by Jill Orr
Dr. Wilson was an old friend of the family and had been my gynecologist since my mother first took me to see her at the age of seventeen. She was a lovely woman, but I always felt a little weird when I saw her in social situations. Probably because most of our conversations took place with my feet in stirrups.
A second later Ryan flew into the room. “How is she?” He seemed to be addressing Dr. Wilson, but before waiting for an answer, he looked at Ridley. “How are you?” Then his face swiveled back to Dr. Wilson. “Is the baby okay?” Then back to Ridley. “What do you need? What I can do?” He was panting and his cheeks had taken on the muddy red color they used to get in summertime when we’d go rollerblading through the park.
Dr. Wilson put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Just relax, she’s fine. Everything is fine. Baby looks good, a little early, but that’s not abnormal. We’re going to continue to monitor his or her heart rate as Mom progresses, but there’s no reason for concern.”
Ryan ran a hand though his hair and exhaled loudly, and only then did he look my direction. “Thanks for getting her here so fast, Riles.”
Ridley, still meditating or whatever, barely acknowledged Ryan when he came in. She was deep in the throws of concentration, like a warrior. It was actually super impressive and made me think that maybe I should learn to meditate.
Dr. Wilson turned to Ryan and me and said, “I’m going to need to check her, so if you guys could give us some privacy . . .”
We stepped into the hallway. Ryan was still breathless from his run to the room, and I could see he was sweating a little, though I suspected that was more from nerves than anything else. He leaned against the wall and looked like he might collapse under the stress of the moment.
“They’re going to be fine,” I said. “Dr. Wilson says everything is okay.”
He turned to me and I knew in that moment that his fears had nothing to do with Ridley or the baby. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about them, but I could see the worry on his face was of a more personal sort. He was afraid he wasn’t up to this challenge. Ryan was rarely a victim of self-doubt; it was one of the things that had drawn me to him all those years ago. But standing in that hallway on the precipice of becoming someone’s father, I could see that insecurity consumed him.
Without any words of wisdom to offer, I did the only thing I could think to do: I pulled him into a hug. The ferocity with which he hugged me back surprised me, and I held him tight in return. He buried his face in my hair and clung to me like a baby koala.
“Hey, it’s gonna be okay,” I said, allowing him his moment of self-absorbed fear.
“What if it’s not?” he said, pulling back. “What if I can’t do this?”
“Ryan,” I said. Moment over. “Stop it. You are about to become a father, but that woman in there,” I pointed toward the room, “is about to give birth. I’m sorry—but who cares about you right now? Take a deep breath, splash some water on your face, and get it together. You need to be there for her right now. Got it? This isn’t about just you anymore.”
He looked surprised at first, and then a second later, he nodded. “You’re right. How do you always know exactly the right thing to say to me?”
“Because it’s almost always ‘Get over yourself.’” I smiled at him.
When we were together, that had been our dynamic. He was the crazy one always flying off into the stratosphere and I was the levelheaded one who brought him back to earth. It had been nearly a year since we’d been together, but we fell back into the old pattern instantly. It worried me how comfortable it felt.
“Ryan,” Dr. Wilson popped her head into the hallway. “She’s asking for you.”
He looked back at me. “Wish me luck . . .” And then he walked into the room and closed the door behind him. This was a big moment for him—for them—and I was proud of him for showing up despite his fears. Not that I had any doubt that he would.
My feelings for Ryan spanned every color in the rainbow, and odd as it was, my feelings for Ridley were fairly complicated as well. But in that moment, I was genuinely excited for them both. They were about to bring another life into this world. The enormity of that swept over me and it seemed impossible that this sort of thing had happened every minute of every day since the beginning of time. It was one of those moments, like standing under the stars on a clear night, when the weight of your insignificance folds around you, in equal parts comforting and depressing.
I walked toward the elevators and saw Mr. and Mrs. Sanford checking in at the nurses station. I didn’t want them to see me. I didn’t belong here, and seeing me would be awkward for us all, so I found the nearest exit marked STAIRS and pushed it open.
