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This is a work of fiction, using characters from the film, “Mystery, Alaska”. No insult or invasion of privacy or infringement of copyright is intended. The story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.
Destination: Mystery - Part One by:
© 04/2005 One
late morning in early November Meg Stendahl opened her front door and the arctic
wind charged in, rattling the other doors in the corridor, bringing in blasts of
snow. The man on her porch was big and hairy. The sheriff’s badge on his coat
reminded Meg of her frustrating encounters with the NYPD; but as this wasn’t
New York, she managed something between a smirk and a smile and opened the door
wider to let him in, closing it quickly behind him. The short walk from his car
to her door had him covered in snow. He stamped his feet and opened his coat,
shaking the bad weather off. Except for Jack Bender, the local shopkeeper, he
was the first caller since she moved into this lodge three months ago. He
removed his fur hat, and ran a big hand through his long hair. “Good
morning.” Meg
tried to focus on his face, but both her brain and eyesight seemed blurred. “Is
it?” He
grinned. “What? Morning or good?” “Both,”
she growled. “Come to the kitchen.” It
was cold in the corridor and Meg hugged herself, rubbing her arms in a feeble
attempt to stop her body from shivering. In the kitchen, she flipped the switch
on the coffee machine, and watched him as he slowly followed her in. He looked
irritatingly brisk and awake. Meg knew she looked and probably smelled like
shit; sleeping behind her PC after half a bottle of brandy didn’t do much for
her complexion or her humor. She filled a glass with water from the tap and
drank it to kill the taste of something dead and hairy in her mouth. “You
want some coffee too?” “Well,
if I’m not disturbing you,” he said, mocking her. Too fucking late now.
She didn’t say it aloud, just poured two mugs and brought them over to the
table. She
was much younger than he’d expected. When Jack Bender told him a writer had
rented Bailey’s old lodge, the image of an elderly, slightly eccentric woman
had settled in his brain. Even with her tangled hair, blood shot eyes, and the
imprint of a keyboard on her cheek, he still thought her beautiful. She drained
her second coffee before she spoke to him again. “What
brings you up here?” The smile that softened the ‘why are you bothering
me’ tone, never reached her eyes. “I
just came to check if you are prepared for the storm that’s expected to hit
this area sometime tomorrow. We’re closing the roads to and from town this
afternoon.” “I’m
fine. Jack brought my supplies over yesterday, I should have enough to last me
two weeks.” “You’re
planning to stay up here then?” He asked. “Is
that a problem?” He
looked at her willful face. “No, not as long as you stay indoors.” “I
will.” Her
voice still had a hoarse well-drowned quality and he raised his eyebrow in
question. “Rough night?” “No,
the night was okay, it’s the morning after that’s the problem.” He
giggled. Its high, almost girlish sound surprised Meg. She took a better look at
him. Under all that hair, his face was strong and masculine, a serious face when
not smiling, with sad lines around his mouth and green eyes, but the dimples in
his cheeks and little crow’s-feet betrayed a tendency to smiling. She wondered
what it was that had happened to him, what caused the sadness. He
raised his brow slightly and Meg realized she was staring at him. With burning
cheeks, she diverted her eyes. “So,
have you settled in a bit?” “Yes,”
she said, “I like it here. Nice and quiet.” “We
don’t see much of you in town.” Meg
shrugged. “Well, I didn’t come here to socialize.” “The
book is coming along fine then?” “It’s
coming along.” She
didn’t make it easy to talk to her, but he persisted. “What’s it about?”
Meg
rested her grey eyes on his face again, as if measuring him, deciding how much
to tell him, if anything. “Basically, it’s about injustice.” “You’re
not going tell me, are you?” How
his smile lights up his whole face, Meg thought.
It went beyond attractiveness. It was real and warm, showing her a natural
kindness and deciding she liked him, smiled back, and slightly shook her head.
“Not much to tell really, it’s early stages yet.” “What
made you choose this isolated lodge? It must have been quite a culture shock
after Her
eyes moved away to the window overlooking the poplars and frozen lake, not
seeing. Flashlights and microphones were propped in her face. Questions shouted
at her. Familiar and strange eyes looked at her accusingly. Newspaper headlines
flashed by, nasty headlines, the sorts of headlines that made your husband turn
his back on you, the sort of headlines that made longtime friends and colleagues
doubt you. He
looked at her profile, the short straight nose, and the full curve of her mouth.
