Chapter 1

 

 

     I was drifting off into another nightmare about Jill when I felt someone walking around my bedroom.  

     If I’m attacked, I’ll just play dead.  Dead isn’t far from the way I feel right now.                Actually, dead would be a step in a positive direction.  How long have I been drinking this time? Has it been a week?  Has it been a month? Do I really care?  

     No, I lost my reasons to care almost five years ago when Jill died.

     I considered making the minimalist effort to open one eye, but they both hurt far too much to take a chance with opening just one.  Besides, which one would I open?  

     When did light become painful?   

     Jill liked the sunlight.  At 5’ 11”, with long, dark hair, a smile to warm a polar bear’s heart, and curves in all the right places, Jill had looked wonderful in sunlight.  Especially in her bikini.  However, she lived in Seattle, and Seattle has far too much rain.  Rain no longer bothered her.  Jill was not bothered by anything. 

     Jill Gardner Pendergast had been taken from me by an out-of-control twelve-wheel gravel truck that crossed the median and hit my Dodge Dakota slightly left of center.  The gravel truck had sheared off the right front corner of my truck and detached the right fender and passenger door.  The crime scene techs estimated the gravel truck was going over 100 MPH when it hit. Possibly as much as 110 MPH.   I didn’t know a gravel truck could travel at over 100 MPH.  

     It had violently removed the seat in which Jill sat and tossed it sixty feet into a vacant lot on the other side of the roadway fence. 

     The emergency room doctors and the forensic technicians estimated the seat and its occupant had suffered no less than ten revolutions before it came to rest. Unfortunately, more than half of the revolutions involved contact with rock-hard dirt, and abandoned waste concrete and asphalt.  The forensic examiner stated in his report Jill had fewer than a half-dozen bones still in one piece. He also concluded that she had not suffered.

     She hadn’t suffered, but I had.  Three months after her death, I’d moved everything in our home to a storage locker.  Everything she’d touched. Everything she’d cared about. Everything I’d seen her sit down in.  Everything she worn. Every plate, pot or pan in the kitchen. It had required five 10 x 30 foot storage units to remove everything from our home, plus three large laborers and a 27-foot truck that took four trips.  Eventually, I was left with paper plates and instant food I’d purchased at Wal-Mart, and a camp cot and sleeping bag.

     I tried to frown without breaking my face.  

     A year after her death, I drove to Idaho and hid out in the Pendergast homestead cabin.  Twice a month, someone from the Pendergast Ranch would deliver food. I had them leave everything on the front porch.    

     Two years after her death, I installed high speed Internet at the homestead and set out to obtain my PhD in criminal justice online.  I had a Bachelor's degree from the University of Washington, which reduced the number of credits and time needed for the PhD, but it took four years to finally get the diploma. 

     When I felt I could partially deal with her memory, I snuck back into Seattle.  I told no one I was coming, not O2 or Andrew, my brothers.   I wanted to see if I could live in the home she had lived in, but the memories were too vivid and painful. And, I had put everything in storage.  My furniture consisted of a card table with four chairs, a mattress, and a small refrigerator.  Everything I ate was delivered, with napkins, plastic tableware, and cups.   

     Two months after my return, I sat down and typed up a shopping list.  Early the following day, I walked into a large furniture warehouse and up to the first sales clerk.  

     After handing the list and my platinum credit card to the clerk, I said, ‘Fill it.’  Two days later, a large delivery truck showed up, four laborers jumped out and unloaded everything.  As soon as the delivery truck drove away, I had locked the front door and retreated into my cave.

     Why is Jill’s scent still in the room?  Surely the smell of perfume doesn’t linger for six years.  

     Rustling noises and the tapping of heels on the hardwood floor of the hallway almost convinced me to open my eyes.  I aborted my project when I concluded my head would fall off.  

     Suddenly, a male voice I’d never heard before interrupted my thoughts.  "Mr. Pendergast, my name is Jeb,” the voice said.  “We’ve laid out a selection of clothing on your bed.  Please get up, take a shower, get dressed, and then come down for breakfast."

     I said nothing.  In a few moments, I didn't know how long, I heard the bedroom door closing, perhaps a little harder than really necessary.  Some of the scent remained. 

     Was she still in the room, whoever she was?  

     Even with my eyes closed, I could feel the sunlight pouring into the room.           Three days after Jill died, I installed window coverings in the master bedroom guaranteed by the manufacturer to keep out one hundred percent of the sunlight.  The coverings had never been opened in my presence, but they were either open now or did not work as guaranteed.  I could feel the warmth of the sun on my legs through the blanket on my bed.  

     Why did Jeb tell me to come down for breakfast? 

     This bedroom faces west. The only time the sun can shine through the windows and warm my legs is in the afternoon.  Jeb is wrong. It isn’t time for breakfast. It’s time for dinner.

     Still keeping my eyes tightly shut, I slowly pulled the covers back.  I wasn’t sure what part of my body hurt worse and I did not want to choose.  I slid my legs over the side of the bed. As I waited for the pounding in my head to stop, I wondered why my feet hit the floor so soon.  

     What bed did I sleep in last night?  Perhaps it’s time to open at least one eye. 

     I quietly sat until my world stopped spinning and then looked around the room.  If I could see behind me, I’d be looking at the door to the walk-in closet.  To my left, the draperies I had installed on the picture window were open and the sun was pouring into the room.  The wall directly in front of I was blurry, but I could see the eight-drawer dresser in front of me.  An overstuffed chair was positioned to the right of the dresser.  To the right of the chair was the doorway to the bathroom.  

     Well, that clears up that question.  I’m not in my own bedroom.  I’m in the apartment bedroom.  I guess Jeb knew what he was talking about.  This room faces the rising son.