Jonathan‘s stomach cramped. Sour bile rushed up into his throat. What if she was inside and needed help? He tried the door—locked. His chest tightened. He slowed his breath, one, two, and three. Calm down, idiot. This was not reality TV. He’d be useless, if his panic attack continued.
“Hello, there.”
Jonathan jumped.
“Don’t be alarmed. I’m Hanna Baker, the next-door neighbor. Can I help you?”
Turning, he tripped over her foot. Grabbing the doorknob, he steadied himself. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” He towered over his intruder.
“Hanna,” she said, holding out her hand. “My husband, Jack, and I live next door.”
“I’m Jonathan Rhodes. My wife, Angie, is studying with the professor this summer.”
Hanna grabbed his hand and pulled him closer to her. “Thank God you’re here. Quick, come to my house. Follow me.”
#
Finally, with dismissal papers in hand, Angie and the professor exited the hospital and headed for the parking garage. The doctor’s release message clearly demanded a follow-up appointment with a professional psychiatrist, preferably on his hospital- release day. The nurse reviewed the discharge orders with Angie. She assured her any of the three doctors he had recommended would see him immediately. Professor Turner’s condition was too serious to ignore.
The professor turned toward her as they reached his BMW and stretched out his open hand. “I’ll drive.”
She glared at him and then opened her purse and located the keys. As she dropped them into his outstretched palm, she said, “When we get back to the cottage, we’ll make that appointment for you.”
He strode around the car, opened the driver’s side door, and slid behind the wheel.
“You must get professional help.”
“Nonsense, I am fine.”
“Fine? You tried to kill yourself last night, remember?”
“It’s nothing.” He laughed. “I get upset sometimes. But now you are staying. I will make your name known from art gallery to art gallery, all over the world. We will be famous.”
He turned the key in the ignition, floored the gas, and shot out of the parking garage and onto the street, narrowly missing a service van. “Idiot, get out of my way.”
Angie, eyes wide open, sunk into the seat, shivering. Now wasn’t the time to say she was leaving. He wouldn’t believe her anyway.
Chapter 37
As Jonathan entered the Baker home, Hanna escorted him into the cheery red and yellow kitchen—reflecting a décor of apple trees and sunshine. He mused as Hanna paced the small kitchen space wringing her hands. Should he be concerned or amused?
She lifted her arm, palm up, and pointed to the table. “Coffee?”
“Sure, thanks. I take mine black.”
She scurried to the coffee maker next to the sink, filled an apple red mug with Hazelnut flavored coffee, and returned to the table area. “Sit, here,” she said as she handed him the freshly brewed drink. “We need to talk.”
He pulled out a kitchen chair and plopped down. He placed his elbows on the table and sipped the life-saving caffeine. His left hand clinched into a fist, “I haven’t been able to reach my wife for days. Do you know where she is?”
“Well, yes and no. Last night I heard shouting and doors banging. Then an hour later, an ambulance arrived.”
Jonathan sat up, eyes wide open, and breathless. “Ambulance?”
“Wait. Let me tell you what I saw.”
Biting his lower lip, he sat back and pretended to relax. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“Naturally, I got out of bed to see what was going on. There sat a fire truck and an ambulance parked in the driveway next door. The attendants were in the small cottage in the back, not the main house.”
He stiffened. “Was Angie hurt? What else did you see?”
“I couldn’t see much, but they must have been tending to the professor. After about fifteen minutes at the back cottage, the ambulance drove off—hot—lights flashing and sirens screaming in the night. It looked like Angie was in the front seat. I left a note on Angie’s door asking her to call when she got home, but I didn’t hear from her.”
“No, she hasn’t been good about returning calls, lately.” He gulped his coffee. “And this morning?”
“Earlier today, I think it was around 7, I saw Angie leave her cottage and drive away in the professor’s car.” Hanna pointed out her kitchen window. “I shouted at Jack, but he basically ignored me. I feel as if something’s wrong.”
“What do you mean, specifically?” Jonathan asked.
Hanna leaned closer, as if sharing a national secret. “In the past five years, I’ve seen three young women come and go next door. After a few weeks, it starts—the yelling, screaming, and things being tossed that went bang in the night. Now it’s happening again, with Angie.” Hanna adjusted herself on the cushioned-bench and sighed.
Jonathan leaned forward. “Did you call the police?”
“Like all the other times, I never saw anything to report. Even the yelling stopped after a time.” She sighed. “Since she appeared fine this morning, I decided not to call for help.”
“You don’t really know if she was fine or not.”
“Honestly, no. But my husband, Jack, is a retired police detective. Like he said, what could I say? Help. My neighbor just drove off. Come quick.” She shook her head. “All I could do was wait. At least, it appeared that Angie was alone and seemed okay. Jack thinks I’m a busybody. Maybe I am, but when I see what goes on over at the professor’s house, I can’t ignore it.”
Jonathan slammed his cup of coffee down on the table. “What else have you seen since Angie arrived?”
“One morning, when the professor was away, we had tea together. She asked a lot of questions about one of the previous female artists. And she told me the professor had lots of rules about how she must spend her time. And I see him going over to her cottage a lot.”