She looked lost and vulnerable. When her consciousness focused on him again,
there was no trace of a smile left. Her eyes seemed darker and her body tense. “Maybe
I just needed to lose myself for a while.” The
mood had changed and he got up. “Time to get on. Thanks for the coffee.” He
turned at the door. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.” She
nodded. “Yes. Thank you, sheriff.” “It’s
John. John Biebe.” She
stood up and reached out her hand. “Meg Stendahl.” His
hand was big and warm. She liked how her hand disappeared in it. *** Meg
tried the phone again; it was still dead, been dead since yesterday. It
aggravated her. It was her lifeline to her friends Paul and One
night many months ago, in Paul and What
had she been thinking? Thinking that Meg
had picked Mystery simple for its name, and when she’d arrived the small town
with its wooden houses, few shops and single pub, had fitted the romanticized
picture she’d painted of living in a rough environment perfectly. The first
month had been bliss; she’d loved the peace and quiet, loved that the phone
didn’t ring, loved the long walks without encountering people, but as the
months passed, the loneliness got to her and it was only her stubborn nature
that kept her from returning to *** The
blizzard roared around the house, covering it with snow like thick sugar icing
on a cake. The snow on the windows left Meg with no view on the world and the
growing sense of claustrophobia made working impossible. The desk she used was
covered with files and newspapers, their headlines shouting at her: ‘Pediatrician
accused of murder’, ‘ Meg
took a seat next to the large bookcase, trailing the backs of the books with her
fingers, but they represented the typical selection of popular titles found in
most holiday homes, and she found nothing to her taste. Frustrated, she looked
at the mess she’d caused and collected the papers from the floor, organized
them, and put them neatly back in their folders. Christ! What a way to keep busy! *** The
storm’s tumult kept her awake at night. The wind howled inside the house,
whistled in the chimney, and made the windows sing in their frames. Outside with
creaking sounds, branches tore loose from the tall, erect poplars that
surrounded the lodge. Sleep wouldn’t come and Meg got up to make tea. It was
what her father used to do. By the time Meg was a co-assistant in Meg
took her tea into the living room and sat down on the rug, her back against the
couch, listening to the storm. Almost a year had passed since her father died.
He’d suffered a heart attack shortly after Christmas. Meg had rushed him to
the hospital, where he never regained consciousness and died after three days.
His death had caused a terribly emptiness inside her and she dreaded the
upcoming holidays. It would be the first Christmas without him, the first
Christmas without any of her friends or family. *** The
sun shone in her eyes mercilessly, waking her up. Meg was lying on the couch and
it took her a few minutes to realise that it was silent outside; the storm had
died down. It was cold in the room, cold and stuffy; she opened a window to let
in fresh, freezing air. After days of being cooped up inside, she took a quick
shower and dressed for the cold, grabbing her parka and sunglasses on the way
out. Walking
through the fresh snow was like working her way through porridge. Meg made it as
far as the lake. The frozen pond had disappeared under a thick blanket of snow,
excruciatingly white in the bright sunlight. It was a clear day; she could see
all the way across the lake to the mountain rims on the other side. No low
hanging clouds today. Meg took a couple of steps onto the snow-covered ice,
almost feeling guilty for disturbing the virginal white. On an impulse, she let
herself fall backwards into it. The softness caught her, embraced her almost.
She remembered a scene from a movie and moved her arms up and down in the snow,
creating angel’s wings. Had it been in the snow or on the beach? She
couldn’t remember what movie it had been. The cloudless sky was devastatingly
light and blue, and she felt insignificant and small under its endless stretch.
Someone
called. She heard the creaking sound of footsteps in the snow and opened her
eyes. A man walked up to her, his silhouette dark against the bright sky. “Are
you alright?” Meg
got up, the imprint of her foolish behavior clear under her feet. “Yeah,
I was just… you know, making angel wings.” “It’s
from a movie…” She made a helpless gesture. “Oh, never mind.” He was
laughing openly at her now, his laughter so catching, she found herself
giggling. “What
are doing up here anyway?” “Just
thought I’d check on you, see if you made it through the storm all right.” “I’m
fine, thanks. Relieved it’s over though.” They
walked back to the cabin together. “Do you have time for coffee?” Meg asked. “Yeah.
