by Terri George
Jensen grabs the axe that’s leaning against the wall and swings it in an arc over his shoulder. “Back off! I’ll use it. I will.”
A loud crack splits the air, reverberating in the confined space, and a heartbeat later the axe bounces as it hits the floor.
Chapter Twenty Six
CRISTINA
It’s only the second time I’ve seen something die.
The first time I was about nine. Next door’s cat had caught a mouse. Got it trapped between the pots of flat-leaved parsley, oregano and basil of mum’s mini herb garden in a sunny spot on the patio. It was toying with its quarry, tormenting it. Pinning it down with a furry paw, only to release it from its claws and watch the terrified creature, almost as if it was willing it to try and run just so it could catch it again.
Predator suddenly turned prey, the cat ran off when Mum shooed it away.
The mouse didn’t look physically injured, not outwardly at least, but even though it was free to scurry away, it didn’t. It just lay there, too traumatised to move, its tiny body heaving. I told mum we should finish it off, put it out of its misery with a swift bash with the shovel or something. She agreed. But neither of us could bring ourselves to perform an act of such brutality. Neither could we watch, so we went inside.
If we were country people, used to seeing the natural circle of things, we wouldn’t have thought twice about ending its life quickly and cleanly, but the misplaced kindness of our townie sensibilities only resulted in it suffering more. It took ten minutes to die.
Once we were sure it was dead, mum scooped it up with a trowel and buried it in a flowerbed among the Nigella and Michaelmas daisies.
Sheriff Strub would probably have just stamped on it. Squashing a mouse would be nothing compared with shooting a person. And he didn’t hesitate about pulling the trigger.
It wasn’t like on TV or in the movies. There was no blood spurting. Jensen wasn’t hurled backwards by the force of the bullet as it ripped through his flesh to tear into internal organs.
There was no rapid spreading of blood soaking his pristine white tee shirt, just a small circle of scarlet where the bullet had entered.
In the three seconds of clarity before his body succumbed to the extreme trauma it had suffered, Jensen just looked sort of surprised, then crumpled to the floor.
In reality, everything happened so fast it was impossible for my brain to truly register what happened in what order. By the time I heard the sound of the bullet exploding from the barrel of sheriff Strub’s gun it had already torn into Jensen’s body. But to my senses it felt as though time had slowed and everything happened at half speed.
I’ve felt that sensation once before when Alessandro was driving us to our parents for Sunday lunch when my car was off the road.
Another car was indicating right. Something fisted in my gut for a moment, then relaxed when it looked as if the driver was going to stop at the junction where the side road met the main road we were on. But he didn’t. Miscalculating the space between our two vehicles, the speed Alessandro was driving and how quickly we’d be that much further along the road, the driver pulled out. Again, in reality there was barely time to acknowledge what was about to happen before it happened, but in my head I saw the unavoidable accident play out in slow motion. Right up to when the grinding of metal as the front of Alessandro’s car smashed into the side of the other driver’s that straddled our lane, stopped everything dead.
Luckily, that day no one was injured. No one died. Unlike today.
I swallow down the queasiness that’s threatening to erupt from my stomach into my throat, but Abbey doesn’t seem as affected. She just stares at Jensen slumped against a stack of boxes, her expression curiously serene.
By contrast, on a scale of one to ten of disapproval, the look Shari gives sheriff Strub is pure contempt. She crouches beside Jensen’s inert body and feels the side of his neck. “I got a pulse.”
Abbey draws in a sharp breath, her eyes widening in alarm.
I prise her fingers from around the handle of the barbecue fork she’s clutching so tightly her knuckles are white.
“It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
Sheriff Strub hasn’t moved other than to lower his gun.
“Well don’t just stand there,” Shari almost shouts at him. “This is your town, your operation, call for an ambulance.”
Strub gives a small upwards nod to one of his men.
“And tell them to hurry,” Shari adds to the deputy who’s now speaking into his radio asking for urgent medical back up.
