by Julia Shupe
“I don’t know,” he teased me, as he carefully balanced his steaming cup between his thighs. “That’s what you said at last year’s Christmas party, but your shortbread cookies nearly cracked my tooth. I’m still using the last one to level my desk.”
I ignored the jab and sat straighter in my seat. All joking aside, I really wanted to get home. This was an important birthday for Danny, an important year, in fact. He was starting kindergarten, exerting independence, spreading his wings. I wanted it to go well, to say the least. “So, how long do you think this’ll take?” I asked, shifting in my seat. “Best guess. Did they send you specifics?”
Though I asked him the question, I already knew the answer. Forty minutes earlier, I’d responded to the same text message he had. I only hoped his version had described the scene with greater detail. With a groan, I’d crawled from beneath my warm blankets, pulled on a pair of khakis and a polo shirt, and planted a kiss on my son’s forehead. A quick post-it note for my sister on the fridge—a plea to hold Danny off until I returned—and a sweep of the security latches on the windows and doors, and I was out the door, and standing at the curb.
“Nope,” he said. “No details; just the basics: Caucasian woman, early forties, alone in her home when an intruder breaks in. Perp shoots her, leaves her for dead, but that’s all I’ve got so far.”
“Is she alive?”
He nodded. “Barely, but from what I understand, the paramedics are already there. Neighbor heard her screams and called 9-1-1, but I haven’t heard anything since. I don’t know if they were able to save her.”
Reaching for my cup, I caught sight of my fingernails. Chewed, ragged, and bitten to the quick, I reflexively curled them toward my palms. Not that Gil ever noticed things like that. Gil never noticed other women much at all. Pamela Anderson—the naked, twenty-something version of Pamela Anderson—could strike a pose in front of this car, and he’d probably cuss her out and swerve around her body. Gil didn’t have time to notice other women; he was much too focused on his beautiful wife. I glanced at him sidelong, and couldn’t help but smile. If he were thinner, perhaps, and quite a bit tanner, with a chiseled chin and thicker hair, he’d be a heart-breaker. But he wasn’t a bit thinner—or tanner. And his thinning hair wreathed the crown of his head. He was physically fit, for the most part, but over the past twelve months, he’d been nurturing a growing potbelly, feeding it with Philly-cheese steaks, fries, and beer.
He was sweet, but sassy, and easy to talk to, with a sense of humor that bit to the bone, and sarcasm that rivaled George Carlin’s. He was chivalrous, a gentleman, a member of a dying breed. He opened car doors for women, and held them, and he called his mother every Sunday at five. The only thing wrong with Gil Knowlton was his wife. Petite, with dark eyes, and skin the color of rich mocha, Abbie Knowlton was the light of Gil’s life. She was an accomplished tennis player, a decent runner, but she was at her best when practicing law. They’d been married for seven years, but had dated for twelve, and neither was suffering any kind of restless itch.
It was sweet, I suppose, though sometimes sappy-sweet. Or maybe I was just closet-resentful. My own relationships—or lack thereof—could be summed up in the precinct’s morning briefing. At times, I suppose I wouldn’t mind a little sappiness of my own. Danny’s father had left me two years earlier, and I hadn’t met anyone worth writing home about since. I’d been out on dates; I wasn’t a hermit, but none had gone particularly well, and to be honest, I wasn’t eager for more. There was one on which I had launched an escape, faking an emergency call to Gil, and another on which my date had faked a call to escape me. I wasn’t good company lately, and I knew it. I just wasn’t ready for the pressures of dating. I didn’t feel like dressing up or eating small salads. The notion of leading a conversation was exhausting to me. And it was tough out there; dating required thought and effort. For a cop, it was difficult to make new friends, even more difficult to make romantic attachments.
I tore at a piece of hanging cuticle with my teeth. It had been a long time since anyone had thrilled me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been excited, or impassioned, or even just curious. I couldn’t recall the last man who had put a spring in my step, or the last time I’d engaged in titillating conversation.
