Life Support Page 3

  Rena told Louise a fraction of her story, but it was enough to convince the local juvenile court judge to issue a restraining order prohibiting Vernon Swafford from further contact with her. Upon his release from jail, her stepfather ignored the court order and appeared one night at Louise’s front door. Rena hid in a closet while Louise called the police from the phone in the kitchen.

  Outside, her stepfather yelled in the darkness, “Rena! Git your things and come outside! You don’t want to make me come in there and fetch you!”

  Rena peeked out the door of the closet and saw his burly silhouette as Swafford passed by the window in the moonlight. She crouched lower and held her breath. The voice grew more insistent. He began to swear— a sure prelude to greater threats of violence.

  “Rena! I’m tired of waiting! Git out here now!”

  Rena heard a bottle crash against the side of the house. The front door rattled as he tried to turn the doorknob and then it shook under the dull thud of his boot as he attempted to kick it open. The locks held, and the wood didn’t splinter.

  It grew silent outside, and a glimmer of hope came into the closet. Her tormenter had given up and gone away. She strained to hear the sound of his truck backing down the gravel driveway. Seconds passed like minutes.

  Then a gunshot shattered the stillness, and Rena knew it was her night to die. Her aunt screamed. Rena opened the door of the closet and began walking slowly toward the living room. It would be better to end her life quickly than continue in the torment of anticipation. Before she reached the room, sirens filled the air as the police arrived. Louise saw Rena and screamed for her to lie down on the floor. Her stepfather shot wildly in the air several times before he was disarmed. He went to prison for five years.

  But Vernon Swafford’s threats weren’t held captive by prison bars. They were locked within the dungeon of Rena’s mind. Over the following months Louise did the best she could to salve Rena’s wounds, but all she had were band-aids. Rena needed major, reconstructive surgery.

  So, Rena stuffed the traumas of her childhood deep into the crevices of her soul and learned to pretend. Her grades went up, and she received a college scholarship. Outward circumstances improved. Inside, she remained dark and twisted. Nightmares choked out any hope of peaceful sleep. Classmates labeled her moody, but her good looks insured a level of popularity with boys and envy from girls. Attracting the attention of males was not a problem but building an enduring relationship was an impossibility. Nothing lasted. She had a bottomless mistrust of men. At the first sign of stress, Rena bolted or reacted with emotional violence that scared off her current suitor.

  She talked to a counselor in college; however, the well-meaning man only knew how to unpack a person’s internal baggage, not what to do with the dirty laundry it contained. She avoided contact with her stepfather after his release from custody, but past torment stalked her along paths of fear. Only an iron will kept her from insanity.

  Until now.

  Rena took a deep breath and felt a weight lift from her chest. Killing another person was a drastic step, but at the core of her being she knew she had acted in self-defense. Eventually, her rich, young husband would have tired of her and thrown her away or begun his own cycle of abuse. She stood and brushed a few specks of dirt from her knees as the calm after the storm entered her soul. She would never have to trust in a man again. Baxter’s money would insure security for the future. She could survive without needing anyone’s help and perhaps find a measure of happiness.

  She carefully cleaned the area where they had eaten their light supper and began to compose the story to tell when she returned to civilization. Baxter had already provided a logical explanation for his unfortunate slip and fall from the wet rocks. Analysis of his blood would reveal the presence of enough alcohol to impair balance and judgment.

  When everything was back to normal, Rena turned away from the waterfall. It would take more than an hour and a half to hike back to the expensive new SUV they had driven to the mountains. She followed the path through the low trees and bushes that grew in scattered patches of dirt between the rocks near the top of the waterfall. When she reached the bottom of a rough, earthen stairway cut into the side of the hill, she looked up and prepared to make the ascent toward a life without fear.

  Then she remembered.

