by Gayle Roper
“Excuse me, Dr. Schofield.”
He raised his eyes to the worried face of a mother with a child dying of cancer.
He forced Abby and his headache to the back of his brain for the moment, smiling his trademark I’m-listening smile. “Mrs. Zelinski.”
“Dr. Schofield, Joni is so weak.” Tears pooled in the woman’s eyes. “While that worries me, her pain breaks my heart.”
Sean stood and placed an arm across her shoulders, hugging her gently, just enough to comfort her, not enough to make her uneasy. “Not five minutes ago I entered the order for more morphine. In no time, she’ll be more comfortable.”
The gratitude he read in her eyes was pure oxygen to the parched lungs of his ego. After Abby, Sada Zelinski was just what he needed.
“Oh, thank you, Dr. Schofield. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
When he left the hospital, he decided to pick up takeout. He didn’t have the tolerance for restaurant pleasantries tonight. A quick call on his cell phone, and his order for flounder, fries, and coleslaw was waiting for him when he drove up. The smell teased him all the way home, a tantalizing counter aroma to the new leather–new car smell of his BMW.
It was a nice car, a comfortable car, a car to draw the stares and envy of others, but it wasn’t his beloved Jag. It lay, wounded and dying, far from home, far from the one who cared. His eyes narrowed. Everywhere he turned, she was there, the cause of all that was wrong.
He realized as he pulled into the garage and parked beside his cycle that he wasn’t questioning McCoy’s basic philosophy anymore. Somewhere between the hospital and home he’d concluded that she did indeed have to go. The question was how?
Drown her? She did live on the beach, and accidents happened.
Help her fall down the steps and break her neck? She did have that gimpy leg.
Feed her something laced with poison? Even she had to eat sometime.
He dropped his flounder on the kitchen counter and went straight to the master bathroom. He poured a pair of his magic little pills from their bottle into his palm. With a quick jerk, he tossed them down his throat, swallowing them dry. When he got back downstairs, he chased them with a glass of Scotch. Before the flounder was half gone, the headache had entirely disappeared. In a rosy cloud of well-being, he sat back on his leather sofa and plotted Abby’s demise.
One thing for certain: There wasn’t much time.
Thirty-six
WHAT DO you think?”
“What?” Marsh looked up from deep contemplation of his pumpernickel toast. His hand was locked around his orange juice glass, but he made no move to drink from it.
Rick looked at him with exaggerated patience. “I asked first.”
Marsh groaned. “I’m sorry. What did you ask?”
Before Rick had time to answer, Marsh was staring with glazed eyes at the cabinet behind Rick’s shoulder. It was there, whole in his mind, the crucial escape scene he’d had to skip earlier because he couldn’t visualize it. Now he saw Marguerite, face pale with pain from her broken arm and the terrible blow she’d suffered when she fell off Maggie. She lay on a crude wooden bed, its mattress a piece of cloth resting on ropes laced from side to side. He saw Craig sitting on the floor, hands behind him, tied to the foot of the bed. His legs stretched out in front of him, crossed and tied together at the ankles. He saw their guard, a filthy man who with great pride wore the dirt of the ages upon his person.
Muttering to himself, Marsh left the table and grabbed his laptop. He was barely seated in his Adirondack chair before his fingers began to record the images his brain created.
The man smelled worse than any barn at high noon on a summer’s day. When he had last had a bath Craig could only guess. Probably when he was small enough for his mother to wrestle him into a tin tub sitting on the floor before a wood stove in some kitchen somewhere.
He glanced at Marguerite. She lay on the narrow bed in the barren little room, her face ashen. He could only imagine her pain. The men who had surprised them and taken them at gunpoint had not been gentle with her. When silent tears had rolled down her cheeks, the men had remained unmoved while Craig died a bit inside.
Marguerite struggled to a sitting position, wincing as by accident she put pressure on her bad arm. She leaned against the wall that formed the head of the bed.
“What are you doing, girlie?” The malodorous guard glared but made no move to rise from the straight-backed chair he sat in, resting it on its two back legs as he leaned against the wall.
