by Judith Rolfs
Bullet in the Night
Judith Rolfs
Copyright © 2014 Judith Rolfs
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Cover Art by Joan Alley
Editing by Paula Mowery
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means without the permission of Prism Book Group. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Published by Prism Book Group
ISBN-10: 1940099609 ISBN-13: 978-1-940099-60-6
Published in the United States of America
Contact info: [email protected]
http://www.prismbookgroup.com
TABLE OF CONTENTS
BULLET IN THE NIGHT
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
Tucker Lawrence barged into my office and collapsed onto a chair. His lower lip trembled as he blurted out, “Lenora’s been shot.”
Instantly my world turned cold and dark despite sunbeams streaming through the window. My heart began to pound. Usually no one gets past my office manager, Ellen, not even a six-foot-six man with the intimidating posture of a redwood tree. Good thing my next client hadn’t arrived yet.
Dressed in khakis, dark blue silk shirt, and dry-cleaner-perfect linen jacket, Tucker could have been mistaken for a GQ model. His face, framed by a silver-gray beard, had held its handsomeness well for sixty years. He sat inert as if saying the words sucked the strength from his body.
“What? It can’t be.” I covered my gaping mouth with my hand. Stupid response. Like words could change this unthinkable horror.
“One bullet, only one, and it penetrated her right lung as she sat at her desk. She’s alive, but comatose.” Tucker’s breathing came in bursts. “The ER doctor says the oxygen level to her brain was impaired. Lenora lapsed into shock before the paramedics arrived. Even if she survives, her prognosis for recovering normal functioning is poor.” Tucker clenched his fists.
I blinked away tears but couldn’t control the sick feeling in my stomach. I pictured my vivacious, compassionate friend. When Lenora walked into a room, it lit up like Christmas.
How could she be near death? I shivered and reached for my suit jacket on the back of my chair.
Numb, I stared at the furrow in Tucker’s forehead. “Counseling people isn’t law enforcement. It shouldn’t be dangerous. When Lenora and I became psychotherapists, we didn’t expect the job would involve physical risk.”
“Exactly.”
“May I see her?”
“Sorry. No visitors except family, and I’m all she has.” Tucker dragged a handkerchief from his pocket. “I’ve been at the hospital all night.” He blew his nose. “Not that she knew.”
“Who would do this?” I rifled through papers on my desk nervously. ”A disturbed client? Why shoot such a sweet champion of goodness?”
“My feelings too.”
“Was it a robbery?”
Tucker shook his head. “As far as I can tell nothing’s missing.”
He eyed my coffee pot in the corner.
“Would you like—?”
He was already moving toward it.
The brown liquid dribbling into the paper cup seemed surreal in this moment. I considered Tucker as he drank. Fragile, fearful? Why had he come here in person to tell me?
As if reading my thoughts, he answered. “It happened last night, too late to make the morning news. I knew Lenora would want you to know and pray.”
“Of course.”
Strange request coming from Tucker. Had this crisis suddenly changed his beliefs? Doubtful. More likely he was anticipating what would be Lenora’s wishes.
“And I came to ask a favor,” he added.
“Anything I can do to help.”
“Lenora has several counseling clients she sees at her office in our home. They’ll need to be notified. Hearing about this on the news could upset them even more. Then can you follow up with them if they wish?”
“Absolutely. I’ll make time. What about her clients through the foundation?” My eyes smarted thinking of the rehab work Lenora did with prisoners. “Do you need me to make those calls also?”
“The Second Chance board is on top of everything.”
“Okay.” It seemed such an impotent word. Nothing in Tucker’s world could seem okay. “It’s all so mystifying, to say the least,” I murmured, shaking my head.
Tucker took another gulp of coffee.
I pressed him for more details. Part of me didn’t want to hear, yet I had to know.
“Lenora was at her desk in the den. The bullet whizzed through the screen. She probably had no warning.”
My stomach tightened. “Who found her?”
“Kirk Corsini called the police.”
“The man she hired?”
“The ex-con she hired.” His tone made it clear he hadn’t agreed with Lenora’s decision. “If only I’d been there…”
“Were you still at your job in the city?”
“Monday through Thursday, as usual.” Tucker’s voice edged with sadness. “Kirk would know my routine, catching the last train Thursday night.” His voice trailed off. “The police suspect he shot her.”
“What would be his motive?”
“Kirk had his job review last night. It may have been what set him off. The police found Lenora’s notes on her desk, indicating areas where he needed improvement.”
“Hardly a reason for attempted murder.” Hearing the word, I squirmed in my chair. How could I know this ex-convict’s thought process?