  The keys to the SUV were in Baxter’s pocket. She stopped, and an overwhelming dread swept over her. She whirled around and looked back down the path toward the waterfall. The calm that had enveloped her after sending Baxter to his doom evaporated, and she knew a terror that made cold sweat prickle her skin. A phantomlike figure flashed past the corner of her right eye, and she quickly turned again, half expecting to see her stepfather come creeping out of the bushy forest. She stared intently at the shifting shapes of the leaves in the wind. A gentle breeze swept through the trees and made her shudder. The whisper of the wind carried the sound of faint, mocking laughter.

  “He’s dead!” she cried out.

  It was like one of her nightmares, only this time she was awake. Visions of Vernon Swafford were joined by images of Baxter, battered and bloody, coming slowly, relentlessly to exact his revenge. She heard another rustle in the leaves and spun around. A long black snake was moving through the dry leaves at the bottom of the stairs. Rena jumped away, and the snake froze, its tongue flitting in and out as it tried to discern the nature of the creature that had blundered into its domain.

  Rena fled from the snake and her thoughts back toward the waterfall. She didn’t stop running until she reached the edge of the cliff and stood wavering at the place where Baxter had slid over the precipice. Panting, she inched forward. She could jump into space and in seconds join Baxter in oblivion. That would be the cure of all ills. Her foot dislodged a small rock that slipped over the edge and bounced down past Baxter’s body. She watched the rock until it disappeared from view. Her mind burned with the question of whether she should follow it or not. It would be over so quickly.

  “No!” she shouted.

  The sound of her voice arrested the suicidal impulse. Suicide was always an option, but not now. Only when cornered and without hope of escape would she take her own life. Taking a deep breath, she stepped away from the cliff. She’d fought too hard for survival to surrender. She had to give her new freedom a chance. She knelt down, splashed her face with water from the stream, and then considered her options.

  It was at least ten or twelve miles from the trailhead to a major highway where she could flag down a motorist. She might encounter someone before then, but there was no guarantee. It would be nightfall before she could reach civilization. The thought of being alone in the dark caused a spasm of fear to return.

  “No,” she repeated.

  Fear retreated. Her other option was to get the car keys from Baxter’s pocket. Across the stream was a path that wound its way to the base of the falls. She had used the trail many times. It would take about thirty minutes to walk to the bottom and retrieve the keys from Baxter’s pocket, but the thought of touching her husband’s dead body caused her to inwardly recoil. She bit her lip and stared toward the distant hills. Suddenly, she had a revelation that changed her mind.

  She had to go down the trail to Baxter’s body. The natural thing for her to do when her husband fell would be to rush to his aid. Any other response would raise suspicions. Rena had no intention of attempting CPR on a corpse, but an act of concern as an element of her story would allay any hint of wrongdoing.

  Walking a few yards upstream from the waterfall, she stepped across the stream on exposed rocks and then hurried along the top of the ridge toward the place where the path veered downward into the valley. A dense grove of small trees crowded the trail, and she had to push aside whiplike limbs. One slender branch lashed back and stung the right side of her face, almost striking her in the eye. Rena put her hand to her cheek and felt something wet. When she looked at her hand, it was red. The limb had opened a cut. She moved her tongue to the si
de and encountered the salty taste of her own blood.

  She dabbed the cut with the bottom of her shirt but then remembered the napkins Baxter had brought for their snack. Slipping off her backpack, she found one and applied firm pressure to the cut. She hoped it wouldn’t leave a scar. Rena’s complexion was as clear as that of a magazine model, and she considered it one of her best features. In a few moments the bleeding slowed. The small gash wasn’t serious; there was no danger of a scar. The fresh wound would, however, add additional authenticity to her frantic scramble down the rocks to help her husband.

  Continuing along the trail, she came to the fork that led down into the valley. Turning right, she began the descent. The trail was not a distinguishable path but a series of rocks that kept hikers from sliding out of control. Several times she sat down and scooted from one rock to another. Her pants got dirty and her legs were scratched by sharp rocks and prickly bushes. As a little girl, she’d remembered the descent as a giant outdoor junglegym. Today, there was nothing pleasant about it. When she reached the bottom, she looked up the way she’d come. Climbing out would be strenuous but in some ways easier than the scramble down.