Was that why she never called home? His face burned—why would that professor need to be at the cottage a lot? “We need to find out where she is.” He paced the kitchen, mug in hand, as Hanna droned on again about the three female artists she’d seen over the past five years. He found it telling that the last two young women left by midsummer. Only the first artist had stayed well into the fall. “He sounds dangerous.”
“Yes. I agree. I think we need a plan to find your wife.”
He glared at Hanna. She certainly wasn’t action oriented. All she seemed to do was watch and worry. “Did you call the hospital to find out if he was admitted?”
“No. With all the hospitals he could be in, I decided to wait until today to follow up on that. Besides, my husband would have killed me. He is pretty upset with my involvement in the professor’s life.”
Jonathan refilled his coffee cup and stepped back to the kitchen table. He stood silent, rubbing his chin. After a few seconds, he sat back down. “I agree with your assessment of the situation. If you saw Angie this morning driving the professor’s car, she’s probably safe, at least for now. But we have to act. This situation could change quickly. The professor must have been admitted to an area hospital.”
Hanna nodded. “What’s our plan?”
He checked his watch. It was already past noon. “We’ll get the phonebook out and call every hospital in the area. If that bastard is hospitalized, we need to know where. Angie will probably be there, too.”
For the next half-hour, they sat in the kitchen on separate cell phones calling area hospitals. Finally, Hanna yelled, “Eureka. I’ve found him.”
“What hospital? Where is it? We need to get going.” He jumped up and headed for the backdoor.
“Wait. He’s not there.”
“What?”
“They released him this morning. My guess is that when Angie drove off earlier today, she went to check him out. She’ll most likely bring him home.”
He let out a long breath Wait here? He preferred
taking action. His chest tightened as his stomach swirled. “You’re right. We’ll confront him here.”
Hanna smiled and patted his arm. “I suspect you’d like to hit first and ask questions later, but let’s think about the approach. If your wife is in danger, we need to know it and plan accordingly.
He leaned forward, hands on the table. “I can’t afford to take any chances with her life. I’m going to confront him and take Angie home.”
“Angie told me you were a pretty good attorney. If you want to win this case, the plan should be well thought out and executed safely. You aren’t a thug, are you?”
“I’ve tried the logical patient planning. Now I’m going to pound that jerk into the ground.” He slammed his open hand on the kitchen table and stormed out the backdoor.
#
A few minutes past one p.m., the BMW pulled into the driveway. The professor slammed on the breaks and announced, “Finally, we’re home. I’m starved. That gruel in the hospital was awful.”
“I know you didn’t eat much. I don’t think anyone likes the food when they are in the hospital,” Angie said, almost in a whisper.
“You never should have called them. I am not sure I will forgive you for that. You had no right. Do you understand? Don’t let it happen again.”
Her trembling hands reached for the car door. She opened it and crawled out. Her mind replayed the past several weeks repeatedly like a bad summer TV rerun. She had to leave.
“I’m not hungry,” she said. “You get something to eat and then we can talk.”
He glared at her, his usually warm brown eyes, cold as ice. “Talk? Talk about what?”
Angie leaned on the car. “About you getting help, about me going home, about the last few days—all of it.” She slammed the door and stomped down the flagstone path to the cottage.
The professor jerked his driver side door open and leaped out. “You come back here.”
Damn him. Her pace increased as she heard steps pounding on the flagstone path behind her. His breath heavy and labored, he grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her to face him.
“Don’t touch me.” She pushed him back. “I’ve tried to help you, but you’re sick” She froze in place, hands on her hips. “I won’t stay here one more day. I’ll call the police if you don’t stop.”
The professor wrapped his arms around her to catch the swinging fists.
“Let go. You can’t stop me from leaving.”
“You are not leaving. You told me you’d stay. I won’t let you go.”
Angie glared into his eyes. “I don’t need your permission.”
Unfazed, he pulled her closer, leaned down, and pronounced every word in a staccato-like pace, “You are not going anywhere. You belong with me.”
“No, she belongs with me.”
Was it possible? The professor released his grip, and she stumbled back, spinning toward the ground.
Jonathan swiftly grabbed her and helped her regain her balance. “I’m here, Babe. You don’t have to put up with this man. Tell me you want to come home, and I’ll end this nightmare.”
“I’ve made such a mess of everything. Can I really come home?”
The professor, moving with the ease of a martial arts expert, landed a hard blow with his right foot directly into Jonathan’s ribcage. Jonathan recoiled and doubled over, grasping his chest. He yelped and fell to the ground.
“Jonathan,” Angie screamed. She dropped to her knees and cradled his head in her arms. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Jumping up, she pushed the professor away from where her husband lay. “You’re a monster. Get back from him. You’re not going to kick him again.”
“He’s fine. Just a few cracked ribs. He can’t protect you. Now, get into the cottage and unpack.”
The professor grabbed Angie by the shoulder and pushed her toward the cottage door.
She spun away from his grasp and refused to budge. “I’m not staying. Get away from me.”
