Best Place to Die

by Charles Atkins

  ‘Grandma, hurry! We need to get out of here!’

  Such pretty eyes, Alice thought. ‘Vicky!’ No. She shook her head. But who else could it be? ‘Vicky!’ But it was hard to see, like curtains falling at the edges of her vision, and rainbow lights. So when she looked straight at the woman with the pretty blue eyes, it was harder to see her. ‘Vicky!’

  And then men came dressed in black. Alice’s eyes saw them, like bogey men from a dream, yet when she tried to look directly at them, they vanished, but she could hear their angry voices. She twisted her head from side to side, and saw mouths moving, and heard harsh words, like dogs barking. ‘Mary Alice Sullivan, you’re under arrest for the murder of Norman Trask.’

  Vicky . . . no, not Vicky. ‘What’s your name?’ she said, trying to focus on the redhead who should have been blonde, so hard to see. ‘What’s your name?’

  A man’s angry voice as rough hands grabbed her: ‘Nice try, Alice.’ They bound her wrists.

  Vicky was screaming, ‘You’re hurting her. Leave her alone!’

  ‘Kelly Sullivan you’re under arrest for . . .’

  That’s her name, Alice remembered, her body limp as rough hands seized her. It’s Kelly, who’s Kelly? A rhythmic pounding in her head behind her right temple. Like waves rushing back and forth. Someone pulled her bound wrists, and was trying to move her across the floor. Where are my feet? She stumbled, and tried to scream out. But the words refused to form and strange syllables dribbled from her lips. ‘Ah cannnnut felll mah.’ Fear welled. ‘Ah cannnnut fett mah fell.’ And then her vision faded entirely from her left eye. She could still hear the men in black and the woman who might have been someone named Vicky, but none of it registered, as the right side of her body went limp, and if it hadn’t been for the man holding her wrists she would have fallen hard. Instead, he eased her to the floor.

  ‘You have got to be kidding.’ The agent stared at the silver-haired woman with bits of clay mask still clinging to her face. ‘Does she really think . . .’ He stopped himself. This old biddy was one good actress, but why was the entire left side of her face different from the right. ‘Shit . . . look at her eye.’ He pulled out his cell and dialed 911. His partner grabbed a flashlight from her belt and shone it into Mary Alice Sullivan’s eyes. First into the right and then the left.

  Kelly Sullivan was screaming, ‘You’re killing her!’ She broke free of the agent who was trying to restrain her wrists in nylon flexi-cuffs. Kelly dropped to the floor and cradled her grandmother’s head. At first she felt a surge of hope – she’s faking it. Thinking Alice was trying to pull a fast one, a desperate stab for her freedom. That wish died as she stared into Alice’s eyes, the pupil on the left fully dilated and not moving when the agent shone the bright light directly into it. The one on the right small as the head of a pin. She’s not faking it. ‘What did you do to her?’ Kelly screamed. ‘Get an ambulance!’ As drool trickled from the corner of Alice’s mouth and nonsensical syllables blabbered out.

  ‘Ah wanna ga ham. Ah wanna ga ham.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘He’s a bigot. That’s why he didn’t want you reporting for the paper; nothing to do with the actual content of your articles. It’s obvious,’ Aaron said as he slathered herb butter on to his fourth steaming popover.

  ‘Impossible to prove,’ Lil said, looking around the dining room of The Greenery, where they sat at their usual table overlooking Town Plot for Sunday brunch. She felt on edge, exposed and borderline paranoid, and had all morning. Sitting in the pew at St Luke’s Episcopal with Ada on her right and Aaron next to her. He’d joined them for their first community outing after their . . . Internet outing. And there was no getting around it; they were being scrutinized. Lil caught the eye of one of the local antique dealers she’d featured in a recent column. She gave Lil a quick nod, a nervous smile and then gave full attention to a piece of toast, as though suddenly entranced by it.

  ‘The proof of the pudding is in the tasting,’ Ada added, as she grabbed the last of the popovers, one of the few things The Greenery made well. Although, to be fair, their brunch wasn’t nearly as bad as their dinner offerings, which disguised bone-dry meat loaf, and overcooked roasts and canned vege-tables boiled to the consistency of toothpaste as ‘Colonial Fare’. ‘It was your story; he should never have pulled you from it.’

