Identity Issues (26 page)

I peered at the two police officers. Were they real? They looked like they’d done this before, perhaps even experienced a reaction like mine. Both appeared resigned as they met my gaze. Sad for me.

The phone rang. Both men looked at me. I shook my head. Not now. The answering machine clicked on. Nick’s voice asked the caller to leave a message.

"Hey, Stitsill, it’s Jack. Where the hell are you? Out for a run? Call me."

I felt paralyzed. Chills took over. My teeth started to chatter. I pulled up my knees, hugged them. Rocked myself. Tried to stop the throbbing in my head.

"Ma’am," Kelly said. "Can we call someone for you?"

"No." I shook my head. "I’ll be fine." I’m always fine.

"Would you like us to stay, ma’am? Can we get you anything?"

"No, thank you. I’ll be fine. Really. You can go." I paused. "No. Wait. What do I do? What happens now? Do I go to Japan and identify Jon’s body? How do I get my husband back?"

"There was someone with him, ma’am, someone who survived the crash. That person identified your husband’s body at the scene. There will be a full report by the Japanese Consul, which will detail the incident. They will be in touch with you so you can make arrangements to have his remains sent home."

Remains? "I understand," I answered, swallowing the rising bile. I forced a labored breath, a muddled attempt to fill my lungs with oxygen. I stood, made my way to the kitchen counter, and poured myself a cup of coffee. "Would anyone like coffee?" As if I were a bystander, I heard my own voice, felt my weight shift.

"No, ma’am. We’re all set, but thank you. Can we call someone for you?"

I shook my head. "Let me see you to the door." I walked blindly to the front door and opened it. Each man paused to look at me. The young officer wrapped his hand around my forearm, gave it a squeeze. The older patrolman rested his hand on my shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

"I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am," he said.

"Thank you."

I closed the door behind them. My legs leaden, I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. Nothing felt real. The past year. Rex. Rosie and her boys. Jon. Jim McGrath. None of it.

I opened the liquor cabinet, poured a heavy shot of Woodford Reserve, Jon’s favorite, and carried both the glass and the bottle to the coffee table. I curled up on the couch, tossed back a stiff slug. I couldn’t stop shaking, or shivering. I fumbled with the throw on the back of the couch, wrapped it around my shoulders, finished off my drink.

I picked up the phone, speed–dialed Jack, waited. He answered on the third ring.

"Hey, Stitsill, where ‘ya been?"

"Right here, Jack."

"What’s the matter? You don’t sound right."

"I’m not. I may never be right."

"What do you need?"

"Nothing."

"You sure?"

"Just letting you know I’m alive. Call you later."

I hit the end button on the phone, then dialed McGrath.

"Sam?" he said when he answered.

I couldn’t speak.

"I’ll be there in thirty minutes," he said. "Faster if I can manage it."

"I’m not going anywhere," I managed to say. I disconnected, set aside the phone and restocked my glass. I had no idea of the time. Morning. It must be morning. I remembered the sound of knocking, then jumping out of bed and stumbling down to the front door. Cops. Cops at the door. I took another gulp, then one more.
Come home, Jon.

I heard McGrath pull into the drive. Somehow, I made it to the front door, and let him in.

He took one look at me, wrapped his arms around me, and held me. Just stood there and held me.

"C’mon," he said, guiding me to the couch. "Tell me what’s going on."

I told him everything. He held me throughout my sobbing, letting me soak his shoulder. He steadied me, offering me a drink when I paused to catch my breath and blow my nose. His touch became a soothing massage, his words a mantra.

"It’s going to be alright, Sam. It’ll be alright."

M
CGRATH STAYED WITH me. All day. He tried to feed me. I couldn’t eat. He wanted to stay with me through the night, but I needed to be alone.

The shakes and shivers finally subsided. I knew I should call Jon’s parents. I just couldn’t. Not yet.

McGrath and I agreed that he would return in the morning. He locked all the windows and doors, waiting outside on the porch while I bolted the front door and flipped on the exterior lights. Then, he left. I climbed the stairs and fell into bed, still dressed in the sweats I’d pulled on that morning. I thought about calling him before I fell asleep, but it didn’t seem right. Soon, exhaustion claimed me, and I fell into a deep, consuming sleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night, my mother’s intuition woke me. A mother’s hyper–vigilant alert followed, and I was instantly and fully awake. I quickly recalled the kids remained in the safety of their grandparent’s care and then listened to the sound of shuffling, a faint scraping noise. Raccoons? Squirrels? Doubtful. Adrenalin shot through my veins. Anger added steam. How dare someone break into my home again.

