Ruth placed a steadying hand against her racing heart. The harrowing trip from Quincy Hall left her trembling badly. She’d never driven a car in her life, and at first it was all she could do simply to open the door and climb into the driver’s seat. Her old insecurities reared up once again, suffocating her.
She’d watched Ronald enough times that she felt confident in her ability to at least start the car. She knew there was an accelerator pedal and a brake. Her hand shook when she inserted the key and it took her four tries to slot the damned thing into the ignition.
She’d gotten the car started, but then had to think hard about what came next. A foot on the gas. Hands on the wheel. Shifting into gear. She’d mistakenly pushed the gear stick into “drive” instead of “reverse,” nearly crashing into a side wall of the expansive garage.
Three more attempts, and Ruth finally figured out how to shift properly. By then she was damp with sweat and panting in near-hysteria. If her panic didn’t ease, she’d never make it any further.
Creeping along, far under the speed limit, she drove through intersections and along lesser streets. Hoping no one would notice her erratic steering, she reached the downtrodden side of town in one piece. But she’d entered a wrong street somewhere and ended up on the other side of the railroad tracks, facing the rear side of Spring Street instead of where she needed to be.
Ruth climbed out of the car and stood on trembling legs, fighting to rebalance her equilibrium. It wasn’t until she heard the childish giggles that she realized she was almost directly across from the Turner’s crumbling back porch. She saw her grandson in Mary Turner’s arms.
Bitter hate burned through her body like acid. If she had a gun in her hands, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind. She would have lifted it, aimed at the woman’s head, and pulled the trigger. To hell with the consequences.
She watched Mary Turner place the boy in what appeared to be a box filled with dirty sand, littered with old dishes. In heaven’s name, how could the woman allow a child to sit in such filth? Ruth’s face twisted in disgust. Little Duncan looked happy enough as he banged on a pot with his hands and giggled over the horrid din he created. And why shouldn’t he look happy? He didn’t know any better. What kind of example were these people setting for her grandson? Grubbing about in dirt. Pounding on inferior kitchen equipment. His diaper was probably wet again. She couldn’t bear to think of what might be crawling out of that nasty dirt and under his clothes. It was disgraceful. Unacceptable.
Every second she wasted over here was a second her poor grandson had to endure being separated from her. But she needed to compose herself a bit longer before she attempted to drive again. She closed her hand over the small prescription bottle in the pocket of her slacks. One pill, they were so very tiny, weren’t they? One pill would settle her nerves.
She drew the bottle out and thumbed off the cap. Without taking her eyes from Mary Turner, she shook a pill into her palm, brought it to her lips and swallowed it, dry. Immediately she felt more in control, though she knew the pill couldn’t possibly have taken effect that quickly. No, it was her own self-assurance coming into play, her own confidence.
She was ready now. Ready to take control. Ready to rescue the Quincy Heir.
Mary brushed at the sand in Hank’s hair, trying to get to it before it dripped down into his eyes. As usual, the imp didn’t seem to feel any discomfort from having sand stuffed into all of his little nooks and crannies. He shook his head, sending sand flying, chortling and clapping his hands.
“Stop that, you monkey!” She gave up, laughing too hard herself to scold him with any real effect. She sat on the edge of the sandbox and watched as he dumped yet another bucket of sand across his legs and squealed in glee. He fisted his fingers in the sand and held it out, then pulled his arm back to fling the damp clump right at her head.
“Don’t you dare. Hank, you put that down!” Mary held out both hands to stop him, but she was weak from laughter and Hank was too mischievous to listen, anyhow. The sand went flying, missed her hair and landed on the collar of her shirt, where it broke apart and slid down under the material, right into the loose cup of her bra.
“Yuck!” She tried to peel the shirt away and shake out the sand still clinging to her collar, but she only succeeded in getting more of it down her shirt. She regarded her grandson with glinting eyes as he slid sideways in the box, giggling like a fiend.
Messy or not, she loved her boy, but she shook a finger at him, scolding, “You’re such a little dickens! I think it’s past time for your lunch.
And
a bath, what do you think of that, hmmm? A nice bath to clear out all the gunk. I think Gammy needs one, too.” She got to her feet and held out her hands, and Hank grasped hold and pulled himself up, babbling in excitement. He loved his bath as much as he loved rolling in sand.
He stood still for her as she brushed the worst of it from his hair and his clothes. The rest would rinse down the drain as soon as she got him in the tub. He smiled at her, seven teeth gleaming pearly white, angelic as all-get-out despite the sand smudges on his face.
“Something else, that’s what you are, my boy,” she declared, as she took him by one hand and turned to walk to the porch. And her eyes rounded in shock when she saw the woman step out of the shadows from one of the largest lilac trees growing along the side of the house.
Dressed in black from head to toe and sweating in the hot sun, her hair tangled and hanging down her back, Ruth Quincy stood between Mary and the back porch. Her eyes were wild, her hands were curled into claws. Her mouth, bracketed by harsh grooves, pressed into a thin line as she stared at Mary and then down at Hank, who shrank against Mary’s legs as if he’d suddenly remembered who this lady was.
Oh, this wasn’t good.
“Mrs. Quincy. You aren’t supposed to come over without calling first.” She tried to remain calm and speak rationally. Backing up a step, she lifted Hank. He wrapped his arms around her neck and clung to her. Ruth emitted a warning hiss, but Mary stood her ground.
“I want my grandson. Let go of him and give him to me.
Now.