  No clearly defined trail led to the base of the waterfall. Rena skirted boulders and climbed over rocks and fallen trees. Baxter wasn’t the only thing that had crashed over the cliff. Several large trees had toppled over, plowed past the smaller growth at the top of the cliff, and rolled down the hill. One huge tree blocked her advance and required a detour into the woods.

  For several minutes, the only sounds she heard were her own breathing and her shoes striking the ground. She stopped twice and listened for the sound of the waterfall. The second time, she heard the faint roar of the water. Scrambling to the top of a larger than normal boulder, she saw the two streams of water that gave Double-Barrel Falls its name. Her heart started pounding—not from exertion, but from what awaited her. She willed her heart to slow down, but it refused to obey. It grew louder until the thumping in her chest competed with the sound of the waterfall.

  She caught a glimpse of Baxter’s body. It was on the far side of the stream. Spray from the waterfall made the bare rocks slick, and she had to use her hands and feet to creep along. The water deepened to a few inches, and she slipped in the cold water and soaked her feet. Moving away from the main channel of water into the woods, she found a place where the stream spread out and crossed to the other side. When she emerged from the woods, Baxter’s body, partially hidden by boulders, was less than thirty feet away.

  Rena stopped. She had to compose herself enough to endure the next few minutes. There was room for murder in her heart, but she wanted to keep a distance between herself and her victim. She didn’t kill Baxter with her hands; she used the impersonal buffer of a walking stick. The final blow when she crashed into him had been involuntary. She simply lost her balance, and this made what happened more accidental than intentional.

  Rena settled on a strategy. She would slip up to the body, reach in Baxter’s pocket for the keys, and return to where she now stood. All that would change within the controlled window of time would be the location of the keys to the vehicle. Everything else would remain the same. Baxter had no more capacity to harm her than the boulder on which he rested. Taking a deep breath, she walked out of the shady woods into the light. Tiny rivulets of water made the footing treacherous. When she rounded the last large boulder, she found herself looking directly into Baxter’s face.

  His eyes were open. Rena screamed.

  The sound echoed off the rock walls and for a split second competed with the roar of the waterfall above her. Rena clamped her hand over her mouth. Baxter didn’t budge or alter expression. She stepped back, preparing to flee, and then stopped. Her husband’s eyes didn’t see. His eyelids were open because that was their position at the split second they received their last command from his brain.

  Rena’s attempt to detach herself from the surroundings had failed, but she still needed the keys. Keeping her gaze downward to avoid another confrontation with Baxter’s unseeing stare, she stepped forward. She could see his body from the corner of her eye. He was lying on his back on top of a medium-size boulder without any outward signs of blood or trauma except his twisted right leg and the gash on the side of his neck. From the angle of his foot, the ankle or leg was broken, but no bones poked through the surface of the skin. The splashing water she’d seen from above had almost soaked the right side of his clothing. His arms were splayed out on either side. Water was dripping from the fingers of his right hand.

  Careful not to touch Baxter’s skin, Rena reached out her hand and patted the right front pocket of his shorts. She could feel the keys through the wet cloth. She slipped her hand into the pocket and retrieved the keys. Backing quickly away, she slipped on the wet rocks near the body and fell, hitting the left side of her head so severely that she saw stars.

  Dazed, Rena felt the area of her temple that had collided with the rock. The small knot would go with the cut on her face and the scratch on her arm. More battle scars. Moving carefully, she retreated to the woods. She had the keys but also the memory of Baxter’s face. Though blinded by death, the look in his eyes stayed with her.

  She crossed the stream and retraced her steps. She missed the path up the cliff but came to a dead tree that looked unfamiliar and realized she’d gone too far. It was only a few yards back to the place where she could scramble up to the main trail. She passed the waterfall without looking down again at the body, and by the time she reached the earthen stairway, her internal history of the day’s events was being rewritten.