Jonathan pulled himself into a sitting position and called out to the professor, “You heard her. Get your clammy hands off of my wife.”
The professor glared for only a second, and then he raised his hands in combat position. With his elbows bent, hands flat and raised, he kicked Jonathan again. This time the blow came directly to his head. Jonathan fell to the ground, out cold.
Angie threw herself on top of Jonathan as if she were a bulletproof vest. If anyone should die, it would be her. Jonathan loved her. He’d come for her. Oh my God, what had she done to her husband?
A shadow fell across Jonathan as he lay on the ground. “Stop.” Jack Baker, Hanna’s husband marched toward the professor, gun beaded directly at his chest. “Put your hands in the air and step back.”
The professor turned toward the voice and laughed. “Hey, Jack. Glad you are here. This guy tried to kidnap my summer student.”
Angie glared and shrieked, “The only one trying to kidnap me is him.” She pointed at the professor. “That’s my husband on the ground. The professor tried to kill him.”
“Keep your hands up, Turner. The real police will be here soon, and they will straighten this all out. In the meantime, we need an ambulance for this poor guy. Your legs and hands are lethal weapons. I think you may find yourself in trouble with the law this time.”
He gazed down at Jonathan and then said, “Hanna already called 911. The cops and ambulance will be here soon. I’ll keep things quiet until the police get here.”
Chapter 38
For the second time in as many days, Angie rushed into the ambulance front passenger seat, strapped on the seatbelt, and readied herself for a ride to the hospital. Hands trembling, she recognized the familiar ambulance driver. His eyes widened when she turned toward him. His face held an inquisitive look. “You sure have had a couple of rough days.”
“Will he be okay?”
“Now little lady, you know the drill.” He puffed out his chest. “We are the best. We’ll have him to emergency in fifteen minutes flat. When he arrives in my bus, he is first up with the trauma team. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Maybe all men are egotistical jerks.
“How bad is he?”
“Not sure. He has several broken ribs and a nasty blow to the head. We’ve stabilized him, but they will want to run some tests on the head injury.”
“That professor is a lethal weapon. My husband is really hurt.”
“Your husband, hum mm?” The driver winked, hit the siren, and off they whirled. “Sit back and relax. Let us handle the rest.”
She slumped in the front seat, crossed her arms, and rested her head against the ambulance window. She’d only wanted painting lessons. Jonathan offered her lessons in Chicago. She should have taken him up on the offer. She had been so sure she had to leave home to restart her career.
Anyone looking from the outside would have said her life had been perfect. Jonathan easily generated the means for her to pursue a career in art or anything else she desired. He’d never fought her idea to continue her focus on art. But perhaps she had given up on herself.
Women must suffer from midlife crisis the same as men. Was this experience in Knoxville her coming of age? Most of her life she allowed others to take care of her, make her decisions, and fill a huge void in her heart.
Her childhood memories seemed to reinforce her search for approval. Only a few were special times with her mother. She recalled, one day when she was about four, sitting on the floor relishing the gentle touch of her mother brushing her hair. Yet, so many memories flooded her when she thought of her father. He called her his princess. When he came home from work, he’d spend the evenings with her. After dinner he’d gently pull her up on his lap, read her books, and tickle her with kisses. But that time of her life had ended. She was an adult. She had to stop searching for approval.
#
Angie stared down at Jonathan in his hospital bed. He tossed and turned in a fitful sleep. He appeared small and vulnerable. His broken ribs were
wrapped to help stabilize them. The x-rays indicated internal bruising, but his lungs had not been punctured. He had a concussion that required a twenty-four hour stay in the hospital. The doctor assured her he would be back to normal in a few weeks, except for some dizziness and headaches that might last a few months.
She pulled up the visitor’s chair, and clasped Jonathan’s hand. As the tears rolled down her cheeks, she prayed, “Dear God. I’ve made such a mess of my life. Please help him heal. Please save our marriage.”
Startled as Jonathan’s hand pulled away from her, she reached out to pat his shoulder and said, “Sweetheart, you’re going to be fine.”
“Angie?” He struggled to open his eyes. “Angie. You’re beautiful. Where am I?”
She leaned closer to the bed and stroked his thick hair away from his forehead. “You’re in the hospital. You have three broken ribs and a concussion. The doctor has assured me you’ll heal quickly.”
“Broken ribs? Concussion? What happened?”
“You and the professor got into a fight.” She kissed his cheek. “He has a black belt, and you have a concussion and three broken ribs. I’m so sorry it came to this. I never meant for anyone to get hurt.”
He tried to lean up onto his left elbow, but the pain sent him flat onto his back. “Oh yes, I remember. That bastard attacked me.”
She touched his hand and squeezed. She would no longer react when Jonathan raised his voice. The professor, out of control and threatening, was the one man she feared.
He raised his voice again. “I’ve been calling you for weeks. You never called back.”
He was right. What could she say?
“Then I find out from your nosey neighbor that the bastard spends all of his time in the cottage where you live. Why haven’t you called me? Why does that guy think he owns you?”
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