Transience (35 page)

He had a pretty good idea which was the shortest way to the hospital, but the rain had slowed traffic to a crawl.
 
He shifted in his seat; anxious, frustrated.

"Shit!"
 
He slammed his fist on the steering wheel and reached into his inside pocket to pull out a piece of paper with a number written on it.
 
He opened his cell phone and dialed, exchanging glances with the stop and go traffic, trying not to crash into the car in front of him.

Robert stood beside Patricia's hospital bed, patting her forehead with a damp cloth.
 
The hospital was teaming with people.
 
Robert frantically searched the faces of doctors and nurses, coming and going, hopeful that one of them would finally be Martha, their obstetrician.
 

Patricia winced in pain.
 
"Where is she?"
 
Robert squeezed her hand.

"She'll be here, any second now.
 
Just stay calm.
 
Breathe."
 
Robert stepped forward into the stream of traffic and grabbed the arm of one of the passing nurses.
 

He recognized her, she helped admit them when they arrived.
 
"Is our doctor here yet?"

"She called, she's on her way."
 
Robert nodded.
 
He dragged his hand across his face, squeezing his mouth, exhaling hard and loud.

His cell phone rang.
 
"Hello?"
 

Before Robert could hear who was on the line, a threatening look from a passing nurse made him pull the phone away from his ear.

"You can't use cell phones in here," she said.

"Robert?
 
Robert?" Jack yelled Robert's name into the phone, but he never heard it.
 
Robert gave the nurse a
whatever
nod and turned off his phone.
 

Jack heard the line go dead.
 
"Robert?
 
Robert?
 
Shit."
 

The traffic snarled, a total log jam.
 
Fuck it.
 
He switched on his spinning blue police light and pulled out onto the shoulder.
 
His tires kicked up mud and rocks as he sped past two jammed lanes of cars, taking the exit ramp.
 

"Where the hell…"
 
He didn't know if he should turn right or left, so he took a chance, turning right and tearing down a side street.

He looked at his watch, Bishop would be going in front of the judge right about now.

CHAPTER 61

Down at the courthouse, spectators were packed in thick, waiting for the entrance of the accused killer.
 
The main hallway, an expansive area with 30 foot ceilings and handcrafted marble pillars, was filled to capacity with onlookers.
 

One of them was Carl Rosa, who clenched every muscle in his small frame when he spotted officers leading Bishop in.
 
Carl stood up, regretting his decision not to bring a gun once he realized they were going to walk the bastard right past him.
 

Bishop kept his face hidden as they approached, denying Carl the opportunity to stare his daughter's murderer in the eyes.
 
Bishop seemed limp, almost as if the guards were dragging him.
 
Suddenly, Bishop looked up — right at Carl.
 
Carl caught a glimpse of the killer's surprisingly meek and timid face, so thin and ugly.
 
He shuddered at the thought that this hideous psychopath was the last thing his beloved daughter saw.
 
It took every ounce of strength to restrain himself from leaping through the entourage of officers and squeezing Bishop's neck until he was dead.
 
The moment Bishop passed and disappeared through the courtroom doors, he regretted it.
 
Any punishment would have been worth the retribution.

Laura was at home on the couch, watching the arraignment on TV.
 
A reporter was at the scene.
 
She grabbed the remote to raise the volume.

"Edward Bishop has confessed to killing at least four women, including the rape and murder of Angelina Rosa
,
whose remains have still not been recovered, and most recently, the abduction and murder of Teresa Mason, who managed to give police a positive ID of her attacker before she died.
 
Bishop's arraignment is scheduled for 1:30 - Oh, wait, I think they're bringing him in now-
"
 
The reporter spun around as the camera tracked Bishop's entrance.
 
It followed as they marched him in front of the judge, the entire affair now deteriorating into a circus, flashes going off on all sides.
 

Laura poked her head up and caught a glimpse of Rebecca riding her bike past the house.
 
She wasn't thrilled about letting her ride around in the rain, but her daughter seemed so happy, she didn't want to spoil it.
 
Long may it last.
 
She turned her attention back to the TV when the doorbell rang.
 
Laura shot up expectantly.

She peeked through the front curtain and saw a man holding a briefcase, getting soaking wet.
 
She opened the door as fast as she could.

"Hi!" Laura said with a smile, pushing out the screen door politely.

"Hello.
 
Ms. Lowell?
 
Michael Ketcher, from the University?
 
We spoke on the phone…about Rebecca?"

"Yes, of course, won't you come in?"

"Thanks."
 
Michael stomped the mud and rain off his boots and stepped inside.
 

"Can I take your coat?"

"Thanks."
 
He turned as she helped him off with it.
 
"My colleague, Helen, apologizes for not being able to make it, but she'd like to stop by tomorrow if that's okay with you?"

"Yeah, sure."
 

Michael found a painting of Rebecca's leaning up against the wall, several more stacked behind it.
 

"May I?"

"Yes, I put them out for you to take a look at.
 
There's more inside on the table."

Michael flipped through them, his eyes danced with excitement.
 
He paused to admire a portrait of a woman holding a baby.
 
"Oh jeez, remarkable, just incredible.
 
Is she here?"

"She's out riding.
 
A friend bought her a new bike.
 
She should have come in by now."
 
Laura turned to look out the front door impatiently.
 

Michael caught a glimpse of Rebecca in a school photo, hanging in a frame on the wall.
 

