"There was a murder on the corner of Howard Street and Riversdale Road. It was a couple…they were Muslim. I happened to be driving by at the time that they were shot. I got out of my car to see what had happened when I heard the shots and this guy…his name was Dr. Meadows…Sam, I think—?"
"Sam Meadows?" Mr. Pattinson and the secretary seem to straighten. They exchange a look.
The secretary smooths her hair with one hand. "She didn't mention Dr. Meadows before," she mumbles.
"What?" I ask. "I'm not an unreliable flake who can't tell time and has a disturbing imagination just because I mentioned him?"
"Dr. Meadow's reputation precedes him," Mr. Pattinson says. "And it's not that Mrs. Dowell didn't believe you—"
"It's just that she thought I was crazy," I finish. The secretary glares at me, but I'm too tired to care about her opinion at this point. I'm also bewildered at how Dr. Meadows has such a good reputation that it would change both of these people's minds, but I'm not going to question it.
"Miss Ellery, we will call you tomorrow if there's another substitute slot open," Mr. Pattinson says.
"Oh, yeah, um…my cell phone was in my truck when it was towed away by the police. Can I give you my home number instead?"
"We don't have it on file?" Mr. Pattinson asks.
"No. I've kind of been moving around a lot lately and it's not really my house…it's my brother's house, but there's another family living there too…"
Mr. Pattinson smiles. "You're going to be a troublemaker, aren't you?"
I shrug. "My reputation precedes me, too."
~~~~~
Grace, 2010 (Four Years Ago)
"MOST PEOPLE THINK that slavery was the cause of the American Civil War, but it was only one of the issues. The ruling in Dred Scott versus Sanford, the power struggle between the federal government and states' rights, the accumulation of states after the Missouri Compromise, Abraham Lincoln's election, the secession of the South, and the attack on Fort Sumter were also important factors," I tell the class. "Can anyone tell me why Abraham Lincoln's election caused tension between the North and South?"
"Because he wore a stupid hat," Tom Rifter drawls.
"No," I say, trying to hide my annoyance. "Anybody else?"
I pick up a bag of chocolate bars from my desk.
"Whoever gives the correct answer gets a piece of chocolate." I stare at the class and they stare back at me. It's the third week of class and I still haven't gotten anyone to participate. I was prepared though. I was told repeatedly that Bishop High School, an at-risk youth education center, was full of difficult cases and students who only came to school to see their friends and get a free lunch.
The class continues to stare at me, barely moving except for two girls in the back who are whispering to each other. Slowly, one of the smaller kids in class—dark hair, dark eyes, skin so pale it seems to glow, and zero body fat or muscle—raises his hand. I smile.
"Yes, Francis?"
A few of the kids snigger at his name. He flushes.
"Um, w-well, L-Lincoln was a-against s-slavery. H-he told the S-south that he wouldn't a-abolish s-slavery, but the S-south—"
"Hurry it up, Francis," Tom snarls. "We don't have all day to hear your s-s-stuttering."
"Tom," I snap. "Go to the principal's office."
"What!" he shouts. "That's bullshit."
I fold my arms over my chest. He scowls, gathers his books, and slings his bag over his shoulder. As he passes by Francis, he purposely hits his elbow against Francis's head. After he walks out of the room, I turn back to Francis. His face is beet red.
"Please continue Francis," I say. "What about the South?"
"T-they didn't b-b-believe Lincoln," Francis finishes. I nod, walk by his desk, and slip him two chocolates.
"Good job," I whisper. I pat him on the shoulder before returning to the front of the class. When I look back at him, he's smiling from ear to ear.
~~~~~
Sam, 2014
THE HEART SENDS two thousand gallons of blood throughout the body every day. The heart is used as a symbol of love, but really, it should be a symbol of life. Without the heart, the whole body fails. This one organ, which is the size of a fist, keeps the rest of the body alive. This single organ is a miracle and that is why I study it.
