Teacher Beware (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Book 1) (4 page)

THE LED SIGN with the words COCHRANE'S REPAIR SHOP isn't turned on. There aren't any customer vehicles waiting to be worked on in the garage. The only vehicle in sight is Albert's Ford F-150, which is older than me, and the red paint is being overtaken by rust and scratches.

I walk to the back and go into Albert's office. I find him sprawled on the couch, swigging a cheap beer while watching the nightly news. A reporter—a pretty Italian woman with an ass that would make any man swoon—is talking about the Muslim murder, but by the time I get close to the TV, the newscast switches to the new bakery being built in Murray.

"What were they just talking about?" I ask, plopping into the old green recliner that has been in the family for years, dropping my backpack beside me. It smells like cat litter, but Albert has never been willing to get rid of it. "Someone was murdered?"

"No." Albert snorts. "Just some Muslim terrorists. The county police are callin' it a
potential honor killing
or a hate crime. Bullshit. Can't be no 'honor killing.' Bastards don't have any honor. And hate? Those Muslims are the most hateful group out of anybody. They probably were killed by their own kind for fun."

"Right," I say. Honor killing? That's what the police concluded? How quaint. How Murray. I stand up and grab my backpack.

"You just sat down," Albert says. "Those lousy teachers of yours aren't givin' you some bullshit assignments, are they?"

"No—I mean, yeah. You know. Same old thing."

Albert shakes his head. "You should drop out of that damn school. Nothin' they say matters. You know everythin' you need to know to survive."

"I know, Al. I just go for the entertainment. You know. Those rich kids."

He nods. "They are a joke."

"I'm just going to get my bow out and shoot some targets."

I slip out the backdoor. I grab my compound bow and a few arrows. In the backyard, there's various targets—foam blocks, plastic deer, bottles, and a scarecrow. I nock the arrow, use three fingers to hold the arrow on the string, and draw the bow. I aim for the scarecrow's head…and release the arrow.

It tears right into the scarecrow's x-shaped eyes.

If the news thinks that it's a hate crime, nobody will realize the dead man was the manager of the QuickFix. Nothing will change. Some other asshole will replace him, and Albert will still struggle to survive. Albert might as well be the outsider for the way that Murray treats him.

I set down my bow and open my backpack. I find my notebook for history and flip to the back. The last page has my handwritten notes about who owns which one of the new auto-related franchises in the area. I don't dare use the Internet for research, because that can be traced right back to me. The next two targets are also racial minorities, so I decide to target the third—a man who owns the new AutoLube franchise. He's Caucasian, so no one will mistake this kill for some religious reason. Since there are no customers, I'll get some bullets from my secret stash, go collect my hidden handgun, and go hunting.

I'm confident that this one will go better than my first. I always learn from my mistakes.

~~~~~

The AutoLube has fancy equipment that Albert could never afford. The garage has the top-rated cordless screwdrivers, digital infrared thermometers, and digital inspection camera scopes. Albert hasn't bought a new tool in over a decade and none of his equipment is electronic. These national automotive corporations can afford their overpriced tools by running the mom-and-pop shops out of business. Once the other business is bankrupt and has been shut down, the corporation overcharges their customers because the customer has no other place to go to fix their vehicle.

It's despicable. They shouldn't have come here. If they wanted a fight, then I'll show them how Murray natives will do anything to survive and protect their own.

I walk up to a man who's wearing a pale-green button-up shirt and jeans as he types something into a computer next to the cash register. He glances at me. His expression is clear—
A kid. Not worth my effort.
At least Albert would treat every customer the same.

"Can I help you?" the man asks, looking back to the computer screen.

"I heard that you sell tires here," I say.

"Yep." He stops typing, more interested in me now that I'm not just some snot-nosed kid trying to get an estimate on a bent fender. "When we install tires on your car, we also provide the tires. We have the best that money can offer, too."

"Could I see them?" I ask. He nods and leads me to a door in the back. There's another room, nearly as big as the main room, where there's racks and racks of different types of tires.

"What kind of car do you have?" he asks.

"I have a Chevrolet Malibu, two thousand and two. I need some winter tires."

He nods and walks through the aisles. I glance up toward the ceiling. No surveillance cameras. I slide my hand under my polar fleece jacket. My fingers find their way around the cold steel of my Smith & Wesson 9mm. I pull it out and aim it at the back of the man's skull.

He begins to turn his head as I pull the trigger. I see the slight flicker in his eyes—that moment of
I'm going to die
. You would think this look would be full of shock, but it's more like acceptance. The brain understands cause and effect—
the young kid will pull the trigger, the bullet will tear a hole into my brain, and I will die
—and there's not enough time for emotions to kick in.

The man's knees buckle and his whole body drops. Behind him, blood has sprayed all over the winter tires.

A single tire costs nearly two hundred seventy dollars. Bastard.

~~~~~

DAD HAD WRAPPED ME UP in snow pants, snow coat, snow boots, scarf, mittens, and a trapper hat with fleece lining and two earflaps. I can barely move because all the clothing makes me feel stiff, but I am unbelievably happy to be out in the snow with Dad as we make a snow fort.

Dad has made half of a wall while I'm still trying to make one snowball stick together. As he sees me struggling, he moves over toward me and cups his hands around mine. He helps me to form the ball. I set it down on top of his wall. It's tiny compared to his snowballs, but he slaps my back with a grin on his face.

"Awesome job, buddy," he says. "You're going to be a great architect. Or an Eskimo. Maybe even an abominable snowman!"