I’m off duty now, been at it since five, making sure the roads are clear,
checking the damage.” “Is
there a lot of damage?” “The
usual, trees falling on roofs, debris blocking the roads. The phones are down,
don’t know if you noticed. A landslide took some poles with it, we hope to
have those fixed in a couple of days.” “I
noticed.” Meg
said, “I was planning to fry some eggs, you want some?” He
looked around the room. The lodge was rented fully furnished; it appeared much
the same as when it still belonged to his old friend Bailey Pruitt. He had
always liked it. When Bailey was still alive, he’d used it as a weekend home,
a fall-out base for hunting or fishing. John had spent many enjoyable hours with
Bailey up here, sharing a beer, playing chess, and talking. The living room was
large with wooden paneling all around, heavy bookcases and a huge fireplace that
bathed the two couches flanking it, in a warm orange glow. Meg hadn’t changed
much, just moved the desk in front of the window, into the light. She hadn’t
brought many personal things, maybe some books. There were piles of them all
around the room. The picture of an elderly man stood on the mantelpiece. John
picked up a book that was half buried between the couch cushions: poems by
Rudyard Kipling. He wasn’t into poems, but the crack in its back opened the
book to the one well-read page. Some of the words were underlined. If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If
you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or,
being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or,
being hated, don't give way to hating, And
yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; He was curious if the underlining was hers, wondered if the sentences had special meaning to her. He read on. If you can dream--and not make dreams your master; If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with triumph and disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn out tools; Or watch the things you gave your life to broken. It
kicked him in the stomach. He closed the book, placed it on a pile of others on
the floor, and forced his thoughts back into their dark, lonely pit. He didn’t
want to go there. The warmth of the fire made him drowsy and he rested his head
on his arm. When
Meg came back with the eggs and bacon on rye, John was fast asleep. She put his
plate on a side-table and sat down on the other couch and watched him while she
ate. He was lying on his side. In the soft light of the fire, his long, auburn
hair almost seemed red. Relaxed in sleep his mouth was slightly open and his
full upper lip curved sensually. Under the short trimmed beard, she noticed the
strong lines of his jaw with the cleft in his chin. Damn!
He was gorgeous! *** He rides the black ice. It stretches endless before
him, beyond the sharp line where the land ends and the sky begins. Empty, smooth, and polished, it disappears under his skates but not before
his eyes. He hits the invisible barrier, like he knows he will
and can’t escape. The clear wall of ice stops him and he turns and skates the
other way. Time after time, he hits the walls until they catch
up with him and close in on him, almost crushing him before the black ice opens
under his feet and he falls deeper and deeper into the ice cold water. *** His
eyes shot open, wild and disturbed, not seeing her. He grabbed her wrists,
pulling her hands off his shoulders and held them in a painful grip. Meg watched
his face calm down, his eyes focus on her and as his ragged breathing slowed, he
seemed to become aware of his surroundings. “You
were dreaming,” she said. He looked down at his hands clenched around her
wrists and let go. Absentmindedly she massaged the painful spots and kept
watching him. His face was pale and covered with sweat, strands of soaked hair
hung in disarray before his eyes. He raised his hand and pulled it back,
confusion clear in his expression. “You
must have been really tired, for you fell asleep on the couch. Maybe I should
have woken you up hours ago, but you seemed to need it and as you weren’t in
my way, I just let you sleep.” Her worried eyes locked into his. “Are you
okay?” “Want
to tell me about the dream?” For
a moment his eyes held hers, wide open and on guard, before he scanned her face
and seemed to take heart from its calmness. “It’s
always the same. I’m skating, alone in the dark. It’s pitch dark; all I can
see is the black ice under me. Invisible walls of ice close in on me until I
have nowhere to go. I feel they are crushing me and I can’t breath. Then the
ice under my feet is gone and I fall and go deeper and deeper into the black
water.” His voice broke. “And then I see Mikey. His face and hands are a
fluorescent green and I know he’s dead, but his eyes are open and his mouth is
moving…and I know I should stop sinking and listen to him…but I can’t. And
then I wake up.” He shivered, his eyes filled with pain. “Who
is Mikey?” “My
son. Two years ago he went through the ice and drowned.” “Oh,
Jesus, John. I’m so sorry…” Meg
didn’t follow him, she heard him put his boots and coat on and quietly close
the door behind him. *** A
week passed before he came round again. Meg had mixed feelings about seeing him
again. His heartbroken face had been popping up in her mind too often during the
past week and she didn’t want to start caring for him. As she opened the door
and felt her heart jump at the dark shadows under his eyes, she knew it was too
