Hell Hath No Fury

by RC Boldt

  “We’ll be in touch once we get things in place.” Both men rise and Detective Warren withdraws his business card, extending it to me. “If you remember anything else, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  I accept it and curl my fingers around the stiff card as if it might offer some semblance of comfort.

  “If this is the only way I get to see you nowadays, I’ve got some complaints, young lady,” the familiar male voice calls out a moment before he steps into view.

  A sense of relief barrels through me at the sight of our family physician and friend of my father’s, Doc Hogue. With his dark gray hair serving as the main indicator of his age, he’s still as fit as he was years ago, staying active by surfing and running.

  “Thanks for coming, Doc,” I say softly as he reaches my side of the bed.

  He pats my hand gently. “I’ve been caring for you since you were knee high to a grasshopper. Don’t see any reason to change things now.”

  The detectives excuse themselves from the room, leaving me alone with Doc. He surveys me from head to toe in the analytic way physicians do. “I was here earlier, but you were still unconscious. I apologize for not getting here sooner, but I was wrestling with”—he places his hand flat over his stomach and wrinkles his nose—“a nasty stomach virus.”

  “Are you feeling better?”

  His features relax into his familiar smile, affection etched on his face. “Oh, yes. Much better.” Raising his other hand to show the bag he’s toting, he tips his head to gesture to it. “I brought you some comfortable clothes to change into when they get ready to release you. Loose-fitting so they won’t aggravate any of those bandaged or scraped areas. From what I hear, you should be heading home tomorrow.”

  I blink back tears of gratitude that he’s here and helping me get through this. “Thank you so much.”

  He carefully sets the bag of clothing at the foot of my bed, dismissing my words. “No thanks necessary, young lady. I know if the roles were reversed, you or your—” He stops short, but I know what he was going to say.

  You or your father would’ve done the same.

  Anguish edges into his expression at the loss of his friend before he can disguise it. He’s been more like an extended member of our family than simply a physician who’s treated us over the years and delivered both me and Willow.

  Doc clears his throat. “You really ought to have someone stay with you for the next few days. To watch over you. I could—”

  “I’ll be okay.” At his worried expression, I drop my eyes, not wanting to get into an argument. I just…want to be alone. To have solitude while I battle with this insurmountable mountain of grief. Being here in this hospital, with people continuously coming and going, hasn’t granted me that.

  “Going back to that house might be biting off a bit more than you can chew.”

  I muster a weak smile. “I have to start somewhere.”

  He heaves out a long sigh. “I reckon so.”

  A day later

  “Anything else I can help with?” Doc asks once I lower myself onto the couch the following afternoon.

  “I don’t think so.” Then I peer up at him. “Thank you, again.”

  Concern is etched on his weathered face. “You give me a call if you need anything. No matter what time, you hear?”

  “I will.”

  He hesitates as if trying to determine whether he’s actually going to leave me or not, and then nods. “All right, then. I’ll be by to check on you tomorrow.”

  I part my lips to protest, knowing he has his own office full of patients to worry about, but he waves a hand in dismissal. “No sense arguing about it, young lady.” He nods at me one last time. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Thanks again, Doc.”

  Once he leaves, the house holds a silence that’s nearly suffocating while the lingering memories are simultaneously deafening. Intermixed in them is the gut-wrenching sorrow I felt after being denied permission to see the bodies of my family before they were prepared for direct cremation. I’d been informed that they were far too injured and that my doctor recommended against me seeing them one final time. Perhaps it’s morbid, but I feel robbed of my last goodbyes with them.

  Closing my eyes, I can see Willow so vividly, with such happiness etched on her sweet face when we baked and decorated Christmas cookies together. The sound of her giggles when I dotted the tip of her nose with green frosting.

  The countless times I tickled her, her gales of laughter accompanying it, and each time I stopped to allow her to catch her breath, she’d say, “More, Mama! More!”

