Frank took the brush off the bedside table and moved closer to her. Her hair, still long and shiny but gray now, gently waved against her cheeks. He carefully brushed it. The scar around her neck was still there, deep purple, after all these years. He lifted her hair and touched it.
“I’m trying to save this little town,” he began, continuing to brush. “I’m not sure it wants saving. I’m not sure it can bear to know the truth.” He pulled the hair away from her face so he could see her eyes . . . once a deep and sparkly brown. “Kind of like you. If you could, I know you’d tell me how much you hate me for saving you that day. That you wouldn’t want to live like this—” Frank cut off his words and set down the brush. He took her hand. It was cold like usual. “I just wish you had known your worth. That’s all I wish. That you hadn’t believed all the lies other people said about you. I wish this town could learn . . . would listen to one another instead of talking so much.”
Willie stepped in with a mop. “Oh, hi, Frank. Didn’t know you were here. Didn’t I see you this morning?”
Frank nodded. “Needing to see her a little more these days. Will you give me a couple of minutes?”
“Sure thing. I know Miss Meredith wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Frank smiled and watched Willie exit, then looked at Meredith, then at the floor. Every single day, guilt was like the choking rope he’d found around his sister’s neck. It was always there, squeezing the life out of him. He knew Meredith would not have wanted to live endless years like this, but this was how it all turned out. If he’d come home just two minutes sooner, it might’ve turned out differently. Two minutes later and he’d have buried her. If he hadn’t changed shifts at work, he wouldn’t have come home for another four hours.
Frank folded his hands together and slumped. “I wish you could tell me how to get over Angela. She’s moved on. Like it was no big deal. And yet I can’t ever seem to get her out of my heart. I can’t imagine being with anyone else. She’s the only one I ever wanted.” He wiped his nose. “I know you’d have good advice for me.”
He sat there for a moment. Sometimes he’d imagine that they were having a conversation.
Frank unbuckled her from the five-point harness that kept her upright in her wheelchair. Sliding a gentle hand underneath her back and careful to not knock her feeding tube, he lifted her. She seemed to be weightless, just like when she was twenty. Probably barely ninety pounds.
He laid her in the bed and pulled the covers up to her chest, turning her slightly and putting a pillow against the small of her back.
Frank stared out the window for a minute, into the black, cold night, then leaned over and, like he’d done every day for two and a half decades, whispered in her ear.
***
From a deep sleep, Frank sat straight up, trying to catch his breath, staring wide-eyed into total blackness. He clutched his chest, gulping down air, wondering if he was having a heart attack. Slowly, like moving shadows, the dark contents of the room came into focus. But the walls closed in like a groaning, hulking beast.
He threw back damp sheets and stood for a moment, trying to get a grip. The clock read 4:02 a.m. What had he dreamed?
In the bathroom he splashed water on his face, pressed a towel to his eyes, and leaned against the sink, his head propped against the mirror.
Something stirred inside him. Some sort of warning. Something unsettling.
But he had been sleeping. Was it just a nightmare? It seemed to have already retreated to the recesses of his mind.
He finished wiping his face, throwing the towel onto the counter. He intended to go back to bed but was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. He pushed his feet into his old, ratty slippers and trudged to the kitchen.
As he opened the fridge, staring at the small selection of snack foods while letting the cold air hit his face, he again tried to remember what had caused him to awaken.
Maybe it was the stress. Angela had told him once that he didn’t handle it well. He thought he handled it fine. No, he didn’t break down and cry. He didn’t talk about it with people who didn’t care. He just handled it. He moved on. What point was there to keeping it around?
But this time, there was no denying it. A lot was happening. And it was very personal, getting more personal by the day.
He poured himself a large glass of milk and mixed some strawberry Nesquik in, then went to the living room and turned on QVC. He settled in for an hour-long infomercial about exercise equipment he swore he’d buy come January.
Noticing his cell phone on the table, he decided he should send Damien a text. He’d read it in the morning, then scold Frank for not having the courtesy to pick up the phone, regardless of the hour. Frank smiled at the thought as his fat thumbs struggled with the tiny keys. He finally got it all typed out:
good talk w/ hunt-man. he didn’t admit it, but i think i sent him a clear msg w/out accusing him since we don’t know 4 sure. will try again next wk
.
