Murder of the Prodigal Father

by Mark Wm Smith

  Everybody turned to me.

  “The ladies,” the nurse clarified, smiling. She pulled the curtain in front of the glass wall.

  Maybe I was a goldfish in a medical experiment.

  “You’re in ICU,” Jasia said.

  The sound of her voice surprised me. It sent a twinge of fire from my blazing shoulder wound into my heart. I rolled my head so I could look at her. “You left me.” Each word came by itself, in its own time.

  Jasia dropped her gaze.

  “She saved you,” Mother said with characteristic sternness.

  I didn’t have the energy to keep turning. I stared at Jasia.

  “I came back and found you, hanging from a tree snag in the river,” Jasia said to the floor, her voice barely audible. “I had to check on Lindsay.”

  Being mad made my shoulder hurt. “I forgive.”

  When she looked up I saw she was crying. She should know crying wasn’t allowed, it might reopen my laceration. I rolled my head slowly toward the other two. “Called Nansi?”

  “She’s trying to catch a flight, but there are paperwork complications of some sort,” Mother said, biting each word off. “I told her we’d keep her informed of your condition.”

  Her austere tone gave rise to a confession and an apology. I held it on my tongue, not knowing if she suspected my misbehavior, or if she was mad because I got stuck in the hospital. Besides, it was enough trouble forcing out words I needed.

  “Shot me?” I asked all of them.

  “Nobody knows,” Renée said. “You almost drowned.”

  “I did drown.”

  “Drowning means dead,” Mother said.

  “Bet me.”

  Mother actually chortled. If I’d had more energy I would have scolded her for being emotional.

  “Proves my point,” I said.

  “What?” They all asked.

  “Killed Dad. Somebody.”

  Mother scowled.

  Renée said, “Come on, Connor. Isn’t it more important to rest right now?”

  I wanted to ask if she knew who did it. Was she covering for someone? Recuperation forced me to settle for a limpid glare.

  “It wasn’t Granger,” Mother said. Her brief moment of humor had passed. “I’m glad you’re alive. I’ve got to go.” She backed her wheelchair through the curtain.

  “You’re probably right,” Jasia said.

  I turned my head too fast and winced.

  “I mean, there isn’t any real good reason for somebody to just shoot at random people on the river at night.” Her words made sense, but her timbre didn’t convince me she agreed with them. She kept her sultry eyes turned uncharacteristically downward.

  “I’m sorry, Connor,” Renée said. “I don’t know anything. I just want you to focus on recovering.”

  I waved my hand, or tried to.

  The device clamped to my finger partially immobilized it. The needle stuck into me and the tape holding it in finished the job of keeping me still.

  The contraption forced me to turn once again, so I could smile at my sister. “Thanks.” Every word had been soaked in molasses and caked with bread crumbs. Damn, I was hungry.

  Renée stepped forward quickly. She bent and hugged me, jumping back when I howled. “Sorry!”

  I grinned, but it didn’t work its way past the clenching of my molars.

  The plump nurse came swooshing through the curtain. “Time!”

  Jasia stood and advanced, rapidly pecking my forehead before beating Renée out of the cubicle.

  “We’ll stop by later,” Renée said.

  “Out!” my personal assistant in pink commanded.

  Watching the curtain sway reminded me of heaven. Here I lay me down to sleep, darned near killed by a sniper creep... God had decided to spare me. Despite my sleeping with Jasia. The pieces didn’t fit. I should have been left to die. I wanted, right now, to really know a God like that. A God who could fit evil into the same basket with hope. Nansi. I needed to talk with Nansi. She knew about God.

  My nurse adjusted the drip from the bag hanging above me.

  I watched her, recalling the dream from the river. A running back. My father, playing running back and wearing my uniform. What was he running from? Or to? Before the nurse stopped wiggling the poky things in my arm, I was out again.

  Nansi and the children walked with me through the Botanical Gardens with the morning sun shining brightly on our shoulders. We stopped to admire a giant lily. I lifted each child by their armpits to smell the lovely white, tubular flower.

