Page 80 of Retribution
Susannah Gerhardt
Sitting back in my recliner, I run my hands through my hair, releasing a pent-up sigh. The past few months have been a special kind of hell. I tick off each point in my head as I reach over and pour a gigantic glass of red wine, deciding it’s more than warranted.
The House of Horrors and everything we discovered there.
Finding Rebecca and discovering she was the Retribution Killer.
Dutch’s disappearance—which still hasn’t been solved.
Chase. Enough said about that backstabbing fucker. Can’t believe I slept with him. I can practically hear Dutch’s voice cackling in my ear.At least you got three orgasms out of that broken condom.A trace of a smile kicks up the corner of my mouth as I think of her before I go back to the list.
Having to bury my niece’s murdered child.
Telling my parents the news that their daughter’s murderer was dead.
Failing to be able to help Rebecca, watching with numb despair as she spiraled out of control.
Being forced to have her committed—even if it is a five-star facility, committed really is the only word for it—after her suicide attempt.
Yeah. The past several months have been more than trying.
Then there are the unexplained things that have the detective in me perking up her ears. More points begin ticking off as I refill the wine glass. I really should ease up on it, I have work in the morning, and the FBI waits for no man—or woman with a hangover and a bitch of a headache.
Where was I? Ah yes, the unexplained. Cue the X-Files theme song.
One—the radio on that fateful night reported that two men’s bodies were found in the cemetery. An FBI agent and an unidentified black man. But when I phoned several days later to make inquiries about getting the body buried, the local police department informed me that while they had received numerous calls about shots fired, when they arrived on the scene, no bodies were found. There was evidence of a shootout, with bullets lodged in trees and gravestones, but nothing else.
As far as I’m aware, bodies don’t just get up and walk away.
Did I tell Rebecca this? Fuck, no. She was practically comatose at the time, I wasn’t going to tell her that her husband’s body was missing.
Two—all the evidence tying Rebecca to the crimes vanished. Every single last bit of it. The FBI database glitched and files were too badly corrupted to read. A mysterious fire destroyed all the evidence at Quantico where any physical evidence was being kept.
Three—New Beginnings Psychiatric Treatment Center. This place was way out of our price range, and insurance certainly wasn’t going to cover a woman who went missing eleven years ago and was presumed dead. A woman approached my parents in the ER while they waited for Rebecca to come out of surgery, and told them she represented a wealthy benefactor. This benefactor, so the woman claimed, had suffered his own loss, and now tries to help out others in her name. A scholarship, if you will; full treatment at the facility for up to one year, all expenses paid.
It was a gift we couldn’t turn down, not after I had it checked out. Due to an NDA, the woman wasn’t able to tell us the benefactor’s name, but the paperwork was checked by a lawyer friend of mine, and New Beginnings checked out. For what it was, the facility was incredible; peaceful, beautiful grounds that—if you could ignore the eight-foot wall around it—offered a daily escape into nature for its patients. The doctors were world-class, the food nutritious and prepared by top chefs.
The patients receive intensive therapy programs, along with holistic ones—music, art, yoga, meditation, amongst others.
Seeing Rebecca come back to a living person, even smiling a little on occasion, made it all worth it.
The final unexplained event? The roses. I’ve been spending more and more time with my parents lately, helping them come to terms with everything. They came to stay with me for a couple of days, and when I pulled up outside their house to drop them off after their visit, we had to sit in my car for a few moments, taking it all in. Shock, dismay, confusion all ran through us as we stared at the altered landscape.
My parent’s house is a typical 1920’s Midwest home. Stairs lead up to a wraparound porch, screen doors providing protection from mosquitoes while plantation shutters surround the windows. Previously, the walkway leading from the sidewalk to their steps was just lined with grass, and a simple stone border surrounded the porch.
Now, a double row of rose bush trees lines the walkway, and rose bushes surround the borders of the house. It’s too early in the year yet for them to bloom, but I’m sure they will look beautiful once they do.
We just have no idea who planted them, or why. When asked, a few of the neighbors confirmed that a couple of pickup trucks with a white rose logo on the side came and did the work over the course of a day. I can’t find any companies in Illinois or surrounding states with a logo that matches that.
Soft music playing in the background does nothing to help ease the stress, although the wine certainly is helping. Draining the last of it, I rinse the glass out in the sink, placing it in the dishwasher. Checking the locks, I turn off the music and I make my way to my bedroom as a yawn threatens to crack my jaw.
My last thought before sleep overwhelms me is a wish that no more surprises pop up in the near future. I’m not sure how much more my parents and I can realistically handle.
***
“What do you mean, she’s missing?” I shout down the phone, worry making me lose control. “How the hell does a woman just disappear from a facility with as much security as yours?”
Doctor Thornberry sighs on the other end, and I can practically hear her grimace. If I was in her shoes, I wouldn’t want to be making this phone call either.
