Secrets of Harmony Grove (8 page)

I thought about retrieving it now, but something told me that leaving it where it was under the table would be the smarter move. Maybe I was being paranoid, but if that was the weapon that killed Troy, and if I was already
being investigated for some sort of wrongdoing, then the last thing I needed was a murder weapon with my fingerprints all over it.

Catching my breath, I finally knelt down beside Floyd, wishing that Heath were with me now. As an ER doctor, he would have been in his element and known exactly what had happened to Troy and how to help Floyd. As it was, all I could do was report Floyd’s condition to the dispatch officer at the other end of the line, who assured me again that help was on the way and that I should just sit tight and make sure I was in no danger myself.

Moments later, Floyd’s moans and murmurs began to sound more like words. Leaning forward, I tried to hear what he was saying, but it took a few tries before I thought I understood.

“That creature, what was it?”

Gingerly, I reached out a hand, put it on his shoulder, and gave him a gentle shake.

“Floyd? It’s Sienna. Sienna Collins. Can you hear me?”

I wasn’t sure if he could or not. His eyes didn’t open, and he just kept saying something about a creature. Then he added something new to the mix, blurting out more clearly, “What was that sound? What was it?”

In my mind, I could hear Troy from earlier, on the phone with me:
I’ve never heard a sound like that before. Is it a machine? An animal?

“What was the sound, Floyd? Did it sound kind of like a machine? Was it a hum?”

He didn’t answer so I shook him again.

“Floyd! It’s me. Sienna. What did it sound like?”

That time, he opened his eyes, though obviously with great effort.

“Sienna?”

“Yes. I’m here. An ambulance is on its way.”

“Am I dead?” he asked, again closing his eyes.

“No, you’re still alive. Are you hurt?”

Mumbling, and then, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you’re hurt?”

“I don’t remember.”

I spoke into the phone, explaining what was happening and asking what could possibly be taking so long.

“It feels longer than it is,” the dispatch guy replied. “You should be hearing sirens any second now.”

Frustrated and afraid, I turned my attention back to the man who still lay on the ground in front of me. Unlike Troy, whose hair and clothing were soaking wet, Floyd’s body was completely dry. I also didn’t see any signs of blood, though of course he was lying facedown, so he could have had an injury in the front.

“What happened here, Floyd? Did you shoot Troy?”

“No. Troy’s dead.”

“I know, but how? What killed him?”

Floyd simply moaned, so I tried a different approach.

“Floyd? Can you tell me about the sound you heard? What was it like?” Thinking of my call with Troy, I added, “Did it sound like a hum?”

“Lower,” Floyd rasped. “More like rumbling.”

I swallowed hard, remembering Troy’s words:
I can almost feel it more than hear it. Sort of a rumble, you know?

He opened and eyes and stirred a bit more, as if trying to look around. But the effort was too much for him, and after a moment he seemed to pass out again, his face landing flat against the cement.

“Floyd,” I said, shaking his shoulder and trying to wake him up. “Come on, man. Hang in there.”

Again, his breathing sounded off, and for a moment I feared he had stopped completely. But then out of the blue he sucked in a great gasp of air and spoke.

“The creature…breathed fire…just like a dragon.”

“Fire?”

“But it wasn’t a dragon. I don’t know…what it was. It was big…and black and shot out a burst of fire.”

I stared at the pale, puffy lids of his closed eyes, trying to make sense of his words. They were slurred and slow to come out, but his tone was adamant.

“Floyd, why were you out here? How did Troy end up in the pool?”

“I heard a scream. I was in the kitchen and a woman screamed, so I grabbed the gun and…came out.”

I waited for him to go on, but he did not.

“A woman? What woman? Where is she?” I demanded, wondering if those had been her prints leading from Troy’s body. “Who was it, Floyd? Who screamed?”

“Nina. It was Nina.”

I sat back on my heels, worried now for yet another person. Nina lived across the street in the little cluster of houses that ran along the main road. A friend of our family for many years, she was also the part-time aide and caretaker for Uncle Emory.

“Where is she now? I don’t see her. Are you sure she was here?”

“The creature musta got her. Carried her off.”

Heart pounding, I stood and turned in a slow circle, peering into the darkness along the fence, looking both for Nina and for whatever creature it was that Floyd kept talking about. Were we in danger? Should I retrieve his gun from under the table and stand guard? There didn’t seem to be anyone or anything else inside the fencing with us, so at the very least should I close the gate so that nothing could get in? Except for the metal gate, the fencing itself was stucco with tile embellishments, solid and thick, though only about four and a half feet high. Closing the door wouldn’t keep everything out, but it might help, depending on what might be trying to get in.

Before the dispatch guy could tell me what he thought I should do, I finally heard sirens in the distance. The noise quickly grew louder until it could have been a hundred different sirens, all speeding toward us. I simply stood there waiting next to Floyd, and as soon as I could tell that personnel were out of their vehicles and within earshot, I began yelling.

“Here! Here! We’re over here!”

