  When it came time to actually leave, I was surprised to find John Smalley waiting at the nurse’s station. “What are you doing here?” I asked as the nurse piloted me in my wheelchair. We paused at the desk and the nurse in charge handed me an envelope.

  “Here’s your release papers and the pills the doctor wanted you to take,” the nurse said. “And don’t forget if you need to fill the prescription, the doctor called it in to the pharmacy.”

  “Great.” I snatched the papers from her hand.

  “I told Alan I’d make sure you got home okay. He’s going to wrap up at the Parlor and come over as soon as he can.” John took the bag of belongings I held on my lap and the envelope full of paperwork. “The doctor doesn’t think you should be alone, at least at first.”

  “It’s really not necessary,” I protested while we rolled our way to the front door. “I’m probably going to go home and sleep.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll relax on the couch and watch TV while you nap.”

  “But you shouldn’t have to.”

  “Relax, Tucker. Somebody has to drive you home and I volunteered. I’ll go bring the car up to the door. Don’t go anywhere.” He hurried off, disappearing into the shadowy recesses of the parking garage.

  “I could take a taxi,” I commented.

  “Lots of people volunteered to help,” the young nurse said. “You must be popular.”

  “I own a bar. I have a lot of friends.”

  She giggled. “Lucky you. At least your friends aren’t afraid of you. All of my friends are worried I’ll practice giving shots on them.” She wheeled me outside.

  “I can see where it would put a damper on friendship. I’m surprised he let you borrow this,” I said to John when he pulled up in Alan’s sedan.

  “I have a truck. I think you’d have trouble climbing in.” John held the passenger door for me then tossed my plastic hospital bag and the envelope full of papers onto the back seat. He wedged himself into the driver’s side, dwarfing the big sedan, which always seemed so roomy to me. Of course, when someone six-five and well over two-hundred pounds enters a car, there isn’t a lot of room to spare.

  “I’m sorry I caused so much trouble,” John said while we drove through sun-dappled streets. “If you hadn’t come to see me, this would never have happened.”

  I raised my face to the light shining into the car, reveling in it after a day in the artificial hospital world. “It wasn’t your fault, John.” I watched him from the corner of my eye. “It was Guy’s car, wasn’t it?”

  The car swerved slightly when he gripped the wheel tighter. “No one is saying.”

  “It was a gray sedan. And you know, I think I recognize a Porsche when I see one. And there aren’t a helluva lot of Porsches in the Barnsdale area.”

  He cleared his throat. “I heard the police were at Guy’s house with a search warrant.”

  “I don’t get it.” I leaned back, once again allowing the flickering sunlight to initiate little movies in my brain. “Why would Guy want to force me off the road?”

  “It was more than that,” John said, his voice low and angry. “Someone tried to kill you.”

  Oh, Will. Did you know this would happen? My eyes got hot with unshed tears and I kept them closed. “There’s no reason anyone would want to kill me,” I whispered. “I don’t know anything about anything.”

  “Somebody disagrees with you.”

  I let the sound of the engine lull me, willing reality to the background for another few minutes. John was right. It was a deliberate act of attempted murder. Owen would have to handle it. My brain felt so scrambled I couldn’t think clearly.

  “Did you leave your garage door open?” John asked a minute later.

  “What?” I sat up straight in the seat while John pulled into my driveway. “Of course not. I always close it.”

  He stopped the car. “Let me go in and check. Do you have a key with you?”

  I started to reach for my purse but I remembered. “My purse was stolen. I don’t know about my car keys and key ring. Oh, damn. My garage door opener. I kept it clipped to my car visor.”

  “Wait here,” John said, getting out.

  I was so surprised I stayed pinned to my seat for a second then I hurriedly unfastened my seat belt and followed him into the garage. He turned when he reached for the door to the kitchen. “Do you normally keep this locked?”

  I shook my head. “No. I know I should, but I’ve never gotten in the habit.”

  He opened the door and stepped inside. “Oh, God,” he said in a strangled voice.