The maternity ward was on the third floor, and it didn’t take long for me to get down to the main level. It was close to midnight and the hospital lobby was nearly empty. All the shops and offices were closed and locked. I walked quickly out of the building, thinking it was a wonder more horror movies weren’t set in hospitals after hours.
It was a dark night, and as I walked toward the parking lot the corner of my eye caught an orange dot glowing out of the blackness. A cigarette.
“Riley?” It was Jack, or John, or whatever the hell his name was. He was standing half in shadows but I recognized his voice and his large, hulking silhouette.
A ripple of nerves went through me. There was no point in pretending he was just a kindly custodian anymore. “Hey,” I said, purposely not using his name (after all, which one would I use?).
“Listen,” he said and let the cigarette fall to the ground. He stomped it out while releasing a cloud of gray smoke into the night air. “I think you and I need to talk.”
“I agree,” I said, now hyperaware that I was alone in a dark parking lot with a man I didn’t know. “But it’s late. Maybe we could talk tomorrow?”
Jack took a half step forward, and something in his hand glinted in the dim light of the moon. It was a gun. “I think we better talk now.”
Instinct took over and I turned to run back toward the hospital. Jack didn’t move to follow me, but I heard the click of the safety being released. And then in a voice as sweet as cherry pie, he said, “I don’t want to shoot you in the back, honey, but I will.”
CHAPTER 47
Jack forced me at gunpoint to drive to my house, unlock the door, and put Coltrane outside in the fenced yard. He took one of my kitchen table chairs and set it in the middle of my living room and told me to sit. He then tied my hands and ankles to the chair with zip ties he had in his jacket pocket. He had come prepared.
He sat down on the couch opposite and let out an exasperated sigh. “Riley, Riley, Riley . . . what am I going to do with you?”
“If you’re taking suggestions, ‘let me go’ gets my vote.”
Jack laughed. “You’re gutsy, I’ll give you that.”
He was a big man, maybe six-foot-three or -four, and had a beer gut that hung over the top of the waistband of his jeans. Our conversations had always been short in the hospital, and I don’t think I’d ever really looked at him until that moment. He had a long face that looked weathered from years spent in the sun. His eyes were small and light blue, so light that they seemed almost colorless, like a goat’s. I knew now that he was the same age as Bennett Nichols, but Jack definitely looked older.
And then it hit me like a flash of lightning: Jack was the third man I’d seen in the picture with Bennett and Brandon, the one where they were fishing. They were all friends—good enough friends that they’d been on a fishing trip together at some point. This raised so many questions, chief among them, Had the others been involved in killing Arthur, or had that been Jack alone?
“You’re friends with Brandon Laytner and Bennett Nichols,” I stated more than asked.
“Yeah. Been friends almost all our lives.” His eyes snapped up to mine, a challenge set there that I couldn’t identify.
“Did they help you kill Arthur, or did you do that all on your own?” It was a risk to
be so combative, but I wanted to get him talking. The more time he spent talking, the less time he spent shooting me.
Jack laughed again; this time the laugh turned into a wheezy cough after a few seconds. “What—you think we’re going to have one of those chats like in Scooby-Doo where I tell you the whole story of what I did and why?” He leaned forward and narrowed those goat eyes at me. There was not one ounce of pity in them, and that was the first moment I felt actual fear. “Nun-uh. What’s gonna happen is I’m going to sit here and think about what to do with you, then I’m going to do it. I’ve come too far to get busted now.”
Terror stole my voice. I stared back at him silently.
He shook his head. “I tried to warn you. You shoulda left it alone. Bennett was the same way. He kept asking questions—I don’t know why he cared so much, he hated Arthur almost as much as I did. If he had kept his mouth shut, he might still be here, the dumb bastard.”
“You killed Bennett?” I gasped, honestly surprised.