He’d just gulped the last of his milk when he gasped, which pulled the milk down the windpipe, throwing him into a fit of coughing that took him to his knees. As he coughed and hacked, struggling for breath, everything became clear. The fuzzy thoughts he’d been trying to capture came into focus.
He remembered. He remembered what had startled him out of sleep!
Still choking through every breath, he managed to get to his feet. He hurried to the basement door, scurrying down the cold concrete steps.
He sat down at his computer and shuffled the mouse, bringing the screen to life. Frank’s fingers flew across the keyboard. He typed in the address to Listen to Yourself.
Thanks to the early morning hour and the awful exhaustion he still felt, the words blurred for several seconds. Finally he was able to read. And reread. And read again.
“Oh no . . . ,” he breathed. “Oh no. No. No.”
He flung himself out of the chair, taking two steps up the stairs at a time. Without turning on the light, he yanked open the drawer in his bedroom and grabbed his gun.
23
Damien figured he fell asleep about 3 a.m. He’d tried not to watch the clock, but the other alternative was to continue to play the recent events over and over in his head. And somehow everything came out much worse when he did that. The scenarios took dark twists . . . the “almosts” became reality.
At midnight he’d even heard his neighbors arguing outside on their lawn.
Finally, though, his mind tired of it all and he was able to catch a few hours’ sleep. The blaring alarm clock reminded him it had, indeed, been just a few hours.
When the alarm suddenly shut off, Damien opened his eyes. Kay’s hand was now on his shoulder as she stood above him. “Out of bed, sleepyhead.”
He managed to keep one eye open. “You’re already dressed? How late am I?”
“Not late. I’m just early. Hurry and get ready. I’ve got breakfast cooking.”
He knew he smelled something good.
He sat up, put his feet on the floor, and tried to get motivated to stand. He noticed his cell phone light blinking. He’d missed a call? He flipped it open. Not a call but a text from Frank. Didn’t he have the decency to call?
He looked at the log. It had arrived at 4:32 a.m.
Glad he had the decency not to call,
Damien thought. He held the phone close to his face, trying to decipher the strange word codes that texting seemed to bring out in people.
He breathed a sigh of relief as he finished reading. The message about Hunter couldn’t have come at a better time. Much of his night had been consumed dwelling over the state of his two children, wondering how badly he’d screwed them both up. Frank’s message said Hunter was fine. Had a good talk.
Glancing at the time, he hurried to get dressed, then went downstairs. Everyone was already at the table, enjoying French toast.
“This is a first. Everyone beat you downstairs.” Kay took his plate and loaded it with three pieces.
Jenna handed him the syrup.
“You doing okay?” Damien asked.
“I’m fine. Seriously. You guys are going to drive me insane about this, aren’t you?”
“No more than we’d drive ourselves insane,” Damien said, winking at Kay. “Just remember, like Frank said, nobody knows you made the call, so you’re going to be fine.”
“I’m not worried,” Jenna said. “I just hope there isn’t all this big drama at school.”
“Please.” Hunter laughed. “There’s big drama about zits. This thing is going to skyrocket with drama.”
“True,” Damien said.
She rolled her eyes.
They finished eating and Jenna grabbed her backpack off the counter. “Hey, Hunter, I’ll drop you off if you want.”
“Really? Yeah, that’d be great!” Hunter jumped up and threw on his coat.
Kay caught Damien’s attention and smiled. He returned it. Sibling love being shared? “Take a picture,” Kay whispered.
Damien laughed.
He finished his breakfast and tried to gear himself up for the day. Edgar had called late last night, told him though he hated him for not following orders, the op-ed piece was brilliant. In it, Damien had written to the people talking. He’d raised the question that he could not shake himself: What harm was done when words were spoken in private? Who could be hurt by words they never heard?
And what now? Should we stop speaking? Should we be afraid of every word that leaves our mouths?