  As we crossed the small footbridge, a huge dragon rose from the pond water and latched onto my groin. Snorting fire that singed my chest, ignoring my family’s screams, the dragon yanked me into the water.

  Murky liquid filled my lungs. The burning sensation woke me.

  A dull fluorescent glow seeped through the green curtain. Blips and beeps mingled with shallow voices and laughter in the larger room beyond the glass. A flint and striker started a tiny flame inside my ribcage. Nurse Plump came in a put it out with a large kitchen knife.

  I screamed.

  The intensity of light, sound, and pain told me I was truly awake this time. Sweat poured from every inch of my body.

  The nurse bent over me.

  I trembled. And then I began slugging at her with my fists. Anyone could come in and kill me while I laid here. Where was my police guard?

  The nurse subdued me with impressive strength. Holding my arms with her weight, she pressed the code button. We waited in that intimate position for the team of needle pushers to enter and sedate me.

  Two other nurses, one male and one dark haired, worked their magic potion into the IV tube.

  I drifted off, experiencing a deep and compassionate love for each and every one of them.

  I awoke clear-headed.

  The room was different. A real room with a window instead of observation glass and bleeping machinery. The door to this room stood open.

  I stared into the nearly empty hallway.

  Someone snored on the other side of a curtain closest to the window.

  Four beds lined one wall from the door to the back. I had bed number two. Brown toned flower curtains separated patients. Chocolate lines striped the beige walls. Purple, orange, and yellow flowers occupied most of a table at the foot of the bed. A pleasant rejuvenation experience would be had by all.

  An idea crashed in from my ICU memories. Anybody could walk into this comfortable space and kill me at will.

  Outside the window it looked warmer. And safer.

  I sat halfway up. Two things stopped my ascent.

  A tube had been stretched from my nose to the wall, reining me in. A shooting pain raced from under my shoulder blade, over my shoulder and down my arm.

  But I didn’t scream. I didn’t even jump. Sitting a little higher, I worked my head around the tethering tube.

  Nausea unsettled my gut.

  Settling back proved impossible with the breathing tube now at my back. I clenched my stomach muscles to keep from vomiting. Leaning forward enough to loosen the tension on my tether, I reached up and pulled the hissing nozzles from my beak.

  Not as comforting as the room décor.

  Using every muscle except my shoulders, I rolled from the bed, and stumbled over the stand that held the IV bag. Stabilizing my world with a traumatizing grab at its metal rod, I found that it had wheels. After a brief battle with the steering, I gained control. Assisting one another, we both scooted into the open bathroom where I bent over to puke.

  Only my stomach had nothing to give. Retching placed pressure on my lungs, which made me want to vomit all the more.

  One hand gripped the shiny white lip of porcelain and the other held tightly to the tubular steel of my makeshift walker. I hung there contemplating a full on kneel and prayer when a familiar voice interrupted me.

  “Hey, buddy,” Tony said from the door of the bathroom. “I see you’re up and at ‘em.”

  I slumped
onto my haunches, both hands clinging to their cool supports. “My hilarious friend arrives to cheer me on.” White heat lined the inside of my chest.

  Tony chuckled. “I just came by to tell you your wife’s on the way. Should be here Saturday noontime according to Renée.” His hand found my shoulder.

  “You’re sure? I thought she might have called out the hit on me.”

  “Well, maybe something changed. Come on, I’ll help you back into bed.”

  We struggled to raise me to my feet. “I’m leaving here. Get my clothes,” I said as we hobbled toward the bed.

  Tony’s cumbersome police belt bruised my right hip with each step. The IV stand rattled obnoxiously against my left side.

  “Shouldn’t you stay and get healed?” Tony asked.

  “Yes, he should,” a fairy nurse said. Her blue-streaked, dark blond hair was tied back with a green scarf. She’d flittered in while we were busy.

  I eased into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. “I’m just lying here, sleeping most of the time, no protection at all. Somebody could waltz in and finish the job they started.”

