Speak for Me, page 12
part #3 of Amelia Kellaway Series
I shrugged. “It’s possible. We’ll take the details you give us today and cross-check them, see if there’s any connection.”
He seemed to accept this and relaxed a little.
“Karen was my twin. Two peas in a pod as my mother used to stay. Karen was always bossing over me even though, strictly speaking, I was older by three minutes.” He leaned forward and slipped his hand into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out a photo and looked at it sadly before handing it to me. It was of the two of them, about fourteen years old, at some sort of water park. They were shooting down a hydro slide with their arms in the air, laughing.
“You look happy.”
He nodded. “We were. Back then. We had a falling out when I was twenty-two. It was my fault, our mom got cancer and I just couldn’t deal with it so I joined the service, and Karen was left carrying the load. I was a weak, selfish cocksucker,” he said bitterly. “When Karen would write me letters about Mom’s condition, I would just throw them away. I began drinking a lot around that time, too. It was during my tours of Iraq. I drank to cope. We all did. Anyway, Karen calls me one night and tells me Mom died. She asked me to come home for the funeral but I said I couldn’t, which was a lie, they would have let me go if I put in a request. After that, the letters stopped arriving. To tell you the truth, it was a relief.” He looked up, swallowing. “I know how terrible that sounds, and it was.”
I thought of my mother’s own battle with cancer two years ago and how close she came to death. “It can be frightening when a parent gets sick like that,” I said. “We all react differently.”
“I was a coward,” he said, self-hatred burning in his eyes. “I needed to grow the hell up. I let everyone down, especially Karen.”
“When did you realize she was missing?” said March.
“When I came back home after I got injured. I’d just finished rehab at the VA’s care unit in Virginia and wanted to reconnect with her. I traveled back home to Seattle because I thought she would still be living in Mom’s old house but it was vacant. All Mom’s and Karen’s stuff was still there but the house was locked up and the yard was overgrown. I thought maybe she moved away so I tracked down her best friend, Chrissy. She told me that Karen went missing in May of 2006, right after Mom’s death.” He took a long deep breath. “They had tried to get hold of me but it got lost in the system. I was floored.”
“What else did Chrissy say?”
“She said that Karen wasn’t coping too well after Mom’s death and spent a lot of time at bars. Biker bars, on the outskirts of town. She got in with some bad people. Met a guy who beat up her pretty bad.” He swallowed and shook his head.
“What makes you think there’s any connection to Rex Hawkins?”
He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper folded into quarters. He opened it to reveal a map. “The last time anyone saw her was right around here.” He pointed to the Grand Junction turnoff. “I heard on the news that Hawkins had dumped another woman in the same area.”
“Was there a police report taken at the time?” said March.
He nodded. “Yeah. Chrissy reported her missing when she couldn’t get hold of her. Karen was supposed to go to one of Chrissy’s kids’ birthday parties but never showed.”
March made a note to check the report later.
“But that’s not a lot to connect Rex Hawkins with Karen, Randy. Especially considering she’d fallen in with the wrong crowd,” I said.
He looked at me and pauses.
“Someone saw her get into a car,” he said. “A blue Ford Capri.”
A chill ran up my spine. The blue Ford Capri was one of three cars Rex owned, a favorite by all accounts, and the one he used when he kidnapped me. We publicized it during our hotline campaign.
I kept my voice even. “We’ll check the patrol officer’s report, make a few inquiries, and see where we get to.”
But every part of my being was telling me it was Rex.
After we left, I turned to March.
“What’s your thinking, Laura?”
She looked at me with her sober blue eyes. “Sounds like Hawkins to me, Ms. Kellaway.”
Two weeks later, March confirmed there was a high likelihood that Rex was responsible for Karen’s disappearance. He’d been in the area at the time, and the witness was certain she saw Karen get into a blue Ford Capri. Then, finally, we heard it straight from the horse’s mouth when, during the early days of drafting the plea deal, Rex confirmed he had kidnapped and murdered Karen.
