Brian Freeman - Spilled Blood

The truck slowed in front of Hannah’s house.

Then the shots began.

Chris threw himself to the wet ground as bursts of smoke and light flashed like bombs. Six loud bangs erupted in rapid succession. Glass shattered as at least one bullet smashed through a first-floor window, and he heard someone scream. He recognized the pitch of the voice. It was Hannah.

He pushed himself up and ran, shouting her name. Cheers and laughter floated from the pick-up. They were young voices – teenagers – but the voices cut off in startled silence as they heard him. The truck headlights flashed on, blinding and pinning him. He ducked, conscious that he was an easy target. The pick-up bolted in reverse, weaving as it retreated up the street. The headlights vanished, and the car screeched into a U-turn, speeding across one of the house lawns as it veered toward the highway. He heard the engine roar. The car accelerated, racing north.

Back toward Barron.

He ran for the steps of Hannah’s house and pounded on the door. He called her name again, but there was no answer. The house was quiet, and the silence fed his fear. Just as he was about to climb inside through the broken window, he saw the door slide open six inches. The pretty face of his ex-wife peered out at him.

‘Chris?’

‘They’re gone,’ he said.

Hannah switched on the porch light and opened the door wider. He wanted to embrace her, but she walked past him onto the front steps. He looked over his shoulder and saw that a dozen people had already assembled near the house; they had run from their own homes to help. She waved at the street.

‘I’m okay,’ she called. ‘Everything’s okay.’

Then to him: ‘Come on in, Chris.’ As if no time had passed.

He followed her inside. She put her hands on her hips, studying the broken glass on the dining-room floor. With a sigh, she disappeared into the small kitchen and came back with a hand-broom and dustpan. She got down on her knees and began methodically sweeping up the shards of glass. That was Hannah. No panic. No drama. Get it done.

‘We should call the police,’ he said.

Hannah stopped and looked at him. It was as if she’d realized for the first time that he was really here. They had not seen each other since she left Minneapolis and took Olivia across the state. Three years. Three years in which his only contact with the woman who had shared his life for nearly two decades was a handful of tense phone calls.

‘We should,’ she said, ‘but it won’t do any good.’

‘I couldn’t see their faces or identify the car. I’m sorry.’

‘It was Barron boys. It doesn’t really matter who.’

‘We should call the police anyway. They should have someone here to protect you.’

Hannah finished sweeping in silence. When she was done, she stood up with a weary smile and laid the dustpan on an antique table. ‘No one wants to protect us. They want us to go away. Or die.’

Chris heard a rapping at the front door. Hannah brushed past him, their arms touching, and opened the door. He saw a good-looking man on the porch, his own height, his own age. The man had unruly blond hair and a pale, chiseled face with a high forehead and a spattering of freckles. His blue eyes were filled with concern. He wore a white dress shirt and black slacks.

‘Hannah? Are you all right?’

His ex-wife put a hand on the visitor’s shoulder. ‘Oh, yes, just more of the same. It never stops.’

‘Would you like me to send Johan over when he gets back from the motel? He could stay the night if you’d like.’

‘I appreciate it, Glenn, but that’s not necessary.’

The two of them hugged. Chris felt an odd pang of jealousy, watching his ex-wife embrace this man, and watching his arms around her. They were obviously close. He wondered if it was anything more than that. Three years was a long time. It had foolishly never occurred to him that Hannah might be in a relationship. Olivia had never said a word.

The man detached himself awkwardly from Hannah as he noticed Chris. He reached a hand through the doorway. ‘I’m Glenn Magnus. I’m the minister at the church here in St. Croix.’

Hannah glanced between them in embarrassment. ‘I’m so sorry. Glenn, this is Christopher Hawk, my ex-husband.’

‘How is Olivia?’ the minister asked.

‘As well as can be expected,’ Chris said.

‘It’s good that she has both of you here.’

The minister was cordial and sincere, but Chris wanted the man to leave. He didn’t want the first moments of his reunion with Hannah to be marred by the presence of anyone else. Magnus obviously leaped to the same conclusion that he was a third wheel.

‘Well, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt,’ he told Hannah.

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow,’ he said. With a smile at Chris, he added, ‘Please let me know if I can be of any help to you or Olivia.’

Chris said nothing, but he smiled back. Hannah closed the door. She turned around, leaned against it, and folded her arms over her small chest. She’d always been able to see through him, and nothing had changed.

‘I’m not sleeping with him,’ she said. ‘That’s what you were wondering, isn’t it?’

‘No,’ he lied.

‘Glenn is a dear friend,’ she went on. ‘We’ve been through a lot these past three years. Life and death.’

Without saying more, she retreated to the kitchen, where she dumped the broken glass into a wastebasket under the sink. She reached for two chipped mugs from a cabinet over the counter and poured coffee for both of them. He sat down at an old Formica table, and she joined him. For several minutes, they did nothing but sip coffee in silence. The small kitchen had fading floral wallpaper and 1980s appliances, but it was impeccably clean. The house smelled of lilac potpourri.

Hannah was small, around five feet two, and even thinner than he remembered. Thin, but not fragile; she still looked strong. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but her face was oval and perfect, like a cameo. Two crescent shadows underneath her vibrant brown eyes betrayed her fatigue. Even so, to him, she didn’t look older. Time hadn’t passed. Only her dark hair was different. It was shorter and lacked the highlights of cherry and gold that he’d always loved.

She watched her watching him. ‘It’s fake.’

‘What?’

‘The hair.’

Reality slapped him in the face. ‘Oh.’

‘I assume Olivia told you?’

‘Yes, she did.’

Hannah drank her coffee and looked away, as if seeing things in the room that weren’t there.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked.

She laughed quietly. ‘What could you do, Chris? Did you cure cancer since the last time I saw you?’

‘I could have provided support. I would have done anything to help.’

‘I know that. You’re a fixer. That’s who you are. But some things you can’t fix.’

‘Maybe not, but I wish I would have heard about it from you.’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ she acknowledged. ‘I should have told you, but I was scared. I don’t know why.’

His lips tightened into a thin line. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘It’s ovarian cancer,’ she said.

‘I’m so sorry.’

She held up a hand, stopping him. ‘No pity. Please.’

He searched for something to say. ‘What’s the treatment? What do the doctors say?’

‘I’m undergoing something called neoadjuvant chemotherapy. The idea is to reduce the size of the tumor before they operate. When that’s done, they’ll do the surgery.’

‘When?’

‘Next month.’

He ran his hand across his face. He was sweating. ‘What’s the prognosis?’

‘That depends on whether you believe me or the oncologist. I say my daughter still needs me. So do a lot of other women around here.’ She changed the subject, as if there were nothing more to discuss. ‘How is Olivia, really?’