I withdrew the gun from the crevice between the mattress and the box spring. I caressed the cold steel as I crept to the doorway and then stepped into the hallway. I glided lightly along the carpet, taking care to avoid the squeaky treads on the staircase. I gripped the gun as McGrath had taught me, with both hands, safety off, extended before me, one finger resting on the trigger. In my head, I heard the reassuring mantra of his instructions. A steady, firm grip.

I paused, listened. The scraping sound came from the basement. Faded, somewhat indistinct. I slipped across the floor, my bare feet floating on the cool tile.

I recalled turning on the rear outside light. Now, only darkness crept in through the edges of the kitchen blinds. As I made my way to the basement stairs, I wondered. Had I left the door open? I couldn’t remember. Focus, I reminded myself. Use your senses. I turned to the staircase, my eyes adjusting to the darkness as I waited. More scraping. A doorknob turning. Clunking. That’s what it was, not scraping, but a clunking sound.

At the bottom of the steps in the darkness, I caught movement. A flash of dark on dark. As I narrowed my eyes, I deciphered the shadow of a human form. I extended my arms, keeping the gun directly in front of me. Next, I heard scrambling. The banging of metal. Scrambling and metal. And I clearly saw the shape of a man.

"Who’s there? Who the fuck are you?" I demanded.

He rose like a giant monster, looming on the stairs like a train dwarfing a tunnel. I jerked in surprise, then heard a shot. Then, another shot. A thud preceded a tremendous crash.

I turned and fled. At the front door, I groped for the deadbolt while fumbling with the weight of the gun. Somehow I released the lock and opened the door. I stepped outside into the pitch black night, flew off the porch, and ducked into the shelter of the shrubbery. I waited. He didn’t emerge from the house. I crouched behind the porch, shivering beneath a towering lilac bush as I tried to make sense of what had just happened. Lowering the gun to the ground, I checked myself for damage. My body seemed to be intact. Tears stung my eyes. I could not quell the deep moaning that escaped my throat.

A blessed blackness consumed me until I felt something on my shoulder. Warmth. A human hand? My eyes flew open, but all I could discern from my hiding place beneath the shrubbery was an oversized athletic shoe at the end of a long denim pant leg. I pulled back, at the same time lashing out, swiping blindly with my arms and screaming, "Get away from me! Get off me!"

I scrambled for escape from behind the bushes. Away from this man. Another man.

"Sam," a voice boomed. "It’s me. Jack."

His voice registered. It really was Jack.

I stopped crawling. Blinked. Fought for focus. Turned, then knelt before him, clasping my hands over my mouth, shivering, tears flowing. Finally, I looked up at him. He loomed over me, his expression bewildered and full of concern. I inhaled a deep breath, then let it out slowly, unable to speak.

"I called, but no one answered. What happened? Are you okay?"

I shook my head. I wasn’t okay. Not one little bit. I struggled to my feet. Still crying. Still unable to utter a single word.

"Here, let me help."  Jack reached for my hands. Pulled me up. Steadied me once I was upright, and guided me through the shrubbery to the lawn.

I ducked, peering at the house, and pulled him beyond the porch into a stand of trees where we couldn’t be spotted from either the street or the house.

Jack studied me, confusion etched in his eyes, but he waited patiently.

"What happened?" I finally asked.

"That’s my question," Jack said, resting a sturdy hand on my shoulder.

I spent a long moment remembering. "Someone was in the house last night. I used Jon’s gun." I glanced around to be sure I wasn’t dreaming, then rushed to the brush beneath the bushes. I found it. The gun lay tucked beneath the neighboring spruce. I gestured to Jack. "There it is. See it?"

Jack reached for the weapon.

"No!" I seized his arm before he could touch the gun. "Don’t! I think I fired it. It’s evidence. My fingerprints are on it."

"Sam, you’re talking crazy. Let’s get you inside." Jack put his arm around me and guided me toward the house. I felt wobbly, like jelly. He asked, "Is the door unlocked?"

"I think so." Still dazed, I realized that my body ached and I couldn’t stop shivering. As my head cleared, I said to Jack, "We can’t go in, though. I think I shot someone. Honest."

