Chapter 14 - The Dead and the Future
Della longed for a cigarette. During this long, awful night that she had been trapped in this room with Laura she had felt the well-known, destroying urge that only nicotine could meet. A cigarette, the impeccable taste of tobacco, would soothe her nerves and make this situation somehow bearable. Smoking would keep her shaking hands occupied. She was trembling all over her body despite the heat, she felt as if she were freezing from the inside out. Smoking would help her to regain control over her body and ultimately over her life - whatever was left of it.
She was sitting on a gurney, staring at two other gurneys that carried two black body bags. They looked lonely and forgotten, underlining the cruelty and eternity of death. Somewhere behind a team of medics was shouting orders in order to save the one person who hadn't been already dead upon their arrival. The noise seemed far away and at the same time it echoed in her ears.
The situation was surreal and she had reached the point where she was incapable of emotion. She felt empty like the inside of a drum.
An arm sneaked around her shoulder. She jerked away, scared of physical contact, but as soon as she realized who was holding her, she stopped fighting him.
"It's all right," Perry said. She looked at him, thunderstruck and scared. Stains of blood covered his shirt and looked greyer than ever. Tired she leaned against his shoulder.
"Is she dead?" she asked calmly.
"No, but unconscious."
"What happened downstairs?"
"We don't know yet," Perry answered. "Andy says we have to wait for the forensic team. It's all a big mess."
She nodded. Did it matter what had happened? Richard was dead and so was Norton. Once again she stared at the blood smeared all over Perry's shirt. It was Richard's blood. When Perry had found them on the upper floor, he had tried to reanimate him, but without success.
"What a blood bath." It was Andy who said that. He had approached Della and Perry, but kept a certain amount of physical distance. The color of his face was white as a sheet and Della noticed there was a bandage hidden underneath his hat.
"Anything you can tell us about the chain of events?" Perry asked.
"Not yet. Let my men do their jobs," Andy answered. His eyes fell on Della, full of compassion he said. "You need to go to the hospital. You have a shock."
Della didn't answer. She just closed her eyes and exhaled. Her son was at the hospital and he was waiting for her - and she had to tell him his father was dead.
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Sacramento, 30th August 1977
Richard Carlisle's funeral was one worthy of a Senator of the United States. It was an occasion worthy of a hero who went inside the home of a violent kidnapper. Perry exed his scotch and leaned against the doorframe. Della stood across the room, surrounded by men she barely knew and people he knew from a time he tried to forget. It was all a lie. A big, fat lie, but the pretense of part of the game.
"Comfy over here?" Andy asked as he joined Mason.
"It's a friggin' circus," Mason replied.
"Well, nothing bad about the dead," the agent mused. "What is there to say anyway? He did what he thought was the right thing."
"That's one way to put it," Perry groaned.
"What's done is done," Andy said and watched Della as she moved through the crowd gathered in her living room. If she was tired of any of her visitors, she didn't show it. Andy knew her well enough to think she was sick and tired of all of them, but as always her grace was bigger than her personal feelings. Ruben looked like a lost soul and Martha like an old bird. Overnight Martha Carlisle had lost her spirit. Her formerly straight back was stooped and there was no sparkle left in her eyes. Della had told him over the phone that Martha hadn't shed a tear for her son, but there was no doubt in her mind that Richard's death had broken her beyond repair.
"So what's next for you?" Andy asked.
"How do you mean?" Perry asked back. He rummaged around in his pockets to retrieve his cigarette case.
"I mean for you and Della," Andy clarified and took an offered cigarette.
"You haven't lost your touch for the obvious questions."
"It's part of my job description."
Mason inhaled deeply and then shrugged. "I have no idea and as you may remember I'm still married."
"How's Laura?"
"Still unconscious," Mason answered. "She's simply not waking up."
Andy acknowledged the news with a sigh. "She could be of help, you know."
"I'm aware."
"With Della's statement about her conversation with Norton we're back at square one about Paul's murder. If Hardcastle didn't kill him and Norton didn't order it, it could have been anyone."
"I know." Mason made no effort to hide his frustration. He had barked up the wrong tree. Four months had been chasing the wrong killer, the wrong ghosts. He hadn't done Paul any justice. Ruben and Della had been kidnapped, Richard was dead and Laura fighting for her life - all for nothing.
"Can I get you another drink?" Andy asked. "I think you need one."
Perry didn't argue. He watched Andy as he passed the room to get a refill and not for the first time his eyes came to rest on Della. Once more she was the one who was strong while he was moping and drinking. She deserved more. More from him and it was about damn time he got his life in order.
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8th September 1977
Della stood in front of her mirror in her bedroom and applied some lipstick. It felt wrong to get dressed up and to use makeup, but she had agreed to meet Irene Drake and she didn't want to cancel. It was time she got out of the house for at least a few hours. She needed to escape the gloominess that surrounded Martha. Her mother-in-law was like a dark cloud and a hawk at the same time. She barely talked, but still she was omnipresent and Della didn't know how to tell her to leave. She had no wish to throw Martha out, but she also needed to get her own life back on track and with Martha being around twenty four-seven that wasn't possible. She didn't even dare to open Richard's side of the wardrobe as long as Martha was around, not to mention her idea to sell off the house sooner than later.
Every time Perry was in the house because he was helping her to sort out Richard's estate, Martha was around, watching, listening, making sure nothing escaped her notice. She was a like watchdog who was making sure Perry wouldn't dare to get too close to Della or Ruben.
"Are you going out?" Della turned her head. Martha was standing in the doorway, watching her from head to toe.
"I'm meeting Irene Drake," Della explained. "She's in town and leaves again tomorrow. She's asked me for a drink."