Poor Alessandro looks as shell-shocked as I feel as he walks over to Abbey and me, rubbing his jaw where a bruise is already forming.
“That was some fight. You alright?”
“I’ll live, sis. Hi Abbey. Are you okay?”
Alessandro’s question finally brings Abbey out of her trance-like state. She looks as if she only now realises that we’re here, although she doesn’t answer.
“Don’t move him. The bullet didn’t exit so he needs to stay on his back to minimise blood loss,” Shari tells the police officers and deputies surrounding Jensen before she walks over to us.
“Hi. You must be Abbey. I’m sheriff Wetzler. Shari to my friends.”
Shari speaks softly, her tone soothing, almost as one would speak to a frightened child. But then after what Abbey’s already been through, not to mention seeing her abductor shot, that’s probably what she feels like.
Abbey half smiles, her “hi” barely more than a whisper.
“There are too many uniforms in here, aren’t there? What do you say we go outside? That okay with you Abbey?”
Abbey nods.
“You might want to slip those on first,” Shari adds, pointing to Abbey’s knickers on the floor by the bench.
Ever the gentleman, Alessandro turns his back on us and Shari and I shield Abbey as she puts them on.
“Abbey will need to be checked over at hospital, and we’ll need her clothes for evidence. Do you have something she can wear?” Shari asks as we walk away from the outbuilding.
“Yeah. I’ll grab something while she’s being examined.”
Shari crouches in front of Abbey as she sits in one of the lawn chairs close to where a hammock is slung between two trees.
“You’re gonna have to leave your things in the house because it’s a crime scene, but if you have a purse, I can get that for you.”
“Thanks. It’s in the bedroom in the back, downstairs.”
“Okay.” Shari stands up and starts to head towards the house.
“Oh, and there’s my journal.”
Shari stops and turns back. “Journal?”
“I had a notebook in my bag, so I wrote it all down. What he did to me. It’s under a loose floorboard.”
As we follow Shari to the hospital, I take the opportunity to call home with the good news that we’ve found Abbey and she’s safe.
Dad’s “Grazie a Dio,” is said more to himself than me. “When is she coming home?”
Dad doesn’t need to hear all the sordid details of what Jensen was doing to Abbey when we found her, what he’s probably done over and over, but I have to give some reason why she won’t be on the first plane home.
“Not for a few days. She has to be examined by a hospital doctor to make sure she’s okay and there’s bound to be an investigation, especially as the local sheriff shot Jensen.”
Dad’s gasp is audible down the line. “Dio abbi pietà. Always shoot first ask questions later.”
“He’s not dead – well not yet. But even if he survives it’ll be days before he can be questioned. There’s no doubt he’s guilty, but even so, the police will need to talk to Abbey before she can come home.”
“Well, the main thing is, she is safe. And that is down to you, piccolo. Your mother and I are very proud of you and Alessandro.”
“Do you think Abbey’s okay? She’s been in there for ages.”
Alessandro’s right, she’s been
in the bath so long the water must have gone cold by now, but boys just don’t get a girl’s need to soak away her troubles. And Abbey has a lot of troubles to clean off.
“She’ll be out soon. Why don’t you see if there’s anything on TV? A movie or something, but nothing violent. Something… nice.”
I’m hoping he’ll find something feel-good and far removed from reality, because God knows Abbey’s had enough realism to last a lifetime. Instead, what we get when Alessandro turns on the TV is the early evening news. And real-life comes crashing through the screen, delivered by a perky blonde with a wide white smile.
‘Jensen Sharrow, grandson of the former leader of the Christ Ministry, was admitted to Regional West earlier today. He is believed to have been shot while resisting arrest on a charge of kidnapping. Currently in the ICU, his condition is said to be critical.’
I don’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s only been a few hours since it happened and it’s already on TV? “How the hell do they know?”
Alessandro looks up from his phone. “Someone at the hospital must have blabbed. An underpaid employee who saw an opportunity to make a quick buck. Whoever it was, it’s all over the internet too.”