And most importantly, do the words we speak have any power over us, whether heard or not, by someone else?
He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction would be coming in. Probably lots of e-mails. A few phone calls. He was pretty certain he was still not off the hook with Edgar. But who knew. Edgar was acting so strangely that it was hard to predict what was going on with him.
Today he knew what he had to do. He had to create a new puzzle. And in it, a message to the person wreaking havoc on their town. It was almost expected, wasn’t it? That the message should be returned in the same way it was received?
A hand touched his shoulder. “You’re in deep thought.” Kay turned him toward her and put a hand on each cheek. “And looking very tired. Maybe you should stay home, get some rest.”
“I can’t,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I’ll rest later. There’s always later, right?”
His phone beeped and vibrated in his pocket. Things were getting started awfully early. He pulled it out and sighed.
“What?” Kay asked.
“Another text from Frank. I think he’s doing it just to annoy me. He knows how much I hate it.” He flipped open his phone and read. “See? I can’t even make sense of this. I don’t know what all these abbreviations are.”
Kay took the phone and read. “Something about . . . I don’t know. These aren’t abbreviations. It’s like he’s typing while he’s jumping up and down.”
Damien took the phone back, holding it close to see every letter.
Hpp meee. At Angas hou.
Was Frank drunk or something? “HPP?”
“Nothing that I know of.” Kay shrugged.
“Sort of sounds like help. Help me?” Damien looked up at Kay. “Is that what this says?”
Kay put her finger on the screen to underline the text. “Help me. At Angas?”
“Do you think he was trying to spell Angela?”
Kay nodded. “Yes. Look.
Hou.
Like he was trying to say house.”
“Help me. At Angela’s house.”
Kay crossed her arms. “Now what is he up to?”
Damien stared at the screen.
“Honey?” Kay’s quizzical face was in front of his again.
“Yeah, sorry. Angela’s place is just a few streets over. I’ll run by. Check it out.”
“Don’t let him pull you into any crazy ideas, okay?”
“Who, Frank?” Damien smiled. “That guy would never do anything insane.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, tossing him his briefcase.
***
Damien turned in to the apartment complex, still trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes. The morning was unusually cold, and his car kept lurching forward, trying to warm up. He patted the steering wheel. “Come on, baby. Relax.”
He didn’t know exactly which apartment Angela lived in, but as he drove toward the back of the complex, he saw Frank’s truck parked crooked across two spaces.
Damien parked nearby and got out, pulling his gloves on and scrunching his neck down to keep his ears warm. He looked around, trying to figure out which apartment was hers. A few had some distinctions, like plastic flowers in a pot or a Christmas wreath hanging on the door. Other than that, they all looked alike.
He strolled along the sidewalk, glancing left and right. “Frank?” he hollered.
No answer.
He walked a few more paces, until he noticed an apartment with the door wide open. Maybe they’d know Angela. He stepped toward it and stood in the doorway. He knocked loudly on the doorframe and moved back, hoping not to startle someone.
Standing still, with his hands clasped in front of him, he regarded the apartment. Very homey, a bit rustic, nice and tidy. “Hello?”
No answer.
He stepped forward again and knocked. “Hello?”
Then something on the floor grabbed his attention. Two feet nearly hidden by the sofa. Damien walked in, quickly making his way toward the feet near the television set. “Hello? Hey?”
As Damien rounded the corner of the sofa, he saw his face, one side flat against the beige carpet. Eyes closed.
“Frank!”
Damien dropped to his knees. Frank was in uniform, his head twisted to the side, an arm grotesquely squeezed underneath him. The apartment was mostly dark. The sun hadn’t risen high enough to provide much light. But in what little light he had, he could see a small bloody circle on Frank’s back near his backbone. Damien reached for his shoulder, shaking him. “Frank! Frank!”
No response.
Damien took the other shoulder and tried to turn him over. It took three tries, but he finally rolled him. A cell phone dropped to the carpet. It had been in his hand. Damien picked it up. On the screen it said
911
. Damien grabbed the phone and put it to his ear. “Officer down! Please send help!”