“You’re OK now. Your leg is still there. The bullet went through the outside of your thigh, but doctors had to go in and get some shrapnel. They also checked for shrapnel damage to the artery in your leg, which was fine. That means you’ve had an angiogram, so I need you to lie very still. Are you in any pain?”
I groaned and nodded.
“Hang on here and I’ll give you some medication.”
My redheaded angel injected something into my IV line and patted my shoulder. I caught a glimpse of a gold band on her left hand. Damn, I thought drunkenly as I slid back into darkness.
Several hours later, I was back in this universe and allowed to sit up slightly.
Before her shift ended, Red came back to see me and brought me some chicken broth I could sip through a straw and a little bit of soda.
There was a knock at my hospital door.
It was Addison, with today’s paper in her hand.
I waved her in, feebly, trying to give her a lopsided smile through my bruises.
“You look like shit,” she said.
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
“I ought to kick your ass for this latest stunt,” she said, spreading today’s paper across my lap. “But, damn, it’s the best front page we’ve had in a while.”
Two stories, both with Addison’s byline, shared the top of the page. The headline Farm owner shot sat on top a story that went down along two columns, with a one-column picture of Katya Bolodenka, cropped from the picture Pat had taken last week.
Next to it, another headline Reporter wounded in standoff, filled the remaining four columns, including a photo of McMaster’s barn, still surrounded by sheriff’s cruisers and headshots of me, McMaster and Ben.
Across the bottom, Elizabeth had a preview story of this weekend’s Canal Days festival with a photo of volunteers working on two garden club floats.
I pointed to Ben’s mug shot.
“He saved my life,” I said slowly.
Addison nodded. “Sounds like it, from what Judson Roarke told me. He filled me in on everything you were doing, by the way. Ben Kinnon will be charged with inducing panic, possession of heroin with intent to distribute, kidnapping, possession of a weapon under disability and a couple assault charges. He’s going away for a long time. ”
I nodded. We were both silent for a moment.
“I wish you’d told me what you were doing, Graham,” she said.
I shrugged. “It was personal stuff. It didn’t belong in the newsroom,” I said.
My broken rib made it hard to breathe deeply, but maybe as a result of the pain medication, I was getting better about stringing a sentence together.
“Like you and Elizabeth? Did that belong in the newsroom?”
I felt myself blushing through my bruises to the roots of my hair.
“She’s the one who called me and told me you were shot,” Addison said. “Apparently you handed your phone to one of the EMTs and asked them to call her, before you blacked out.”
“So, um, what all do you know?”
“I know you two were seeing each other for about a year and I know she’s pregnant and I know you guys have broken up.”
I sank back into my pillows. “Sorry.”
She shook her head. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You work with people long enough and sometimes relationships happen. Ask me one day about John Porter, the man who sat at your desk before you did. Elizabeth also told me that going after this Benjamin Kinnon guy was kind of a personal quest for you.”
“It was,” I said. “He was never more than a name on my birth certificate, but after I thought Elizabeth was pregnant, my thoughts kind of changed.”
“From what she told me, you knew he was scum to start with.”
“Yeah, I did. When Chief McGinnis told me he was living here and suspected to be involved in some hate crimes, I wanted to see if I could meet him, figure out if he’s anything like me—or if I’m anything like him. They didn’t think one of their under cover cops could get close to him.”
“So you volunteered. Why does that not surprise me?”
Again, I shrugged.
“Then you find out he’s dealing heroin? And holding Aryan Knights meetings in that barn next to Melvin Spotts’ place? I swear to God, I’m listening to every word that crazy old man says from now on out,” she said.
I tried to smile, but my face hurt too much.
“So,” Addison said slowly. “It’s none of my business, but what are you going to do about the baby?”
I shrugged. “I love her, but she won’t marry me, Addison. I’ve asked. I don’t even know if she’s going to go through with the pregnancy.”
