The scoundrel had a point, and I had to wonder what was stopping him from pulling the trigger. “You wouldn’t dare. You shoot me in here, and the place will be crawling with cops. You’d be out of a job in a heartbeat.”
The smirk on his face told me I was right. “What do you suggest then?”
My arrogance was boundless and my stupidity without measure. “I suggest you let me take my treasures and leave. I’ll even allow you to congratulate me on my win.”
The smirk spread into something more evil than a smile. “Your win? Well, isn’t that presumptuous? There is no win for you tonight, only loss, great loss.”
I didn’t like his tone, or the smugness with which he spoke. My pulse echoed in my ear as I tried to determine his meaning. “What loss? I have the gun, I have the passports, and I have the leverage. What do you have?”
His words stopped my breath in my chest. “We have your aunt.”
The confidence in his voice almost threw me, but I knew better. “My aunt is in Canada. You must be mistaken.”
His laugh was almost pleasant. “Is that what she told you? Oh, that is really sad considering the circumstances.”
My gun began to feel heavy in my arm, but I dared not lower it. “What do you mean by that?”
The words gave him immense pleasure as they oozed from between his lips. “Your aunt has been sniffing around the church for days. She got a room at an inn in Laurel, and she thought she was playing a good spy. Unfortunately, she was caught just this evening.”
He cleared his throat and waved his gun a little to get my attention. “Here is my suggestion. If you would like to save your aunt’s life, you may have just enough time. Admit defeat, leave your stolen merchandise, and run as fast as those long legs of yours can go back to your aunt’s home. Her ride should drop her off at any moment.”
It had to be a lie, a ploy to get me to leave so that he could destroy the evidence. I had not even gotten the chance to take a picture of even one of the fake identities. Could I chance it though? If I stayed and lost her, could I live with it? How could I ever face Uncle Shane again? My jaw clenched and unclenched as the options flipped back and forth in my mind.
“Tick tock, Miss Johnson. She doesn’t have all night. She was bleeding pretty badly the last I heard.” The henchman’s voice jarred loose my sense of family, the innate need to protect those who were my own.
Exploding from my space, I crashed from the room and out the doors. His voice seemed to chase me as I ran. “You’re too late! You’ve already lost!”
I barely cleared the hedge the second time, tripping and rolling on the hard concrete for a couple of feet. The asphalt tore up my face, and my hand felt raw from where I had caught my fall, but I had no time to nurse wounds. With every ounce of energy I had, I sprinted down the lane, past the dark house, past Rose’s house with the Cadillac still outside.
In my head I chanted, Stella is in Canada. This has to be a mistake. Stella is in Canada. But with each stride, with each time I said the words in my head, it sounded unreal, impossible. I should have known that Stella would not go so easily. I should have driven her myself and stranded her in that bed and breakfast she loved so much.
I saw the lights of the van from a ways off. It picked up speed as it came into view. My legs faltered as I pressed my stamina to the limit. With screeching tires, the van hardly slowed in front of my Uncle’s home as the heavy figure was tossed from the door while the van rolled forward. Her body landed with a sickening crunch and rolled for a few feet. Time froze in my mind as I prayed it would not be her. Let it be someone else. Let it be a mistake. The dark van screeched into the night, and my muscles burned as I covered the remaining space to her broken body.
It can’t be her. Don’t let it be her, the thought echoed in my mind. The shape could have been anything, the way it was twisted, broken, and contorted. It could have been anything.
But then I saw her hand.
Sticking out from under the darkness of her clothes, I immediately recognized her wedding ring. With no thought for my own safety, I dropped my gun and sprinted to her side. I rolled her limp body over, hoping beyond all hope that she was alive. Stella’s eyes were closed, and if not for the blood that saturated her stomach where the bullet had blown straight through, I would have thought she was sleeping.
