by Beverly Long
“What happened?”
“Some idiot in a blue pickup truck ran them off the road. They went over the edge, down a hillside, and the car ended up on its side.”
He’d seen more than one wagon do the same. The lucky ones were thrown clear before the wagon came to a jarring stop. The unlucky were crushed.
It seemed like it was very hard to breathe, like the air in the car had all been sucked up. He figured that was why it took him a minute to realize what she’d said. “Ran them off the road?” he repeated. “On purpose?”
She didn’t answer. She passed another car and then took a quick turn onto a road marked with a sign reading Napa. “Five more minutes,” she said, “and we’ll be there.”
“I asked if it was on purpose,” he said. He said it hard, wanting her to know that he wouldn’t be put off.
“Yes, on purpose,” she said, giving him a cross look. “And don’t ask me any more questions,” she said. “I don’t know anything else.”
He didn’t need anything else. He’d find out who. He’d been a lawman for the past ten years. He knew how to find a clue and follow it, unraveling the threads as he went. Who wasn’t hard. The why was generally tougher. Sometimes there was a reason for such hatefulness. But often enough, he’d dealt with men and women, too, for that matter, who had harmed others without provocation.
Aunt Genevieve turned the wheel sharply and pulled into an area filled with cars. A big brick building, several stories high, loomed in front of them.
They ran to the door. It gave him pause when they got close and the door slid open, like it was magic. The room they entered was brightly lit, with chairs all around the edge. About half were full. There was a baby crying and it scared him, thinking that it might be Melody’s baby born too soon. But then he saw the woman holding it, with a man pacing behind her chair, and knew these strangers had their own worries.
There was a young girl sitting behind a desk. Aunt Genevieve walked straight to her. “My name is Genevieve Song. My sister and great-niece were in a car accident and brought to this emergency room by ambulance.”
The girl did not look overly concerned and George wondered if there were so many accidents with cars that one more was not anything to warrant notice. “Names, please?” she asked, pleasant enough.
“Pearl Song and Melody Song,” George said. “Are they here?”
The woman pressed her fingers to some machine that had all the letters of the alphabet as she stared at the lighted box in front of her. Finally, she looked up.
“Are you both family?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Are they here?” he repeated.
“I show that a Pearl Song arrived by ambulance about a half hour ago. I have no record of a Melody Song.”
She was dead. A heavy, crushing weight, settled on his chest, making it hard to breathe. His vision turned gray.
“Melody Johnson,” he heard Genevieve say. “Check for Melody Johnson.”
“Yes. She’s here. I’ll let the nurse know that family has arrived.”
The woman paused and he knew she was looking at him, had perhaps even heard him gulping for air. “Sir,” she said, “perhaps you should have a seat. You don’t look so good.”
He wasn’t sure he’d have made it to the chairs if Genevieve hadn’t grabbed his hand and pulled him in that direction. Once there, he sank down onto the hard plastic.
Genevieve patted his hand. “They’re both going to be fine. Just keep thinking that.”
There was a clock mounted on the wall and George watched the seconds tick into minutes. He focused his attention on it, on the strict rhythm, and tried to sort out his chaotic thoughts.
She wasn’t dead. That’s all the mattered. Whatever else, they would handle.
He knew that he wouldn’t be any good to Melody if he couldn’t think, couldn’t reason. As her husband, would he be expected to make medical decisions for her? In his time, that’s how it went. Husbands turned to wives, wives turned to husbands. Children turned to parents.
He had no right to make decisions for Melody and her child. He’d known her just days. It made him feel woefully inadequate. But if not him, then who?
An older woman, her hair short and gray, approached and stood in front of Genevieve. “Ms. Song?”
Genevieve nodded. “Yes, I’m Genevieve Song. Pearl Song is my sister. This is George Johnson. Melody Johnson’s husband.”
George tried to read the nurse’s face, to know whether it was good or bad news, to prepare himself. But it told him nothing. He reached for Genevieve’s hand and squeezed it gently.
The nurse spoke to Genevieve. “Your sister has some bruises and a badly sprained knee. She’s going to need some help getting around for a few weeks.”
It was good news. “My wife?” he asked.
The woman turned to him and smiled. “She’s bruised, but other than that, fine.”
“The child?” he managed.
“Everything looks very normal.”
He was grateful that he was sitting down because if he’d have been standing, his legs would have surely crumpled.
“Ms. Song should be done shortly and can go home. They are admitting your wife for observation. She’ll need to spend the night.”
He felt the blood drain out of his head. She couldn’t be fine if they wouldn’t let her go home.
“It’s strictly a precaution,” she added.
“For her? For the child?” He had a thousand questions.
“For both of them. I’ll check and see if they’ve been assigned to a room yet.” She took a step away, then stopped. “Mr. Johnson, are you all right? You look sort of pale. Maybe you should put your head between your knees for just a minute.”
He felt ashamed. The last thing Melody needed was a husband who took to fainting. “I’m fine,” he said, sucking in a breath to clear his head. “I’d just like to see my wife.”
