Hurricane Crimes

by Chrys Fey

  She went back into the living room and began replacing all the medical supplies into the first-aid kit. Behind her, a reporter was explaining that the driver of the car was believed to be a murder suspect.

  “The name of the—”

  The lights flashed, prompting Beth to snatch up her flashlight.

  “Donovan Goldwyn.”

  Her fingers went cold around the plastic tube as ice frosted her veins. She straightened her spine and turned stiffly to the television, her heart wasn’t beating in her chest. On the screen was the picture of the man who was right now changing in her bedroom. Above it was a caption in bold letters that read—SUSPECT.

  She gripped the flashlight in her frozen fingers. Her heart thudded fearfully. She stared into the immobilized violet eyes through the glass.

  “Oh my god,” she gasped.

  She had brought a murderer into her home!

  Right at that moment, there was the loud pop of a transformer blowing and all the power drained from the house, casting her into total darkness. Her heart rocketed up to her tonsils. Pitch-blackness pressed against her wide eyes, her lungs tightened in fright. Within the house, there was no sound except for the drumming of the rain on the roof and the angry slaps of wind on the house’s exterior.

  Light, she thought in panic and remembered the flashlight she clutched. She switched it on and pounced at the battery-operated lantern sitting atop the dead TV. Bright, white light flooded the room and illuminated Donovan who was standing behind her, starring at her like a carnivore on the hunt. She immediately sensed him and spun about. His violet eyes gleamed in the bright light.

  “Beth—” His voice was deeper than before.

  She pointed the flashlight at him as if it were a light saber. “Stay the hell away from me!” She sidestepped around the coffee table toward the front door. She thought about running to her neighbor’s house, using the key under the doormat, and barricading herself inside.

  “I can’t believe I rescued a murderer.” Her breath expelled in fear. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Let’s see…” Donovan tilted his head. “If I told you no, you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

  At that, Beth chucked the flashlight at him, aiming for his head, and sprang toward the door. The flashlight grazed his ear as fear and blood pounded in Beth’s. She couldn’t hear the snap of splintering wood or the loud wail of falling timber.

  She grabbed the door handle. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Donovan coming at her. She let the door fling open, and she threw herself onto the front step. She thought she was free, but then Donovan’s arm looped around her waist and he yanked her into the air.

  As they flew backward, a pine tree fell across the front of the house. Thick branches slammed onto the spot Beth had been and poked though the doorway as they landed on the floor in a bone-jarring collision.

  Beth blinked at the green needles and thick nest of branches that completely blocked the doorway. Then, without wasting another second, she jabbed her elbow into Donovan’s stomach. He grunted, but he didn’t release her. She started to thrash wildly.

  “Beth, stop! If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have saved you just now.” His arms locked around her to silence her struggles.

  “You would’ve if you wanted to kill me yourself!”

  “Beth, do you realize you can’t go anywhere?”

  She had, but her survival instincts were telling her to fight. She tried twice as hard to get free. Therefore, she bit his hand.

  “Damn it, Beth!” He rolled until he was on top of her and pinned her down. “I am not a murderer! I have never murdered anyone in my life!”

  “And I’m supposed to believe you?” She bucked beneath him.

  “Stop!” He grabbed her shoulders. “I don’t want to…” She flinched in pain and a whimper escaped her lips. “…hurt you.”

  She watched his eyes lower to her left shoulder. She held still, debating whether or not she should bite him again, as he tentatively pulled down the collar to her shirt and looked at the ugly bruise she knew was already blooming in purples and reds.

  “Jesus,” he whispered. Their eyes met. “Look, I am not a murderer. I can explain what you saw on the news.” His gaze lowered to her bruise. “And I definitely don’t wish to hurt you. Please believe me.” His eyes begged her.

  “Looks like I have no other choice. Now get off me!”

  “You’re soaked to the bone.” He stood up, his hand reaching out to her. She looked at it critically then got up on her own. “You should put on something dry. Do you have ice?”

