by M. C. Adams
“Everything’s fine.”
“Good, very good. We look forward to having you back full-time again. Isn’t that why you wanted to meet with me? That voicemail sounded urgent.” His cheery expression faded and little frown lines settled in around his mouth.
She raised an eyebrow, and a small sigh escaped. Why make this difficult? You know why I’m here. He knew the stress was getting to her, and her work was suffering. The urgent voicemail. She scolded herself. I’m going to spare you the details of that night. The night I let that word slip out. She shuddered. Two nights ago, after a long day in court, Alexa tried to get some work done reading MRIs at home. With the help of speech recognition software, the word she’d spoken into the microphone instantly appeared on her computer monitor. She stared at the word in incredulity. She had meant to say the word myelogram, a follow-up procedure she was recommending on a postoperative spine patient. Instead, the word she saw on the computer screen was murder. The horror.
She wanted to blame it on the late night, the stress of the trial, the combination of alternating sleeping pills with caffeine pills and the other stimulants on which she relied in an attempt to maintain a steady balance of sleep and wakefulness. No. She had cracked under the pressure. After deleting the word one letter at a time, she called Jimmy and left a message requesting that he meet with her.
“You know I’m not coming back, Jimmy. You know that’s why I’m here.”
“Alexa, you just need more time. You…You’ll be able to come back. Perhaps after the trial is over. You can still make partner next year. You need more time, that’s all.”
Don’t fight me, Jimmy. “I can’t do it anymore.” She tried to sound strong and unwavering, but the abrupt change in the pitch of her voice conveyed her apprehension.
“Is it the nightmares?” he pressed.
Damn. My loose lips have said too much. The vivid nightmares she’d been having since the incident were so frequent, so commonplace in her daily routine — occurring nearly every time she closed her eyes — that sometimes she doubted she was ever asleep to begin with. It slipped out once to Jimmy in passing. She had mentioned them indifferently, as if they were discussing the weather, and hadn’t expected him to remember it. But of course, Jimmy Thornton would remember that moment.
“You’re still having the nightmares?” He stood abruptly, his questions becoming louder and more assertive.
Are you actually concerned?
He paced beside her now, his words and footsteps quickening. Her hand covered the queasy sensation developing in her stomach. Having put on such a strong front for so long, it pained her to acknowledge the nightmares to others.
Every night, when she drifted into sleep, the dark man with the yellow eyes crept into her dreams. Every slumber, he attacked. Sometimes he raped her. Sometimes he maimed her. Sometimes he killed her. Although unsuccessful in life, he had great success in the afterlife. He was the victor now.
“Yes, Jimmy. I’m still having the nightmares.” Her voice quivered. The nightmares became insomnia and spurred the sleeping pills. Alexa quickly tallied last night’s concoction — one-hundred milligrams Benadryl, twenty-five milligrams Phenergan, and a shot of NyQuil for good measure. She experimented with a variety of mild sedatives, hoping not to become addicted to any one substance.
Jimmy stood behind her now, his hand dropping onto her shoulder like so many times before. He’d done this frequently in the three years they worked together. She hated that it had taken her nearly a year to realize his predominant goal was to place himself above and behind her so he could gaze down her shirt. He paused in that location, and she felt his eyes drift to her neckline. But there was nothing for him to see from his familiar vantage point. You pervert. She seethed. I’ve buttoned my blouse clear to the chin today.
His hand fell to his side, and his words turned firm. “What you need, Alexa, is a gun. Get yourself a handgun, and learn how to use it. Go to a shooting range and shoot it often.” His advice turned fatherly now. “A gun buys you peace of mind. Buy a gun. Love your gun, use your gun, and you won’t be scared of that son-of-a-bitch anymore.”
She nodded, but his words were slow to sink in. In spite of the antacids, the sour burn in her belly progressed, and she pushed her fist into her midsection, trying to force it away.
