by Dan Ames
* * *
Nora,
Urgent business. Sorry for the confusion. Don’t worry. Will see you in a bit.
Love,
Doug
* * *
It sounded lame, callous and like the complete bullshit that it was. But it was the best he could do at the moment.
Without a glance back, Doug left the house, got in the car and drove away.
He knew exactly where he was going.
Chapter Four
Nora wasn’t fond of hospitals. Especially children’s hospitals as it reminded her of what she and Doug didn’t have.
They’d tried for a few years, gone through some tests and ultimately decided they didn’t want to continue their efforts. The strain of repeated failures had gotten to a breaking point and they realized their marriage wouldn’t survive.
So they had decided to stop trying.
Even then, Nora had heard many stories from women who as soon as they stopped trying to have kids, bam, they got pregnant.
This wasn’t the case for her.
She and Doug remained without children and then passed the point where, in terms of age, she was comfortable trying to conceive.
Nora had learned to ignore the envy she had often felt at the sound of a child laughing. Or look the other way when passing elementary schools, playgrounds, soccer fields where little kids in goofy soccer gear tried to kick a ball that was nearly half as big as they were.
Over time, she had come to terms with her reality.
The hospital, though. That was a tough one. It was where she’d had the most difficult challenges. It was where she’d always imagined she would become a Mom.
Now, she was driving to a medical facility to care for her husband, who’d been in a minor car accident.
Not exactly life-changing or earth-shattering.
That was her life.
Boring, in a way.
She pulled into a visitor’s parking space, locked the car and went to Information. After providing Doug’s name, she waited while the man behind the desk typed on a keyboard.
“Room 633,” he said. “Go down the hall to the elevators on the right. When you exit the elevator on the sixth floor, you’ll turn to your right.”
Nora thanked him and followed his instructions.
The hallway smelled of disinfectant, with an occasional overtone of human waste. The walls were white, the floor a light green.
She made it to 633 and peered inside.
There was an empty bed. A bathroom to the left with its door partially cracked open, revealing it was dark inside.
Nora turned and wondered if Doug had been taken for some tests. X-rays, maybe.
She walked back down the hallway, found a central nurse’s station with a half-dozen people working on computers.
“Can I help you?” one of the women asked. She didn’t glance up from her computer screen.
“I’m looking for a patient, Doug Brooks. I was told he was in Room 633 but I checked, and he’s not there.”
One of the other nurses turned around and looked at Nora.
“You mean the stabbing victim?”
Nora’s knees went weak.
“What?” she said. Her voice shrill. She sounded panicked, which she was.
“Doug Brooks? Room 633?”
A couple of the other nurses had turned to look at Nora. She suddenly felt horribly self-conscious.
Why was everyone looking at her?
“Yes, that’s my husband.”
“Yes, ma’am, he’d been stabbed,” the nurse said. She was an older woman with short hair and big, square glasses. “The police were on their way to take a statement.”
Doug had been stabbed? He told her he’d been in a car accident.
What the hell was going on?
“Where is he?” Nora said. She fought to keep her voice under control, but it wasn’t easy. She was scared and confused. “I need to talk to him. I don’t know where he is,” Nora said. She didn’t sound coherent. She just knew that something was terribly wrong.
The nurse folded her arms and raised an eyebrow.
“That’s funny,” she said. “We don’t know where he is, either.”
Chapter Five
For what seemed like the tenth time, Nora called Doug’s cell phone, and once again, it went straight to voicemail.
“Damn it,” she said.
Nora Brooks was not known for losing her temper, but she was starting to feel a slow burn. First, the embarrassment of being told her husband had basically left the hospital without telling anyone, least of all her. The nurses had all looked at her like she was crazy. Whose husband would call his wife to say he was injured and in the hospital, and then leave before she got there?
And then the bombshell. Doug had been stabbed!
It was crazy.
She thought the hospital must have gotten something wrong. Why would her husband lie to her about something like that? She was sure there was a mix-up of some sort.
Now, she was driving back home, totally confused and once again on the cusp of being completely pissed off.
Nora turned onto her street and approached the driveway.
It was empty.
The anger disappeared.
He wasn’t home?
Then where the hell was he?
This was getting ridiculous, she thought.
Nora used the remote to open the garage door, pulled inside and shut off the car. She got out, unlocked the side door that led into the kitchen.
She stopped suddenly when she saw the note on the kitchen counter.
Now, the confusion turned to fear.
What was going on?
She read what he’d written and wanted to crumple up the note and throw it at him.
Urgent business?
What the hell did that mean? Urgent business as in being stabbed?
Nora knew something was terribly wrong.
Doug had been in the hospital for Christ’s sake. He’d been in a car accident. What did he mean? And why was he apologizing? And don’t worry? And no mention of being stabbed?