“Just sitting up.” Her voice was a mere whisper as if talking took more strength than she had.
The guard smirked. “Well, don’t try nothin’ like you think is clever.” He rubbed his hand over his gun, strapped to his waist by the sorriest looking holster Craig had ever seen. “I don’t take well to people tryin’ to fool me.”
“I won’t,” she whispered. “I’m in too much pain. But if I did try to trick you, what would you do? Shoot me?”
The guard pulled his gun, aiming it at her. She didn’t flinch.
“Because if you shot me, Snelling would shoot you, if my father didn’t get you first.”
“Like I’m afraid of your father.” The scorn in his voice rubbed Craig raw. “He’s a sick old man who’s lost his hold on this here valley.”
“Abner Frost is anything but washed up,” Marguerite said calmly. “I can’t say the same for your boss though. Of course, you’ll go down with him.”
The guard moved his gun slightly. The barrel flashed, and the bullet ripped into the wall inches from Marguerite’s head.
“I missed on purpose,” he explained as he reholstered his weapon. “Next time I won’t aim so careful.”
The door of the little cabin burst open, and Snelling barreled in. He could give the guard a run for his money in the slovenly department, his gray hair and beard wild around his head and face, his shirt held together by one button, his pants held up by a piece of rope. His saving grace was that he didn’t smell as bad. Still, Craig would give a lot to always be upwind of both men.
“What’s going on here?” Snelling demanded. “Skunk, what do you think you’re doing?”
Skunk, huh? How appropriate. “He’s threatening Miss Frost,” Craig said, his voice as indignant as he could make it in his ignominious position. “See the bullet hole beside her head?”
“She was saying bad things about you, boss.”
When a big, smelly man whines, it is a pathetic thing to witness.
With a steely look, Snelling jerked his finger to the door. “I just sent Tweed and Marks to check the new watercourse. Go join ‘em. Make sure there are no collapses in the banks. We don’t want that liquid gold pouring uselessly onto the desert.”
Skunk clomped his chair back onto four legs and rose. Shaking his head at the unfairness of life, he left, but not before he shot Marguerite a venomous glare. She smiled sweetly at the man, then turned to Snelling. She gave him the most woebegone expression Craig had ever seen.
“Mr. Snelling, if you could open that back window and leave the door open for a bit, we’d be very grateful.” Marguerite sounded for all the world like she was at a Sunday School picnic asking the church pianist if she would please pass the potato salad, not like she was asking her captor for a favor he had every reason to deny. “Some cross ventilation would be very much appreciated after our incarceration with Mr. Skunk.”
Snelling snorted and shuffled his feet, but in the end he did as Marguerite asked. It was that imperious manner of hers. How did she manage that arrogance when you had to strain to hear what she said?
While Snelling wrestled with the warped window, Marguerite slid off the bed. With a stealth and surefootedness that made Craig blink, she moved to his side. She bent quickly, her hand touching his. He grabbed the cool metal she laid upon his palm. He blinked again. She had given him a small knife.
She stepped away from him and to his surprise slumped, her whole body falling in upon itself as she
grasped her bad arm. She shuffled slowly, hesitantly toward Snelling and the window.
“Can I help?” she asked in a pathetic voice. “I feel like I’m going to be sick if I don’t get some fresh air soon.” She made a gagging sound that had Snelling redoubling his efforts. When she reached Snelling, she put out her good hand to help him press against the recalcitrant window.
Snelling scowled at her. “I can do this faster without your help. Go back and sit down.”
“Oh.” A world of hurt feelings echoed in that single word. “I didn’t mean to get in your way.” This time she sagged against him, forcing him to support her weight as he pounded his fist against the window frame.
As he sawed at the ropes behind his back, Craig watched Marguerite with reluctant admiration.
Fargo dropped his chin right on Marsh’s keyboard. A line of nonsense letters and symbols appeared to the accompaniment of a beep, beep, beep.