***
She was asleep and he was grateful, because he knew he couldn’t hide his fear when he saw the scrape on her cheek or the one that started at her elbow and went almost to her wrist. They’d put her in a faded blue nightdress that tied around the neck. She had a white sheet pulled up almost to her breasts and her hands rested on the round bulge of her growing child.
He lowered himself into the chair beside her bed. That’s when he noticed the needle in her hand and the clear small tube running up to a bag of clear fluid which hung from a tall silver post with hooks.
And he knew. He was going to find the bastard who’d caused this and make him pay.
He must have made a sound because she opened her eyes. She blinked, then smiled. “Hi.”
“You’re going to be fine,” he assured her. “Jingle, too.”
“They told me,” she said. Tears filled her eyes. “I was scared. All the way to the hospital in the ambulance, Jingle didn’t move. They kept telling me that they had a heartbeat but I wanted. . .needed. . .to feel her.”
It made him crazy that she’d felt even a moment of worry.
“And then, right as they were wheeling us in, Jingle started doing cartwheels, like she somehow knew that I needed to know.”
He reached out and took her hand, the one without the needle. Her skin was warm and soft and very alive and he wondered if God would think him too much of a hypocrite if he were to say thank you. “Already watching out for her momma.”
“Did you talk to Grandmother?” she asked.
“No. Aunt Genevieve is with her. She’s going to drive her home. Your grandmother is going to be fine. You know that, don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t come up to a room until I got to see her. I knew Aunt Genevieve would be so worried but I didn’t want to call until I knew Grandmother was fine.”
For a minute he was angry that Genevieve hadn’t said that she’d spoken to Melody. He’d still have been worried but it might have taken the edge off.
“Then when I got the answering machine, I. . .”
She stopped and lo
oked at the clock on the wall. “How did you get here so quickly?” She checked the timepiece she wore on her wrist. “I left a message less than fifteen minutes ago. You must have been at the house, practically in the car, to make it here that fast.”
He’d been a good fifteen minutes from the house, they’d driven for another fifteen, and then he and Aunt Genevieve had sat for another ten before the nurse had come to talk to them. What the hell was going on?
He’d worry about that later. He had more important things on his mind. “Your aunt said a blue pickup truck ran you off the road.”
She looked startled and he felt bad, like maybe he shouldn’t be reminding her of it. “If you don’t want to talk about it right now,” he said, “I understand.”
“I never told Aunt Genevieve about a truck.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Melody’s great-aunt had some explaining to do when he got home. She had better be wearing feathers that prompted truthfulness. But first things first. “Well, she must have talked to someone. I just want to know if that’s what happened?”
“I think so. I mean, it happened so fast. I looked down for just a second, I know it was just a second, and then, when I looked up, the truck was coming towards me.” She paused, like she wasn’t sure she should go on. Then, she licked her lips and said, “I could see the driver. He was looking right at me. He could have gotten back in his lane but he didn’t.”
“Describe him to me.”
It was like he hadn’t spoken. “Maybe he had a heart attack,” she said. “I thought he was looking at me but maybe he was really in pain, out of his mind. Maybe he’s an epileptic and he had a seizure.”
Maybe he was some selfish bastard who got his kicks out of scaring women. “Why he did it is a matter for the law to decide.”
“I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That’s why I already gave a report to the police.”
“Good. Now tell me what he looked like.”
“Why?”
Because I’m going to kill him. “I told you that I used to be a sheriff. I’m just one more set of eyes and ears. If I know everything you told your police, then I can help them.”
She stared at him. “You’re sure that’s the only reason.”
“I’m waiting.”
“He was about thirty and dark-skinned. Maybe Hispanic. He had a very round face and his hair was dark and very short.”
“Anything else?”
“Not that I recall. I only saw him for a second or two. But I’m generally good with faces.”
He was, too. And the face she described didn’t match any of the men he’d met. “Tell me about the truck.”
“It was an old one, like from the sixties. It was big and I knew if it hit me, I was in trouble. It was light blue but when I took the other lane, I think I saw some darker blue, like maybe a fender was a different color.”
She was a good witness. Some people panicked and couldn’t remember anything. “You said you took the other lane. What happened?”
“I would have been okay. There was just enough room for me to get by.”
“What happened?” he repeated.
She chewed on her lip. “I think what happened is when he saw what I was trying to do, he edged over.”
“If that’s true,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “he literally ran you off the road.”
“That’s why I told the police. I wanted to excuse it away as an accident but I couldn’t.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Why would someone do that to me?”
He reached for her hand. “Could it be the father of your baby? Is it possible that he doesn’t want you to have this child?”
“I thought of that. But it’s too crazy. I don’t think he cares one way or another about this baby. Look, I should have probably told you before but I was embarrassed that I’d used such poor judgement. Alexander is married, with two children.”
“That bastard.”
She waved off his comment. “I haven’t seen or heard from him for five months. Why would he come now? If he wanted to harm me, it would have made more sense to do it before I came home.”
