Blood and Bone: A Smattering of Unease (20 page)

Lauren kept an eye on her surroundings as she moved along, making sure that she was unobserved. Except for the occasional passing car, there was no traffic. She could hear the tracks vibrating with the rumble of the approaching 10:53, and could feel it travel through the ground, up through her feet. Its horn brayed through the crisp night air.

She stopped at the brick corner of the now-defunct train station. This part of the street was unlit. She looked around, checking that the surrounding environment was empty of witnesses. She took long, slow breaths, trying to calm her pounding heart. She was loud and boisterous sometimes, sure; but she was not normally a violent person. Even though she did harbor negative feelings about some people, she had never truly wanted or planned to bring harm to anyone else – until now.

She gathered her resolve and stepped forward to close the last few feet between herself and Rosalie Preacher. The train’s horn sounded, coming closer every second. She couldn’t hesitate. Rosalie needed to be down on the tracks with plenty of time for Lauren to remove herself from the vicinity and from the view of the train.

But Lauren slowed as she saw Rosalie Preacher stagger, weaving to and fro at the side of the road. Then the woman crumpled to the ground. Lauren hesitated, then ran to her on tiptoe. Rosalie had fallen across the first rail. Lauren looked down the tracks; the train was less than two minutes away.

She squatted and touched the woman’s bony wrist. She was warm and had a pulse. As Lauren bent over the unconscious woman, she caught a whiff of alcohol. Rosalie Preacher was going to work drunk! The woman had put herself directly into the position that Lauren had intended to contrive. She could just walk away and leave this unpleasant human being to the end of her own making. There was nothing to indicate Lauren had ever been there.

She knew that her conscience would weigh heavily on her mind if she took that route. Was she a murderer? If she went through with this, she would be just like the boy that had taken Michael and Allison from her. She would be like Rosalie Preacher, whom she believed had set up Mop’s death.

Was she like Rosalie Preacher? Did she want to lower herself to that level? Did she really want to perpetuate this cycle?

The train was drawing near. Lauren had to make a decision.

She hooked her hands in the woman’s bony armpits. Knees bent, she pulled, taking  several steps backward. She dropped Rosalie Preacher a few feet outside the rail, then scanned the sandy dirt for any marks she might have left, but night’s darkness cloaked any footprints or drag marks there may have been.

She was out of time, anyway. She left Rosalie preacher where she had dropped her and disappeared into the shadows at the back of the old railway station seconds before the train’s headlight bathed the crossing with yellow light.

That night, Lauren slept like a baby in her otherwise empty bed.

Bert tossed and turned.

But that was nothing unusual.

* * *

“Lauren, you need to come over!”

“Wha? Why?” Lauren asked sleepily, turning over, cell phone to her ear.

“Just come over! Keep your pajamas on, it doesn’t matter, just come over, I’m brewing coffee! I have big news!”

“Ughhhh,” Lauren said, clicking the “End” button on her cell phone.

Twenty minutes later, Lauren sat in Rita’s kitchen, a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. “So what the hell is going on that you had to roust me at—” she looked at her cell phone, “—Seven-sixteen a.m. on a Sunday morning?”

Rita slapped the Sunday paper down on the table. “Front page news!”

Lauren looked at the photo. “That’s the very recognizable face of our new neighbor.”

Rita nodded excitedly. “Read!”

Lauren read, her lips moving. “Found beside the train tracks . . . smelled of alcohol . . . police are investigating . . . autopsy will be performed?” She looked up, her heart pounding, hands trembling.

“Why, honey, you’re as white as a sheet! Are you okay?”

“She’s dead!”

* * *

“Do you think we should tell her that I planted your pills in Rosalie’s bathroom and drugged her pie?” Rita asked Bert over dinner that evening.

“Nope,” said Bert, shoveling a forkful of Rita’s homemade macaroni and cheese into his mouth. “I wouldn’t want her thinking badly of us. Plus her knowing would be on her conscience.”

Rita looked worried. “But she’s probably scared out of her mind that she’s going to be charged with murder.”

“But she won’t be.” Bert shrugged. “It isn’t Lauren’s fault the woman is a drug addict who took too many pills and got drunk at the same time. There was no evidence anyone else was there. I checked after the train ran through.”

“
She
doesn’t know that.”

“Leave it alone. It’ll work itself out. ”

A couple of Fridays later, Lauren drove down Blackberry Lane, slowing to steer around the police cars that were parked front of the Preacher house. There were three, plus an unmarked van in the driveway. It looked as though they were getting ready to leave; there was someone in the back of one of the cars.

She kicked the snow off of her boots as she climbed Rita’s front steps. Rita opened the door before Lauren even had a chance to knock.

“Come in, come in, have coffee, get warm!”

Lauren gladly let her friend lead her into the warm kitchen, where the smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air. “Cookies, have cookies!”

Lauren sat and sipped the hot coffee, feeling its heat spread from her stomach, warming her, and the sudden alert state that the caffeine brought. “So what’s going on across the street?”

“I don’t exactly know,” Rita said, taking a sugar cookie from the plate she’d set in the middle of her kitchen table. “They arrested that Mack. Cuffed and stuffed him. And the woman, I think she’s a social worker, took the kids and put them in the van.”

“Wow.”

“I don’t know why. But it will either be on the local news or in the papers tomorrow. We’ll find out.”

“Yeah.”

Rita knocked on Lauren’s door the next morning. “I found out!” She squealed, brandishing the Saturday paper.

“Come in, come in,” Lauren yawned. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock, so the two began where they’d left off the evening before: with a fresh pot of coffee.

Lauren read the article that Rita shoved beneath her nose. “Kidnapping? Those weren’t Rosalie’s sister’s kids?”