Though dating was a pastime I didn’t have time for, there were certain things I missed: the strength of a man’s arms, the firmness of his chest, the warmth of his body. Since my divorce, all the old wounds had finally healed. Time had smoothed all my jagged little edges, and all that remained were thick scars. I’d been through the usual range of emotions, the sadness that choked me and swallowed me whole, the guilt, the anger, the fiery hot rage. I wasn’t proud of my behavior back then. It wasn’t my finest moment—as a woman or a mother. I’d been a bitch. I’d been jealous. I’d acted like a fool, and none of it had been particularly healthy for Danny—or for me. But that was one of life’s nasty little lessons: life ebbed and flowed. Time, I’d learned, really heals the worst wounds. Anger eventually fizzles and fades, and when the embers finally cool, one accepts what is. I’d reached that stage. I’d accepted what is, and Danny and I finally found happiness again. We were in a good place; I couldn’t ask for anything more. Things had leveled out; we’d weathered the toughest storms, together. The pain we’d felt when Scott walked out had faded, and the comforts of routine had taken its place.
Routine, for children, was healthy and normal, and Danny and I finally found a rhythm that worked. I was there for him, whenever he needed me to be. It was something I committed to after the divorce. I’d rededicated myself to the important things in life, to the small choices that add up to real connections, like making it home for dinner by six, fitting pre-school events between crime scenes and interrogations, and soccer practices between stakeouts. Whenever we could, we enjoyed breakfasts together: omelets and chocolate milk, beneath the skylight in our eighties-style kitchen, and candlelight dinners in front of the T.V., and when work got in the way, my sister, Linda, warmed my chair.
It was important that Danny feel supported in life. To properly heal, he needed stability and balance, things I was well equipped—and happy—to provide. He missed his father terribly, of course, but that was okay. We got through it. I did everything humanly possible to make things better.
And it wasn’t as if Scott had vanished from our lives. Traces of his existence could be found everywhere. He still picked up Danny from school on alternating Fridays, buckled him into his fancy new Mercedes, and sped him to his fancy new condo, in Tampa. They still fished together from his fancy new boat, and spent weekends at the beach with his fancy new wife.
I frowned. In a few short months, Scott had become “Fun Dad”, a mask he’d willingly donned. He proudly offered vacations and weekends, and served chocolate-mint ice cream and cake for dinner. “Fun Dad” was a groundhog who emerged for spring breaks, and birthdays, and every other Christmas and Thanksgiving. He passed out shiny new bikes and video games. And at first, it bothered the hell out of me. As childish as it sounds, I was resentful of their time together. At times I’d wondered if Danny loved “Fun Dad” more than he loved me. Why wouldn’t he, I’d asked myself critically? It only made sense. And if Scott was “Fun Dad”, who the hell had I become?
I breathed out a long a sigh. Unfortunately, that one was easy. If Scott was “Fun Dad”, I had become “Humdrum Mom”. “Humdrum Mom”, who offered dentist appointments and homework, Monday mornings at the butt-crack of dawn. “Humdrum Mom” served broccoli for dinner, set limits to time spent playing video games. But “Humdrum Mom” also kissed boo-boos. She made the hard times easier. She gave the best advice.
I smiled. I’d made peace with being “Humdrum Mom”. Scott could have all the weekend sails his heart desired, all the theme parks, fishing trips, and boardwalk fairs, all the late-night pizza parties in fancy hotel rooms. I would be happy with what was left over: the pep talks, the bad dreams, and all the cuddly nighttime stories. My relationship wit
h my son was real and deep, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. It was easy to show up for the good times, I reminded myself, but true connections were forged when people overcame adversity and heart-break together, when they rose above their current misfortunes to create a better life for themselves. It was something Scott would never understand.
I was proud of myself. I’d matured. I’d grown. And it had taken me a long time to find this kind of peace. I’d moved past the gut-wrenching abandonment, stopped blaming myself for the shit I couldn’t control, for thinking my thighs were too fat, or too wide, that my hair was too short, or my jaw too square. It had been easy to tear myself apart—and all the more fun to do it piece by bloody piece. Like a surgeon, I had dissected myself, sliced large sections, and held them to the light. I had judged myself more harshly back then, and concluded that I was simply unworthy of love. All of my insecurities had been tied to Scott’s rejection, but I was done with that now. I was tired of playing the victim. I had held that mirror to my face for long enough. It was a warped piece of glass shaped by someone else’s hands, a reflection that wasn’t a true likeness of me.
