Consequence (21 page)

He rubbed his chest where it ached and
wondered what it would take for everything to go back the way it
was. She’d argued with him as he dressed for work, asking him again
to drop charges.

“Bridget, it’s not up to me,” he explained
patiently. “It’s a criminal charge, so the Commonwealth prosecutes.
It is my duty to provide their office with information when I have
it, or else I’m culpable of withholding evidence. The charges were
filed by the district attorney, not my office.”

“But she’s an old lady, Boone!”

“And they know it. They are treating her
well. She’s not locked away in a jail cell; she’s at the Eaton
Nursing Home. Her granddaughter is in town with her. She’s not
alone. Robert Hall is her defense. She has the best attorney in
town.”

“She shouldn’t be here at all,” Bridget
snarled. “I should never have helped you. I shouldn’t have given
you that folder. I had no idea you’d do this.”

Boone frowned. “You’re right,” he said. “I
shouldn’t have asked for your help. It’s my fault.”

Bridget threw her coffee cup into the sink,
shattering it. Morty whined under the kitchen table. “No, damn it!
It’s my fault! That’s why I feel awful, Boone. Can’t you
understand? It’s my fault an old woman was dragged from her home.
My fault her daughter has had a heart attack! I’m the one who had
to know it all.”

Boone flinched. He regretted mentioning
Cerise’s surgery to Bridget. How often could he put his foot in his
mouth?

“You are not responsible for Mrs. Larouche’s
health,” he said. “A person doesn’t require a bypass and a stint
because they’ve received bad news.”

Bridget jabbed at angry tears then crossed
her arms across her chest. “I’m sure the shock didn’t help. If
anything, it escalated it.”

Boone had no response. Anything he said would
be hurled back in his face. He buckled his gun belt around his slim
hips. “I’ve have to go,” he said. “I’ll check with you later.”

“Fine!” Bridget said, knowing he wanted to
avoid her.

Now Boone stood in the lonely, quiet kitchen
and wondered what it would take to make Bridget happy again. He
wasn’t sure, but he knew who would know. He slid his keys out of
his pocket, picked up his jacket and opened the kitchen door. “Come
on, guys, let’s go see Mama.” The dogs scurried through the door,
eager for a ride.

At closing time, Bridget left the library.
She didn’t want to go home. Her heart was heavy and her eyes burned
from holding back tears. She knew she’d lost Boone. That she’d gone
too far accusing him of being “heartless. She didn’t see how they
could get back to the care-free, casual relationship they shared.
She felt betrayed and appalled. She felt shame at her remarks to
him.

Bridget tried to distract herself,
researching a lost local landmark in the old newspaper archives,
but it hadn’t helped. She had enough notes for a tepid article, but
she needed artwork. She still had a key to the Daily News office
and permission to use its photo morgue, so she walked the three
blocks between the buildings.

She let herself in the side door of the art
deco structure, pausing at the large glass windows to watch the
antique press as it spun enormous rolls of paper into neatly
printed and folded newspapers. The press printed various sections
ahead of time, and if this was Wednesday, then Sunday’s travel and
lifestyle sections had gone “to bed” on time. She climbed the steps
and as she neared the newsroom, heard the clickety-clack of several
computer keyboards. It had been awhile since she’d been at the
Daily News at night and she wondered if she’d know any of the
reporters on duty.

She had to walk the long gauntlet from the
backdoor to the photo department, and as she did she noticed
Katrina Hall sitting in her coveted corner. Not many people could
ignore the newsroom policy and get away with it, but Katrina did.
She decorated her space with bookshelves and artwork and plants.
Bridget admired Katrina’s headstrong ways, and was one of the few
women not intimidated by the beautiful and haughty reporter.

“Hi,” she said, her voice meek as she passed
through the doorway.

Katrina swirled on her rolling office chair
and caught sight of the visitor. “Bridget! Just the person I’ve
been looking for!”

Bridget froze in her tracks. Katrina never
“looked” for her; she was of no consequence. She turned reluctantly
toward the radiant reporter. “Yes?”

“First of all, let me congratulate you on
your research on the Jefferson case,” Katrina said, watching with
curiosity as Bridget cringed. “That was pretty impressive detective
work,” she added.