I still remember the day I phoned Randy to tell him. For a long while he had said nothing, then thanked me and hung up the phone. The last time I saw him was on the news five days ago. He’d been watching from behind a cordon in the woods as they loaded Karen’s body into a black hearse to take her to a mortuary.
Now it’s his turn.
I pull my jacket tight around my shoulders and watch as Mike and the others emerge from the woods carrying Randy Miller in a body bag.
Someone touches my shoulder. It’s March. “We should get to the hospital, Ms. Kellaway. Novak and Hawkins will be there by now.”
I glance at the woods. I think of Caitlyn McLellan still out here somewhere.
“There’s nothing more we can do here,” says March.
The wind rises hard and strong. I watch the leaves shudder and fall to the ground. Then I turn and walk back to the car.
27
I wake not knowing where I am. I lift my head and wince at the shooting pain in my neck. Glancing around, groggy, I realize I’m in a hospital ER waiting room. Alone, apart from the strangers in the other plastic seats in various states of disrepair. I glance down at my bloody shirt. Then I remember. Randy is dead. Blake is dead. Novak and Rex are shot and in surgery.
A door to the left swings open and March comes toward me clutching two coffees in paper cups, her sensible brogues squeaking on the linoleum floor.
“I thought you might need this,” she says, holding out a cup. “White, no sugar, and please be careful, it’s hot.”
It smells wonderful and I take it. “That was thoughtful of you, Laura. Thank you. Have you heard anything?” I’m dreading the worst but have to ask.
“Novak is fine,” she says, taking a seat.
I let out a breath. “Oh, that’s good news.”
“Just a flesh wound. On his shoulder. Close to his heart. The doctors said he was pretty lucky.”
“And Rex?”
“Still in surgery. Doctors won’t tell me any more than that.” She blows on her coffee. “They found Randy Miller’s camp site. It looks like he had been hiding out there for days, just waiting. He tried to take the three of them out with a high-powered rifle from the edge of the woods.”
I exhale. “God, what a mess.”
March’s face darkens. “We never thought to plan for that contingency.”
“No.”
March frowns into her coffee. “But it seems obvious now. Any vigilante could have been hiding out, not just a troubled relative. We were too focused on Rex escaping. We should have considered the possibility and planned for it.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Laura. It was a pretty hard thing to foresee.”
“Blake is dead, Ms. Kellaway, because of that oversight.”
I put my hand on hers. “Not your fault, March.”
She gives me a grim nod.
My phone rings. It’s Ethan.
“I’d better take this.”
I pry myself from the tub seat and move closer to the window where there’s more privacy. I get a few worried glances; I guess a pregnant woman covered in blood would ordinarily be cause for alarm.
I answer the phone and Ethan starts talking immediately.
“Oh, Amelia, thank God. I thought…I just woke up and saw the news. They said there had been a shooting. I thought it was you. But you’re alive…you’re okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, Ethan. A little shaken up, but fine,” I say gently. “I was going to call earlier but I fell asleep at the hospital. I’m so sorry I worried you.”
“And the baby?”
“Oh, she’s fine. There’s nothing to be concerned about there.” My voice hitches in my throat and suddenly everything hits me at once. The chaos of the last twenty-four hours. The distressed sound of Ethan’s voice. Tears brim and I turn to look out the window so people don’t see.
“Please, Ethan, don’t be upset.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Amelia.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m sorry about the fighting,” he says.
“Me, too.” I sniff.
“Things are going to change. We’ll be better. I’m going to be better, more understanding. I promise.”
I watch an elderly woman in her Sunday best cross the concourse clutching a bunch of garden daisies in one hand and a string of a dancing Get Well helium balloons in the other.
“Come home, Amelia.”
“Soon, darling. I promise.”
I turn back to face the waiting room and see March talking with a doctor in scrubs.
“I think the surgeon’s here. I have to go.”
