Dooley Is Dead

by Kate Merrill

  Matthew did not want to believe this. “How can you possibly know all that?”

  Trevor’s forehead creased with worry. “The morning prints were made before the big storm, which hit around noon. They’ve been partially washed out by the rain flowing down the hill. These flip-flop prints, with the toes pointing down to the car, are deep and unaffected by the downpour.”

  Matthew didn’t need Trevor to draw him a map. He understood Diana and Paula had visited the site together, but only Paula had left. “We better get up there and have a look.”

  Trevor fetched a second flashlight, and wordlessly they returned to begin their search.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Angels…

  From deep inside the bowels of the earth, she heard the animal return. Even in a fugue state, suspended on a precarious tightrope stretched like the flat line warning on her own heart monitor, she had expected them to come for her body with shovels. Instead she heard a desperate scratching sound at the ceiling of her tomb.

  She knew she was dead because when she opened her eyes, she saw no more thin strings of light, only black. Only numb. No more sensation of a corporeal being, except that insistent sound. She had expected them to bring a wagon from the village, the clip clop of horses’ hooves like from the stables of her childhood. Instead she heard the heavy thudding of objects hitting the earth so hard they vibrated her walls, causing friction on her shoulders, skin she thought was gone.

  Then came the loud shattering of wood splintering above what used to be her face. Next the sharp, painful rush of cold oxygen through her nose, then mouth. It expanded her lungs and sent the old message of pain to her brain, but when she tried to scream, she heard the animal. It had gained its final, long-sought access to the carrion of who she used to be.

  She dragged her eyes open to witness its attack, but saw only cool cobalt sky, clouds, and pinprick stars. As she gulped air, she heard a familiar human voice, and through what surely must be her own tears, saw the dark outline of a beloved face.

  “Diana?” he said.

  Next his hands, warm and remembered, became the cup under her head, the hammock under her shoulders. Then more hands, not his, sliding under her legs and hips.

  “Easy, don’t hurt her,” the stranger said.

  She was moving up and up, easing towards heaven. She guessed these angels were worried as they labored, trying to be gentle, but she could have told them, if she’d had a voice---“don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt.”

  Down and down onto the damp earth, with her upper body cradled against the intimately known contour of his chest. She recognized the rough angle of his chin against her forehead, but didn’t find her way through until the butterfly-soft flutter of his lips against her parched mouth.

  “Matthew?” She tried to smile.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Trevor…

  “Good, she’s coming to.” Trevor exhaled a deep sigh of relief as he carefully lowered Diana’s legs to the ground. “Stay with her, Trout. I keep a blanket and some bottled water in the Jeep.” He rose up to run.

  “Fine, but first cal 911. We need an ambulance pronto!”

  Trevor began his downhill sprint, ignoring the pain in his left knee, the reminder of that roadside bomb with his name on it. Thank god they’d found one of Diana’s sandals wedged under a pile of boards, otherwise they’d have never found her. He had seen the tears in Trout’s eyes, along with the terror, as they’d resurrected Diana from what could have been, by all rights should have been, her makeshift grave.

  He envied those tears and wished he could shed his own, but since he’d been home from the war, those emotions were blocked, at least outwardly. As Trevor scrambled into his vehicle and retrieved his cell from the glove box, he sensed that if only he could cry, he could heal. At least that was what the shrinks told him.

  He dialed 911, got an immediate pickup. After giving directions and a short briefing of what had gone down, after requesting the ambulance, Trevor signed off. And in those moments after the disconnect, he was breathing hard. Hyperventilating. Reliving too many emergencies from his former life. As if those years of exploding IUD’s and sudden death would ever be former in his injured mind.

  He touched the hard outline of the pistol holstered in his pants to reassure himself, then practiced deep breathing until his sanity returned. All that blood. He reminded himself that Diana’s injury looked worse than it was. Scalp wounds were always dramatic, but seldom life threatening. Shock and dehydration were the bigger threats, so he snagged two bottles of water and the blanket from the boot.

  He seriously doubted Diana could swallow any liquid. Likely she’d have to wait for the IV she’d receive in the ambulance. But the water might keep Trout occupied, allow him to be useful by cleaning her wound and touching the moisture to her lips while he waited for help.

