A Dangerous Affair (23 page)

"Stop saying that!"

"It's my house. I'll say whatever the hell I feel like saying."

"Shut up!"

"You shut up!" Sheila snapped back. She kicked the bag. "I'll call the cops."

"Stop shouting at me."

Sheila pushed him backwards. "I said 'Get out!'"

Josh slammed his elbow on the corner of the wall. "You stupid bitch!"

Sheila flicked her cigarette at Josh and missed.

Josh punched her in the mouth.

Sheila fell backwards. She touched her fingers to her bloody lip and came out swinging, her fists thrashing wildly at Josh's head.

Josh fended off the blows with his long reach before he grabbed a porcelain gnome from the bookshelf and smashed it on Sheila's head.

Sheila collapsed on the floor. Blood oozed from the jagged cut above her ear.

"Get up!" Josh shouted. He stood over Sheila's body and nudged her in the back with his foot. "I barely touched you."

He knelt down and put his ear to her chest. "Get up!" He slapped her face and put his hand on her mouth to check her breathing.

Nothing.

He cupped his mouth over hers and blew. He laced his hands and pushed on her chest, mimicking the CPR technique he saw on television.

He leaned in closer and put his shoulders into it, driving the palm of his hand against her breast plate.

He checked her breathing again.

Still nothing.

He dialed 911 on his cell phone but canceled before the operator answered.

The room swirled around him like an Oklahoma twister, leaving chaos and destruction in its wake.
It was an accident,
he told himself.
A stupid accident!
I didn't mean it...

He peeked out the window overlooking the neighbor's trailer and saw the vacant carport.

This isn't happening... You were never here.

He opened the cello case, shoved the cello into the bedroom, and stuffed Sheila's body inside the velvet lined container. He folded her arms at her chest and crammed her head inside the padded neck partition.

He folded her legs backward at the knee and pushed.

Then he closed the lid and secured the first latch at the bottom. When the top refused to shut completely, he sat on it for leverage, using his body weight to seal the deal. He rinsed his hands in the sink and wiped away any blood he could find on the case's plastic exterior.

He grabbed a bag of kitchen trash for appearances and wheeled the hidden body outside the trailer. The length of a football field spanned the distance to the dumpster—and the first stop on the garbage truck's morning route.

First the baby and now this,
he thought. He had gone 0-2 before and watched his brother go to prison. This time he manned up to his own problems and did what he had to do. His years of drug-free existence negated by a single, stupid mistake, he had no one to blame but himself.

He carried the trash in one hand while he pulled the hundred pound load with the other, his progress impeded by the weight of a guilty conscience and the bitter taste of his own remorse.

Chapter 33

Doctor Lacy nudged the designer glasses on her button nose. "Are you ready?" she asked Varden.

Varden shifted uncomfortably on the leather sofa. He thought about his answer and why he came to her office in the first place. No matter how hard the climb or how far the fall, he needed the one thing he hoped Doctor Lacy could provide—closure.

"Mr. Varden?"

Varden held the young doctor's gaze from across the room. "Sorry." He leaned back on the sofa cushion and let the supple leather cradle him. He tapped his heel to vent his nervous energy. "I haven't seen my daughter Trisha since she disappeared. There you have it. Am I supposed to feel better now?"

"When did she disappear?"

"July 11th, 1999," Varden recalled. "I still remember Trisha running around the back yard chasing that mutt her mother bought her for Christmas. The dog wore a purple collar with a nametag. The tag always jingled when he ran. Trisha loved that dog's pug nose. She named him Elvis, but she always called him Elvi. A stupid name for a stupid dog I never wanted her to have in the first place. Trisha's mother never learned to say 'No.' I said from day one the dog was too much responsibility for an eight-year-old."

"What happened?" Doctor Lacy asked directly. She kept her notepad on her desk and her hands in her lap.

"The dog got through the fence. Trisha went after it. Neither one of them came back." He wiped his eye with the back of his hand.

"And you blame your wife."

"Ex-wife. She filed for divorce a year later."

"How did that make you feel?"

"How do you think? My wife was weak. She couldn't handle the stress anymore."

"And what about you? How do you handle the stress?"

Varden undressed her with his eyes. "I take small bites and chew."

Doctor Lacy restrained herself from reaching for her pen and paper. "And the police never found your daughter?"

"I wouldn't be here if they had."

"That's a lot to carry."

"It's what I don't know that hurts the most," said Varden. "I can accept my daughter's gone. What I need to know is why?"

Doctor Lacy crossed her legs at her knees and toyed with the pearl necklace at the front of her satin blouse. "Would it bring you closure?"

Varden sat up. His shoulders tensed. He stared into a void only he could see. "When I find the man who took my baby... I'll find closure."

"Vengeance won't cure the hurt."

"No, but it will take the sting away."

"You don't strike me as the violent type," said Doctor Lacy.

