B.G. Austin, author of “Breakdown”, is originally from Texas but has spent most of her adult life living in the Netherlands. With a professional background in finance, she has held positions in several multinational corporations. Presently, Barbara actively participates in two fiction critique groups based in Amsterdam and has previously published short fiction in The Amsterdam Quarterly.
Monday
The first thing she saw when she woke up in the hospital room was the homicide detective’s jowly face peering down at her. He was tall. Burly. A gun bulged beneath his coat. His clothes were wrinkled as if he’d been cooped up in his car during a 24-hour stakeout, and he smelled like fruit punch.
She remembered him from the crime scene. He had arrived a minute or two before the ambulance.
“She’s awake,” the detective mumbled, pulling a notebook and pen from his coat pocket. Except it wasn’t a pen; it was an e-cigarette. He cursed and slipped the vaping device back into his pocket.
“You’ve got five minutes,” said the doctor. “She’s still weak from surgery.”
The doctor closed the door behind him but not before she glimpsed a uniformed cop standing outside.
“Can we have some privacy?” the detective snapped.
The doctor closed the door behind him but not before she glimpsed a uniformed cop standing outside.
The detective gave an impatient grunt and fixed his watery eyes on hers.
“I gave you the Miranda warning yesterday.”
“I remember.”
“You can invoke your rights at any time.”
“I understand.”
Before the detective could ask a question, he was seized by a coughing fit, wet and deep in his chest. She waited. What else could she do…confined to a hospital bed…a guard at the door?
“We know you did it,” he wheezed. “The question is why?”
She listened to the rattle of wheels passing in the corridor.
“Women serial killers are rare,” he prompted.
“Maybe women are too smart to get caught.”
“We caught you.”
“Maybe you got lucky.”
“Why did you kill five innocent strangers?”
“Innocent?”
He nudged open his notebook. “Two soccer moms, a socialite fundraiser for multiple charities, a retired Methodist minister, and the one last night. All law-abiding citizens.”
The moron. He couldn’t detect a rancid nut unless he’d cracked it.
Saturday – Two Days Before
The alarm went off at 10:00 a.m. Donna was surprised to find her husband in her bed.
“Zack, wake up.”
No reaction.
She drew up her knees, tensed her muscular thighs, and shoved with both feet. Zack thudded onto the plush hotel carpet. A moment later he sat up, running his hand through his blonde curls.
“Go to your own room,” she screeched, pulling the sheet over her face. “Get out.”
“My head, my head,” he moaned.
She lowered the sheet a few inches and decided he meant a hangover and not a bump from the fall. He stood up on shaking legs and staggered through the connecting door of their suite.
No one was allowed to see her face au naturel. Not even a maid and especially not her much younger husband.
Donna Sutherland had been a child movie star, one of those rare talents who didn’t wipeout at puberty. No drugs. No booze. Focused and ambitious, she became a household name—though not the name on her California driver’s license. For five years running, Film-World Magazine declared her the sexiest woman in the world. Now, thirty years later, casting directors shunned her. “Sorry, we’re going for a fresher look” had become a mantra.
But she still had friends in low places. She called in a favor and landed the romantic lead in a play. A welcome change from playing dotty grandmothers. It was only a dinner theater production. Still, it was a gig in a metropolis, not in some hick town. A good review in the Houston Chronicle could lead to roles in other big cities. At the best theaters … on Broadway.
To celebrate, she and Zack lunched at a restaurant perched on the banks of the bayou. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the sluggish water and skyline. Crystal chandeliers glinted in the sunlight.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Zack said as he slurped a Bloody Mary.
She never tired of hearing him say it. One of the reasons she kept him around. He was young enough to be her son (or grandson), but they looked nothing alike. He had blonde hair and brown eyes, while she had her trademark raven black hair and violet eyes.
Donna nibbled at her lunch: raw vegetables, fresh blueberries, grilled salmon – no sauce—a carafe of mineral water.
Zack leaned forward.
“Don’t look now,” he whispered, rolling his eyes at the next table.
She couldn’t help looking.
A flock of middle-aged women were whispering and glancing their way. One of the women approached Donna’s table, goaded on by the others.
On cue, Donna flashed her famous, seductive smile.
“You’re her, aren’t you? the woman said, pushing her blonde bangs out of her eyes. “You were my favorite actress when I was little.”
Donna’s smile didn’t falter, which in her book proved that she was a stronger actress than she was given credit.
“I remember slumber parties with my girlfriends,” blondie rattled on. “Watching the late show. You were amazing.”
