David’s face before it dawns on me that Karen is leaving and that I’ll be in plain sight from the front porch should she happen to glance in my direction.
What’s more, David is right behind her.
Panicking, I step back to climb out of the wheelbarrow, misjudge the distance, and hit the edge of it instead, tipping it over. My legs straddle the bed like a saddle and I come down hard on the edge, sending a lightning bolt of pain from my crotch all the way up to my teeth. For several agonizing seconds I am frozen, my teeth clenched tighter than a patient with lockjaw. I am unable to move, unable to breathe, and my ankle, which is half mangled in the metal framework beneath the bed of the wheelbarrow, throbs with a growing tempo. I bite back a scream that’s trying to box its way out of my lungs and hold perfectly still, praying I won’t be seen.
Above the ringing in my ears, I hear Karen yell, “You’ll be sorry, David. Don’t do it or you’ll be sorry.” David’s only response is to slam the door. I watch Karen march down the driveway and climb into her car, and as soon as the engine turns over, I disentangle my foot and slide off the wheelbarrow into a heap on the ground.
The pain is incredible and I make a quick deal with God, promising to cut off my right arm if she’ll just toss down a syringe full of morphine. Then I quickly amend that to my left arm, realizing I will need the right one to administer the shot. But either God has better things to do or the fact that I haven’t been to church in twenty years has her feeling less than generous.
After a few minutes of quiet agony, I struggle to my feet and lurch home. I briefly consider running a bath and soaking for an hour or so to ease the aches, but it sounds like too much work. Besides, my injuries go beyond the mere physical; my emotions feel as raw and abused as my crotch.
Sleep beckons and I figure a night of rest will not only get me through the worst of the physical pain, it will allow me to bury my emotions inside a cloud of oblivion. I limp into the bedroom, strip my slacks and underwear off in one fell swoop, gingerly kick them away, and then ease myself into bed still wearing my shirt and bra. As my head hits the pillow, I feel something hard poke me. I reach up, pull a chunk of mulch from my hair, and toss it onto the floor. I’m about to turn out the light when it hits me.
I sit up and pat my head, even though I already know what I’ll find…or rather what I won’t find. Frantic, I look around the bedroom, but there is no sign of the scarf anywhere. Grunting with pain, I crawl out of bed and retrace my steps to the front door, peering through the window at the porch. Nothing.
Shit.
I pray the scarf dropped in the woods somewhere and isn’t lying beneath the window next to the wheelbarrow. Oh, God. The wheelbarrow!
I groan and briefly consider going back to eliminate the evidence of my visit but the pain between my legs wins out. Morning will be soon enough, I decide. Instead, I gimp my way to the bathroom, swallow a handful of aspirin, and head back to bed.
I’m asleep in ten minutes flat; humiliation is very exhausting.
Chapter 4
The shrill chirp of a beeper brings me instantly awake. I sit bolt upright in the bed and reach over to turn on the light. Years of pulling on-call duty in the OR have trained me well, but for a second or two I’m confused. Part of my mind is telling me to get dressed and drive to the hospital, but another part reminds me that I don’t work there anymore. Still another part wonders why it feels like I’m about to give birth to a bowling ball. Wincing against the pain, I hang my legs over the edge of the bed and grab the beeper.
It’s Izzy. I know that without looking at the readout since he’s the one who gave me the damned thing in the first place, in case he got a call. I mumble a curse, first at him, then at myself for being dumb enough to give in to his stupid idea.
Glancing at the clock I see that it’s just past three in the morning—an inhuman hour by anyone’s standards—and decide to ignore the page. I can’t call Izzy anyway; I never bothered to have the phone turned on since my original plan was to stay in the cottage for no more than a few days. And I figure if I don’t show up, Izzy will just go on without me. So I might as well go back to sleep. Pleased with my decision, I ease back into bed and pull the covers up. The next thing I know, Izzy is standing over me, shaking my shoulder.
“Come on, Mattie. Get up. We have a call. A homicide.”
“I don’t want a call,” I whine, throwing off his hand and burrowing deeper under the covers. “And I sure as hell don’t want a homicide.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, Izzy. I assure you, I don’t.”
“Get up.”
“It’s three in the morning. Can’t these criminals honor banker’s hours?”
“Come on. Dom’s making coffee, if that will help. It won’t be so bad once we’re there. You know how it is. Once you’re up and moving, it’s a piece of cake.”
Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have a hematoma the size of Texas in his crotch.
“Just go on without me,” I tell him. “I’ll catch the next one.” He steps closer and starts to make a grab for my covers but I stop him cold by saying, “I’m naked from the waist down.”
He backs up like I pulled a gun on him, his hands held out in front of him. “Fine, if you want to play hardball, I will too. If you don’t get up, I’ll start telling people your real name.”
Moaning, I roll over, give him a dirty look, and sit up, feeling a million muscles scream in agony. My right leg, the one with the mangled ankle, is numb clear to the thigh.
He bends over, picks my pants up from the floor, and tosses them at me. “Put these on and let’s go.”
I stare at the pants a minute, my bleary mind still struggling to come fully awake. “How’d you get in here?” I ask.
“I have a key, remember? But that’s beside the point since you didn’t bother to lock the door.” He eyes me warily a moment, then asks, “What the hell is that in your hair?”
I reach up and pull out several small pieces of mulch. Tossing them on the floor, I say, “New hair treatment. This herbal stuff is all the rage now, you know.”
He stares at me, then shakes his head and turns away. “I’ll be waiting in the living room. Hurry please.”
I’m feeling cranky so I give a petulant stomp of my foot once for good measure, then swallow down a shriek of pain when I discover that my injured ankle isn’t nearly as numb as I thought. Once the stars go out, I start pulling on my slacks and have my bad leg in before I realize I’ve forgotten my panties. I look around on the floor, don’t see them, and figure they must be under the bed. Getting them will mean kneeling down, and I’m not too keen on that idea. As stiff as my body feels, I’m afraid I won’t be able to get back up again, and the thought of having to call to Izzy for help while I’m on the floor with my naked ass in the air isn’t very appealing. The dresser is across the room and I eye it for a second before deciding to go commando. At least I won’t have to worry about unsightly panty lines.
Five minutes later I’ve plucked the rest of the mulch from my hair and we are on our way, Izzy behind the wheel. His car, a 1963 Chevy Impala, fully restored, has a bench front seat. In order to reach