My trembling fingers found her neck and felt for a pulse. Was it my imagination, or did I feel something there? With nothing to stop the bleeding, I smothered the sobs that created a blockage in my throat, and pressed my palm over her open wound while I called 911. Blood seeped between my fingers, and I cried out in anguish at my inadequacy to save her life.
“What’s your emergency?” a monotone dispatcher asked.
The cold earth soaked into my leggings where I knelt on the ground. The fuzzy red curls framed her face, matted with blood at the crown of her head. Thoughts would not stay linear, as much as I struggled to keep them that way.
“My aunt,” my voice sounded inhuman, “she’s been shot. I think she is alive. I need help.” I recited the address from memory, and the dispatcher assured me that help was on the way. I could hear the voice over the phone line, but all I could think of was my aunt. She had taken me under her wing and been a surrogate mother while I had been separated from my family. She had been a confidante, an adviser, and a friend even when I was at my worst. Now I had lost her.
My hand gripped Stella’s, willing her to live with my own power alone. Because of the stress of the moment, the monster inside me stole my ability to feel her through my numb hand. I cried out in aggravation at the cruel twist of fate. If I couldn’t feel her, could she feel me? Was Stella alone in her final moments because I was barely there?
I fell forward onto her chest, the blood sticky against my face as I whispered, “I’m here, Stella. Hold on, please. Hold on. I promise I am here. Please, don’t leave me.”
The wail of an ambulance sounded in the distance, but all I could hear in my mind was the henchman’s voice echoing his words over and over again.
“You lost.”
Chapter 18
My eyes were red and puffy, but I still did not look as bad as Uncle Shane. We had been waiting in the hospital for four hours while Stella went through extensive surgery. While I occasionally dozed off, Uncle Shane never took his eyes from the door that would bring the news of his wife’s condition.
When the doors finally parted, I knew the answer before the surgeon spoke. There was no need to ask if we were with Stella. We were the only ones in the lobby. As my Uncle’s anguished cries broke the silence, I was glad no one was there to hear the sound of the strongest man in the world shattering into bits. She was gone. My Aunt Stella, the kindest woman I had ever known, had been snuffed out in violence, and it was my fault.
Uncle Shane crumbled to the floor in a heap, and as I tried to help him up, his arm shoved me off with such force that I fell backward behind him. We stayed there for a long time, silently sobbing as I watched my hero lose faith in everything he believed in.
They took him back to see her a while later, and I waited in the lobby again. I ran over my choices in my mind. I tried to think of how I could have changed the outcome if I had just—but there was no comfort in that. I could not change the past. I could not make it right. Not ever.
“Lindy?”
My head turned out of habit not awareness. Two officers from Uncle Shane’s precinct towered over me, Benson and Sweeney. My voice had retreated into my body. I wondered if this was what it had been like when I was a child. Was I doomed to fall apart once more because of trauma? Would this have to be erased like Jackie had been?
“Lindy, we know you’ve been through some shock tonight, but we need you to come to the station to answer some questions.”
“Can’t we do it here?” The sound of my voice surprised me. “Uncle Shane is back there with—” I had to choke back a sob, and the words nearly destroyed me along the way. “I don’t want him to be alone right now.”
“We have an officer on his way to stay with him and escort him home,” Benson explained. “Please come with us.”
I was not in the mood to argue. Uncle Shane would likely be more comfortable with a cop than his niece that had gotten his wife killed. Even as the squad car stopped in front of the station, I didn’t question procedure. It was not until they passed the sea of desks and deposited me in an interrogation room that I began to panic.
“Take a seat,” Benson instructed.
I couldn’t sit. Not yet. “What is this about? What’s going on?”
“We just have a couple questions, and you should have the answers,” Sweeney replied.
It made sense, I found her, and I had a story to tell, but why not tell it by a desk? Only suspects landed in the interrogation rooms.
“Am I a suspect?”
Benson kept his tone even. “Tell us what happened tonight, Lindy.”