Unworthy of love? What a bunch of horseshit. I nearly laughed aloud in the bitter-cold car. I peered out the window, at hulking shadows passing by, in a blur. Those confidence issues were behind me now, and I had to admit; I was happy with the way things had fallen into place. Reaching for the Explorer’s visor, I pulled it down and studied my face. I was only thirty-seven years old, still young. Time hadn’t yet etched lines across my face. Neither had the job, for that matter; I was lucky. But neither was I considered a spring chicken anymore. There were faint wrinkles around my eyes, and if I pursed my lips, the skin puckered and folded, but my complexion was smooth, and my eyes were still bright. I was attractive, in decent shape, and open to new and exciting things. I’d recently sprouted a few gray hairs, but I thought they had given me character.
I hadn’t met anyone in a very long time, but I wasn’t yet ready to pin the blame on myself. I just hadn’t met a man who could understand the stresses of my job, or who was willing take on an insta-family, with a built-in wife, kid, and messed-up sister. Screw Scott, his libido, and his jumbo-sized ego. I’d meet someone new, someone better. And if I didn’t, I still had Danny. I could be selective if I wanted to be—for Danny’s sake. I would never settle for less than I was worth.
Or was I just kidding myself, I thought suddenly. Did a man exist who could handle my neurosis? There were certain obsessions I was still dealing with, things that had happened to me that I hadn’t overcome.
Pushing aside the dark thoughts, I pulled my hair into a low ponytail. Relationships, I told myself, were overrated. When I was married to Scott, how many times had I wished I wasn’t? How often had I prayed for an easy way out, for a clean break, a chance to start a new life? Being single didn’t bother me. Actually, I’d come to treasure it. I’d always been good at taking care of myself.
With a final glance at my puffy eyes, I snapped the visor closed, and squinted through the dark. I could see flashing lights in the distance, over the hill. We’d arrived at the scene, but so had many others, too. Emergency vehicles were parked out front, and several police cars were staged around the ranch-style house. It struck me that the scene wasn’t typical for this area. This was a quiet street in Bradenton, a family-oriented town. Kids road bikes in its suburban streets, and manned lemonade stands on its curbs. Neighbors still conducted yard sales and block parties.
Pulling his SUV alongside other cars, Gil pressed his badge to the window.
“Two hours,” I murmured, to no one in particular. “Two hours is all we have. We have to be in and out in less than two hours.”
Gil peered at the blood-smeared driveway. “Two hours my ass, Ness. Hope Danny sleeps in.”
Chapter 5
The house was in shambles. This woman had clearly put up a fight. The glass coffee table was in pieces across the floor. Lamps and figurines had been sent tumbling from their shelves. A stuffed bear, its ear drenched in blood, was propped up in the corner of the room. The scene sent shivers up my spine.
I spun in a circle and walked toward the door. It was important to start at the beginning. The door was ajar, but the lock was untouched. Inspecting the handle, I toggled the dead bolt. The entry hadn’t been forced, which meant she had probably known her attacker. The door was a yawning mouth, screaming silently into the night. I walked through it, sidestepping a puddle of blood, and followed a trail of smaller droplets down the entryway steps. I followed the macabre trail of breadcrumbs down a winding walkway, and the farther I followed it, the fatter and denser the droplets became. This woman, bleeding heavily, had been running for her life, but evidently, hadn’t made it very far. I paused beside a particularly long streak. She had fallen, but obviously pulled herself up, then continued moving, while dragging a lame foot. The whole damn mess ended in a black puddle in the driveway, which was congealing beneath a crescent moon. The puddle itself was large, obscene. It was hard to imagine someone surviving such an injury.
“Vanessa, over here!”
I followed the sound of Gil’s voice. When we’d arrived, he’d headed straight for the victim. He always did that. Like I said, he was chivalrous. I, on the other hand, liked to take my time. I liked to take in the particulars of the crime. People—for good or for bad—tended to make first impressions. And crime scenes, I’d learned, were no different. Crime scenes had voices and a cast of characters. I preferred to let them speak for themselves. Every item sang a different song, every overturned chair, every strand of hair; every droplet of blood whispered a part of the larger tale.