“After deadline today, she asked me if she could move up her last day to next Friday. Apparently, the Beacon-Journal needs her to start sooner.”
“And I told you my stepdad had a heart attack,” I said. “She’s feeding you a line. She wants to leave town before I have a chance to beg her to stay.”
“Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t.”
“I don’t want to lose her or the baby, but don’t have a whole lot of options at this point,” I said.
“Just do everything you can to keep in touch with that baby after it’s born. I have a feeling I don’t need to tell you what it’s like to grow up feeling abandoned,” Addison said. “My mother left my father when I was six. I never saw her again and it wasn’t until a couple years ago I knew she’d died.”
“Really?”
Addison nodded. My face was probably too bruised and beat up to show much shock. Even though we all knew her dad, Walt, a retired state trooper, Addison never revealed a whole lot about her childhood.
“And I know I’m not the one to talk, but being a parent means you learn to live with a lot of different things, not just dirty diapers and a lack of sleep. You learn to live with uncertainty over the damnedest things, like whether or not a kid will remember something you said in anger, or if they’ve forgotten it in ten minutes. You’ll stress over everything you do or say to that child, what toys they play with, what food they eat, or like my daughter, what genes you’ve passed on. And then, somewhere along the line, despite everything you’ve done or tried not to do, they end up OK and they still love you.”
“I hope so.”
“Life’s messy Graham—you see that every day. In this business, there are those who like to think that we are above the nastiness and the pain we report, but we’re not. We show up at all these public disasters—car crashes, murders, drug raids— and we think we would never do anything to put ourselves in that situation. We won’t drive drunk, we won’t get addicted, but you never know what happens in someone’s life to put him or her there at that moment. We all have our own shortcomings that we have to live with, and those shortcomings don’t usually get shown to the world. Some times they do, sometimes they hide behind an unbelievable mask of lies and denial. Some are buried so deep, folks don’t even know where they are.”
“Benny told me that we never get the parents we want.”
“That’s true. On the opposite side of that coin, sometimes people often don’t get to be the parents they want to be, either because of something they’ve done or a situation they find themselves in. But they make the best of it, like I know you will with this baby.”
“Benny told me that these guys he associated with would just as soon kill me as look at me. Doyle was going to kill me when those barn doors opened. I’ll never forget the sound of that hammer being cocked.” I sighed. “After Benny shot him, I remember this look on his face as he was getting handcuffed. It was like ‘I did this for you,’ almost. Maybe not. I don’t know. It’s all in such a haze.”
“You never know. My mother was wearing a locket with a picture of me in it on the day she was killed by a drunk driver outside of Chicago. At that point, she hadn’t seen me in four years, but I obviously meant something to her. You and Elizabeth will do fine, whatever happens. I know you will. You got a heart, Graham, underneath a
ll your tough-guy exterior, and that will take you far.”
I pointed at Katya Bolodenka’s headshot. “So is she dead?”
Addison sighed. “Yes. Dr. Bovir had me come down and identify her body this morning. That whole situation just makes me sick. Jerome Johnson’s parents stopped by the farm to talk to her and heard her arguing with someone in Russian—and his name wasn’t really Jerome Johnson, I learned. By the time I got over to the farmhouse to check on her, she was gone. Somebody had gone through the house, though, and slashed every damned piece of furniture in the place. The place was trashed and she was gone. I guess they came back and took her someplace else to kill her.”
“The Russians didn’t trash the house,” I said. “Doyle did that. He told me he did. He told me he didn’t kill the goats though. I asked twice.”
“What?”
“Yeah, he told me slashing the furniture was payback for her involvement with Johnson—he called it ‘race mixing.’ He showed me the knife he used to cut everything up. Said the house was empty and the door unlocked, so he just went in and started cutting stuff up.”