Soon I was surrounded by what felt like a dozen people, most of them in uniform, all of them looking as if they knew exactly what to do. As yet more responders arrived, the crowd grew: paramedics to work over Floyd, uniformed officers to guard the scene, armed gunmen fanning out across the lawn and probably into the grove beyond. With all of the activity, I could only hope they would find Nina before it was too late for her, as it was for Troy.

Much of what happened next felt like a blur of uniforms and bodies and movement, punctuated by the crackle of radios and walkie-talkies. A
man in uniform led me to the nearest chair, the very same one I had hidden behind just a short while before, so that I could sit down. For some reason, he seemed to think that if I didn’t sit soon, I might fall down. He may have been right. As more and more activity went on all around me, I realized my entire body was trembling and that I was gripping the armrest so tightly that my knuckles practically glowed white in the near darkness.

I sat there and tried to gather my wits about me, fully aware that this situation would have been traumatic enough on its own, but I had a personal history that made it about a million times worse. Closing my eyes, all I could do was try to block memories of the one other time in my life when I had been surrounded by these same types of sounds and sights, the milling about of busy, uniformed law enforcement officers who had responded to a cry for help and tried to make right what should never have gone wrong in the first place.

Finally, a different officer came over to me, an attractive African American woman who introduced herself as Georgia Olsen. She asked me if I was okay, if she could get me anything, if I had been hurt in any way. How could I tell her that even just the concerned but professional tone of her voice brought back memories from that one night so long ago, brought them crashing over me like waves beating furiously against a pier?

Had it really been ten years? Right now it felt more like ten days, or maybe even ten minutes.

Georgia could probably see that I was losing my grip on my emotions because she helped me up, took me by the elbow, and led me out of the pool area, along the walkway, and up the steps into the main room of the bed-and-breakfast. Somehow, I ended up on the couch with a glass of water in my hand, a blanket on my lap, and an EMT at my elbow preparing to take my pulse. I couldn’t find it within myself to stop him and tell him he should go for the other wrist. Instead I just sat there like an observer of my own body and watched as he pulled up my left sleeve to reveal the scarred and mangled skin that it had been hiding. A true medical professional, he didn’t wince or even react to the sight but instead simply switched to the other arm and continued with what he was doing. Georgia, on the other hand, allowed her gaze to linger a little too long before politely looking away.

The EMT finished checking my vitals and began asking me strange questions, such as did I know what date it was and who was the president of the United States. For a moment, a small part of me wanted to answer in ways that were totally bizarre, like “1923” and “Tony the Tiger,” just to see how he would react. But I resisted the urge, afraid he might misinterpret the joke. At least I was thinking humorous thoughts, which had to be a good indication that I still had my wits about me.

After checking me over, he said I looked okay but asked if I wanted to go to the hospital anyway. I told him that I did not, that there was no need, that I wasn’t hurt. Even the pain from my earlier spill on the sidewalk was gone.

I thanked him and then watched absently as he placed his equipment back in its case, picked it up, and headed outside. Once he was gone, something inside of me wanted simply to slip away, to take a long rest or merely lapse into blessed unconsciousness. But then Georgia was sitting on the coffee table in front of me, one strong hand on my arm, giving me a gentle shake.

“Sienna? I know he said you’re fine, but we can still take you to the hospital if you want. What do you think?”

Telling myself to snap out of it, I shook my head and assured her I really was fine.

“Is there someone we could call to come be here with you? A family member? Friend?”

That was a good question. I gazed into her concerned brown eyes, my mind lingering in some sort of haze, one where the world wasn’t evil and people didn’t try to hurt you and they understood that when you said no, you meant no.

Finally, I shook my head, telling her I had plenty of family in the area but that I didn’t need anyone to come here and babysit me, that I was just fine on my own, thank you very much.

“All right. Well, you stay here for now, and I’ll come back and check on you in a bit.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

As she walked away, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes and did the only thing I could think of to do: I prayed. It wasn’t the warm, confident,
solid prayer of my youth, but a mere whisper from one who hadn’t truly cried out to God in a long time and wasn’t even really sure these days if he was listening.

Keep me safe, keep me from harm, keep me in your loving arms
.

Ten years ago those were the words my counselor had suggested, three simple sentences I should be able to remember and utter even in the midst of crisis, even when the part of me that had been so wounded wanted to give up and simply go away.

I don’t know if it was the prayer or the glass of water or the earlier, calming ministrations of the EMT and Officer Georgia, but slowly I began to feel myself returning to the moment. Taking several long, slow, deep breaths, I tried an old anxiety-fighting visualization tool, one I hadn’t had to use in a long time. Just as I did years ago, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine all of my problems, all of my cares, all of my anxieties washing away in the sea, carried off like shards of driftwood on the tide.

By the time Officer Georgia came back to check on me, I was feeling more like myself and somewhat recovered from the shock of all that had happened. Still, the fact that I had lost control so badly was embarrassing. As I tried hard to show that I was now present and focused and could be helpful to all that was going on, I just kept wishing that these people knew me, that they understood what I was really like, strong and brave and not some frightened, trembling nut case who had to be led around like a child and coddled back to sanity. Most days I was a victor, not a victim.