Haunting Blue

by R. J. Sullivan

  An unfamiliar voice spoke. “He’s still with us, Miss Shaefer. Chip is fine. Everything will be okay.”

  Chip’s fine. The phrase echoed in my head, but I knew everything wasn’t okay.

  “Mom...?” No one answered before I slept.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Sunlight hit against the back of my eyelids. I blinked, shut my eyes, and tried to roll away from the brightness. A thick, cotton dressing taped against my back inhibited my movement. A variety of throbs and aches made themselves known—some of which I didn’t remember noticing during my ordeal.

  Warm sheets lay against my bare neck, and the softness of a hospital gown wrapped around me. I twitched my nose at the odor of rubbing alcohol and soap.

  I sensed movement in the room and opened my eyes to focus on a small window with a patterned, red curtain pulled over it. The curtain failed to keep the bright sunshine from disturbing my sleep.

  Odd. I lay in a small, private room instead of a partitioned, hospital space.

  Beneath my gown, the tightness of bandages over various areas of my bruised and battered body annoyed me. There were more than I could detect or count easily. The itchy irritation of a bandage on my inner thigh distracted me. Another wrapping was pulled against my head tightly.

  “Oh. You’re awake.” I turned to see a nurse at the doorway, dressed in the usual permanent-press pajama uniform—with a pattern I couldn’t quite bring into focus—her dust-colored, brown hair was pulled back with a clip. “How are you feeling?” I heard genuine concern in the question.

  I tried to take a deep breath, only to wince from the pain in my ribs. “What time is it?”

  The nurse raised her wrist, her dark-brown eyes giving her watch a quick, business-like glance. “It’s one-thirty in the afternoon.” She flashed me an understanding, friendly smile. “You’re going to be okay. I mean, for what you’ve gone through. You cracked three ribs, but everything will mend quickly. The rest looks bad, feels worse, but it all adds up to a bunch of scrapes and bruises.”

  I bit back a reply about how the loss of my mother added up to a lot more than a bunch of bumps and bruises. “Where’s Chip?”

  “Recovering from surgery.”

  “When can I see him? I have to see him.”

  “I’ll fetch the doctor.” With that, she left.

  I waited, trying to find a comfortable spot on the pillow and fighting the tendency of my eyes to drift shut.

  I scanned the room to stay awake, noticing my clothes folded neatly on a chair.

  The curtains blurred out of focus, and I drifted.

  “Fiona?”

  I snapped awake, taken aback by a remarkably pretty blonde woman standing next to my bed. Dark blue eyes met mine, framed by a soft, concerned face. “I’m Dr. Deidre Churchill. How are you feeling?”

  She’s my doctor? I didn’t think my reaction came from sexism—she just didn’t strike me as a surgeon or an emergency room M.D.

  I rubbed a hand across an itchy eye. “Tired, but I need to know about Chip.”

  Dr. Churchill nodded. “First, the M.D. wants to check you out, and the police want to ask you some questions.”

  I shook my head, wondering if the blurriness had confined itself to my eyes. “I thought the nurse said you were my doctor.”

  She laughed—not unpleasantly—and reached out, giving my hand a tender squeeze. “I’m your psychologist. I came in to coordinate with the social worker. I know about...your situation.”

  I looked down at the covers. “About my mother?”

  “Yes,” she said in a soft voice. “Your story is all over the news. I’m so sorry, but you should know.”

  My mind tried to disconnect, wanting to drown in sorrow, but I clung to her hypnotic, reassuring voice.

  “What happened last night was horrible and tragic and unfair.” Her hands tightened over mine.

  A pit of sorrow threatened to swallow me up.

  “We’re going to get through it, together. I promise.”

  My mental dam broke. Tears spilled down my face, and I cried out, wailing and sobbing. She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close. I buried my face in her bosom, and this kind, merciful stranger held me tight, making little reassuring noises.

  I called out, “Mom!” The pain welled up from deep inside, agony I’d bottled up for so many hours, ripped from me.

  Minutes later, I lay, head against her shoulder, limp and exhausted from my emotional explosion.

