Working Stiff

by Annelise Ryan

  The shadow moves toward the door, which, I realize in a panic, isn’t locked. I think of calling 911, but then remember that my cell phone is buried in my purse, which I dropped just inside the door as I entered the cottage. I could scream, but with the crazy weather outside, I am pretty certain no one will hear me.

  Rubbish hisses, making my nerves jump, and I look around the bathroom for something to use to defend myself. An aerosol can of hair spray is the best I can find—I figure if I spray it in someone’s face, it might disable them long enough for me to get away. At the last second I see the plunger with its thick wooden handle standing in the back corner beside the toilet and grab it, too.

  When I look back toward the front door, the shadow is gone. Hair spray in one hand, plunger in the other, I stand in the bathroom, my gaze shifting back and forth between the windows. Outside, thunder crashes, wind howls, and rain pounds, but I can hardly hear any of it for the rapid thump-thump of my heart, which seems to have miraculously relocated itself in my ears. The branches of a nearby tree scrape along the roof as they are buffeted by the wind, and for a panicked second I think that whoever is outside is now on the roof. But then I see fleeting movement through the window in the door.

  He is still on the porch. Rubbish tosses his bravado to the storm and hightails it into the bedroom, where I figure I will find him hiding under the bed. For a second I consider joining him, but it is a pretty narrow space and the thought of being trapped under there keeps me riveted where I stand.

  I realize I have a slight advantage I might be able to exploit. With the power out and the house dark, I am able to navigate far more easily than someone who doesn’t know the layout of the cottage. I suck in a deep breath to brace myself and stride across the room. I set the hair spray on a table by the door, and wield the plunger in one hand like a baseball bat. Then, with my free hand, I grab the front door and whip it open.

  A horrific sight awaits me, a tall, hulking creature. And with a scream of mortal fear, I swing the plunger as hard as I can against its head.

  Chapter 19

  “Jesus Christ, Mattie!” David hollers, staggering under the weight of my blow. “What the hell are you doing?” He topples toward the door, nearly falling on me.

  “What the hell are you doing lurking around out here? You scared the bejesus out of me, David!” Steady on his feet now, he rubs the side of his head where I can see a small trickle of blood running over his cheek.

  “I wasn’t lurking,” he mumbles irritably.

  “Get in here.” I grab his arm and pull him inside, then steer him into the kitchen, stopping along the way to pick up the candle. I sit him down, put the candle in the middle of the table, and set the plunger, which I am still holding in one hand, on the floor by the kitchen doorway. Then I dig out two towels from a drawer and hand one to David so he can mop off his face while I use the other to clean and examine the wound on his head.

  “It’s not bad,” I tell him. I dab and he winces. “It won’t need stitches or anything.”

  “Christ, you probably gave me a concussion. What the hell has gotten into you?”

  “I didn’t know who you were,” I tell him. “I’m a little spooked by all that’s happened, okay? I mean, a woman in town was murdered a few days ago. Remember?”

  David rolls his eyes. “How can I forget?”

  “What were you doing out there on my porch?” I ask him. The lingering suspicion in my mind must have carried over into my voice because he turns to look at me and moans.

  “You can’t seriously still think I had anything to do with Karen’s death,” he says. “Christ, Mattie. What’s it going to take to convince you?”

  “What were you doing outside on my porch?” I ask again.

  He sighs and leans forward, staring at his shoes. “Someone said you left the party in a big hurry and I was concerned. I’ve been wanting to talk to you but things got a bit nasty earlier tonight. So I came here to apologize for jumping all over you and to take another stab at talking things out. I wasn’t sure you’d hear me knock given all the noise this storm is making so I was peeking through your windows to see if you were here or at Izzy’s house. That’s all. I was about to try a knock on the door when you whipped it open and bashed me on the head.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but you scared the hell out of me,” I tell him. “You looked a sight, all rain-drenched and hunkered down inside your coat like that. I couldn’t tell it was you and figured it was safer to act first and ask questions later.”

