Chapter 5- Close #2
“This is alright,” Helen said softly, reaching for the suitcase, but finding it empty. “What in the world?”
The suitcase was unpacked and her clothing hung. On the desk was her laptop, charges, and three of her favorite knives were laid out as if guests were coming to be fileted.
“Bella might end up being a menace,” she said, reaching for her phone to call home.
In the corner near the window was an easy chair with a footstool.
Helen parked herself in the chair, looking at the tiny table perfect for tea service with scones.
The queen size bed was covered in a minty green matelassé cover and underneath were heavy woolen blankets.
Leaning back, she used her personal phone to call her man.
“Hey sexy; missing me?” she asked when Mustang answered.
“House is too quiet without you,” he whispered.
“Oscar wants to change that and come spend his Spring Break with you,” she said into the line.
“Apple said he's been practicing canoeing with the broom while he’s seated between two chairs.
He wanted to know why, but Oscar was smiling.
The boy also gave me money to buy him a suitcase, so when you send for him, he doesn't show up looking raggedy.”
Mustang's laughter rang through the phone. “Oh, really. Did he happen to mention when this Spring Break is happening?”
“No, but he did say he planned to write you, so there's that,” she said, leaning back into the soft cushion of the chair.
“Okay, but you led in with Oscar, so how weird is it there?” he asked, learning to listen to what his wife was not saying, which often said so much.
“Loneliness is a soul thief,” she said softly. “I am grateful for you, knowing that at the end of all of it, I can come home to you. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I never fully understood what Cherry required, but I managed to give it to her after assignments. These guys...I dunno.”
“Is it that bad, Helen?”
“Not sure what I am sitting in right now, but the room is lovely and there's a library. Lunch was baked chicken breast unseasoned and an endive salad if that tells you anything.”
He asked, amused, “Endive salads?”
“Yes, but dinner will be mini-Wellingtons with more than likely unseasoned white potatoes,” she replied laughing. “Your mother is a national treasure, man. Cherish that lady, Jay!”
The silence returned—he wanted to say more, she needing to say less.
Instead, they both held the line as if waiting for something.
In the background, Helen heard a thud, glass breaking, and a high-pitched scream.
She bound to her feet, dropped the phone into her pocket, and grabbed the well laid out knives from the desk.
From her bag she grabbed her 9mm and took off out of the room, coming down the stairs at top speed where she thought the sound had come from.
She arrived at the same moment Tiffany did and found Bella in the kitchen. Helen wasn't certain if the woman had a waking nightmare or if she hurt herself, but she was staring at the back door. Helen's eyes followed where Bella was looking and saw a man's face pressed against the glass.
“What the hell?” Helen asked, looking at the man. “Tiffany, do you know him?”
“No, I have no idea who that is,” she said, moving closer.
The poor man looked like a walking ice cube. He was covered in snow, icicles hung from his hair, and his lips were turning blue. “Hyperthermia is going to set in unless we do something,” Helen said.
“Crank up the fireplace,” Tiffany commanded.
Helen ran to the fireplace, looking for the flue and wood. “Where's the flue?”
“Honey, it's gas; flip the switch on the wall,” Tiffany said.
Helen followed her instructions, turning on the fireplace and using the dial to blaze up the flames.
The door cracked, letting in a gush of freezing air.
Nearly frozen, the man tried to walk, only managing to lumber inside of the door and falling to the floor.
Bella was staring at Helen's weapon, her eyes locked in.
In response, Helen stuck the gun into the sweater pocket, remembering the phone was still there with Mustang on the line.
“Ms. Bella, can you find me a broom to clean up the broken glass,” Helen asked sweetly while Tiffany stood over the man, looking down at him. “Tiffany, check his pockets for ID, anything to tell us who he is and why he's here.”
The woman was moving too slow for Helen's convenience. She gently pushed Tiffany aside and unzipped the snow-soaked outer jacket. “Shit, we need to get him out of this wet stuff.”
