Staying Alive (4 page)

Claire hadn’t realized she’d dozed off until the car stopped moving. She hadn’t exactly been asleep but she’d floated in that place between asleep and awake.

“You’re sure you’re okay, Claire?”

She faced her friend and produced a smile. “I’m okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Darlene shook her head. “No school tomorrow. Maybe not the next day.”

Of course there wouldn’t be any school. The investigation would need to continue. Her classroom would need repairs. And Mr. Allen. God, poor Mr. Allen. There would be arrangements for his memorial service.

“I’ll talk to you later then.” Claire opened her door but hesitated before getting out. “Thanks, Darlene. I don’t think I could have driven home after…”

Darlene placed her hand over Claire’s and squeezed. “I know. Call me if you need me, no matter the hour.”

Claire emerged from the car and waved as she watched her friend drive away. She felt a little numb. She hadn’t noticed that before. Maybe the reality of the last few hours was only now beginning to catch up with her.

Glancing down the block, first left then right, she was immensely glad no reporters had found
out where she lived. She doubted that would last, but at least they weren’t here now.

She turned and faced her small bungalow. It wasn’t much. Just a one-bedroom, one-bathroom fixer-upper she’d spent the last five years transforming, but it was home and she loved it.

As she took her time advancing along the sidewalk, she focused on the details of her home. Anything to clear her head of the ugliness. She loved the Craftsman-style bay window that looked out over her front yard. She’d just planted lots of flowers last weekend. With April coming to a close the colorful, lush annuals were starting to bloom, the reds, yellows and purples brilliant against the pale green of her house and the rich brown of the eucalyptus mulch.

She had a white picket fence, a detached garage and her own little garden toolshed in the back.

So far, she had done good, if she did say so herself.

Stepping up onto the covered porch, she admired her swing. She’d layered it with comfy cushions. She loved sitting out here reading with a cup of coffee on Saturday mornings. Her house faced east, so she could watch the sunrise as well.

It was perfect for her. Felt like home in every way.

That was something she hadn’t expected when she moved here. She had missed Alabama so badly,
but she’d needed a fresh start. When she’d found this place, it had been in pretty sad shape. Like her.

Claire unlocked the door and went inside. She’d spent all summer that year transforming the exterior into a showcase of curb appeal. Then, during those long dreary winter months that followed, she had, inch by inch, revitalized the interior. From the period crown molding to the rustic tile in the light-filled kitchen. She’d had to hire someone to do the wiring update. Most older homes didn’t meet the current code.

But that overwhelming kitchen renovation was all that had gotten her through her first Christmas alone.

“Enough.”

Claire sat her purse on the table next to the door and engaged the dead bolt. She allowed the familiar smells and textures of home to soothe her as she walked toward the bathroom, shedding her clothes as she went. By the time she reached the bathroom she’d stripped down to her panties and bra.

While the original claw-foot tub filled with steaming hot water, she fashioned her unruly blond curls into the closest thing to a bun she could manage in this condition.

Big, dark smudges beneath her brown eyes made them look sunken. The first trace of bruises on her upper arms and throat had begun to surface. Good thing the weather was still cool enough for
a long-sleeved turtleneck. Otherwise she’d look…just like her sister used to. She shivered at the images that resurrected.

Banishing the memories, Claire poured her favorite scented oil into the tub and inhaled deeply as the luxuriant lavender essence infused the rising steam.

She stepped into the tub and slowly lowered herself into the welcoming embrace of the hot water. After turning off the tap, she leaned back and let the neck-deep water do its work.

It felt so good. The heat penetrated her muscles and urged them to relax. The steam filled the room, creating a cozy cloud of thick, damp silence.

She didn’t need any music or candles. Just this glorious heat and the blessed silence.

The phone rang, the muffled sound reached beyond the barrier of the door, cut through her cozy cloud, but she refused to open her eyes. She was way too exhausted to care who might be calling.

Probably some of the other teachers checking up on her. The teachers were her family now. They had accepted her as one of their own. She received an invitation to every birthday, every wedding and funeral just as if she had always been here.

This was home.

The past was over and done with. No going back.

No looking back.

That was the hardest part. When things happened to provoke an old memory…like being forced to shoot that man today…she couldn’t help wondering. But going back was detrimental to her well-being. She could not think about the past and continue to be happy in her present.

End of story.

