After the Fall (9 page)

W
EDNESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
19

“Hey there, sleepyhead.” Tim stood at Laura's side, gazing down on her. “About time you woke up. Never had such boring company.”

Laura drifted into consciousness as the sky outside her lone window displayed muted shades of orange. Sunset comes early in February in Philadelphia, earlier than in Tampa. She must have slept the entire afternoon. What day must it be? She tried to raise her head just a fraction, pleased that at least her head did not throb.

“Still here?” Her voice sounded raspy and weak but, she hoped, not unappreciative. Truth be told, she'd never been so grateful to see anyone.

“You kicked out your kids, but not me.” Again, that smug grin. “But I did have to promise to call them the minute you woke up.”

The last thing she remembered was being wheeled into the operating room; the pain in her hand was agonizing, but not to the excruciating point she had feared. “Tim, can you help me sit up? And before you talk to the kids, can we talk?”

“Are you okay? Your pain, do you—?”

“I don't want any pain meds. Not now.”

Tim added a pillow, gently elevated her head to a forty-five degree angle, careful to stabilize her right arm.

“You can't imagine how good that feels, just to sit partway
up.” Laura inspected her IV line. “Guess I'm getting my nutrition. Foley catheter, so no bathroom trips. What's to complain about?”

Tim puttered around, arranging pillows, straightening her sheets, adjusting her thin blanket. Finally, she said, “Please, Tim, will you sit down?”

He pulled a chair up to the bed opposite her elevated right arm. “Laura, I did promise—”

“They can wait,” she said, reaching with her good hand to touch his.

“Dr. Hanover was in not long ago,” Tim said. “You were out cold, but he checked the wound—”

“How did the procedure go?” she asked.

Tim glanced upward at her suspended, heavily bandaged hand. “The surgery went well. As far as they could tell, they got all the necrotic tissue. They don't think they will have to go back in. They'll keep you pumped up on antibiotics. Physical therapy later. Overall, good news.”

Laura knew it was. If the necrosis had not been controlled, she would have lost her hand. But good news was relative, wasn't it? Her right hand would remain attached to her arm, but even with rigorous physical therapy, it wouldn't be able to do much of anything. Not enough to sustain her career. She'd made up her mind. She'd take the Keystone Pharma job. No reason that a hand injury would affect an administrative job. A head injury, another story, but her thinking was clear, concussion symptoms waning.

“Tim, I want you to be the first to know. I'm going to take that Keystone vice president job.”

Tim stood up, went to the window, his back to her.

Laura's heart sank. She had no illusions about Tim's commitment to her under these new circumstances, but she hadn't anticipated this degree of desperation to escape his recent marriage proposal.

When he returned to her bedside, tears filled his blue eyes.

“Tim, I…I can do this on my own, I'm—”

“Laura, I'm sorry, I'm just so overjoyed, I can't—”

“Tim? Are you okay?” Laura pulled back her words. Had she totally misjudged his reaction? He was not trying to back out?

“I'm more than okay, Laura, but please, please tell me this means that you and I will be together. I want that more than anything else in the world. More than I've ever wanted anything. Much, much more. More than I can even imagine wanting. For the first time in my life, I've been praying. First, that you'd be okay; then, that you'd be with me.”

“Tim?” Laura felt tears gathering. Tears of what? Guilt, that she'd been so lacking in comprehension? Guilt, that she'd so underestimated his love for her? Guilt, that he'd be stuck with a maimed wife? “Tim?” she repeated.

“I want to take you in my arms,” he said, “but that wouldn't feel so good for you.”

When Tim leaned in, brushing tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, he rewarded her with the most glorious smile before he gently placed his lips on hers.

At that exact moment, Laura knew. Her tears had nothing to do with guilt. They reflected a flood of love. A love that pushed aside disappointments of the past, insecurities that had consumed her all those years.

“Tim,” she sighed, “I love you.”

“Laura, please marry me,” he said.

“Yes, Tim, I will,” she said, tears dampening her hospital gown. With her good hand she grabbed Tim's and clutched it fiercely.

An aide hesitated at the door, hoisting a tray. “Dr. Robinson,” she said, “a VIP dinner from the kitchen.”

