by KG MacGregor
"I don’t know. You know, I only met her a couple of times. She didn’t really strike me as the type, though." Excitedly, he motioned Elena and Rico to the end table, pointing toward a listening device that was affixed to the back of the leg.
"Yeah, I’m with you," she agreed. "I just wish the FBI would tell me what’s going on. I tell you, those agents can be such pricks."
The word "pricks" didn’t translate into Spanish, so that would save a little time for the boys taping the exchange.
CHAPTER 11
ALL THROUGH BREAKFAST, Ruth fought the urge to excuse herself to run back to the house to check on the injured woman. She’d been fine when they left her, still sleeping off whatever war she’d fought over the last couple of days. But she and Jessie shouldn’t stay too long at Viv’s, she knew. It wouldn’t do at all for the woman to get up and come looking for her.
Viv prepared a veritable feast for their Sunday breakfast: blueberry pancakes with warm maple syrup, bacon, cantaloupe, coffee and milk. She’d even wanted to set everything up in the dining room, but Ruth insisted that the kitchen table was perfect.
From the outside, no one would have guessed that the simple frame structure was like two separate houses inside, one side resembling an antique museum; the other, a comfortable old shoe. The formal living room, the dining room, and the guest bedroom were packed with polished antiques of dark rich woods and brass. The overstuffed chairs and davenport weren’t particularly inviting, but they were lovely to look at. Given what she already knew about Viv’s down-to-earth nature, Ruth had trouble envisioning the woman living in a setting so elegant.
In contrast, the kitchen, den, and Viv’s bedroom held a modern but worn décor that seemed to encourage staying a while and making yourself at home. That was truer to the image the landlady presented, and it was, in fact, the kind of home Ruth wanted for her daughter and herself.
"No, we can’t bring him home yet," she answered Jessie’s happy pleas about the little brown dog. "He has to stay with his mother until he’s bigger so he’ll be healthy."
"Can I visit him?"
"It’s ‘may I’ and if it’s okay with Viv, I don’t see why not," she assured.
"You can come whenever you want, Megan," their hostess politely replied.
Ruth laughed to herself and bit her tongue not to automatically correct her landlady with "may." It was nice having Jessie exposed to an older woman who was patient and attentive. The little girl had been destined to miss out on that kind of relationship in Madison. Barbara Drummond was distant and stern; Ruth’s own mother Mildred had never quite gotten past the fact that Jessie had been conceived outside of marriage.
"What are you going to name him? Have you decided?" Viv asked.
Jessie cocked her head sideways while she thought about it. "Brownie?"
"That’s okay. He’s brown." Ruth nodded her head thoughtfully.
"Or Hershey?" Viv suggested. "Since he’s chocolate."
"Hershey! We’ll call him Hershey." Jessie squealed with delight. She had heard of the famous candy maker.
"I wonder how many chocolate labs are named Hershey," Ruth mused.
"Probably thousands. But Ghirardelli doesn’t really suit him," Viv laughed.
"Hey, sweetie, there’s another chocolate maker you like. Do you remember his name?"
"Willy Wonka!"
"What if we called him Willy?"
"Or Wonka," Jessie argued.
"I like Willy better than Wonka," her mom answered seriously, shooting Viv a pleading look.
"I think I like Willy too," she agreed.
"Willy!" The little girl got down from the table and ran into the little utility room. "Yeah, he looks like a Willy."
* * *
Stuffed to the gills, mother and daughter climbed the wooden steps to their new home, the youngster heading immediately for her room where she picked up her Lisa doll and returned to take a seat on the couch.
"Can I watch TV?"
"It’s ‘may I watch TV’," Ruth corrected gently. "And, yes you may." That would give her a chance to look in on their uninvited guest. She didn’t want Jessie around the woman anymore than was absolutely necessary. There was no telling what kind of person got herself in this condition.