And just like that, the images of the terrorist she’d killed flashed one after the other in her head. His harsh words. His unflinching brutality. He would have killed little Peter Reimes with no compunction at all. How was that possible? How could anyone feel their cause so strongly that they would take the life of a child to further their own agenda?

It was insane. Beyond insane.

She forced the thoughts from her mind. This bath was supposed to be about relaxing. She didn’t want to think anymore. She wanted to relax and just lie here in the water and soak up the incredible heat.

Eventually she drained some of the water and used the hand-held spray attachment to wash her hair. When she’d rinsed and conditioned and felt clean and relaxed, she climbed out of the tub, drained and rinsed it, then dried her skin. She took her time and completed all the usual grooming rituals, including clipping her nails and slathering
her skin with lotion. Mostly she wanted to make sure her whole body was free of any hint of the evil she’d encountered this day.

By the time she wrapped herself in her ancient terry-cloth robe and emerged from the bathroom, she felt like a new woman. She gathered her dirty clothes, opted not to try and salvage them and tossed the whole lot into the garbage. She never wanted to see those clothes again, much less wear them.

In the kitchen she considered scrounging around for something to eat, but she didn’t really have an appetite. Her stomach still felt a little queasy from all the stress. Instead she poured herself a brimming stemmed glass of wine.

A couple of glasses of wine and she would feel totally relaxed. She padded into the living room and checked her machine. The red light on the message machine was flashing. Might as well see who had called. As the machine prepared to play the one message, she shuffled over to the sofa and dropped into the corner spot where she always sat.

“Miss Grant,” the male voice recorded on the machine said, “this is Paul Reimes.” A moment of silence passed. “I just wanted to thank you for saving my son’s life. I wanted to say this in person…” His voice quavered. “But the authorities felt I should stay with my family just
now, and letting you know how much I am in your debt simply wouldn’t wait. Thank you. It’s not nearly enough…but it’s all I know to say.”

Claire grabbed a tissue and swiped at her eyes. And she’d thought she was going to be able to relax. She pulled the throw up around her and grabbed the remote. Time to vegetate with a program that had nothing to do with guns or killers. She skimmed through the channels, avoiding the stations where news would be showing. She wasn’t ready for that yet.

A game show captured her attention and she watched mindlessly for a while. She didn’t want to think—not about anything right now.

After watching three game shows in a row her stomach started to protest the lack of attention. She kicked off the throw and moseyed into the kitchen. Another glass of wine was first on the menu. She sipped the second glass as she surveyed the contents of her fridge.

A heat-and-serve frozen dinner just wasn’t going to do it tonight. She needed real sustenance. After prowling through all her usual hiding places, she found a chocolate bar and munched on it until she made a decision.

Her decision was that there simply wasn’t anything in the house that spoke to her taste buds. There was only one thing to do. Call for takeout.

That was one of the things she loved about urban living. Practically every restaurant in the area would deliver. Tonight, she had Italian on her mind. A nice salad, pasta and marinara along with garlic bread. Heaven on earth.

While she waited for the food to arrive, she finished drying her tangled hair and spent what felt like forever straightening it. Her arms felt weak after so long holding up the straightening iron.

She glanced at the clock. Thirty-five minutes had passed since she’d ordered. The food should have arrived by now. Nobody got lost in Fremont. If the driver offered that excuse she might just have to skip his tip.

She scrounged in her purse for the money, then peeked out the window. There were three cars at the curb in front of her house. One, the one in the center, was marked with the name of the restaurant she’d called. The other two were generic looking sedans.

The guy in the delivery car had gotten out and stood with his hands braced on top of his car. A man behind him started to pat him down.

“What in the world?”

There were four men in all, all dressed in suits, swarming around the delivery guy.

Before her brain had time to override her reaction, she’d stalked to her front door and jerked it open. She
stormed out onto the porch and yelled, “What’s going on? That’s my dinner he’s delivering!”

Two seconds after she’d bellowed the words, she realized that only a “large” girl would go nuts when her food delivery was threatened. She rolled her eyes and wanted to kick herself. But, hey, she’d been through literal hell today. She deserved a decent meal.

Two of the men strode up the sidewalk toward her. For the first time since she’d barreled out onto her porch an inkling of uneasiness trickled through her. Maybe rushing out here hadn’t been such a good idea.

“Ma’am.” The first guy to reach her steps flashed a badge. “I’m going to have to ask you to step back inside the house.”