late already. “It’s
okay, you don’t owe me anything.” He looked like he could use a good hug,
but Meg didn’t move. She shivered in the cold air and said, “Come in.” “You
don’t bother me, but make up your mind, for it’s too cold to keep the door
open.” He
stepped inside and Meg walked into the living room leaving him little choice but
to follow her. He took off his coat and sat down on the couch, clearly ill at
ease. Meg
sat down opposite him and said, “Listen, if you want to talk…you know, the
comfort of strangers and such…I’m a good listener. But if you don’t want
to…that’s okay too.” Without
positively wanting to, but impelled by her composed manner, “When
Mike died, my wife, Donna…she blamed me…for loving hockey, for making the
boys love hockey, for wanting to live here.” He looked at Meg with
immeasurable sadness. “That’s how it happened, you know. Mike wanted to play
the pond so much; he went on the ice too early. I’d warned him over and over
again never to do that, but he was with a couple of friends and they just did it
anyway.” Her
quiet face willed him to go on. “Donna
and I just didn’t seem able to console each other, talk to each other…and in
the end she left, taking the kids. I always thought we were doing all right. I
mean…I knew that she was restless…missed the city, missed going out, the
theatre and things like that. But I thought that what we had, our family, was
enough for her.” “How
many kids do you have?” “We
have two more sons, Joey and Jamie
. They’re only seven and five. That’s the hardest thing, not having them
around.” “Do
you get to see them at all?” “Yeah,
during holidays. Two weeks at Christmas and six weeks in summer.” “So,
soon again then.” It was only five weeks until the Christmas holidays. “Yes,”
a faint smile appeared, “soon again.” “Tell
me about Mike. What was he like?” His
smile deepened. “Mikey was such a happy little boy. He loved it here. Loved
everything that had to do with ice and skating. I used to take him with me to
the locker room. He just loved to sit there and listen to all the stories. Loved
to help. Little things, you know? Passing round the hot potatoes…” “Hot
potatoes?” “Yeah,
we use hot potatoes to warm our skates before the game.” “Oh,
okay. Kinda basic, isn’t it?” “Hmm,
but effective. Mike loved chores like that. He used to hand out the shirts that
divide the teams, the sticks we play with. Of course the result was that he
picked up a lot of bad language, Donna wasn’t too pleased about that.” He
shook his head. “He was so proud of me, playing the Saturday game. Always
talking about when he would be old enough to play it too.” “I’ve
heard about your Saturday game, seems to be a big deal in this town.” “Yes,
it is. We are a hockey town and proud of it.” Meg
smiled at his serious face. “I did notice all the ice rinks in town. Maybe I
should come and watch that famous game of yours one day.” “Yes,
you should, it’s a lot of fun.” “Hmm,
freezing my butt off watching a bunch of overgrown boys chase a wooden puck
around the ice isn’t exactly my idea of fun.” Meg
watched him; he seemed more relaxed. “I
have some left-over pot roast in the oven. I don’t know if you have any plans,
but you’re welcome to stay if you want.” “I
would love to.” Meg
went into the kitchen and “Enjoy.” He
ate like a wolf, helping himself to seconds and after he glowed with
satisfaction, the color back on his cheeks and the lines in his face softened.
Meg just smiled at him. She loved a man with a healthy appetite. She cleared the
table and put the dishes in the sink. The coffee machine was already running to
finish and she poured two mugs. “Let’s go sit by the fire.” Back
in the living room, “Yes.
They used to be my father’s.” “Do
you play?” “Yes,
I do.” She
didn’t miss the mockingly raised brow. “What? Don’t you think women can
play?” “No,
it’s just I never met a woman before who liked the game.” Or was any good at it. He didn’t say that aloud. She
challenged him. “I like to play.” His
smile deepened. “Like now?” “Sure.”
Meg
picked up the table and set it between the couches, pulling one of them closer
by. She
smiled sweetly. “So this is the first time you will be beaten by a woman?” He
laughed aloud. “Oh, you’re in trouble now. I’ll make you eat those
words.” “I’m
mortified…” Meg
played fast and aggressive, and before Despite
his competitive nature, Meg
laughed happily. “First game is always the easiest. You underestimated me, you
won’t make that mistake again.” She
got up and went to kitchen to get some wine while “Did
I do that?” Meg
felt goose pimples creep up her skin under his touch. His thumb slowly stroked
the bruise. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” She
grinned to disguise her uneasiness and wriggled her arm free. “It’s nothing,
I always bruise easily. Let’s play.” They
played the second game more careful. She was right; “I
thoroughly enjoyed that. You are a worthy adversary.” “Right
back at you. Where did you learn to play like that?” “My
father taught me. He loved the game.” “Is
he still around?” “No,
he died.” Her sadness was tangible. “I’m
sorry…tell me about him.” Meg
searched for the right words. “He was my hero. All my life I wanted to be like
him. He raised me to believe I could do anything I wanted, always believing in
me.” She grinned sardonically. “We drove my mother crazy, being hand in
glove, she never quite understood. Nor did she understand his passion for his
work, she divorced him years ago.” “Do
you still see her?” “Sometimes.