Ruth helped her daughter find the children’s channel, and then headed back down the darkened hallway. She met resistance as she pushed the door, seeing with alarm that the woman was crumpled in the entry. Ruth shoved harder and rushed in immediately to check that the collapsed figure was breathing okay and not losing any more blood.
"Hey, wake up," she coaxed softly. Please don’t die on me! Lifting the dark head off the hard floor, she prodded, "Are you okay?"
"I think I got dizzy," the woman murmured, slowly opening her eyes to once again find herself face to face with this soothing presence.
"You need to stay in bed until you’re better. Let me help you back there." Ruth was frightened now at what could have happened — and what still might happen — and desperate to get this woman well so she could leave.
Spencer tried to stand, leaning heavily on the smaller woman. "I’m so thirsty."
"I’ll bring you something to drink. Come on, get back in bed."
Spencer collapsed again on the bed, mystified at where her energy had gone. Besides the pain in her arm, side, and head, her legs felt like cement, and the dizziness was disorienting.
Lying on her back, she tried again to get a grip on where she was and what had happened to her. Last night, there had been a little girl, too.
"Here you go." The blonde woman returned presenting a glass of cold water and three tablets. "And you should take these too. I think you have a fever."
Spencer tried to sit up, and the woman reached behind her to steady her back. She swallowed the tablets and started to sip from the glass, but her overpowering thirst got the better of her and soon she was gulping it down in huge swallows. Too much water too fast caused her to choke and cough, which in turn, made her clutch her battered ribs in agony. The blue eyes watered as she slumped forward, the kind woman patting her softly on the back.
"You want to try again?" the blonde offered, this time holding the glass herself to control the amount.
Spencer took another couple of drinks, and then lay back against the pillow, tugging up her t-shirt to display a dark purple bruise the size of two hands just beneath her left breast, and another that covered her hipbone.
"Oh my god, that’s awful! What happened to you?"
"A motorcycle wreck," Spencer answered breathlessly, "on Friday night."
"Friday night!" That was almost two days ago. "Why didn’t you go to the doctor?"
The dark haired woman shook her head. "I can’t," was all she said.
"But you have to. Your arm’s infected and it looks like your ribs might be broken."
She shook her head again. "No, I can’t." Spencer tried again to pull herself upright, worried that this woman would call someone now that she’d seen the extent of her injuries.
"Wait…no! It’s okay." Ruth guided her back against the pillows, where she closed her eyes. "You can stay here until you’re better. I won’t call anyone," she promised.
Spencer reached out and clasped her savior’s hand, squeezing it hard. "Thank you." It was barely a whisper.
After a few minutes, the dark-haired woman relaxed and her breathing slowed, a sure sign that she’d drifted off again. No doubt, her body was fighting the arm infection as best it could, but it wouldn’t hurt to reapply the ointment and change the small bandage.
"Just don’t die on me. That would be pretty hard to explain," Ruth said softly, pretty sure that her words had fallen on undiscerning ears.
Ruth had no idea what to do if the ribs were broken, but she remembered one of the guys that Skip had played ball with wearing an elastic bandage around his torso. She made a mental note to pick one up that day when they went out for groceries. Whatever she could do to get this stranger fixed up and on her way was wor
th it.
Against the backdrop of cartoons, Ruth and Jessie fell asleep together on the couch, the former still trying to recover from the overnight drive from Maine. When they awoke, she began her grocery list with her new budget in mind. Ruth had plenty to get set up, but she needed to be mindful that the cash she’d garnered might have to go a long way, especially if she had trouble finding work that would accommodate Jessie’s hours in day care.
Ruth checked on the injured woman again, relieved to see her resting comfortably. Satisfied that this time she’d stay put, the mother grabbed her jacket and pulled it on.
"Sweetie, we have to go to the grocery. Can you put your coat on?"
"You mean ‘may I,’" the child corrected haughtily.
Ruth really had to stop and think before responding. "No, not in this case, honey. You use ‘may’ when you’re asking permission and ‘can’ when you’re asking if you’re able."
"That’s too hard to remember."