She looked from him to his companion who displayed his badge as well.

“What’s going on?”

“We’ll explain everything, ma’am,” the first guy said as he escorted her back to the door, “just as soon as you’re inside.”

Inside, Claire threw up her hands stop-sign fashion as the two older men came in and closed the door. “Just a minute. Why are you two here? Why are you shaking down my delivery guy?”

“Calm down, ma’am,” the second guy said. “We have orders to ensure your safety.”

“My safety?” She looked from one to the other. “What are you talking about?” The idea that somehow, something about today wasn’t over yet nagged at her, but she refused to consider the notion. Three of the terrorists were dead. One was in custody. Everything was okay now. It had to be. She was too tired to deal with anything else.

“Ma’am, the prisoner, Bashir Rafsanjani, taken from the scene today, killed two police officers and escaped during transport. We’re not exactly sure what happened. We feel you may be his next target.”

“He escaped?”

You are dead!

The words echoed inside her head.

The man who had uttered them so vehemently had escaped from the police. Her brain finally wrapped around the words echoing inside her head.

He would want his revenge…on her.

T
uesday morning Claire peeked beyond the blinds to see if the unmarked sedan was still parked in front of her house.

It was.

The police had stayed close by all night.

She cradled her coffee mug in hopes of warming her cold hands and did the thing she’d put off for hours now. She pressed the remote and watched as the television blinked to life.

After selecting a round-the-clock news channel, she sat back and sipped her coffee. A reporter, with Claire’s school in the background, recapped
the horrifying events of the day before. The escaped prisoner was still at large. Pictures of the four terrorists appeared on the screen. She peered at the image of the man she had killed. He was surely of Middle Eastern descent, yet his name was as American as her own. Thomas Odem.

Thomas Odem had been twenty-one years of age and an engineering student at Washington University. An honor student.

The warm coffee couldn’t keep the iciness from sliding through her veins. If she hadn’t been in the room to hear the way Odem had orchestrated the despicable act that had been carried out at her school, she would find it hard to believe he was the one. But she had been there. She’d heard him order the murder of a child. The man had been ruthless, inhuman.

And still she couldn’t help feeling remorse at what fate had forced her to do.

Her mind raced back six years…to that night. Her sister had been screaming and crying, begging Claire to stop him before he hurt the baby. He’d broken in through the back door, forcing Claire and her sister to hide in the bedroom. There was no place left to run. The police had been called but they would never get there in time. One of the downfalls to country living.

Tad Farmer, her no-good brother-in-law, had
pounded and kicked until he’d succeeded in knocking in the bedroom door. The handgun he’d waved at her sister had terrified Claire. She had known this time would be different from all the others. He had beaten her sister numerous times, but this time he planned to kill her because she refused to go back to him.

When he’d rushed her sister, Claire had stepped into his path. They had struggled…somehow the weapon had gone off. Maybe he’d been trying to shoot her or maybe it had been an accident. The bullet had entered his torso at an upward angle just below his rib cage, glanced off a rib and torn straight through his heart. He’d died within two or three minutes. Claire had still been on her knees, attempting CPR on the jerk when the police stormed the house.

Her sister had gone into premature labor and had had to be rushed to the hospital.

The world changed for Claire at that moment. She’d lost everything that mattered to her.

And now she had killed again.

She pushed the memories away.

Looking back like this was a mistake. She never allowed herself to do that, she shouldn’t now. It was too painful.

Sitting here watching the news was only going to encourage wallowing in self-pity. The police
were outside keeping guard. She needn’t worry about her safety. The best thing she could do was occupy herself with something constructive.

Claire got up and surveyed her living room. She usually waited until Saturday to clean house. Last weekend she’d planted flowers instead. Might as well get it done today. She was home. Who knew what she’d be doing on Saturday? Though she assumed Mr. Allen’s memorial service would be held before then, she couldn’t be sure.

After putting her cup away and shutting off the coffee machine, she pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a Seattle Seahawks T-shirt. She bunched her hair into a ponytail and gathered her cleaning supplies.

It wasn’t even nine, she had the whole day ahead of her. The fact that heavy-duty housework burned some serious calories was not lost on her. Five more pounds and she would be able to get back into her favorite size-twelve regular-fit jeans without holding her breath.

Fully motivated now, she quickly laid out a strategy, then launched her attack.