“Stay safe,” he says.
“I will.”
When I approach the exhausted-looking surgeon, he removes his blue scrub cap to reveal a shock of red hair and extends his hand.
“Harry Wilson,” he says.
“Amelia Kellaway,” I reply, taking his hand. “How is he?”
Dr. Wilson rubs the stubble along his jawline. “He was shot in the femoral artery. That’s the large artery in the thigh and the main blood supply to the lower limbs. The risk of death is greatest whenever there’s injury to the femoral because of blood loss. By the time Mr. Hawkins reached us, he’d lost an estimated four liters—the average male has five to six liters in his body—so you get the picture, serious, very serious. During surgery, I repaired the artery by drafting a section of a vein from his upper leg to reconnect his femoral artery. We also gave him three blood transfusions and his percentages are slowly returning to normal. The short story is, he’s likely to make a good recovery.”
I’m surprised by the relief I feel. “How long will that take?”
Dr. Wilson looks thoughtful. “Six to eight weeks overall. He should be up on his feet in a few days and able to partake in light exercise.”
My mind races. I’m wondering if we can still make the body recovery work.
There’s a commotion behind me. I turn to see Sheila Brenton striding toward us. She doesn’t look her usual put-together self, and the stylish monochrome suit and expensive leather pumps have been exchanged for faded jeans, a green pullover, and sensible sneakers.
“I came as soon as I could,” she says, ashen. “They said there were fatalities.”
“The shooter and an FBI agent,” I say.
She stands there, breathing. “God.” She looks at me. “Novak?”
“He’s fine.”
She lowers her shoulders. “Thank God.” Pausing, she says, “What the hell happened out there?”
“The shooter was one of the victims’ brother. Randy Miller,” I say. “It seems he just couldn’t cope with his loss and wanted revenge.”
The governor lets out a long, slow breath. “What a fucking disaster. Has the deceased agent’s family been informed yet?”
“No, ma’am,” says March.
“I’ll do it,” says the governor.
“There’s really no need for that. The service has people,” I say.
“I want to. It’s the least I can do. And what about him? That son-of-a-bitch Hawkins?”
I sigh. “Injured but alive. Dr. Wilson was just updating us on his progress.”
The surgeon shakes the governor’s hand and repeats his update.
“Pity,” she mutters, when he finishes.
“Actually, Governor. It could be a blessing,” I say, seizing the opportunity. “We managed to recover one body and were close to getting a second when the shooting happened. Rex could still help us.”
She looks appalled. “That’s absolutely out of the question.”
“But Governor, we’re so close. Let us finish the job.”
Sheila Brenton shakes her head, resolute. “I won’t allow it. I should never have permitted this farce to go ahead in the first place.”
I push harder. “No one knew this was going to happen. Think of the families.”
Her eyes lock on mine. “Two men are dead, Ms. Kellaway. Two more injured. Not to mention the political fallout. This circus is over and it’s time you went home.”
28
When Rex was eight, he used to hunt bullfrogs down at the ponds in the summer months. A couple of younger kids named Jed and Pete would tag along, too. Down-and-outers like himself with useless good-for-nothing whores of mothers who couldn’t give a rat’s about what their young’uns got up to.
The three of them would do their frog hunting at night. It was easier that way because you could use your flashlight then. There were several benefits to using a flashlight when frog hunting. First, it helped locate the frogs because just like cats’ eyes, frogs’ eyes have a foil-like tapetum behind their retinas that reflect and illuminate in the light. Second, shining a light in the frogs’ eyes stuns the little sons-of-b’s, causing them to freeze on the spot making them easy targets. Third, with a light in their eyes, the slimy suckers can’t see you coming.
Some hunters liked to use a bow and arrow, but Rex preferred a rig, a spear-like tool with tines on the end. He fashioned himself a real good one with three-tines, made from steel he found at the junkyard bordering his house. He’d spent hours sharpening the tines against a fragment of grinding stone, and got those tines so sharp that the rig could draw blood by barely skimming your finger.