Donna seethed. The late show! She probed her memory for a suitable line. She must have read a script at some time or another containing the perfect putdown, but before she could find it, the rest of the flock pressed around the table, clucking, breathing on her food, holding out used napkins and scraps of paper for her to sign. The clashing scents of perfume, hair spray, and wine breath nauseated her.
Blondie handed Donna a napkin to sign.
“Name?” Donna asked.
“Jessica.”
“Last name?”
“Wingate.”
Donna began writing. “Are you from Houston or just visiting?”
“I live near Katy. It’s a town west of here”
“Is your husband a fan, too?”
“No husband.”
“Kids?”
Jessica shook her head, her face flushing.
Donna sighed. Being childless wasn’t something to be ashamed of.
Jessica turned to Zack who was digging into a greasy sirloin. “Is this your son?”
It was Donna’s turn to flush. “No.” She gritted her teeth and handed over the autograph.
“Thank you so much,” Jessica gushed.
Donna signed more napkins, and the flock dispersed.
“No wonder they love you,” Zack said as he downed another Bloody Mary. “Always gracious.”
“I’m an actress.”
Everything about her was an act except her famous violet eyes. The thick black hair was a wig. The flawless skin was an illusion created by heavy make-up. The waist and thigh cincher she wore were the modern equivalent of Scarlett O’Hara’s corset. Her glory days in film were behind her. The financial crisis had swallowed up her fortune in one greedy gulp. She couldn’t afford a facelift or a tummy tuck. All she had in the world was Zack, and the longevity of both the relationship and his liver were in jeopardy.
That night, only half of the tables at the dinner theater were occupied. Worse, the diners’ ignored the performance. Their conversations buzzed in Donna’s ears like flies around carrion. By the end of act three, only a handful of drunks remained. Donna bowed, and as she exited the stage, a man shouted, “Donna Sutherland is a bit long in the tooth for the part.”
“Critics,” she muttered.
Zack joined Donna backstage in the hole they called a dressing room. She sat in front of the spotty mirror, trying not to weep. A light bulb in the overheard fixture was burned out. The carpet threadbare. A Texas-size cockroach sailed across the room.
Zack shrieked.
Donna stood up. “Give me a shoe. Quick.”
He almost lost his balance pulling off his right shoe.
She swatted the cockroach with more force than necessary.
Donna still had the shoe in her hand when the manager of the theater walked in with a bouquet of wilted roses. He was a big fellow with a big face and wore glasses with thin golden frames. Donna signaled for Zack to take the flowers.
The manager flashed Donna an oily smile, no more genuine than the diamond pin he wore on his lapel.
“You were fantastic,” he said.
“Do I hear a but coming?”
“We’re closing the play.”
“I see.”
“It was the script. Not you.”
He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.
“This isn’t the amount we agreed,” she protested. The check wouldn’t even cover the hotel bill.
“This is your fee if the play closed on opening night. Read the contract.”
“I intend to,” she said, though his words rang a distant bell.
“If another script comes along …” he began.
“Don’t bother to call me.”
She grabbed the roses and stuffed them in the wastebasket.
Back at the hotel, Zack retired to his own room and fell asleep on top of the bedcovers. She locked the door to his suite.
She connected her lap top to the hotel’s Wi-Fi and searched her favorite people-finder site.
Blood pounded in her ears like a primitive drumbeat.
She sat down at the dressing table. Using both hands, she lifted off the wig and placed it on its stand. The grey hairs outnumbered the black in her close-cropped head, turning her hair the color of ash. She popped in a pair of brown-tinted contact lenses and donned a pair of non-prescription eyeglasses. After pulling on a thrift-store coat, she rode the elevator down to the parking garage.
There was only one thing that could lift her spirits—a drive to the suburbs.
Sunday 2 a.m.
Silky’s meowing woke Jessica Wingate. It didn’t take much—the heat clicking on, a branch of the oak outside her bedroom window scratching the pane, a dog walker clearing his throat.
Until her son Noah was born, she had slept soundly, but new mothers never relax, never let down their guard. They are tense. Exhausted. Harried. No wonder things go wrong.
She used to lie in bed listening, ready to spring to her feet at her baby’s slightest real or imagined need. Then her husband and her baby were taken from her, courtesy of a drunk driver. Even after eight years, two months, and three days, she still couldn’t sleep soundly. She had tried sleeping pills, become addicted, done a stint in rehab. Alcohol was banned from the house. The cat had been her therapist’s idea.