“Dog, what are you doing?” Being pulled from his imaginary world made Marsh testy. He pushed at Fargo, but Fargo pushed back. He wasn’t going anywhere. Quickly, before anything else could go wrong, Marsh reached over Fargo’s head and hit save.
It wasn’t until he dropped his feet to the floor and Fargo knew the writing was on momentary hiatus that the animal stepped back. He sank to his haunches, fixing his unblinking eyes on Marsh.
“What? You know better than to butt in to my working time.”
Fargo licked his chops, catching a stream of drool just before it broke loose for a free fall to the porch.
“Ah.” Marsh rose. “I forgot to feed you.”
Feed touched some neural chord in Fargo’s furry mind. He rushed to the sliding door, his hindquarters wagging with abandon.
As Marsh scooped some Alpo into a yellow plastic dish, Fargo scooted his huge red bowl across the floor with his nose.
“Thank you for your help.” Marsh bent to pick up the red bowl. He walked to the lower cabinet by the sink and pulled out a great bag of dry dog food. He tipped the bag, letting the kibble fall. He glanced at Fargo who sat, eyes steady on the yellow bowl on the counter. Dry food might fill in the holes, but the canned food was the meal of Fargo’s heart.
Fargo was inhaling his Alpo when Rick walked into the kitchen.
“I thought I heard you talking.” He opened the refrigerator, pulling out an orange juice container. “Want to go play some pickup basketball?” He poured a glass full.
Marsh was torn. He looked at the man who had become his best friend and with whom he’d spent very little time since his arrival, thanks to Abby and Celia. He thought of Craig and Marguerite captive in Snelling’s abhorrent cabin. The real world versus the imaginary but no less real one: the writer’s eternal dilemma.
Christ didn’t die for Craig and Marguerite, Marsh reminded himself. He didn’t include them in His command to love others as yourself. All the “one another” verses in the New Testament didn’t include fictional characters living in late nineteenth century New Mexico. Real people were who counted, even for something as mundane as basketball.
“There are hoops on the playground at Thirty-fourth Street,” Marsh said.
“Good.” Rick put the juice back in the refrigerator. “Ready when you are. I’m feeling sluggish without my regular gym workouts.”
Marsh stuck the dog food back in the cabinet. “I’m ready.”
Rick looked him over from head to toe. “Okay, so you slept in that T-shirt last night and you haven’t shaved. I can handle that, but you might at least comb your hair and brush your teeth.”
Marsh looked down at himself. Sure enough, he hadn’t done one thing hygienically since he rolled out of bed. “I’m turning into Skunk.”
Rick shrugged. “I see no white stripe down your back, and you don’t smell all that bad. Maybe a little halitosis, but that’s all. Still, I do suggest that you roll on the deodorant for everyone’s comfort.”
Twenty minutes later at the basketball court Marsh and Rick found themselves facing eight boys, aged ten to sixteen. The kids were playing with equal enthusiasm but greatly varying levels of expertise when the two men arrived. The older boys were all on one team, strutting their stuff as they wiped the little guys’ noses in their ineptitude.
The older boys ignored Marsh and Rick as they strolled to the edge of the court. Make believe the old men weren’t there, and they’d go away.
“Here, Hank, I’m open!”
“What’s the matter, Jase? You can’t beat a ten-year-old?”
“I’m twelve,” came the indignant reply. “Mike’s ten.”
Basketball sass. Marsh sighed with pleasure. Some things never changed.
At that moment Mike yelped, “Yipes!” He stopped cold, and the one good pass thrown his way all morning went sailing by him. “It’s Duke Beldon!”
Rick rolled his eyes. Marsh grinned.
Soon they were surrounded by all the boys, the younger ones so excited that they couldn’t stop hopping about, the older ones trying to be blasé but staring wide-eyed.
“I want to be on Duke’s team!”
“No, I get to be on Duke’s team.”
“My name’s actually Rick.”
“Yeah,” mumbled the one called Hank, if Marsh had gotten the names straight. “Rick Mathis, right?”
“This is my friend, Colton West.” Rick’s smile was fiendish.
