TWO

LOUISVILLE

703 Brownlee Street

Ellie Ann Stuart stared at eighty-four-year-old Celeste, who stared at her empty plate. Ellie worried that Celeste stared a lot, and forgot a lot, and lost interest a lot.

“Would you like more toast?” Ellie asked.

“Where is my toast?”

“You ate it, Celeste. Want some more?”

“No, thank you, Annabelle.”

Sometimes Celeste called her Annabelle, the bacon slicer at Kroger. And sometimes she called her, Karl, the mailman.

Ellie loved Celeste Barclay, but hated what Alzheimer’s was doing to her mind. Each month the disease deleted more of her memory, dialed down the dimmer switch on her brain. There was no cure. All Ellie could do was keep her nourished, and comfort her when she seemed afraid or confused.

Ellie check her watch. Time for school. She looked in the hall mirror. As usual, her sleep hair made her look like the Bride of Frankenstein. She blinked and saw her eyes were bloodshot from studying late again, obscuring the fact that one eye was slightly bluer than the other. Her pale skin suggested too many hours indoors, hunched over textbooks.

The doorbell rang. Sarah Barnes, the next-door neighbor, walked in right on time. Sarah, a Godsend, cared for Celeste when Ellie attended classes at nearby University of Louisville.

“She’s just finishing breakfast,” Ellie said.

“Good. See you around noon?”

“Right.” Ellie turned to leave.

“Ellie …?”

“Yeah?”

Sarah looked concerned. “Be extra careful today!”

“As always …”

“Extra extra careful!”

Sarah sounded serious. Ellie waited for her to explain.

Sarah flipped open the Courier Journal newspaper and pointed to a headline.

FEMALE U OF L STUDENT ATTACKED IN HOME!

Ellie was shocked to read the attack took place on Ellie’s street, just blocks away.

Sarah shocked her even more when she said … “The girl’s name was Elle Steward. Elle … not Ellie, like you … and also S T E W A R D, not your spelling, S T U A R T.”

An icy chill shot through Ellie’s body. She was speechless.

“So be extra careful, hon.” Sarah patted her arm.

“I will,” Ellie said, still stunned by the girl’s similar name.

She grabbed her backpack and coffee mug and walked outside. She placed the mug in the handlebar holder of her old beat-up Schwinn Roadmaster and pedaled her way down the street toward the U of L campus.

The morning sun was warm and the sweet scent of lilac and peonies reminded her of back home in Harlan. She couldn’t wait to visit after exams.

Ellie pumped harder as she approached the steep hill she called Mount Cardiac. Despite her loud huffing, she heard a truck start up. Then she saw it ahead … a dark blue van on the other side of the street, pulling away from the curb, driving in her direction.

Speeding …

Right at her for Chrissakes!

She jumped the bike up over the curb and raced toward the protection of some trees.

Her front tire hit a root and she flew up over her handlebars, slammed against the tree, scraped her cheek and landed between the tree and the sidewalk.

The van screeched to a stop on the other side of the tree. The driver stared at her. He looked unapologetic, disappointed, like maybe it wasn’t an accident, like maybe he was considering another run at her.

A huge Allied Moving Lines truck turned onto the street.

The van driver saw it too, and sped away.

What the hell just happened? Did the driver loose control – or was he some macho road-rage psycho jerk trying to scare the hell out of me? If so, he succeeded.

Or … did the guy actually try to hit me? That made no sense.

She touched her cheek and came away with tiny splotches of blood. Getting up, she brushed herself off. Her ancient Schwinn had a few more dents, but was rideable the last block to campus.

The far more serious crime was her empty coffee mug. Without coffee, she had no personality. She pedaled down to the corner Starbucks, and even though her budget couldn’t absorb such an extravagant expenditure, she bought their cheapest, smallest latte.

Then she got back on the Schwinn and pumped off toward campus.

Huntoon Harris stuffed a wad of Mail Pouch tobacco behind his lower lip as he sat in his van, watching Ellie Stuart walk out of Starbucks and bike off toward the U of L campus.

She’d reacted much faster than he’d anticipated. He should have attacked her from behind.

So, she’d won this battle.

He’d win the war.

Harris made a phone call, reported in, then hung up.

He checked her class schedule printout on his passenger seat. He knew exactly where she’d be, and when. He shoved a full clip into his Glock 19.

Then he tightened the gold band on his ponytail.