Claws For Concern

“Bill, please wake up, it’s me, Lizzie,” she said, her voice slightly louder, the tone more urgent.

The form on the bed began to stir. The bed had Bill’s torso raised at a slight angle, perhaps ten degrees. I couldn’t see his whole face but I could see when his head moved.

“Lizzie, what are you doing here?” Bill’s voice sounded hoarse. “If they find you here, you’ll give everything away.”

“I had to come, I couldn’t help it,” Elizabeth Barber said. “I’m so sorry, Bill, I don’t know what I was thinking the other day. I guess I just lost my mind for a minute. I didn’t really want to kill you.”

Bill grunted as he shifted in the bed. “I thought you trusted me.”

“I did,” she said. “I mean, I do, but you promised you’d never come back.”

“I had to, Lizzie. Mama was dying, and she wanted to see me before she passed on. I couldn’t deny her that. I owed her that much. You owed her that much.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Elizabeth said, sounding tired. “If it weren’t for her, we would have all been in trouble.”

“Mama hated lying worse than anything,” Bill said. “But she understood why I asked her to. When she found out what happened, I swear she would have killed him all over again if she’d had the chance.”

“He was a monster, he deserved to die,” Elizabeth said, her voice heated. “But I’m not here to talk about him. I wanted to let you know how sorry I am, and I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“Of course I will,” Bill said. “I may not be around much longer anyway, so it won’t matter. Then you’ll always be safe.”

“No, I won’t, Bill,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve done a lot of soul-searching since I tried to run you down. There were these two men today who confronted me outside the vet clinic. They’re not going to let it go. They’re pretty sure they know what I did. I think it’s time to tell the truth and be done with it.”

“Is that what you really want?” Bill asked.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “Would it be okay if I gave you a hug? I remember you used to give the best hugs.”

“I’d like that,” Bill said. He held up his arms.

Elizabeth’s hand slipped inside her bag as she began to lean over the bed. The hand came out with a syringe, her thumb on the plunger. She was ready to plunge the syringe into his neck, but the sheriff’s deputy burst out of the cabinet in time and knocked it out of her hand.

I emerged from the bathroom at the same time and grabbed her before she could run out of the room. She started screaming, kicking, trying to stomp my feet, anything to get away, but the deputy subdued her and got her hands behind her back. Another deputy entered the room and helped cuff her.

I hit the call button. When someone answered, I said, “Get in here fast. I think Mr. Delaney might be having another heart attack.”

I wasn’t sure whether Bill was actually in distress. He had a peculiar expression. His eyes were closed, but they popped open when I leaned over and called his name.

“Are you okay? Are you in pain?”

He didn’t answer my questions. All he said was, “You didn’t have to stop her.”

•   •   •

The experience with Elizabeth Barber shook me pretty badly. It would be a long time before I could get that scene out of my mind, if ever. Even with her arms behind her, cuffed, she still struggled to get to Bill Delaney. Her ranting, obscenity-laden words sounded like those of a madwoman. Her paternal grandmother’s legacy to her and her father, no doubt. Blocked from being able to kill Delaney, she seemed to lose all contact with reason.

I stayed at the hospital until nearly eight o’clock, answering questions for both the police and the sheriff’s department. Kanesha Berry was there herself, and Elmer Lee Johnson turned up halfway through my session with Kanesha.

I told them what I thought happened on that night twenty years ago when the Barber family was murdered. They were somewhat skeptical, but I was pretty sure I was right. The only two people who could confirm my suspicions were Bill Delaney and Leann Finch. I wondered whether they would be willing finally to tell what happened that night.

•   •   •

After a rough night with not much sleep—sleep haunted by Elizabeth Barber’s mad ranting—I got up the next morning hollow-eyed and tired. Azalea’s breakfast perked me up. By the time I arrived home the night before, I couldn’t eat anything. And for me, not being hungry or wanting to eat was a definite sign of abnormal distress.

I made up for those lost calories with a second helping of grits and a fifth biscuit with grape jam. Diesel feasted happily on bites of bacon. Azalea didn’t press me to talk. She could tell I wasn’t in the mood to discuss the events of the previous night.

By nine I was dressed and ready to go. I explained to Diesel that, once again, he would have to stay home. I was going to the hospital, and I couldn’t take him. He protested with the usual indignant meows and trills, but Azalea offered him a little more bacon to distract him. For once he didn’t fuss. I slipped out the back door and drove to the hospital.