By noon her little bungalow shone, from the glossy hardwood floors to the sleek tile countertops. She had to admit that the hard word had done the trick. As exhausted as she was, she felt comfortably
relaxed. A quick shower and change, and she was ready to move on to papers that needed to be graded.

First, however, she needed to have lunch. She’d skipped breakfast, not on purpose but because for once she actually had no appetite. But after her rigorous cleaning frenzy she was ready to refuel.

The telephone rang as she made her way to the kitchen. She grabbed it en route. “Hello.”

“Are you okay?” Darlene said, her voice frantic. “I saw the news this morning. Are the police watching your house? Oh, my God, this is terrible, Claire. I’m coming over.”

In spite of the whole mess Claire had to smile. It was nice to be loved. “Yes, I’m okay. I saw the news, too, and the police are watching my house. Come over and we’ll have lunch.” She surveyed the offerings in her fridge. “I was about to prepare a chef salad. You know you love my salads.”

Her salads included pretty much everything but the kitchen sink: pineapple and walnuts to boot.

“Sounds great,” Darlene enthused, “but I’ll bring my own salad dressing.”

Claire harrumphed. “Fat-free doesn’t mean taste-free.”

“Oh, yes it does,” Darlene argued. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Be sure to identify yourself to my bodyguards otherwise you might find yourself arrested.” Claire
recalled the poor delivery guy last night having to endure a humiliating pat down.

“Wait, are these cops cute?”

Claire placed a bag of mixed greens on the counter. “The ones I met last night were cute, but I haven’t seen the guys out there this morning up close. There was a shift change about eight.”

She couldn’t believe she’d had an actual shift change in police surveillance right outside her house. This kind of stuff only happened in books and movies. The whole situation felt surreal…except for the memory of yesterday’s gun blast echoing in her ears. She shuddered, banished the vivid recollection.

“Okay, so make it thirty minutes,” Darlene amended. “I’ll need to change.”

Her friend’s vanity parted the dark clouds and made Claire smile again. “See you then.”

She pressed the off button and left the phone on the counter as she pillaged for additional ingredients for a masterpiece salad. Darlene was thirty-five and divorced. She lamented all too often how she didn’t want to be single forever. She wanted a relationship, one that would last, with a guy who appreciated her for who she was. Her determination to attain that goal was relentless.

And still Darlene was certain it wasn’t going to happen in time—before she got too old to
care. Claire tried to reassure her, sometimes it even worked.

Ham, cheese, tomatoes and cucumbers in her arms, she carried her bounty to the sink. She had turned thirty this year. Some part of her had acknowledged the milestone with a vague sense of failure on some fronts. She had never been married, had absolutely no prospects of a date, much less a marriage. Should she be feeling that same desperation her friend felt?

If so, she was in trouble because she didn’t feel that way at all. Far from it. The idea of intimate involvement made her want to run for the hills. She hadn’t had a steady boyfriend since leaving Alabama.

Pictures of her brother-in-law lying there on her bedroom floor bleeding out internally began to darken her new good mood. She switched the mental channel, refused to look. Maybe her inability to get close to anyone did spring from the events of that long-ago night. If that was the case then she was doomed because she couldn’t change what she had done. And if she was honest with herself she would have to say that she would do the same thing again. In fact, she just had.

Her sister’s life had been in danger. Just as Peter Reimes’s life had been yesterday. She had done the only thing she could in each situation.

But somehow, deep down, that reality didn’t really help.

It didn’t change the fact that she had now killed two men.

Claire turned her hands palms up and stared at them.

Did that make her a different person than she had been before? She’d wondered that the first time, but the events that followed that night had evolved so quickly with such devastating results that nothing else really mattered.

She’d left her hometown after that with no idea where she would land. Months later she had been substituting at a school in Tennessee when a new friend had recommended a school from her hometown, Whitesburg Middle all the way out in one of Seattle’s many suburbs. At first Claire had been reluctant to go so far, but there had been no change in her circumstances with her sister so she’d taken the leap.

That felt like a lifetime ago.

And yet, as she stared at her hands, she remembered every detail of that night she’d killed Tad as if it had only been last night.

Somehow that was where she’d failed. She’d lost her family; maybe she’d given up too easily. But she would never know now.

With monumental effort, she turned her at
tention to preparing the salad. Darlene would be here soon.

She washed, sliced and diced until the presentation was perfect. Lots of lovely color and texture above a bed of vibrant greens. Water or diet cola would have to do since Darlene had not yet acquired a taste for Claire’s artificially sweetened iced tea.

