Elsie tore through the door of the red brick house, the sturdy Georgian structure in Barton where she was born and raised. As she paused on the hardwood floor of the entryway, she cried out at the top of her lungs: “Mom!”
Her father’s voice sounded from the second floor. “Elsie!” She heard his footfalls echo overhead. She dropped her bag at the bottom of the stairwell and made a run up the stairs, slipping only once or twice from the thin flip-flops the hospital in Albany had provided to cover her bare feet.
George Arnold stood at the head of the stairs. He seized Elsie in a bear hug when she reached the top, lifting her up off her feet. She was so relieved to see him at last that she hardly noticed the pain when his hand clutched the bite on her shoulder.
Through the open doorway, her mother said, “George, set that girl down so she can come to her mama.”
Elsie’s feet hit the floor and she hurried through the open door of her parent’s bedroom. When she saw her mother, she paused. It took a moment to absorb the shock: the sight of her capable mother in bed, sporting a cervical collar and two black eyes.
Recovering, she approached the four-poster bed with a cautious step, encircling her mother in a loose embrace, as if she feared she might break.
“Give me a proper hug, baby,” Marge said, sighing out with relief, squeezing her tight.
When they parted, Marge reached out and gently lifted Elsie’s chin with her finger, turning her face to the side as she inspected the angry cut that slashed across her cheek. Marge’s mouth worked involuntarily, her lips pinched together; and her eyes grew wet and blinked.
Dropping her hand, Marge said, “That scratch looks bad. It needs hydrogen peroxide.” She tossed the bed clothes aside and scooted off the mattress.
George stopped her. “Where are you going? You’ve got a concussion. And a broken collar bone. I’m supposed to see to it that you stay in bed.”
“I’m going to the bathroom. I’ve got a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in the medicine cabinet, by the Q-tips.”
Elsie held out a restraining hand. “Mother, I’m fine. Really.”
“You look like you’ve been in a knife fight,” Marge snapped.
“You look like you’ve been in a fistfight,” Elsie retorted. “Lie back down, Mom. Please.”
Her mother tried to scoff; but the noise turned into a sob that caught in her throat. George turned on his heel. “I’ll get it,” he said, and left the room.
Elsie studied Marge as she pulled the quilt to her chest. “Mom, are you okay?”
Marge closed her eyes briefly. “My head hurts. And this old bone aches. That airbag punched me in the face, gave me these black eyes. But mostly, I’m ashamed of myself.”
George returned, bearing a black plastic bottle and a cotton swab. “Don’t you go there again, Marge. Don’t get started. Nobody thinks any of this is your fault.”
Elsie’s glance shifted from Marge to George, and back again. “What?”
“I failed you. My only child. When you needed my help. Stupid damn phone.”
“We’re getting a new phone for your mother tomorrow. An iPhone,” George said as he set the bottle on the bedside table. “And she’s going to let you show her how to work it.”
Elsie didn’t groan at the prospect of tutoring her mother on the device—a sign of the toll the past day had taken. Marge unscrewed the cap on the black bottle and dipped the swab inside. As she applied the wet cotton to Elsie’s face with a shaking hand, Marge grimaced and said, “And having a wreck, in the midst of everything. I’m an old fool.”
“Mom, stop it.”
The hand holding the swab jerked back. “Am I hurting you, sweetheart?”
“No—not that. I don’t want you to beat yourself up. None of this is your fault, for God’s sake.”
Marge’s countenance crumpled as the tears came in earnest. “Just look what he did to your sweet face.”
Seeing her mother cry broke something deep within Elsie’s chest; and she shuddered in a vain attempt to mask her own reaction.
George said, “It’s a good thing that SOB and his girlfriend are locked up in Oklahoma tonight. There’s a lot of folks around here that would like to skip the trial. Put an end to them both with a shotgun.”
Elsie shook her head. “Oh Lord.”
