Sarah cleaned up the largest of the lacerations herself, then covered them with sterile gauze. Meanwhile, the nurse assisting Sarah arranged for a stat head and neck CT. As the nurse and the X-ray tech rolled the girl’s stretcher away, Dr. Crenshaw came over. “Want me to take over here?”
“I can stay until we’re sure she’s stable,” Sarah said. “Was the man brought in by the other ambulance her father?”
“Grandfather.”
“And . . . ”
“He didn’t make it,” Chuck said. “This was a one-vehicle crash. He wrapped his car around a light pole. My guess is that he had a heart attack while driving. How about the girl?”
Sarah briefed him on her findings. “I’ve ordered a head and neck CT. If they’re negative, just suturing her lacerations will probably take care of her, although she may need to be admitted for observation.” She looked around. “You say he was the grandfather. Are the girl’s parents coming?”
“Not immediately. I talked with the police right after I pronounced the driver DOA. It seems the grandparents are taking care of the girl while her parents are out of town.”
Sarah’s heart sank. She knew firsthand the pain the family would experience as a result of the accident. Sometimes, she felt as though her own hurt were still fresh.
It was after one in the morning before Sarah left the hospital. Her mind was still working on the most recent events when she turned into her driveway. She went through her routine, determined that she wasn’t going to be distracted and let her assailant get to her. She sat in her car, the doors still locked, the light from her headlights illuminating the garage door and surrounding area. She pushed the button on her key fob to disarm the alarm system. She had her hand on the button to raise the garage door when in the light spill from her car she thought she saw a small bundle on her front stoop. Her initial instinct was to check it out, but instead she pulled into the garage and lowered the door before unlocking her car and climbing out.
Inside the house, she dropped her backpack in the living room and turned on the porch light. She looked through the viewing window of the front door and saw no one around. Only then did she unlock the door, step onto the small porch, and pick up the bundle wrapped in what appeared to be a baby blanket. She lifted one corner of the blanket and tears came to her eyes. The bundle held a doll, one like the doll lying on Jenny’s bed upstairs—her dead daughter’s favorite.
She looked more closely at the figure in the blanket. It seemed to be an exact duplicate of the doll Jenny had carried around from morning until night for months before her death.
Then Sarah had a thought that made her blood run cold. Was this Jenny’s doll?
9
Still holding the doll, Sarah backed into the house, slammed and locked the front door, and leaned against it. If whoever was behind this was trying to get to her, he’d succeeded. Acting by muscle memory, not volition, she reached for the keypad on the wall next to the front door and rearmed her security system.
The thought continued to eat at her—how did her stalker know what doll to buy? How could he know the doll left on her front steps would be a duplicate of the one her dead daughter loved? Or, could this be Jenny’s doll?
Now she wished she had a gun. What if her stalker, the man who’d left the doll, hadn’t left? What if he was still upstairs? She looked around for a weapon, something heavy. She finally settled on a brass lamp sitting on the end table in the living room. She unplugged it, wound the cord around the base, and removed the shade. Sarah unscrewed the bulb and laid it aside. Holding it by the empty light socket, she hefted the lamp. Not a substitute for a gun, but at least she had a weapon.
Holding the lamp in one hand, the doll tucked under her other arm, she slowly climbed the stairs and headed for Jenny’s bedroom. She paused at the door, wanting to know yet afraid of what she’d find. Finally, Sarah summoned up the courage to ease open the door. The room was dark. She listened hard but heard nothing. Finally, she flipped on the light and looked around the room. There was no one there. Jenny’s doll was still on her bed, right where Sarah put it when the police returned it to her.
But if the doll in the bundle from her porch wasn’t Jenny’s, that raised another question. How did her stalker know which type of doll to leave on the porch? The only answer Sarah could think of was that he’d been in the house at some time, had probably been in this room, touched Jenny’s things, more than likely handled her daughter’s doll. A sense of violation made Sarah shudder. She swallowed hard, working to choke back the bile she could taste in the back of her throat. It took a moment for the sensation to pass.
Finally, she turned off the light, closed the door, and eased down the stairs. I don’t know how much more of this I can stand. Sarah restored the lamp to its position on the end table. She’d plug it in and put the shade in position later. Not now.
Sarah collapsed onto the sofa. She dropped the doll beside her, clutched her arms around herself, and hugged—not because she was cold, but because she was afraid. Her breathing was still ragged. She heard her pulse pound in her ears.
She didn’t know how long she sat, reliving the incident in her mind. Finally, as though waking from a dream, Sarah pulled out her phone to call Bill Larson. She had the number partially dialed before she broke the connection and dropped the phone. She didn’t feel like talking, even with the police, even with someone like Bill Larson. Not tonight.
She’d call in the morning and tell him of this latest development. Whoever left the bundle was probably long gone. Larson might criticize her for waiting, but when she thought about it, what could the detective do right now? Tomorrow he could pick up the doll, have his lab check it for fingerprints, canvass stores that sold them. But Sarah didn’t have high hopes for his learning the identity of her stalker. Whoever was doing this was too smart, and she had a sinking feeling that Larson would come up empty.
