Steven Womack: Dead Folks' blues

She looked up from the counter. The color that rose so quickly in her face had drained away just as fast, leaving her skin a perfect, almost translucent alabaster.

“There’s only one person who benefits,” I whispered. “You.”

Nothing showed in her face, no reaction, no flicker of reflex or fear. Her eyes were steady, calm.

“Harry, you’ve been watching too much television.”

“It would have been easy for you to steal the protocurarine. It wasn’t a class narcotic, would have been accessible for somebody who fit in at the hospital.”

“Harry,” she laughed, “I didn’t even work there.”

“But you spent time there. Your husband worked there. You put him through med school. You’re a nurse. You knew how the system worked. There are hundreds of nurses in that facility every day. You put on the uniform, blend right in with them. You just went where you wanted. Who was going to stop you?”

“You’re crazy,” she said quietly after a long moment.

“I even know how he was put down without a mark on him. I know about the stun gun,” I said. I reached over, unzipped the pack, turned it upside down and poured all her belongings onto the kitchen table.

Her eyes darkened. “No marks,” I continued. “No permanent damage. When he was lying on the bed helpless, the killer shot him full right through his pants leg.”

“Harry, I-”

“Did you imagine you heard his breathing after that?” I demanded. “Could you hear his death rattle inside you? I did, Rachel. I felt him die under me.”

Her eyes reddened, filled with tears. “I don’t know why you’re doing this to me.”

“Am I wrong, Rachel? If I am, show me how.”

“You are wrong! Why would I want him killed? I loved him!” she yelled.

“I know about the money, Rachel. I know how far in debt you were. I know how close to collapse you were.” I paused a moment, steadying myself against the back of a chair. “And I know about the insurance. You’re a wealthy woman, Rachel. If you get away with it.”

She stared at me silently, her face a blank. We stood there like that for what seemed like a long time.

“How much did it cost you, Rachel? Where’d you find the guy? I’m glad, for some reason, that you couldn’t do it yourself.”

“I didn’t kill him, Harry. And I didn’t pay to have him killed.”

“How long,” I asked, “have you been seeing Walter Quinlan?”

For the first time, I saw real fear in her face. She seemed to sway on her feet, as if her knees were about to give way.

“I don’t feel well,” she said. “I need to sit down.”

I stood aside, pulled out a chair for her. She came around the counter, slumped in the chair with her arms on the table. I crossed around to the other side of the table and sat opposite her. The stun gun lay between us. She looked at it, then quickly at me.

“Dogs, Harry. I run. I’ve been attacked by dogs.”

“And you saw what it could do, didn’t you?”

“You’re twisting things,” she cried. “These are horrible accusations!”

“Does Walter know about this, about how you had Conrad killed?”

“I didn’t kill him! ”

“Tell me, Rachel,” I said. It was time to play my last card. “The morning after Conrad was murdered, I came over to see you. Remember?”

“Yes.”

“You ran up to me in the kitchen, when Mrs. Goddard was here and the police were in the den. And the first thing you said was that you’d heard I got hit. You said that before you even saw the back of my head.”

“Well, yes, I know, I-”

“How did you know I got hit, Rachel?”

“Well,” she stammered, “I-I, the police told me. The police told me when they questioned me.”

“No, Rachel. The cops wouldn’t tell you anything like that. And they didn’t. I checked. The only way you could know I got hit on the back of the head was if you were there, or if somebody who was there told you about it.”

She had this shocked look on her face, as if I’d grabbed the stun gun and jammed it into her. She stared through me, about a mile off, her mouth cracked barely open.

“Jesus,” she whispered.

“Rachel,” I said, my arms on the table toward her. I reached over, took one of her hands in mine. “I want to help you. We can help you. This doesn’t have to be the end of everything.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she said, her voice faint. “I asked you to let it go. Why didn’t you let it go, Harry?”

“Rachel, I called Walter. He’s a good lawyer, the best. He’ll help you. I’ll help you. We both care about you.”

Her eyes shot open. She jerked her hand away from me. “You did what?”

“He’s on his way here, Rachel. He’ll want to help you.”

She jumped up from the chair. “You fool,” she screamed. “You idiot!”

I stood up, confused. “What the hell are you talking about? I only want to help you.”

She stepped quickly up to me, got right in my face, yelling so loud spit flew. “Oh, you’ve helped all right! You damned fool, you’ve ruined everything!”

“Rachel,” I said, as soothingly as I could, “please …”

Her eyes welled up; tears began to run down her cheeks. “Why couldn’t you just leave it alone,” she sobbed. “Why didn’t you do what I asked?”

She hid her face in the palms of her hands. Her shoulders heaved. Something in me melted; I couldn’t help it. I took two steps and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her tightly to me. Her breath came in ragged gulps, her body shaking as if she were freezing to death.

The kitchen door opened, and Walter Quinlan stepped in. He was wearing a starched white shirt, gray suit, and carried an expensive leather briefcase. His hair was swept back neatly. He was lawyer to the core of his soul. Good thing, too. Rachel would need the best.

“Walter,” I said. “Hey, man, thanks for coming.”

Rachel stiffened; the shaking stopped, every muscle in her slim body seemed to lock up. She pushed away from me, turned toward him and stared.

“Well, well, well,” Walter said. “Harry and Rachel. How nice to see you guys again. Hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Walt, this isn’t some kind of relationship confrontation,” I said. “We’ve got some serious problems here.”

He smiled, but it was more of a contemptuous sneer than anything funny. “Oh, yeah, I’d say we got problems all right. Enormous problems.”

Rachel turned to me, fear in her eyes. “Harry, I-” she hesitated. “I’m so sorry.”

Walter set his briefcase down on the counter. He fiddled with the catches, the lid of the case rising toward us.

“You don’t understand,” Rachel said. “I didn’t pay anyone to kill Conrad.” Her voice was barely a whisper, the color completely gone from her face. There were dark circles under her eyes, as if a fatigue beyond measure had settled on her.

“I didn’t have to.” She turned, stared at Walter.

“Oh, for chrissakes, Rachel, you really need help,” I said, shocked. “You can’t really believe anybody’s going to believe that. Walter’s an attorn-”

I turned. As Walter shut the lid of the briefcase with his left hand, I saw in his right hand a pistol.

And again, in one of those senseless, idiotic sparks that run rampant through human brain cells in the middle of catastrophe, I thought: Hmmm, looks to be about a 9 millimeter. Nope, I ain’t gonna mess with that .

I stared at him. My jaw cracked open this time.

“Does this mean no more raequetball?”

Walter smiled. “You always were an asshole, Harry.”

This ain’t real, I thought. This isn’t happening.

His smile disappeared. “This wasn’t my fault, Harry. She talked me into it.”