Marge interrupted. “George, please. Don’t upset her. This day has burdens enough.” She set the damp swab onto a coaster, careful not to let the wet tip touch the tabletop. “Elsie, has Bob Ashlock brought you up to speed? On everything?”
Elsie shook her head. “I haven’t talked to him, except for a minute back at the hospital.”
An alarm made a dinging sound. George pulled his phone from his pocket. “Time for your medication, Marge.” He picked up an empty tumbler sitting beside a pill bottle. “I’ll get you some ice water.”
As he left the room, Marge wrestled a wad of tissues from a Kleenex box that sat nearby. In a ragged voice, she said, “I’ll never forgive myself. Never.”
“Mom. It’s on me. I never should have placed you in that position. If I was going to take the risk, it was unfair to put the burden on you. I should never have sent you that text.”
Marge swiped her nose a final time with the tissues, and then studied Elsie, frowning. “Why not?”
Elsie met her mother’s eye and held it. “I’m a grown woman. A trial lawyer. Not a child.”
Marge laughed softly, shaking her head. “No matter how old you are, or how old I get, I’ll always be your mother. You can always call on me; and I’ll hear you, now that I’m getting rid of that phone. We’re your family. This is your home. Always.”
Elsie wanted to argue, but something in Marge’s face made her hold her tongue. After a quiet moment, Marge said, “Don’t worry about Bob not being in touch. He’s a busy man. Working with the FBI and the highway patrol, for goodness’ sakes.”
“I expect that’s right.”
“Is he coming for Thanksgiving?”
Elsie rubbed her forehead. “I keep forgetting to mention it.”
“Well, then, I’ll call him myself. I’m the hostess; I should be making the invite, anyway. I’ll do it this week.” Settling her head on the pillow, Marge smiled, as if the matter was finally settled.
“Mother. You can’t put Thanksgiving on this year. It’s out of the question.”
“I’d like to see someone try to stop me.”
The sound of her father’s feet marching up the stairs made them both pause. He entered the room, passing off a fresh water glass to Marge. As she swallowed her pill, George said, “Who do you think will be working on the extradition? Isn’t that what they’ll need to get those people back into Missouri to face charges?”
The question made Elsie’s head throb. She rubbed her forehead again, at a spot over her right eye. “It depends on who’s handling the case. Whether it will be state or federal. They’re all working together right now. If the Feds decide to take it, there will have to be a grand jury hearing, to see if they’ll hand down an indictment in Federal Court.”
Her mother interrupted. “Then Madeleine Thompson won’t need to worry about it. Poor woman.”
Elsie gave her mother a curious glance. Marge was not fond of Madeleine. And she didn’t suppose that the information about Dennis Thompson’s involvement in the trafficking case had been made public. “No, Madeleine won’t be involved. I’m certain of that.”
Elsie stopped before she let confidential information slip. There were things that she shouldn’t divulge at this juncture, not even to her parents.
Marge settled back on her pillow. “Poor Madeleine. Poor thing,” she said in a murmur, closing her eyes.
Confused, Elsie turned to her father. “‘Poor thing’—from Mom? She can’t stand Madeleine.”
Marge’s chin dropped and she snored lightly. George bent down and whispered in Elsie’s ear. “Your mama got a phone call right before you got here, from the prayer chain at church. A woman whose husband works at the John Deere.”
“Ah.” Elsie nodded. The word must be out.
“Madeleine is a widow.”
“What?” Elsie jumped off the bed, causing Marge’s body to rock; but she didn’t awaken. George gave her a warning look.
“You need to brace yourself; this will come as a shock.”
“Tell me.”
“Dennis Thompson was found dead in his office this morning. His secretary heard a gunshot. She ran back there, saw the body. Self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
Elsie felt the room spin. She clutched the bedpost, afraid she might fall.
Her father’s voice continued. “They say Madeleine didn’t even know he was in town. He was supposed to be on a hunting trip with some of his buddies. She says he’s been off hunting most every weekend this fall.”