  Tony backed up and sat in one of the orange club chairs. His dark tan uniform made him look like the stem of a pumpkin. “That sounds a little paranoid.”

  “We have to get that oxygen back in you,” fairy nurse said.

  I swept her hand away. “No lookout in the hall,” I said. “Not a guard in sight. You guys just let me lie here and get whacked.”

  Tony barked a laugh.

  I glared back.

  “Are you going to let me replace this?” the nurse asked, holding the double-hooked tubing in my face.

  “No. I’m leaving.”

  Tony raised his hands. “All right. You can check out of here if you want. I’m not your babysitter.” He slapped both hands down on the chair arms. “But they have strict orders at the desk not to let anybody pass who isn’t blood or shield.” He tapped the metal on his chest. “And they have to sign a sheet.” This last he spoke in a whisper.

  “He’s right,” the nurse whispered.

  “You have blue hair. Your opinion doesn’t count.”

  She pouted for a full second, and then left the room. “I’ll get the doctor.”

  I scowled after her. “I’m enamored to be your afternoon entertainment, Tony. But is a little sign-in sheet going to stop a killer? Help me get this needle out.” I tore the tape off of my arm.

  “I’m not touching any medical equipment.” He raised his palms.

  I jerked it out, wincing for the millionth time. “I did it myself, thank you.” I pushed gingerly off of the bed and limped around my friend to the closet. Every time my right heel touched down, a corkscrew spiraled deeper into my shoulder.

  “You don’t look like you should be traveling, Connor.” Tony’s tone revealed his increasig concern.

  I would have to sit down to pull my jeans on. “I’m not staying here.” Grinding my teeth, I made my way back to the bed only lurching once at the end of the trip.

  “Don’t you think it would be easier for them to shoot you out in the wide world?” Now his voice pitched upward, sounding annoyed. “Has that thought occurred?”

  “Better a moving target than a sitting duck.” Duck came out with a grunt, as the difficulty in pulling denim with a nasty tear in my shoulder became evident. “Help me out, would you, friend.”

  Tony stood slowly and lumbered around behind my chair. As his arms stretched around to take hold of my britches, he said, “This is going to hurt some.”

  He was right.

  Dr. Marcus charged in during the ordeal and began lecturing, his bushy eyebrows high on his forehead. “You’ve lost a large amount of blood. We need to observe you longer and make sure your blood counts have stabilized.”

  “If the wrong someone comes in and finds me stabilizing, they’re liable to take the rest of my blood.”

  “Your oxygen level is also too low for you to be traipsing around without extra O2.”

  “My oxygen level is high enough,” I said, and coughed. It doubled me over.

  “Right,” Doctor Marcus said with his keen nose pointed at the clipboard. “I’m calling this AMA on your chart.” He scribbled madly. “It’s against our advice, and we can’t be liable for the consequences.”

  “I’ll take care of him, Doc,” Tony offered.

  Marcus gawked. He shook his head and walked out on us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  New Life Has Its Troubles

  Tony’s Chevy Blazer was icy cold and drafty. And his suspension required a complete reworking. But he’d helped me bypass Doctor Marcus’s insistence that I remain in an unprotected environment.

  So Tony drove, and I shivered against the passenger door, enduring the monstrous potholes. My coat pockets rattled with pills at each bump.

  “Is Frieze coming around to my idea about Dad yet?” Focusing on something less physical took my mind off of the pain.

  “He still doesn’t consider that an idea,” Tony said.

  “What? Do I have to be killed for him to pay attention?” The outburst shifted most of the pain into the back of my skull.

  “His money is on a connection between your shooting and Zachary Polson’s death.”

  He must have known that would shock me silent. I gawked at him.

  His stolid features became a smirk.

  I watched this with the creeping sensation that all of my allies were gone. “Zachary is dead?”

  “They found him about five miles down river, hung up on a deadfall branch. He might have jumped off a cliff near town.” His smile faded with the telling. “Frieze is calling it suspicious and pursuing it as a potential homicide.”