  And my father, who’d always insisted on making one of his “special” desserts for Sunday dinners—either peach cobbler, sweet potato pie, or pecan pie. He wasn’t very skilled in the kitchen, but those three desserts were perfection when he made them.

  As if it were only yesterday, I remember the look on his face when Deacon and I told him he would be a grandpa. Dad had been teary-eyed—a man who always kept his emotions in check as long as I’d known him. The only other time I’d seen him cry was when we’d buried Mom.

  My cheeks grow wet with tears as my mind flickers through the memories. I recall Deacon’s expression when I made him laugh back in the early days of our marriage. It was a look that was indescribable, holding a multitude of emotions and not limited to only love and adoration.

  Even more, I’m assaulted by the torment over my thoughts of divorcing Deacon. I should’ve tried harder to fix things between us.

  But now it’s too late.

  Hugging one of the throw pillows to my chest, I drop my chin as the tears stream down my face.

  The creak of the hardwood floor is what first rouses me from where I fell asleep, curled up at one end of the couch with the throw blanket pulled over me. Still groggy from the effects of the anti-anxiety medication I’d taken, I slowly sit up, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes that feel swollen and tender from crying.

  Subtle sounds hit my ears, even in my sleep-addled state. Boots. A person wearing what sounds like boots or smooth, hard-soled shoes, judging by the faintest click of each step, while the other must wear softer-soled ones.

  I stiffen, attempt to calm my breathing while my heart gallops within my chest, inherently sensing danger. Something about the way the footsteps land sends an eerie chill skittering down my spine.

  I wish I hadn’t succumbed to the urge to take that damn medication the doctor had prescribed me, then I’d be more alert and less sluggish. Worse, I hadn’t left a light on. There’s only a faint shaft of moonlight illuminated on the hardwood floor near my feet, peeking past one slat of the Venetian blinds Willow had bent when she was a young toddler.

  A man whispers, “Why the fuck do I have to—”

  It gets cut off by a grunt before another man answers with an angry hiss. “’Cause you know what’s on the line. Boss said so.”

  Even though I will my senses to awaken so I can decipher the men’s proximity, they remain lethargic and dulled.

  Something prods me to make a move to get off the couch. I manage to rise, but I only take two steps when my hair is grabbed viciously from behind, jerking my head back. Something sharp presses against my throat, and my gasp only makes the man at my back chuckle softly.

  “Oh, yeah. Reckon we got your attention now.” His low mumble sends uneasiness and debilitating fear coursing through me. I get the sense he’s trying to disguise his voice by keeping it low. The jagged edge of the knife digs into my skin, and I whimper at the sensation of wetness trickling down my neck.

  “I don’t have much cash,” I manage a whispered plea. “Just take my purse. Whatever’s in it, take it.”

  His response is a sinister chuckle.

  The second man draws closer, his boots clicking softly before he stops near my side. Inadvertently, I start to turn my head in his direction but stop short when the blade digs into my flesh.

  The man holding the knife at my throat whispers menacingly, “Yo
u ain’t gonna meet with the po-po tomorrow.”

  My skin grows damp from the spray of spittle falling with each of his words, and I instinctively drop my shoulder, trying to move away from him. It’s a move I regret an instant later when the knife digs farther into my skin, and I wince at the lance of pain.

  “You’re gonna forget all about what you think you saw that night. You better be smarter than your kin, or you won’t get another chance. You hear me?”

  I whimper, and he evidently takes this as my acquiescence.

  “Just to make sure you know we mean business…” Something hard slams against my head with such force that dizziness assails me, and I slump to the floor.

  The last thing I remember seeing through my hazy vision before I fade into oblivion is fancy-looking boots in the small shaft of moonlight.

  5

  Caitlin

  Footsteps. The sound greets my ears, causing a cacophony of reverberations through my brain, and I moan in response. At the onslaught of pain, I grit my teeth so hard my jaw begins to protest.

