by A. J. Norris
Finally the window opened enough for him to crawl inside. A table sat beneath the window and he knocked several mason jars onto the floor. His boots crunched the glass when he put his feet down. He scanned the room, making sure there were no signs of recent activity. Knotty pine covered the walls and kitchen cabinets. Further into the cabin’s main room, he turned around and inspected the loft above the kitchen. He climbed the steep stairs. Two bare mattress twin beds had been pushed to either wall under the slanted ceiling. A trunk sat at the foot of one of the beds. He opened it. There was nothing except a few old wooden toys in it—a car with working wheels attached to a string and assorted Lincoln Logs in a plastic bag. For the briefest of moments, the killer flashed back to his childhood and his old man chucking his Lincoln Logs into the trash while he cried. After slamming the lid shut on the memory, he went back downstairs.
A small bedroom and bathroom with a stand-up shower took up the other side of the house. The glass-fronted gun cabinet stood between the rooms, a hunting scene etched on the front. He frowned in puzzlement from the lack of security. Under the rifles were two drawers he hoped stored the ammunition rounds. Guns weren’t his usual choice of weapon, but out here in the middle of nowhere, one needed protection from the wildlife.
He shattered the glass with a heavy molded metal ashtray he took from the coffee table and scraped the shards into the wall. Of the two, the killer selected the one on the right. He yanked open the drawers and found a box of rounds in the bottom one. He opened the chamber and inserted the shells, then cocked the gun and one slid into the chamber.
Inside the bathroom, he set the shotgun down, leaning it against the wall in the corner. He flushed the toilet and watched the green antifreeze swirl around and drain. He held his breath waiting for the tank to fill back up. It didn’t. Fuck! He punched the knotty pine wall then remembered passing a well with a square steel lid by the overgrown driveway. Fortunately, he’d been raised on a large property with a well and knew how to prime a pump.
He returned to the bathroom thirty minutes later. The sink faucet sputtered a few times before a steady stream flowed. The killer cranked on the shower and stripped out of his clothes. He stepped in and the water ran over the tattoos on his muscled back and down his body. Across his shoulders and dipping toward his ass was a cobra slithering out the jaws of a skull. He rarely showed the ink to anyone and couldn’t remember the last time. It was a part of his inescapable past that he couldn’t forget. The design had been a show of loyalty toward his former employers. The band of illegal firearms dealers had been broken apart by arrests and sting operations led by undercover ATF agents. The killer hadn’t been in the weapons side of things; he was the go-to guy for clean-up when deals got messy and someone wound up dead or needed to get dead. He’d thought nothing of setting ablaze entire buildings to cover up a killing. He been suspected and questioned for his crimes plenty of times. However, the law enforcement boys never had enough evidence to get an indictment. He was more than a murderer for hire though, he enjoyed what he did. But those days were over. He’d been trying to go straight for years. Except now his taste for blood had resurfaced with a vengeance, and wouldn’t let go.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Harry
Natalie nudged Harry and he grumbled. “Tired…sleeping.”
“Your phone’s ringing.”
“Wha…not home.”
“Harry, answer your phone.” Natalie laughed quietly. “Seriously?”
He flipped onto his back in bed. “What?” he yawned. “I’m tired.” His phone vibrated off the night stand. Damn, he had zero interest in whoever or whatever was calling. Harry left the cell on the floor and glanced at the glowing blue digits on the clock. 12:14 AM.
“Better see who it is,” Natalie said.
Should he? Yeah. But that didn’t mean he wanted to. He groaned while leaning down to get his phone. The voice mail signal chirped and he looked at the missed call number. It was a number from down at the station. He listened to the voice mail. Rudy’s low voice rumbled through the speaker.
“Harry, I think you may want this one. A woman was struck by a pick-up in the Lodge’s parking lot…someone beat her pretty badly beforehand.”
Harry sat up in the bed and listened more closely.
“She wasn’t wearing any shoes. The woman’s out of it, couldn’t talk, but someone at the bar recognized her.”
Harry’s chest tightened. He glanced over at Natalie’s concerned face.
“What is it?” she asked, turning on her bedside lamp.
“Woman was taken to the hospital, beat to shit and hit by a car.”
“You going in?”
Harry moaned and laid back again. He stayed in bed, scrubbing his face with his hands. The last thing he wanted was to be heading to the hospital in the middle of the night, except he had a nagging feeling the girl had just escaped a worse fate than getting hit by a car. “Fuck…yeah, I gotta go.”
Natalie nodded and set her lips into a thin line. He rose from the bed and put on the clothes he’d left on the chair in the corner of her bedroom. His shoulders tensed the more he thought about the woman. Clearly, she’d been attacked. It could be some sort of domestic thing, but there weren’t many houses nearby. In fact, the closest home was two miles away from the Lodge. And she was barefoot. Damn, he hated his job sometimes. He went to Natalie’s side of the bed, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. She rolled onto her side away from him. “Sorry…I wouldn’t go if it weren’t import—”
“I know,” she said. “It’s always important.”
