Darkness Before Dawn (10 page)

Earlier, while Thomas sat unknowingly in class, Meg had driven to Springfield High,
and after crawling underneath his Corvette, used a hacksaw to puncture his brake lines
just enough to make them fail only when he applied a great deal of force. Because
she knew that Kristen wouldn’t let him drive recklessly when she was in the car, Jenkins’s
Hill would likely be the first place Thomas would exert any force on the brake pedal.
This daily ritual, combined with the fact that he always downshifted to slow the car
down, meant he’d barely touch his pedal until he needed his brakes the most. Now,
as the red car became a blinding blur, she waited for that moment.

In the car, Thomas was likely unaware of anything other than the thrill of reckless
speed. His heart had to be beating faster and faster as he neared the stone wall then,
as he had almost every day for a month, he downshifted to third and hit the brake
pedal. As Meg watched, a look of pure terror registered on his face as his foot went
directly to the floorboard and the brakes failed to take hold. He attempted to adjust
his course by yanking the steering wheel to the left, but that move came much too
late. Instinctively, he threw his arms up to protect his face as the wall came closer
and closer.

Stepping out from behind the tree, Meg now openly observed the speeding car and studied
the young man’s face, now filled with a mixture of panic and agony; his mouth locked
open in a silent scream. Right before the car hit the wall and hurtled over the cliff,
Thomas’s eyes locked onto Meg. Smiling at him, she raised her hand in a wave and formed
a kiss with her lips. She wanted to be the last thing he saw before his car went twirling
over and over in a death spin to the rocks below.

Waiting for a few seconds until the sounds of boulders crushing fiberglass and metal
ended, Meg walked over to the cliff and studied the sports car burning on the rocks
below. She watched, almost in a detached manner, as a badly injured Thomas attempted
to climb through the vehicle’s shattered roof. Then, just as it appeared he would
make it, a huge explosion blew both him and his car to pieces.

“Oh, revenge is sweet!” Meg murmured as she casually turned to walk back to where
she had hidden her car. “This is for you, Steve. It was all for you!”

“Did you say something?”

Responding to Heather’s upbeat voice, Meg looked up from where she sat.

M
EG BLINKED RAPIDLY. HOW HAD HEATHER KNOWN WHERE TO FIND
her? What was she doing here? As her eyes and mind snapped into reality, she realized
she was not at Lovers’ Leap but sitting in her usual spot in the hospital cafeteria.
Disappointment rushed over her. It wasn’t real. It never had been real. It was all
a daydream!

Not so much questioning as observing the half-eaten tuna fish sandwich on Meg’s plate,
Heather quipped, “Got the old dependable, huh?” When Meg only nodded, Heather sat
down across from her friend and attempted to draw her into conversation.

“You remember Jamie? The four-year-old girl you met last week.”

Meg nodded as she took another bite of the sandwich.

“Well, she’s been asking me if you’d come by and see her. Your visits last week meant
a lot to her. As a matter of fact, she showed me a picture she drew of you—pretty
good likeness. I think the girl’s got some artistic talent! It’d sure mean a lot if
you could drop in on your break or something.”

As Heather’s words trailed off, Meg pushed the plate with her still half-eaten sandwich
toward the middle of the table.
Looking up but avoiding Heather’s big blue eyes, she took a long sip of her Coke before
finally mumbling, “Maybe I can drop by this afternoon.” Then almost as an afterthought,
she added, “But you know my wing has been pretty busy today, so I’m not making any
guarantees. So please don’t say anything to her.”

Heather nodded as Meg got up from her chair, put her tray in its designated return
spot, and caught her reflection in a mirror. That brief glimpse proved her shoulder-length
brown hair was perfectly combed and fixed. Her makeup, as always, looked as if it
had been applied by Max Factor himself. She didn’t have to have the mirror to know
her figure also still filled her pale blue scrubs—the same uniform that made most
women look as if wearing generic flour sacks—as though the outfit had been molded
for her shape.