  A male voice calls out, “Caitlin?” and for a split second, my mind plays tricks on me.

  “Deacon?” I manage to say in a loud whisper. Please let this all be a terrible nightmare. Please. Then, even louder, I repeat, “Deacon?”

  As heavy footsteps draw near, I pry my heavy eyelids open only to wince in pain at the brightness from the sunlight shining directly through that godforsaken bent slat in the blinds. I whimper and move a hand to the back of my head, encountering a large lump that’s formed.

  “What in God’s name happened to you?”

  Recognition barrels through me. It’s not Deacon. My heart wrenches at the reminder that he’s gone. That they’re all gone.

  Doc Hogue lowers himself, his clothing rustling with the movement. “Caitlin, can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I say on a moan. “Please don’t talk so loud. It hurts.”

  He smooths back my hair from my face, and I wince at the slightest touch against my skin. “Where are you hurt?” He inspects my pupils before his fingers efficiently feel their way over my head and discover the large, painful lump. His assessing gaze narrows on my neck before skimming my body for other injuries.

  “I’m okay. Just a killer headache.”

  Doc’s voice is hushed, but colored with anger. “Who the hell did this to you?” He mutters an expletive beneath his breath. “Knew I shouldn’t have left you alone.” Another expletive spills out, then he asks, “If I help you sit up, do you think you could do that?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I’m already bracing myself for the pain I know I’ll face with even the slightest of movements.

  Doc slowly eases me into a seated position on the floor. I blink a few times, attempting to acclimate my eyes to the light. His face comes into view, and it takes a moment before I can focus on him.

  Concern etches his features, dark gray brows drawn together fiercely as his eyes peer at each of mine, likely assessing my pupils.

  “Think you can stand?”

  I exhale slowly. “I think so.”

  He helps me up and supports me in shuffling over to the couch, where I carefully lower myself and sink back against the cushions.

  Doc studies me, that cavernous crease between his brows glaring at me with worry. “We need to call the police.” He reaches for his cell phone, but I hold up a hand to stop him.

  “Wait. I can’t—” I break off, torn between fear and the ever-present drive to do what I know is right.

  Dammit. What the hell is going on?

  “They told me not to.”

  His frown turns more severe. “They who?”

  “I don’t know.” I suck in an unsteady breath. “It was dark, and they were behind me.” A sob bubbles up, and I attempt to stifle it but fail. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Doc takes my hand in his. “Caitlin, we need to contact the police. Those detectives told you to call them.”

  “I know.” My voice sounds so weak and ripe with misery. “I know,” I repeat on an exhale.

  “Do you have the card handy?”

  I close my eyes, knowing that this decision will either haunt me or help me. And the lingering dread makes me think it’s the former.

  I can practically hear my father’s voice in my head. Do the right thing, baby girl. Which is why I murmur, “It’s on the kitchen counter.”

  Within minutes, a quick and hushed conversation takes place before Doc returns to my side. “They said they were close by, so they’ll be here shortly.”

  He hands me an ice pack covered in a small dish towel, which I gratefully accept and press gently to my head. “Want to talk about what happened before they get here?”

  “I heard something. Footsteps, but that prescription the doctor gave me for anxiety made me a little…loopy.”

  I draw in a deep breath before exhaling slowly and forge on. “I stood from the couch, but they got me before I could grab my phone.” I gesture to the kitchen counter, where I’d left it sitting there, forgotten in my haze of numbness.

  “There were two men. One grabbed me by my hair and put the knife to my neck, and the other came up beside me. They told me I should forget about everything from that night and not talk to the police.”

  His jaw tightens, lips flattening into a thin line, nostrils flaring slightly. “They threatened you?” He barely grits out the words.

  “Yes.”

  He drops his head and scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, muttering, “Dammit,” beneath his breath. Once he raises his eyes to lock with mine, the burning fury in them nearly robs me of the ability to breathe.