Bridget shook her head, too distraught to
speak. She held up a hand to halt Katrina and sprinted toward the
photo department.

“Wait!” Katrina jumped from her chair and
hurried after Bridget. “I’d like to talk to you about Ethel
Jefferson,” she called.

Bridget shook her head violently and took a
sharp turn, detouring into the women’s restroom. She needed
privacy.

Instead of keeping her distance, Katrina
barged into the room only to find Bridget at the sink, splashing
water on her face. Her shoulders shook as she cried.

“Go away,” she said, her voice choking. She
grabbed a brown paper towel from the dispenser and blew her
nose.

Katrina cocked her head to the side as she
assessed the situation. “What’s going on, Bridget? Why are you
upset?”

Bridget shoved her aside and walked to the
far side of the restroom. She leaned her forehead on the cold tile
wall. “Go away, Katrina. I’m not in the mood to talk right now.
Especially about Ethel Jefferson.”

Katrina waited. She knew if she kept quiet
that Bridget would start talking. They all did.

After several minutes, Bridget calmed and
turned back towards the sink. She yanked another paper towel from
the holder and blew. Katrina flinched, and imagined the towel must
feel like sandpaper against Bridget’s red nose. She removed a pack
of soft tissues from her pants pocket and offered them to Bridget.
“Here, use these.”

Bridget laughed, a raw, broken sound. “I
don’t deserve it,” she said. “I’m an absolute bitch.”

Katrina waited for the explanation. Pulling
on considerable acting ability, she looked quizzical. “I don’t
understand ….”

Bridget wadded up the used paper towels and
tissues and tossed them into the garbage can. “It’s my fault Ethel
Jefferson is in jail tonight. I’m responsible for our brave police
department dragging a little old lady back to Pennsylvania, and
locking her up. Not only that,” she said, pausing dramatically,
“I’m responsible for her daughter’s heart attack. She collapsed
when her mother was arrested and was rushed to emergency
surgery.”

Katrina’s eyes widened. She didn’t know that
tidbit. She made a mental note to call the Lowell Hospital and ask
for an update. Good thing she hadn’t filed her story yet.

“I don’t understand why you’re beating
yourself up about this,” Katrina said. “She murdered her
husband.”

“Yes, I know, I know,” Bridget said, rolling
her head at the obvious. “But do you know why?”

“Yes,” Katrina said, but Bridget didn’t hear.
She plunged on with her own explanation.

“Because she was married to a creep who used
to beat her up. He probably beat their child, also.”

“Have you spoken with Ethel Fontenelle yet?”
Katrina asked.

“No, of course not. I can’t face her. Look
what I’ve done to her and her family,” Bridget wailed.

“I think you’d be surprised to hear what she
has to say,” Katrina mused. “You know she’s pled guilty?”

Bridget gasped. “No! That’s crazy! If
anything, it was self defense.”

“Yes, according to Ethel, she hit the bastard
on the head with her skillet because he was attempting to rape her
daughter.”

“Oh my God!” Bridget wailed. She moved to the
lounge area and sat on the dingy sofa. “What have I done?”

Katrina stepped into the middle of the
restroom, keeping the short distance between them. “Apparently, the
right thing. Ethel Jefferson told me tonight she appreciates what
you’ve done, and she was delighted to see your notes. Yes, I have a
copy and I shared them with her. She’s a real fan of the ancestry
software you used.”

Bridget stared at Katrina as if she had two
heads. “That’s ridiculous. You don’t expect me to believe ….”

Katrina interrupted her. “I couldn’t care
less what you believe, but you can read all about it tomorrow on
Page One of the Eaton Daily News. I interviewed her this evening
and she is pleading guilty. In fact, she’s looking forward to
it.”

“Why?”

Katrina pulled her reporter’s notebook out of
her pocket and flipped through the pages. “Let’s see, where is it …
Oh yes, here we go. She said, she’s ‘been living in the shadows for
fifty years.’ She also said you’ve saved her soul. She’s a
Christian and needs to confess her sins and seek redemption before
it is too late.”

“Saved her soul?” Bridget’s voice was timid
and soft? “From what?”

“Eternal damnation, I suppose. She’s an
interesting woman and instead of moping and crying in here about
the consequences of doing the right thing, maybe you should go over
to the Eaton Nursing Home and talk to her yourself.”

