CHAPTER 1
When it first reached the inner most depths of her dreams, MegRichards thought the distant noise came from the alarm clockrousing her for another day of work at the hospital. As shestruggled to rise and shake off her deep slumber, the ringingsound stopped. As it did, she fell back onto the bed. But asecond later, like a determined mosquito, it came back for asecond strike. This time, awake enough to separate dream fromreality, she began to understand her cell phone demanded herattention. She didn't want to leave her dreams to answer it,and, if she had known who was waiting on the other end ofthe line, she wouldn't have. But she couldn't let phones ring; itwasn't in her nature. When a phone rang, her curiosity alwayswon out over everything, including her need for sleep.
Awkwardly rolling out of bed, her feet finding the cool slatsof the wooden floor, she blinked a half dozen times until shecould finally focus on her clock. 2:32 a.m.!
Trying to shake the grogginess from her head, she moaned,"What could anyone want at this time of night?" Even as herheavy eyelids closed out the world, she halfway fell forwardtoward the sound.
"Steve," she mumbled looking over her shoulder to the otherside of the bed, "who could be calling at this time of the nightor morning or whatever it is?" Then it hit her. There could onlybe one answer. "Steve, I swear, if this is the hospital calling ..."
As she glanced over her shoulder, she momentarily froze.The far side of the bed was empty; the covers hadn't even beenpulled back. What had happened to her husband? Hilldale'sonly a couple of hours away. He should have been home longago. Ah, nothing to worry about, probably just got delayedby something unexpected on his job. Not the first time andwouldn't be the last time that had happened. Besides, with herbizarre schedule, she had no room to complain.
Like a boxer struggling to find his balance in the late roundsof a title fight, Meg unwrapped her lithe, five-foot-two inchframe from the sheet and bedspread and stumbled out of thebedroom. Eight short steps led into the small apartment's livingroom. Hurrying past the couch, she sprinted to an endtable on the far side of the fourteen-by-twelve-foot room.
"I should keep the charger closer to the bed," she mutteredas she searched for the lamp's switch. By the time its harshlight flooded the room, the phone had completed its sixth ring.On the seventh, the voice mail would make her short trek acomplete waste of time, so she had to hurry. Finally, with afew more of the sleep-induced cobwebs shaken from her mind,Meg cleared her throat, picked up the iPhone, slid it on, andtapped accept.
"Hello?" She spit her one-word greeting with a perturbedand questioning tone. She knew who it had to be. After all,who else would call at this time of the night except the hospitalwanting her to come in early again. And this was not anight she wanted to give up her sleep for rounds at SpringfieldCommunity. She'd done that far too much the past few months.This week alone she had pulled two double shifts and thosehad left her dead on her feet. It was time for them to hire a fewmore nurses, ones that could be depended upon, rather thanoverworking the staff they already had!
"Mrs. Richards?"
Surprisingly it wasn't her boss, Hospital AdministratorJohn Willis. This was another voice. One she didn't know.Before she had time to answer the man's first simple question,he grew more specific and demanding. "Is this the home ofMegan Richards?"
What in the world did this stranger want at this time ofthe night and how did he get her number? She wavered for asecond, questioning if it was wise to share any personal information.She glanced over to her door and made sure it waslocked before hesitantly replying. "Yes, this is Megan Richards.Who are you?"
"Mrs. Richards, this is Officer Roland Johnson with thestate police. Is your husband's name Steven?"
His query froze her in her tracks. Not only couldn't sheanswer, she couldn't even breathe, much less move. It was asif a summer fog had invaded the living room and surroundedher in a haze so deep she could barely see. She stole a glanceat the wedding photo hanging on the wall just a few feet away.As it came into focus, a chill raced down her spine and then athousand random thoughts all flashed through her head. Eachof those thoughts was crowding another one for space. Herthroat grew dry and her knees weak as her brain tried to pushout of the fog. Surprisingly, in a few short seconds her mindhad driven the fog away and she was once more processinginformation. And as clarity set in, she sensed the call's meaning.Something had happened! That's why Steven hadn't comehome.
She knew the routine. As a nurse, she had seen it play out ahundred times. There had to have been an accident. That's theonly reason the police would call. But, no, that couldn't be it.She wouldn't let herself even consider that. It had to be somethingmuch more routine. It just had to be!
It suddenly felt as if an unseen hand had found her throatand was squeezing with more force each second. Finding thecorner of the couch with her free hand, she slowly crumpledinto a sitting position on the arm. Glancing back to the weddingphoto, she transported to the moment Steve asked herto marry him. It was in the park, the moon had been full andthere were more stars than she'd ever seen. She could nowsmell the trees and feel the wind. Only the man's distant voicecoming from her phone kept her from staying in that "safe"place.