“You know me,” I whimpered. “You knew Stella. Why are you doing this?” My brain went foggy. My memory swirled.
Sweeney did not relish the situation either. “There was a gun near Stella. It was registered to you, had your fingerprints all over it, and Stella was shot with the same caliber. Come on, Lindy. You know how this looks. We have to ask you some questions.”
I did not shoot Stella, but I felt the guilt of it anyway, and I was sure they could see it. I had dropped the gun as I found her, but I had not shot her. Still, I could not explain my evening without explaining the breaking and entering at the Edwards’ house.
Very carefully, I spun a tale about sleeping over at Uncle Shane’s while Aunt Stella was supposed to be away. I tried to paint the picture of a helpless man in need of a woman’s help. Jogging explained my absence while her body was dumped, but without eyewitnesses, it was just a story.
I couldn’t make it through the end. The pain was too fresh. My body crumpled in on itself over and over again as they pressed for more details. I struggled to keep the story straight, to make sure I was not caught in a lie.
I swore I stayed in that little room for hours and hours, telling and retelling, waiting while they let me stew and then telling it over again. My body collapsed onto the table, weak and demolished by the fatigue, not mud in my veins but cold granite instead, weaving throughout until it turned me into nothing more than a mute statue.
A knock at the door finally ceased my torture. The words “The bullet didn’t match her gun” secured my release. Though the case remained unsolved, I at least was no longer a suspect.
**********
Numbness had become a part of my normal for many years. Not the kind of numb most people experience but a special kind of awful numb where I knew my hand was there and I could move it, but I was completely disconnected from it. I had learned to cope with it over the years. It came and went like the waves of the sea, typically affecting only my right side, but I was never sure which part it might choose or how long it might stay. I ignored it for the most part. The severity had lessened with time, and it became a part of my new normal.
The kind of numb I felt as I arrived home from the precinct was a difference kind of numb and yet the same. It was as if my body had completely separated from my soul and hung off me like a shroud. As much as I tried, I could not face the reality of Stella’s death. On the flip side, as much as I tried, I could not erase the images from my mind. Her blood was still on my hands, my face, my clothes. It was a sick twist of fate that it was the only part of her that I had left. As I sat on my couch, face buried deep into my hands, I struggled to maintain my own sanity.
I don’t know how long I sat there before I heard the knock. I don’t even know if I heard it the first time it came. It sounded like it came from another house or another life. My feet propelled me toward the door though I was sure it was not a conscious decision on my part. It was an automatic response. There is a knock, and you open the door. Unspoken social protocol.
The cool air registered before I recognized him. My rationale struggled to place his face. After all, he was mad at me. He had no reason to be on my porch. Not after the things I had said.
Ryder’s deep voice resonated through my ribcage as if I were made of tissue paper. “Lindy, one of my friends from the hospital told me about Stella. I am so sorry.”
Stella. The name sounded hollow as if her death had created a void where she had once been. I wanted to respond, but there was nothing to say. What could I say? Thank you? How could a person be thankful for someone else’s sorrow?
“I know she was important to you, and I don’t know all the details, but I wanted you to know that I am here for you. No strings attached. Just a friend.”
The words were English, I was sure of it, but I suddenly wondered if I had ever spoken the language. The sounds and syllables all bounced off of me and would not stick, and yet he stayed.
“I’m sure I am the last person you want to see, and I can leave if that’s what you want, but I don’t think you should be alone right now.”
Alone. Shane was alone again. I recalled his wedding to Stella. I had asked my mother why he wanted to get remarried since he had been so sad when his first wife had died. Mom had looked at me and said, “Because people aren’t meant to be alone, dear. It’s against our nature.”
Yet, he was alone again because of me. Wetness fell against my left hand. I tracked the sensation and saw that both my hands were wet, drops of liquid running over the dried blood, creating small streaks of red, like a child’s watercolor on a flesh canvas.