  Trevor envied the man. He’d seen the look of loving recognition in Diana’s eyes. Soon she’d regain lucidity and embrace Trout like the hero he was. Yes. Trout was the hero, the steady one. Even as an ignorant, badass teenager, Trevor had known this about his first girlfriend’s father---the grandfather of his only child. Trevor felt moisture on his cheeks. Tears were too much to hope for, but he knew reconnecting with Ginny and meeting sweet Lissa had brought him closer. Perhaps there was hope for him after all?

  As he lingered with that thought, he heard the distant cry of a siren. That was fast. But then, just when he was about to run up the hill and tell Trout that help was on the way, his cell phone rang. He had forgotten to power it off, as was his habit, and when he checked the caller ID, the name displayed there sent Trevor’s brain kicking back into high gear.

  He saw the half dozen concrete blocks piled deliberately on the sheet of plywood sealing Diana’s prison. Saw the baling wire the assailant had used to bind her wrists, and of course, the bloody rebar lying in the dirt. Then, as now, Trevor knew the person who could commit such an act was a monster, a stone cold killer. And she was on his line.

  “Hello, Paula.” He fought to keep his voice neutral, then listened as the woman came on to him, flirting and insistent, requesting a meeting.

  “All right,” he told her. “I’m on my way.”

  His goal was to leave before the ambulance and cops arrived with some argument to detain him. He rushed up the hillside, gave Trout the water and blanket. Much to Trevor’s relief, Diana was smiling and holding Trout’s hand. She did not seem to recognize him, though, as he told her goodbye.

  “Where are you going?” Trout demanded. Clearly he wanted Trevor to hang around for moral support.

  “Did Diana tell you who did this?” Trevor had to be sure.

  Trout nodded grimly. “Paula Dula.”

  Suspicions confirmed, Trevor decided to share the truth. “Paula’s waiting at my house, Trout. And I agreed to meet with her.”

  Blocking out Trout’s shouted protests, Trevor ran back down the hill. He believed this was his moment, his one shot at redemption, absolution, closure--- whatever psychobabble the shrinks would throw his way. Basically, he needed to confront Paula before the cops got to her.

  He had no choice.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Trevor…

  Trevor passed the ambulance heading in as he was heading out. An unmarked police unit followed the emergency vehicle. The driver, who appeared to be Wayne Bearfoot, had attached a portable cherry light to his roof. It spun as his siren hiccupped, and for once Trevor was glad to see the tenacious sheriff.

  Matthew said he’d asked Ginny to call Bearfoot, so Trevor wasn’t surprised to find the man in the vicinity, far from his regular beat. And clearly the sheriff had spotted him, recognized his Jeep, and for a few seconds their eyes had locked as they sped in opposite directions. Trevor took it as a good omen when Bearfoot chose not to pull a U-turn and chase him. A positive sign, perhaps, that the cops had come to their senses and Trevor was off the hook, once and for all, for Lori’s murder.

  As he neared the turnoff to Dula Road, he real
ized his hands were strangling the steering wheel. How would the cops feel after tonight? After he had finished with Paula? Refusing to dwell on those consequences, Trevor wiped the sweat from his eyes. His blood hummed with the same numbing electricity that once mobilized him forward into combat. He wasn’t nervous or frightened, and he’d learned not to overthink a mission. No, the sensation was more robotic, like his body was moving on autopilot, without a specific plan.

  Turning left at the landmark oak, all his senses were heightened. He saw clouds skidding across the sliver moon as stars vibrated in an inkwell sky. When he switched off the air and powered down the window, the sudden humidity glazed his skin and a cat in heat yowled somewhere nearby. But when Trevor pulled into his driveway and parked beside the truck Trout had left there, he saw no signs of an additional visitor. The only light burning in his farmhouse was the lamp on the hall table---the one he’d lit when he left with Trout.

  Okay, so maybe Paula changed her mind and left. The speculation did not alter Trevor’s momentum one way or the other, he was too pumped. His heart thudded with the heavy strokes remembered from battle, with only the pulsing in his bad knee connecting him to present reality as he pushed at the front door with the toe of his shoe.

