Wicked Girl (THE FIRE Book 1) Read online

  The driver shook his head and hit the brakes until they squealed. The bus stopped in the middle of the road. I didn’t even use the steps, but jumped from the bus floor to the ground and ran back to Grace. I was sure it was her in her brown boots, long grey shirt, zebra coat, and a brown scarf wrapped around her neck.

  However, when I got to the bus terminal where I saw her, sweating and panting, there was no one – she was gone. All the energy in my body left me. I dropped on the snow covering the pavement; there was no way I could remain standing. My stomach shrunk. I wept.

  Two young women in skinny jeans and big colorful coats walked past me pulling a small monkey faced dog in its green and white striped t-shirt. They glanced at each other and giggled. Faintly, I heard one of them whispering, “He’s losing the damn thing.” And they busted into a loud laughter.

  I didn’t blame them, they were too young and naive to comprehend the definition of life. They knew the fancy definition of life found in the dictionary. Yet, the real definition of life isn’t in any dictionary. You get it when you find yourself sitting on a public pavement covered with snow – your brain threatening to shut down permanently. And your heart threatening to rip you apart.

  I was very much afraid that my worst fears had caught up with me. Never had I envisioned going through such a day without terminating the vile thought promptly. Many times I had prayed. I had begged God to test me with everything but this. “This is too much for me.”

  Somehow, my mind had transported me to a quiet place where I couldn’t even hear the passing cars – even the honking ones. I couldn’t even hear the noisy construction workers fixing some pipe on the other side of the road. I could tell they were debating and joking among themselves, but I couldn’t hear them. I only saw their mouths miming and one of them chasing the others with a hammer. And for whatever reason, they didn’t pay attention to whatever befell me. Probably, they considered me a spoiled brat crying for missing a bus.

  I came back to my senses when an army truck drove through a puddle and splashed cold water onto my face. Quickly, I ran my hand over my face. When I raised my eyes to the guys across the road, I learned they didn’t see what the truck did to me. But I could hear their debate, and I could smell exhaust smoke. “My God.”

  My cell phone rang. I jumped to my feet and pulled it out. Mila was calling, unfortunately. I was disappointed because I hoped it would be Grace telling me she was at home already. However, even Mila’s name brought some level of hope. Of course, it was still hard to believe that Mila was one of my alternatives. The most important, in fact. I had never thought life would force me to forge communication with Mila or create some form of partnership, fighting for a common, good course with her. I had only viewed her the way people of the world viewed Hitler. Or the way the heavens view Satan.

  I took a deep breath. “Hello.”

  “I ain’t sure about this, but I saw some woman dressed exactly like my friend: brown boots, long grey skirt, zebra coat, even her brown scarf,” Mila said.

  “Where?”

  “Downtown Brooklyn. I was at the bank. When I saw her outside, I dropped everything and ran out, but I couldn’t find her.”

  “Thanks, Mila.”

  I cut the call and called a cab.

  12:12 PM

  Detective Howell tapped his brown office desk with his thumb, staring at me, hoping I would recollect anything. But nothing came back. The blend of sirens from outside, the crying baby, the ringing telephones and the murmuring people in the hallway mixed up my mind even further. I couldn’t recall why I left my house to see the detectives.

  I gazed at my feet, tapping my thigh with two fingers, feeling tiny and dumb. However, Detective Howell seemed to be feeling bad for me. As a man, he understood how an unreliable mind could be a huge blow for a man. Reid looked irritated. Her breathing had become fast and noticeably loud. She hesitated countless times jumping off her chair. Each time she hesitated, her partner would tap slower and glare at her.

  I pretended I didn’t notice her irritation and focused on the U.S flag at the corner and the New York City map on the wall.

  I gazed at the computer on the desk. “I feel bad I wasted your precious time. I’m so sorry. As I said, there were two crucial things, but I can’t recall anything.”

  Finally, Detective Reid asked to attend something important. She pulled one drawer of the grey file cabinet, retrieved a yellow file and paced out.