“He could have had a rifle in his car, left upset, then doubled back, hiked into the woods, and shot her. Then hid the gun before he came back to the house to call for medical help.”
My eyes widened. “Why call an ambulance if he intended to kill her?”
Tucker shrugged. “Remorse after the act? Or to thro
w off suspicion? I’ve warned Lenora about being too trusting with these felons.”
“Still…why shoot your benefactor? A confrontation about work skills didn’t mean she intended to fire him. Or did she?”
“I don’t know.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “Maybe it was just a warning but it scared him. Who knows the workings of a criminal mind?”
“Did the police find the weapon?”
“Not yet.”
Lenora had a strong passion to help ex-convicts. How horrible for her attacker to be someone she’d rehabilitated. She’d bragged to me about Kirk being her first success story when she’d hired him as the Second Chance rehab counselor. How many people would be dissuaded from helping ex-cons if they read about consequences such as this? “Tucker, I’d give Kirk every benefit of the doubt at this point. That’s what Lenora would want.”
Tucker pressed his palms together. “She had to be wrong about this man.”
“She’s usually an excellent judge of character. I find it hard to believe she’d make such a mistake.”
Tucker raised his voice. “No one’s judgment is infallible.”
“Perhaps I can assist with the investigation. Maybe one of her clients will know something. Lenora may have told you I’ve helped with a criminal case before.”
“Thanks, but your sleuthing isn’t necessary. The police are quite competent, and there’s no doubt in my mind Kirk shot her. I’m not surprised. I’ve never shared my wife’s enthusiasm for social engineering.”
I stared at him. “But you helped establish the Second Chance Foundation?”
“Because I love my wife.” He lifted his chin and gritted his teeth. “Rescuing people was my wife’s love.”
“An awesome undertaking.”
He seemed not to hear me. “Kirk will be punished.” He studied his hand then pounded his right fist into his left palm. “I’m going to personally see to it.” Tucker stood.
I said nothing. He might be right about Kirk, but the fact Kirk called for an ambulance made me skeptical. I decided to do a little checking on my own. If Kirk carried a ton of repressed anger, Lenora should have glimpsed it with her skills of perception and stayed clear. Sometimes I disliked being a psychotherapist, always questioning. Might someone else have reason to harm Lenora?
“Lenora must have a file on Kirk. May I stop by tonight when you’re back from the hospital to collect it and get the names and numbers for those clients you want me to contact?”
“Fine. Come after nine.”
I followed him to the door and patted his shoulder. “Nick and I will pray for Lenora’s complete healing and for your strength through this.”
Tucker straightened his jacket. “Thanks for caring. Lenora is all I have…” He dragged himself through the doorway.
I stared at my hands, needing something tangible to assure myself this visit had been real.
If Lenora’s attacker wasn’t Kirk, her shooter was still out there, and she wasn’t safe even in the hospital.
I taught clients to guard themselves emotionally and keep their personal lives separate from their work through appropriate boundaries, vital for a healthy life. Truth was, I often abandoned my own rules.
As I walked back to my desk, I froze. Might this person be someone else Lenora and I both counseled at one of our joint workshops? I shuddered.
CHAPTER TWO
At six twenty p.m. I dragged myself through the front door of our two-story colonial, normally my safe and happy place of respite. Cedar, brick, and locks are no protection against the specter of violence. My heels click-clacked across the ceramic-tiled kitchen floor as Nick strolled into the kitchen, his head halfway through the neck of a gray sweatshirt.
He pulled me gently toward him. I nuzzled my face against his neck then lifted my lips for a kiss. I took advantage of the moment to hang limp in the arms that have held me for eighteen years.
He released me quickly. “Something’s happened. It’s all over you.” Nick read me better than a trained counselor. Discernment was his gift, and I was his life study.
“Lenora …” I dropped onto one of the caned-back stools at our island counter and related what I knew, ending with “she’s in a coma in ICU.”
I had just begun to collect myself when our teens, Collin and Tara, bounded through the kitchen door. “Just two of you? Where’s Jenny?” I frowned. “You know you’re in charge of your sister until I get home.”
“Mom...duh. Her friend, Katlin’s, eight-year-old birthday. Remember?” Tara popped her fist on her hip and rolled her eyes.
My all-too-familiar canopy of guilt descended. Moms should remember these things.
“What’s for dinner?” Collin charged toward the refrigerator like a starvation victim.
“Fried chicken, KFC, as soon as Dad gets it.” I looked imploringly at Nick.
“Okay, guys. We’ll eat in a little while. First, Mom and I need to talk. Grab an apple and go shoot some hoops.” Nick’s tone made it clear this wasn’t a suggestion.