  “Caitlin, your father made me promise to protect you if anything should happen.” He swallows audibly. “I sure as hell—”

  The knocking on the door has me flinching in response, and Doc visibly stiffens, his eyes not missing a thing.

  A male voice calls out from the other side of the door, “Mrs. Ashford? It’s Detectives Warren and Clairborne.”

  Once they call for the paramedics, the detectives document my injuries and I give my account of what happened. After the paramedics arrive, Doc Hogue stands by protectively as they examine me.

  Detective Warren’s brow has remained creased since he and his partner arrived here. He frowns before addressing me.

  “Mrs. Ashford, do you feel up to coming down to the station? We have suspects in custody and would like to see if you can identify anyone in a lineup.” He grimaces. “We’ll understand if you’re not up to it—”

  “No, that’s fine.”

  “Caitlin. Are you sure?” A worried expression mars Doc’s features.

  I start to nod but instantly regret the movement and attempt to mask my wince. “I’m sure.” It’s the right thing to do.

  Turning to Detective Warren, I ask, “When do you need me there?”

  The man glances at his watch. “We could get everything set up within an hour. If you need a ride down there, you can come with us.”

  A little over an hour later, I stand behind the one-way mirror, observing the first lineup. The men walk in, face the mirror, then turn to one side before shifting to the other. I don’t recognize any of them and bite back the tinge of defeat and worry that this will end up being futile.

  When they bring in the individuals in the second lineup, the sight of suspect number three has my lungs seizing, as though all oxygen has been vaporized from them.

  Fear and anguish rival within me, causing my words to stick in my throat, and I struggle to force the response past my lips. “Him. Number three.” I turn to Detective Warren. “Can you have him pull aside his shirt so I can see that tattoo along the bottom right side of his neck?”

  They command him to step forward, bringing him closer to the one-way mirror, and then turn. He raises his hand to tug at the loose, stretched-out collar of his shirt. The instant his neck tattoo becomes more visible, my knees wobble.

  “It’s him.” I swallow hard. “That’s the tattoo
.” My heart threatens to beat out of my chest, and I clench my fists at my sides, warring against the unfamiliar urge to hurt this man. To make him suffer for killing my family.

  “That’s him,” I say again. God knows, his face replays in my mind on a loop from that night I’m unable to escape from. His lips were pressed in a flat line, jaw tense with concentration while he gripped that gun.

  The third lineup, when the suspects are instructed to turn to the side, is when I recognize him. The other shooter. He has the same profile and body type as the man who’d worn the neck gaiter both times—to threaten Dad in the shop and then again the night of the shooting.

  But it can’t be. It just can’t be him.

  My breaths rush past my parted lips in harsh pants, panic flooding my veins as I scan his entire body, his face, trying to tell myself that I’m mistaken. That there’s no way he could’ve been the man who opened fire on my family and me.

  “What is it?” Detective Warren prompts.

  I struggle to drag in oxygen to my lungs while I stare at suspect number five.

  “Number five,” I breathe out, unable to tear my eyes off the man. It dawns on me why he’d worn that hat and sunglasses. Why he’d positioned himself the way he had that morning in the shop. Because the side he’d turned away from my father holds a trademark—one that he would’ve likely recognized.

  Without those disguises, and now that he stands to the side, I see it. A small telltale scar along the side of his face.

  Cash Boudroux. He is—was—Deacon’s best friend since high school. I sink my top teeth into my bottom lip, tears flooding my eyes as I reel from the staggering realization.

  My husband had been murdered by a man he’d known most of his life.

  The coppery taste and wetness alert me to the fact that my teeth have drawn blood.

  “How does someone do that?” My voice is faint at first before I whip my head around to stare at the detectives. “How could he do that to my husband? To his best friend?” My words rise in volume, gaining momentum as the shock and betrayal rush through me. “How?” Tears spill down my cheeks as I demand, even knowing they can’t answer me. No one can.