Don't Go (23 page)

“They’re not home. They went to Jackson Hole. I think they’re coming back next week.”

“Oh, too bad.”

“Oh, wait a minute.” Susan brightened. “I don’t remember anybody strange, but the new kid used to help her out, from time to time.”

“What new kid?”

“From down the street.” Susan pointed down the street. “A new family moved in next to the Kulls while you were away. Chloe did mention him, now that I think about it. His name is Pat. The parents are nice, but he’s kind of entitled.”

“What’s his last name?”

“MacFarland.”

Mike felt it like an electric shock. Mac could be short for MacFarland. “You said he’s a kid. How old is he?”

“I’d say he’s in his mid-twenties. That’s a kid to me.”

“Me, too,” Mike said idly, but he eyed the house down the street, his anger rising. It was possible that Pat MacFarland was Mac702, because Susan hadn’t seen a strange car in the driveway and Pat wouldn’t have driven over.

Mike’s heart beat harder, like a fist pounding on a door.

Chapter Forty-two

Mike knocked on the MacFarlands’ door, trying to stay calm. He felt a cramped twisting in the arm that wasn’t there anymore, his characteristic phantom pain. In the next moment, the door was opened by a heavyset, middle-aged man in a flannel shirt that wasn’t tucked in, over baggy jeans.

“Can I help you?” the man asked, frowning behind his bifocals.

“Yes, hello. My name is Mike Scanlon, and I used to live two doors down, with my wife Chloe and our new baby.”

“Oh, right, I’m John MacFarland.” John’s eyes flickered with recognition, a cloudy gray. “I recall the name. You were in Afghanistan, right?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you for your service. How can I help you?”

“I thought I’d come by to talk to your son. He was helpful to my late wife while I was away, and I wanted to say thanks.”

“Right, come in. My condolences.” John stepped aside, and Mike entered the well-appointed entrance hall. “Hang on a sec, I’ll get Pat. I think he’s awake.” He went to the base of the stair and hollered up, “Pat, can you come down? Someone’s here to see you.”

“What does Pat do for a living?” Mike tried to keep his tone casual, though his heart hammered away.

“He’s in between jobs.” John frowned. “He graduated a few years ago, but he got laid off. He’s a graphic designer, websites, all that. Fortunately, he can freelance.”

Mike remembered one of the emails from Mac702 had flattered Chloe and her paintings. “And he lives here?”

“Yes, for the time being. My wife loves having him home. She’s up in the shower, or I’d have her meet you.” They both looked up to the stairwell as a huge mastiff bounded down, its wide pink tongue lolling out of its mouth. John shook his head, indulgently. “Here’s Gigi, Pat’s dog. Gigi stands for gentle giant, so don’t worry.”

“Good to know.” Mike edged backwards as the mastiff hit the rug with a
thump,
and John moved to grab its collar, but missed, chuckling.

“Gang way. She jumps up.”

“Hi, Gigi.” Mike caught the mastiff as she jumped on his chest with her front paws, drooling and panting. He moved his stump away, wincing. “Whoa, she’s a horse.”

“Weighs 150 pounds. No, Gigi, down.” John tugged the dog to the rug, where she plopped on her butt and her hind legs flopped apart. “She needs obedience, that’s for sure.”

Mike felt a start when he spotted Pat, coming downstairs. He was handsome, about six foot two, with thick dark hair, brown eyes, and a relaxed smile. He had on a black T-shirt with loose-fitting blue athletic pants, and when he reached the foot of the stairwell, he gulped a spoonful of cereal from a bowl he was carrying.

John turned to his son. “Pat, you remember that woman down the block, in 637? You used to help her out when we first moved here.”

“No, not really.” Pat shrugged.

“Sure you do. You were over there.”

“What was her name again?” Pat took another spoonful of cereal.

“Chloe Voulette,” Mike interjected, wondering if Pat was lying. If he was, it would’ve been because of the email.

“Chloe, you say?” Pat crunched away, and John shook his head in disapproval.

“Pat, why don’t you put the cereal down and talk to the man? This is her husband.”

“Dad, what? I’m eating.”

Mike simmered, his jealousy glaring. Pat had good looks, a young and able body, and his entire life rolling out in front of him, like a red carpet. “Pat, our house was two doors down, and I heard you helped her with heavy lifting and things like that. This would be around Christmas of last year. Remember now? Is it coming back to you?”

“Not really, but why?” Pat set down the bowl on a side table, sucking cereal out of his teeth.