  I turned to the frozen, gray images rolling by my window. “You on my side, Tony?” My high school friend turned soldier, now cop, didn’t answer for a few blocks. Life had changed him. He was his own man, fired in the kiln of pain and destruction, most of it courtesy of Central America.

  I looked to see if he had missed my question.

  He glanced at me, steady eyes lighting on mine. “I’m always on your side.”

  Tony dropped me off at Mother’s.

  An edge of the sun peaked across the prairie, establishing a painter’s delight on the neighborhood. Grime-laden ridges of snow glistened in street gutters. Sepia toned porches beckoned. Muted hues of blue trim among evergreen trees calmed the atmosphere.

  I wanted to lie down in the dormant brown lawn and bask in the peacefulness. Instead, I opened the front door, the one we no longer used.

  Mother greeted me with indignation. “You can just leave Granger alone.”

  I stood in the open doorway. “Am I not welcome here?”

  Her metal-edged irises nailed me in place. “You can just listen to your mother. Dixon Pierce was no angel. He was always aggressive. And not only in business.” Tightness in her jaw told me she meant to release sensitive information that she shouldn’t have to.

  “This means?”

  “Your father...” Her pupils expanded, jittery with effort to maintain eye contact. “He nearly forced himself on me before we married. I was naïve, but he took advantage of that.”

  “Are you saying you didn’t love him? That you married out of obligation?”

  “I’m not saying anything but what I’m saying.” She couldn’t hold my gaze any longer. “With all of his shenanigans, he was a likely candidate for and early death. And God just called in his chips.”

  My head shifted backward, setting my shoulder ablaze. I cringed. “You strung him along about being crippled, and now you’re going to dump garbage on his character when he can’t defend himself.” I reached across with my opposing arm to tried to rub comfort back into my sore shoulder. “You’re a vindictive bit—”

  Mother flung that hard pillow of hers at me again.

  I used my ready arm to block it, but the quickness of the stroke sent a scalding flow into my lungs that buckled my knees. I reached for the door jamb
to keep from going down.

  Before I could recover from my stagger, Mother’s chair rolled along side of me. She placed one hand on my chest and the other at my hip, pulling me into a secure stance with more strength than I thought I had on a good day. “Are you sure you should be home? That doctor—”

  “Mother!” I stepped away from her. “I’ll be fine. I’m going to make a sandwich.” With a crooked step, I limped into the kitchen.

  She didn’t follow.

  Her maternal instinct generated a chain reaction of bewilderment falling like dominoes in my brain. Here was a woman doing everything she could to throw me off of the trail of her brother-in-law. This same man showed nearly as great a hatred for my father as she did. And she seemed happy to let him spend more time in this house than he did in his own. Who was she protecting? Her nearly dead son or her future husband?

  Peanut butter and jelly sounded comforting for a wounded soldier. It didn’t take long to find the goods. Some things don’t change. For one, where people store their peanut butter.

  Working one-handed created a child’s catastrophe. Like my investigation. Digging around in my estranged father’s death had stirred up all of the anxiety and secrets this family kept stuffed in the proverbial closet. Defending him while my stoic mother attacked him flipped my presumptions head down.

  Biting into the dripping sandwich didn’t quench my guilt. I’d walked away from Mother’s comforting hand. Dodging conscience-stricken thoughts by attending to the crunchy nibbles of peanut failed me. Grasping the confused story of my family, twisting it around and looking hard at it, I finally decided to switch the angle. Guilt was the game. And my problem was logic.

  When one person defended another, they did so out of concern for that one’s well being. Or they did it out of guilt at a wrongful accusation. In my mother’s case, it could be both. Maybe she insisted I leave Granger alone because she knew he was innocent. That only came from knowledge of the real culprit. The other possibility would be that she knew he did it, but she also knew the consequence of his being caught.

  In either case, dear Mother kept popping up as suspect. And that went down harder than a plain peanut butter sandwich. If the father that supposedly abandoned me had been killed by the mother who purportedly loved me, callous as it was, what remained?