  She left Howell perplexed and me, tinier than ever. Howell even grinned unnecessarily. I tried convincing myself that it was genuine urgency, but I failed. She looked angry I wasted their time. Her cheeks were even red and lips were slightly pouched.

  But it wasn’t my intention. I also didn’t know I would forget everything. Above all, I never asked to have amnesia. Whoever shot me did it and left me incomplete and unreliable. I was lucky to be alive. My son wasn’t that lucky – the bullet went through his brain, and he died on the spot. I was left with a hole in my heart. Always, I wished I was the one who died and he survived. Whoever killed him killed a part of me. I would cry almost every time I saw anything that brought my boy to mind. That’s why I stopped watching the Saturday afternoon games, either live or on TV. I would cry profusely when watching them. My mind would always see my boy sitting next to me screaming at the players or the coach on the screen.

  Grace tried to close the gap by watching the games with me, but she was a square peg in a round hole. She didn’t even like the game. She just did it for me. She believed I needed to be with someone to gradually forget Leon. But I needed someone who would scold the players, the coach or the referee and run all over the living room with me when a goal had been scored. I just needed Leon with me in the living room.

  I used the palm of my hand to wipe the tears welling up in my eyes. When I recalled I was with someone, I swiftly raised my eyes and found Detective Howell staring at me. I was embarrassed. But he didn’t ask me a thing – probably because he knew I had every reason to fall apart. He knew everything about Leon. He did everything to keep him alive but failed. He couldn’t even find the perpetrator.

  Now, he was dealing with my wife’s ordeal. More pressure was on him. He knew that sorrow upon sorrow would be too much for my heart to handle. It would kill me.

  The door flung open after a brief knock. “A minute sir,” Detective Reid said, holding the door handle, pouting her lips and eating the inside of her cheek. He got the message that they had to talk somewhere private, not in my presence. He got up. I felt even tinier.

  “Mr. Turner, excuse us. We’ll be back,” Detective Howell said, heading to the door.

  I held my breath deliberately to avoid inhaling the cigarette smoke wafting off Howell’s clothes and skin. “No problem, Detective,” I said, resenting Reid’s attitude. I began suspecting she had bought Karen and Jane’s story.

  But I aborted the suspicion instantly. I surmised I was overreacting since she was a beautiful young woman. A young officer that beautiful could disorient a man deprived of mental confidence, I thought.

  I took out my cell phone thinking I had written a reminder. There was nothing. I sat there feeling clumsy. “What could be worse than boarding a bus to report nothing to busy officers?”

  I frowned and sat up when I thought probably Detective Reid had called Detective Howell because Grace’s body had been found. I couldn’t understand why she asked to speak with him privately. They had discussed other cases in front of me without any problem. Perhaps, she wanted to ask him to get rid of me because I was nothing but a lunatic wasting their time.

  I rose and went out of the police station.

  I marveled. The snowfall had stopped, but the skyscrapers and trees still had some whitish patches.

  The 7th Ave. was way more aggressive than the police station. All the lanes were packed with traffic; sidewalks were packed with fast-paced professionals and students with their backpacks. Even dog walkers had to increase their pace to protect their pets from being tr
ampled upon. My movements adopted the quick pace but my mind remained stagnant. It refused to cough out information about why I had visited the station. The honking cars, loud sirens, jovial people and construction noises made it lose its grip entirely. It even connected the amnesia and Grace’s disappearance. It made the thought appear as an honest introspection, but I hated it. I promptly kicked it out of my head. I neither killed Grace nor dumped her body in the woods and forgot I did it. I love my wife.

  It was impossible for me to kill someone I loved so dearly. There wasn’t anything that could make me kill her. Instead, I could kill anyone who dared to harm her. After Leon’s passing, I protected her and Kim with everything I had. Some days, I would rush to her workplace after having a strange feeling. But every time, I would find her busy in her office or in her boss’ office. Not that I would proceed to the CEO’s office but I would trust Abigail’s or Mila’s word and go back home. Yes, I hated talking to Mila, and she knew it. It’s just that she acted smart and treated me like a noble figure. I didn’t buy it though. I knew it was pretense. At heart, she viewed me as a poor, pathetic imbecile.