"Mrs. Richards ... are you still there ... Mrs. Richards?"
She knew that tone all too well. She'd heard doctors use itwhen sharing a bleak prognosis and pastors employ it wheninforming a person their son or daughter had just died. Shehad heard it so much she had a name for it—"dark music."Now that old familiar, stormy tune had been cued up for her.That man on the phone would soon hit the chord that shatteredher world into a million pieces. He'd probably beenpracticing the words that went with the "dark music" for at leastten minutes. He'd likely said them over and over to make surethey stung as little as possible. What if she hung up the phoneand cut the "dark music" off before the song began? After all,if she didn't hear the lyrics, the story they told wouldn't be real.Would it?
Her voice still muted, her eyes glued on the wedding portrait,she studied the good-looking groom. It came to her then,the picture was speaking a phrase he'd once said and it beganto bounce off the walls. At first it was just one single voicewhispering the five words, but in a matter of seconds it seemedas if a thousand different people were screaming that one linein unison.
'Til death do us part! 'Til death do us part! 'Til death do us part!'Til death do us part!
She wanted to throw the phone against the wall, cover herears with her hands, and race back to bed. She didn't wantthe song to play out because the "dark music" always broughtparting. No, much more than separation; the "dark music"always brought death!
"Mrs. Richards." The voice on the phone wouldn't go away.It kept demanding she rejoin the conversation. She knew shehad to answer that voice and prayed her premonitions werewrong, but even as her lips began to form words, her heartdemanded she remain silent. Finally, it was her lips that wonthe tug-of-war over her emotions.
"Yes. I'm Meg Richards." The words all but caught in herthroat, hanging there like a cough drop that had gone downthe wrong way, robbing her of air and stealing whatever hopeshe had left.
Why did this happen now? Why in the middle of thenight? Why when everything had just started to go so right?After another deep breath that did nothing to slow her racingheart or ease her growing fears, she whispered the most painfulwords that had ever crossed her lips, "Has something happenedto Steve?"
"Mrs. Richards," the man's voice was now flat, almostemotionless, as if trying to be empathetic, but lacking theknowledge as to how to accomplish that task. He forced outanother "Mrs. Richards," before pausing again. Was he tonedeaf or had he not been trained in how to sing the "darkmusic's" tune. Whatever the reason, he couldn't seem to impartthe heartfelt emotion that this number called for. If somethinghad happened to Steve, there needed to be deep emotion in the"dark music," his life demanded that much. But when the voicecame back, it was flat and emotionless.
"Mrs. Richards." He was now distant and robotic. No onecould do justice to the "dark music" like that. But that didn'tmatter now. She hadn't got to choose the singer or the song."I am sorry to have to inform you that there has been an accident.Your husband's car was hit by a vehicle carrying a groupof teenagers. I don't know if I should provide you with thisinformation, but from what we have been able to gather, theyoungsters had been drinking."
She waited for the cop to continue, but for some reason hestopped—like he had been reading a book and lost his place.As the seconds dragged on, Meg held her breath, hoping forthe best but sensing the worst had yet to come. Maybe Stevehad just been injured. She could even take him losing a limb orhis sight. All she needed was for him to be alive. Yet a minutelater those hopes were dashed as the other shoe dropped.
"Mrs. Richards," Johnson continued, "our chaplain is outof town, and I don't really know how to do this, but I guessthe best way is to be straight with you. There is no easy way tosay ..."
"Get on with it," a suddenly angry and frustrated Megbarked. "Just tell me what you have to say. He's dead, isn't he?If that is what it is, then say it!"
She could hear the officer breathing, but other than thosedeep breaths there was nothing but silence. Finally, after atleast twenty horrible seconds, a time when she could feel theflames of hell creeping into the room, he continued, his voiceno longer flat but now quivering like a violin string, "Mrs.Richards, your husband didn't survive the accident." He pausedfor another awkward moment, took another deep breath, andcontinued. "We believe he died instantly. If it's any consolation,he probably suffered no pain."
Meg's eyes darted back to the photo. He'd just celebratedhis twenty-eighth birthday. They were just beginning to get toknow each other. There were so many things they hadn't done,so many dreams they had only spoken and not lived. Only lastweek they'd gone house hunting and found one with a perfectlittle room for a nursery. They'd laughed as they viewed it, wonderingif they should repaint it blue or pink. They were goingto talk to the bank about a mortgage next week. Monday. Butwhat did it matter now? For Steve, there would be no Monday.Time had stopped and her husband had been lost somewherebetween the seconds.