Sighing, she got out of bed and pulled on her robe. She carried Silky to the kitchen and turned the burner on under the kettle. While she waited for the water to boil, she sat down at the table and stared at the photos tacked to the wall.
A wedding photo—she and Christopher smiling at each other, the sky behind them streaked with orange, red, and purple at sunset. Jessica lying in a hospital bed, holding her newborn son on her chest. Noah taking his first steps. Photos just like them could be found in overabundance on Instagram. They were ordinary. Sentimental. Cliché. But cherished. They covered the walls in every room of the house.
Jessica’s mother had tried to persuade her to move on with her life. In fact, her mother’s dying words were: “Promise me you’ll put the photos in the attic.”
But she didn’t want to move on. She created a Facebook account for Noah and kept his memory alive by celebrating his birthday each year and the milestones in his imaginary life. She posted on her dead husband’s Timeline. She owed Christopher and Noah that much.
To pay the bills, she returned to teaching at the local elementary school. Each year she poured all her energy into a new group of eight-year-olds. Each June was a kind of death when the school year ended. She spent her summer vacations driving aimlessly around the country, staying in cheap motels, eating greasy burgers and fries, and neglecting personal hygiene until September when the cycle began anew.
Silky clawed her leg.
She looked down. “What’s gotten into you?”
Silky padded to the backdoor and pressed her nose against the glass.
Jessica dimmed the lights and peered into the forlorn little backyard. It was too dark to see much, but she detected movement. Looked harder. Just the two swings of the swing set stirring in the wind. Maybe Silky wanted out, though she didn’t usually at night. Jessica unlocked the door and opened it wide enough to let the cat through, but Silky arched her spine and backed up. Jessica closed and locked the door again, conscious that her hand trembled.
The kettle shrilled, the sound shattering the silence. A second later, the doorbell rang.
Who would be ringing at 2:00 in the morning? she wondered as she transferred the kettle to another burner. Home invaders were unlikely in her neighborhood with modest ranch-style homes built in the 50’s and pickup trucks rusting in the driveways. More likely, a neighbor—someone taken ill who wanted a ride to the hospital. An unexpected visitor at this hour did not bode well.
The doorbell rang again. Suddenly, Jessica was conscious of her vulnerability –a petite woman who lived alone. She kept to herself and barely spoke to her neighbors except to say hello or it looks like rain. She didn’t know the family on the right. The couple on the left was named Harris. She’d forgotten their first names. Why would a neighbor come to her for help?
Her visitor knocked, at first timidly, then harder.
Jessica’s heart caught in her throat.
The knocking shook the door. Silky meowed, demanding to know what Jessica intended to do. She dashed to her bedroom, almost tripping on the cat who trotted between her legs. Kneeling, Jessica felt under the bed, sweeping aside dust balls, and found the aluminum case containing her 22 pistol—a gift from her mother. At first, her mother had dragged Jessica to a shooting range for lessons. Later, Jessica went on her own. Hooked on shooting at targets, drilling the bullets into the bullseye. Pow, pow, pow.
She turned on the porch light and peered through the peephole. The vague contours of a woman’s face came into view. The neighbor from the house on the left?
“Just a minute.”
She stashed the pistol under a cushion of the sofa, then opened the door a crack with the chain on.
“Yes?” Jessica said. The woman was a decade too old to be her neighbor.
“I saw lights on.”
“Is something wrong?”
“My car broke down.”
Jessica looked past the woman at the empty street. “Where?”
“It’s parked around the corner. This is the first house I came to with lights on. I left my phone at home. May I use yours to call a tow truck?”
The woman was a head taller than Jessica. Sixtyish. She had short grey hair. Eyeglasses. A symmetrical face. There was something familiar about her. Reassuring. Like an old friend.
“Do I know you?”
“I’m Katherine Gray. Call me Kit.”
Kit offered her hand. It was ice cold, the grip as strong as a man’s.
“Please come in.” Jessica took off the chain. “The telephone’s in the kitchen.”
As they passed through the living room, Kit stared openly at the photos plastered over the walls like Band-Aids, but she said nothing.
Jessica pointed to the telephone. Kit took a card from her handbag and called the towing service. Only half listening, Jessica walked over to the stove. Steam still puffed from the teapot. The thought flitted through her head that boiling water could be used as a weapon. Nonsense. She had nothing to fear.
Kit hung up. “A tow truck will be here in a half hour.”
“How will you get home?”
“The driver will drop me off downtown. I hate to ask, but may I have a cup of tea? I’m chilled to the bone.”