  Unlike her table companions Lil had little appetite. Her stomach in knots, the last few days since the arrest of Kelly Sullivan and Alice’s near-fatal stroke a blur of frenetic activity. ‘If that was all it was,’ she said, finding words for her simmering rage, ‘but the way he did it. And I . . . believed him. I suppose that’s my fault.’ There was more too, a feeling of being trapped. She desperately wanted to write – and not just her weekly columns, but real news. The Brattlebury Register, which owned several of the smaller local papers, was pretty much the only show in town. The competition – The Brattlebury Reporter, a weekly free paper with far more liberal politics – had a fraction of the readership.

  ‘How could it be your fault?’ Ada said. ‘You’re new to this. He’s the expert. Of course you’d believe him.’

  ‘It does make you wonder,’ Aaron added, ‘about the supposed objectivity of the news media. Aren’t you guys supposed to be a non-biased source of information?’

  ‘In an ideal world,’ Lil said, tearing a piece of warm popover, as two women in floral dresses she recognized from church but didn’t know by name approached their table.

  ‘Mrs Campbell?’ The younger looking of the two with short brown hair in a purple and turquoise floral print dress gave Lil a nervous smile.

  ‘Yes?’ Wondering what these strangers could possibly want from her.

  ‘I just wanted to thank you for your amazing coverage of the fire.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lil said, realizing she had more to add.

  ‘My mother lives in Nillewaug. They say she’ll be able to return in a few weeks. It makes me nervous.’

  ‘I think it’ll be OK,’ Lil offered, realizing she was in fact something of an expert at this point. The piece she’d written for the Sunday edition – the bit that Mr Fleming thought he’d leave her as a table scrap – covered the saga of three displaced Nillewaug residents. And, despite his directives to leave it alone, she gave succinct who, what, where, when, and whys about the fraud perpetrated by Jim Warren, Wally Doyle, Delia Preston and even sad Dr Trask. And while she knew it galled him, it had run with minimal changes. ‘The state is going to manage the facility until everything gets sorted. Once the Fire Marshall signs off on the individual apartments it should be fine.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’ She glanced back at her partner, and then to Lil. ‘I should have known something was wrong with that place.’

  Lil nodded, having by now heard similar confessions from more than a dozen families. ‘They were very convincing,’ she said. ‘A lot of people got taken in.’

  ‘We should have known better.’ She impulsively bent over and kissed Lil’s cheek. ‘Thank you.’ And off she went.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Ada commented with a raised eyebrow. ‘Fans already.’

  ‘Please.’ Then she spotted Hank by the hostesses table. He was scanning the dining room and spotted them.

  Heads turned as he made his way to their table, and the conversation level dropped to where the kitchen clatter and his footsteps were the only noise. ‘Lil . . .’ He nodded at Ada and then Aaron. He squatted by her side, holding the edge of the table to steady himself.

  ‘Hank, grab a chair.’

  ‘No . . . thanks. I was going to leave a message but figured you’d be here.’ He looked around, making eye contact with several of the diners. ‘I’ve got a story for you, and you alone,’ he said softly. ‘It’s going to break fast, and I’d rather you get it.’

  ‘About the murders?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Vicky Binghamton and what happened to her thirty-four years ago?’

  ‘Yes . . . I know you talked to Sam. He called me t
o say he’s handing in his resignation tomorrow. But I need to explain what happened . . . at least my part of things. I need to. And then . . .’ He shook his head. ‘But not here. I’ll give you the exclusive, but it has to be soon. Today if possible. There’s a lot of details you don’t know . . . no one knows. And it’s all yours as long as you at least hear my side of things.’

  ‘Of course.’ She looked at her brunch companions. And then out at the diners, most of whom she knew by name. Several were openly watching them, while others feigned interest in their meals.

  ‘Go,’ Ada said, and added with a wicked grin. ‘It’ll just kill Fleming if you get the exclusive.’

  Hank looked at Ada. ‘He won’t be the only one,’ he said, his expression serious. ‘This town said nothing; I played a part in that. And for what? A winning football team?’

  Lil pulled her napkin off her lap, and hoisted her bag from the back of the chair. ‘Thirty-four years is a long time for something to fester,’ she said, wondering how many in that restaurant had been at the party where Vicky had been brutalized. She met Hank’s gaze as he stood, and realized that when this story was told in full he’d be out of a job, and he knew it. ‘It reminds me of something Bradley used to say,’ she said, looking at Ada. ‘Pus under pressure must be lanced.’

  ‘Gross!’ Aaron snorted.

  ‘But true.’ And feeling every eye in that dining room on her, she leaned over to Ada and kissed her full on the lips. It was a very good kiss. ‘Love you. I’ll call you when I’m done.’

  Ada smiled, and her eyes twinkled wickedly. ‘Love you, too.’