  A sausage aroma from behind the lined up trees demanded my focus from the crowded sidewalk to the colorful food trucks and street vendors. I looked at the steaming hotdogs on the counter and swallowed lots of saliva. I placed ten dollars on the vendor’s counter and took two hot dogs.

  “Your change, sir,” the young Italian boy shouted with accented English.

  I looked back. “Keep it son.”

  “Thank you, sir. Dio ti benedica.”

  I avoided speaking with him. He seemed fifteen, Leon’s lifespan. Speaking with him could probably make me embarrass myself. I would wail in front of him. People who do such things end up on YouTube and social media nowadays. The reputation damage I had suffered in front of Detective Howell and Reid was enough for the day – for a lifetime actually – there was no need for more.

  “Oh, my God!” I froze on the pavement. Someone who was following me closely bumped on me.

  “Sorry,” he said and walked past me. He seemed in a hurry like everybody else.

  I recalled I left Detective Howell’s office without saying anything to him. He left me there expecting to find me when he came back.

  However, I proceeded to the bus terminal. I was lazy to walk back down there. After all, they took me for a lunatic. So there wasn’t even a reputation to protect.

  I bit one of the hot dogs. It was fresh and as hot as its name.

  My cell phone rang. “My God!” Detective Howell was calling. I was too embarrassed to take it. Yes, it was stupid. I forgot our unfinished business and left. But talking about it wouldn’t solve anything either – besides formalizing my folly.

  The thought of killing Grace flashed again. I pushed it away. Again.

  The call ended. But he called again. “Oh, my God.”

  1:15 PM

  I yawned as the bus exited Interstate 278 taking Vanderbilt Ave. After a few seconds, it picked up two women at the first bus stop. Since they were in nurse’s uniforms, I concluded they were nurses. One of them made me sit up and gaze at them until they blushed. She wore a spicy, rosy perfume – Grace’s favorite. They paid and headed to the seat in front of mine.

  Since the bus was half full, I contemplated changing seats. Not because of their gossip about the doctor who slept with interns, but due to the deodorant that made me see, feel, and hear Grace in her reddish evening gown and orange high heels strolling with me to a dinner organized by the Bloggers Association in Los Angeles. We hit two birds with one stone because the trip was both business and leisure. That’s what encouraged us to fly across the country.

  After the glamorous dinner, I was stunned Grace had prearranged a surprise birthday party with the hotel in the dining area. It was a surprise indeed. I had even forgotten it was my birthday. They sang for me, and I blew the candles. We enjoyed the cake, cookies, brownies, snacks, and drinks with everyone around. It was a lovely night. I loved it. I loved the birthday. I loved my wife the more. Fresh love sprung up from the innermost depths of my heart. Surprises have something about them. They make you feel vital and loved.

  One of the gossiping nurses took out her Samsung tablet. She tapped its screen several times and Grace’s face showed up. Grace! My eyes almost dropped. I almost cried. I almost grabbed her tablet and yelled why she had my love’s photo. It felt odd to see her photo posted everywhere. You just feel like your private life has switched into public property like the roads we drive on. When Grace posed in front of our house, she and I had no idea that that broad smile perfected by her dimples would be seen by millions all over the country and beyond. We both thought it was for our private collection, not a public image or an item in an investigation file.

  There were three faces of missing women on the New York Times app. Grace was in the middle. She tapped on Grace’s face. Another page opened.

  “You know her?” The nurse closer to the isle asked.

  “Hmm, yes. In a way,” the nurse close to the window responded.

  My temperature rose. It felt uncomfortable hearing them contemplating making my wife a new topic of their gossip. Worse, one of them knew her. It’s always scary to hear strangers talk about your private life. What if they say Grace wasn’t missing but ran away with a millionaire from L.A? Or Vegas? Wouldn’t I explode in the bus?

  “How do you know her? Where?”