Quelle surprise. Despite the ‘breaking news’ banner on the screen, by the time news is on TV it’s already broken on the internet.
Alessandro quickly clicks onto the TV guide as Abbey comes out of the bathroom. There’s a hint of shadow beneath her eyes and she looks like she’s lost weight. Although we’re the same size, the jeans and tee shirt I lent her seem to hang off her a little.
“Dinner is almost ready. It won’t be as good as at home, but I only have a microwave to work with.”
I hand her a glass of wine wishing I could think of the right words of comfort to say, but what do you say to someone who’s gone through what she has?
***
Buying toiletries shouldn’t take this long, but it was hard enough to find them after we’d walked through aisles of soft drinks, magazines and snack foods, never mind that when we did, they’re all different brands that are unknown to us. There’s plenty of blurb about the efficacy of the contents, but it’s still almost impossible to work out the equivalent meaning of the same stuff back home.
Abbey stares blankly at the moisturiser she’s holding. It’s not right for her complexion so I grab one that is and add it to the basket before heading to the checkout where I have to pay because, despite accepting our debit cards, most of the shops demand ID as well.
I suppose I’d be panicked too if my passport was missing – I couldn’t get home without it after all, but even so I was surprised that was what was uppermost in Abbey’s mind the morning after she’s rescued from the man who’d been holding her against her will. The man who abused her. The man she saw shot.
Actually, it turns out her passport isn’t so much missing as being held. According to Shari it’s normal procedure to hold onto it while an investigation is on-going, but surely it’s the perpetrator of a crime who’s a flight risk, not the victim. And what reason would Abbey have to run?
The reason we’re both here is so far from normal, it’s good Abbey agreed to come out at all and not stay holed up in the hotel room. Still, she’s not herself; too quiet. That’s to be expected I suppose, but it leaves conversation up to me. I like to talk, but it’s hard when your chat-buddy’s responses rarely extend beyond the monosyllabic.
Even though the scrambled eggs I made for breakfast were yummy, Abbey said she wasn’t hungry. She’s barely eaten anything since she was freed so I’m determined to get something down her now.
I don’t blame Alessandro for not wanting to tag along with us while we do girlie shopping, but God knows where he’s disappeared to in the mall.
“I’m hungry. I’ll give Alessandro a call and we’ll all have lunch somewhere. Sound good?”
With its pine tables and chairs, laminate flooring masquerading as the real thing and plain white walls, the small coffee shop takes unpretentious to a whole new level; to the point it lacks any kind of intimacy or atmosphere. But the waitress who served us was friendly and my smoked salmon and cream cheese on wholegrain bread is tasty. Not sure about the need to serve it with crisps though.
“Something wrong with your food? Because it’s okay if you don’t want it now. We can order something else.”
Abbey toys with her coffee, scooping up cocoa sprinkled froth into the spoon. “No, it’s fine.”
I want to tell her to just eat it then, but Abbey’s still too fragile for my bossiness that would usually make her laugh.
She licks the foam off her spoon. “Cappuccino’s not bad though. Even if it is after eleven o’clock.”
Making fun of me. That’s good.
Alessandro splutters as he swallows his mouthful around a laugh. “Yeah, my sister is a purist which is code for bossy and opinionated”
“Ha ha. Just because some of us have got standards.”
I know Alessandro’s only winding me up and that’s okay because it gets Abbey smiling, which is a good thing.
The laughter around our table is cut short when the programme on the TV on the wall opposite where we’re sitting changes to the news. And Jensen is the top story.
After recapping the known facts that Jensen is currently critical in the ICU after having been shot by an unnamed law enforcement officer and that, should he recover, he faces a charge of kidnap, the enthusiastic anchor links to the reverend Troy Palin.
“Reverend Palin, what is your reaction to the allegation that the grandson of your predecessor and founder of the Christ Ministry, Jensen Scott is a kidnapper?”