“Thanks. Over here,” he said, easing his hand out of Laura's to clear a space on the bedside table.

The aide glanced at Laura. “Dr. Nelson, are you okay?” she asked. “Do you want some dinner too? Your orders say you can have whatever you want.” She pointed to the beef short ribs and mashed potatoes.

“Not sure I'm up to that yet,” Laura said, smiling through
lingering tears. “But maybe…” she hesitated, maybe she could try some broth. But the pulsating pain in her hand reminded her she'd have to learn to eat with her left hand. “…Jell-O,” she said, a less risky first attempt. “And champagne.”

“We don't—”

“Just kidding,” Laura said. Champagne would have to wait until she was off potent narcotics. “Tim, get started. Please, eat.”

“I've had no appetite since I've been here, but suddenly I'm ravenous. Does happiness do that to you?”

“I'm actually looking forward to Jell-O!”

“After I eat this, though, I'm going to call the kids. I promised, and I'm a man of my word.”

You are, Tim Robinson, and I'm one lucky woman
.

“Can we tell them?” Laura asked, a grin spreading across her face as she recognized the giggle in her voice.

“I need to have a talk with them,” Tim said. “Ask their permission. The old-fashioned approach.”

“They're my kids, not my father. Are you going to ask him?”

“Forgot to tell you. Your parents did call to check on you. Said they'd call back. I'll ask your dad when—”

“I'm an old-fashioned girl,” Laura said, “but I think I'm old enough to forgo that formality.”

The Jell-O was a long time coming, and Laura had to ask for pain relief before it arrived; however, she insisted on half the dose. When the kids did arrive that evening, they'd notice a big difference. And they'd be thrilled for her, she knew.

She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

W
EDNESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
19

Jake left by the back door and retraced his steps to Mack's garage along the fence line that separated adjacent back yards in his neighborhood. Lined with mature trees, leafless now, but still large enough to give Jake plenty of cover as he maneuvered from tree to tree. The distance took five minutes, just as it had when he'd left his friend's garage, stealthily moving to his house. Mack played poker with Jake at the local Veterans of Foreign Wars post. He also drove a Jeep Cherokee, only his was dark blue, close enough to olive green in the dusk that was falling around Rockville. Mack used to brag that he never locked his doors, so Jake borrowed the space for the half hour that he'd needed shelter. Mack would never know. Wouldn't care if he did, unless, of course, he knew what Jake had done during that half hour.

Earlier, Jake had backed into Mack's garage, and now he simply had to open and close the manual door and drive normally into the moderate traffic. Gloves would prevent fingerprints, but unlikely that cops would connect Mack's garage to Karolee's murder. The gun was another matter. He'd chosen it from the collection of firearms he'd amassed over the years. Jake's fishing and card-playing buddies knew he had a gun collection, but none were familiar enough to know a piece was missing. When it came to police questions about his guns, he'd try to avoid disclosing that he kept them in a secure gun compartment. He didn't have a
concealed-carry permit, but so what. The Smith & Wesson would not be missed, nor could it be traced to him.

First order of business: empty the gun, wipe it down, get rid of it. He'd already chosen the location in Croydon Creek; fast and easy to drop the gun where the thick muck would hide it forever. This time of year, the locals had no interest in the creek, and Jake's disposal attracted no attention. A dull career as a project planner had its satisfactions. Usually plans worked—as planned.

Five minutes later, Jake pulled the Jeep into the clearing he'd chosen, off the Twinbrook Parkway, a busy thoroughfare leading north from the Parklawn Building where he worked. Five minutes into his usual drive, ten minutes away from his house, the site offered a secluded spot as well as proximity to a middle class neighborhood where he could ask for help and get it. He went to work immediately. Opening the Jeep's hood, using asbestos gloves, he quickly severed the serpentine belt with industrial-sized scissors. He cut the snake-like, ribbed-metal belt into six pieces and stuffed them in a heavy plastic bag. The ground was frozen, so forget trying to bury the pieces. He cinched the bag and tied it around his waist, under his heavy jacket. Made him look like he had the start of a potbelly, something most men his age carried around. He'd ditch the bag in the first available dumpster on the way home.