  I wished there was something that could steal my attention. But there was nothing interesting in the bus or outside. Even the snowfall had stopped. Its whitish appeal on the surroundings wasn’t captivating at all. And the passengers were mainly the elderly from their medical checkups and the slumped type that minded their own businesses on cell phones, tablets, and newspapers. No noisy drunks or the debating type. Not even the chatting type.

  The nurses gazed at each other. “About a year or two or three ago, she had her husband admitted in our section,” she said. “Oh, she was a sweet lady. At times, she would bring us cakes when she came to check him.”

  I sighed, realizing I had suspended breathing. And my pulse rate had increased.

  “Wow! Cakes, girl. You’re making me hungry right now. The husband. He survived or died?”

  I shook my head. I almost said, “I’m alive” before she said, “He survived, but I don’t know how – the guy was shot in the head.”

  “I guess he lost his touch though.”

  They giggled. “The way you say it is funny.” They giggled again. “He didn’t lose his mind. He lost part of it.”

  I sweated, seeing me slapping them in my head. How could qualified nurses who knew ethics discuss my life, my health so cheaply as if I was a stray dog who mattered to nobody? I mattered to Grace and my daughter. I mattered to my mom and relatives.

  She laughed. “Girl, just say the man is crazy, period. There is nothing like being half mad. It’s either you are sane or insane.”

  I hesitated to slap them and smash the tablet on the bus floor. My hands and chest shook. And my breathing was fast, loud, and violent.

  “He ain’t crazy; he developed some type of amnesia. I can’t remember which type. And he was lucky, you know. Initially Dr. Brown said he would never regain his mind. But somehow, he did.”

  I shook my head. I sweated even though the weather was still frosty.

  “Amnesia. Some of those people are dangerous, girl. Now, I’m beginning to think he killed this pretty lady right here. He killed his wife and forgot he did it.”

  Anger, fear, and confusion cut through me. The gossip brought back the thought I hated and had aborted. But I was sure. I didn’t kill Grace. For any reason, I wouldn’t. In fact, I would always push away the thought that someday, I would pass away and leave her alone on this planet or she would pass first and leave me alone. I just dreaded imagining life without her. She was my light, my sunshine, my friend.

  They scrolled down the story and saw the plea by police. At the bottom, there was my photo. I was terr
ified to see my face also displayed in public like that.

  “This is him.”

  My heart accelerated.

  “Girl, I told you – this guy killed her. Look at his eyes. Argh.”

  I shook my head. I considered changing seats, but at the same time, I wanted to hear more about Grace and me.

  “Stop it, Heidi. He looks cute to me. I have always salivated for tall guys with brown eyes, brown hair and a square, pink face. No bushy beard, please.”

  Both of them laughed.

  “I didn’t say he is ugly. I said he looks scary somehow. Look at the eyes.”

  My breathing was noticeably noisy.

  The one who sat closer to the window accidentally dropped her eyeglass case as the bus did a sharp turn. It rolled to my feet. I bent and picked it up from the floor. When I rose, I noticed the hand that had the case was quivering. I handed it to her. Fortunately, our eyes met. Her eyes bulged and her forehead shrunk. She turned quickly and pressed her cheek against the cold window. She couldn’t even say “thank you” to me.

  The one closer to the aisle said, “You must spread the story at work. You never know who will see her and call the police. That’s if this weird husband didn’t kill her.”

  The one closer to the window didn’t respond. Her friend tapped her on the thigh, “I’m boring you now?”

  She didn’t respond but pressed herself on the window much more firmly, wishing it could swallow her.

  Odd as it was, satisfaction did pass through my heart. I didn’t have the energy to confront them, so I was glad they were stung by the consequences of their unprofessional, evil deeds without any effort from my side.

  The other one shook her head. “Just like that, you have switched to your stupid moods?” Then for whatever reason, she turned and looked back. Our eyes met. Her eyes bulged too, and she quickly faced the front frozen and shivering.

  My satisfaction multiplied. Not that I was a witch at heart. No. I felt relieved; they got their lessons from the best teacher called the conscience.