It was quite a speech. But it made sense. “If it was deliberate,” he said, “it had to have been someone who knew that Pearl and you would be on that road, around that time.” As he said it, he remembered the conversation between himself and Bernard. He was about to tell Melody but knew that she’d dismiss his suspicions right away. And even to him, it seemed crazy. Bernard treated Melody like a daughter.
“I hate to even say it,” she said, “ but after last night and seeing those strange men, do you think it could possibly be Louis or Tilly? Are they that crazy?”
“I don’t know,” he said. He couldn’t dismiss that he’d heard Louis and Tilly saying the night Melody had almost been killed in the wine shed. But Tilly loved her mother. There was no question about that. If they were trying to hurt Melody, he didn’t think they’d do it with Pearl in the car.
Melody went to push her hair back from her face and paused when she saw the scrape on her arm. “I can’t worry about—”
She stopped when the door opened. A man, at least ten years older than George, and wearing a white coat, entered. He extended his hand to George. “Mr. Johnson, I presume. I’m Dr. Lacardi. Your wife and I met briefly in the emergency room. While she’s here, I’ll be supervising her care.”
“She tells me everything is fine.”
“It is,” he said. “The most serious concern we have after a pregnant woman is in a car accident is placental abruption. That’s when the placenta pulls away from wall of the uterus. That can happen when there’s been a sudden trauma to the stomach.”
“Placental abruption.” Melody repeated the harsh words. “I read about that. Wouldn’t I be in a lot of pain?”
“Yes. So it’s a good sign that you’re not. The ultrasound we did in the ER looks fine so I’m feeling pretty confident that you’re going to be fine.”
George thought he might be sick but he willed himself to be strong for Melody. “What else do we need to know?” he asked.
“Other than that, I’m a little concerned about her blood pressure. It may just be up from the stress of the accident but it’s important to watch it.”
She’d been so confident that everything was fine that he’d stopped worrying. Now, it seemed like he’d been a little too carefree. “Is it dangerous, this blood pressure?”
“It can be. And certainly as her pregnancy advances, it becomes all the more important to keep it in check. She needs to watch the usual things, like making sure she’s eating healthy, getting a little moderate exercise every day, and trying to avoid sudden shocks or stressful situations.”
She shouldn’t be worrying about somebody trying to kill her. “I’ll make sure those things happen,” he said.
“Hello. I’m in the room.” Melody waved her hand.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “When it comes to the safety of a pregnant woman and her unborn child, I’m not above enlisting the help of a spouse.” He turned to George and smiled. “That’s your job, right? Looking out for your wife?”
His job had been to be a pretend husband. But that was before he’d realized that somebody might be trying to harm her. “That’s right,” he said, looking at Melody. “It’s my job and I damn well intend to do it.”
***
When Melody woke up just before sunrise, George reached for her hand. Her skin was cool and soft. “Do you want the nurse?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Some water, perhaps?”
He held the plastic glass for her and she sipped out of the straw. “Thanks,” she said. She looked at the big wall clock across the small room. “I can’t believe you spent the whole night in that chair, George. Your back has got to be killing you. Have you had any sleep?”
None. Every time he’d closed his eyes, he’d thought about her car rolling in the ditch. “Don’t worry about me,” he said.
“I have to,” she said
. “You’re obviously not worrying about yourself. You haven’t even had anything to eat since last night.”
He hadn’t had anything since yesterday’s lunch. But when the nurses had come the evening before to care for Melody, he’d excused himself. On the way out of her room, he’d pulled her cell phone out of her purse and after some fiddling had figured out how to call the house. Bessie had answered and he assured her that Melody was doing fine. Then he’d asked her to find Arturo. He’d waited for what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes when the young man answered.
George didn’t waste any time. He told him what had happened to Melody, about the blue truck with the darker blue fender, and gave him the description of the man. Arturo had not known immediately who the man might be but had promised that he would check around. George had warned him to be careful, to keep his inquiries general. After all, he didn’t want to scare the bastard off but neither did he want the trail to grow cold while he was with Melody.
And he wasn’t leaving her unprotected in the hospital. If someone had been desperate enough to run her off the road, would they be crazy enough to try to finish the job while she lay helpless in her bed? He wouldn’t take that chance.
When he’d finished talking to Arturo, he’d returned to the room and when she’d assumed that he’d left to find something to eat, he’d let her believe it. He’d sat by her bed and they’d watched television for a short time until she’d grown tired and fallen asleep.
Now she looked rested, although the scrapes on her face and arm had turned into dark bruises. When she suddenly placed her hand on her stomach, his heart thumped in his chest.
Placental abruption. Those were horrible sounding words.
“I’ll get the doctor,” he said, already rising.
She grabbed at his hand. “I’m fine,” she said. “Jingle’s just waking up.”
And he knew that if he hadn’t believed in miracles before, he did now. “She’s an early riser,” he said. “Not like her mother,” he teased.
Melody rolled her eyes and he was grateful to see some of her spirit coming back. “I know. It’s so unfair. I see a whole lot of five o’clock feedings in my future. I just hope I don’t fall asleep and drop her.”
