A Justified Bitch. H.G. McKinnis
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if I have this straight. You’ve been thrown in with a baby whore, a drunk driver, and a child killer, and you’re the one left in the cage.
Helen leaned back against the wall, realizing she would never get her truck packed in time. She wanted to moan, but it seemed like such a crier kind of thing.
Chapter Three
The irritating ring of the phone shattered her afternoon siesta, but Pat let it go, not about to ruin her first three-day weekend in over a year. Wyatt and the boys had just left for a hiking trip on Superstition Mountain, and the house felt heavenly in its silence. She rolled over and pulled the pillow tighter around her head. No good. The sound of her own voice filtered through with perfect clarity. Hi, you’ve reached the Henderson residence. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.
A cool and professional female voice responded. “This is the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. Officer Fine speaking. I’m calling for Mrs. Henderson.”
Las Vegas Police! Only one person in Las Vegas knew her number, and it had been ten years since their last painful conversation.
“Please return my call at (702) 828-3521, extension 35—”
Pat leaned over, nearly falling off the couch, and snatched up the receiver. “This is Mrs. Henderson. I’m here. I’m awake now.” Great, like that sounded sane.
“Please hold. Helen would like to speak with you.”
“Wait! No, I can’t—”
“Cleo?” Pat cringed. Cleo—their mother had been so desperate for beautiful daughters she had named them after two legendary beauties: Helen of Troy and Cleopatra. Pat had always hated the name, but in deference to her mother’s sensibilities she had waited until she married before officially making the change. No matter, Helen insisted on Cleo.
“It’s us,” Helen continued in a chirpy voice. “Listen, don’t worry about anything. Officer Maria just wanted to be sure someone knew where we were. We have some money and we can take the bus home.”
We! Helen was obviously still keeping Bobby around for company. “I’m glad to hear you’re okay, Helen . . . both of you.” She hated acknowledging Helen’s version of the invisible friend, knowing Bobby would never have put up with such nonsense. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
The answering silence brought back all the frustrations of trying to communicate with her sister. In the year following Bobby’s death, Pat had given up her job and gone to Las Vegas to help Helen adjust, but as the weeks turned into months Pat realized the older sister she had idolized for so long was gone, replaced by a sullen, uncommunicative woman. That had all changed one morning when Helen breezed into the kitchen. “Bobby and I are going to the swap meet. See if they have any good deals. Want to come?”
Bobby? Stunned, Pat had swallowed her misgivings along with her coffee and accompanied Helen to the swap meet. Her sister had taken to bargaining like a card counter to green felt. A week later she had her own booth up and running and was holding her own against thrifty customers and encroaching vendors. Pushed aside by Helen’s new obsession, Pat returned to Phoenix, where she reestablished her life and tried not to think of the brilliant and beautiful sister she had lost.
Officer Fine came back on the phone. “Mrs. Henderson?”
“What’s going on?”
“Your sister’s next-door neighbor was murdered. We recovered some evidence on Helen’s property, so we think she might have seen something, but we haven’t had much luck getting a statement. I know you’re in Phoenix, but could you possibly come to Las Vegas? We could sure use some help.”
Murder! Evidence on her property! What had Helen gotten herself into now? Dealing with her screwball sister was never easy, and Pat knew if she didn’t take charge of the situation, no one would. “What has she told you?”
“Well . . .” Fine paused, obviously uncomfortable talking with Helen standing there. “She says she remembers something, but can’t remember what.”
Pat closed her eyes. Classic Helen. “I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes things come back to her and she’ll tell you everything in excruciating detail, but other times she won’t remember anything. If you could just send somebody by her house after a day or so, she’ll probably remember.” The long pause that followed gave her time to consider other scenarios, all of them bad, all of them requiring a trip to Las Vegas.
“Mrs. Henderson, this is a very high-profile case. We need to pursue every possible lead with due diligence. Unless Helen gives us a statement, we’ll have no choice but to keep her in protective custody.”
“That’s not a good idea,” Pat said, horrified by the thought of her sister caged like an animal. “She has to get to the swap meet. It’s the only thing that keeps her sane.” She took a deep breath. “Put her back on the phone.”
A muffled conversation, Fine pleading and then ordering, and finally Helen’s familiar contralto mangling the words to a song she considered her very own.
“. . . there’s somebody keepin’ time
and I see Bobby handin’ wine
I’ll fade into tomorrow . . . ”
“Helen? Helen? It’s me, Pat . . . I mean Cleo . . . your sister.” But she knew it was a waste of breath. Once Helen started humming or singing the world would be on hold until her brain could reboot.
Finally, after a few more misquoted verses, Officer Fine came back on the line. “This doesn’t seem to be working.” The woman sounded surprised, as if she expected Pat to reach through the phone and switch Helen to normal.
“Okay, I’ll drive up. Maybe she’ll talk to me in person.”
After arranging to be at the police station at nine the next morning, Pat hung up, dreading what she had to do next. The thought of taking time off during the busiest season of the year made her cringe. She would have to turn over the entire production of the new catalog to her assistant, a competent woman but young and inexperienced. Even worse, Wyatt was leaving Monday for a convention, so she would have to take the boys with her. She swallowed a curse and punched in the preset for her husband’s cell.
He picked up on the first ring. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Helen.”
His answering groan said it all: regret, understanding, frustration.
Chapter Four
As Helen’s footsteps echoed off the steel lockers, she slowed to read a new splotch of graffiti scrawled across the metal doors:
Don’t Tell. Don’t Forget.
The words glowed with neon intensity the sign of a true message. Then the letters dissolved into indecipherable hieroglyphics. She hurried toward the teachers’ lounge, wanting to avoid the adolescent stampede that was about to explode into the empty corridor. She turned the corner and caught up to Bobby, matching her steps to his.
He waved a hand with a melodramatic flourish. “Hark! What glass through yonder window breaks? Is it the dons, or the homies from the east? Or, in the words of remedial English, ‘How you drama class be today?’”
Helen gave his arm a playful swat. “The kids were great. Now if I could just get you to stop butchering the Bard. Any trouble with your ESL class?”
English as a Second Language was Bobby’s pet peeve, and he grimaced before hitching the strap of his leather backpack higher onto his shoulder. “Some of the kids were into it. Miguel blew through the reading segment in about five minutes, and then spent the rest of the time tutoring the two cutest girls. I asked the office if he could be moved up to your class, but they insist he finish the ESL program. What a waste. I’d like to use all that red tape to strangle the numb-nut bureaucrats who think they know how to teach.”