Behind Closed Doors. Tara Quinn Taylor
face blanched at that last piece of information; his hands clenched into fists.
Watching her husband, Laura wanted to tell him it was okay. To let the attackers go and never see or hear of them again. She just wanted to know that she and Harry had been a random pick.
She most certainly didn’t want the intruders to have any reason to seek revenge.
3
T he sun had risen. Driving home from the hospital, Harry could barely tolerate the brightness. There was no new day for him this morning. Only a spotlight shining in the darkness that had overshadowed everything else.
Snuggled up against him in the car, Laura sighed, but didn’t speak. She was awake, just not talking.
Harry didn’t have much to say at the moment, either. What could possibly make a difference?
Detective Boyd had said he’d call as soon as they had news.
He prayed that would be today.
Not that catching the bastards was going to allow Harry a night’s rest. He doubted that he’d ever be able to go to bed and sleep again.
“You sure you’re okay driving?”
Her words held only a hint of Laura’s spirit.
“Of course.” He was perfectly capable of seeing them safely home.
The doctors had said his left shoulder had only been partially dislocated, but the agonizing jolt they’d administered to move it back into place had nearly knocked him unconscious. Hours later, immobilized by a sling, it still ached. The rest of him was pretty numb.
“I’m going in to shower,” Laura said the minute they were in the house. Harry nodded. He had things to do and he’d be happier if she wasn’t watching.
Following, Harry almost ran into her as she stopped abruptly outside the guest bathroom door. Without so much as a look back, she went in and shut the door. Seconds later he heard the shower running.
And understood. She couldn’t face their bedroom yet.
Gathering underwear from her drawer, a light summer dress from her closet, her favorite pair of flip-flops, and toiletries, Harry once again stood outside a closed bathroom door with his wife on the other side. When he turned the knob, the door opened.
He’d half feared she’d locked him out again.
“It’s just me,” he said, staring at the shower curtain. “I brought your things.”
“Thank you.”
Turning to leave, Harry reminded himself of what the counselor at the hospital had told him. He was going to have to give her time, a lot of it, as much as she needed.
He’d give her forever.
And in the meanwhile, he’d see those men in hell for doing this to her.
The curtain rustled as he grabbed the door. “Harry?”
He turned back to see her soaked blond hair plastered to her head and face as she held the curtain up to her chin.
“Yeah?”
Her gaze met his. “Thank you.”
Choked up, all he could do was nod. But he stood there, letting his love for her shine through his eyes, until she slipped back behind the curtain.
They needed to recaulk the tub. Grayish green shadows of mold showed through the clear plastic that lined the surface. Laura didn’t know a lot about mold. It reproduced from spores that were in the air and landed anyplace there was moisture, where they would feed off whatever was there.
It caused respiratory problems in people who were susceptible.
It could grow anywhere. There wasn’t a part of the world that didn’t have mold.
A species of mold, Penicillium notatum, had been discovered by accident on dirty dishes in a laboratory sink after World War I. Penicillin was later born from that and saved millions of lives.
When her back started to feel raw from the pounding water, Laura turned. There was soap scum on the tile just beneath the built-in ceramic dish on the wall. She’d obviously missed that spot when she’d cleaned.
Sometimes it took effort, but she could get it off. She’d do it before hard water stains made it impossible.
Was there salt in the water softener? She couldn’t remember if Harry had recently put some in.
She’d never worried about it before. He always took care of that.
She didn’t have to worry about it now, did she?
Frowning at the soap scum, she made a mental note to look in the softener the next time she was out in the garage. That would have to be soon. Her truck was there.
Except… The garage was dark.
Laura turned again.
The bed had been stripped. Boyd had warned them. Everything, including the gown the forensics officers had pulled out of the toilet, had been taken down to the police lab.
Staring at the bare mattress, Harry considered spray disinfectant. He considered slashing the damned thing with a knife.
Instead he hauled it up with his good hand, flipped it on its side and dragged it out to the trash. He’d call someone to take the mattress away.
They had a bed in the guest bedroom they could use if they couldn’t get a new mattress today.
At eight o’clock, fifteen minutes after he and Laura had returned home, he called his office at the university and left a message for the History department secretary telling her he wouldn’t be in that day.
Next he called the Botanical Garden where Laura worked, and spoke with her assistant and friend, Kelly Holbrook, saying only that Laura was under the weather and wouldn’t be in. His wife, who had a federal grant to study the medicinal qualities of desert plants, was her own boss. The garden where she did her research was city-owned and had even become something of a tourist attraction.
He cancelled their appointment at the fertility clinic, then arranged to have the sliding glass door barred and pin-locked until he could get a wrought iron dead-bolted security door placed on the outside.
And when he rang off, he was standing in front of his closet door. The pistol was right where he’d stashed it years ago. Uncle Clement had owned a cleaning business in Manhattan; he’d believed that a black man always had to protect himself. He’d insisted, when Harry spent a summer with them as a teenager, that his nephew learn to shoot.
There were bullets under the sweaters he never wore in the bottom drawer of his dresser. He wasn’t sure he’d remember how to load it, but surprised himself when the bullets slipped in easily. He was competent even with a swollen face and one arm tied to his body.
“What are you doing?”
Laura’s shocked voice jolted him. He hadn’t expected her to be out so soon.
She was standing there dripping wet, a seldom-used guest towel wrapped around her. He didn’t see any visible signs of the trauma she’d been through.
“I just loaded this.”
“Why?”
“I would think that’s obvious.”
“Not to me it isn’t.”
Her gaze was resolute, harder than he was used to seeing, her chin raised.
“Laura, I was caught once. I will not be unprepared again.”
“You’ve never used that thing. You know what the statistics say about civilians with guns, Harry. They’re often turned against you.”
“This one won’t be.”
“Harry—”