“I’ll call the federal agent on the case and let him know—if he’ll take my call. He’s too damned arrogant to speak to the press,” Addison said. “I’ve got to get going. Earlene gave me the rest of the afternoon off—I’ve got to go home to get some sleep. I’ll let you read the story, but I can’t help but feel Katya Bolodenka got let down by a whole bunch of people along the line, even me.”
“When I get back, I can call the folks in New Jersey and find out where the case stands, whether Katya Bolodenka’s husband will be released or not.”
“You need to worry about getting better. I’ll keep on that story, OK? I’ll see you later.”
With a wave she was gone.
For the rest of the afternoon, I had a steady stream of visitors.
Sheriff Roarke stopped in to bring back my cell phone.
“We got the audio recording off your phone,” Roarke said. “It’s going to be used in Benjamin Kinnon’s trial, so expect a call to testify.”
“I figured.”
“If it gets that far. I understand from the prosecutor that his lawyers have already suggested a deal.”
“What about the hate crimes?”
“Ben Kinnon can’t be connected to those directly—it looks like he managed to manipulate Doyle McMaster and a couple others into doing the leg work. Whether or not they can prove Kinnon incited McMaster or any of the others to commit them remains to be seen. That’s up to the federal prosecutor. What charges get kicked upstairs to the feds and which ones stay here, they are still figuring that out.”
I pointed at the newspaper lying on my bedside table. “Did you see that Russian woman on the Lunatic Fringe farm was shot and killed?”
“Yes I did. When I talked to the feds this morning, I gave them the information about Doyle’s slaughtering her goats.”
I shook my head. “Doyle told me he didn’t do that.”
“He can burn a man’s car, get in a fistfight at the feed mill—”
“And slash the furniture at Lunatic Fringe—” I interjected.
“He did that, too? I hadn’t heard about that one.” Roarke shook his head in disgust. “Let’s physically abuse your fellow man because you believe he’s below you, but by God, livestock deserve better treatment. That’s just plain sick.”
After he left, Marcus Henning came by to visit, then Chief G and Dennis Herrick. There were flowers from my parents, Earlene, and the newsroom. Sportswriter Chris Royal dropped by on his way to an inter-league scrimmage he was covering, but by the time visiting hours were over, the one person I most wanted to see—Elizabeth—never came to the door.
I was hurt, but I wasn’t surprised—just incredibly, incredibly alone. I turned out the light above my bed and went to sleep.
***
I had a cab bring me home the next afternoon. I tipped the driver extra for carrying my plastic bag of personal belongings as I negotiated the steps on my crutches and hobbled into my apartment. My broken rib made using crutches absolute agony, but I promised Red before I was discharged that I’d keep moving so I wouldn’t get pneumonia.
As I sank onto the couch and lifted my leg onto the coffee table, there was a knock at the door.
“It’s open!” I called out.
It was Elizabeth, carrying a big foil pan of lasagna and a plastic container of salad. She was wearing tight floral pants that ended just below her knees, a pair of orange flats and a loose white tee shirt with a large red rose printed across the front and shoulder. She set the food down on the kitchen table.
“I didn’t want you to starve while you were off work, Kinnon, so I thought I’d bring you something,” she said. She didn’t move from beside the table.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t get any ideas. We’re all taking turns in the newsroom to make sure you’ve got at least one hot meal a day. Today was just my turn.”
Silence settled like an uncomfortable fog as impenetrable as the distance between us.
“Did you hear? Next Friday is going to be my last day,” she said finally, drawing circles on the tabletop with her fingertip.
“I heard.”
“We’re meeting at the bar across from the courthouse for drinks after work. Do you think you can come?”
“You want something this ugly sending you off to Akron?” I pointed at my bruised face.
In a few steps, she was beside me on the couch. She reached up and touched my face, smiling sadly.
“You’re a little beat up, but you’re not ugly, Kinnon. You never were.”
“Oh Elizabeth,” I whispered, drawing her as close as my broken rib would allow. Tears rose in my swollen eyes. “Please, don’t go, please. Stay here. Marry me. We’ll be a family. We can make it work.”