“It wasn’t like I wanted to or anything.” He rolled his eyes. “Benny acted so high and mighty when I told him what I’d done—even though I think he knew all along. Laytner, too. They knew I had no choice—hell, I did it as much for them as for me. But that’s how they are, they act like they’re above all the dirty work yet they’re always glad I’m there to do it.”
I sensed discord. “But not this time?”
He let out a snort. “Bennett acted all shocked and like I’d done something wrong even after all that man had done to him. Pathetic. Laytner wasn’t as bad, but he got nervous when you found out about the farm.”
“So you’re an investor in Invigor8?”
“Investor, yeah, I like that.” He puffed up like a rooster. “I let Brandon use my land in exchange for a share in the company. See, I’ve encountered some challenges in the professional realm of employment, which is why I’m working as a lackey down at Tuttle Gen. All that’s gonna change when Invigor8 hits it big with this new drug. Then we’re all going to be rich.”
“So when Arthur withdrew his support from the drug trials, he threatened that,” I said as another piece of the puzzle locked into place. “It was you arguing with Arthur Davenport on the street that day, wasn’t it?”
It hadn’t even occurred to me before, but Jack Krisanski fit the description of the person Susan Pettis said she saw. He was definitely big and although he was not entirely bald—a thin halo of fine hair still stretched around the back of his head—from a distance he would have looked bald. I checked his forearm and sure enough, there was a large tattoo of a wolf baying at the moon.
Jack stood up suddenly and I flinched.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t decided what to do with you yet.” He looked amused by my fear. “You hang tight, I’m going to use the facilities and have a think on what to do here.”
He walked out of the living room and into my bedroom. I heard him close the door to the master bathroom and pictured him in there among my toiletries and hair products and it made me shiver. I wanted this man out of my house. Or I wanted to be out of this house. I wasn’t picky at that moment, and would have taken either.
I struggled against the restraints, but only managed to cut the skin around my wrists. Jack had tied an ankle to each of the front legs of the chair so there was no way I could get up enough momentum to hop the chair toward the door. He had taken my cell phone and I no longer had a landline, so even if I could somehow manage to get this chair to move I wouldn’t be able to call 911.
From the bathroom, I could hear Jack whistling. A slow rage started to burn inside me. I don’t know why that was the tipping point—because arguably kidnapping me at gunpoint and zip-tying me to a chair was way worse—but to hear this man whistling like he was just out for a summer stroll sent me over the edge. Since the only weapon I had at my disposal was my voice, I started screaming. And I mean really screaming.
“JOHN KRISANSKI IS GOING TO KILL ME!”
“CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?”
“HELP MEEEEEE!”
And then I let loose a chorus of shrieks and wails that would definitely be heard if anyone were outside. Given that it was the middle of the night and most of my neighbors were the early-to-bed/early-to-rise sorts, I wasn’t holding out much hope, but it was better than sitting there doing nothing. At least Coltrane heard me, and he started barking like crazy from the backyard.
A few seconds later, Jack came running out of the bathroom, pants around his ankles. “Shut up!” He pointed the gun directly at me.
“HE KILLED ARTHUR DAVENPORT!”
“Shut. UP.” He stepped closer to me, gun extended, the distance between me and the barrel less than ten feet.
I didn’t care. If he was going to kill me, he might as well get it over with. I wasn’t about to sit around and wait for him to do it on his terms where he could cover his tracks. If he shot me right here in my living room, there was a good chance he’d leave some DNA evidence behind. I figured at least if I was going to get murdered, the sonofabitch who did it was sure as hell going to get caught.
“SOMEBODY, PLEASE!!!”
“I won’t warn you again—”
“HELLLLLLLPPPP!”
And then three things happened at almost exactly the same moment: I saw a flash of red light, I heard a deafening blast, and I felt a searing pain rip through me.
CHAPTER 48
When I came to, I was lying on the floor of my house. A savage pain burned in my leg and I didn’t have to look down to know I’d been shot. My eyes felt heavy and I had to fight to open them. I saw feet, big feet, attached to legs wearing khaki pants. Had Jack been wearing khakis? I couldn’t remember. All I could remember was the burst of light and the crack of the gun. Everything faded to black again.