"I see…." Martha nodded slowly. "Well, I guess life has to go on, right?"
"It's just a drink," Della repeated, almost annoyed. She didn't want to excuse herself for not burying herself alive.
"You said as much. I'll have an eye on Ruben."
"He's in his room, probably already asleep… we have an appointment with the doctor first thing tomorrow morning. They want to have a look at his wrist, so won't be long."
Martha nodded once more, then she left. Della heard the door to Martha's room falling shut. It was indeed time Martha moved out.
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Meeting Irene Drake did indeed have the effect Della had hoped for. Talking to someone outside the family and who had gone through the same thing was a relief. Irene understood and she was proof that life was going on - despite everything. The bar Irene had picked was small and not a place where the mothers of Ruben's friends would meet for a drink.
"Is there any news about Perry's wife?" Irene asked. "The last time Perry and I talked she was still in a coma."
Della shrugged. "She still was yesterday," Della answered vaguely. "You know it's not easy to talk to Perry about these things when your mother-in-law is just one room away."
Irene crooked her eyebrow. "I see… I guess that means, you haven't talked about anything yet…?" Irene asked, emphasising the word 'anything'.
"Nope," Della answered. "And what's there to talk about as long as he isn't divorced?"
"So, that's the pressing issue for you? Him not being divorced yet?" Irene looked doubtful. "Divorce's just paper work these days. If you want him, go and get him or if you don't want him, walk away - and this time for good."
"You make it sound so easy," Della said, sipping her drink.
"It is that easy," Irene said. "You just have to make up your mind."
"What if I don't want a man in my life?" Della asked.
Trene nodded, contemplated Della's question and said, "Well, let me ask you another question: are you sick of washing someone else's socks or are you tired of waking up next to someone?"
Della gave her a long look. "Neither does apply. I think I'm just not ready to risk everything again. I also have a son to think about. I doubt he'll recover from his father's death just like that."
"That I can understand," Irene agreed. "But how about this… I met someone a few weeks ago and guess what… I'm not washing his socks, but I'm not waking up all by myself every morning unless I want. There's more to waking up than making breakfast, if you know what I mean."
Della chuckled and finished her drink. "That's quite a concept for a small town girl like me."
"Give it a try. You'll find it quite rewarding," Irene blinked and called for the waiter. "The next drink is on me."
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Curious who was knocking at his door at this time of night, Perry dropped the towel he had used to rub his wet hair and slipped into his bathrobe. After he had one too many drinks with Andy in a bar near his hotel, he was ready to call it a night. Far from being drunk - he was what Della would call 'tipsy' - he simply wanted to crawl under the sheets and catch up on some sleep.
To his surprise his late night visitor was none other than Della. His exhaustion was gone the second he laid his eyes on her.
She was leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed and the clutch pressed against her chest. She still wore black, but the blouse looked somewhat risky with the upper button being open.
"Counselor," she greeted him, her voice a mixture of shyness and mischief.
"Miss Street."
Him using her maiden name made her smile. He hadn't called her that way in years and all of the sudden, she stopped asking herself, if her visit was a good idea or not.
"I hope I'm not interrupting something," she said, one eyebrow crooked and let her eyes travel along his bathrobe.
He casually turned and looked behind him. His hotel room was deserted, the bed invitingly empty and open.
"Actually, no," he admitted. "Until now I was only allowed to dream about company."
"I'm glad to hear it," she said and moved past him.
A little unsure what to think and how to react, he closed the door, and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Can I give you something? A drink or…" Before he could finish his offer, she had thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him. He returned the kiss without hesitation. She tasted of whiskey and cigarettes. It was a wild, erotic mix that messed with his head and judgement. He didn't know why she was there and why she had decided to come to him tonight of all nights, and he didn't care. His longing for her was so profound and overwhelming that he didn't question her motivation. All he wanted was to make love to her - to hell with the consequences.
Her kisses were raw and her hands were quick, as she helped him to undress her. He had always imagined their reunion would be slower, more tender, but once he felt her neatly trimmed nails digging into his shoulder, he knew this wasn't what she wanted. She wanted more and for the first time since they knew each other she was showing him what exactly it was that she needed from him. The realization exited him and once his hungry mouth met her bare skin, his messed up life became a distant place.
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Later he was the one leaning against the doorframe. He watched her lying on her back in the middle of the bed, smoking a cigarette. The sight amused and bewildered him at the same time. They hadn't spoken much since she had entered his hotel room and that was fine with him. Somehow it didn't need words to explain what was transpiring between them. It never had never needed many words between them. Still, there was something he needed to get off his chest.
"Since you just had your way with me, would you finally agree to marry me?"
As expected she hadn't seen that coming. She choked and had to abandon her cigarette before the fluttering ash could burn the sheets.
"Says the man who isn't even divorced," she said once her cough had subsided.
"That's a technicality," he answered.
"That's what you say now," she returned. "Once Laura awakes - and let's face it, she will wake up rather sooner than later, you'll face the same dilemma as before."
Mason shook his head. "I won't." He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at her. "But if you feel that way, you shouldn't be here."
It was a well-aimed provocation, one she smelled a mile away, but still she twitched slightly. He gently ran his finger tips over her upper arm and watched with relish how goosebumps formed on her skin.
"Perhaps I'm here to push my fragile, female ego," she suggested as she reached out to snatch his cigarette case from the bedside cabinet.
"And you did great," he confirmed and leaned over to kiss her shoulder, which led her to abandon her next cigarette. "I should go home," she whispered once his mouth had travelled up to her mouth where he brushed it gently over her lips.
"What keeps you here?" he wondered mischievously as his hands moved under the sheet she had wrapped around her body.
"I wonder," was all she answered before she returned his slow and seductive kiss.
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