  Her husband, Baxter Richardson, had died in an unfortunate hiking accident. She repeated the sentence over and over as she hiked away from the falls. As she did, her mental images of the last moments at the top of the falls underwent a steady transformation. Baxter had finished his third or fourth glass of wine and playfully wandered to the edge of the precipice. She warned him to stay back.

  “Baxter, please be careful. People have fallen and died here.”

  He looked over his shoulder and laughed. “Not me. Don’t worry. It’s such a magnificent view.”

  “Step away. You’ve had too much to drink.”

  “Don’t be silly. Come stand beside me. The leaves are more brilliant along the high ridges to the west.”

  Rena increased the level of anxiety in her voice. “No! Let’s go.”

  “Look. I’m not even close to the edge.”

  Baxter took a step forward. His foot slipped. He swayed back and forth for an instant in an effort to regain his balance. If not for the influence of the wine, he might have been able to do it.

  Rena screamed, “No!”

  And her husband disappeared from view.

  Yes, it was all a very tragic accident.

  4

  A lawyer shall not represent a client if the representation of that client will be, or is likely to be, directly adverse to another client.

  CANONS OF ETHICS, RULE 1.7

  Alexia’s boss, Ralph Leggitt, had inherited 100 percent of his father’s ownership interest in Leggitt & Freeman and 50 percent of his father’s legal ability. In his late fifties, Mr. Leggitt was a short man with a fringe of gray hair that surrounded his bald head like a broad sweatband. He’d entered the stage in life when men often start losing weight, and he bought new suits each year to accommodate his shrinking waistline. The contrast between himself and Mrs. Leggitt, a very large woman who loved anything chocolate, was growing greater by the year.

  Although he wasn’t a talented lawyer, Ralph Leggitt had business savvy, and years before Alexia joined the firm he had stopped practicing law to devote his time to business interests. Leggitt was an adept deal-maker and ended up with an ownership interest in many of the businesses the firm represented. As the companies prospered, the lawyer benefited in two ways: the value of his ownership share increased and the law firm generated income by performing more legal services. It was a neat arrangement. His close connecti
on with the corporate entities in his little empire occasionally strayed beyond the bounds of legal ethics but nobody complained. One of his favorite expressions was, “No harm, no foul.”

  Alexia approached the door of the senior partner’s office.

  “He’s waiting for you,” Leggitt’s secretary said briskly. “Go on in.”

  Alexia opened the door and entered the largest room in the building. Ralph Leggitt liked to have meetings in his office, and the space was large enough to accommodate a massive walnut desk with two side chairs at one end and a cherry conference table with seating for ten at the other. The result was an impressive layout that advanced the lawyer’s reputation as a man who could make money happen. Many deals involving huge sums had been negotiated and formalized within the generous confines of Leggitt’s office.

  The senior partner was behind his desk. He looked up when Alexia entered.

  “Have a seat,” he said. “Word of your dismemberment of Mr. Greg Simpson has traveled fast.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alexia was surprised Leggitt knew the name of the man involved in the case. He rarely expressed interest in the clients she represented, only in the money she deposited in the firm bank account when her bills were paid.

  “Who told you about it?” she asked.

  “Oh, I received a call about the time you returned from the courthouse.” Alexia was puzzled. “From Judge Garland?”

  “No. Vinson Killoran contacted me. Do you know him?”

  The name was vaguely familiar, but Alexia couldn’t place it. “No, sir.”

  “I’m surprised. It’s my understanding you know a lot about KalGo Corporation.”

  Suddenly, Alexia realized that Ralph Leggitt hadn’t congratulated her on her victory.

  She spoke slowly. “I didn’t find out very much except that Mr. Simpson had business connections with KalGo that he didn’t reveal to his wife. I don’t know all the details, but he was receiving large sums of money from the company for consulting work; however, no consulting services—”