"I know. But you’ll get the hang of it one of these days," she said with encouragement. "You’re a really smart girl."
Jessie loved hearing that from her mother. Her daddy had never said anything that nice to her.
"Do you think Daddy’s looking for us now?"
Talk about out of the mouths of babes. Ruth had awakened from their nap, uneasy and anxious about the impending hour of six, the moment that she officially became a fugitive. The feeling would probably intensify over the next few weeks, and then maybe she could really start to put it all behind them.
"I don’t know, sweetie. But he isn’t going to find Karen and Megan Oliver, is he?"
Jessie grinned and shook her head. They were hiding.
"Let’s go."
Before going into the grocery, Ruth checked out the pharmacy next door. The elastic bandages big enough for someone’s torso were expensive, but the woman back at the trailer needed something in case those ribs were really broken.
Returning from their errands just before dark, Jessie asked to visit Willy, and when Viv said it was okay, they took a quick peek and headed for the trailer. When the groceries were put away, the two shared a cheese pizza before settling in the living room for their first real night together at home.
"Will you play Candy Land with me?" Jessie asked.
"Sure. Do you remember where we put the games?" Ruth had brought as many games, toys, and books as she could squeeze into the little car.
"It’s under my bed." To Jessie, this was one of the best things about living with her mom. Her daddy never wanted to play games or read stories or play with toys like her mom did. "I want to be blue!" she called.
"Then I’ll be…what color should I be?"
"Red!"
"Okay, I’ll be red."
For forty minutes, they took turns drawing the cards and marching their gingerbread men to the castle. Ruth got there first in the first game, and they played again. By skipping the shortcuts, she made sure that Jessie won the second time, and that was always a good stopping point.
Next up was a bath and a book, and soon, the four-year-old was down for the count.
As she had done practically every hour, Ruth returned to the back bedroom to check on the injured woman once again. She’d slept for most of the last twenty-four hours, still fighting the infection and probably the effects of being out in the rain so long. The wounds on her arm and eyebrow were definitely better, though, and maybe tomorrow she’d be well enough to be taken somewhere and dropped off.
Ruth grabbed one of the pillows and headed back out to the couch. Last night, she’d used a thin blanket, but tonight she decided to spread out a sheet on the scratchy upholstery. With any luck, this would be her last night on the couch.
Settling in, she used the remote to turn on the television, lowering the volume so as not to disturb Jessie in the next room. Flipping through the channels, she stopped for a local newscast at ten o’clock. Barely able to hold her eyes open, she listened to the report, her worst fear being that the authorities would be on her trail already, broadcasting her picture and a description of the station wagon with Maine tags.
"Authorities in the metro DC area are seeking your help tonight in finding these two employees of Margadon Industries in Bethesda. Spencer Rollins and James Crowell are wanted in connection with the murder of Henry Estes, a programmer at Margadon. Estes was found strangled in his office late Friday evening; Rollins and Crowell were seen leaving the scene about the time of the murder. If you have information…."
Ruth suddenly sat up, now wide awake and staring at the picture on the screen, her whole body trembling. The mysterious woman down the hall…the woman sleeping in her bed…the woman whose wounds she’d so carefully treated…was wanted for murder. She turned, her heart nearly stopping as she saw the tall figure standing over her shoulder in the hallway.
CHAPTER 12
"IT’S NOT TRUE," the woman said, falling to a knee as she grabbed the end table for support. "I didn’t do it."
"I need you to leave," Ruth pleaded, her voice shaking with fear. How could she have let a murderer into her home, so close to where her daughter slept? "My daughter…."
"It isn’t true," the woman repeated. "I didn’t kill that man. He was my best friend," she said sadly, her eyes filling with tears.
"Then why don’t you go to the police?" Ruth herself had stood and taken a step backward toward the kitchen.
"Because I saw who did it, and now they want to kill me."
Ruth shook again with panic. What if whoever was looking for her came to this place?
"You have to leave."
