All Laurie could visualize was a dead body on her lawn. “I can’t!” she croaked.
“Try a joyful memory, then,” Mitzy coaxed. “Halloween. Rory and his friends running up and down Lincoln Avenue dressed like goblins and witches.”
Rory. If Norman was at the hospital, where was her son? And what about Rocky? Had he run off following her attack? Panic filled her eyes and her airways constricted.
The male nurse reappeared. He inserted a vial into the plastic liquid pouch hanging high above the bed.
Within seconds, Laurie felt her air passages enlarge. “Thank G-d.”
“You’re lucky Rory didn’t walk in on this escapade,” said Mitzy. Laurie’s heart gladdened. “He’s here?”
Mitzy shook her head. “My mom brought him this morning. Ryan asked her if she could watch Rory and Rocky until you got released.”
Laurie’s antenna shot up like a compass. “Ryan can watch his own
son.
Mitzy shot her friend a pitying look. “Honey, Ryan’s being held in custody.”
Laurie’s heart pounded in her fingertips. “Ryan rescued me. It’s Brad who should be in custody.”
A rap on the open door caused them both to turn towards the entranceway. Detective Maggie O’Connor sauntered into the room. “Mind if I talk to Laurie alone?”
“Not at all,” said Mitzy. As she drifted past Maggie, she whispered, “Be gentle.”
*
Detective O’Connor pulled a chair up to Laurie’s bedside. “How you doing?”
“Lovely,” said Laurie, turning her head away.
“If you push the button alongside your bed, you can raise yourself to a sitting position.”
Laurie rolled her eyes.
“Look, you’ve been through a severe trauma and I’m going to make this as painless as possible, but I need to ask you some questions. What went down between you and Brad Hamilton Jr. yesterday afternoon?”
“I warned you to look into that creep a long time ago,” Laurie said bitterly.
Detective O’Connor extracted a notepad from her jacket pocket. “What were you doing yesterday afternoon before Hamilton appeared on your doorstep?”
Laurie pushed the bed lever button and sat up. “I was preparing an e-mail blast to my clients and was stressing about being able to pick up my son on time from school.”
“Your husband says you’ve been estranged for the last two weeks,” said the detective. “What was the reason for your separation?”
What partial truths could she serve up to quell the detective’s appetite? “My husband held back information important to the identity of the young man who died on my property.”
“Go on.”
“The initials ‘TG’ belonged to a veterinary student denied coverage for a heart transplant by Great Harvest. Ryan uncovered a three-year pattern of denying coverage to young people requiring expensive treatments or surgeries.” Laurie paused to sip from a non-ecologically friendly Styrofoam cup. Her throat felt like crumpled sandpaper.
“‘TG’ were the initials of the victim you discovered on your property,” observed Detective O’Connor as she jotted notes on her legal pad.
Laurie gazed at the detective through hooded eyes. “Now you believe me.”
When the detective failed to acknowledge her statement, she continued. “Ryan confronted his supervisor. Brad threatened to fire him if he disclosed what he knew. Ryan quit the company in moral protest without telling me.”
“That’s why you sent your hubby packing?” the detective asked incredulously.
“Uh huh.” The last thing Laurie wanted to do was reveal the incriminating tape she had on her husband. “I’m feeling wiped out. Can we continue this conversation later?”
The detective sat there like a rock. Which made Laurie think of her Bichon. How was her little dog? And how was Rory? She missed them both. Laurie propped herself up on the pillow.
She decided to give the detective one more forkful to chew on. “The company paid him hush money which he deposited into his own account.”
“Interesting,” said the detective.
“Ryan rescued me from that narcissistic lunatic.”
The detective’s voice softened. “Tell me.”
Laurie’s whole body tensed. “I can’t.”
“I know it’s painful, but we need to press on. For your husband’s
sake.”
“My husband’s sake?”
O’Connor hesitated. “Brad’s on life support. Ryan’s being held on attempted murder.”
Laurie bolted upright. “What?”
“If Brad dies, Ryan could go away for life.”
“No jury would convict a man for saving his wife’s life!”