Bridget twisted her hands nervously. “I don’t
know,” she said. “What would I say? I’m ashamed.”

“I explained, there’s nothing to be ashamed
of,” Katrina said, with a sigh of exasperation. “Wait until you see
her. She’s jazzed about the whole thing. She’s upbeat and funny and
humble,” she added, chuckling at a remembrance. “She said she might
have time to work on her family tree now, especially if they don’t
allow knitting needles in prison.” Katrina said with a grin.

“Oh, get outta here,” Bridget said, but she
smiled and for the first time in days her heart lifted.

It was close to midnight before Bridget’s
headlights bounced off the house. Boone had been lying in bed,
unable to sleep. The dogs curled around him snoring, oblivious to
their mistress’s return. She let herself in and went up the stairs
to her bedroom. She opened the door and stood in the darkness of
the hall, letting her eyes adjust.

Boone sat up. “Are you okay?”

Bridget approached the bed and sat on the
side. She reached for one of Boone’s hands, lifting it to her
cheek. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Please forgive me. I shouldn’t
have said those things.”

Boone turned his hand and cupped her chin,
then leaned in to kiss her. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Bridget wrapped her arms around his neck and
sighed. “You were doing your job. It was the right thing to do,”
she said, adding, “I went to see Ethel tonight and it’s going to be
okay.”

Boone rested his forehead against hers. “I
could have told you that.”

“You’re not leaving me?” she whispered,
fearing his reply.

“I’m not going anywhere. Ever,” he said,
sealing the promise with a kiss.

Her spirits soaring, Bridget stood and
undressed, letting her clothes and shoes fall in a pile. After a
quick trip to the bathroom, she was back in bed, the covers up to
her chin.

Boone relaxed into the pillows and pulled her
onto his chest. He stroked her hair in the dark, wondering at the
change but disinclined to ask why. He was grateful she was back and
the fight had ended. Well, it was never a fight on his side.

Bridget shifted on the bed, shoving at Morty
with her foot. “I don’t care how big the bed is,” she said. “It’s
not big enough for all of us.”

A few seconds passed before she spoke again.
“Don’t you want to know where I’ve been?”

Boone waited too long before replying,
“Yes.”

Bridget rose up in the bed and arched over
him. She pinned his shoulders to the pillows and leaned closer. She
sniffed a couple times then sat up. “Ah hah! You’ve been to Mama’s,
haven’t you? Without me! I thought I smelled garlic.”

Morty snuffled and rolled onto his back,
breaking wind in the process.

Bridget held her nose. “Ewww! And you took
the dogs? How could you?”

“She sent a container for you. It’s in the
fridge,” he said.

Bridget jumped out of bed and headed for the
stairs. Morty and Squirt decided to stay put. “I’ll be right back
so don’t go to sleep. I have a lot to tell you.”

“Yes, dear,” he mumbled, using another of the
life-saving phrases Pop passed along at dinner.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Bridget stood in the middle of Peachy’s at
the electronics kiosk. The teen behind the counter slung his long
black hair away from his face. Bridget’s eyes were fixed on the
silver dragon ring on his thumb and missed his comment.

“Wait, can you show me again?” she asked.

He grunted impatiently, then swiped the
screen again. “This is the digital storefront where you download
apps,” he said, already bored. “If you know what you’re looking
for, use the search box.” His fingers tapped on the tablet’s screen
and a keyboard appeared on the surface. He typed into the form and
small icons filled the screen.

After several more minutes, Bridget was
confident she knew how to operate the digital tablet. She pulled
out her credit card and handed it to the young man. “Can you gift
wrap it, too?”

Nonchalant, he jerked a shoulder as he rang
up the sale. A heavy metal tune blasted from the back pocket of his
baggy jeans. He paused in the middle of the checkout process to
answer his cell phone. “Dude, whatssup? Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Later.”
He dropped the phone onto the counter, then he pushed a button on
the cash register. The drawer opened and he slammed it shut. He
ripped the receipt from the printer and handed it to her to
sign.

Bridget waited several seconds for him to
offer an ink pen. When it didn’t happen, she sighed and foraged
through her handbag, finding one at the bottom. A few minutes
later, she grimaced at the clumsily wrapped package, tucked it
under her arm and headed for the exit.