  Not raising my head from Dr. Churchill’s comforting embrace, I grabbed a tissue and blew my nose.

  I needed a second tissue, so I swiped another one.

  Gunther killed my mother.

  I blew my nose again. This time I could breathe.

  He’d made the choice, acted upon it, and nothing could have stopped him.

  Nothing.

  * * * *

  When I woke up from a sound sleep, I saw a man peeking at me through a crack in the door.

  “May I come in,” he asked in a soft voice.

  I nodded.

  Chiseled pecs bulged under the short sleeves of his shirt. My gaze traced the evenly tanned arm to the notepad held at eye level. Blonde waves of hair topped the adorable package.

  “Hello, Fiona, I’m Lieutenant Grady. Do you remember what happened to you?” He waited, his eyes cast downward, refusing to meet my gaze.

  I pondered the question. In my current state, I could say anything. What did they think happened? I started with the obvious. “My mother...she’s dead.”

  “Yes.” The voice reached me like a disinterested recording. “That’s right. You remember your mother’s death? At your home?”

  “I...chased...someone.”

  “Yes.” The voice took on a texture of life as the lieutenant’s interest piqued. “This is very important, Fiona. Did you recognize the person you chased?”

  “I—No. I have no idea who it was. He...wore a mask.” I shrugged, unsure of where to take my ad lib story. Instead, I answered his questions, pretending dizziness or a memory lapse when an obvious answer escaped me. I kept my story as simple as I could and let the detective fill in the blanks. Boiled down, my story amounted to this:

  My date with Chip was ending, and I decided Mom should meet my new boyfriend. So I brought him home, only to walk in on a masked burglar-turned-murderer. I ran after him while Chip called the cops. Then Chip followed after me.

  I chased the burglar into Perionne Park, where he tried to lose me underneath the roller coaster, but I followed him up and onto the platform. We fought, and somehow during the struggle, the roller coaster activated. The guy overpowered me, but Chip found us and jumped into the fray. The murderer stabbed Chip, but the sirens scared the murderer away, and he...just...ran off.

  Lieutenant Grady shuffled in the chair, looking up for the first time, focusing a pair of dark, indifferent eyes upon me that diminished his “hottie” potential.

  He dropped his notebook and pen into a breast pocket. “Listen, not that this is anything new, but there’re all sorts of stories in the papers about Gunther the ghost. Reporters love to throw the paranormal angle out whenever anything strange happens. So I’m asking, just so I can say I did. Did this have anything to do with the ghost?”

  I bit my lip, not daring to speak until I regained my composure. Across the room, my “court-appointed social worker” watched me, and her stoic face didn’t help me fight the panic welling up within me.

  Finally, I shrugged. “What do you want me to say? My Mom died last night, and you want to know if a ghost did it?”

  The lieutenant’s face turned beet red. “Right. I’m sorry. Just forget I asked.” He rose. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry this happened. We’ll do what we can.” He left without another word.

  * * * *

  A loud knocking startled me awake.

  “It’s Nurse Thompson, dear.” The door swung open, and she stepped though, a Cheshire cat grin on her face. “Oh. I didn’t realize you’d falle
n back to sleep. I have a surprise for you. I thought it would cheer up your room a bit.” With that, she wheeled in a three-shelved instrument cart.

  My mouth dropped at the sight of billowing color. I smiled at the Mylar Get Well Soon balloons and the potted plants, the vases of roses, and cone-paper wrapped carnations. I could see various index cards with miscellaneous names, most of which I didn’t recognize. I spotted a Mylar balloon dangling a card with Phil and Mary’s names.

  Overwhelmed, a wave of dizziness flooded over me, and I leaned back against the pillow. Try as I might, I couldn’t find my voice.

  The nurse rushed to my side, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, dear? I can get the doctor...”

  Even as my body trembled, I shook my head. I choked back a sniffle and wiped fresh tears from my cheeks. It’s happening, again.