“You’re the only witness.”
Laurie’s eyes grew wide. She and Ryan argued like two pit bulls fighting over a porterhouse steak. Although the prospect of divorce lay on the horizon, she still cared deeply for him. He’d risked his life for hers. No way was she letting him go down. “How can I help my husband?”
“Tell me about Brad’s visit.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, Laurie willed herself to relive the horrid details. “The doorbell rings. Brad Jr. is standing on the front stoop. He’s wound up as tight as a metronome, crazy to learn if Ryan reported Great Harvest to the insurance disciplinary board. I tell Brad I have no clue, but he doesn’t believe me. He grabs me by the hair and threatens a playdate unless I come clean.”
“What happened then?” asked the detective.
“I kick Brad in the balls, but he grabs my knee and pushes me backwards. Then he picks me up like a sack of clothes and stomps into the kitchen for some orange juice. Seems his dad’s partner had me followed.” Laurie shivered. “Brad even knows the type of juice we drink. When he raises the orange juice carton to his mouth, I slap it from his hands.”
“Hate when people drink from the carton,” the detective said
dryly.
Laurie gave her a guarded look, then continued. “Sticky liquid streams down Brad’s polo shirt and wool slacks. He drops me on the floor and furiously searches below the kitchen sink for the paper towels.
“Meanwhile, I drag my body through the living room and into the hallway. My back and ribs were killing me but I finally make it to the front door. Just as I reached for the doorknob, Brad yanks me backwards. He’s cussing like a demon. His eyes are filled with fury.
“Brad unzipped his pants and thrust his penis into my mouth. I tried to bite him but his member was so big, I began to choke. My dog yipped at his jeans and Brad kicked him away. I scratched and hit but he just stuffs his penis farther down my throat ’til I can’t breathe. Just as I’m going to pass out, he comes in my mouth. A sour taste fills my mouth, but his member has shrunken. I’m no longer choking. ‘Swallow’ he orders me. Then his body collapses on me and there’s this dead silence.”
“Go on,” the detective said softly.
“His body weight is so heavy. Frantically, I sip every ounce of oxygen I can. The front door swings open and a blast of cold air pummels my arms. My whimpering dog hobbles down the hall and into the foyer. Ryan kneels down to check Rocky. “Laurie?”
“Gibberish spills from my mouth. To my ears, I’m barely whispering. I hear a far-off voice calling, ‘Daddy?’ Then Ryan yells, ‘Go to the neighbor’s house.’ Rocky howls. The door slams.
“From the corner of my eye, I glimpse Ryan rushing towards us. Pinned beneath Brad’s inert body, I gasp for air. Suddenly I hear a sick, crunching sound.”
“How did Brad respond?” asked Detective O’Connor.
“Never moved a muscle. Not even when Ryan pushed him off me. I remember thanking G-d I could breathe again. Then I passed out.”
“Your husband recently recovered from a heart attack,” mused the detective.
Laurie read the question in her eyes. “Ryan’s been working out two to three times a week with a personal trainer.”
The detective rose to her feet. “No doubt he experienced an adrenalin rush at seeing you compromised.”
“Does this clear him, then?” Now she was pleading for her husband’s freedom.
“Can’t make any promises. Need to talk to the state’s attorney first. Meanwhile, hang in there.”
“Does that go for my son, too?” Laurie asked, her nerves raw. “Should he ‘hang in there’ while his dad goes to jail?”
“One step at a time, Mrs. Atkins. One step at a time.”
*
Ryan sat in the patient consultation room, waiting for the police detectives to return with coffee and donuts. More than food, he longed for a hot shower and shave. It had been a long night, what with the police interrogation and all, and he was totally spent. Bad choice of words, considering the frozen DVD moment in which he’d discovered his wife and Brad.
He’d perceived himself as a Casper Milktoast, but the last three months had changed his perception. First he’d transported a dead body from his own property to that of his nemesis. Then he’d pummeled the man who’d viciously attacked his wife. The police said Brad Jr. was still alive. He should have cracked Brad’s neck harder. All in all, he’d handled the situation pretty well. Each neural pathway had appropriately exploded in rage.