There were other things Jimmy Thornton said. She didn’t absorb them all. When it was clear that their conversation was coming to a close, Alexa stood. She reached out to shake his hand, but he stepped in for a hug. It was awkward, but it felt good to feel the arms of a man — even this man. The embrace lasted too long, and she squirmed away from his grasp. His eyes met hers; there was longing in them. Maybe that look is more than lust. Maybe a part of him is in love with me. With that thought, she told him goodbye.
Her meeting had lasted longer than she expected, and the ancillary staff was trickling in from their lunch breaks. She avoided their glances and hurried out the door, leaving the Radiology department for good.
CHAPTER 3
On her way out of the hospital, Alexa paused outside of the emergency department while a young man in his twenties lying on a gurney rolled by. The man wore a c-collar, and his face was speckled with blood. Two uniformed male police officers accompanied him; a red-headed officer with a face like a horse and a tall, thin, slightly balding man. These were the same officers dispatched the night of the incident. The horse-faced man had talked with the bouncer that night, and they both thought Alexa was a prostitute. He’d seemed amused by her story, treating her situation with a subtle sense of humor rather than the gravity she demanded. An ass with an ass’ face, how fitting. She cast a steaming glare at the men, and then turned her head before they could notice her.
The horse-faced man’s questions had only stopped when the detective arrived. Her thoughts went to Detective Kevin Marcum, the slightly overweight and average-height man in his early forties, who began interrogating her that night after a brief introduction. She began telling him her story, but he didn’t want a narrative, only the answers to his questions. “Where were you leaving? Where were you headed?” He wanted to know the timing of the night’s events. He asked specifics about the attack. “Where did the knife come from? Who stabbed first? When and how did you gain control of the knife? How were you able to stab your attacker?” He seemed particularly intrigued by Alexa’s ability to slit Jamar’s throat.
“Miss DeBrow, most victims aren’t capable of making such calculated moves when facing an attacker. The fact that you were able to cut through your attacker’s carotid artery with such precision speaks volumes. I can’t help but think that you are either well-trained with a knife, or you’ve done this before.” She shrugged at what seemed like an empty comment. But his words would come back to haunt her. Now she realized it was an accusation rather than an intrigue.
Her knowledge of anatomy directed her aim that night. Perhaps she should have been clearer about that to begin with. Instead, her precision with the knife led Marcum to think that Alexa was not the victim she claimed to be, and that she killed on purpose. He indicted her on multiple weak charges of criminal homicide against her attacker, Jamar Reading, a forty-year-old African American who worked at a fish market for the four months preceding his death.
Travis County police, led by Marcum’s investigation, deemed Jamar’s death an unreasonable use of force following his attempt of forcible rape. Detective Marcum assumed the media spotlight and worked closely with the prosecution. He seemed determined to hold her accountable.
Alexa hurried past the ER before the horse-faced man could recognize her, although it seemed very unlikely he would find any resemblance between the polished young lady before him and the blood-covered hooker he met on the street that fateful night.
She stopped off at the lab just down the hall to pick up her second set of blood work. Alexa glanced at the paperwork. Hepatitis C: Negative.
Jamar’s blood was tainted with hepatitis C, a consequence of a lifetime of dabbli
ng in IV drug usage that produced his jaundice eyes. His blood had mingled with hers via the cut on her thigh. She exhaled; relieved she wouldn’t acquire his yellow-tinged sclera.
Exiting the garage, Alexa passed by Norma Pate once more. Nastiness still lurked in the old woman’s eyes when she grasped Alexa’s hand along with the parking pass she held. “Hand is looking bare without that rock on it.” Norma smiled to herself.
Alexa winced at the cutting words and tugged her fingers away. She glanced at her bare left hand, and her heart yearned for Britt. She would never be Mrs. Britt Anderson. She had given back the engagement ring of her estranged fiancée a few months into the trial.
Alexa flashed a wicked smirk at Norma and forced a quick lie. “I’ll be back by next week, Norma. See. You. Next. Tuesday.” She formed the last four words individually, hoping her listener would spell out their clandestine meaning. With a sly wave, Alexa drove away. The gawking face in the rearview mirror didn’t appear to catch the dig. Damn.