  She pointed toward the kitchen. “There’s a cooler full of ice.”

  “I’m going to make you an icepack, go change.” She was skeptical. “I am not going to hack you into pieces with a knife from your own kitchen,” Donovan added dryly.

  “In that case, I guess I can relax,” she replied sarcastically and retreated down the hall to her bedroom. She wanted to lock the door but knew it would be useless. Donovan had a football player’s build and could easily bust it down.

  As she stripped off her clothing, the air transformed her skin into gooseflesh. When she dropped her wet jeans onto the floor, Donovan’s keys plopped beside her feet. She snatched them up. Not wanting to return them to Donovan, she stuffed them into the pocket of the jeans she tugged onto her damp legs. While favoring her left arm, she pulled a gray tank top over her head and rubbed the towel over her hair to soak up the rain that continued to fall off the tips.

  Her eyes were busily ticking around the bedroom, searching for a weapon. The towel slipped from her hand and drifted to the floor. In one leap, she was at her dresser with her hand on a metal candlestick holder. It was of a nice weight and, if she swung with the right amount of force, it could crack open a skull, which was the idea.

  She hurried to a window, tossed aside the sheer curtain, and quietly pushed up the glass. On the other side was a piece of plywood that creaked with each slap of wind. She flattened the bottom of her sneaker on the middle of the board and pushed with all her might. The center caved slightly but it didn’t budge.

  “Shit.”

  She placed the base of the candlestick holder on the edge of the window frame where she knew a nail was. Her shoulder was sore, each movement sent hot electricity down her arm, but she ignored it and shoved the metal roughly into the wood. Her muscles screamed and burned, but she didn’t dare stop. The nail screeched as it slid a centimeter out of the plywood. She employed her muscles and bit her lip from the strain, drawing blood. The nail loosened slightly. However, there were a dozen more and her strength was waning.

  “Why did I use so many damn nails?” she cursed aloud and doubled her efforts.

  Behind her, the bedroom door opened soundlessly and Donovan stood in the entrance. He stalked to her.

  Beth moved the candlestick to the location of another nail, hoping to pry several of them halfway out of the wood to create enough give so she could push the wood away from the frame and squeeze out. It was too much to hope for though.

  She heard a soft footfall directly behind her and whirled around, wielding the heavy candlestick holder. Donovan caught her wrist in his hand before she could bash in his head. Not missing a beat, she thrust her knee up to ram it into his groin. He anticipated the move and cupped the back of her knee in a tight grip that halted her attempt to cripple him. Then in a swift movement, he swept her off her feet, flattened her back to the bed, straddled her, and pinned her arms above her head.

  “Do you really think you’re safer outside with Hurricane Sabrina than inside with me?” Donovan demanded. She would’ve given him an answer, but he didn’t wait for her to reply. “I am not a killer! An hour ago, I walked in on my brother’s murder.”

  Her brain had to reconfigure to understand the words he had said. “What?!”

  “I am being framed for my brother’s murder.”

  She squinted suspiciously at him. “By whom?”

  “By the cops who w
ere chasing me.” He exhaled to explain. “My brother is a detective in Internal Affairs. A few days ago, he called me and said he had been threatened because of the case he was investigating. He gave me his journal, said he wanted me to have it in case something happened. My brother wanted to make sure they wouldn’t be able to destroy the evidence he had collected which reveals dirty cops in the department, including the names of the two cops who were threatening him.

  “This morning, I received a message from him. He knew they were following him and were going to do something before Sabrina hit. I went to his house and walked in on his murder. Two men were standing over his body holding their batons. They had taken turns beating him.” He paused. Beth saw his jaw clench in anger.