Yet, she’d never thought of herself as beautiful until Steve pointed it out to her
in college. After that, it made her feel all bubbly when he’d whisper that she was
the belle of the ball or queen of his kingdom. Thus, suddenly looking good became
so important to her because of how important it was to him. Still she knew he and
everyone else really loved her because of her personality. Even as a child she’d been
outgoing, warm and caring. She had been the girl who’d save the lost kitten or find
the words to mend a friend’s broken heart. And a mirror couldn’t catch that part of
her; it had to be experienced.

But now the loving nature that had seemingly been born into her was getting hard to
find. Even her thoughts and motivations were now disturbing. Why had she gotten so
much satisfaction from the daydream of watching Jim Thomas die? And why didn’t she
want to race down the hall and visit with Jamie? Where was that old Meg now? When
she’d lost Steve had that Meg, the one everyone loved, died? If she hadn’t had a pulse,
Meg would have guessed that was the case, but her heart
was still beating. And the image she’d briefly glimpsed in the mirror reflected the
person people knew. But she wasn’t sure she knew that Meg anymore.

“I have a right to be different,” she whispered.

“What did you say?” A tall man in a dark suit asked.

Meg looked up and forced a smile. “Sorry, I was just thinking out loud.”

Embarrassed, she moved quickly forward and exited the cafeteria. Yet, like baggage
she didn’t need or want, she brought her worries with her.

“Hey, girl, slow down.” Meg stopped as she heard Heather’s voice. When her friend
caught up, she lowered her voice and quietly asked, “How are you doing? Really? I
find it hard to believe that anyone, even you, could be holding it together this well.”

Meg leaned against the hallway wall and sighed. “I really don’t know how I’m doing.
My focus is fine, so my job’s not a problem. But I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Heather moved closer. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

Meg shook her head. “I don’t understand either. Aren’t I supposed to be sad? In truth,
I’m more angry. I’m so mad I want to punch everyone. That’s not the way I was, but
I’m thinking the old Meg was a sucker.”

“You were never a sucker,” her friend assured her. “You just cared about everyone.”

“And that’s just it—I don’t think I care about anyone anymore.” She paused and looked
into Heather’s deep eyes. “I don’t know if there is room for the old Meg and this
new Meg in my heart or head. One of them is going to have to move on. And I find myself
rooting for the angry one.”

“You’ll work through it,” Heather assured her.

“Could you work through knowing your husband had been murdered?” With those final
cold words, Meg turned and strolled resolutely up the hall. Within seconds the wondering
as to who she was had been forgotten. The all-consuming image in her head was that
of seeing Jim Thomas going over the cliff.

“Your lunch break’s not over for another fifteen minutes,” noted Jan as Meg arrived
at the station.

Her trance now broken, Meg offered, “Why don’t you go early and catch a little extra
time?”

Evidently not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, Jan quickly shot out from
behind the desk, saying only, “I didn’t know Christmas came on Thursdays in March.”

Initially, Meg didn’t take note of what the other nurse had said. The words had no
meaning and made no impact. Then one of those words rang out and began to bounce around
all the corners of her mind. Thursday! Why did that day seem so significant? What
did she have to do today? What was it about Thursday?

Sitting in a chair behind the counter, she tried to refocus on her work, but Thursday
wouldn’t leave her alone. Why couldn’t she think? Why couldn’t she remember what made
this day important? Her mind had been numb since watching Jim Thomas outside his house
on Monday night. The desire for revenge, coupled with a feeling of overall helplessness,
had made her even more depressed. Still, seeing him, knowing who his parents were,
hearing him talk, and finding nothing of redeeming value in what he said had given
her something on which to focus her thoughts. And those thoughts had crowded out everything
that wasn’t written on charts or appeared on iPad screens. And there was nothing on
either that suggested Thursday was important for any reason at all. It was just another
long day.

