“Can handle?” Charlie interrupted. “Really?”
“Baby, you need rest. Just like the nurse said, everything’s going to be okay.”
Charlie looked into his eyes. “Just tell me the truth about Mira, Clint. I can handle the truth.”
“I know.”
She started to babble about Shannon Patterson, Mira, and started crying again when she told him how much she wanted their baby. And, within minutes, she fell asleep.
Clint stared at Charlie’s beautiful face, feeling both grateful she was alive, and sad that they’d lost a child that they’d both wanted.
When the phone rang, he snatched it off the cradle before Charlie woke.
“Hello?” he whispered.
“Mr. Abbott?” an unfamiliar male voice asked.
“Yes, this is Clint Abbott.”
“My name is Sergeant Jeff Gillespie with the Kansas City Police Department and—”
“Who?” Clint picked up the phone and carried it to the window with him.
“We found your address in a Mister”—he paused as if trying to find something— “Here it is, a Mister Winston Fry’s coat and we’re hoping you can help us. I’m glad I was able to find—”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you know Mister Fry?”
“Yes.” He glanced at Charlie.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mr. Fry… he’s… he’s… gone,” Gillespie stammered.
“Gone?” Clint asked. “Gone where?”
“He passed sometime last night or early this morning. I don’t know exactly what hap—”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Clint felt his blood pressure rise and then lowered his voice.“Where’s Mira?”
“We’re trying to find out what happened,” the officer stated in monotone.
His heart speeding, Clint tried to keep his composure. “Mira…She was with Mr. Fry. Is she alright?
“A neighbor found a child in the front yard of the home in Kansas City where we found Mister Fry, but we don’t know who she—”
“Oh, Jesus.” Clint felt dizzy. “Is she all right? I don’t understand, Why was she in the—?”
“You’re going to have to calm down, sir. I need to ask some questions.”
“Just tell me she’s safe.”
“We didn’t find any ID.”
Jesus. ID? “Are you saying Mira is…” Clint could barely breathe, let alone finish the sentence.
“She’s alive. We’re just trying—”
Clint bent over, silently thanking God.
“We’re just trying to find her parents.”
“Mira’s only six. She was with Winston… blonde hair, blue eyes. Small for her age.”
“Was she kidnapped?”
“No, nothing like that,” Clint told him. “Can I talk to her?”
“A neighbor noticed her and called the police.”
"Please, just let me to talk to Mira.”
“So your child’s name is Mira?” the cop asked. “Right?”
“For God’s sakes, yes. Miracle Abbott. I need to hear her—”
“She was taken to Mercy Medical.”
Clint froze and glanced at Charlie again, praying she was still asleep. “A hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Is she okay?” He put his hand on the ledge of the window, waiting for what seemed like an eternity for an answer.
“I don’t know all the particulars. I only know she was unconscious when the ambulance arrived.”
“Oh, God, no.”
“You live in Sheffield, Iowa?” Gillespie asked matter-of-factly.
Trying to grasp what he was telling him, Clint answered, “Yes.”
“And you think she might be your child.”
“Yes. Mira’s mother is ill, so we asked Winston to take Mira away for a couple of days.” Clint put a thumb on his eye and pushed back tears. “Can you tell me anything more about my little girl?”
“I think you need to get here as soon as possible. I overheard a paramedic saying he thought it was an aneurysm. But until we know for sure that she’s related to you, the hospital won’t give you any information.”
“An aneurysm? Hey, just who the hell is this?”
“I assure you that I’m a police officer, sir. I can give you my badge number to verify if you want.”
“Oh God,“ Clint was quiet.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Before ending the call, Gillespie asked again, “I just want to be sure that this is Clint Abbot and that your daughter Mira was with Winston Fry.”
“Yes, her name is Miracle, but we call her Mira.”
“Thank you. I’ll relay the info to the hospital. If she wakes up, maybe she can identify herself. You need to bring a picture of her with you just in case.”
Clint hung up, looked at his sleeping wife, and took off for nurses’ station. “I need to leave,” Clint told a nurse behind the counter. “I’ll call the hospital in a couple of hours to see how my wife is.”
Not waiting for an answer, he raced to the elevator. On his way down to the first floor, he rehashed the conversation with the policeman. Winston was dead. Mira was found unconscious with a possibility of her brain bleeding, and Charlie was in the hospital recovering from surgery. He slammed his hand into the elevator door and looked up. “Enough,” he shouted and hit the door again.
In the lobby, he called Charlie’s mother and told her to come to the hospital and stay with Charlie, explaining that Mira and Winston were at the house and he was going to go check on them.
When Clint sped out of the parking lot he barely missed colliding into a parked car. Flying through stop signs and going around cars, he knew if he didn’t calm down that he’d be the next one in the hospital. But he needed to get to Mira as soon as possible. Jesus, an aneurysm. Surely the cop was wrong.
Clint made a fast U-turn in the middle of the Maine Street. He tore into the gas station and told them it was an emergency and he needed to use their phone. Then he called the sheriff’s office.
“This is Clint Abbott,” he said as calmly as he could when a familiar voice answered. “I need help.”