When I leave my office, my own heart is heavy. People don't go to a cardiologist because everything is going well. They go to a cardiologist because something is terribly wrong. My last patient, James Egan, had been having arrhythmias, so his physician, John, recommended that he visit me. He has an atrial myxoma—a benign tumor in his heart. It's nearly fourteen centimeters wide and it will have to be surgically removed. His mitral valve will have to be replaced as well. Though, the tumor is benign, it could lead to an embolism (cells from the tumor break off and clog blood flow) or the tumor itself could block blood flow and cause sudden death. I advised James to go see a renowned cardiac surgeon in Richmond, because I want him to get it removed by the best. Despite all of my best efforts, I hate this part of my job. I prefer to help people before the disease sets in and makes a home inside their bodies.
As I put my briefcase into the backseat of my car, I notice someone standing outside the 24/7 convenience store next door smoking a cigarette. The light from the cigarette glows red even under the lights from all of the stores. When the smoker brings the cigarette toward her lips, I realize the person is Grace.
I lock my car again and walk over to her. She smiles and waves. She has a plastic bag around her wrist with a 24/7 logo on it.
"Hey," I say. "You know those things are bad for you."
"Ah, I forgot," she says, still smiling. "You're a doctor."
"Cardiologist," I say. "And you don't want to see what the heart of a smoker looks like."
She drops the cigarette and crushes it under the toe of her shoe. "I had actually stopped smoking a year ago." She takes a cigarette carton out of the plastic bag and throws it into the garbage can behind me. "But…it was a weird day. Terrible day."
"Getting shot at or dealing with high schoolers?" I ask. She smiles again. I love her smile—it's both shy and seductive.
"I didn't get to deal with high school children," she says. "I was sent home. By the principal."
I raise one of my eyebrows. "David Pattinson? I know him well. I could talk to him, if you want."
"No, it's fine. We figured everything out. I don't need a man to rescue me…except, you know, when I'm getting shot at."
"You probably weren't going to get hit. It was an instinctive reaction for me. How does your head feel? You haven't passed out or anything, have you?"
"Nope. I am still as messed up as I was before you tackled me."
"I'm glad. I mean, I'm glad that you're okay. Not that you're messed up…not that I think that you're messed up."
"You have no idea," she says.
I tilt my head. "I smoked all through college."
She laughs. "Ah, a doctor—excuse me, cardiologist—and a hypocrite."
"Maybe," I say.
She opens the plastic bag again and pulls out a caramel apple tightly wrapped in plastic. "I actually bought something for you to thank you for saving my life. I planned to wrap it and pretend it was from somewhere nice…but now you know I'm cheap."
"It's great," I say, as she hands it to me. "Let me guess…an apple a day—"
"Keeps the doctor away," she finishes, grinning. "I'm glad you get it. Not that I want you to stay away…or that I do want you to stay…I just…thought it was funny."
"It is," I tell her. She's cute. Awkward, but I like it. I take my Swiss Army knife out of my khakis pocket. As soon as I start cutting the plastic away from the apple, Grace takes several steps backward and her face is contorted with anxiety. I take a step forward, concerned, and she takes two more back. I stand still. "What's wrong?"
"I…have to go." She turns and nearly runs toward the bus stop that's across the street. After a minute, it occurs to me th
at she was staring at the Swiss Army knife. I fold the blade into the handle and put it back into my pocket. There's more to Grace's story than I know, something that is like James Egan's tumor, except it won't suddenly kill her. Something in her mind is eating away at her, but I don't want to invade her privacy. I want her to open up to me on her own.
I roll the caramel apple in my hand. It really was a sweet gesture.
~~~~~
Deke, 2014
THE LED SIGN with the words COCHRANE'S REPAIR SHOP isn't turned on. There aren't any customer vehicles waiting to be worked on in the garage. The only vehicle in sight is Albert's Ford F-150, which is older than me, and the red paint is being overtaken by rust and scratches.
I walk to the back and go into Albert's office. I find him sprawled on the couch, swigging a cheap beer while watching the nightly news. A reporter—a pretty Italian woman with an ass that would make any man swoon—is talking about the Muslim murder, but by the time I get close to the TV, the newscast switches to the new bakery being built in Murray.