“Nat, I…” Christ, maybe this could wait after all. The bad thing about being in a smaller community was he was the only detective. And when duty called, he felt an obligation to show up at least. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
“Fine.”
“Hey.” He placed a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s fine. You have to go, right?” She stayed on her side.
Without saying anything else, he turned off her lamp and left the room. When he started the engine of his Buick, he cursed under his breath. What he needed was a partner he could take turns on call with. The department had the funds and he used to have one several years ago. Maybe he’d ask for one. Rudy would make a great detective. Although more than once, he’d indicated he wasn’t interested in the added stress.
Harry arrived at the hospital fifteen minutes later. Ellison waited at the ER doors for him. “What do we got?” he asked the uniformed cop.
“Woman’s name is Sarah Donaldson.” Ellison took out a field notebook and rattled off more details. “Guy named Zeke backed into her pulling out of a parking space. Didn’t see her…came out of nowhere.”
“Did she come out of the woods?” Harry asked, not expecting there to be an answer.
“Don’t know, that’s what Zeke thinks.”
They walked toward the triage desk. “He the one that ID’d her?”
“Yes.”
“He still here?” Just then, Harry caught sight of the lumberjack guy he’d talked to behind the Lodge about the snowshoes.
Tell me that’s not Zeke.
The large man in the red flannel lurched toward them.
“Detective Hunter.” He nodded once. His voice reminded Harry of a double bass, playing only the lowest notes.
Harry looked way up to the towering man’s face. “Zeke, is it?” He didn’t wait for the guy’s answer. “How do you know Sarah? I was told you recognized her.”
“Uh huh. We used to see each other.”
“You know anyone that might want to hurt her? You maybe?”
“Don’t have any reason to hurt her.” He crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. “She’s a good girl.”
“But you hit her with your car.”
“It was an accident. I was already backing out when she ran up behind me.”
Harry believed that. The lighting at the Lodge wasn’t the greatest. An accident sounded plausible.
“When was the last time you saw her, besides earlier tonight?”
“A few months ago.”
“New boyfriend?”
“I’ve seen her hanging around some new guy, haven’t paid much attention to him.”
Harry pulled out a business card and gave it to Zeke. “Call me if you hear anything.” The large man strode away after pocketing the card.
* * *
Harry walked through the doors leading to the ER. A nurse’s station sat in the middle. Several nurses were on the phone behind the desk and a doctor stood at the counter jotting notes in a medical chart. He recognized the doctor from when Mikey had been brought in after Lance had stabbed him. “Can you point me to Sarah Donaldson?”
The doctor smiled. “Sure, she’s in bay three, but I’m waiting for CT to come and take her for pictures of her—”
“Is she conscious?”
“Yes. Not sure how much help she’ll be though,” the doctor said.
“Then I’ll be quick,” Harry said, striding away. He pulled back the hanging drape partition. Sarah’s left eye was swollen shut and she had several abrasions on her chin, cheeks, and forehead. He stepped closer and saw some stitches at her hairline. Only a sliver of her irises showed beneath her heavy lids. “Sarah Donaldson, I’m Detective Hunter, got a few questions for you.”
She closed her eyes. The woman adjusted her position on the bed, wincing. With a groggy soft voice, she said, “Okay.”
“Tell me what happened to you tonight…”
“Don’t…remem, remember much,” she breathed.
Harry sighed, although not in annoyance. He braced himself for an explanation about why her boyfriend had beat her, and why he shouldn’t be arrested. And why it was her fault.
“That’s all right. Tell me what you can remember.”
“My boyfriend…”
Harry inhaled deeply. Here we go.
“…he was supposed to meet me.” Tears streaked down her face. “Didn’t show.” She put her hand up to her forehead. “Things get fuzzy after that.”
“Where was he supposed to meet you?”
“Wallflowers.” More tears streaked her face.
He expected to her stay silent, yet she continued speaking.
“Someone talked to me, I only remember bits and pieces though. He hit on me and I remember wanting to get away from him. He was pushy, rude.”
“Can you describe him?”
She played with the tissue in her hand and shrugged. “Black gloves,” she croaked.
“Excuse me?” Harry brought his hand up like he was holding a cup of coffee. What was he doing? The coffee machine in the waiting room called to him.
“He wore gloves,” she clarified.
“Anything else you remember?”
“Yeah, lots of tattoos. On his arm.”
Great. Lots of people had tattoos, including his future son-in-law. “Of what, do you recall?”
Sarah shook her head.
“Do you remember his face at all?”
“Uh uh…no, sorry. My head hurts.” She put her face in her palms.
The drape slid over and a man appeared with another gurney. “Sarah Donaldson?” he read from an iPad. Cleary, the hospital had entered the twenty-first century with the fancy gadget. Damn, Harry was old. “Date of birth?”
Sarah mumbled some numbers.
The guy seemed satisfied with her response and helped transfer her to the rolling bed he’d brought with him. Harry didn’t bother handing her his card. Where would she put it anyway? “Sarah, before you go. Can you tell why you didn’t have any shoes on when you got to the Lodge?”
