Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

She kept thinking if only she could crawl out of bed, do a few household chores — and concentrate on that for a while — then maybe she could get through the day. Maybe she’d start to feel normal again.

For the last two days, she’d been severely ill and bedridden. It had started on Friday night, while she and Rachel had been waiting for Jeff to return home. “I think you’re literally worrying yourself sick,” Rachel said, offering her peppermints. Rachel swore by them, but they didn’t seem to help.

They’d had a false alarm when a car had come down the cul-de-sac at 10:45. But it had been another one of Natalie’s gentlemen callers. By 11:30, Chris had become concerned about his dad, too. They called the police — and the hospitals. The three of them kept a vigil. But as the night wore on, Molly got sicker and sicker. She threw up four times.

Exhausted and depleted, she finally fell asleep under a blanket on the family room sofa at 3:45 that night. Chris had nodded off in his dad’s easy chair while tuned in to the Syfy Channel on TV. Molly couldn’t quite remember when they’d sent Rachel home.

In the morning, Molly felt so horrible she thought something might be wrong with the baby. Rachel came over and drove her to the doctor’s office. Since it was Saturday, Molly’s doctor wasn’t there, but one of his colleagues was. Molly got in to see him, and threw up twice in his office. He ordered bed rest and prescribed over-the-counter ginger capsules to combat the morning sickness. Rachel picked up the pills for her.

She was so weak and dizzy by the time they got home that Chris and Rachel had to help her upstairs to the bedroom. When she finally got to bed, Molly didn’t so much fall asleep as she passed out. She woke up to the sound of Erin screaming — the same agonizing shrieks Erin had let out when she’d learned her mother was dead.

Then Molly knew.

She was already weeping by the time Chris came to her room and told her about the call from the police. His eyes were red and his face looked blotchy from crying. When he told her they found his father dead in a hotel room at the Marriott by the airport, Molly tried to get up, but she was too frail. She reached up to Chris, and he took her hand for a few moments. She was hoping he would hug her, but he didn’t. At least he held her hand.

Over the next two days, she kept telling Rachel, “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”

From her bed, Molly made the funeral arrangements — in the same kind of dazed sleepwalker’s manner that she’d set up Charlie’s service three years ago. But Rachel did most of the legwork. Rachel also looked after the kids. And Rachel backed her up when Molly tried to convince Chet Blazevich that Jeff had been murdered.

She’d phoned him on Sunday, and Chet said he’d drop by that afternoon. Rachel let him in and showed him up to the bedroom. For a moment, Molly thought about how horrible she looked and how the room must smell like vomit — and here this guy had a crush on her, or at least, he used to. But she really didn’t care.

Still. Chet looked handsome in a V-neck sweater, a tie, and corduroys. He stood a few steps inside the doorway. Rachel sat down at the end of the bed.

Jeff’s death wasn’t his case, but Chet told her how much he knew. “Your husband checked into the hotel alone,” he said somberly, looking more at the bedroom floor than at her. “But it’s very possible he called someone later to join him. Unfortunately, an ice bucket spilled on his cell phone, and shorted it out. So we’re going through his service provider to see if we can get a record of his calls that day. . ”

Molly shook her head. “They’ll find some number that’s no longer in service or it’s one of those phones you can throw away.” She struggled to sit up in bed. “This woman who’s doing all this, she’s very careful and clever. Every time she’s called me, the number’s been blocked. I’m sure she was with him yesterday. It’s probably the same woman he was seeing that time in Vancouver. I–I know about Vancouver. I know he wasn’t in Washington, D.C., when Angela was killed. This woman was with him then. I can tell from the prices of the meals he paid for in Vancouver. Those are meals for two people. She was with Jeff then, and she was with him yesterday. She’s the one who murdered him.”

Chet nervously cleared his throat. “We talked to several employees at the Marriott, and nobody saw him with anyone else. It appears your husband died from ingesting a lethal combination of ecstasy-laced alcohol, cocaine, and heroin. They didn’t see anything to indicate force was used in any way — though the ecstasy in the alcohol raised a few eyebrows. Not many people would take ecstasy that way, but it’s not totally unheard of. And the hotel records show your husband logged in four hours on the pay-TV’s adult channel.”

“He was set up,” Molly argued, tears in her eyes. “She thought it all out ahead of time. I know that sounds crazy and paranoid. But I also know Jeff. He didn’t take drugs. This woman — she’s the same one who’s been causing all these accidents to people on this block — she killed Jeff. And she killed Angela, along with Larry and Taylor. I think she may have killed Kay, too.”

“Mrs. Dennehy,” he said. “How could she have killed those three people on Alder Court at the same time you say she was with your husband in Vancouver?”

“She — she — must have an accomplice, or someone working for her,” Molly said, feeling nauseous. “She planned this all very carefully. . ”

“You have to admit, Detective,” Rachel chimed in. “In just two weeks there have been an unusual amount of accidents and deaths associated with this block. I mean, really, what are the odds? Two deaths, and a near-fatal car wreck, an arrest, and a lot of little things, too — my toolshed was set on fire last week, and three children on this block were badly cut playing in a vacant lot that just happened to be sprinkled with broken glass. I think Molly has every reason to question the notion that Jeff’s death was an accidental overdose.”

“Jeff didn’t even smoke pot,” Molly said, rubbing her forehead with a shaky hand. “So I don’t think he’d be taking ecstasy and cocaine and heroin. . ”

“Mrs. Dennehy. . Molly,” Chet said. “Please forgive me, but you say you know your husband didn’t take drugs. Two weeks ago, did you know your husband was seeing other women? I mean, how well did you really know him?”

Molly began to cry. Jeff wasn’t much better than Jeremy Hahn. They were both discovered in a hotel room after some illicit sexual assignation, surrounded by drugs and porn. At least Jeremy was still alive.

Couldn’t the police see what was happening? How could they tally everything up and still call it a coincidence or just bad luck?

The TV news coverage of Jeff’s death made him look like a sleazy character. How couldn’t it? In the same broadcast, it was reported that police believed the murders of Jeff’s ex-wife, her partner, and his daughter might not have been the work of the cul-de-sac killer, but rather a copycat. Hearing that, people certainly had to figure Jeff was somehow involved in the slayings.

His only alibi was that he was screwing some woman in Vancouver at the time.

Molly was sick in front of Chet Blazevich. Fortunately, Rachel got the wastebasket to her in time. While Rachel cleaned out the wastebasket, Molly drank a little water, but she still didn’t feel any better. “I’m sorry,” she muttered feebly to Chet. “It’s been — it’s been like an Exorcist marathon here lately.”

“Have you seen a doctor?” he asked gently. “You look like you belong in the E.R.”