  “I guess I should be grateful you weren’t armed with a gun,” he mutters.

  The bleeding from his scalp wound has stopped and I set the towel aside. “I’d offer you a drink but I don’t have any liquor here.”

  “I’m fine. Although I wouldn’t mind some water.”

  I get him a glass of water from the tap and then settle into a chair across from him. His gaze rises from his shoes to my face and he studies me intently for a moment, as if he’s trying to see inside me. I find it unnerving, particularly with the weird shadows the candlelight casts along his face.

  “What is it you want to talk about, David?” I ask, hearing a hint of nervousness in my voice.

  “Are you doing okay? Here, I mean,” he says, making a sweeping motion with his arm. “And here.” He taps one finger on his temple.

  “It’s a little late to be asking, isn’t it?”

  He flops back in the chair with a sigh and folds his arms over his chest. “Man, you just never let up, do you? Are you ever going to forgive me for what I did? Or do you intend to hold it over me for the rest of my life?”

  At first blush the life thing sounds pretty good to me, though it does seem a bit spiteful. For a brief second I think maybe he’s right, maybe I am being unreasonable and too unforgiving. Then I realize he is up to his old games again, trying to shift the burden of guilt from his shoulders to mine.

  “I don’t see how it should matter one way or the other, David,” I say coldly. “Because our lives aren’t likely to be bound together much longer. I intend to file for divorce just as soon as we’ve been separated the required amount of time. And since I no longer work at the hospital, I have no reason to so much as look at you again. But to answer your question, no, I don’t think I can forgive you. Nor can I ever trust you again. Does that help?”

  He sits there for a second with a disbelieving expression on his face that quickly changes to anger. “It must be nice to feel so high and mighty and perfect,” he sneers. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe this is partly your fault? That if you’d been a bit more willing in bed I never would have gone looking elsewhere?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t you dare try to shift the blame of your sordid little affair off on me. Face it, David. You’re a cheat and a liar. And frankly, I have too much respect for myself to spend one more minute married to the likes of you. In fact, I don’t want to waste another minute speaking to you. Get the hell out of my house.”

  If I’m hoping for a reaction, judging from the look on his face, I am about to get one. His eyes narrow until they are little more than slits. A dark cloud of emotion seems to emanate from his every pore. I’ve seen him angry before, but this is different. There is something darker and far more unpleasant churning beneath the surface and I start to wonder if I’ve made a fatal error in judgment by believing him incapable of murder.

  Wisdom tells me to leave things well enough alone, but I can’t. I’m too pissed, too scared, and too emotionally volatile. “You seem awfully defensive, David. And it seems like every time I turn around I’m uncovering another one of your dirty little secrets. What else are you hiding? Did you kill her, David? Did you? Because based on everything I know, I’m beginning to think you did.”

  He pushes out of his chair and it tips over backward, crashing to the floor. He leans across the table until he is inches from my face. “You bitch,” he hisses. “Are you really that bitter? Do you seriously think I’m capable of killing someone?”
He pauses a moment and something alters his expression. “Wait,” he says. “Of course. Why didn’t I see it before?”

  He moves even closer, getting right up in my face, and says, “Just how angry and bitter are you, Mattie? How do I know you didn’t kill Karen out of some jealous rage? Hell, you already admitted you were stalking us, so it’s—”

  “I was not stalking you!” I yell, pushing back in my chair to get away from him. I stand and point a shaking finger toward the front door. “We are through with this discussion. I want you gone. Get out. Now.”

  He straightens, his face turning redder by the minute, his hands clenched into fists. This is not the carefully controlled anger I am familiar with. This is different…rawer…less controlled…more intense. It scares me. I sidle over to where I left the plunger and grab it, once again wielding it like a baseball bat.