"You don't know me very well."

"Is that why you harbor such resentment for the men in your care?"

"It's not my job to care for them," said Varden. "It's my job to enforce the rules."

Doctor Lacy pushed a lock of hair away from her face. "Do you blame them for what happened to you and your daughter?"

"I blame myself for my daughter. That one's on me. I know she's gone, but part of me... Part of me thinks maybe there's a chance. You know? A small chance she's still out there waiting for me to find her."

"Is that what brought you here?"

"You tell me."

Doctor Lacy turned away to face the window. "I can't bring your daughter back, Mr. Varden. And I can't explain why she disappeared."

Varden leaned forward. "Do you think there's something wrong with me?"

"You're invested in the grieving process. That's a good sign. The process takes time."

Varden settled back in the sofa. "Until I know for certain she's dead, I have to believe she's still alive."

"At some point you have to let go."

"Do you have children, doctor?"

"No."

"Then try to imagine for one second what I'm dealing with here."

"I imagine it's a lot."

Varden cupped his face in his hands and mumbled, "You have no idea."

Chapter 34

Lloyd dreamed in vivid colors, his restless movements constrained by the massive erection in his pants. He could feel Jamie's warmth pressed against him, the scent of her perfume so strong he could almost taste it.

He rolled on his side in a pole-vault motion, careful not to bend the swollen appendage under his own weight. He touched his hand to Jamie's face and kissed her painted lips, moist and sweet. He felt her tongue tease his mouth as he pulled her closer to embrace her warmth and devour her like no woman he had ever known before.

He touched her delicious breasts, enriched by her flawless figure, soft and pliant in his powerful hands. He kissed her nipples, brushing his tongue along the textured contours of her skin. Pressure swelled inside him. His heart pounded in his throat when his energy met her glowing aura, sustaining a sexual connection beyond the physical plane—a spiritual bond consecrated by their unbridled passion for one another. Then as quickly as her image came to him, it faded.

Lloyd rolled on his back, his euphoric state obliterated by a shrill announcement piercing the early morning hour.

Varden blew the whistle a second time. His face turned red. "Rise and shine, ladies." He kicked Lloyd's bed frame and flicked the lights on. "Up and out," he yelled across the hall. He pounded the mattress by Marvin's head. "You too, Sunshine. Let's go."

"What time is it?" asked Lloyd, blinded by the rows of overhead track lights strategically placed to maximize their assault on his eyes. He shoved the blanket aside and stood up from the lower bunk. He tucked his somewhat diminished, but still ample erection in the side of his boxer shorts.

"Stow your junk, Mr. Sullivan. That's the last thing I need to see."

Lloyd adjusted himself again, his jubilant fantasy supplanted by the angry warden's callous demeanor.

Varden waited for Marvin to comply. "Let's go, Mr. Tate. I'm not getting any younger."

"Why you gotta run this drill three times a week?" Marvin whined.

"Mind over matter, Mr. Tate. I don't mind, so it don't matter."

Marvin joined the group while Varden tossed the sheets and mattresses on the rack assigned to Tate and Sullivan.

Men grumbled and pointed from the hallway outside, but no one interfered with Varden's mission.

A one-man wrecking ball, Varden tore pillows inside out, turned dresser drawers upside down, and scoured every inch of Lloyd's foot locker until he uncovered what he'd planned to find all along: folded pages from
Playgirl
magazine. "Would you look at that, Mr. Sullivan." He unfolded the glossy photos and displayed his discovery to the room of spineless observers praying the next bunk Varden searched wasn't theirs. "Looks like Mr. Sullivan enjoys playing for the other team. Who knew?"

Varden turned to Lloyd. "Is this what got you fired up this morning?"

"I've never seen that before," Lloyd stated loudly.

"Do you know what this is, Mr. Sullivan? It's strike number three for you. A ticket back to prison. Section nine, paragraph two, states—"

"I know what it says," Lloyd belted out in frustration.

Varden crumpled the glossy pages in his hand. "Are you trying to screw with me?"

"I'm trying to educate you."

A chuckle from the back of the room extinguished quickly in the heated confrontation.

"Do you prefer the company of other men, Mr. Sullivan? Because as certain as the sun will rise, most every man in this room took a pole between the pillows at one time or another. But I'm not here to judge you. I'm here to enforce the rules."

Lloyd kept his emotions in check. A fight with Varden would only blemish his jacket further and promote another obstacle to overcome when he challenged his parole violation in court.

Varden pressed harder. "What you do outside of here is your business. What you do inside
these walls
is mine." He pointed his finger at the audience in the hall. "Let this be a warning to the rest of you. There is no expectation of privacy in this facility. Like it or not, you men are under my direct supervision. You are all on provisional status. My policies are zero tolerance. No discussion. No exception. Am I making myself clear? Or do I need to haul the rest of you out with Mr. Sullivan?"