Once Upon A Killing (A Gass County Novel Book 2) (23 page)

He eyed the stone again, then grabbed at the white cast holding his broken arm in place. He had nothing to say. Nothing to say to this girl who had claimed to be of his own flesh and blood. There were simply no words worth speaking.

When he finally felt there was no reason to linger, he looked one last time at the mounded grave, sighed deeply, and slowly walked back up the narrow path leading to the front gate. Before he took the step into the car he dared a look over his shoulder, where through the trunks of large trees standing row by row, flanking the small spot of the world made for the dead to rest, he could see the grave.

Mary’s resting place couldn’t have looked any lonelier, or more deserted than it did now. In the rain. In the gray wetness of the world rested a young woman who’d done such despicable things.

Wonder if she’d regret her actions if she could see the same somber view I’m looking at now?
he thought.

The heat of the car caressed his skin making the hair on his arms stand and tingle in a pleasurable way. Something so small, something so innocent as feeling warmth would be something Mary would never again experience. Shaking the disturbing thought, and the view from his eyes, he embraced the hot air blanketing him.

The drive home was eerie. He knew this town like the back of his own hand, but today it seemed like someone had put the whole town inside a gray wet bubble, and for the first time in a long time he felt alone.

Knowing he shouldn’t, he pulled over at the next stop sign, took out his phone and scrolled through the numbers.

He waited through the signals until a voice answered on the other side.

“Yes, Wayne. What is it?”

“Are you home yet?”

“Just walked in.”

“Oh… alright, never mind then. Talk to you later.”

“No, come on. What was it that you wanted?”

He didn’t find an answer at first and held the phone still by his ear, regretting the call.

“Wayne, what is it?”

“Can you come over?”

There was a long silence from the other end of the line, but his voice didn’t dare asking again.

“You sure you want that? You think that would be a good idea?”

“I don’t know.” His voice was barely a whisper. “I think… I think…”

“You think what, Wayne?”

“That I might… not want to be alone.” His words deceived him and he stuttered.

“Alone, just tonight after the funeral, or for a week, or for more?”

“I miss you, okay? It was great seeing you today, even under very strange circumstances.”

The silence across the phone line repeated itself again.

“So… can we see each other?”

“Tonight? Just because you don’t want to be alone? Or… I don’t think I know what you mean, Wayne, and I know it’s not a good time to talk about this but… my question seems simple. Do you want me or not? If not, Wayne, I think we need to be done here. I’m not waiting for you to grow up any more. I want to grieve you and move on with my life. I might move, I don’t know.”

“You’re moving?”

“Well, it’s a small town. I would run into you just about everywhere all the time. I would want to start fresh and meet new people, maybe move somewhere bigger. I’ve done it before, and it wouldn’t be any different doing it again.”

That thought started a flood of sweat down the back of his spine, and the pale skin on his forehead prickled under the pressure.

“I don’t think I want that.”

“You think, or you know, Wayne? I’m tired of this going around in circles thing we’ve been doing. As soon as I want something more from you, you scatter like a freaked out alley cat, and I’m so, so tired of luring you back in with treats. I’m done chasing you. You’ve had your chance to stay, and you haven’t seemed too interested in it.”

“I don’t know why I run. I can’t explain why I get so nervous about things…”

“Well, I’m trying not to sound too harsh here but I need an answer. Which is kind of weird to even ask, because to know if you like someone or not shouldn’t be this hard to decide. You know what, I’ve actually applied for two other jobs and if I get one of them, I will accept it.”

“So, you are moving then? When?”

“When I hear back from the applications I sent in. And honestly, if I don’t get any of them I will move anyway. Seems like my mind is made up suddenly just by talking to you right now.”

“Okay.” The line stayed silent for a while, but he knew she was still there. He could hear the spoon roll around the inside of her coffee cup, slightly scraping the rough ceramic of the cream white cup that he knew always stood front and center in the cabinet by the sink, easy to reach in the morning when she got up for work.

“I can hear you’ve settled in with something to drink for tonight. I’ll let you go.”

He didn’t get an answer back, just a light clinking sound as the spoon in her hand must have hit the table.

“Well, enjoy your warm coffee. It was cold out there today, and I think we all have some warming up to do.”

The line stayed quiet. The only thing he could make out was the light breathing coming from her mouth.

“Good night, Christine. Thanks for listening.”

Nothing in return.

“Are you that mad at me? Is that why you’re not answering me back? You could at least say goodnight, or maybe just, I don’t know, goodbye? This is strange, just hearing you breathing like this. Christine?”

Suddenly he felt wide awake, the panic that had just settled deep in his stomach slowly roared into life once again.

“Christine, are you okay?”

Nothing. Breathing.

“Christine, I’m coming over to your place right now.”

Chapter Thirty-two

He couldn’t let the terror inside of him slow him down. Something had sounded terribly wrong on the other side of that line, and that was the only thing he told his brain to focus on. Not the recent funeral in the cold wet rain, not his broken arm, not even if she was leaving town or not. He simply had to steer that truck of his in the right direction, not knowing if she was simply sitting there waiting for him or not.

The minutes dragged like they were stuck in tar, until he finally saw the last bend, the small bridge heading over the Shanoga river, and her small house a mere fifty feet from the dirt road. The house was tucked nicely between the larger oaks on the property, but the evening was getting darker, and the rain intensified the gloominess of the day. With his good hand, he slowly steered his truck onto the gravel and put it in park next to hers. Before jumping out into the rain, he checked his cell once again, to see if she had texted him or called him during his drive over. If she had, he told himself he wouldn’t go in. But the phone showed nothing. Perhaps she was waiting for him then?