  Suddenly, the nurse wrapped her arms around my shoulders and rocked me gently. Her voice penetrated my numb brain. “There, there, dear. You poor dear. Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. We’ll take care of you. This town takes care of its own.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I spent the long, tedious hours of the afternoon half-dozing in the confines of my hospital room, channel surfing through the courtroom TV and talk shows. I’d asked Nurse Thompson for a book, but, after a few pages, I couldn’t even follow the inane melodrama of Danielle Steele. So I resigned myself to catching up on my People magazines and reading the latest on Paris Hilton and the 25 worst-dressed women at the Emmys.

  Shortly after five, someone knocked on my door.

  I looked up, surprised to see the Ben Gerrold, Mom’s partner, standing in the doorway—a stern expression distorting his elderly features.

  All business, Gerrold gave my limp hand a brisk shake and seated himself without greeting me or asking how I was coping. He flipped open a laptop, setting it across his neatly tailored slacks, and brusquely explained my rights and options with the comforting sincerity of a Komodo dragon irritated by a persistent fly.

  As guardian of my estate, according to the final wishes of my Mom, he’d arranged the private hospital room and had pre-signed the release papers, allowing me to leave tomorrow. He’d see that I continued to live in a comfortable home if I didn’t want to stay in the house where my mother had died.

  “Fiona?”

  I’d zoned out of the conversation, instead choosing to stare at the overhead vent holes in the paneled ceiling. “Sorry, what?”

  With infinite patience, Gerrold repeated, “I said, ‘I trust this is satisfactory?’”

  “Oh, yes, sounds great.” I reached for the plastic carafe of ice water and poured myself a glass. I could only hope the jarring cold on my teeth would keep me awake.

  The elderly lawyer picked up where he’d left off, hitting each bullet point in his plethora of information while staring at his computer screen, glazed gray eyes fixated on the facts in front of his face.

  He’d see to all of my comforts, and provide a generous allowance for my personal use over the next several months, at which time I would turn eighteen. He’d arrange for college assistance and make sure any interruptions to my education as a result of this tragedy would be minimal. I should also take note of...

  I awoke with a start.

  Gerrold must have seen me jump. Though his body hadn’t moved from his sitting position, his eyes flickered in my direction, and he paused in his narrative.

  I reached up and stretched, and his eyes shifted back to the screen. Whether he continued from where he left off, or he’d backed up a few sentences is something I’ll never know. “Seeing as you’re so close to the age of independence, I want to assure you that foster care won’t be an issue, as long as you and I can work out an arrangement on which we can both agree.”

  Foster care! I shuddered at the thought, relieved not to have to go there. I guess I had to thank Ben Gerrold for that.

  Then it hit me. I’d known Ben Gerrold as my mother’s partner my entire life, and yet I knew almost nothing about him on a personal level. He existed in one mode. He knew nothing about me, except whatever horror stories my mother brought to the office. Now, here the man sat, shackled with the fearsome responsibility of my upbringing. I actually felt sorry for him, and I reached out to pat his hand.

  He stopped in mid-recitation, turning and looking at me for the first time—a shocked expression on his face. He removed his glasses, wiping a hand over the single tear spilling down his cheek.

  I repeated the words Dr. Churchill had spoken to me hours earlier. “It’s okay. We’re going to get through this.”

  He put his face in his hands, fighting back a sniffle. “I’m sorry. It’s such a damn awful thing.” He shook his head and folded the computer on his lap. “I suppose this can all wait until later.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “Your mother was an outstanding, brilliant partner, and she was a good woman. She certainly didn’t deserve to be taken from us like this. I’ll miss her terribly.”

  He looked at me and shrugged. “I owe it to her to see to it that you’re well taken care of, but...I never had any children. I don’t know what to do.”

  I smiled at his awkwardness. “Relax, Mr. Gerrold. I won’t be asking to move in. I don’t even know what my options are at this point, but in a few days we can talk about it more.”

  An uneasy expression crossed his face. “You should get more rest.” He stood, shifting uncomfortably. “If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.” As if on impulse, he reached out and rumpled my hair. Just as suddenly, he pulled his hand back, walking out without another word.

  * * * *

  I sat up when someone knocked on my door. “Come in.”