We never really got along. I guess you could say we are on polite terms.” “When
did your father die?” “Last
year, after Christmas, he had a heart attack.” “Was
he a writer like you?” “No,
actually, he was a pediatrician, like I am.” He
was clearly surprised. “You’re a doctor? Why all this then? I thought you
were a writer.” “No,
this is my first attempt.” Meg looked at him carefully, tempted to tell him
her story, but deciding against it. After all, he was a cop and practically a
stranger. “Things happened to me and I needed to get away for a while. My best
friend is a publisher, she rather pushed me to write, and when the book is good
enough, she will publish it for me. It’s a new challenge and it keeps me
busy.” Meg
seemed lost in thought and as it was late, he got up to go home. She walked him
to the door. “Thanks
for dinner… and everything.” Meg
looked at his smiling face, thinking how much she liked him. “Sure,”
she said, “anytime.” *** Every two weeks or so, Meg went down to town to empty her mailbox and do some shopping. Normally
her mailbox didn’t hold much more than the magazines she had sent after her.
But today there was a letter and it surprised Meg, as only Paul and I know who you are. Fucking child-murderer. Did you
think you could fool me, posing as a writer? You are not welcome here. So pack
your things and go back to the stinking hole you came from. Don’t make me
force you. In shock, Meg looked at the envelope again. It held the name she had used in the past, the name the press had used. Margaret
Vermont Baileys
Lodge Mystery It should have warned her. Back
in For
a moment, Meg contemplated showing the letter to On
her occasional trips to town, Meg had run into She’d started to go into the pub for a drink or a bite to eat. It was a nice pub; warm and homely with a cosy fire burning, open all hours, serving breakfast, lunch, and daily specials. Like most buildings in Mystery, it was made completely of wood and had the same rustic feel to it as the cabin and from the diversity of customers that normally were inside, Meg figured that the place fulfilled a need in town. The owner was a large, bosomy, blonde woman somewhere in her fifties, named Claire who always greeted Meg with a welcoming smile. *** The
Christmas Holidays had started and Meg was back in Mystery to get a tree and
some decorations. When she drove past the skating rink in the center of town,
and saw “Back
in town again, you better take care, it grows on you.” “I
know. I’ll consider myself warned.” The
boys came skating up, looking at Meg with curiosity. They resembled “So,
these are your sons.” “Yes.
This is “Hi,
I’m Meg.” Taken
a little aback by his question, Meg slowly answered, “Yes… I guess I am.” “Do
you skate?” “Hmm.
I did when I was young, but it’s been at least fifteen years.” “Are
you challenging me?” Meg said, suppressing a smile. “Well,
can I get skates here?” “Sure,”
he pointed at a stand at the other side of the rink; “You can get them
there.” Meg
smiled at His
return smile was as devastatingly gorgeous as his father's was. “Maybe
you’ll be alright.” As
Meg put the figure skates on and took her first wobbly strikes, she wondered why
in the hell she had let a seven-year old challenge her on the ice; she was
likely to break a leg and it would serve her right. The Biebe men were smiling
benevolently. When she went flat on her bum, “You’re
a bit rusty.” “Don’t
laugh.” “I’m
not,” he said with a twisting mouth. “We’ll help you, won’t we guys?” So
they skated around holding hands, If
Claire was surprised to see them enter as a foursome, she didn’t let on. “Hey,
my favorite men in the whole world!” And to Meg, “Hi.” When
they finished their chocolate, the boys went outside again to play. “Yes,
I have them until New Years Day, then Donna’s parents will pick them up.” He
sighed. “It is wonderful to have them home, but when I look at them at night,
when they are sleeping, and I think of them leaving again…” “They
are lovely boys, they look like you.” “Are
you saying that I’m lovely?” he asked, teasing her. “Hmm…hard
to tell with all that hair, maybe if you like bears…” Claire
noticed “You
do realize who she is, of course,” “Well,
she’s that pediatrician that got arrested on suspicion of killing a patient
about a year ago. It never got to court because there wasn’t any evidence, but
the media tore her to pieces over it. As I remember correctly, she actually
accused the boy’s mother. What was her name again… Both
Claire and “ *** After Meg finished her shopping, she decided to return to the pub. The loneliness of the cabin was getting to her sometimes and she didn’t feel like going back to it yet. It wasn’t very busy inside and when she took a seat at the bar, Claire walked up to her and held out her hand. “We’ve never been properly introduced, I’m Claire,” Meg shook it. “I’m Meg.” Claire’s intelligent blue eyes looked upon her with undisguised curiosity. “I know. Mystery woman and writer.” Meg had to laugh. “Is that the general consensus?” “Well…lately I’ve heard some other things about you too, but I like to make up my own mind.” Meg sighed. “Yeah, I can imagine what that’s about. Guess staying incognito was too much to hope for.” Claire still watched her steadily. “You can tell me your side of the story one day. You look like you could use a friend.” Suddenly Meg felt the tears burn behind her eyes. Claire put one big hand over Meg’s and said, “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to make you cry.” Meg
