Chapter One

The cell phone vibrated against the cup holder and McNair could faintly hear it beneath the blaring radio. He turned down the music and reached for the phone, stealing a quick glance at the number of the caller, then put eyes back on the darkened road curving ahead. It was a patient, ringing his emergency number at nine o’clock at night. They only did that if it was important. He closed the phone and tossed it onto the empty passenger seat. Hitting the accelerator, he made the back tires skid and thought about home, a beer, and a steak on the grill.

 

The phone went to voicemail and a woman began to plead. “Please, please, Dr. McNair…call me. Please call me back.” Miles from where McNair drove through the night, she held the phone close to her face, the glowing dial pad playing with the dark closet interior. Shadows from her clothes slashed across her face. There was no lock on the closet but there was a flimsy one on the bedroom door and she prayed it was stronger than it looked. She pushed back further into the corner, the tips of a pair of shoes poking her, angering the bruise above her kidney where her husband had hit her with the base of the lamp.

 

She hung up and then hit the ON button to get another dial tone. She could hear it echo in the room and quickly covered the ear hole. She knew she should call 911, wanted to call the police, but her fingers hesitated just above the pad. She looked at her hand instead of the phone and saw the cracked, bleeding nail. Ten minutes earlier she’d clawed at the ground, then at her husband’s arms, as his hands closed around her throat. He’d stopped – the, wild, distant look in his eyes fading for a moment, and the apologies had started to pour out. She’d run upstairs, banging into the wall as she made the turn on the first step going too fast. He’d called after her, wanting her to come back so he could make it right. His soothing voice started to change as she continued to hide. He started to sound irritated, then angry when she failed to come back and let him show her everything would be okay. And now he was on the stairs, demanding she come down, more strident with each step toward the bedroom.

 

Helen could feel the bile rising in her throat. Fear, pain, and guilt skewed her mind. She dialed, but it was McNair’s number again. Her therapist would know what to do, tell her what to do. It went straight to voicemail. Before she could leave another message, the door handle in the bedroom jiggled, then violently shook. In a split second she heard it explode inward, wood splintering and the jamb slamming against the wall with the force of her husband’s kick.

 

There was no hesitation in his footsteps. He came straight to the closet and pulled the door open.

 

“Oh, god, no, no…please, I’m sorry…no.” She tried to press back into a space that wasn’t there. The phone dropped between her legs. He grabbed her hair and wrenched her from the closet, half dragging her across the room as her legs kicked at the ground to keep from falling. He said nothing, only drawing in short, ragged breaths that rasped like nails on metal. He re-gathered a fist full of hair, his grip hard and rigid. Out the bedroom, and toward the stairs. She struggled to gain her balance, reached for the railing as they got to the first step. He pulled her down, his pace steady and uninterrupted by her flailing and grasping at the banister. Her knees banged sharply on the wooden edges of each step, her neck twisted and pain shot down her arms and back. The last few steps she gave up and he slid her like a rolled up carpet. At the bottom he changed his grip and locked onto her shoulder, fingers digging deep into the skin. Pulling her like a log at the end of a sharp hook, he dragged her onto the Persian rug in the living room. He stood fully, hands on his hips, and took a couple deep breaths. His eyes were far away. She laid limply, looking up at him, and when their eyes locked he gave her a sharp kick in the stomach that blew out what little breath she had.

 

On the glass coffee table, a pack of cigarettes sat next to a large picture book, Los Angeles From Above. He picked up the pack and fished out one of the last cigarettes. The lighter took only one try to catch, and Helen began to whimper.

 

Half an hour later, McNair tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter and pulled a beer from the refrigerator. Leaning back on the counter, he flipped open his phone. Two messages. He listened to the first and frowned. Helen Burrows having trouble with the husband again. He probably should have picked up and talked her down. He deleted the message and waited for the second as he drained the bottle, eyes looking around the kitchen for something to put on the steak. He stopped, half an inch of beer still remaining, and put the bottle on the counter. He stared at the fridge but his mind was elsewhere. Helen’s voice was scared, terrified. He could hear the crash, then her sudden yelp and the phone hitting the ground. The rest was muffled, but angry and violent. His voicemail limited messages to one minute. He listened carefully, straining to hear, as the recording continued. There was a series of banging noises, sounds of terror. McNair hit “9” to save the message and in one quick motion picked up his keys and headed to the door, dialing 911. He identified himself as a doctor and gave the name and address of Helen Burrows and a one sentence summary of what had happened – or was happening. He was in the car and racing down the darkened Pacific Coast Highway before he’d hung up.

 

McNair arrived at the Burrows home as two paramedics brought Helen out on a gurney. The ambulance was parked in the driveway. A cop car with lights flashing was on one side. An unmarked detective’s car was on the other at an angle, blocking one lane of the residential street. McNair pulled up behind it and watched the gurney. The sheet was not pulled over Helen’s face. She was alive, but even from 30 feet away McNair could see she was in bad shape. He hesitated for a moment, then got out of the car and walked toward the front door to find the cop in charge.