She looked nonplussed for a moment. “I wasn’t at the Lodge.”
“You were. That’s where Zeke’s truck backed into you.”
The woman squeezed her eyes shut. “I dunno, I don’t…remem—wait, I, I was running from something. A man. I can’t see his face.”
“We need to go,” the guy handling the gurney said. “Taking her to CT.”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Will she back here afterward?”
“You’ll have to ask the doctor that.” The guy released the brake on the wheels and pushed her out of the ER.
Harry spoke to the doctor, who was almost certain she’d be kept overnight. He handed a card to the doctor and walked out. Discerning much of anything from his conversation with Sarah seemed impossible. However, what he now knew was a man with tattoos and black gloves chased her into the Lodge’s parking lot, saw it was full of cars, and took off. The asshole was probably halfway to the Canadian border by now.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
Grace
Grace made herself comfortable in a mauve chair at Natalie’s doctor’s office. The TV directly across from her played a loop of medical tips. They weren’t meant as condescending, yet she found the simple first aid How-To-Do’s common sense. She rolled her eyes, took out her phone, and checked her email. There were no new messages.
Natalie tapped her feet on the floor with her hands underneath her thighs. She looked so youthful, like a teenager waiting for pregnancy results.
Grace rubbed the woman’s shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yep, just waiting my turn.”
A door leading into the back squeaked open and a nurse in maroon scrubs peeked her head around the jamb. “Natalie?”
Natalie jumped to her feet. She looked at Grace, pleading with her eyes.
“You want me to go back with you?”
“Please, I don’t think I can do this if you’re not there.”
As they trailed the nurse to one of the open exam rooms Grace asked, “How does your stomach feel today?”
“It’s a little better but all I’ve been able to eat are saltines,” Natalie answered.
The nurse weighed her and measured her height in the hallway.
“Well, I haven’t lost any weight,” she said, stepping off the scale.
“Are you surprised?”
“A little, I’ve hardly eaten anything in weeks.”
The nurse noted the measurements in Natalie’s chart then led them back to the exam room. She dropped her belongings on one of the chairs by the door and hopped onto the paper covered exam table. Grace sat in the other chair by the door.
After taking Natalie’s blood pressure and temperature, she asked a few questions. “What’s the reason for today’s visit?”
“I’ve been having some abdominal cramps and,” she rubbed the center of her chest, “bad heartburn or something.”
“When was your last menstruation?”
Natalie shrugged. “I’m irregular. So, a long time, it’s not that unusual for me.”
The nurse asked a series of family medical history questions. She handed Natalie a urine sample cup. “Is that your name on the label?”
“Yes. Do you want me to pee in this?”
The nurse smiled. “That’s the general idea. Down the hall on the left is a restroom. Leave the cup on the little table in there.”
Natalie took a deep breath and edged off the exam table, tearing the paper. The nurse left right after her.
Grace leaned out from her chair and read the sign hanging on the back of the door:
Did you know that 90% of the population has experienced a headache?
“No I didn’t know that.” Gawd. She read the rest of the poster, including the recommended treatment for, oh no, a headache and the copyright information and print date. Natalie opened the door, nearly clipping Grace’s nose.
“Oh, shoot! Did I get you?”
“No, I’m good.”
As soon as Natalie settled on the exam table, someone knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a response. The doctor walked in. Grace had expected a male doctor based on the name: Harley Bastin.
“Hi, Natalie, I hear you’re not feeling so well?” Dr. Bastin washed her hands then seated herself on a stool next to the counter. She had a small laptop and read her patient’s electronic chart.
“Let’s see, you weren’t here too long ago.”
“I know and I was feeling fine then…”
“Since then, you’ve been experiencing stomach cramps, is that right?”
“Heartburn,” Natalie mumbled.
“What was that?”
“Bad heartburn, bloating, nausea.”
Dr. Bastin smiled. “How severe would you say the cramping is? And show me where it’s the strongest. Is it all over?” She rubbed her own lower abdomen in a circle.
“Lower, like in my pelvic area. And it shifts.”
The doctor furrowed her brow. “Shifts how? Like from one side to the other?”
“Yeah, how did you…”
Dr. Bastin tapped out a note on her laptop. “Lay back for me, I’d like to palpate your belly.”
Natalie laid back on the table.
Dr. Bastin pressed on her lower belly, moving around and feeling with her fingers. Natalie winced and gasped. “Sorry, you can sit up now. Will you excuse me for a moment?”
“What’s wrong?” Natalie snapped.
“I need to check the results of your urine test.”
Natalie paled. “Oh God. What?” She sucked in a breath and held it.
“Relax, Natalie, I’ll be back in a minute.” The doctor left the room.
“Something’s wrong. She knows what it is and won’t tell me.”
Grace stood and gave Natalie a squeeze around the shoulders. “I’m sure there’s nothing to get worked up about.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure there is.” They stayed joined until another knock on the door. Grace sat back down in the chair.
“You’re very healthy, you know. Your yearly physical came out fine, but there was one thing I didn’t think to test for.”