  “What?” I pushed in behind him and stopped, aghast. My kitchen was a total trashed mess. The cupboards were all open, dishes were piled on the floor, canisters opened and the contents strewn about.

  I edged past John, who was rooted to the spot. I turned to the right, to the living room, and stopped, appalled. The stench in the room was disgusting, a smell of rot and something I couldn’t quite identify. The furnace was on full-blast, the heat so intense it felt like something was on fire.

  I took a step forward and stopped. A pile of manure was stacked in the middle of the living room floor. I covered my nose and mouth with my left arm, choking. I reached for the thermostat and turned off the furnace.

  “Dear God,” John breathed.

  I turned. He stood in the hallway, staring at the wall. I joined him. Red writing—bloody writing—stained the pale green walls.

  You’ll die too

  Dried blood streaked from the letters, pooling on the floorboards. The smell of the blood and the other odor . . . what was it? “John, what—?” I turned to him, helpless with horror.

  John was already moving, going back to the kitchen. He raced to the stove and slammed open the door. Smoke billowed out along with a gut-churning odor.

  “Oh, God.” He grabbed kitchen towels and pulled what looked like a burnt football from it, something compact and twisted.

  It was an animal. I saw a small skull, legs, all burnt, all twisted.

  “The kittens!” I whirled, peering into the living room. “Where are the kittens? Oh, God, it isn’t—?” I stumbled, almost falling into him when he dropped the burnt remains on my kitchen table.

  “It’s a chicken,” he said grimly. “I hope it was dead when it was put in there.” He reached over and turned off the oven, waving at the smoke with big sweeps of his arms.

  “What? A chicken? In the . . .” It was too much. My meager lunch wouldn’t stay down. I raced for the door to the garage and pulled it open, stumbling to the lawn to vomit.

  Chapter 13

  I threw up everything in my stomach, leaning over with my hands on my knees to support me. It hurt so damn much because of my broken fingers and the bruises that I quit quickly, probably more from the pain than from the fact my stomach was empty. I drew in several long shuddering breaths before I could force myself to go back into the house.

  I stopped in the entryway. John opened windows in the livi
ng room and he walked along the hall, stepping carefully over my strewn possessions. The burnt thing was gone and I saw the door to the back stoop open, letting air into the house.

  “John?” I called.

  He glanced back at me. His eyes were bleak and it seemed he alternated between wanting to weep and wanting to hit someone. “Stay there, Tucker. I want to make sure nobody else is here.”

  “The kittens,” I said helplessly. “Where are they?”

  “I’ll find them. Go back outside. Don’t come any further.” He disappeared around a corner, into my bedroom.

  I couldn’t let him do it all for me. I forced myself, one step at a time, into the kitchen. I pulled open the door to the basement and turned on the light. The smell was there, too. Not the burnt smell but something else, something wet and bloody and horrible mixed with a smell of burnt feathers or hair. “John?” I called, my voice wavering. “Down here.”

  He emerged from the bedroom, ducked into the den then the guest room and came to me. “Go outside,” he said, his voice grim. “You don’t want to go in the bedroom.”

  “The kittens?” My stomach started to flip flop again.

  “I haven’t found them yet.” He paused at the top of the basement steps and sniffed. His face paled. “Call the police. Wait for them outside.”

  “John, don’t. You don’t have to.”

  He gently pushed me toward the door. “Go outside. Wait there. Call the police.” He descended the stairs slowly, warily.

  Coward that I was, I obeyed. I grabbed my portable phone and went outside, dialing 911 with trembling hands. I managed a garbled plea for help then I pressed Alan’s speed-dial number for his mobile phone.

  I could barely hear him over the sounds in the kitchen at the Parlor. “Hey, Tuck. I’ll be done here in an hour or so.”

  “Somebody broke in my house. It’s awful. They killed—it’s terrible. There’s blood everywhere and it stinks and—” I started to cry, big gulping sobs. “I think they tortured the kittens. I can’t find them. I can’t go inside. John is in there and there are—”