Was it raining? No. I was in the house. Tears. I was crying again.
Tension spread across Ryder’s forehead and bundled up between his eyes. He did not like the tears. They made him uncomfortable. I wondered if he would leave. I was always alone. It was how I functioned best, but this, I had never felt this before, and I could not function at all.
“Say the word, and I’ll leave, but please, just say something, Huckleberry.”
He didn’t know how hard words were. Every time my voice was freed, it pulled those gut-wrenching sobs loose with them. I could not speak, but I could not let him leave. I was not strong enough to survive on my own.
“Okay. I can see you want to be alone. I’ll check in on you tomorrow?”
Ryder started to leave, but I caught two of his fingers in my hand and stopped him. I watched his breathing hesitate, but he didn’t look at me. My useless body found the strength to tug him toward me into the house. He obeyed my cues, but without a word, following me as I backed slowly. Once he cleared the doorway, I pushed the door shut. The vibration shook the house as it clicked into place.
His wide eyes watched me carefully before he asked, “Lindy, what can I do?”
The kind tone and his simple forgiveness melted the resolve of my being. I collapsed into his arms, clutching his shirt and breathing in the scent of him with every shuddering sob.
“Stay,” was all I could manage, but it was enough. He understood perfectly.
His strong arms encompassed me and scooped me up into his embrace. In just a couple of steps, he sunk onto the couch and cradled me close.
There was no romance, no allusion to love or relationships, just one human being helping another in a way that she could never help herself. In his arms, I could face it all: the guilt, the memories, the pain, and heartache. I let the sorrow pour over me and drown me because I knew at the end of it all, Ryder would be there. Ryder would rescue me from the rising tide.
**********
I eventually drifted off to sleep in his arms, waking every so often to the memory of the sickening sound of my aunt’s body colliding with the ground. I would go rigid and then I would flail in terror and fear as if I could reach out and save her.
Ryder’s strong arms and soft voice brought me back every time. He didn’t have questions, and he didn’t make me relive it. He held me together. He prevented my inevitable breakdown and kept my sanity intact.
When I had finally slept enough, he left me there on
the couch and retrieved a washcloth from the bathroom. Slowly, he wiped the warm terry cloth over my face and removed the evidence of violence from my skin. I could not meet his gaze. He would see that I was to blame, and I could not bear it. Instead I focused on the paradox that was Ryder Billings. The muscles in his arms tensed and contracted as he ran the washcloth over my arms, erasing the stains that called horrible memories to mind. He was strong, in muscle and in emotion. He was like the cliffs outside his lighthouse, beaten down by the waves but not broken, just shaped. I longed for strength like his. I could bear the life I led with grace if I could master his kind of strength.
His strength was matched by his gentle nature. Though his muscles rippled and rolled, his touch was tender as he cleaned the space between my fingers. I imagined the control came from years of medical school and had been fine-tuned in his time as an artist. Like all beautiful works of art, Ryder would only get better with age and experience.
With the final traces of Stella’s death removed from my skin, Ryder threw the rag in the garbage and returned to my side. His voice was deep and calming as he knelt on the floor and asked, “What else can I do?”
As usual, the space between his thick eyebrows was wrinkled, but I did not care to analyze what it meant. Instead, I focused on his lips. They had erased my inhibitions once before, taken me far away from everything I knew. He could do it again. He could erase the pain. At least for a little while.
The request slipped out before I had a chance to stop it. “Kiss me.”
Those lips parted in surprise and he shifted uncomfortably. “You don’t mean that, Lindy.”
My fingers captured the curve of his jaw and though he tensed, his face turned into my palm. “Maybe I do.”
His strong hand encompassed mine and pulled me from his skin. “You’re hurting, and you aren’t thinking straight.”
I pushed my fingers between his and gripped him like an anchor. “Who cares? Isn’t this what you want?”
Caskets & Conspiracies Page 19