  It swung inward, as he knew it would, although he had definitely locked it. Paula had a key. As he moved into the dim hallway her scent permeated the air, the same strident, exotic perfume she’d worn when they were kids, when he’d made the tragic mistake of taking her to bed.

  He moved through the shadows, past the parlor and dining room into the kitchen. Nothing. Had she been here, then left? Without turning on the overhead light, Trevor tried the back door. It was locked. But then it would be, because the screen door was also locked, and no one had a key to it. He switched on the wall toggle to the barn light and peered through the dark yard. At first he saw nothing, but then spotted the gleaming golden fin of his uncle’s El Dorado parked deep inside the barn.

  The short hairs prickled on the back of his neck, heightening his hunter’s instinct. He had been here so many times before. In Iraq, he’d tracked the unseen enemy hiding right behind the door with a club, knife, or gun intended to end his life. He thumbed open his holster and drew his weapon as his eyes became accustomed to the dark. Paula was on his territory, his killing field, but where was she hiding?

  Unlocking the safety on his Beretta, Trevor was ready as he retraced his steps to the staircase leading upstairs. To the bedroom he’d once shared with Ginny Troutman, but no other woman. By now Paula knew he was in the house, had heard his Jeep drive in, so why was she waiting?

  Putting one foot above the other, Trevor mounted the stairs, and with each riser her scent got stronger. Taboo…he remembered its name as the smell lined his nostrils. Reaching the top of the landing, he saw the bedroom door was ajar, with a single candle glowing from the dish on his parents’ dresser. Its wobbling flame illuminated his folks’ framed wedding portrait and reminded Trevor of the happy days, before the automobile accident stole their young lives.

  And when he entered the room and stared at the bed, where Paula was sitting cross-legged, a smug, seductive smile on her face, he lost his famous objectivity. The woman wore a tight pink tank top under a black leather Harley jacket---denim shorts with ridiculous rhinestone cowboy boots.

  “You took your sweet time getting here,” she crooned.

  Her crass violation of this sacred space where Trevor had been conceived, where he had planted the seed that had miraculously become Lissa, unleashed a violent rush of fury. The anger caused his finger to twitch dangerously on the trigger, so he lowered his right hand, let his arm dangle at his side as he struggled to regain his equilibrium.

  “We found Diana Rittenhouse,” he told her in a deadpan voice that in no way reflected his turmoil. He knew she heard him because even by candlelight, he saw her face grow pale beneath the layers of makeup, and her pink lips quivered as she processed the information.

  She stood up and inched closer as her mouth spewed a flood of explanations and excuses. Through his rage, Trevor tried to make sense of her tirade as she told him about the money, begged him to run away with her, described a future fashioned by her madness, and not one word made a lick of difference.

  When she touched his arm, her heat sent shock waves. “You killed my Lori.” He accused her.

  More explanations and excuses. As Paula tried to tell him Lori’s death had been a tragic accident, an unpremeditated moment of insanity, Trevor visualized his beloved fiancée lying in a pool of blood, Paula’s knife buried in her chest. He decided the monster standing before him must die.

  He shoved her away, raised his gun, and pointed it at her heart. In a moment of brilliant clarity, Trevor felt time stand still. He saw his prey, her green eyes stretched wide with fear, her hands fluttering like wings on a broken bird. He saw her lips twisting, pleading for her life, but heard nothing but the blood of revenge roaring in his ears as he took aim.

  Mostly Trevor imagined the bullet streaking through the air, as in a dream. He saw it enter her breast and the blood blooming like a red rose on her pink top. But the dream was frozen, like a movie stuck on a single frame as the film disintegrated from the projector’s heat.

  “You can’t do it, Trev,” Paula taunted. “You don’t have the guts to kill me.”

  Sweat poured down his face and pooled under his collar as Paula backed away and walked to the door. His hand trembled, his knees shook, but his feet remained bolted to the floor as she called him a coward and an idiot.