“We're going to undress him?” Tiffany asked, her eyes going to his crotch.
Helen took note of the blank stare in her eyes then the sudden change as her cheeks pinked up. “Damn, sis, how long has it been since you've seen a man?”
“Helen, you don't even want to know,” Tiffany said.
“Get his boots off, then the pants, never mind, leave his pants on,” Helen said. “You're looking at him like you want to molest the fella. We have to get him warmed up.”
Bella returned with the broom to clean up the broken glass. “Who is this man, Tiffany? Is he one of your friends? Is he a boyfriend?”
Tiffany, snapping out of her fugue, reached for Bella's hands. “No, he is someone who is lost, or perhaps his car broke down.”
“Is he staying here, Tiffany? I don't like men in the house,” Bella said, looking at the new woman working on the stranger.
“I know Bella, but we don't want him to die. We will get him warmed up, and in the morning, send him on his way,” Tiffany said softly, trying to appease the fear in the woman.
Helen, having run to the linen closet in the upstairs hallway, returned with a blanket.
She threw it over his lap, reaching for his belt, having flashbacks to a naked Bryan all over again.
Her mind raced as she pulled off the wet pants and socks and wrapped his lower half in one blanket.
She sat him up, removing the coat and sweat-soaked shirt underneath, thinking he'd worked up the sweat when walked a ways in that foul weather.
A second blanket went over the broad shoulders and wide chest, and she removed the snow-soaked hat to reveal blonde hair.
“Help me get him closer to the fire, ladies,” Helen asked.
Bella took a leg, Tiffany the other, and Helen his upper body. It was a struggle, but they moved him closer to the hearth’s warmth. Helen grabbed for his pants and located his wallet. She found a few credit cards, a couple of business cards, and a Texas driver’s license.
“Amarillo, Texas,” she said. “The business cards match the license for a Donovan Liam Turnbull. He's a branch manager for a regional bank in Amarillo.”
Mustang was still on the line with the phone in her pocket.
She held up a finger and walked to the kitchen to start the kettle to make Donovan a cup of warm what the fuck do you want to loosen his lips.
In the kitchen, she said into the line, “Baby, I don't even know.
Can't hazard a guess, but you have the info; take a look Trooper Neary.”
“Roger that,” he said, ending the call.
True enough, she could probably find out more on her Technician laptop if she fully knew how to use it, but this task gave Mustang something to do besides worry about her and a strange man that appeared at the doorstep in the middle of the night.
Helen felt like Bella; she didn't like men in the house, especially men she didn't know.
She returned from the kitchen a moment later to find Bella and Tiffany staring at the man as the color began to return to his face.
Helen moved in, placing the warm cup to his lips, opening his mouth, and pouring in the liquid. His eyelids fluttered as he reached for the cup. He sipped at the liquid, slowing opening his eyes to look at the three women staring at him. He mumbled, “Thanks.”
“Mr. Turnbull, did your car break down along the road?” Helen asked.
“No,” he said in a husky voice. “Had to leave it and walk. Tracking me. I took an Uber as far as I could and walked the rest of the way.”
Helen's senses were heightened. “Who is tracking you and why are you here? Are you lost?”
“Not lost,” he said, shivering. “Need help.”
“For your car being tracked?”
“No, my life. She's taken my life. I need help,” he said.
Helen looked at Tiffany, who was looking at Helen. They both looked back at the man.
Tiffany, finally locating her words, asked, “Help from whom and for what?”
“You,” he said, looking at Sour Grapes. “I came to find you.”
He passed Helen the cup and fell over onto the floor. His eyes were closed but he was breathing. No one knew what to say.
Bella said, “I don't like this.”
“Neither do we, Ms. Bella,” Helen said. “Why is he looking for you? Is he looking for the lady who lives in this house and teaches online classes, or is he searching for the Technician?”
“If she, whoever she is, is tracking him, Mr. Turnbull is looking for the Technician,” Tiffany replied. “But the question is, for what?”