forced herself to smile. “No, it’s just that…you’re right, I could use a
friend. I don’t know what I’ve been thinking. I’ve never been alone for
such a long time in my life. It seemed like a good idea back in Claire laughed. “It never is, honey, it never is. So, what can I get you?” “Coffee please.” Claire made her a coffee and when she served it with a large brandy. “You need something a little stronger than that,” she said with a wink. “I’ll be right back.” Claire went about to help other customers and Meg sat quietly sipping her coffee and brandy. The alcohol spread warm comfort through her stomach, calming her down. Claire returned and said, “If you like, I could come over to your place Monday night, that’s my night off. We could just talk, get to know each other a bit.” Meg observed the other woman’s face, from the clear, intelligent eyes to the friendly smile. She nodded. “Yes, I would like that. Will you stay for dinner? I’m not a great cook, but I do make a mean pot roast.” “Hmm. Yes, I’ve heard about your pot roast.” Meg raised her eyebrows in question. “ “Oh,” Suddenly feeling shy. Claire
winked at her. “Don’t worry, Meg turned on her seat to greet him, but the moment their eyes met, she knew things had changed. There was no trace of the gorgeous smile he had given her before; he looked at her with cops’ eyes. He
nodded. “Mrs. Meg’s face went dead white. He had said it slow and clear, leaving no room for misunderstanding. It was deliberately cruel and it hurt. She took a deep breath and gazed back at him steadily. “It’s
Stendahl. She stood up and left the pub. Claire
looked at “Well, she isn’t exactly who she claims to be, is she?” “How
would you know, have you spoken to her? Have you asked her? Have you given her
the chance to tell her side of the story?” Claire angrily spat the words at
him. “I’ll tell you something, She
turned and went to help her other customers, leaving *** That
Monday night by the time Claire called, the pot roast was already simmering in
the oven, spreading a scent of thyme and garlic around the cabin. Claire
produced a bottle of vodka from her bag. It was a big bag, bulky and heavy and
Meg couldn’t help but wonder what other surprises Claire kept in there. Claire
was blatantly curious, walking through to the living room, taking a good look
round. She dropped down on the couch and kicked off her boots, laughing at
Meg’ look of amazement. “Don’t worry, I’m harmless.” Meg
smiled back. “Now I’m really worried. You want some orange with that
vodka?” “Naa,”
said Claire, “let’s live dangerously.” “Your
life motto?” “Close
enough.” Meg
got the glasses and poured, handed one over to Claire. “Cheers, here’s to living dangerously…” Claire smiled wryly at her. “Seems to me you’ve had your share.” Meg half-shrugged. “Guess it’s all relative, but…yes…it’s been rough, but you know…somehow I have the feeling that it will all turn out for the best. I mean…take my marriage…I really wouldn’t want to be married to my ex anymore.” “What happened?” “Basically, it wasn’t a smart career move for him to stay married to me, so when the shit hit the fan, he dumped me.” “Oh, fuck! That must have been hard.” “At the time I thought it was, but in hindsight… no, not really. I don’t think I ever loved him. We were colleagues and I used to think we had a lot in common. Both of us made our careers the most important thing in our lives. As it turned out the status his job entailed was everything for Geoffrey. He wanted to be the next Director General, and with me as his wife, he would never have gotten the job. I don’t think I even liked him.” She gave Claire an impish grin. “The sex was great though, that counts for something, doesn’t it?” Claire laughed out loud. “Mmm…it does help. Did you fight him?” “No. I didn’t see the point and frankly, I wasn’t up for a fight at that time. No, we got a clean break. There was nothing I wanted from him, no alimony, nothing. Therefore, we were in agreement pretty fast. I moved out of the apartment, it had been his in the first place and already completely furnished, so I never brought anything in. I just packed my bags and left. Never looked back.” “It didn’t hurt?” “Well, it hurt that he shoved me aside so easily.” Meg smiled. “My father was very happy we got the divorce, he never understood why I married ‘the asshole’ in the first place. He’d never liked Geoffrey.” She stood up. “Let’s go to the kitchen, I need to check on the roast.” Claire took a seat at the kitchen table and after she checked the casserole Meg joined her. “I remember reading about your father, didn’t he die shortly after?” Claire asked. “Yes. He had a heart attack after Christmas last year. The tabloids wrote that he’d died from disappointment in me. That was the hardest thing…I’m sure he died of a broken heart…but not for that reason. He was completely shattered by what the media were allowed to do to me. It wasn’t the shock of the initial accusation; I mean…that was so ridiculous that even the police had to admit there was nothing to substantiate the accusations and the DA threw it out the moment she heard of it. We thought that would be the end of it, just a bad nightmare, something to forget and get on with life.” “I remember the article in TIME. That was what started it, wasn’t it?” “Yes.” Meg got up and checked the roast again. “It’s ready, let’s eat first.” She