  My eyes focused to see the now-familiar, bulky profile of Mr. Farren standing in the doorway. “Fi-Fi?” He noticed my open eyes and offered a bashful grin. “How are you?

  I shrugged. “I’m fine. Is Chip awake? I want to see him.”

  Mr. Farren shook his head. “No, not yet. They won’t let you see him until he’s out of intensive care.”

  I grinned. “We’ll figure something out.”

  He held two paper cups of steaming liquid pinched between his beefy fingers, and extended one my direction. “Here.”

  My stomach churned at the thought of coffee, but when I lowered the cup, my nose detected the distinctive aroma of chicken broth. The milk of human kindness.

  Mr. Farren lowered his bulk into a wooden chair near the edge of my bed.

  I sucked the first few sips greedily, burning my tongue but savoring the yummy, salted liquid. I held the cup in my fingers, enjoying the warmth, focusing on the spinning herbs in the broth. “Mr. Farren, you were there, weren’t you? That night with Gunther?”

  Mr. Farren wiggled in his chair, creating a squeal of complaining metal. “You didn’t know?”

  We exchanged shocked looks, and I shook my head. “No. I didn’t, but I don’t know how I didn’t. Chip told a lame story about you and a bowling buddy.” I chuckled. It felt good to laugh. “What a stupid story. If a bowler had lips that loose every time he had too much beer, the whole town would have dug up the ride by now.” I wiped at my eyes. “I can’t believe I bought it.”

  Mr. Farren sighed deeply. “Don’t blame Chip for wanting to keep it a secret. He fooled me, too. What you two did—I had no idea he had planned it, but I suppose, like you, I should have seen it coming.”

  I hesitated, wondering whether to ask the question utmost on my mind, and then decided if he’d share this much, he’d share the rest. “Did you...kill Gunther?”

  Mr. Farren’s eyes widened in genuine shock. “What? No.” He drew in a deep breath. “I did a few things I’m ashamed of, but I never killed anyone.” With that, Mr. Farren—Jim Farren—told me how, many years ago, Gunther blackmailed him into driving the getaway car, of his terrible, cowardly betrayal of Crimley, and of his loyal wife, who took a terrible secret to her grave.

  As he finished his tale, I stared into my cup and let the story feste
r between us. “How did Chip know?”

  Mr. Farren chuckled. “He guessed, the intuitive bastard. He got a confession from me before I figured out he only knew half as much as I thought he did. I had no reason to deny it, not to my own boy. What difference did it make?”

  I answered the question, realizing the truth as I spoke it. “You were involved in this...great wrong, these killings and the robbery. Nobody knew how to make it right. Chip didn’t want the money, or fame, or anything else.” My eyes watered at the realization. “He wanted to make it right. Right for you and for him, so you wouldn’t have to live with the shame, anymore.”

  Mr. Farren shrugged. “I guess he did. We had one conversation about it years ago, and haven’t spoken of it since. Until Gunther showed up at my house last night.”

  “What happened?”

  “He said he was going to kill you and my son unless I met him at the park. That was after Chip’s phone call. I called the police immediately, but it was...almost too late.”

  “Now?”

  Mr. Farren shook his head and pinched his index finger to his thumb, dragging it across in a “zipper” motion. “The money’s gone, where nobody can find it. I made sure of that. I couldn’t return it to the park. The police were everywhere, all night. There I stood, with the biggest find of the town in the trunk of my car, if anyone bothered to look. Soon as the police stopped questioning me, I drove off, and I got rid of it.”

  He folded his arms, as if challenging me to change his mind. “The secret is my burden and mine alone, just as it was many years ago. It’s staying that way. That should keep Gunther more than satisfied.” He let out a deep sigh.

  My hand shook at the revelation, and I almost spilled the soup. “Such insanity. Gunther cares so much about his own infamy, that he returned from death to preserve it. Without the mystery—without the legend—people would have forgotten about him years ago. That’s why he can’t allow anyone to return the money.”

  I stared down onto my soup cup. I could feel tears welling up. “My mother...I know she cared about me, but...I also know...she won’t come back. She never will.”