After she talked with Larson, Sarah decided it was time to phone Kyle and ask him about the pistol he’d offered. But she’d do all that tomorrow. Tonight, she wasn’t up to it.
Her emotions, which she’d finally brought under control, boiled to the surface once more as Sarah headed for the bedroom. She felt the tears she’d been holding back coming again. This time she fell onto the bed, buried her face in her pillow, and let them flow freely. When is this going to stop?
Her body shook with sobs as she thought about what she’d lost—a precious child, a loving husband—both gone in an instant. The accident that took them was very much like the one that had sent two patients to her in the ER tonight. Sarah recalled Connie’s words about emotional triggers. Well, this was a big one. She wondered how long it would be before they stopped lurking around the corner waiting to surprise her.
The tears slowed, the sobbing subsided, and Sarah heard the words just as certainly as though Harry were standing beside her. Stop thinking about the past. It’s over. Pay attention to the danger facing you right now. There was someone out there, someone who seemed determined to torture and perhaps kill her. That’s where she should focus her attention.
Maybe Connie was right. Maybe Sarah needed to look toward a source she’d turned her back on months ago for the help she needed now. She bowed her head and pondered how to begin. As before, she ended up simply voicing the emotion in her heart. “God, I’m reaching out to You. Will You help?”
* * *
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Kyle held out the revolver, barrel first.
“I’m sure,” Sarah said. She took the pistol from him, holding it by the grip but keeping her finger outside the trigger guard. “It looks sort of small.”
“It’s large enough. That’s a Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver. Holds five shots, weighs less than a pound, and is accurate at close range,” Kyle said. “It’s unloaded. The first thing to do is make sure you know how to use it. I’ll also get you started on the application process for a concealed-carry permit.”
“Do you have a permit?” she
asked.
“Yes. I’m an attorney practicing criminal law, and when I hung out my shingle I was told by some experienced lawyers that I should arm myself.” Kyle pulled up the cuff of his trousers to reveal a small pistol, the twin of the one she held, in a holster strapped to his ankle. “Fortunately, I’ve never had to fire this in anger, but I’m licensed to carry it.”
“If you still have yours—”
“That pistol is for you. I bought it right after someone tried to set fire to your house. I feel better about your safety now that you’ve finally decided to accept it.” He let the trouser cuff drop. “You can have it with you in your home or keep it out of sight in your private vehicle.”
“So what’s next?” she asked.
“I fire my pistol once a month to keep up my proficiency, so I’m a member of a gun club. We’ll go there in a few minutes and get you started.” He looked at the pistol in Sarah’s hand. “Even with the proper permit, you shouldn’t have a gun unless two criteria are met—you know and practice firearms safety, and you’re prepared to shoot if necessary.”
“No problem there,” Sarah said. “Harry taught me how to handle a pistol, so I’ll just need to brush up on a few things. And, given the recent events in my life, if it will put an end to this nightmare, I’m ready to shoot.”
* * *
Bill Larson held his cell phone to his ear and looked around at a squad room that was quiet this early in the morning. The doll on the doorstep was another link in the chain. At least it wasn’t an action that would hurt Sarah physically, although the emotional damage was still evident in her voice, even on the phone.
“He must have been in the house and gone to Jenny’s playroom,” she said. “How else would whoever left it know that doll was the same as Jenny’s favorite?”
“Maybe you posted a picture or two on Facebook of Jenny holding her favorite doll. It wouldn’t be difficult for someone to enlarge the image and identify the doll.”
“I guess so,” Sarah said. “Ordinarily we tried to keep Jenny’s picture off social media, but she got that doll last Christmas, and, come to think of it, it may have been in a few of the pictures we shared afterward.”
“I’ll have someone pick up the doll this morning. We’ll run some tests, maybe see if we can find where he bought it.” Larson didn’t tell her that the odds were that all this would have a negative return. Maybe she’d already reached that conclusion as well.
Larson ended the call and scribbled a note to have someone pick up the doll. But there’d been a second bit of information in that call. So Sarah is going to get a pistol. He didn’t disagree that she needed a gun for self-protection, even though he couldn’t officially recommend she get one. And she’d already started the process of getting a permit for it. So why was he bothered by the fact that now she was armed? Was it because it underscored his inability to identify the person who was after her and close the case? Or could his unease be because she got the pistol from Kyle Andrews, rather than from him?
He looked up and saw Cal Johnson approaching. Today Cal wore an open-necked sport shirt beneath a lightweight sport coat. The coat flapped open as he walked, revealing the butt of the service revolver that rode on his right hip. Normally, Cal was easygoing, with a ready smile for his fellow detective, but not this morning.
Larson ventured a guess at the cause. “Trouble with Ruth?” he asked.
“Sort of,” Cal replied. “I was home when she came in from the meeting last night. We had some together time, and things were going well. Then our phone rang. It was Betty.”
“Your first wife was calling? Why?”
“She was drunk. She wanted me to send her some money.”
“Did Ruth know who it was?”
“As soon as I mouthed ‘Betty,’ Ruth pointed to the speaker button, so she heard the whole conversation.”
“I didn’t think your divorce included any alimony,” Larson said.