Pulling out of the garage, she received a text message from her attorney updating her on tomorrow’s court time. She would meet with her lawyer, Jacob Appleby, at seven-forty a.m. with an eight-fifteen a.m. court time. A second text immediately followed.
“Get some sleep. Don’t look so tired.”
Alexa frowned. Sounds like a vodka martini with a double dose of Unisom kind of night. She drove past a sign on an unfamiliar building that read “Otter Creek Shooting Range.” Without even realizing she was changing her plans, Alexa turned off the street and pulled into the barren gravel parking lot.
She didn’t know why she stopped. She’d been living in a daze for the past few months — a side effect of chronic sleep deprivation. The decision seemed hidden within her subconscious. Then Jimmy Thornton’s words flooded her head. A gun buys peace of mind. She looked again at the sign on the building, reading the words slowly and out loud this time. “Otter Creek Shooting Range.” I’m at a shooting range. Yes. I’m going to buy a gun.
The dimly lit building took Alexa by surprise. Shooting firearms in here can’t be safe. The gray-haired man who sat behind the counter bore a Semper Fi tattoo on his left forearm that peeked from beneath the rolled sleeves of his plaid button-up. A half-snuffed cigar bobbed in his mouth.
Alexa eyed the gruff salesman with a moment of hesitation. He pulled the unlit cigar from his mouth and stood up straight.
“Can I help you, Miss? This here’s my place. Joe Reynolds at your service. Most folks just call me Smokey Joe, suits me fine.”
Alexa approached the counter. An array of handguns filled the glass case under the man’s resting elbow. Her gaze scanned the case slowly, and then moved to the rifles on the wall behind Smokey Joe. Her eyes finally met his. “I want a gun.”
“A gun to shoot, or a gun to buy?” asked Joe, his bright eyes beaming now. He motioned to the double doors with plexiglass inserts behind him, and she peered at the indoor shooting range in the adjacent room.
“Both,” she replied.
Joe took her small hands in his and examined them. His gentle touch relieved the lasting sting of Norma’s grasp. Within moments, he had a selection of half a dozen handguns for her to try.
Joe gave her a forty-five-minute lecture about the six guns he had selected for her before he escorted her into the shooting range in the back. He briefed her on his extensive military training. She took comfort in his expertise. The more he explained, the more she wanted to know. Who’d have thought there was so much to learn about a handgun?
Alexa’s shooting lesson took another hour and a half, and most of that time, Joe left the front counter unmanned.
He picked out a simple target for her — the silhouette of a human figure. There was a bull’s-eye on the chest over the heart, and another in the center of the head. She aimed for the target on the head. She concentrated on her aim and the stillness of her hands, and strove for both accuracy and precision with each squeeze of the trigger. Precision came first, which Joe applauded. She managed to hit the target just a few inches to the left of center every time. He said precision was much more difficult to learn, and a careful adjustment in her technique would easily improve her accuracy. Joe was right. She had made several perfect shots by the time she finished her first lesson.
“You’ve got a knack for weaponry, pretty lady,” he complimented and stretched out his hand.
“Thank you.” Alexa blushed. “Truly, thank you.” She reached out to shake his hand, taking his hand in both of hers. “Call me Alexa, Please.”
She took an instant liking to Joe, and she happily accepted his invite to meet again for another lesson at the end of the week. Texas didn’t require a waiting period, and Alexa left with a .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver with a two-inch barrel. A common choice of handgun for a female; it wasn’t too bulky to fit in her Fendi handbag.
The door chimed as Alexa walked out, leaving Smokey Joe alone behind the counter to straighten up and lock the door. He licked his lips. He liked the look of his young female client — long lean legs and perfectly manicured hands; it was a nice change of scenery. He wished he’d bothered to wash the tobacco spit from his shirt collar before they’d met. Her determination was striking; her face memorable. He had recognized that pretty face from the television at first glance, but there was something more. The thought rolled around in his head the way an empty beer can would in the back of his truck. The trepidation in her voice. The way she hesitated. She’s afraid. Somebody hurt that girl. She let her guard down when she thought I wasn’t looking, and I saw her fear.