set the plates and got a bottle of Claire tasted the roast. “Mmm, this is really good, you must give me the recipe. I’m always looking for new dishes for the pub.” Meg smiled. “Sure, no problem.” “Tell me how it all started.” “It started over two years ago, when Gladys Anderson brought in her three-year-old son Peter for the first time. It looked as if he’d had a fit, he had trouble breathing, and he was in a very bad state. It was clear that his heart rhythm was badly disturbed, but I couldn’t find any ground for his troubles, medically there was no reason for him to be so sick. After a few days, he seemed perfectly fine and his mother took him home again. I forgot about him, until the next time she brought him in, and it was the same story all over again.”
Meg looked troubled remembering. “I had a bad feeling about the mother. I don’t know why. Everyone else seemed to like her, but there was something about her, it just made the hairs in the back of my neck stand out. Do you know the feeling?” Claire nodded, “Yes, I do.” “It’s like a sixth sense. She was always very nice, talking to the nurses and doctors all the time, seeming to have a large knowledge of medical matters. She was always there, all the time, very distraught and worried, like you would expect a mother of a sick child to be, but still…I couldn’t get my finger on it. After a few days, Peter was better again and she took him home. However, this time, I didn’t forget about him, I kept searching for answers. I read everything possible about children becoming mysteriously ill and during my search I came across the Munchhausen by Proxy Syndrome. You know what that is?” “Isn’t
it some sort of disease that causes parents to hurt their children to get
attention?” “Yes.
Mostly mothers causing a disease in their children. According to
psychiatrists who have examined these cases, these mothers have a need to feel
"special" or heroic to get attention from family, friends, and
the medical professions. I’ve read stories about children who had been
admitted to hospital over 200 times before doctors became suspicious.” Claire
shook her head. “That’s just terrible.” Meg
agreed. “Yes, it is. In Peter’s case, I suspected his mother to suffer from
this syndrome. I was sure that she somehow had restricted his breathing. You
wouldn’t believe the cases I’ve read about this. Mothers harming their
babies by holding
a hand over the mouth, fingers over the nostrils, lying on top of the baby,
placing plastic or cling film over the baby’s face, all ways which leave
little or no forensic evidence, too horrible to think about. I set out to
find evidence, like other hospital records on Peter, but I found nothing. Peter
got better again and we had to release him, but when Mrs. Anderson brought him
back a couple of months later, all my warning lights were on red alert and I
called in the father. He hadn’t been around on any of the prior occasions.” Meg
face was pale and drawn. “The talk wasn’t a success. I had hoped he would
give me some insight on his son’s general health, because if I was right about
the mother, he’d probably been abused from birth. I had expected Mr. Anderson
to be worried or maybe defensive because he hadn’t been there before when his
son was so ill, but I met a wall of suspicion and hostility. I admit I lost my
temper and I actually accused Mrs. Anderson of abusing Peter.” She
gave Claire a wry smile. “That wasn’t very smart. Mark Anderson didn’t
take kindly to me incriminating his wife. He raised hell. They tried to take the
child from us, but Peter was too sick to be moved and he died that night. I
hadn’t been able to prevent his mother from being with him all night and I’m
sure she caused his death. We never did find out what killed him.” Meg
had to stop. Claire poured more wine in both their glasses and Meg took a big
swig before continuing. “You
know what happened next. The They
had finished their dinner and moved to the living room, taking coffee and brandy
with them. Claire
urged Meg to go on. “That
was when the article in TIME appeared. Because it was TIME magazine, it did a
lot of damage. They had interviews with people I’d forgotten I knew, all sorts
of people commenting on me, on my mental state of mind, my character… old
classmates, teachers, parents of patients, even old neighbors…it was
devastating. Suddenly I was this ‘doctor from hell’. I had my lawyer look at
it, but it was very cleverly done. They didn’t state any of it as the truth,