“It didn’t. We had a clean break. She was already seeing this other guy by the time our marriage was over. The two of them moved out of state, and I thought that was the end of it.”
“But—”
“But he lost his job, so his drinking increased. And if he was drinking, she was drinking. And last night she drunk-dialed me to ask for money.”
“What did you do?” Larson asked.
“I managed to calm her down. I suggested some places she could turn to for help. And I finally got her off the phone.” Cal shook his head. “I could tell Ruth was sort of ambivalent about the episode. After all, she’d just come from church, where the women talked about loving their neighbor, so she felt like we ought to help Betty. On the other hand, Ruth obviously didn’t want to worry for the rest of our married life that my first wife would be calling every time she got into trouble . . . or had too much to drink.”
“Where does it stand now?”
“I think Ruth realizes she’s married to a man who has some baggage. I mean, I’ve tried hard not to let my police work interfere with my home life, and I appreciate what you’ve done to help there. But I’ve made some mistakes in my life, and last night, one of them popped up again.” He spread his hands. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Cal, we all have baggage. You have a failed marriage. I have alcoholism. I suspect that if she looks hard enough, Ruth will find she’s carrying some as well. None of us is perfect. But we have something going for us: God is always there to help us when that baggage tries to drag us down.”
“So what do you think?”
“I think you should call Betty back. First, talk with Ruth, though. She needs to be involved in the decision. Be sure she knows that your first wife is no longer a part of your life. Assure her that this call to Betty will be a one-time thing, an attempt to talk with her while she’s sober, to see if you can help.”
“I don’t know . . . ”
“You can suggest Betty try AA, if she’s willing. She might want to try to get some help from a pastor or someone at a church. And Ruth may have some ideas, too.”
* * *
Her new pistol was like a loose tooth she couldn’t leave alone. Sarah picked up the revolver, opened the cylinder, unloaded it, put the same four .38 caliber bullets back in, closed the cylinder with an empty chamber beneath the hammer. There was no safety—most revolvers didn’t have them—but Kyle had assured her the revolver was safe from accidental discharge so long as she observed a few common sense rules.
Her first thought when Kyle began his instruction at the gun range was that she didn’t have enough ammunition in the revolver to defend herself. “Five bullets won’t be enough.”
“No, you’ll have four,” he said. “Remember, you should always keep an empty chamber under the hammer. But you’ll only be firing as a last resort and in self-defense. You’ll be shooting at almost a point-blank distance, and if four bullets aren’t enough, a dozen probably won’t do it, either.”
It hadn’t taken her long to get used to the pistol. Harry’s gun had been larger, heavier, held more bullets. But Kyle was right. This revolver had enough stopping power. All she had to do was point it and pull the trigger.
It was time to leave for work. Sarah picked up her backpack and checked its contents. She reached for the pistol, drew her hand back, reached again, and picked it up. This was a new experience for her. Despite the assurances she’d given Kyle, she wondered if she’d really shoot the person responsible for everything that had happened to her. Then she thought of the doll, now in the hands of the police who’d go over it for fingerprints and anything that would help identify the person who left it. She considered for a moment more, then resolutely picked up the pistol, hefted her backpack, and headed out the kitchen door into the garage.
She carefully placed the pistol out of sight in the glove compartment of her car. Kyle had warned her that, until she received her permit, she shouldn’t be carrying the pistol. But, considering the circumstances, he was relatively certain the police would understand if the
matter ever came up. Better to have an unlicensed firearm than continue to be a helpless target.
Her routine for leaving the house was easier to follow now. Lock the car doors from the inside, disarm the security system, punch the button to raise the garage door, back out, close the garage door. She was about to rearm the security system when her cell phone rang.
It was Kyle calling to see if she had any questions about the pistol.
“No, but I appreciate your checking. And I’d be glad to reimburse you for the cost of the gun. I thought it was an extra you had. I didn’t know you’d bought it just for me.”
Kyle would have none of that. “It makes me feel good to know you’re more secure. I’ll let you get to work, but call me anytime.”
Sarah finished backing out of the driveway and headed to work. After half a block, she wondered if she’d re-armed the security system. Should she go back and make sure? No, she didn’t have time. Besides, the routine had become automatic. She was probably worrying needlessly.
* * *
He’d thought he might have to wait longer, but the doctor had already made a mistake. As best he could tell from his observation point, the phone call had interrupted her routine enough that she left her house without setting the security system alarm. Undoubtedly, the doors and windows would be locked, as usual. Since the police had discovered his trick for getting into the garage by tripping the emergency release, he’d acquired a little electronic gadget that would activate any garage door motor, no matter how sophisticated the code. If the security system wasn’t armed, he could always get in through the garage. And when he did. . . Well, he’d decide what to do after that.
He looked at his watch. She was going to be gone for at least eight hours, and more likely nine or ten. He should wait until it was dark to make his move. Then he’d enter the unalarmed house and wait to greet the doctor when she returned. He wasn’t certain just yet what would follow, but whatever it was would certainly be a surprise, one that would help make up for the suffering her husband had caused.
Medical Judgment Page 10
