Hannah Alexander - A Killing Frost

The still form stirred only when Zelda placed a hand on her shoulder and gently nudged her.

“Turn over here and let the doctor take a look at you, hon. I want an expert opinion.” Zelda motioned for Jama to join her at the twin-size bed.

Debra rolled over onto her back, and Jama was stunned by her appearance, as if a Halloween mask had been painted onto her face. Her eyes were barely visible from the swollen, discolored flesh around them. Her blond hair, fuzzy and damaged from what appeared to be too many applications of hair color, was matted with blood on the right side.

Debra looked up at Jama and nodded a greeting. “Haven’t seen you in years.” Her gold-hazel eyes looked weary, as if she could barely keep them open. Her forehead-the only part of her face that wasn’t swollen-had wrinkles. She wasn’t even thirty.

“I’ve been keeping a close eye on her,” Zelda said. “I’m afraid of a concussion, some broken ribs, maybe broken facial bones and soft tissue damage. She won’t let me take her to a hospital. I’ve tried.”

“I don’t need a hospital. I’m tired, and I have a migraine. The swelling will go down.” Debra grimaced, and Jama noted that she was missing a couple of teeth.

“You know what I think?” Zelda asked. “I think she’s found herself another loser who takes his lack of manhood out on a defenseless woman.”

Without asking permission, Zelda reached down and pulled up the shirt to reveal bruises over Debra’s ribs. “She came in like this about an hour ago, won’t tell me what really happened.”

“I did tell you, Grandma, but you didn’t believe me.” Debra’s voice had lowered and roughened over the years, and now it grated. “I was cycling the Katy and some idiot on an ATV ran me off the trail. There is not even supposed to be motorized stuff on that trail. Now my bike’s in the river and I had to walk to town.”

Jama caught a whiff of Debra’s breath. It confirmed her suspicion, and she felt sick.

“Debra, you need a medical exam now,” Jama said. “We can drive you to-”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ve gotta sleep off this migraine first, okay? If I move, I’ll throw up.” Debra pulled the sheet up over her head, then turned her face to the wall with a grunt of pain. “Just let me sleep. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Zelda crossed her arms. “Well, folderol. Jama, I know we can’t force her to do anything she doesn’t want to do unless we do an involuntary commitment, but can’t you make her see reason?”

Jama studied the bony figure on the bed. “The nausea concerns me. Any signs of dizziness?”

“Leave me alone,” Debra rasped. “It’s the migraine. Stop talking about me like I’m not here.”

“Could I at least give you a quick exam?” Jama asked.

“I’m great, okay? I couldn’t’ve walked all the way here if I’d been dying, could I? I’ll be up doing my daily run first thing in the morning if you’ll just let me get some sleep!”

Jama studied the weak and helpless woman on the bed. Zelda was right, a man could have done this. It had been a hard thing to see over the years. Zelda’s daughter had become involved with an older man. A drug pusher. She’d had two children by him, then died of an overdose when her kids were in their teens.

Zelda had done the best she could with her grandchildren after that, but the legacy of addiction had left its mark on Debra.

Debra was once a beautiful girl, with straight, golden-brown hair and dimples in her cheeks. Jama remembered seeing her wave from the float at the homecoming parade as queen in her senior year-wearing a black dress, of course. This was barely a shell of the girl she’d once been.

Now she looked like death.

Tyrell negotiated the private, quarter-mile drive to the house on automatic pilot. This lane had been lined with cars when he left. Now it was empty. All was quiet, except the storm taking place in his mind.

He parked in the circle drive instead of the garage. There was no reason for it, nothing he could do for Doriann now, but something kept him on the alert. He wanted to be able to get wherever he might be needed at a moment’s notice.

He sat looking out over the shadowed rows that covered the hillside on which the house was built. He longed for a warm wind to blow away the chill in his heart, the same way the vines and trees had been saved.

Everything was shattering. Dad, the constant strong presence in Tyrell’s life-who’d grounded him in the solid love for the land-lay helpless in a hospital bed. Doriann was still lost, and the family was forced to depend on strangers to find her.

And Jama. A deep sigh escaped Tyrell as he rested his forehead against the steering wheel. He felt as if she’d died. In essence, she had, since the image that he’d always carried of her in his heart had been destroyed with her confession. The Jama he knew would never have placed her best friend in a situation that might get her killed.

He remembered wondering earlier if the rebel still existed in Jama. And he’d hoped that, in some ways, it did.

“Welcome to reality, Mercer,” he murmured. The picture of rebellion wasn’t so appealing in a zoom shot.

Zelda had always been a determined lady, but as Jama stood beside her in the bedroom where Debra lay, she could feel defeat roll off the poor woman in waves.

“I’m sorry,” Jama said. “We can’t force Debra to do anything. I just hate to see that pretty face damaged. When the swelling goes down, we may see more problems than we can right now.”

Zelda looked at Jama and shook her head. “You could show her some moves, Jama. Teach her how to fight back.”

“If you two are going to keep talking like you don’t believe me-”

“Sure, I could teach her,” Jama said, “but right now she needs medical attention. Debra, if I could just check your vitals, your pulse-”

“No!” Debra growled.

“Okay, then, will you at least let me walk you across the street to the clinic in the morning? We can get some shots with our new X-ray machine, see if there’s anything we need to be doing.”

“I’ll be there,” Debra said. “Just please close the door behind you as you leave.”

Zelda turned to lead Jama down the hallway. The door remained open.

Jama cast a final glance back toward the bed, and felt a stirring of unease. She shook it off. Coincidences happened. Just because Zelda’s rough-living granddaughter had arrived injured on the same night that a “skinny blond” member of a killing duo had been in an auto accident nearby, it didn’t necessarily mean anything. It couldn’t. Debra was no killer.

Jama remembered seeing Debra visit the lonely people in the nursing home-the ones no one else visited. She’d once nursed two baby orphan raccoons and then released them back into the wild.

Coincidence…

“Debra?” Jama said softly. “Which direction were you coming from on your bike?”

For a moment, Jama thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she said, “From St. Charles.”

That was the eastern trailhead. The truck had been found in a swamp west of River Dance. Opposite directions. But then, wasn’t that where someone would place herself if she were on the run from the FBI?

“Didn’t you date Mark Streeter in high school?”

“Yeah. He dumped me for your foster sister. Now can I get some sleep?” The voice was sharper now.

“His little girl went missing today. It’s believed she was abducted and brought to this area. I just thought that if you were on the Katy Trail for very many miles, you might have seen or heard something that could help us find her.”

Debra lay still for a long moment, so still that she looked as if she had stopped breathing. Then she took a deep breath and turned over to look at Jama, pain evident on her swollen face. “She hasn’t been found?”