When they left, my pent-up tears gushed for the first time since hearing the news about Lenora. Tears have their own agenda. Mine were noisy.
“Honey, don’t take it so hard. She’s alive; hopefully she’ll survive this shooting.” He put his arms around my shoulders.
I leaned into him and continued babbling. “She’s close as a sister. I’m crying for you, me, the mortality of everyone I love.” I reached around him for a napkin to blow my nose. “I just need to get it out.”
“Okay. I’ll go for carry-out and phone the church to put her on the prayer chain on my way.”
“Thanks. I’d like some time alone.”
He squeezed my shoulders and released me.
I walked into our bedroom, closed the blinds, and plopped onto our bed. Lord, don’t let her die. Please, please heal her. Lenora and I had shared so much over the years. My shoulders shook with sobs.
Thirty, maybe forty minutes passed. A hesitant knock on the door caught my attention. I turned to find Collin creeping toward me. He settled his lanky body on the rumpled bedspread next to my mounds of tissue.
“Dad told us, Mom. What a stupid thing. Mrs. Lawrence’s a nice lady. I’m sorry for her.” He clumsily put his hand on top of mine. “It scares me to think that could have been you, Mom. Sometimes I know I’m a jerk and get mad and wish I didn’t have to listen to you, but I’d ... you know.”
I sat up and looked into Collin’s wet eyes before I lifted my hand to stroke his cheek. Such sensitivity from my usually sports-and-self-absorbed young man. A lump formed in my throat. “I know, son.” Behind him, pictures of both sets of grandparents hung on the wall. The death of a close relative hadn’t yet touched his life.
Collin stood. “Dad wanted me to tell you he’s back.”
“Thanks.” I dried my eyes and followed Collin to the kitchen where Nick was opening round containers of fried chicken, beans, and coleslaw. My stomach growled.
Tara put plates and silverware for four on the table in the dining room. We might eat carryout often, but we always used regular dishes. Collin grabbed a gallon of milk from the refrigerator. We all settled around the table in our usual chairs.
“Who wants to pray?” Nick asked.
Tara bowed her head. “I think you’d better, Dad.”
Nick praised God for the gift of the day and asked God to heal Lenora, comfort her husband, and guard and guide our friends and family members wherever they were. He added thanks for the food before we ended with a group “Amen.”
All eyes turned to me and stared. No one made a sound. In answer to their concerned faces, I urged them to go ahead and eat.
Pull me together, Lord. May I respond to this situation in a way that honors You.
Tara munched a baking powder biscuit and with her free hand patted a pile of coleslaw with a paper napkin to absorb the excess mayonnaise, having begun a recent hate affair with fat. “Mom, Dad said you worked with Lenora and she was your friend, too. What wa
s she like?” Tara’s pretty fourteen-year-old hazel eyes sparkled above her tiny mouth. Friends were huge priority to her.
“What Lenora ‘is’ like, honey, not ‘was.’ We’re praying for Mrs. Lawrence’s healing,” Nick corrected.
How to describe Lenora? I found a smile as I studied the Colonel’s picture on the bucket. “Well, even when she walked, she seemed to be running. You know I always urge you to try your hardest. Lenora was the first hundred-percenter I’d ever met. She poured herself into people and any issue that absorbed her.”
“Where’d you meet, Mom?” Collin didn’t pause from dredging his French fries with catsup.
“In Theories of Personality class almost a decade ago. She was fifty-two at the time. I was thirty-five. But age doesn’t matter when you find somebody you click with.” I paused to pick the breading off an extra crispy chicken breast. “A few years later, she moved here. We taught several workshops together before she started her foundation and cut back on her general counseling.”
“What’s Lenora’s foundation?” Tara asked. “Who does it help?”
“Ex-convicts. She calls them lost souls in need of resurrection.” I explained the basics of how it operated.
“So people nobody but God cares about because of bad things they’ve done?” Tara wiped her mouth with her napkin.
“Sadly, yes, but they can be reformed and start a new life.” I hoped that’s what her protégé Kirk did. I chose not to add that, unfortunately, the police suspected one of them may have shot her.
“Okay, clear your places. Time for homework. Mom and I will clean-up tonight,” Nick instructed.
I went to the sink and filled it with rinse water while Nick stacked dishes. The billowing soapsuds in the warm water took away some of my numbness. Routine household chores had a way of soothing me.
While I loaded the dishwasher, Nick wiped the table. When he finished, he sat down to peruse the newspaper. Close enough to listen if I needed to talk. I touched his arm as I reached for a glass, letting him know I appreciated his nearness.