She walked through the house, looked in the bedroom closet and saw that he’d taken a suitcase. Nora was an extremely organized person and when something was missing, she noticed it immediately.
In Doug’s office, she saw that his laptop was gone.
Nora went back down to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine to steady her nerves, and stared at the note her husband had left her.
It didn’t make sense.
Cold dread filled her stomach when she realized what he’d done. He’d called her on purpose, telling her to come to the hospital, and then he’d used the opportunity to come home for some reason.
Why had he wanted her out of the house?
Why was he avoiding her?
Goddamnit, she thought.
Her husband was gone.
She was alone.
ANALYSIS
Chapter Six
Even though he didn’t know it at the time, Brad Golding took the last drink of alcohol he would ever have in his life.
If he had known, perhaps he would have ordered the most expensive champagne in the house. Or twenty-year-old scotch aged in specially crafted white oak barrels.
Instead, he drained the last of his light beer. The watery kind, made in the U.S.
He checked his watch, an entry-level TAG Heuer he had spent way too much money on. Now, because of the price tag it had come with, Brad was having to grocery shop very carefully. He even had to walk to the bar because he was avoiding having to refill his car’s gas tank until payday.
But the watch was worth it.
Chicks totally noticed it when they were talking to him, appraising him.
Tonight, however, nothing had worked.
He’d be walking back to his apartment alone, going to bed alone, waking up alone.
And then off to work in the morning.
Well, he had tried. Brad reminded himself of
the Wayne Gretzky quote. About how you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.
He’d taken his shot.
And missed.
Brad threw some singles on the bar for a tip, slid off the stool and walked out of the bar.
Boca Raton, Florida was a suburb about a half hour north of Miami. Home to a lot of restaurants, shopping malls and a fair amount of coin. If it had been Friday night, he would’ve moved onto the next bar, but since it was a Wednesday, he would call it quits.
He was still putting his life together, adjusting to everything that had happened and trying to make a go of a new approach to life.
It wasn’t easy.
Getting along with people had never been his strong suit. People often referred to him as “different” like it was a bad thing. Well, he was different.
They had no idea.
Brad walked down the sidewalk, past a few other bars and restaurants, to where he’d parked his car, an off-lease BMW that, in terms of pride of ownership, was second only to his watch.
At the next block, he turned to the left, knowing his car was only another block away.
Someone was walking toward him.
He smiled as recognition dawned upon him.
Brad was about to say something when the person stepped in close to him. There was a flash of a silvery object and Brad thought it might be a cell phone. Or maybe a watch.
But then the blade punched into his chest, and was pulled upward, cutting into his heart.
The pain was instant and horrific. He sputtered, his vision gone and then he was falling.
When his face crashed into the concrete sidewalk, he felt nothing.
Chapter Seven
Wallace Mack had paid good money for his fishing boat. It was a shallow draft Mako with a 150 horsepower Yamaha outboard.
He’d also spent good money on an electric trolling motor, bow-mounted, with foot control steering and navigation.
On board was an excellent, meticulously maintained collection of fishing gear. There were heavy duty poles for trolling, which he rarely did, as well as medium weight rods for baitcasting. There was even a fly rod, which Mack seldom utilized.
His tackle box was another picture of efficiency and attention to detail. The lures were organized by size, with all of the hooks sharpened to perfection.
Mack’s assortment of fishing line, sinkers, swivels, pliers, snippers and miscellaneous equipment was representative of his love for fishing, and his passion for organization.
He sat in the front seat of the boat, on the raised casting platform, with his feet up on the top of the trolling motor.
There was no fishing rod or reel in his hand, though.
Instead, he was holding a beer.
Fresh.
And ice-cold.
Mack was drinking.
Not fishing.
It was just one of those days. He hadn’t gotten out much lately from the house. From his sister.
Sometimes, he liked to get in the boat, cruise down the Estero River and head out into Estero Bay. The Florida sunshine and clear blue water beckoned him for some quiet hours of solitude and the soothing relaxation he always found in the heat.
Mack had veered out of the channel, into a shallow stretch of crystal blue water, interspersed with tiny mangrove islands. He had maneuvered into one of the small back bays, shut off the engine, and let the wind gently nudge the boat back toward the channel.
He drank from his beer and felt the sun start to toast him. He scanned the mangroves just above the waterline. An egret stood and looked back at him. Mack raised his beer by way of greeting.
It was times like this that made Mack feel he should be lonely.
But he wasn’t.
He thought about women he’d known, loved, and even cherished. They were somewhere else now, for reasons that required no contemplation from him. It just worked out that way.
Mack nudged the trolling motor and brought the boat around, pointed it toward the center of the shallow bay. He’d seen something in the water and it looked like the nose of a manatee – the big, graceful underwater cows that were frequently run over by speedboats.
By the time he coasted into the area, though, he saw nothing.