Standing on the sweeping front lawn of his sprawling home somewhere on the outskirts of town, the reverend stares squarely into camera. “The late reverend Joseph Sharrow was a highly respected man and this allegation against his grandson is yet to be proved.”
“But when he regains consciousness Jensen Scott will be arrested on that charge. What do you think drives the grandson of a preacher to do something like that?”
“Jensen was always a troubled boy–”
“Who has grown up to be a troubled young man, with numerous arrests for public intoxication and assault. A young man who despite having no visible means of support, has a penchant for expensive fast cars and regularly posts images on Facebook of his upmarket apartment in downtown Denver and playboy lifestyle.”
“How Jensen chooses to live has no bearing on this outrageous allegation. And we have to remember he lost his mother at the tender age of twelve. That’s bound to have an effect.”
“Betsy Sharrow. His single mother who was still only sixteen when Jensen was born. A known drunk who died from a fall down the stairs while intoxicated.” The immaculately coiffured brunette does nothing to disguise her sneer. “Sad as that is, it’s no excuse. Many children lose a parent, reverend Palin, but they don’t all grow up to be a kidnapper.”
“An alleged kidnapper. We do still live in a democracy, Miss Delany. A country where people have fought and died for our freedom. A country where a person is considered innocent until proven guilty. Where the sixth amendment guarantees that person’s right to a fair trial by an impartial jury of their peers. Not trial by the media who have clearly decided Jensen’s guilt before all the facts are known.”
The anchor starts to retort but reverend Palin cuts her off.
“I would ask Christ Ministry’s congregation to keep Jensen in their prayers as he is in mine, that he may recover swiftly so he is able to clear his name of this unfounded allegation.”
“I think we’ll leave it there. Thank you, reverend Palin.”
The anchor continues to talk to screen, but what she’s saying isn’t what has all three of us staring incredulously. It’s the photo on screen behind her: a photo of Abbey.
“How the bloody hell do they even know about Abbey, much less have her photo?”
Alessandro shrugs. “Probably the same way they knew Jensen had been shot. Someone blabbed.
And let’s face it, the press are better detectives than the police.”
Yeah, and when they sniff out a story as sensational as that of the playboy grandson of a preacher turned kidnapper, they make Sherlock Holmes look like an amateur.
Abbey looks horrified. “That’s my Facebook profile pic. How did they get that?”
“You were examined at the same one Jensen was taken to so they must have got your name from the hospital snitcher. It’s easy enough to go through someone’s friends list so they just went through Jensen’s and when they found you, downloaded your photo. Simple.”
There’s a general murmuring in the café and we all become aware of people looking towards our table. For Abbey’s sake, we need to get out of here. Now.
I spot our waitress over by the food counter and indicate we want to pay. She prints off our bill and brings it to our table.
Ignoring the dollar bills I offer, her gaze wanders and settles on Abbey.
“Oh my gosh. You’re her. You’re Abbey.”
If the other diners hadn’t been certain Abbey’s the girl the reporter is talking about, thanks to the waitress they are now. Mobiles are picked up and aimed at our table, and there’s the sound of clicking all around us as photos of her are snapped.
It was only a matter of time before Abbey’s identity was revealed, but I had hoped Alessandro and I would be able to shield her from it. The public’s prurient interest in stories of abduction means the victim is hounded every bit as much as the kidnapper. I won’t let that happen to Abbey. She’s been through enough.
Chapter Twenty Seven
ABBEY
Bloody hell, I thought the hospital was as bad it was going to get.
It’s the same at home: magnolia, stark white or dull grey. Why are hospital examination rooms always so dreary? Well, hospitals in general. Oh I know some of them have artwork in public areas – tame watercolours or indecipherable abstracts – but the wards are always so depressingly medical. With the exception of children’s wards like the one I was in when I had my tonsils out that was painted with murals of Disney characters and Winnie the Pooh, they’re always such miserable places. Apart from giving birth, the reason you’ve been admitted is never a pleasant one. Don’t they think grown up patients need cheering up as much as children?