She had the same wide-eyed stare Laura Beth had the night I hit her. The face that haunted him flashed in his mind, and he recalled the slap that caused her head to spin all the way around before her body hit the ground. A chill ran over him that left his hand shaky, so he reached for the flask he kept under the counter. The doctor called it post-traumatic stress disorder due to the war that led him to hit his wife. Joe called the monster inside his soul Hyde. Good thing she left me. I’m afraid I’d have killed her. Joe reached for the remote to turn off the muted television monitor that hung high on the wall in the corner of the shop. Channel five news mentioned updates on Alexa’s case, and her picture appeared on the screen. Joe nodded to himself. Yep that’s the one. He muttered aloud to the reporter covering the story. “Somebody hurt that girl.” He flicked the television off and spit tobacco into the trashcan, with another stray drop landing on his shirt collar.
CHAPTER 4
After leaving Smokey Joe, Alexa still managed an hour of kickboxing before night fell. Physical exhaustion helped her sleep. She followed the workout with a combination of sleeping aids, which included Benadryl, propanolol, and an Ambien. After a couple of restless hours, she slept.
That night, the yellow-eyed man crept into her dreams. He entered through her bedroom window, breaking the glass with an axe. Alexa instinctively rolled underneath the bed and lay there, paralyzed. Her heart beat rhythmically, fast and hard, while the axe hacked away at the bed sheets and the bed frame overhead until she could see the glow of his yellow eyes through the gaping hole above. Then he reached underneath and yanked her from her hiding place by her ankles. With the axe, he hacked at her extremities, beginning distally with her fingers and toes, and moving proximally toward her shoulders and thighs.
She awoke with tightness in her throat, and her hand reached for the source of the pain. My screams woke me.
The clock read 4:09 a.m. Too close to court time for any more meds. She rolled out of the covers, laced up her running shoes, and ran in the cold night air until the sun rose. The coolness of the air felt good on her tight throat, but she worked to breathe. Her chest moved in spasms as she gasped for breath. She returned to her apartment in a cold sweat, trembling from her lack of sleep. After a hot shower, she prepared for her trial. She stepped into a navy skirt and cream-colored silk button-up blouse. Both colors conveyed innocence, according to Appleby. She wrapped herself in that small bit of hope, while he
r insides felt numb. Concealer and a brightening serum under her eyes helped relieve the discoloration of chronic fatigue. Eyeliner and mascara wakened her tired eyes, and a pink-hued blush returned life to her hollow cheeks. The makeup helped, but it couldn’t stop her constant eye twitching. Alexa sighed as she walked to Appleby’s private car outside.
Jacob Appleby’s initial words were uplifting. “The prosecution’s attempt to brand you a serial killer won’t pan out.”
Pictures of a dead nineteen-year-old male, gagged with wrists bound, naked in a ditch by the railroad tracks flooded her mind. His throat had also been slit with a knife ten months earlier, and the prosecution tried to link Alexa to the murder. The allegation seemed fueled by Marcum’s insight on Alexa’s knife skills. He had an astounding influence on the prosecution. Using various tactics to describe Alexa as a doctor by day, streetwalker by night, the prosecution accused her of living a double life, similar to the “Craigslist Killer.” They presented her as a woman veiled in a respectable and personable professional front, who secretly perused the streets of Austin after hours looking for lone men to target for acts of sex and violence. Absurd. But once the seed was planted in the minds of the doe-eyed jury, convincing them otherwise proved difficult.
“There’s no supporting evidence to tie you to the murder of anyone other than Jamar. I had the accusation stricken from the court’s record. Not only is that homicide a separate charge, those allegations are purely circumstantial.”
Her shoulders slumped. “But the prosecution’s speculation left quite an impact in the courtroom.” Not only did the slander ignite curiosity in the jurors’ golf-ball-sized eyes, the media clung to the accusations. A local newspaper labeled Alexa a “Female Physician Femme Fatale.” The questions and comments from friends and family that followed the allegations were heart wrenching. She shuddered.
Appleby raised an eyebrow and pushed forward. “Your character witnesses have helped. I don’t think the jury is convinced you set out that night with the intent to slay anyone.”