He took a deep steady breath, knowing it might be the last time he’d be parked here, last time he’d be walking up to her front door. Memorizing every detail. By this time next year someone else might live here, he thought, and she would be somewhere else.

The doorbell chimed in the similar ding-dong pattern he’d learned from experience. But nothing happened, and no one came to the door.

“Sorry if you’re pissed at me, Christine. But perhaps we can just talk? What do you say?” He spoke into the crack of the mail box attached to the lower part of the door. He didn’t get an answer to that either.

“Come on, please open the door. I don’t even have to come in. Just want to talk to you in person. Christine, please.”

He was starting to get restless. He’d driven all the way over here because she’d refused to end their call properly. It was kind of stupid, he thought. But when women were pissed they did stupid things like that. But he just wouldn’t have it. He pulled the hood of his jacket over his head to keep out of the pouring rain, and did what he told himself he shouldn’t do: he walked around the corner of the house looking for the window into the kitchen and living room of her house.

The living room was partially lit by the corner floor lamp, and then he saw her, slumped over at the counter, with the coffee mug on its end and her phone next to her hand.

His blood froze to ice and ignited into fire at the very same time, and he banged with his fist on the window, seeing if he could get some attention. But nothing.

He’d never been in this situation before. Being a paramedic didn’t give him the experience of being at a crime scene when it happened. He usually showed up at the end, taking who ever needed care out of the situation. This, here, was something terrifying and completely new.

He knew his hand wouldn’t be able to break the window, so he ran back to the front porch, and reached above it until his fingertips touched something small and metal on top of the welcome sign she’d hung above the door when she moved in. “Stupid woman.” He cursed, as anyone could’ve found it and walked in, something he had told her many times. But today was different, today her life depended on it, and he was glad she hadn’t decided to take his advice.

The key clicked and he pushed the door open and ran through the foyer into the openness of the house. Even though his feet moved him as fast as he could, the view he had of her slumped over, still body seemed to be replaying in slow motion until he reached her and immediately checked her pulse. None.

With no time to lose he pulled her off the chair and down onto the floor, pressed his one good hand on her chest and began pushing down while counting. Counting until he could take a break and breathe into her mouth, and then he would start again. Counting and blowing, counting and blowing. His arm was getting tired. Not so much from the pressure he put onto her chest, he was used to that from his job, but from the adrenaline running through his body, making every muscle confused of whether to work hard or shake in fear of losing her.

After the last breath, he grabbed her phone on top of the counter top and dialed 911. While squeezing the phone between his shoulder and his ear, his good hand continued its pushing of her chest. And within a few second the call was over and he was able to bend down and breathe into her mouth again.

“Come on, Christine! Wake up! Wake the fuck up! Do you hear me?!” He yelled, and he hadn’t even noticed he was crying until his eyes became too watery and her t-shirt seemed stained in tears as his face bent down to breathe into her mouth once again.

“Oh my God, are we always this fucking slow!” He yelled in the quietness of the house, cursing his own teammates. “I swear to God, if this is what it’s like to wait…“ Then he heard them, the sirens wailing in the cold wet evening, lights flickering through the window of the kitchen.

“I can’t believe it took you so fucking long to get here!”

“Move over, Wayne. You know the routine. Go over to Brody.” Bryce was already on his knees pushing Wayne out of the way, having Brody catch him and get him away from the scene. Jaycee, who had taken Wayne’s spot in the ambulance while Wayne’s arm healed, leaned down on the other side to cut open Christine’s shirt and bra.

As soon as her chest was bare for the world, Jayce scooted back a foot, letting Bryce put the defibrillator in place and count. “One, two, three.”

The moment the electricity flew through her muscles, her back arched, and her chest seemed attached to the handles placed on her for a short moment until she return to the floor, looking just as she had when they started.

“Still no pulse.” Jayce stated, and started pumping Christine’s chest once again, bending down to blow into her mouth, then scooting away for Bryce to defibrillate her chest one more time.

“Come on, Bryce! Do something, make it work!” Wayne was yelling, until Brody’s strong arms pulled him over to the other side of the counter top, relieving him from the scene.

“This is not your job today,” he said, and cornered Wayne to the fridge. “They’re doing the best they can, and you know it.”

“But nothing is happening! Maybe I can do something? I need to do something, Brody.”

“There is nothing you can do, Wayne. You’d just be in the way. Jayce and Bryce are doing exactly what you would be doing. Stay out of their way.”

Wayne wouldn’t allow himself to pay attention to the ridiculous advice, and took a quick step to get around Brody, just to be shoved back hard enough into the fridge to make the cereal boxes Christine had placed on top tumble to the floor.

“Are you crazy, man? Fuck, I hate you!”

“Yeah, whatever.” Brody placed his hands across his chest and stood disturbingly close to Wayne, knowing how much he made him uncomfortable.

“You’re crowding me, man. Move.”

“Make me.” Brody just stood there, his face a mere foot away from Wayne’s.

“Stop it, Brody. You’re the Sheriff goddamn it, you’re not supposed to be a bully.”

“We got a pulse.”

Jayce interrupted the two men crowding at the fridge, and in two seconds she and Bryce had Christine lifted on a stretcher already walking down the hallway out to the bright lights of the vehicles parked outside.

“You’re free to go.” Brody stepped aside, and held his strong arm out in a gesture for Wayne to follow the leaving party.