“Nope. Rosalie and Mack took them from Virginia. It isn’t the first time, either.”

“Authorities are unsure at this time whether the couple abused the two children . . . wanted for questioning in another child’s disappearance in Virginia. They were a
couple
?” Lauren shuddered. “Martin Bishop was arrested at his home yesterday . . . children were remanded to the care of Children’s Protective Services . . . Robin Bishop was found alive beside the train tracks, passed away at the hospital . . . was under the influences of illegally obtained prescription drugs and alcohol . . . her death has been ruled an accident; no foul play is suspected.” She stopped and took a deep, quiet breath.

Rita watched her carefully. “Do you feel better now, dear? I think you may have been worrying that your argument with the deceased might get you into trouble.”

“Yes, I was anxious about that. I was worried that they would come and ask me questions.”

“But you didn’t do anything wrong, right?”

Lauren shook her head.

“Then why worry?”

Lauren shook her head again and shrugged.

Rita cleared her throat and changed the subject. “Have you heard from that young man?”

“Who?”

“You know . . .”

“You mean the one who killed Allison’s dog?”

“Well, yes.”

“He sent me a check to cover Mop’s final expenses.”

“
And?
”

“And
what?
I hope you’re not asking me what I think you’re asking me.”

Rita looked sideways.

“You
are! Shame
on you, Rita!”

“Hey, it wasn’t
all
his fault.”

“His carelessness is what made the situation possible.” Lauren could feel her face getting hot.

Rita put her hands up, palms out, in a defensive gesture. “Okay, okay. I just thought maybe . . . and he tried to make it right.”

“Money can’t make it right. Thank you, but I’m fine.”

“I understand, dear.” She sipped her coffee. “You’re invited to Thanksgiving dinner. Don’t bother bringing anything, unless you want to bring some nice spirits.”

“Why thank you, of course, I’ll come.”

“It’s been a rough year for you. I hope things will change for the better.”

“Thank you for the thoughts. Honestly, I don’t know how much more death I can handle. I hope Rosalie’s will be the last one, for a while.”

* * *

Thanksgiving was a low-key affair. Lauren was fully drained, unable to find much to converse about, despite Rita’s prompts. She tried to put a brave face on it and smile; she wanted to be a good guest.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t feel like it, my dear.” Rita tapped Lauren’s arm. “We know you’ve been through so much this year. I don’t blame you one bit. Just be comfortable.”

“Thank you.” Lauren curled up in the corner of the Williams’ sofa with Rita’s hand-made afghan, hot cocoa in hand, reading
Real Simple
, while Rita puttered around the kitchen, making the meal, and Bert leaned back in his easy chair, smoking cigarettes and sipping beer while he watched football, uttering an occasional exclamation.

She passed the next few weeks cocooned in silence. She went to work, came home, and watched sitcoms. She had lost the desire to
do
anything. She lay awake for hours at night until sleep, at last, came to claim her in the early morning hours.

A week or so before Christmas, Lauren sat on her sofa, a plastic bin of Christmas decorations on the floor at her feet. She felt numb and empty. The Christmas spirit eluded her.

Why bother?
She thought.
It’s only me. No kids to enjoy the magic of Christmas, or the pretty lights. No family to put gifts under a tree for. Not even a family pet to buy a bone for. What’s the point?

She re-fitted the plastic lid back onto the bin and secured it firmly.

Someone knocked on the front door. When Lauren opened it, she found only footprints in the fresh dusting of snow on her front porch and a large white box with a Christmas card envelope taped to the top. She looked up and down the street and saw the twin rear lights of a vehicle disappear into the distance.

She brought the box inside. She set it on the floor beside the bin of Christmas ornaments and pulled off the attached Christmas card. She opened envelope and pulled out the card. Inside it was a handwritten note:

“Dear Lauren Lattimer,

I know that the gift in the box can never replace your dog. I know that it can never be a substitute for the family that you lost, but maybe it can be the start of a second one for you, or at least keep you company. Remember, this is not your daughter’s dog. This one is all yours. You shouldn’t be by yourself at Christmas.

Merry Christmas,

Jack Phillips”

A faint scratching noise came from the inside of the white box, whose lid had holes punched in it at evenly spaced intervals. She tore away the packing tape that held the edges of the lid down. She gasped when she lifted the lid and looked inside.

Staring back at her were the bright blue eyes of a fluffy white Siberian husky puppy whose neck was adorned with a pink satin bow.

“Ohhhh,” Lauren said, lifting the ball of fur out of the box and holding it in front of her. The puppy licked her face with her small pink tongue and wagged her little tail.

Then Lauren felt abruptly indignant. “Of all the nerve!” She exclaimed. The puppy tilted her head and looked at her curiously. “How
dare
he! Doesn’t he know he should
never
give a gift of a pet to someone? They might not want it. And to
assume
it would make things all better – for
him
!” Lauren set the puppy on the sofa, where it fell over and wriggled around excitedly on its back. “You
are
awfully cute, though. I can let you stay today, but then I have to call Jack Phillips and have him pick you up and take you back.”

Then she began to worry. What if the puppy was a rescue dog. She couldn’t live with herself if she returned a dog that needed a loving home. Wait, what was she thinking? Of course this dog needed a loving home. She wouldn’t have landed on her porch, otherwise.

As she watched the puppy trying to attack her own tail, Lauren felt her heart soften and a warm feeling radiate outward from the center of her chest. She held out her hand and it bounded over to her and licked her hand. Lauren picked her up and hugged the puppy to her chest, where she wriggled to free herself. “Oh my God! Fine, I changed my mind. You can stay. Let’s do Christmas!”