  “Of course, they weren’t too happy when I barged in,” Donovan continued. “They came after me but I ran, jumped into my car, and drove as fast I could. The streets were empty, making it easy for them to follow me, but thanks to Hurricane Sabrina, I was able to get away. A power line fell right behind my car, nearly crushing it, and stopped their pursuit. I was cutting through the cities, trying to find somewhere to hunker down, and ended up losing control of my car. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was that damned tree. What happened next you already know.”

  Beth stared at him as she let everything he said sink in, aware Donovan was studying her as closely.

  “If I let you go, will you start fighting me again?” he wanted to know.

  Beth thought about that. A few seconds later, her bloodless fingers loosened on the candlestick holder. He took it from her raw fingers and tossed it onto a feather pillow. Then his eyes returned to her hand. She flinched when he stroked the pad of his thumb over the ravaged heel of her hand.

  “Looks like you need doctoring,” he said. “That reminds me…” He moved off her and retrieved the icepack from her nightstand. “You should use this before it melts.”

  She took it. “Thank you.”

  Her eyes lowered to his bare chest. She couldn’t tell herself he didn’t have a great body because he did, but it was the purple and green bruises across his chest from the seatbelt that drew her attention.

  “You’ve got some impressive bruises yourself.”

  He glanced down. “Surface bruising, nothing’s broken.”

  Lucky you, she thought while placing the melting icepack on her discolored, swollen shoulder.

  “Come on, we need to clean the cuts on your hands.”

  She followed him reluctantly. On the way to the kitchen, she noticed he had managed to close the front door. A bed of pine needles now littered the entrance.

  She let Donovan play doctor to her and noted he was extra tentative with her mediocre wounds. He stroked a clean cloth with mild soap and bottled water over her scraped palms to clean away the grit. When beads of blood were forming, he splashed peroxide onto the cuts. Her hands jerked and she hissed as bubbles sizzled. She figured it was payback for what she had done to his cut. Then he massaged a layer of antibacterial cream over her hands, stroking each of her fingers one at a time. In spite of her best efforts, she couldn’t stop the chills she felt with each touch, and she was relieved when he finally released her.

  “Let me look at your shoulder.” He removed the icepack she held to her shoulder and shook his head. “You have more battle wounds from taking on Hurricane Sabrina than I do with my head-on collision with a tree.”

  “What’s even more ironic is I got them by rescuing a man who might yet kill me.”

  He frowned at her. “Beth—”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “At the moment, I don’t believe you want to kill me, but less than ten minutes ago I did.” She snatched the icepack from him and went into the living room where she sat down in one corner of the couch.

  He followed her and took a seat at the other end. They were both silent while Hurricane Sabrina unleashed her anger on Florida.

  Fifteen minutes passed before Beth broke the silence between them. “So, where’s your brother’s journal?”

  Donovan turned to her. “It’s in the glove compartment of my car.” Her head snapped in the direction of where his car was mating with her neighbor’s tree. “Yeah,” he snorted. “I realized that.” He shook his head. “The book may be destroyed, and with it, the evidence that proves my innocence.”

  “If I had known, I could’ve gotten it for you.”

  “But you didn’t know.”

  A moment later, Beth sighed and faced Donovan. “How long was your brother in Internal Affairs?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Wow. I imagine fifteen years in I.A. resulted in a lot of threats.”

  Donovan glanced at her sharply. “Too many threats to count since cops despise I.A. investigators with a passion.”

  “They wouldn’t have to if they never did anything wrong,” she pointed out.

  “Exactly, but there are cops out there who think they can get away with anything because they have a badge and a car with blue and red lights.”

  “What sort of incriminating evidence about those two officers is in your brother’s journal?” Donovan looked at her as if she were speaking a different language. “Oh come on!” She tossed the rapidly melting icepack onto the coffee table. “You can’t expect me to believe you didn’t read it, especially since what’s inside it can get you killed if those cops find out you have it. You were putting yourself at risk and you wanted to protect your bother, so of course you read it. And considering our current situation, I think I have a right to know too.”