People spun things. Forensics always told the truth.
Raising my flashlight, I followed the path of blood. Besides the obvious puddle in the middle of the driveway, a trail of it led to the far side of the house, from the pavement to the well-tended lawn. It was strangely out of place beside a row of carefully cultivated shrubs.
I let the path of carnage be my guide, and it took me to a pair of humming AC units, ill concealed by overgrown rhododendron. Gil, mouth stern, hands fisted at his sides, was peering down at something. My stomach clenched. I couldn’t see much past the busy paramedics, but the puddle in the driveway had give most of the story—not to mention the bloody tire tracks, in a parallel pair down the street.
A team of medics was crouched in the alcove of the woman’s basement window. It was a low crawlspace, and when I approached it, Gil lifted his head.
“It’s bad,” he warned, nodding to the ditch, to the puddle of a person lying crumpled at the bottom.
I stepped up to the lip of the gully, lowered my gaze, and drew in a breath. She was in bad shape, though amazingly still alive. Her injuries were one thing, that she’d survived them, another.
“Gil, what the hell?” I breathed. “What…How…” Fumbling for words, I didn’t know what to say. “What’s her name?” I asked softly.
“Dorothy. Dorothy Foust. Neighbor heard her screaming from his house.” He raised his arm and peered at his watch.
“Neighbor heard her,” I repeated, dumbfounded.
Steeling myself, I inspected the woman’s injuries: the misshapen collarbone, the twisted right arm, the broken wrist, the crushed left foot. This woman was a shattered bowl, a pile of unnatural angles and humps. The lower half of her body was bent, the right knee popped and turned at the socket. The damage was extraordinary; an appalling set of injuries, but it was the tread that ran the length of her body—from her pelvis to her chest and then over one shoulder—that stirred me to nausea. It was an actual tread, made by an actual tire, and a big one at that, from a truck or a van, something the size of a Wrangler or Ford, something with a deep tread that had left a perfect impression on her shirt.
I screwed my eyes shut. It was inhumane, demonic. I was having difficultly finding the right words to say. “Someone ran her over with a truck?”
“Yes,” Gil said, “after putting two roun
ds in her thigh and spine first.”
“Casings?”
Gil shook his head. “Nope. And from the looks of those wounds, he used a standard 9mm. Must’ve taken the casings when he left.”
“He?” I lifted a brow. “What makes you think it was a man?”
Gil met my gaze. “Because she told me it was: name, description, everything. I’ve already sent units to his house to pick him up. Vanessa, Dorothy’s awake. She’s conscious. Ask her for yourself.”
I felt my pulse beginning to race. Conscious at the scene? In my line of work, that was a rare opportunity, a chance to get information before too much time had passed. If we had time to act, we could actually make a difference. We could put out an APB, set up roadblocks, stop him at the county or state line. We could actually close this thing, instead of adding it to our ever-growing list of cold cases.
I peered down at the battered woman. Her face was serene, like she was sleeping or dreaming. If God was kind, she’d lost consciousness again. Lowering to a crouch, I shimmied partway into the pit. Paramedics had wrapped the bullet wound on her thigh, and had slit her pants from the cuff to the waistband. They were doing their best to control the bleeding. Careful to avoid touching her, I leaned closer to her face. I could feel her feathery breath on my cheek.
“Dorothy, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes and speak?”
Eyelids fluttered and opened. A tear leaked from the corner of one bloodshot eye. “I can’t feel my legs,” she whispered, her lips barely moving. “I think I’m paralyzed. Why did this happen to me? I don’t understand. Why the hell did he do this to me?”
“He, Dorothy? He—as in—who? Who did this to you?”
She grimaced, as if the question physically caused her pain. “So stupid,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “I hadn’t seen him in over three years. He was just some guy I went to high school with.” She swallowed thickly, and I scanned the surroundings for a fresh bottle of water. “A few years ago, he came into the bank,” she went on. “I work at First Federal Bank in Bradenton. He asked me on a date, but I had to say no. I’d just been through a bad breakup.”