His watch told him he’d been on the water for nearly an hour and a half. Of course, it took him nearly twenty minutes to get down the river and into the bay. So if he left now, he would return and the whole trip would have taken two hours.
But he still had a little time to finish his beer.
Mack swiveled in his seat and watched as a big speedboat cruised past out in the channel. There were at least a dozen people on board. One of them in the back spotted him and waved.
Mack raised his beer, with noticeably less enthusiasm than when he’d toasted the egret.
Chapter Eight
Mack stood on the dock, pressed the button on the hoist to raise the boat out of the water. Once it reached the desired height, he turned the winch off, unspooled the hose, and sprayed down the boat thoroughly, rinsing the salt water from every spot he could find.
He knew someone who’d gone out on their boat for a cruise, only to have the boat start sinking ten minutes into the trip. Turned out, the saltwater had corroded two bolts at the bottom of the hull near the prop. The plate the bolts held in place buckled outward, and water had been rushing in, much to the surprise of the owner.
Salt was never a good thing, except on the rim of a margarita glass.
Satisfied with his work, Mack hung the hose back up, covered the boat, gathered his empties and walked up to the house, detouring to the garage to put the bottles in the recycling bin.
Mack climbed the stairs to the great room where he saw his sister Janice and her caretaker, Adelia. She was a large woman, of Jamaican decent, with a playful personality and a heart of gold.
It was the end of Adelia’s shift. She took care of Janice as a live-in nurse, but she had worked with Mack and her schedule was highly flexible. She could spend the night, or she could go home. It all depended on Janice.
Adelia had her own bedroom and bathroom, next to Janice’s, which made any late-night emergencies easier to handle.
Janice Mack had Korsakoff Syndrome, once called ‘wet brain’ because it usually referred to brain damage caused by excessive alcohol intake. That term had been deemed politically incorrect at some point.
When Janice had discovered alcohol at the age of fifteen, she never looked back. Rehab. Jail. Medication. Nothing had worked until her mind and body were ruined. Now, her life was that of a young child’s. Frequently confused, and given to hallucinations.
“Taking off?” Mack asked Adelia.
“I think so,” she answered.
“Hi,” Janice said to Mack. She greeted him like a friend whose name was difficult to remember.
Janice Mack looked like much older than her brother, the effects of excessive alcohol abuse. There was a vague resemblance, but Mack tried not to think about it. Janice had been a very beautiful young woman before her addiction.
“Hi Janice,” he answered. “I thought the two of us could watch a movie tonight. How does that sound?”
“Okay,” she said. “I like The Sound of Music.”
Mack nodded, but groaned a little inside. He’d seen it countless times and had both the dialogue and songs completely memorized. It was one of Janice’s favorites and she found it very soothing.
“Sounds good,” Mack answered. “I’ll make popcorn.”
Adelia had a little smile on her face. She knew how sick of Julie Andrews Mack had become.
“The hills are alive…” Adelia sang softly and winked at Mack.
He really hated that movie.
Chapter Nine
The railroad tracks that ran parallel to Federal Highway, and thereby parallel to Florida’s beaches, were no strangers to dead bodies.
It seemed every few months someone died along their unforgiving path. Some of them were suicides. Too afraid of guns or knives or pills.
Simply stepping in front of a train was an instantaneous death, or so they believed.
It didn’t always work out that way.
Other victims were drug abusers and alcoholics who had the unfortunate luck of passing out in the worst possible spot. It was a high or a drunk that truly never ended.
The Boca Raton and Delray Beach communities were home to many rehab places, which contributed a fair amount of offerings to the Train of Death annually.
Local ordinances, or more accurately, the complete lack of regulation, had led to the booming rehab business.
Homeless people also constituted a fair amount of railroad deaths every year. Florida was a popular spot for those who had fallen on hard times. No chance of freezing to death in the subtropical climate. Dehydration from exposure to the sun was also a possibility. But most preferred those odds versus twenty below zero in the north.
When the local Boca Raton cop got a call from dispatch about a body on the tracks, his first thought was a mild curiosity over which one it would be. A drunk. A druggie. Or a bum.
Harsh, but he was a veteran with over twenty years on the job. Weepy compassion had left him long ago.
The body was supposedly between Palmetto Park Road and Glades Road and it had apparently already been run over once.
He drove his squad car down Palmetto, turned left, and made his way to where he saw a fire truck parked with lights flashing. Next to the fire truck, a small group of onlookers were milling about, and he nosed his vehicle in between them, got out, and waved them away.
The wind was coming from the ocean, so there was no smell, even when he got to the tracks and saw the first signs of the carnage.
It wasn’t pretty.
There were body parts everywhere.
Blood. An arm. A pile of flesh the cop had no desire to look carefully at to determine from where it came.
Usually, he was interested in the head. It was the obvious and quick way to determine age, gender and race.