With the frustration of not being able to remember what she felt was so important,
Meg realized how much each day seemed like the one before it. Even though this was
only her fourth day back at work, the routine, filled with the same questions, the
same requests, the same duties, began to run together. In the near past—a time that
seemed years ago, a time before Steve had been killed—she had enjoyed her job. Each
day had seemed fresh and alive with new faces and new challenges. And when the day
ended, she knew that each evening with Steve would also be filled with new discoveries
and newfound passions. Now, each day seemed to last forty-eight hours and each night,
an eternity. As she glanced at her watch for the fifteenth time in half an hour, she
wished she could turn back the clock. But that wasn’t possible. Death had changed
everything.

In this new life, the daydreams had become the reality and life was nothing more than
a place to stumble through. She felt no real emotional attachment to her job, her
mother, or her friends, and talking with them, answering their questions, even taking
care of the patients was accomplished through little more than memorized mechanical
reactions. Even things like cooking, cleaning, and putting on makeup were just time
killers. They seemed to serve no purpose. Life had no purpose.

Yet, when she allowed herself to dream, her feelings and senses were brought back
and the world again had color. From the time she had found out about Steve’s murder—she
refused to call it an accident—until the day after the funeral, she had dreamed about
him. In those dreams, he brought her surprises, said funny things, and made love to
her. He was alive. But now, since the moment she saw Jim Thomas, her dreams were filled
with passionate plans for revenge. For now, Meg’s world was one where reality and
fantasy had somehow changed places, and this was the way she wanted it until life
offered her some
kind of personal satisfaction. That satisfaction could only be fully realized when
her sworn enemy was brought to justice.

A ringing phone prompted her to look up from the chart she’d been staring at but not
really seeing and move across the small cubicle to the counter separating her from
the wing’s hallway. “Wing Three,” Meg answered tersely.

“Yes, I’m looking for Nurse Richards,” a man explained.

Pausing for a moment in an attempt to remember where she had heard this voice, she
replied, “I’m Meg Richards.”

“Mrs. Richards, this is Webb Jones, your district attorney. My secretary said you
called while I was out of town.”

Suddenly, Meg was alive again. Here was the reason she had mentally marked Thursday
as important. This was the day that the district attorney was to return. This was
her bridge to hope! Now she had someone who could give her some answers. How had she
forgotten about Thursday?

T
ALL, HANDSOME IN AN
I
VY
L
EAGUE SORT OF WAY
, W
EBB
J
ONES WAS THE
cookie-cutter image of a Hollywood district attorney, with his green, wide-set eyes,
wavy, dark hair, and strong, firm jaw. Yet what was most impressive about the man
was his deep voice. And he used it effectively on the street and in the courtroom.

Jones had worked his way up from nothing. His father had been a clerk in a hardware
store. His mother cleaned other people’s houses. He was the only one of his four siblings
who went to college. Pushed by a desire to escape a world in which he was always the
poorest kid, he’d not been satisfied just to earn a college degree. He yearned for
much more. He wanted to be the guy who lived on the right side of the tracks, drove
the big car, and wore the expensive suits. He wanted to be important. And he felt
the best way to earn this status was through law. His degree from the Indiana University
Maurer School of Law brought him a sense of satisfaction. From there, he clerked for
a federal judge and then became a part of the state attorney’s office. While working
in the capitol, he focused on a twenty-year plan. The first step was realized when
he was elected district attorney. The second was when he married a daughter of a wealthy
and influential stockbroker. Now
six years after leaving to become the area’s top prosecutor, he was primed for the
next move—the governor’s office. But that meant he was going to have to avoid the
pitfalls that trapped many aspiring politicians. This case could be one of those traps,
so he had to be very careful.

“Mrs. Richards. How I wish I had been in the office when you called. I’m so sorry
I was out of town on business.”

“Mr. Jones”—her voice was now filled with an excited tremor and she wasted no time
making her point—”I want to know what you’re going to do about my husband’s death.”

Jones was prepared for her question. The widow’s response was not atypical in cases
like this. The victim’s family always wanted swift and hard justice. Even as he’d
placed the call, Jones felt sure the conversation would quickly turn in this direction.

“Pardon me for not saying so earlier,” Jones began, choosing each word with special
care to hit the right note, “but I was very deeply saddened to find out about Mr.
Richards’s accident.”