“She had dark blonde hair, she was really pretty? A new mom, with a baby girl?” Mike felt madder by the minute, losing control of his temper. “You have to remember her. You remember her.”

John looked over at Mike, blinking. “Well, to be fair to Pat, it was a while ago, and you know how kids are—”

“He’s no kid,” Mike shot back. “Men his age are fighting and dying this very minute.” He turned to Pat. “I have one question for you. Is your email address Mac702?”

“What’s your problem, bro?” Pat snorted, tossing his bangs from his forehead.

“I’m not your
bro
. My
bros
aren’t here. My
bros
are in Afghanistan.” Mike angered at the thought of troops dying so this kid could slack. “Why don’t you man up? I’d like to know what you did for my
wife.
I’d like to know
exactly
what kind of help you gave her last year.”

John raised a hand, frowning. “Now, wait just a minute, you said you wanted to thank him.”

Pat scoffed. “I offered to help her move some boxes.”

“You telling me you didn’t do more?” Mike shouted, beyond reason. “You didn’t take advantage of her? You didn’t comfort her in her hour of need?”

“What the hell—” Pat started to say, but Mike exploded, punching Pat in the face.

All hell broke loose. Pat staggered backwards. John rushed to help him. Gigi lunged at Mike, knocked him to the floor, and planted her paws on his chest, barking frantically. Mike shouted and raised his arm, but Gigi clamped down on his right shoulder, then shook him back and forth.

“No, no!” Mike felt the mastiff’s teeth, and his stump seared from being jostled. Tears of rage sprung to his eyes. “You
preyed
on my wife, you bastard! You preyed on my wife! I’ll kill you!”

“Mom, help!” Pat hollered. “Dad, get Gigi!”

“Gigi, drop it, drop it!” John yanked the mastiff backwards, and Gigi opened her jaw, releasing Mike.

“Why couldn’t you leave her alone? Why?” Mike scrambled to his feet and crazily threw another punch, but didn’t connect. “She didn’t love you, she loved
me
!”

“Get out!” Pat seized Mike by his jacket, and a tall, dark-haired woman appeared at the top of the stairwell, her eyes widening in fear.

“John, Pat!” she screamed, terrified, in a robe. “Oh no! Help! Help!”

“Karen, stay upstairs!” John yelled. “Don’t come down!”

“Mom, call 911!” Pat hollered, but Mike punched wildly and caught him under the chin.

“She was my
wife
,
my wife
!”

Pat shook off the punch, grabbed him by the stump, flung open the door, and whipsawed him onto the porch. “Get the hell out!” he yelled, slamming the door closed with a
bang
!

Mike stumbled off the porch, holding his stump and staggering down the steps. Blood dripped onto the snow from his nose. He raised his hand to catch the flow, but pain from the bite arced to his shoulder. His adrenaline ebbed away, leaving him aching all over.

He hustled down the sidewalk, crunching over ice and salt crystals. He kept his head down, passing his old house without looking over. He had made such a fool of himself. He couldn’t defend his home, his marriage, or his wife.

He had almost reached his car when he heard the blare of approaching police sirens.

Chapter Forty-three

The sirens shook Mike to the bone, a reminder of Helmand Province, but he remained acutely aware that he was standing across from his old house, sniffling his own blood, having just had his ass kicked by the stud who probably impregnated his wife. The police cruiser tore around the corner, its tires spraying clotted snow. He leaned against his car and pinched the bridge of his nose to stop the bleeding, hoping the Gustins and Steingards weren’t watching.

The police cruiser lurched to a stop behind his Grand Cherokee, and its sirens silenced abruptly, leaving an echo vibrating in the air. The cruiser doors flew open, and two cops sprang out and hustled toward him, one tall and the other short, in uniforms with thick insulated jackets.

“Mr. Scanlon?” The tall cop motioned to Mike. His nametag read Officer Joseph Torno, and his jacket bore the embroidered patch of the Wilberg Police. “Place your hands against the vehicle, sir.”

“I’m Mike Scanlon. Sorry you guys were called. This is hardly a police matter.” Mike placed his hand against his car, and Officer Torno patted him down.

“Other hand, too, Mr. Scanlon.” Officer Torno reached for the empty sleeve. “What the hell?”

“I have one arm.”

“Sorry.” Officer Torno took his arm and turned him around. He looked young, and his eyes were a bright blue under the patent bill of his cap. “I suppose I can’t cuff you.”

“There’s always a silver lining.” Mike forced a smile.