  She stared him down until he relented. “My brother believed the man in charge of evidence knew who was stealing the drugs stored in the department, so he questioned him. A week later, that man turned up dead. The day before they killed him, he went to my brother and admitted he caught the two officers stealing cocaine, and they threatened him if he told anyone. He signed a statement. That, in itself, is motive if the two officers found out about what he did.”

  “And his signed statement is in your brother’s journal?” Donovan confirmed with a nod. “Why didn’t he give it to his superior?”

  “He was forced to drop the case, but my brother didn’t want to give up. Somehow, they found out my brother had a statement from the man they threatened and they killed him for it.”

  Beth looked into his eyes. “They killed your brother to silence the last person who could pin them with a crime…or they thought he was the last person until you barged in and caught them committing murder. Now you’re the last person.”

  What she didn’t say was he was the next person on their list to kill.

  “I have more evidence than they could possibly imagine,” he said. “My brother fixed his house with security cameras. Even if they found the cameras outside and disabled them, there are still the ones hidden inside the house, which are part of a separate system. While they murdered my brother, those cameras were recording them.

  “When this hurricane lets up, I’m going to get the tape and take it to the police station. If the journal doesn’t survive, at least I can prove my innocence with that.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Wordlessly, Beth got up and went into the kitchen, returning with a small bag of baby carrots. She resumed her spot on the couch, selected a bright orange vegetable, and snapped off a piece with her teeth. Then she held the bag out to Donovan; it was her way of offering a truce.

  “If your brother is in I.A., then what do you do?” Beth asked while she dug out another carrot.

  “I drive monster trucks.” Beth’s eyebrows shot up at that. “Believe me,” he said. “I see the irony considering I wrecked a car with normal-sized wheels.”

  She tried unsuccessfully to hide her smirk. “Though that is funny, my reaction was for the fact you don’t look like a monster truck driver.”

  “But I look like a murderer?”

  She leveled her gaze with his. Her stare was unflinching. “Anyone can be a killer. There is no physical trait that distinguishes m
urderers from the rest of society.”

  “You’ve got me there,” he murmured.

  “Tell me about your brother,” she coaxed.

  Donovan settled back more comfortably. “He was ten years older than me and was my hero from the time I was born. All throughout my childhood, I thought he was the coolest man in the world.”

  “What about your father?”

  “My father was a worthless drunk. He managed to get himself killed when I was five. Our lives were all the better for it. Ryan did double duty as my brother and my father. He helped me with algebra, taught me to hunt, fish, and drive. He even gave me the sex talk when I was a teenager. He always put me first, always came to my aid, which is why I was so shocked when he called me for help. I knew it was serious when he was putting his life into his little brother’s hands.” He went quiet then.

  Beth gave him the last baby carrot and her sympathy. “He sounds like a great man.”

  “He is…was.” He amended the last word with sad eyes. Then he turned his eyes to Beth. She saw they were no longer full of grief but anger. “So am I?”

  She frowned at that. “Are you what?”

  “You were asking me those questions to figure out if I am a killer. Have you decided yet?”

  She stared into his violet eyes. Could a man with eyes like his be a killer? She jerked her shoulder in a shrug and winced in pain. “Shit.” She cradled her shoulder in her hand and glanced at the icepack that was drowning in a puddle of water.

  “I need to get more ice.” She laid her hand over the pack and froze when Donovan’s wide hand covered hers. Her eyes flicked to his and they gazed into each other’s eyes for a long time.

  “It’s okay,” Donovan told her, softly. “I’ll get the ice.”

  Beth pushed herself deeper into the corner of the couch, curled her legs beneath her, and rubbed her arms. Those eyes, she thought. She never knew a locking of eyes to be so physical, so intimate, so sexual. It had felt like sex and left her bewildered, even excited. Hurricane Sabrina hit the boarded window next to her, making her jump. It was as good as a bitch slap to knock sense back into her.