  Trevor agreed. He was a coward and an idiot, but he finally managed to swivel and draw a bead on her retreating back. He imagined the same bloody red rose blooming between the shoulder blades of her black leather jacket, but it never happened. He listened to her boots clipping down the stairs, heard the back door slam as he gasped to catch his breath. Even as his heart beat outside his chest and he struggled for air, Trevor was unable to move while the Cadillac El Dorado fired up and left the barn.

  Only then did his feet break loose. He took the steps two at a time and flew out the front door. But by the time he stumbled into the front yard, his pistol hanging like an impotent appendage in his right hand, Paula’s car was halfway down the road. He ran into the street, chasing her taillights, but then he saw the police blockade.

  Trevor fell to his knees as the patrol cars and one unmarked unit brought Paula’s Caddy to a shrieking halt. He saw the spinning red lights. He heard her tires skid as she hit the brakes, the sirens and muffled shouts.

  And then he carefully laid his weapon on the hot pavement as the moving picture played on without him, and when he lifted his eyes to watch, he found he could no longer see, because he was blinded by the long-awaited tears of redemption.

  Epilogue

  One month later…

  Diana captured Matthew’s hand as they exited the small rustic cabin that replicated the schoolhouse Tom Dula had attended all those years ago. Liz and Danny were right behind them, and next came Ginny, Lissa, and Trevor.

  If she’d had her way, Diana would have skipped this visit to Whippoorwill Village. She was more than ready to leave the legend behind, but the younger generation had never seen the place, so they were curious. Especially Trevor, who had developed a fresh interest in his long-dead ancestor.

  Diana sighed and lifted her eyes to the hazy foothills looming beyond the parking lot. The doctors had to shave a portion of her hair to put in the stitches, but it had all grown back in now. And except for the usual forgetfulness she’d experienced even before Paula’s attack, Diana was none the worse for wear. These days she feigned amnesia only when it suited her.

  The police had found her car, Queen Vic, parked in the last row of a used car lot near Big Jay’s. Evidently Paula had driven it there after burying Diana alive. Paula abandoned Diana’s car, then simply walked across the street to the shopping center where her Caddy, which had never required repair from Triple A, was waiting and ready to go.


  “Can I sit up front with you, Grandpa?” Lissa asked as they approached Queen Vic.

  “Sure, Punkin.” Matthew winked at Diana.

  Lately they’d noticed how crafty little Lissa was conspiring to pair her mama with her newfound daddy. At every opportunity, like now, Lissa tried to get them alone together. The child was determined that the wish she’d made on her birthday would come true: “I never want to go back to Nevada. I want to stay here forever.”

  Diana glanced to where Trevor had paused to pick a yellow daisy from the edge of the lot. He tucked it behind Ginny’s ear. Far as Diana could tell, Lissa’s chances were fifty/fifty of having her wish come true. Ginny was playing her life day by day. Although she still claimed she’d return to Vegas someday, for now she had accepted a job playing guitar and singing at Buffalo Guys, Trevor’s nightclub. And while Trevor seemed attentive, he wasn’t quite ready to commit to Ginny. But Diana, always the romantic, had her fingers crossed.

  She hoped in time they’d be half as happy as she was with Matthew, whom she loved more every day. She wished the same for Liz and Danny, who were halfway there already. They had come here today in Danny’s truck, and Amazing Grace was riding with them.

  Soon after her recovery, Diana had been so grateful she’d made one impulsive gesture---her way of thanking her Creator for sparing her life. She had finally, once and for all, awarded custody of Gracie to Danny, because the man loved the greyhound with all his heart. Not only had it made Diana’s life at home with Matthew easier by restoring Ursie as the once and future queen, it was the right thing to do.

  But she regretted not adding her voice to those of Trevor and his uncle Maynard, once Paula Dula had been convicted of Lori Fowler’s murder. Paula was also convicted of the attempted murder of Diana Rittenhouse. Although Paula had victimized Trevor and Maynard, the men found it in their hearts to recommend she receive psychiatric counseling. They detected a kernel of goodness in Paula, a seed that could be nurtured towards eventual rehabilitation. At least Trevor believed this. He claimed he had experienced such an epiphany himself.