” Ruth advanced on her, reaching out her hands, and Mary skittered back two more steps.
Hank started whimpering in fright at the guttural voice, and Mary held him tighter. “You’d better go, Mrs. Quincy. I’m calling the police, unless you leave right now. You aren’t taking Hank anywhere—”
“
STOP CALLING HIM BY THAT REVOLTING NAME
!” Ruth screamed, her face contorted with fury. Hank burst into sobs, burrowing into Mary’s neck.
She had no idea what Ruth might be capable of. The woman seemed horribly unstable. In despair, Mary’s eyes darted around the yard. They were boxed in. Behind them sat the sandbox and a strip of yard that narrowed down to the uneven banks of Crum Creek. A rickety fence kept anyone from slipping into the creek, but she knew that fence would fall down in a second if someone got thrown against it. And right now, Ruth sure looked strong enough to toss her around.
Chicken wire fenced in Mary’s garden on the left side of the yard, and Ruth partially blocked the other side. No matter which way she turned, with a child in her arms Mary couldn’t move any too fast. Ruth would quickly be on them—both of them.
She stammered, “Ruth, you don’t want to h-hurt your grandson, do you? You can see how s-scared he is.”
“If I have to break him in half to get him away from you, I will. I know lots of doctors, world-renowned doctors. They can put him back together again. Let him go. Let Duncan come to me, and I won’t hurt either of you.” Her voice dropping to a low growl, Ruth reached into the front pocket of her slacks and produced what looked like a steak knife. Mary trembled violently when she saw the sharp, serrated blade.
In the hand of someone rapidly losing her hold on her sanity, a steak knife could do plenty of damage. Mary knew for Hank’s safety, she had to obey.
Almost paralyzed with dread, she let Hank slide to the ground, but he wouldn’t release her neck, and his sobs intensified. Fighting to keep her voice from shaking, Mary murmured to him, “Honey-pot, you let go, all right? You just sit right here on the grass and be a good boy for Gammy, can you do that for me?”
“
Nooooooo
!” It was a piteous wail, and Hank wouldn’t budge. He tried to climb up her legs to reach the safety of her arms. Tears poured down her face. She couldn’t refuse her sweet boy. She knelt on the grass and gathered him into her arms.
“I told you to let my grandson
go
!” Ruth darted forward. “You don’t listen very well, do you? Nobody ever
listens
to me!” She brandished the knife and Mary jerked away when the blade slashed erratically in front of her eyes. She slithered back, crab-walking with Hank clinging to her, and tried to place several feet between her and Ruth.
Above the pounding of her heart she could hear her own voice sobbing out prayers, pleas, anything she could offer up to God. Hank was hysterical now, shuddering so hard in her arms that she could hear his tiny baby teeth clattering together. Or maybe that was her own teeth. Mary wasn’t sure. She only knew she had to get away from this crazed woman, before whatever small thread tethering Ruth’s sanity fully snapped.
“I-I’m listening, Mrs. Quincy. I am. Talk to me. Our grandson is so s-scared. Won’t you please p-put down the knife?”
Ruth slapped her free hand to her temple as the boy’s screaming cut through her aching head. The aspirin must have worn off. Well, she’d had enough of this, at any rate.
Unwilling to participate in a stand-off any longer, she raised the knife. She intended only to scare Mary into letting the child go. But she slipped on the grass just as Mary curled herself around the boy’s body, and the knife glanced off her shoulder. It didn’t look to be a deep wound but it caused the idiot woman to scream and loosen her grip on Duncan. Ruth was able to get hold of his leg. She tugged, hard, and the boy finally slipped free. Panting, Ruth dragged him, still holding onto one leg. Dimly she registered a popping sound, and fresh howls of pain erupted from the child, further hammering into her aching skull.
“
Shut up
!
Shut up
!
Shut up
!” She grabbed the boy under his armpits and hauled him up, then tucked him against her side like a football and stumbled from the yard, glancing back to assure Mary hadn’t gotten to her feet. No, she was still down, but trying to rise to her knees. Blood coated her arm. Ruth dismissed her and concentrated on getting to the car, parked half on and half off the median.
“Ho there! What are you doing with that boy? Mary, are you all—oh, God!
Mary
!” A middle-aged woman came out of the house next door, another hovel as bad as the Turner dump, and ran toward the back yard where Mary knelt. Dimly Ruth heard the woman yell, “Arthur! Call nine-one-one! Call the police!”
“Fuck them all,” Ruth huffed under her breath, as she shoved her grandson in the back seat, ignoring his cries.
She leapt into the front seat and slammed her foot down on the accelerator. The car shot forward, the powerful engine of the Mercedes gaining control over her shaking hands clinging to the steering wheel and her foot that pressed too hard on the pedal.
She drove on the wrong side of the pot-holed street. Ruth couldn’t think past the stabbing pain in her head, now a full-blown migraine. That damned pill she’d taken for her nerves finally caught up to her, though, and her motor skills were sluggish. The intersection loomed before her, she swerved wildly, and in the back seat the boy shrieked, adding to her emotional overload.
She tried to ease up on the accelerator. Up, which way was up? Instead of letting off the gas, Ruth mashed her foot down, harder, and the car shot forward into the intersection, narrowly missing a car that slammed on the brakes to the right of her.
But the car on her left wasn’t so lucky and neither was she—and the front of her car hit the other in its side, head-on. Dimly she registered the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass, a child’s high-pitched scream and her own cry of terror as her body snapped forward and then slumped back against the seat.