He grabs me and throws me into the air. I squeal with delight, even as my cheeks sting from the cold. As he sets me back down, I hear the phone ringing from inside. Dad looks toward the door.

"I gotta go get that, buddy." He winks. "Just stay right here with your fort. I bet it's your mom, calling to ask if we want pizza or Chinese food for dinner."

As he tracks through the snow toward the front door, I gather snow in between my hands. It seems almost too white, too perfect, too temporary. As I bend down closer to look at the snow, my breath melts some of it. Disappointment makes me drop the snow back onto the ground. If I couldn't keep it forever, then I didn't want it.

I sit down.

I wait. And wait. And wait.

The snow is beginning to soak into my snow pants and I can't feel the tip of my fingers. It's not like Dad to forget about me. I'm his second son, sure, but Tom is away at some Boy Scouts or 4-H event for the weekend.

I fumble to open the front door with my mitten-covered hands. I struggle for a minute, then take my mittens off, and open the door. As soon as I step into the house, I know something is wrong. The air feels stale, and though the heat is turned on in the house, it feels oddly cold.

I keep walking, the polyester fabric of my snow pants rubbing and making a swooshing noise. I'm tracking snow into the house, but I can't stop until I find Dad.

I finally see him in the dining room. He's sitting with his face in his hands and a phone set beside him.

He looks up as he hears the sound of my snow pants. His eyes are red and his nose is running. I wonder if he could get a cold that fast.

"Deacon," he says, standing up. He rushes over to me, picks me up, and hugs me. "I'm so sorry. I forgot. I forgot. I'm a terrible person."

His whole body shakes and I can feel his tears against my head. It will be three days before he tells me—and only because I keep asking him where Mom is—that her car slid off an icy rural road and went through a hillside guardrail. That's exactly how he said it. "She died. Her car slid off an icy rural road and went through a hillside guardrail."

I thought his voice was too nonchalant for it to be true, but I've figured out that Dad numbed himself to Mom's death. His apathy couldn't lie. When you stop caring about anything, there is no reason to lie.

~~~~~

I'M NEVER SURE how to deal with people's extreme emotions. When you're a doctor, there is something called "bedside manner," which describes the doctor-patient relationship. I care about my patients. I care about everyone. Whenever I look at human, I imagine their heart beating blood through their body and think about this miracle organ that allows them to live. I think about how their very existence is a miracle.

But my bedside manner is terrible.

I can feel compassion, but I can't show it. Coworkers have told me that I can come off as callous or apathetic. Whenever I try to reassure or comfort a patient, I know it sounds as if I'm being fake. So, I simply do my job. I go through the motions and throw myself into the science of the heart.

"Mr. Pegg, I will need to see you again in three months. Next time you feel the symptoms of a heart attack—pressure or aching in the chest, shortness of breath, palpitations, nausea, sweating, weakness, or a rapid heartbeat—please call nine-one-one immediately. I am also referring you to a cardiac rehabilitation program."

"Dr. Meadows," Barry Pegg says. "How much longer do you think I will live?"

"Hopefully, a long while." I stand up and clap him on the back. "Please see the receptionist outside to schedule your next appointment and get the number of the cardiac rehab."

I walk out of the room and into my office, close the door behind me, sit down at my desk, and rest my head in my hand. Barry Pegg has four children, ranging from seven years old to sixteen years old. The damage to his heart wasn't terrible, but I'd hate to think later that I wasn't aggressive enough about treatment. Sometimes, patients think that you want to push them into procedures to take more money from them, but sometimes I'm just not certain that what I'm doing is enough. The heart can't tell me what's wrong. I have to make that estimate on my own.

My cell phone rings. I glance at it. It's not a number I recognize. Maybe it's Grace. Maybe I can make it up to her that I scared her with the pocket knife.

"Hello?"

"Sam," a clipped voice says.

"Yes?"

"You don't know who this is, do you?" the voice asks.

"No, sorry," I say.

"It's your brother."

Oh. Jake.

"Hello, Jake," I say, my voice becoming more formal as I sit up. "How can I help you?"

"Don't treat me like one of your patients, Sam," Jake scolds.

"If I were treating you like one of my patients, I would tell you to schedule an appointment. But I'm not the lawyer, am I? That's your depart—"

"Dad had a heart attack."

Time seems to stop. My breathing goes shallow and for moment, stops altogether.

"You're lying," I say.

He snorts. "You know, you're a piece of work and a piece of shit. I'm not lying. Apparently, it happened a week ago and I had to hear it from Stan. I had to hear it from Dad's neighbor, Sam. You're a goddamn cardiologist. Why the hell weren't you on top of this?"

"I didn't know," I snap. "Dad is the one who stopped talking to me. If he was having problems, he could have called me."

"I think he was busy having a heart attack," Jake says, his old sarcasm returning. "I'm sorry if he couldn't reach the phone to check in on you as his heart was giving out."

"Look, you pompous ass," I say. "You were his golden boy. You should have been the one by his side. My job is a hell of a lot more important than your job of defending rich men who want to double their earnings."

"I just thought you should know," Jake says. "I guess I'll call you again when he's dead."

I hear a click and then silence. I throw my phone against the wall, and it bounces all of the way back to the door. I look over there to see my receptionist standing in the doorway. Her eyes are wide with shock. She's never seen me show any strong emotions.

"Mr. Pegg was wondering about the ACE inhibitor drugs," she mumbles. "But I can have him call us later if you need some time."

"No, it's fine," I say, grabbing a prescription pad out of my desk. I smooth my hair back with my hand. Everything is fine. Nobody needs time to fix anything.

~~~~~