“You’ll have to come with me, Mr. Scanlon.” Officer Torno led him to the cruiser. “Is this your vehicle?”

“Yes,” Mike answered, as the short cop came around his right side.

“You have the right to remain silent,” he began. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in court. If you don’t have a lawyer, one will be appointed for you…”

“Miranda warnings?” Mike groaned, as the short cop continued. “Am I being arrested, Officer Torno?”

“Yes, sir, for assault. You’ll be booked after we take you to the hospital. You need to see a doctor.”

“Are you kidding?” Mike felt disgusted with himself. “I don’t need a doctor, I am a doctor, and it’s just a nosebleed. I’m fine, and so is he. I hardly got in a punch.”

“You mind telling me what happened, Mr. Scanlon?” Officer Torno opened the cruiser’s back door, while the short cop guided Mike into the backseat, palmed Mike’s head, and buckled him into the safety harness.

“It’s a private matter, between me and Pat.” Mike didn’t want to explain. It was humiliating enough that he had been arrested in front of his neighbors. He wondered how he’d gone from being a respected doctor to an anger-management case, with a prescription-drug problem and a criminal record. He slid over in the seat, which was black plastic and smelled like Armor All. A plastic window separated him from the front seat.

“Mr. Scanlon, would you mind if we searched your vehicle?”

“Go ahead. It’s open.”

“Thank you. Please remain seated, Mr. Scanlon.” The short cop closed the back door, then jogged to Mike’s car, while Officer Torno opened the front door of the cruiser and climbed into the driver’s seat. He shut the door behind him and eyed Mike in the rearview. “You need a Kleenex for that nose?”

“No, thanks.” Mike tilted his head back, and the nosebleed was finally slowing.

“I understand you were bitten by their dog. FYI, its rabies shots are up to date. Is the wound bleeding?”

“It’s fine.” Mike’s right arm hurt, but it was nothing compared with his stump. He hoped he hadn’t reinjured himself, because the local ER wouldn’t have a doc who could repair a complex upper-limb amputation. “So Pat’s charging me with assault?”

“You’re referring to the complainant, Patrick MacFarland?”

“Is complainant a fancy word for jerk?”

Officer Torno didn’t smile. “He says you hit him in the ear and the chin. Is that correct?”

“Well, yes.”

“Did he hit you first?”

“No.” Mike conceded the obvious. “Your basic assault, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Officer Torno pursed his lips. “He’s claiming you damaged his ear, and his front teeth are loose.”

Mike looked out the window. So much for do no harm.

“Are you under the influence of drugs or alcohol, Mr. Scanlon?”

“A prescription for pain.” Mike doubted he should be answering any questions. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“You’ll need somebody to bail you out.”

Mike dreaded calling Bob and he’d wait. It wasn’t an emergency, and he might be in the ER a long time.

“The complainant says you’re a returning vet, sir. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

Officer Torno glanced at him in the rearview. “Are you under psychiatric treatment?”

“Of course not,” Mike answered, then realized the cop had no way of knowing that he wasn’t a battle-crazed war vet who went around bashing heads. Or maybe he was, considering that he had one arm and he’d picked a fight with a man almost twice his size and almost half his age, plus a dog as big as a Humvee.

“Here’s my partner.” Officer Torno watched through the windshield as the short cop jogged back to the cruiser, opened the door, got inside, rubbing his hands together.

“His car’s clean.”

“Good, then we’re outta here.” Officer Torno clipped his harness on, steered around the Cherokee, then lurched off. The cruiser rumbled down Foster Road, and Mike watched his house pass by, then the MacFarlands’, feeling a wave of shame. The cruiser turned onto Paoli Pike and accelerated past houses and stores, and Mike realized he wouldn’t be able to meet Sara at three thirty. Now more than ever, he wanted to see her and confirm his suspicions about Pat.

“Okay if I text somebody I was supposed to meet?” Mike called to Officer Torno.

“Is it your lawyer?”

“No. But it’s important, and she’ll be waiting for me.”

“Make it fast, and then no more. I’m cutting you a break.”

“Thanks.” Mike slid his cell phone from his pocket, wincing. He thumbed to the text function and scrolled to find Sara’s name. He highlighted her name, pressed it, then typed with his thumb,
cant make it today, sorry, will call tonight.
He pressed
SEND
and was about to put the phone back when the text alert chimed. It was a reply from Sara, which read,
No worries! Call whenever! Xoxox!
He slipped the phone back in his pocket and looked out the window, but he hardly saw anything at all.