After he explained his situation, Peg Sullivan answered, “I’ll get on it right now. Stay on the line and I’ll call the sheriff on another line. He’ll want to know your location.”
One thing about living in a small town was that people looked out for each other. Clint was a wreck by the time Peg got back on the phone and asked what route Clint was taking to Kansas City.
Driving 90 miles-an-hour down the highway toward the interstate, Clint was almost to the exit for Kansas City when he saw a squad car with the Sheffield, Iowa Sheriff’s logo pass him.
The Sheriff put up his hand as a wave and sped off in front of Clint, turning on the red light on the roof of the squad car.
His mind going a hundred miles an hour, Clint wondered if Faith had caused Winston‘s death, or had he died saving Mira’s life?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
AFTER SHANNON WAS BOOKED, she went about raising holy hell. She’d ranted, raved, and rattled the bars on her cell nonstop. She was causing havoc which was exactly her intention.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here!” she shouted. “What did I do wrong? Clint Abbott tried to kill me, and all I did was defend myself.”
“And you just happened to have a rifle with you?” one of the lazy assed cops asked.
“A girl can’t be too careful, ya know? Being an officer of the law, you should know that. When that shrimp attacked me, the gun went off.” She put a hand over her chest. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“You’re in deep doo doo, lady.” he told her. “So might as well get comfy.”
“Clint Abbott asked me to come out to his house. He wanted me there for support when he told his Charlie he was leaving her for me.”
The officer smirked and walked away.
“You cop
s suck!” When no one paid any attention to her she started to wail like a child. “No one believes me. Why?” She tried to fake tears, but they wouldn’t come. “Why doesn’t anyone like me?”
After Shannon was caught making a noose out of the bed sheet, rambling that she was going to kill herself, Dr. Leopold showed up.
She’d fought the quack when he’d tried to take her blood pressure and refused to answer his stupid questions, like, “How do you feel? What’s going through your head? How can I help?”
Get this over with, butt face, she wanted to tell him, but instead, crossed her arms over her chest and was silent.
Early evening, her psychiatrist waltzed into the jail. Evidently the county attorney had contacted him and subpoenaed her medical records. Perfect.
She watched him powwow in a corner with a couple of cops, every once in a while glancing at Shannon. She caught words like “long history of…” And a “danger to herself and others.” Shannon couldn’t hear what one of the officers asked him, but watched the psychiatrist look up, as if pondering the question.
Everything was going as planned. “I can hear you,” she sang out. Shannon set her feet apart, wrapped her pudgy hands around the bars and rattled them. “Silly, boys. I’m not deaf.”
It was after nine p.m. when her cell door opened and Shannon was handcuffed.
“Come on, lady,” the cop told her.
“Come on? But where are you taking me?” Shannon asked, even though she knew the answer.
“Move,” he said rudely and was joined by another stupid looking cop. The two dumbos escorted her out the back door of the jail to a squad car.
“I’ll see to it you lose your jobs,” Shannon told them as one of the officers put his hand on top of her head and pushed her into the back seat of the car. “I have friends in high places.”
Yeah, me, Shannon thought. Take me out to the funny farm, boys. Take me out with the nuts.
Internally she was laughing her ass off for giving an Academy Award performance. What a bunch of lollipop cops. She’d be deemed unfit to stand trial, go into a loony bin for six months, a year at the most, and then be free to go her merry way.
After the house was rebuilt, she’d sell the damn thing. With the proceeds from the sale, coupled with her savings, Shannon could go anywhere she damn well pleased.
When the squad car passed the Abbott home Shannon saw it was dark inside. She was curious as to how Charlie was doing, but didn’t ask. She and Clint were over and it was time to move on to greener pastures. Someone out there was waiting for her and, by God, she was going to find them.
The last twenty-four hours had been unbearable. She’d refused to eat the slop at the jail and was starving. What she’d give for a boatload of Twinkies right now.
Shannon carried on about how she was going to see to it that the cops would never get a job anywhere in the entire US, and that they’d better take her back to Sheffield until her voice was almost gone.
“I need to pee,” Shannon said.
The officer turned around in his seat. “We’re not stopping.”
“That’s a violation of my human rights!” Shannon countered. “I’ll sue your asses.”
When he didn’t have the courtesy to even answer her, she peed her pants. Although it was uncomfortable to sit in urine, Shannon was proving her point which was that she was certifiably insane. Well, temporarily insane. The make believe affair with Clint, her counselor at the crazy ward would testify, had caused her so much pain that poor Shannon Patterson had lost her mind. She wanted to giggle. Given she had a degree in psychology, and had worked for the government for years she knew it was pretty damn easy to beat the system. .
The squad car finally turned onto a long, paved driveway lined with tall streetlights like the ones in big cities. Wherever she was going was isolated, as it was surrounded by miles and miles of fields.
“What are we?” Shannon asked.
“Stewartville Mansion,” the cop told her. “Only place that had an opening.”
She’d heard about this place. Old man Stewart had left his multi-million dollar estate to the state when he’d died to be used as a psychiatric hospital. He’d dedicated it to his youngest son who’d been mentally ill.