"What were they just talking about?" I ask, plopping into the old green recliner that has been in the family for years, dropping my backpack beside me. It smells like cat litter, but Albert has never been willing to get rid of it. "Someone was murdered?"
"No." Albert snorts. "Just some Muslim terrorists. The county police are callin' it a potential honor killing or a hate crime. Bullshit. Can't be no 'honor killing.' Bastards don't have any honor. And hate? Those Muslims are the most hateful group out of anybody. They probably were killed by their own kind for fun."
"Right," I say. Honor killing? That's what the police concluded? How quaint. How Murray. I stand up and grab my backpack.
"You just sat down," Albert says. "Those lousy teachers of yours aren't givin' you some bullshit assignments, are they?"
"No—I mean, yeah. You know. Same old thing."
Albert shakes his head. "You should drop out of that damn school. Nothin' they say matters. You know everythin' you need to know to survive."
"I know, Al. I just go for the entertainment. You know. Those rich kids."
He nods. "They are a joke."
"I'm just going to get my bow out and shoot some targets."
I slip out the backdoor. I grab my compound bow and a few arrows. In the backyard, there's various targets—foam blocks, plastic deer, bottles, and a scarecrow. I nock the arrow, use three fingers to hold the arrow on the string, and draw the bow. I aim for the scarecrow's head…and release the arrow.
It tears right into the scarecrow's x-shaped eyes.
If the news thinks that it's a hate crime, nobody will realize the dead man was the manager of the QuickFix. Nothing will change. Some other asshole will replace him, and Albert will still struggle to survive. Albert might as well be the outsider for the way that Murray treats him.
I set down my bow and open my backpack. I find my notebook for history and flip to the back. The last page has my handwritten notes about who owns which one of the new auto-related franchises in the area. I don't dare use the Internet for research, because that can be traced right back to me. The next two targets are also racial minorities, so I decide to target the third—a man who owns the new AutoLube franchise. He's Caucasian, so no one will mistake this kill for some religious reason. Since there are no customers, I'll get some bullets from my secret stash, go collect my hidden handgun, and go hunting.
I'm confident that this one will go better than my first. I always learn from my mistakes.
~~~~~
The AutoLube has fancy equipment that Albert could never afford. The garage has the top-rated cordless screwdrivers, digital infrared thermometers, and digital inspection camera scopes. Albert hasn't bought a new tool in over a decade and none of his equipment is electronic. These national automotive corporations can afford their overpriced tools by running the mom-and-pop shops out of business. Once the other business is bankrupt and has been shut down, the corporation overcharges their customers because the customer has no other place to go to fix their vehicle.
It's despicable. They shouldn't have come here. If they wanted a fight, then I'll show them how Murray natives will do anything to survive and protect their own.
I walk up to a man who's wearing a pale-green button-up shirt and jeans as he types something into a computer next to the cash register. He glances at me. His expression is clear—A kid. Not worth my effort. At least Albert would treat every customer the same.
"Can I help you?" the man asks, looking back to the computer screen.
"I heard that you sell tires here," I say.
"Yep." He stops typing, more interested in me now that I'm not just some snot-nosed kid trying to get an estimate on a bent fender. "When we install tires on your car, we also provide the tires. We have the best that money can offer, too."
"Could I see them?" I ask. He nods and leads me to a door in the back. There's another room, nearly as big as the main room, where there's racks and racks of different types of tires.
"What kind of car do you have?" he asks.
"I have a Chevrolet Malibu, two thousand and two. I need some winter tires."
He nods and walks through the aisles. I glance up toward the ceiling. No surveillance cameras. I slide my hand under my polar fleece jacket. My fingers find their way around the cold steel of my Smith & Wesson 9mm. I pull it out and aim it at the back of the man's skull.
He begins to turn his head as I pull the trigger. I see the slight flicker in his eyes—that moment of I'm going to die. You would think this look would be full of shock, but it's more like acceptance. The brain understands cause and effect—the young kid will pull the trigger, the bullet will tear a hole into my brain, and I will die—and there's not enough time for emotions to kick in.