"I will. I promise. And I won’t hurt you," the injured woman pleaded, pulling herself to her feet. "I didn’t kill him."
"Was it that other man they showed? Crowell? He’s missing too, they said."
"No, if James is really missing, he’s probably dead too by now. He was with the killers on Friday night." Spencer slowly stood and slid over the arm of the old leather recliner. "Can I have water? And maybe something to eat? Please?"
Ruth walked nervously into the kitchen area where she ran a glass of water from the tap. "Ice?"
Spencer shook her head as the blonde woman returned, stretching out to hand her the glass.
"I can make you a cheese sandwich…or some soup…or I have some leftover spaghetti I could heat up." It struck Ruth that the moment was actually surreal. Here she was offering dinner options to an accused murderer who was hiding in her house.
"Anything. I’m sorry I’m so much trouble." Her head was still swimming, but she needed a plan for saving her ass, and that wasn’t going to happen with her lying in the bed all day. "You’ve been…I really appreciate everything you’ve done."
Ruth took the bowl of spaghetti from the refrigerator and spooned some of the sticky pasta into a saucepan, adding a small bit of water so it would stir. From this distance, the stranger wasn’t so intimidating, especially since she looked as weak as a kitten.
"So what really happened?"
Off and on all day, Spencer had been trying to make sense of the events of the last two days.
"Henry and I found a problem in one of our routines on Friday afternoon. We’re programmers at Margadon," she explained. "He stayed to work on it; I left to go to a friend’s party."
Telling the story out loud brought unexpected pangs of guilt. If she’d stayed with Henry, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
"He called me around midnight to say that he’d found something big. He asked me to come back to the office and look at it. I was doing something else and I didn’t really want to go, but then he said he’d already called James, so I knew that whatever it was must have been a pretty big deal. Henry didn’t get excited about much, and he was wild."
"James. Is that the Crowell guy?" Ruth scooped the now steaming spaghetti onto a plate and grabbed a fork.
"Yeah, James is our boss. He’s the controller, the one in charge of the inventory flow. So when I got to work, it was dark…everything was
dark. And it shouldn’t have been, so that was the first sign that something was weird. I went up to our floor and I could see James and some other guy standing over Henry’s terminal. I started to walk in, but they were…I don’t know, acting funny. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s like they were whispering and nervous. So when I got to the office, I could see in, and Henry was lying on the floor…," Spencer shuddered at the horrible image in her mind, "and he had a power cord tied in a knot around his neck."
Ruth had been waiting to hand the woman the plate, but she set it on the counter when it was clear that she’d lost her composure.
"I tried to get out without anyone seeing me — I would have gone straight to the cops — but they must have seen me go out and the next thing I knew, they were chasing me all over the parking lot. I had to jump the fence on my bike. That’s how all this happened," she indicated her injuries.
"So why didn’t you go to the police when you got away?"
"Because…because the guys who were chasing me were the feds."
"The feds? You mean the federal government?"
"Yeah, like the FBI or something."
"How do you know?"
"Because the car that stopped me in the parking lot had government plates."
"Maybe they just wanted to talk to you," she reasoned.
"No, see that’s what was so weird. The guy that was upstairs with James had to be an agent too, because when he came out chasing me, he went straight to the car. And then they both started chasing me. That’s why I got scared and ran."
Ruth wanted to believe every word, but it sounded preposterous. "I still don’t understand why you don’t just go to the police. I mean, if you told them this story, they’d be able to find these guys and figure out who’s really guilty."
Spencer shook her head in frustration. "It’s gotten so much more complicated than that. I got away from those guys on Friday night, and I spent the night out in the rain in a park. But the next morning I tried to call my friend and the line went dead right when I was telling her what happened. Next thing I know, I’m getting chased again, this time by the cops and the feds. And one of them was even shooting at me. So if I go to the police, I’m going to end up dead just like Henry. And probably just like James. They’ll say I was shot trying to escape or something. I saw what they did and they have to shut me up."