As the reality of the horrible situation pushed beyond hermind and seeped into her heart, she again heard the wordsbouncing off the walls, "'Til death do us part! 'Til death do uspart! 'Til death do us part!"
"Mrs. Richards? Are you all right?"
The voice instantly stopped the mocking chant, and withoutthat chorus employing a wedding vow to rock the room andsqueeze the life from her soul, Meg found she could answerthe cop's question in such a calm voice that she even surprisedherself. "Thank you, officer. I'll be fine."
"If you need anything, we could notify your pastor or ..."
"No," Meg answered, her tone dry and emotionless, "thatwon't be necessary, I'll be just fine."
She hit the end call button, deliberately putting the phonedown, letting the plastic touch the table gently, almost as if shewere handling a fine piece of crystal. As it sat there, under thelamp's stark light, she stared at it contemplating how this nightwould have been different if she hadn't answered. Why didn'tshe just let the call go straight to voice mail? Then she couldhave had a few more hours of security and hope. But thoseprecious elements of her life were now gone, shattered like abroken plate.
Picking up the phone, she punched the button for recentcalls. Steve's name jumped out. He'd called her just 304 minutesago.
"Meg," he'd explained, his voice full of life and exuberance."Listen, Honey. If I work just a few more hours, I can finishthe books here at Wilson's and drive back tonight. That way wecan start the weekend, and just as soon as you finish your shifttomorrow, we can celebrate big time."
She had told him to wait in Hilldale, that tomorrow wouldbe soon enough to make that drive, but she hadn't voiced thosethoughts with much conviction. She hadn't sincerely tried tosell him on waiting. So this happened because she'd selfishlywanted him to come home just as quickly possible. Why hadshe allowed emotion to overrule logic?
"Steve, Steve, Steve," she whispered. Yet no one heard herand he never would again.
Meg looked down at the blue, lace gown she had put onto surprise him. He loved her in frilly blue things. Althoughshe preferred sleeping in old T-shirts, she'd worn alluring, sexygowns just for him. Now she didn't need them anymore. Therewere so many things she no longer needed, too. Oh, why hadn'tshe made him wait in Hilldale? Why hadn't she insisted hewait? Why didn't she argue? How important could one daybe, even if that day was their anniversary? Now instead of onemore day, there were no more days. None at all!
The phone rang again and hope suddenly pushed its wayback into the small apartment's suddenly cold, stale air. Meggrabbed the cell before the second ring, desperately prayingthe police were calling back to tell her it had all been a mistake.Maybe Steve had stayed in Hilldale and someone elsehad been driving his car. Maybe someone else had died. Please,Lord, let it be anyone else!
"Hello," Meg whispered as she answered.
"Meg, this is Heather."
Normally, Heather Rodgers's voice would have broughtwith it good gossip or a great joke. But tonight it would besomething else. Tonight, it would be the voice that fully assuredMeg there was no awakening from this nightmare and that allhope had evaporated into thin air.
"I don't know what to say," Heather whispered. "I-I-I wasworking the late shift when the call on the accident came in.It's just so terrible. No one as good as Steve should die—ever—muchless so young. I mean ... I don't know what to do. Yourheart must be breaking in a thousand pieces."
Good old Heather, everybody's friend, the nurse who keptthem all smiling. How ironic she'd heard it first. If only shecould tell a joke and make all of this disappear. Then a thoughtflashed through Meg's mind, a thought so bizarre that maybeonly a medical professional or cop would consider it.
"Heather! Where's his body?"
The voice on the other end of the call didn't hesitate. "It'shere right now. They brought it in a few minutes ago."
Why had she said it? Steve wasn't an it.
"Heather," Meg announced, "I need to see him."
"Meg, I don't think it would be a good idea for you to ..."
Meg didn't allow her friend to finish. "I'm going to comedown! I'll be there in a few minutes. Don't let anyone touchhim."
"Meg," Heather was now pleading, "at least wait until theytake him to the funeral home. I mean, there's nothing you cando for him now. You'd only be putting yourself through ..."Heather paused as if trying to find words that would help andnot hurt. Finally she blurted out, "I just don't want to see youtorturing yourself."
"Heather, I'll be there in a little while. Don't let them doanything to Steve."
Cutting the call off, Meg marched resolutely to the bedroom.There was something to be done and only she coulddo it!