Jake rehearsed his story: his beloved Jeep overheating all of a sudden, his complete ignorance about cars and panic at the red light flashing on the dash. No antifreeze with him. He does know enough not to drive when that hot light is on, so he waits, but the engine was still just as hot after a good thirty minutes.

The account sounded good to him, so he left the vehicle, hood up, and headed through a sparsely wooded area to the neighborhood about a hundred feet away. He stopped at the first house with a light on. He came out of the shadows, stood under the porch light, and knocked on the door.

A sturdy white man about his own age answered. “He'p ya?”

“Car broke down off Twinbrook. Sorry to bother you, man,
but could I use your phone to call a garage or a tow? Think I'll need a tow.”

“Yeah, come on in. What you got?”

What I got?
Jake stood, perplexed.

“What the fuck's wrong with your car, man?”

“Don't know. Heated up. I waited fifteen minutes, you know, for it to cool down. Tried again. Red light still on. Tried again. Twice. But the engine's still too hot to drive. Don't have any antifreeze in the vehicle. It was getting dark—”

“I'll take a look, man. I got some antifreeze if that's all it is. You get a tow, fuckers'll rob ya blind.” He grabbed a heavy, black-and-white checkered coat and led the way out, stopping in his garage to grab a container of antifreeze, going back in again for an industrial-size flashlight.

“Can't thank you enough,” Jake mumbled. This was working out better than he'd expected. Two layers of alibi. This Good Samaritan and the eventual tow-truck driver.

Jake led the way to his vehicle. “Here it is.”

“Fuck, man, not smart to leave the hood open. Neighborhood's not bad, but—”

“Should have known better,” Jake said. “Hope nobody walked off with any parts.”

Good Samaritan reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out the large flashlight, shined it onto the exposed engine block.

“Fuck, man, you ain't got no serpentine belt. Shit, no amount of antifreeze gonna do shit. You need a new belt, man.” He bent further into the engine with his flashlight. “Damn thing's completely off. No wonder the engine light was on.”

“Yeah, went on a way back. Thought it would be okay, then got worried.”

“Good thing, man. Serpentine must have shredded and shed over the last few miles maybe. Like I said, it's gone now. Funny thing,” he said with a sniff, “I don't smell nothin'. Should be stinkin' like a son a bitch.”

“Serpentine?” Jake asked, trying to shift away from
the telltale lack of odor. “That have something to do with overheating?”

“Hell yeah. It's a continuous belt that runs the alternator, water pump, compressor, air pump, you name it.” Jake was glad he wore a tie to match the image of a wimp who didn't know shit about cars.

“All that?” Jake asked. “Hey, thanks, buddy. Never was into car engines.” Careful, Jake warned himself. He'd taught his son a fair amount about engines. Or tried to, he corrected himself. Mark had no mechanical talent.

“Yeah, that belt breaks, you do lose all that shit.”

“Shit,” Jake said. “Guess I'll need a tow after all. Can I use your phone?”

“Sure thing. I could fix it for you if I had the right tools and the part, of course. Sorry I don't, so lock this baby up and come back with me to make the call. Fuck, man, it's gonna cost ya.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for trying. What's your name, by the way?”

“Barker, man. Frank Barker.”

Jake ran through his memorized action list. All accounted for, except for repeated phone calls he'd make from the garage to get hold of Karolee and tell her he'd had car trouble. Even though he'd disabled the answering machine, the cops could check the garage's phone records. No doubt they'd appreciate a dutiful husband's attempts to update his wife.

W
EDNESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
19

Based on the lower dose of narcotic Laura was taking, Tim figured she should be awake by early evening and happy to see her family. He'd suggested all the kids arrive at seven-thirty. She'd been a good mom to those kids. Not an easy job with three boys, two girls, and no husband.

Laura's husband had died fourteen years ago under traumatic and rather mysterious circumstances. Something secret and bad had happened between Laura and Steve. Something, since Tim had only had a peripheral glimpse of their lives, to which he'd not been privy. Just before Steve was killed, their youngest son Patrick had needed emergency heart surgery, which Tim had arranged at Children's Hospital of Pennsylvania. Whatever had happened between Steve and Laura, Tim believed it had something to do with Patrick. He'd pondered this over the years, wondering if Laura would ever tell him, but, so far, not a word. Would that change now?