Kit smiled, a lovely smile that seemed familiar.
“Of course. Have a seat in the living room.”
Kit turned and Jessica caught her breath, remembering the pistol.
“Take the chair,” she said in a rush. “The cat sleeps on the sofa.”
Kit laughed. “I don’t mind cat hairs, if that’s what you’re worried about.” But she walked past the sofa and sat down in the chair.
Jessica served the tea. They were soon chatting like old friends. “Strange,” Jessica said, refilling Kit’s cup. “I feel like I’ve known you all my life.”
Kit smiled and sipped her tea.
There was something engaging about Kit. She invited confidences. The house was transformed in her presence. No longer silent, empty, sterile. Before she knew it, Jessica had poured out the story of the accident that had taken her husband and son—the version that she had given the police.
“You must feel bitter toward the drunk driver.”
Jessica’s eyes travelled over the photos. The past seemed more present than ever before … greedy … wanting to be set right.
Jessica lowered her eyes, unable to meet Kit’s honest brown ones. Eight long years of remembering that dreadful night. Keeping the memory of Christopher and Noah alive. Inventing new memories. Refusing to talk about the accident. As if speaking the words would make the events of that night more real, more unbearable.
Jessica looked up. “It was me,” she said in an upwelling.
“What was you?”
“I was driving.”
Kit leaned forward. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
“I was the drunk driver,” Jessica said, the words louder, easier than the first time.
Kit set her cup and saucer on the coffee table.
“Did the police arrest you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Jessica swallowed hard.
“Christopher was thrown from the car. I managed to crawl out. It was Christopher’s car, you see. That’s why the police assumed he was driving. That’s what everyone believes.” It felt good to confess, even to a stranger whom she would never see again, maybe especially to a stranger who would disappear into the night.
Kit looked at her watch. “Oh dear. We’ve been talking for an hour. The tow truck will have come and gone.”
Jessica was taken aback. No shock? No sympathetic words? Had Kit been listening, or worrying about the time? She sighed.
“What will you do?” Jessica said.
Kit stood up and paused theatrically. “Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
Jessica was stunned into silence by the famous line. The famous voice. She tilted her head. Thought back on the boring birthday luncheon yesterday for a fellow teacher.
“The remake of A Streetcar Named Desire in 2001!” Jessica said. “You gave me your autograph at the restaurant.”
Donna Sutherland opened her handbag and pulled out a knife.
Jessica laughed. “Is that a prop?”
Donna didn’t smile.
“I … I don’t understand,” Jessica stammered.
Donna Sutherland brandished the knife.
Jessica couldn’t believe this was happening. In the sanctuary of her own living room. Surrounded by her cherished gallery of photos. She had been wanting to die for the past eight years. Caught in limbo. Breathing. Eating. Working. Wallowing in guilt and playing the what if game. What if she hadn’t drunk the third glass of wine? What if she hadn’t drunk on an empty stomach? What if they had taken a taxi home as Christopher had wanted? But now faced with the prospect that a madwoman wanted to murder her—Donna Sutherland of all people—she wanted to live at any cost. She reached under the cushion for the pistol.
Monday
The doctor stuck his head inside the bright, sterile hospital room.
“Time’s up, detective.”
“I have a few more questions.”
“Sorry–” the doctor began.
“It’s all right,” she interrupted, propping herself up with pillows. “Go ahead, detective. Shoot away. Not literally, of course.”
He ignored her attempt to lighten the mood.
“We matched your fingerprints with evidence at four crime scenes.”
“What crime scenes?”
“Four previous murders. Carlinville, Illinois. Arrow Rock, Missouri. Casper, Wyoming. Melbourne, Florida. Same weapon. You get around.”
“What would I be doing in those godforsaken places?” she teased.
“Why don’t you tell me and save the taxpayer some money?”
“You’re the detective.”
He pulled his e-cigarette from his pocket and put it in the corner of his mouth without turning it on.
“It’s an open and shut case. But if you confess, the court will take a more lenient view when passing sentence.”
Word for word from a popular TV series. She flashed her famous smile, but he still didn’t recognize her. She was just an elderly female serial killer with a bullet hole in her shoulder.
The color of his jowly face deepened to magenta.
“Are you nuts? There’s nothing to smile about.”
“If you say so, detective,” she said, no longer disguising her famous voice.
His face was a blank.
He still didn’t know who Kit Gray was.
Maybe he wasn’t a fan.
But Donna Sutherland was making a comeback.
*****
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