Marcia Talley - This Enemy Town

Emma’s head shot up. “Will you make lasagna?”

“If you like.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Oh my gawd, Kevin, Hannah’s lasagna is to die for. It’s got meatballs.”

“Dorothy?”

“Sunday?” Dorothy shook her head. “Sorry, Hannah, but Ted and I have a prior commitment.”

I hoped my relief didn’t show in my face. If I didn’t have to play Hannah the Happy Hostess to Dorothy and the admiral, maybe I could get to the bottom of what was really going on between Kevin and Emma.

“How about you, Kevin? Around noon?”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Ives,” Kevin mumbled around a mouthful of pepperoni, green pepper, mushrooms, and pineapple. “We’ll look forward to it.”

But that turned out to be an appointment none of us would be able to keep.

It seemed as if my head had just hit the pillowwhen I dreamed I heard the doorbell ringing.

I rose up on one elbow, straining my ears. At first I heard nothing but the roar of the furnace kicking in, but then it came again, the muffled brrring-brrring of the ancient doorbell attached to our front door.

I squinted at the clock: 5:00. Who could be calling at such an ungodly hour?

I turned on the bedside lamp, swung my legs over the side of the mattress, and felt around for my slippers. As I slipped my toes into them, I turned to check on Paul. He lay on his side, one arm stuffed under his pillow, breathing deeply, sleeping the sleep of a man who’d drunk a bit too much beer with his brother-in-law the night before. I didn’t have the heart to wake him. Paul didn’t have early classes on Friday.

Still half asleep, I was shuffling across the hardwood floor, my feet half in and half out of my slippers, when the ringing turned to knocking. “Hold your darn horses!” I muttered to myself, feeling around in the dark for my bathrobe.

I flipped on the light at the top of the stairs and started down, knotting the sash around my waist as I went. In the front hall, I flipped the switch that turned on the porch light and peered out the window.

A short blonde dressed in a dark overcoat several sizes too big stood on the doorstep. Behind her stood four other individuals-three men and another woman-dressed in dark jackets. Struggling to remain calm, I raised my hand to the dead bolt. “Who is it?” I asked.

“FBI,” the woman called through the door. “We have a warrant.”

I was so relieved that the people clustered on my doorstep weren’t state troopers calling to tell me that Emily and the children had been involved in a terrible accident that what she said didn’t sink in. At least not right away. “A warrant?” I stammered. “A warrant for what?”

“To search the house,” she shouted. “Open up, please, or we’ll have to break the door down, and I’m sure you don’t want that.”

Next to the blonde-in-charge, a husky man shifted from one foot to the other, cradling a three-foot length of pipe about the diameter of a salad plate in the crook of his arm. As I watched through the window, hugging my arms and trying not to panic, one beefy hand moved to grasp the battering ram by a handle, and it looked like he was itching to use it. I decided not to give him the chance. Aside from a few unpaid bills, two overdue library books, and a 1998 federal income tax return that might have been a shade on the dicey side, Paul and I had absolutely nothing to hide.

I twisted the dead bolt and opened the door wide, holding my robe together over my nightgown as the cold morning air swept in.

The blonde didn’t budge from her spot on my doorstop. “Hannah Ives?”

“Yes?”

“Hannah Ives, FBI. You’re under arrest.”

Blood roared in my ears. Dropping the end of the sash I was holding, I pressed a hand to my chest. “What did you say?”

“Step inside, please.”

I was about to point out that I was already inside, when she pushed her way into my entrance hall, a pair of handcuffs dangling from her hand.

Instinctively, I backed away.

“Turn around, please. Hands behind your back.”

I was outnumbered, so I turned obediently, knowing that the next thing I would feel would be cold hard steel closing around my wrists. “Paul!” I screamed. “Paul!”

Ignoring my cries, the blonde guided me toward a nearby chair. “I’m Special Agent Crisp,” she informed me. “Please sit down.”

I sat. I leaned forward when the back of the chair pressed uncomfortably against the handcuffs. I glared up at my captor as she quietly read me my rights-anything you say can and will be used against you… you have the right to an attorney… do you understand…? Clearly, I was having a nightmare. Then the handcuffs pinched my wrists, and I knew it was no dream.

Slightly shorter than my five-foot-six, Agent Crisp’s roundish face was framed by blond hair that curled gently under each ear. As she moved about the entrance hall issuing orders, her overcoat flapped open. Underneath, she wore a dark gray pantsuit and a crisp white shirt, and I realized that what I had at first taken for pleasing plumpness was, in fact, a bulletproof vest. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or dismayed. Imagine! Donning a bulletproof vest for protection against… me!

“Is there anybody else here?” Agent Crisp asked.

“Of course there’s somebody here!” I snapped. “My husband. He’s upstairs in bed. It’s not even light out yet!”

She nodded to a colleague who started upstairs to find Paul. A second agent headed in the direction of the kitchen. He must have let his buddies in the back door because before long there were seven FBI agents swarming around.

For her part, Agent Crisp was all business. “Are there any weapons in the house?”

“Of course not!” I snarled. I wondered if “weapons” included the Wilkinson presentation swords, crossed and hung on the wall in Paul’s office, directly over his computer. I decided not to mention them.

“What the hell is going on?” Awakened by my screams, Paul thundered down the stairs wearing nothing but his Y-fronts, nearly trampling the agent who’d been sent upstairs to fetch him.

The agent grabbed the banister with one hand and raised the other. “Your wife is under arrest.” Then seeing the rage on my husband’s face, he quickly added, “Sir.”

Paul swept the man’s arm aside. “Under arrest? What the hell for?”

“For the murder of Jennifer Marie Goodall.”

Paul’s face grew dangerously red. “The hell she is!”

Murder! I doubled over, feeling like I’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse. Jennifer Goodall. I should have known. “This is a mistake,” I moaned.

“Hannah.” Paul took another step in my direction, but Agent Crisp’s arm shot out like a toll booth barrier, blocking his way.

“Sir.”

Paul froze. “I need to comfort my wife,”

“I think it’s best if you wait in the kitchen, sir.” Agent Crisp didn’t smile, but her eyes seemed kind.

My cheeks burned with tears. I swiped at my eyes the best I could, using my shoulders, then turned my ruined face to Crisp. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Crisp nodded to one of her colleagues, who struck off in the direction of the kitchen, returning in less than a minute with a damp paper towel. He held it out in front of me helpfully, although what he expected me to do with it when my hands were cuffed behind my back, I hadn’t a clue.

Paul snatched the towel from the agent’s hand and quickly, before anyone had time to draw their weapon, used it to wipe my flaming cheeks.

“Oh God, Paul, I’m so sorry,” I sobbed against his hand. I couldn’t look at him. Seeing the confusion in my husband’s eyes would just set me off again.