just as other peoples opinions.” “I
remember the article. It looked very damaging, but in fact they had nothing
substantiated in it. I never believed the story, it always felt far-fetched and
without any basis.” Meg
smiled wearily at Claire. “Thank you, that means a lot to me. Luckily, a lot
of other people believed me too, but the sheer amount of ludicrous innuendo and
gossip that followed that article was incredible. I felt like I was declared an
outlaw and the shooting season was opened. Every two-bit tabloid had something
on me, from so-called ‘experts’ discussing me, to lunatics telling stories
about how I’d claimed to be kidnapped by aliens. Eventually the hospital felt
I couldn’t function under such stress and they put me on suspension. What they
meant of course was that it was bad for business to keep me there. I quit and of
course that set off a whole new series of wild stories. Meg
sighed. “I was completely crushed after that. Then on top of everything
Geoffrey announced he wanted a divorce… I went back to live with my father. It
wasn’t until after my father died that I got really angry.” “What
did you do?” “My
father left me a very substantial amount of money and I used part of it to hire
a private investigator. I have Gladys Anderson followed night and day.” “Gladys
Anderson? What do you hope to gain from that?” “They
have two other children and if I’m right about Mrs. Anderson, she won’t
stop. Now that most of the attention over Peter’s death has died down, I’m
sure she will start hurting one of the other children. And when she does, we
will be ready for her.” “ “No,
not really. But it’s all I can hope for. Isn’t that terrible? The only way I
can rehabilitate myself is if she starts harming another child.” “That’s
horrible.” “And
it’s a long shot. Munchhausen by Proxy Syndrome is very controversial. Within
the medical community there is no consensus about it, so I could be wrong all
the way.” “But
you don’t think so.” “No.
I don’t. I know it in my gut. She will start harming her next child and all I
can do is hope we will get to her on time.” Meg
emptied her brandy and poured another. “We did find out that Andrew Barker,
the journalist who wrote the article for TIME is connected to Claire
looked at her with big eyes. “Never!” “It’s
true. He’s Mark Anderson’s half brother.” “I
don’t believe it. Why didn’t you use that knowledge?” “Because
I’m waiting. I’m waiting for them to make a mistake and when they do, we
will come down on them with everything we got.” “What
will you do when you get proof?” “Have
them prosecuted, go to trail and get my life back, finish the book, rehabilitate
myself.” “So,
you’re after revenge,” Claire said. “I
don’t want revenge, I want justice.” Claire
lifted her glass. “Okay, to justice.” *** After
half a bottle of vodka, several glasses of Claire giggled. “Yeah, I’d better. Although the thought of being pulled over by our gorgeous sheriff is quite appealing.” “I thought you were old friends.” “Oh, we are. And I’m too old for him anyway, but that doesn’t stop him from being gorgeous.” Meg answered with a sad look in her eyes. “No, it doesn’t.” “You’ve noticed then?” “I’d have to be fucking blind not to notice.” “You know, I thought he treated you terribly and I told him so.” “It doesn’t matter. We’ve only met a couple of times, it’s not like we were old friends.” Claire pushed herself upright. “It does matter, you were hurt, I could tell.” “Yes…it’s true…I really liked him…and I thought he liked me.” Meg shrugged dispiritedly. “But he’s a cop, and I haven’t had too much luck with cops lately. I guess it comes natural to them to be suspicious.” “I’ve never seen him react in this way, it’s so not like him…” Claire’s voice was getting a bit slurred. “He told you what happened to him, didn’t he?” “Yes,
he did. Guess that’s what I meant with things being relative. I lost my career
and my father, but compared to what “It almost killed him, and then Donna walked out…they were never officially divorced, you know. He never told me why, but I suspect he still hoped she would be back some day. I’ve feared for him for a long time. He was hitting the bottle hard in those days. If it hadn’t been for the loyalty of his deputy and the patience of our mayor, he wouldn’t still be sheriff. He’s doing much better now, but still…he has trouble sleeping…nightmares. But you know about those.” “He told you? Yes, I witnessed that when he was here. He fell asleep on the couch and when he woke up…it was horrible.” Claire
gave her a sly smile. “Ah, you see? You do care, I knew the moment I saw you
two together…you could be the best thing that could happen to “Don’t
let your imagination run away with you, I’m not staying here. I’m here for
one-year max. And if things move faster than that in “We’ll see, sometimes life has a way to surprise you, you know.” Meg laughed. “What I do know is that we should hit the sack, look at you, you can hardly keep your eyes open. So come on, you drunken slob, I’ll get you to bed.” ***
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