The man's knees buckle and his whole body drops. Behind him, blood has sprayed all over the winter tires.
A single tire costs nearly two hundred seventy dollars. Bastard.
~~~~~
Deke, 2001 (13 Years Ago)
DAD HAD WRAPPED ME UP in snow pants, snow coat, snow boots, scarf, mittens, and a trapper hat with fleece lining and two earflaps. I can barely move because all the clothing makes me feel stiff, but I am unbelievably happy to be out in the snow with Dad as we make a snow fort.
Dad has made half of a wall while I'm still trying to make one snowball stick together. As he sees me struggling, he moves over toward me and cups his hands around mine. He helps me to form the ball. I set it down on top of his wall. It's tiny compared to his snowballs, but he slaps my back with a grin on his face.
"Awesome job, buddy," he says. "You're going to be a great architect. Or an Eskimo. Maybe even an abominable snowman!"
He grabs me and throws me into the air. I squeal with delight, even as my cheeks sting from the cold. As he sets me back down, I hear the phone ringing from inside. Dad looks toward the door.
"I gotta go get that, buddy." He winks. "Just stay right here with your fort. I bet it's your mom, calling to ask if we want pizza or Chinese food for dinner."
As he tracks through the snow toward the front door, I gather snow in between my hands. It seems almost too white, too perfect, too temporary. As I bend down closer to look at the snow, my breath melts some of it. Disappointment makes me drop the snow back onto the ground. If I couldn't keep it forever, then I didn't want it.
I sit down.
I wait. And wait. And wait.
The snow is beginning to soak into my snow pants and I can't feel the tip of my fingers. It's not like Dad to forget about me. I'm his second son, sure, but Tom is away at some Boy Scouts or 4-H event for the weekend.
I fumble to open the front door with my mitten-covered hands. I struggle for a minute, then take my mittens off, and open the door. As soon as I step into the house, I know something is wrong. The air feels stale, and though the heat is turned on in the house, it feels oddly cold.
I keep walking, the polyester fabric of my snow pants rubbing and making a swooshing
noise. I'm tracking snow into the house, but I can't stop until I find Dad.
I finally see him in the dining room. He's sitting with his face in his hands and a phone set beside him.
He looks up as he hears the sound of my snow pants. His eyes are red and his nose is running. I wonder if he could get a cold that fast.
"Deacon," he says, standing up. He rushes over to me, picks me up, and hugs me. "I'm so sorry. I forgot. I forgot. I'm a terrible person."
His whole body shakes and I can feel his tears against my head. It will be three days before he tells me—and only because I keep asking him where Mom is—that her car slid off an icy rural road and went through a hillside guardrail. That's exactly how he said it. "She died. Her car slid off an icy rural road and went through a hillside guardrail."
I thought his voice was too nonchalant for it to be true, but I've figured out that Dad numbed himself to Mom's death. His apathy couldn't lie. When you stop caring about anything, there is no reason to lie.
~~~~~
Sam, 2014
I'M NEVER SURE how to deal with people's extreme emotions. When you're a doctor, there is something called "bedside manner," which describes the doctor-patient relationship. I care about my patients. I care about everyone. Whenever I look at human, I imagine their heart beating blood through their body and think about this miracle organ that allows them to live. I think about how their very existence is a miracle.
But my bedside manner is terrible.
I can feel compassion, but I can't show it. Coworkers have told me that I can come off as callous or apathetic. Whenever I try to reassure or comfort a patient, I know it sounds as if I'm being fake. So, I simply do my job. I go through the motions and throw myself into the science of the heart.
"Mr. Pegg, I will need to see you again in three months. Next time you feel the symptoms of a heart attack—pressure or aching in the chest, shortness of breath, palpitations, nausea, sweating, weakness, or a rapid heartbeat—please call nine-one-one immediately. I am also referring you to a cardiac rehabilitation program."
Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1) Page 3