"Well, I can't wait to meet her.
 
I've been a teacher in the arts for over 20 years, I've never seen talent like hers at such a young age.
 
How old is she now?"

"She just turned nine."

"Unbelievable.
 
I'll be honest, I'm a little skeptical."

"Some of her other work is in here.
 
Would you like to have a look while we wait?"

"Sure."
 
Laura guided him into the living room.
 
She'd laid out more of Rebecca's artwork across a fine red linen tablecloth on the dining room table.

"Tell me again about the kind of money people will pay for artwork like hers?"

Michael emptied his lungs with passion.
 
"Oh jeez…sky's the limit."

CHAPTER 62

The rain continued to pour, Jack swerved to avoid an oncoming car that had drifted into his lane.
 
His right tire dipped into a deep puddle, splashing a wave of water a good 10 feet in the air.
 
He fought the wheel, turning into the skid to regain control.

"Come on!"

The road he was expecting wasn't there, he must have made a wrong turn.
 
It didn't matter too much, all the roads in this area terminated along the same main stretch a few miles up.
 
He'd just have to double back.
 
But any time he might have saved going this way was now lost.

Jack's phone rang, he fumbled along the seat for it, refusing to take his eyes off the road again, even for a second.
 
It was Harrington.

"Yeah?"

"Jack, we found something.
 
They're bringing it up now."

Jack swallowed, his emotions conflicting between closure and bitter failure.

"Where are you?" Harrington asked.
 
Jack strained to see the name of a street sign through the rain.
 

"Lost…"
 
Jack hung up and took the turn, hoping he could double back quicker than he thought.
 
His car swiveled on the
slippery surface, he slowed down a bit to correct it.
 
He passed a few rural homes, small two and three bedroom colonials, each separated by an acre of property.
 
One house had several junked cars parked on the lawn.
 
He made his way towards the main road again; another 2 miles, he figured.
 

A sign pointing to highway 406 confirmed it and he accelerated.
 
He looked out over an expansive patch of grassy field.
 
It was brown from the onset of winter, large patches of earth where flood water was collecting in thick pools from all the heavy rain.
 
Adjacent to the field was a steep hill where power lines stretched to infinity.
 
Something caught his attention along the top.

High up at the apex of the hill was a large, rusted water tower.
 
Jack squinted to read something on its side, a worn slogan:

Find Jesus.
 

Jack slowed to a stop.
 
He rolled down the window to get a better look, rain splashing off the door into his face.
 
He put the car in reverse and turned down an adjacent road.
 
He wanted to get closer.
 

The road was narrow, uneven, the ups and downs of the terrain were a little much on the shocks of his old car.
 
He felt each bump in his spine, ignoring the pain.

He passed a few more houses, one was in great disrepair, its windows and doors boarded up while the walls themselves crumbled down.
 
On his left, he passed a small church whose facade had seen better days.
 
Scattered shingles from the roof littered the grass from a recent storm.
   

He spotted something in the distance, a small long abandoned fruit stand.

JACK SLAMMED ON THE BRAKES.

He pulled over and stepped out of the car.
 
The sign on the fruit stand read:

The Fruits of Our Labors.

Jack stood stunned.
 
He read it, then re-read it, wiping his rain-soaked face to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.
 

He took a step to his right and could see the water tower - its slogan,
Find Jesus
— clearly visible behind it.
 

Jack turned in place.
 
Behind him was a small white house, a light on inside.

He looked back at the church down the road.
 
Then at the fruit stand.
 
Then the water tower.
 

"
There are no coincidences,"
Leonard's voice repeated in his head.

Jack turned back towards the tiny house and reached inside his jacket for his gun.
 
His hand was shaking uncontrollably.
 
Maybe it was from the freezing rain.
 
Maybe.

As Jack slowly approached the house, he noticed a basement window facing the road with protective metal bars on it, the kind normally used in the inner city.
 
He stepped quietly across the grass and up the two broken steps to the front door.
 

He knocked.
 
No answer.
 
He knocked again and the door swayed open loosely.
 
Jack looked over his shoulder, his car parked in the middle of the street.
 
He turned and took a cautious step inside the house.

He found himself in a small kitchen.
 
There were dirty dishes piled ten high, a month's worth, empty glasses filled with liquids, flies swarming loudly.

"Hello?" Jack called out.
 
He could hear a TV, someone was watching a game show in the living room.
 

"Lansing Police Department.
 
Is anyone home?"

He passed through an open doorway into the living room, his gun leading the way.
 
There was a TV on, but no one was watching it.
 
The floor was littered with dirty food trays, dozens of upended pill bottles, and crumpled tissues.
 
A dust covered wheelchair parked in the corner. The rancid smell was nauseating.
 

A toilet flushed - Jack spun in the direction of the noise.
 
A bathroom door opened and an elderly woman, holding her robe together with both hands, stepped slowly into view.
 
She reached for her walker.
 
Jack holstered his gun.
 

She looked terribly malnourished and disheveled.
 
Her skin hung from her bones, covered with liver spots and small cuts and welts.
 
Her tattered robe was full of stains. Her face looked like it hadn't touched water in months.
 
She made her way back to her La-Z-Boy.
 

"Ma'am?" Jack finally said, but she didn't even turn to acknowledge him.
 
She sat down and resumed her program as if no one else was in the room.