Her eyes swept over the stately three-story brick house slash nut house. Stewartville Mansion was the Taj Mahal for all nut cases. She’d heard the food here was like dining in a five-star restaurant, and the caregivers were pushovers. Shannon couldn’t help but smile.
For once in her miserable life, she’d been given a fricken’ break.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CLINT BURST INTO the surgical waiting room, noting that the place was jam-packed with people who all seemed to be staring directly at him.
They probably thought he was insane and wouldn’t be far off. Not only had he not bothered to comb his hair or shaved for days, but he’d almost ripped the door off the hinges when he stormed in.
“The receptionist in the lobby told me to come here,” Clint told the volunteer behind the desk. “I think my little girl is in surgery.”
The middle-aged man in a wheelchair picked up the in-house phone and looked up at Clint over his glasses. “Are you Mr. Abbott?”
“Yes.”
The gentlemen nodded and dialed. A second later, he said, “I wanted to let you know that the Abbott father is in the waiting room.” He listened for a second or two and then hung up. “Someone will be right in to speak with you. Just take a seat.”
There was no way Clint could sit right now. He was a mess, thinking about how Winston could have died and why Mira lost consciousness. What had gone on after they’d left the house?
He took a quick look around; an older woman with a crown of white hair had her head bowed, her gnarled fingers moving rapidly over a rosary. A couple held hands, their eyes red and swollen. A pimply-faced young man stared into space and, at the back of the room, a coffee pot sat on a counter beside a plate of cookies.
The tension was thick as everyone was waiting to find out if a loved one had survived and now, Clint joined them.
“Mr. Abbott?”
He turned toward the voice. “What?!” Seeing the surprised expression on the man’s face standing behind, Clint added, “Sorry. I’m a little edgy.”
“No problem.” the tall, slender man dressed in dark blue scrubs assured, “I’m Dr. Levitt.” He nodded at the door. “Let’s go find a place where we can chat.”
“Can I see her?” Clint asked, following the doctor to the door.
“Do you have a picture of her?” Levitt asked as they started down the hallway. “HIPAA requires identification or we can’t release any information.”
Clint fumbled to take out his wallet out of his back jean pocket and pulled out a recent photo of Mira.
Levitt stared down at the photo and then handed it back to Clint. “She’s pretty beat up, but yes, I’m pretty sure that’s her.”
An icy shiver ran down Clint’s spine. Beat up? “I was told that Mira may have had an aneurysm. It that true?”
“Yes, that’s what we found. The artery was weak due to the enlargement of a growth.” Halfway down the hall, Levitt stopped and opened a door. He flicked on the overhead lights, and waited for Clint to go inside before closing it behind him. “Mira was brought in with quite a few bruises and she was also covered in mud,” Levitt began.
“Mud?” Clint put a hand over the back of his tense neck. “Not snow?”
“Mud. But before we go any further,” Levitt said, “I should inform you that the hospital has contacted child protective services.”
“What? Why?” If it was discovered that Mira had been taken away, and the court order was preventing Charlie to see Mira, there was a risk they’d lose their only child permanently.
“Why? Because she was found alone on a sidewalk unconscious in a city a long ways from home. And the man she was evidently with is dead. Unfortunately there’s no one who can tell us what happened.”
If Clint argued, it would only make things worse. He had to think of something fast. “Mira’s primary doctor back in Sheffield has been following her closely. The last time she was hospitalized she had bruises and his opinion was that Mira was hurting herself.”
Levitt stared at Clint, silently telling him to go on.
“I asked Winston, Mr. Fry, to take Mira because my wife had an accident and was taken to the hospital. Maybe Mira was so upset seeing her mom hurt that she caused the bruises.”
“So you’re saying Mira has a mental issue?”
“That’s what her doctor suggested. My wife was going to set up an appointment with a psychiatrist today. Are Mira’s bruises small? Like maybe a child hit her?”
Levitt looked up briefly. “If I recall correctly, yes.”
“And the aneurysm? Was it caused by a trauma?” Clint asked, pulling questions out of his head. God, he hoped Levitt said no.
Levitt shook his head. “No. No blows to the head and the growth we removed appeared as if it had been growing for some time.”
“Mira’s doctor will confirm what I’m telling you.” At least Clint hoped he would.
“Child services will probably ask if anyone else saw Mira before she left with Mr. Fry.”
They would want to know if Clint or Charlie had hurt her. “That’s not a problem. Charlie’s mother was at the house just before Mira left.” That wasn’t quite true, but he knew his mother-in-law would cooperate knowing that Clint and Charlie would never hurt Mira.
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll make sure that my report reflects that Mira’s bruises are small and that you and your wife are making arrangements for Mira to seek psychiatric help.”
“Thank you.”
“To continue what I was saying,” Levitt picked where he’d left off, “we had no idea who to contact when Mira was brought in. Emergency surgery was required or…”
“Or we were going to lose her,” Clint finished. All of a sudden, Clint couldn’t breathe, the palms of his hands were clammy, and his chest felt funny. Dizzy, he thought he was going to pass out.
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