Marsh started, never having been introduced by that name before.
The little boys looked unimpressed, but a flicker of interest sent the gazes of a pair of older boys Marsh’s way.
“The writer?” Jase asked. “Shadows at Noon? Rocky Mountain Midnight?”
Marsh was impressed. “You’ve read them?”
“Oh, yeah.” He studied Marsh. “You’re good.”
“You mean he wrote that book you gave me last week?” Hank asked Jase, who nodded.
“He writes all my movies,” Rick added.
“Does he write Duke Beldon?” asked the twelve-year-old whose name Marsh hadn’t heard yet.
“No,” Rick said.
“Oh.”
Marsh smiled to himself. What little cachet he might have gotten from his books and movie scripts counted for nothing with the younger crowd. “Okay, guys. Line up by height, and we’ll pick teams.” He held up a hand to suppress the I-want-Duke comments. “I want you to know that I played on my university’s championship intramural basketball team for four years. I may not be Rick Mathis, but I’m not a slouch either.”
The boys muttered phrases like so what? yeah, right, and big deal, but they looked at Marsh with less disfavor than before. By counting by twos down the height line, then flipping a coin to see which group got the privilege of playing with Rick, they quelled most of the complaints about being relegated to Marsh’s team.
“Great play, Duke!”
“Over here, Colt!”
An hour and a half later when Marsh picked up little Mike, holding him high so he could dunk the ball and tie the score, everyone decided it was time for lunch.
Panting, red-faced, and pleasantly aching, Marsh and Rick climbed into Marsh’s car. A chorus of “Bye, Duke,” and “Bye, Colt,” saw them off.
“Nothing like being imaginary people for a while to relieve tension,” Rick said.
“Here I thought it was physical activity that alleviated stress.”
Rick just grunted.
“What do you have to be stressed about anyway?” Marsh reminded himself to ease up on the gas. The posted limit was 25. “Oh, wait. Stupid question. I bet it’s Celia.”
Rick studied his nails intently. “How could anyone be foolish enough to walk out on her?”
Marsh frowned. “You’re thinking of walking out? Going back to California?”
“Are you kidding? Not me! I was thinking of her idiot ex-husband.”
“She’s getting to you, isn’t she?”
“She’s real.”
“To say nothing of beautiful, pleasant, fun, gutsy, capable, and strong.”
“You haven’t told her yet, have you?”
Rick didn’t answer, but he began to frown.
“You need to, you know.” Marsh pulled into his drive.
Still Rick said nothing, but the frown deepened to a scowl.
“She should hear it from you before she learns it some other way.”
Rick climbed out of the car and slammed the door. “I’ll tell her about Rick Mathis when you tell Abby about Colton West.”
“Abby already knows,” Marsh called. Rick ignored him, stalking onto the beach. When Marsh sat down to write again, he could see Rick striding to the south.
Snelling pulled his hand back and threw it forward against the window. The whole cabin shuddered under the blow. He drew his fist back again, and Marguerite gave a cry of agony.
“My arm! You knocked my arm.” She whimpered as two tears slid down her cheeks. She grabbed Snelling’s arm like only he could keep her on her feet. Snelling grimaced.
Craig watched in fascination as he sawed on the ropes with Marguerite’s knife. He couldn’t decide if Snelling had actually hit Marguerite’s arm or if she was acting. If it was the latter, she should go on the stage. He twisted his hands every way he could, straining against the ropes. He could tell there was more give than before, but they still held him firm. He went back to sawing.
Where had she hidden the knife? Maybe in her boot? Strapped to her thigh? Though they had patted him down with an impressive thoroughness, no one had thought to search her. After all, she was just a woman. He couldn’t help but grin. Woe to any man who underestimated Marguerite Frost.
Three things happened at once, each occurrence of major importance.
Snelling rammed his fist against the window sash again. It slipped on the wood and flew through the glass, which shattered with a great cracking noise. A jagged shard slashed across the base of his palm. Blood spurted in a crimson fountain.