Moments later (or was it hours?) I heard voices, more than one person, all men. I tried to listen to what they were saying, but my mind was having rolling blackouts. The power would come on for moments at a time and then switch off without warning. I don’t know how long I lay on the floor. When I opened my eyes the next time, there were more feet. Four of them, all furry. Coltrane. Seconds later I felt his wet tongue licking the side of my face and heard his soft whines.
“Will someone get rid of that dog?”
I tried to say, “No,” but what came out was more like, “Nuuuurb.”
“She’s waking up.” Another voice. Who were all these people?
“C’mon,” the same disembodied voice said. “Let’s get him out of here.”
The pain in my leg was making it hard for me to keep a focused thought. My eyesight was blurry and I thought I smelled smoke. Was there a fire? I marshaled all the energy I could and tried to turn my head to see who was in my house. I used what little strength I had in my upper back to turn around to get a better view. From my limited vantage point, I could make out three people. They must have noticed my movement, because soon after they all three spoke at once.
“I think she’s coming to.”
“Is the ambulance here yet?”
“Did anyone happen to see a small box of bear claws?”
CHAPTER 49
The next conscious moment I had was in the hospital. I woke up to the intermittent beeps and buzzes and anonymous sounds of medical machinery. I rolled my head to the side and saw a person-shaped blob sitting in a chair next to my bed. I blinked a few times to clear the fluid from my eyes. The blob was Holman. And he was watching me like a person watches a setting sun, afraid to look away in case of missing something.
“Are you really awake this time?”
“Mmm?”
“You’ve had a few false starts. You open your eyes for a second or two and then you fall back asleep.”
“I think I’m awake now,” I said. My throat felt dry, thick.
“You got shot.”
I knew that much, but hearing Holman say it out loud was surreal. I looked at him, my eyes asking the questions my brain couldn’t quite formulate.
“In t
he leg. The bullet grazed the inner part of your calf, sparing the bone, but it still caused a significant amount of blood loss. That’s why you feel so weak. But the doctor says you should make a full recovery.”
I nodded like this was everyday information. Shot in the leg. Lost a lot of blood. Full recovery. I thought of my parents. Had anyone told them what happened? They’d be worried sick. “Mom and Dad . . .”
“They just stepped out for coffee,” Holman said. “They’ll be back soon.”
I closed my eyes and an image of Jack’s face swam beneath my eyelids. Had he been aiming for my leg? Or had he missed? Where was he now? How had I gotten here? I had a million questions, but the energy to ask only one. “What happened?”
“I pretty much saved your life.”
My blank stare told him I was going to need more to go on.
“Well, technically, you saved your own life by screaming. But I helped.”
My brain was processing things so slowly. I struggled to reconcile what he was saying with my last memories before waking up in the hospital. I didn’t remember Holman being at my house . . .
“Actually,” he continued, oblivious to my confusion, “if we are going to give credit to someone or something, we should really give it to the bear claws. As soon as I got home, I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I immediately regretted my decision to give them to you. I know you promised not to eat them, but I kept worrying that Coltrane would jump up onto the counter and get them. Even though they were in a box tied with ribbon, I thought it was a possibility. I’ve seen videos on YouTube of dogs unwrapping Hershey’s bars—”
“Holman.”
“What?”
I lifted my arm, which felt like it weighed about seventy-five pounds, and rolled my wrist a couple of times.
“Oh, right. So anyway, I decided to ride my hog over to your place to pick them up, and when I got to your driveway, I heard Coltrane barking his head off and your voice yelling something from inside the house. I looked in through your sidelight window and saw you tied to a chair, screaming bloody murder. I called 911, then I ran back to the Hobbit to get a weapon, but all I had was a flare. As I told you the Hobbit does not have a lot of storage, of course I always make room for a flare because you never know when your hog is going to break down when you’re out riding, you know?”