Rex got pretty good at frog hunting. More than pretty good, as a matter of fact. He could catch up to a dozen or more in a night. Big fat fellas. Some of those sons of guns were sixteen to seventeen inches long. The others he caught were no slouches, either. He loved it out there, knee deep in water, mosquitoes buzzing around his head, the briny smell of the ponds. The other two boys never caught much, and mainly hung at his shoulder, whooping and hollering whenever Rex scored a big one.
Afterward, he’d make a fire and they’d roast the legs on sticks over the flames. It felt good looking across the glowing embers and seeing the two boys chomping and chewing on the bounty he provided for them.
Over time, though, the hunting lost its challenge. It got too easy. The frogs died too quickly. So Rex changed his technique. Instead of killing them instantly by spearing them through the head, he would sink his rig into the lower extremities so as not to kill the frog right away but to simply pin it down. It would squirm there, its little bowed legs lashing out wildly. Then Rex would take his pen knife from his pocket and cut off the limbs one by one, first its hands and feet, then its arms and legs, and finally its head. He would stand back and watch the frog convulse in its last death throes, the cavities of its amputated limbs leaking green blood, the blink of its glistening bulbous eyes gradually getting slower and slower. He did it out of curiosity more than anything else. That first time Jed went as white as a ghost and Peter had cried. What are you blubbering for, it’s only a frog, Rex had said.
From time to time Rex did the same thing with bumble bees, trapping them in jam jars, screwing the lids tight, and watching them bounce around the glass until they suffocated.
When he killed frogs or bees, mostly he felt nothing. Which puzzled him. He knew he was supposed to feel some sort of regret or remorse, but he didn’t. The only thing he felt was an occasional strange sense of relief. Like his load had gotten a little lighter. Like he could breathe a little easier.
One day things got out of hand. Even Rex had to admit to that. He didn’t know what caused him to do it, general frustration at the world, the situation at home, the fight with his mother’s boyfriend the night before when he had Rex up against the wall beating the shit out of him. Whatever the precursor, he definitely crossed a line when he went frog hunting that night with Jed and Pete. Instead of the usual pinning down and dissection, Rex simply snatched the frog from the water and squeezed it in his fist until the thing burst in his hand. Pete wet his pants and ran off. Jed was sick in the bushes. But Rex just stood there staring at what was left of the frog, then tossed it in the water and wiped his hand on the grass.
That was the last time Jed and Pete went frog hunting with Rex. It was probably the last time he had any real friends to speak of. Looking back now, it was just as well those two had the good sense to stay away.
Rex turns over in his bunk and stares at the ceiling. Why he is thinking of all this now, he doesn’t have a clue. Maybe it was being out there in the woods with the body recovery. Maybe the frog hunting was where it all began. Or maybe he just wants a few of those fat little suckers to squeeze to death right now.
A shooting pain grips his left leg and he winces. Apart from taking short laps around the yard at rec time to keep the blood circulation going, he’s spent the last week in his cell with his leg up while the others were on work detail.
Speaking of which, Stan would be back soon with his chattering nonsense about the rights and wrongs of the day. Still, it helps pass the time, and time is all that Rex has left since the body recovery had been called off.
Truth be told, Rex hasn’t felt himself since he’s been back. Depressed isn’t exactly the right word…more like aimless. Like a job he’d set to had been left undone. And that just isn’t his nature. He prides himself on always finishing what he starts. He had wanted to help. He truly had. Now there is nothing. Just him and this prison and the walls closing in.
The pain gets him up and moving. He does a few labored laps of the cell and then sits down to check the wound.
“Hey, Rex. You need to see the nurse?”
Rex looks up. It’s Bruce doing his usual mail run.
“Morning, Bruce. It’s nothing. The dressing’s a mess but it’s being changed in the morning anyways. How are things with you?”