  David gawks at me, his eyes shifting back and forth between my face and the plunger. Then his expression changes from incredulity to rage. “You fucking bitch!” he seethes. He picks up his glass of water and heaves it toward the wall, where it shatters into a zillion pieces. Even though it lands a good six feet from where I stand, a sliver of glass ricochets off the wall and zips a gash in my forehead. I feel a tiny sting, like a mosquito bite, and seconds later, blood trickles into my right eye.

  I swipe at it with my hand, stare at the blood in disbelief, and tighten my grip on the plunger handle. “Get…out!” I scream.

  David blinks several times in rapid succession, then stares at my face with an expression of growing horror. “Mattie, oh, God, I’m sorry. Please…” He starts toward me but stops when I rear back with the plunger.

  “Out! Now!” I scream at him.

  “Let me look at your head.”

  He takes another tentative step toward me, but I stop him in his tracks by shouting, “Get away from me!”

  “Come on, Mattie. Be reasonable. Let me look at that cut. I think you may need stitches.”

  Stitches? I feel woozy all of a sudden. I have no problem at all dealing with other people’s blood and guts, but when it comes to my own, I’m a total wuss.

  I loosen my grip on the plunger a tad and, sensing my momentary capitulation, David closes the distance between us in two steps, crunching bits of broken glass beneath his shoes. But instead of looking at my forehead, he reaches up and grabs the plunger instead. That action snaps me back to the real crisis at hand and I twist myself hard to the right, yanking the plunger free of his grip. The motion leaves us both a little off balance and David totters, trying not to fall on me. Scared, angry, and confused, I let loose with my best scream yet, an utterly primal yell born of months’ worth of pent-up anger, frustration, and humiliation.

  I hear a thunderous crash behind me and crane my neck to look. My front door is wide open, and standing in the middle of my living room is a dripping, dark figure, shadowy behind the radiant beam of a flashlight. I am momentarily blinded as the light washes over my eyes, but then the beam lowers, running down my backside and moving across the floor. It stops for a moment when it gets to my panty hose, which are still in a heap near the door.

  I can finally make out a face in the backwash from the flashlight and am startled to realize it’s Hurley. He glances at me, fixes his gaze on David for a second, and then lowers his head and charges across the room. I’m so stunned by the sight of this raging bull coming at me that I can’t do a thing except step aside. He slams into David and a brief scuffle ensues, punctuated with several colorful cuss words. The flashlight beam bounces around the room for several seconds, before finally settling somewhere behind David’s back.

  I hear Hurley say, “You think you can force yourself on her just because you were married to her, asshole?” As my eyes adjust to the flashlight’s glare, I can see Hurley standing behind David. He has David’s right arm wrenched up behind his back and David’s face is pinched with pain. Hurley looks at me and says, “You want to press charges against this asshole? Assault and battery? Attempted rape?”

  “Rape?” I say, confused. “He didn’t try to rape me.”

  David grits his teeth and speaks to Hurley in a low, dangerous-sounding voice. “Look, you cretin. I’m a surgeon and, as such, my hands and arms are very valuable to me. Now, I’m willing to be reasonable, but if you don’t let up on my arm right now, I’m going to sue you and the city of Sorenson for every penny I can get.”

  Indecision flits across Hurley’s face.

  “Let him go, Hurley,” I say. He hesitates, but does as I ask.

  David steps away and massages his arm, glaring at Hurley. “And if you want to consider charges against someone,” he snarls angrily, “look what she did to me.” He raises his hand and points to the wound on his scalp.

  Hurley glances at it, then at me. “Did you do that?”

  I nod and set the plunger aside.

  “Self-defense?” Hurley asks.

  “Sort of,” I tell him. “But I didn’t know it was him. I saw a shadow outside peeking in my windows and when I opened the door, there he was. He scared me. So I swung.” I gesture toward the plunger.

  “How did that happen?” Hurley asks, jutting his chin toward my forehead.

  David answers before I can. “That was my fault. I got pissed and threw a glass. I didn’t throw it at her but one of the pieces ricocheted and nicked her anyway.” He looks at me, his expression apologetic. “I’m truly sorry, Mattie. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “What about your leg? And your arm?” Hurley asks me, his eyes narrowing.