Claire readied the table, using her best stoneware. Her only stoneware actually. She’d been hooked on the fruit motif from the moment she’d laid eyes on it. Her whole kitchen was designed around those same colors.

She checked the clock just as the doorbell rang.

“Now that’s perfect timing.”

Having company, especially Darlene, would help to ward off memories from the past. She had enough new trouble in the present without borrowing from the past she’d worked so hard to put behind her.

She reached for the door, almost opened it, but a nagging voice reminded her to check first. She wasn’t expecting anyone other than Darlene; however, there was a terrorist on the loose who might want revenge. Some part of her still found that notion completely unbelievable. But another part, a more cautious side, didn’t want to take any chances.

Claire waved at Darlene, who noticed her peek
ing through the slats of the blind, then unlocked and opened the door.

Looking woefully depressed, Darlene sighed and announced, “Married. Both of them. Detectives Benson and Lassiter.”

The cops on surveillance duty, Claire realized. She motioned for Darlene to come on inside. “Forget about that. Lunch is waiting.”

Salad dressing in hand, Darlene trudged inside. “Why do all the interesting ones have to be married already? It just isn’t fair.”

“They might not be interesting,” Claire countered. She took the bottle of dressing from her friend and led the way to the table. “Just because they’re cops doesn’t mean they’re interesting.”

“Sure it does.”

The two hugged. “You holding up okay?”

Claire nodded. “I’ll survive.”

Darlene gave her a smile that said she didn’t have a doubt.

“Sit.” Claire gestured to a chair at the table. “Eating always makes me feel better.” Until she had time to consider the ramifications, she thought.

“I’ve never dated a cop,” Darlene went on as she dribbled her own fat-filled dressing on her salad. “Maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong.”

Claire nodded and made agreeable sounds as
her friend wandered off on her tangent about the men she should have chosen. Darlene was a striking woman. Tall and slender with perfect cheekbones and amazing hazel eyes. Her long blond hair was all-natural. And she had those movie-star teeth and not a single cap or veneer. Why did a woman that gorgeous feel so panicked about her love life? It just wasn’t fair.

For a few minutes they ate in silence, then Darlene started in on the whole cop theory again.

“There’s that adrenaline factor,” Claire reminded her. “All cops, firemen, et cetera, fall into that adrenaline-junkie zone. Their work is dangerous. Think about how unnerving it would be to have a husband who dons SWAT gear and goes into a situation like yesterday.” Her gaze moved to the clock and she couldn’t help thinking that the whole terrifying incident had started around this time yesterday.

“A hero,” Darlene countered. “What would we do without them? Someone has to do it. A
hero
,” she repeated dreamily. “I could get used to that.” She blinked, looked at Claire as if she’d just remembered something vastly important. “You’re an official hero, too, you know. I know you didn’t watch, but you were all over the news last night. The whole country now knows that you single-handedly saved those children.”

“I didn’t single-handedly do anything.” Claire stood. “I think it’s time for dessert.” She shook her head at her friend’s plunge into the twilight zone. “Something thick and chocolatey to bring you back to your senses.”

She had just the stuff. It hadn’t come from a bakery or a fancy shop with a dessert chef. Nope, her chocolate mousse came in a pack of four small containers from a supermarket. If you spooned it into stemmed glasses, added a dollop of whipped topping and sprinkled it with her secret ingredient, powdered chocolate sugar, it was almost impossible to tell the difference.

Any good Southern girl who didn’t know how to bake quickly learned how to fudge it. Another thing all good Southern girls knew was that you didn’t take credit for a blessing straight from God. The fact that she and the children had survived yesterday was nothing less than exactly that kind of blessing.

When the dessert looked restaurant-presentable, Claire waltzed back into the dining room and announced, “Viola!”

“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.” Darlene reached for her dessert.

“It was nothing,” Claire quipped.

Her depressed friend popped a spoonful into her mouth. “Mmm. Yummy.”

There was no more talk of good-looking cops or love lives or lack thereof. Chocolate could always be counted on to soothe the wicked beast whether depression, envy or just plain old impatience.

Claire went all out. Even served coffee in the living room after dessert. It was that kind of day. One where she felt the need to celebrate the things she was lucky to have: good friends, a great job, nice home, food to eat, gourmet ground roast. All the necessities of life.