Jack blinked in surprise. "Where did you shoot someone?"

"It was dark. There was someone on the stairs. The basement stairs. I heard shots."

"Then we shouldn’t go inside. Let’s call the police."

Jack promptly used his cell phone to make the 911 call. He gave sketchy details while I listened and tried not to give in to the shakes again.

Jack sat me down on the front steps, jogged over to his car, and returned with a blanket, which he draped around me. He didn’t say anything. He just sat there, looking at me with a worried expression.

"Jon’s dead," I murmured.

"What?" Jack fired a shocked expression at me. "Jon?"

I nodded. Tears brimmed in my eyes. Jack slipped his arm around me and drew me close.

"How?" he asked.

"Car accident. Japan. The cops came yesterday."

"No way. I don’t believe it."

"Me, either." I gasped for air.

We sat in silence. I leaned my head against his chest and reminded myself to breathe.

We both glanced up in time to witness a procession of black sedans as they pulled up in front of the house. Several guys in almost identical suits and dark glasses exited matching vehicles and strode up to the house. I counted eight of them. They reminded me of penguins, making their way two by two up the drive and then along the walkway to the porch where Jack and I waited.

One of them said, "Sir, you contacted 911 about a possible shooting incident?"

"Yes, this is my friend, Samantha Stitsill, and this is her home. She was informed yesterday that her husband died in a car crash while traveling on business in Japan. I came by this morning to check on her. When she didn’t answer the door, I got worried and began to search for her. I found her behind the shrubs over to the side of the porch there. She says that someone was in her house last night. She thinks she may have shot the intruder."

They nodded in unison, which struck me as the oddest of sights. Dressed in standard business attire, each wore the same stoic facial expression.

"Ma’am, we’d like to check out the house, if that’s alright with you."

"Go ahead," I managed to whisper.

Jack and I leaned to the side as they trooped past us. I began to shake violently.

"Hot coffee," I said to Jack.

He rubbed my arm. "You’ll have to wait while the guys are in the house."

Jack kept his arm firmly wrapped around my shoulder, which wasn’t at all like Jack.

"What the hell is taking them so long?" I asked. "There’s either a dead body in there, or there isn’t. Are you sure you called 911? Maybe you dialed the wrong number."

"Relax, Sam."

One of the men appeared at the front door to summon Jack, who stood and went inside. He returned a few minutes later.

"Well, is there a dead guy in there or not?" I asked, looking up at him.

"Yep, there’s a dead guy in there. You got him. Good girl."

"Good girl? I killed someone, and you’re telling me I’m a good girl? What the fuck are you thinking?"

"Bad language. Not now. Don’t talk like that while the cops are here. They’ll need a statement from you. Try to remember what happened," Jack instructed as he put his hands under my elbows and hoisted me up to my feet. "Come inside with me."

"I don’t want to go in there, Jack. Do I have to?"

"They need to know what happened." Jack gently nudged me forward into the hallway where two of the men stood waiting for me. They escorted me into the living room and sat me down. I felt too dirty to sit in my nice clean living room, the room I kept free of toys in case company stopped by.

"Ma’am, we need to take a statement from you and then your friend will take you to his home for a while. Your home is a crime scene, and we need to process it."

One of the suits handed me a cup of coffee. I took a sip, and it warmed me like life–giving medication.

Slowly. Creeping into my mind. Flashing images. Returning with unexpected clarity. I told the story, actually remembered the story. They asked questions. I answered questions. Sleeping. Heard noises. Got the gun. Husband’s gun. Protection. Alone in my house. Second time someone broke in. Kids at the lake with Grandma and Grandpa. Down the stairs. Silently. Something moving. Rushing up at me. On the stairs. Shots fired. Fleeing outside.

One of the suits entered the room and handed something to another suit. A photograph. Jack stayed close. Right beside me. I looked.

"Mrs. Stitsill? Do you know this man?"

I reached out, grasped the photograph, and stared at the unreal image of Jon Stitsill’s head. His eyes were closed, but he held the same distinction he had in the wedding photographs that Rosie had brought to school. A murderer with distinction. I leaned back against the sofa, tipped my head toward the ceiling and closed my eyes. Air whooshed out of my lungs. This man had wreaked havoc on my life for way too long. First, through the letter, then the phone calls, then through Rosie. He killed Rosie, killed my dog, and he scared me beyond reason. Was this over now? Had I really killed him?