Rage was a prehistoric emotion. Since childhood, Ryan had buried it deep within his soul. Be nice, be good. Those were the characteristics his mother and teachers treasured. His father, however, encouraged an aggressive reaction to life’s challenges. “A kid threatens to beat you up, you beat him up first,” Norman would say. When he’d follow his father’s instruction, Ryan’s self-image soared like an eagle. That triumphant feeling quickly faded once he returned home, his face all bloody. His mother, her lips taut with disapproval, would patch him up without a word.
Then there were his food allergies. Food products made with white flour caused him to breathe funny and made his brain all fuzzy. Candy made his tummy hurt. Every Halloween, his mother forced him to donate his stash to the kids holed up in the hospital. No amount of pleading or tearful accusations would sway her. “You know how sick you get from sweets, honey,” she’d say. As if her pet name for him wasn’t total irony.
Norman would slip him a handful of candies from the Trick or Treat bag when mom wasn’t looking. As Ryan’s father smiled benignly, he’d gobble them up. Ten minutes later, Ryan would be rolling around on the floor, his stomach cramping. His mother and father would engage in one of their full-blown shouting matches.
It wasn’t until his senior year at Lane Tech High School that Ryan figured out his mother had his back while his father lived through him vicariously. He stuffed his anger into his size 11 Field & Track shoes and focused on saying and doing the right things. By the time he met Laurie, he’d molded himself into Clark Kent. Only problem was,
Superman
dissed him. No more. Now he was a full-blown hero, too. And Laurie, AKA Lois Lane? She’d back up his story to the police. She’d be forever grateful he’d come to her rescue.
Just then the female detective who’d initially interviewed him entered the room sans coffee and donuts. Obviously he was leaving
sooner than they’d expected. “Am I free to go?” he asked confidently
Detective Maggie O’Connor tossed a micro-video cassette before him. “Not quite yet.”
31
Laurie glanced around the sterile room one last time to make sure she hadn’t forgotten to pack everything into the sturdy plastic Weiss Memorial Hospital bag. She snatched up the two unopened oldies but goodies Mitzy had brought her: When Bad Things Happen to Good People by Harold Kushner and Emotional Resilience by David Viscott.
Ryan’s dad had brought a bouquet of fall flowers, a testament that color can be derived from even the most horrific of circumstances. Then there was the needlepoint kit featuring a perfectly groomed Bichon posing on a maroon ottoman. “It’ll take your mind off your troubles, dear,” Shirley Maven had assured her. Laurie gratefully accepted the gift although she was all thumbs when it came to handiwork.
Tears sprang to Laurie’s eyes as her buttocks once again reconfigured the mattress. Yet these last two nights had been hell. The taste of Brad seeped through her taste buds like maggots eating away at dead tissue. She felt bereft, like a field whose crops had rotted. How could she resume a normal sex life with Ryan? Ryan had risked his life for her. Showed her how much he really cared. Touched her soul. Certainly, he deserved an opportunity to re-enter her life. Was it fair to ask him to move back into the house?
“Hey, kiddo. Ready to rumble?” Norman Atkins was flanked by a Filipino attendant sporting a wheelchair.
Laurie slowly stood. “I don’t need a wheelchair.”
“Hospital rules,” said the male attendant.
“Reduces their liability,” said Norman. “You could fall, and then sue the hospital.”
“Whatever,” said Laurie. She settled into the wheelchair. Then she plopped the heavy plastic bag on her lap. “You’re a real prince, coming to pick me up.”
“Since my son’s otherwise engaged, you’re stuck with me,” said Norman.
“Ryan didn’t come to visit,” Laurie complained as the attendant rolled her down the hall.
Norman kept several paces behind the wheelchair. “The police have been questioning Ryan non-stop. Your attacker is in a coma. He could die at any moment.”
The elevator door slid open and the Atkins party filtered into the empty elevator. “I gave my statement to Detective O’Connor yesterday,” said Laurie. “My account matches Ryan’s. The detective said they just had to run it by the state’s attorney’s office. Ryan should be good to go.”