  I look down and see several scrapes covered with dried blood. “I fell and bashed my shin and elbow. But that happened before David ever showed up.”

  Hurley seems to weigh the facts for several seconds, then sighs heavily. “You got lucky this time, Doc,” he says bitterly. “But I think you should leave.”

  “Why should I leave? Who the hell invited you here?” David snaps.

  Hurley glowers at him and I’m afraid things are going to get messy soon if I don’t do something. “David, please go,” I say.

  He stares at me in disbelief.

  “You heard the lady,” Hurley growls.

  David hangs his head for a second, then moves toward the door, which is still open. Hurley steps in behind him and at that moment, I see Rubbish standing just inside the threshold, staring out at the rain. At the sound of the two men moving toward him, he startles, arches his back, and runs outside. Before I can react, the two men step out onto the porch and Hurley pulls the door closed behind him.

  I rush over and look out through the window. I don’t see Rubbish anywhere but the two men are standing on the porch, face to face, their fists clenched at their sides. I can hear Hurley’s booming voice over the constant thrum of the rain but I can’t make out any words. I watch the two of them, transfixed by this standoff at the Testosterone Corral, until David turns and stomps off into the night. Hurley watches him get in his car, start it up, and drive away before turning back toward the door.

  His face looks as dark and thunderous as the weather outside but when he sees me peering out at him through the window, his expression softens, making my heart do a little flip-flop. I open the door and he comes in, gently pushing me to one side so he can shut the door behind him. He leans against the wall, his flashlight aimed at the floor, his eyes regarding me with an expression I can’t quite decipher.

  “A plunger?” he says finally, cocking one eyebrow. “You hit him with a toilet plunger? What were you trying to do, flush him out?”

  Despite the tension I feel, I laugh. Hurley laughs, too, and I am amazed at how it transforms his face.

  “Hey, any weapon in a pinch,” I say stupidly.

  He walks over, brushes aside the hair on my forehead, and shines his flashlight on my gash. He is so close to me, I can feel heat radiating off his body in a cloud of steam. I realize he is soaked to the bone, his jeans dripping wet as a puddle forms at his feet. And the idea of suggesting he get out of those jeans flashes
through my mind.

  The rest of me may be in shock, but my hormones are working just fine.

  “I think you’re going to need some stitches,” he says. He walks into the bathroom and returns a moment later with a towel, which he uses to dab at the wound. “Want me to drive you to the ER?”

  I nod. At the moment, I’d let him drive me pretty much anywhere. “What are you doing here?” I ask him. “Checking up on me?”

  “Actually, it’s your ex I’m checking up on. I followed him when he left the little hospital soirée and after a few blocks I guessed he was heading home. But then I saw him turn in here and got curious.” He pauses and gives me a sheepish look. “I confess,” he says, “I was trying to peek in through your windows but it was too dark to see anything. And then I heard you scream. When I opened the door I saw the two of you struggling and saw the torn stockings on the floor, the rip in your dress, your banged-up knees and that gash on your head…”

  “And you thought he tried to rape me,” I conclude. Now that I am seeing it from Hurley’s perspective, it all makes sense. Inexplicably, I feel a bubble of laughter build deep in my stomach. I fight like hell to keep it there, but it bursts out of me anyway. It has a brittle, demented sound to it and seconds later I start to sob. Hurley’s expression as he watches this little Dr. Jekyll/Mrs. Hyde routine goes from startled to horrified, and then to something solicitous and tender that makes my toes tingle and my blood flow hot.

  I suspect that when it comes to Hurley, my hormones are like a cockroach. Even a nuclear holocaust won’t keep them down.

  Chapter 20

  I change out of what’s left of my dress and slip on jeans and a sweater. I towel-dry my hair, run a comb through it, and then pull it into a ponytail—even Barbara’s magical ministrations can’t rescue it now. I’m putting on my jacket when I remember Rubbish.