Gently, she kissed each purpled cheek.
“I can’t Kinnon. I just can’t.”
Then she stood and, without a word, walked out the door.
Chapter 36 Addison
The sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon Friday morning as Duncan and I headed out to the barn for milking. Already the air held the promise of all the heat and humidity a late Ohio summer could bring.
“You look like you got caught up on your sleep,” Duncan said, taking my hand. “I think you slept twelve hours, in between the nap you had yesterday afternoon and the sleep you got last night.”
“I think I did, too,” I answered, squeezing his hand in return. “I feel halfway decent this morning.”
“You seem like you’re coping a little better with Katya Bolodenka’s murder this morning.” Duncan caught me sitting on the front porch last night after dinner, surrounded by cigarette smoke, trying to shut out the horror of Katya’s bullet-ridden face as tears streamed down my face.
“I’m OK, I guess, although I can’t help feeling like I never got a good hold on that story, that I was on the periphery in a lot of ways.” I shrugged.
“Like how? You reported on the information you received, then when you found out it was false, you reported on that, too.”
“Yes, but the meat of the story didn’t happen here—the organized crime, the illegal pain clinics, the murder in Katya’s basement and of her sister’s family. Those were big city stories. It feels really strange to have it all come to a head here in Jubilant Falls.”
“Yeah, I suppose so. I never would have thought we had white supremacists moving into Plummer County, either,” Duncan said. “But I guess Graham’s whole deal showed that wasn’t true.”
“The Aryan Knights moving in makes more sense to me than the Russian Mafia,” I said. “People like Benjamin Kinnon prey on guys like Doyle McMaster. The ignorant, the ill-informed and the down on their luck are easy pickings for folks like that. Plummer County isn’t the isolated little backwater we grew up in, Duncan.”
My husband sighed as he pondered. “So what’s your day look like?” he asked, after a moment
of silence.
“Not much. I’ve got the last preview story for Canal Days to do and then later this afternoon, I’ve got an interview with a candidate for Elizabeth’s job. The newsroom staff was also going to have dinner and a couple beers next week before she goes, by the way.”
We reached the door of the barn and I stopped talking only to take a slurp of coffee from the mug in my hand before stepping inside to smell the warm, familiar odor of cattle, straw and manure.
“Graham’s getting out of the hospital today and she’s supposed to take him dinner. Tomorrow is my day to take him a meal. You want to just eat someplace Saturday and then I can take him some carryout food?”
Duncan didn’t answer. Standing in the barn doorway, he stared down our drive.
“You expecting someone?” he asked.
Coming up the drive were two large Ford pick up trucks, both pulling a gooseneck livestock trailer, their dual rear wheels kicking up gravel in the early morning light. The headlights were bright, obscuring the faces of the drivers.
“No-o-o…” I said slowly. “No.”
The first truck stopped. The driver’s side door opened and a tall, thin woman stepped from the cab.
I gasped. The last time I’d seen that face it was covered in blood. Her left eye had been pulpy red hole, matching the identical bullet wound in her cheek. The curly black hair, now peeking from the back of her baseball cap, had been bloody and filled with brain matter as her body lay on Dr. Bovir’s exam table.
“Katya! Katya Bolodenka! You’re, you’re not dead!”
Opening her arms, she ran to hug Duncan and me. As we embraced, I saw Agent Peppin step out of the other truck, slapping a work glove against the fender of his truck as he ambled casually toward us. His semi-automatic pistol hung from his belt and I could see the bulge of his Kevlar vest beneath the gray tee shirt he wore.
“Yes! I am alive! I am so sorry for what we had to do at hospital,” she said.
“What the hell is this all about?” I demanded as Peppin, shoving his work gloves into his back pocket, stepped closer. “Now I’ve run a story about a murder that didn’t really happen!”
Murder on the Lunatic Fringe (Jubilant Falls Series Book 4) Page 21
