“You’re right. She confessed, ultimately sealing her fate. Thanks again for lending me the file,” I said.
“Any time.”
As I saw him out, he tipped his hat at me like an old-fashioned gentleman. He was handsome, even more so than his late father. If I weren’t so caught up in this mess with Chrissy, so distracted by my own thoughts, perhaps I would have worked up the nerve to ask him out some time…
He was just about to get in the cruiser when he remembered something and stopped. For a brief second, I almost hoped he might ask me out.
“Uh … I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about Chrissy much longer. She’s leaving town. I saw her a couple hours ago. Folks are pissed because she’s staying at Rooster’s, so I made a quick stop over there today.”
So, that’s where she went.
Rooster’s was the shittiest hole-in-the-wall motel in three counties. It was rent-by-the-day or by-the-week. And if the guests there were disturbed by her, that was pretty sad because it was mostly frequented by dealers and prostitutes.
“She said she’s leaving in the morning. Bought a ticket for a Greyhound bus. I think she said it was headed to Wyoming. Or maybe it was West Virginia…”
Chapter Twenty-Six
When I hear the word “seedy”, I think about Rooster’s.
I’d never stayed or hung around there, not in all the years I’d lived in Austin. It was mostly drifters and people passing through who didn’t know any better. And then the dealers and hookers of course.
It was a long, one-story building, each tiny room connected to the next. The roof was caving in, the old red brick chipped and fading. A sad little place, I thought.
But for such a sad place, it was popping on a Friday night. As I pulled in, there were people standing in the old dirt lot, people sprawled on lawn chairs and huddled around in groups, talking excitedly.
As I parked and got out, the energy in the air was palpable. Something is wrong.
“What is it?” I asked a heavyset woman in a bright red sweatshirt. She was smoking and watching, standing apart from the crowd of people.
Like a beehive, they were buzzing with excitement. But I saw no signs of Chrissy.
“That woman who killed that little girl’s in there…” She pointed toward room 19. The door was ajar. I could see the flicker of a television; there was a strange staticky sound coming from inside.
That “woman” was a girl when she killed her and she might not even be guilty, I wanted to say. But I didn’t dare correct the woman; I was just grateful she hadn’t recognized me yet from the news.
“Are you talking about Chrissy Cornwall?” I asked her.
“Yup. That’s her. Crazy, right?” She took a long drag from her cigarette.
And that’s when I heard it … sirens in the distance. A sound that, even now, thirty years later, still gave me chills.
“Ambulance is coming! Let’s hope they don’t make it in time,” someone chuckled from among the crowd. The woman beside me laughed.
“If I find out who called them, I’m whooping your ass!” another man in the crowd shouted.
“Why’s there an ambulance? What’s going on?” A trickle of fear ran through me. I looked at the woman and she looked back at me. She was smiling.
“Bitch tried to off herself, can you believe that? Took a bunch of pills, apparently. Somebody called for help, although I don’t know why. Think they should just let her die in there … slow and miserable and alone like that poor girl did…”
But I was no longer listening. I ran for the door, shoving my way through the crowd of angry gawkers. As I pushed my way through the motel door, I could see her.
Flat on her back in the bed, Chrissy was choking, an eerie rattle erupting from her mouth … for a split second, her frantic eyes popped open and seemed to register mine.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Don’t freeze. Don’t freeze. This time you CANNOT FREEZE.
I ran to her bedside, calling her name. She was convulsing and gurgling, which was terrifying … but at least she’s breathing!
Sirens blared in the distance … please hurry. Please hurry!
I placed my fingers on her chin and tilted her head back, listening. Her breathing was very shallow, but still there, her eyes drifting shut on me.
This isn’t like Jack. She’s not gone yet. I can still save her…
“Stay with me, Chrissy!” I gave her a couple sturdy shakes, but when that didn’t work, I tilted back her head again and gave two rescue breaths. Next, I moved to chest compressions, counting aloud as I went.
I could hear the buzz of people all around me, talking and laughing. Like the death of this woman was some sort of celebration.
I hated them for it.
I hated Chrissy for doing this … to me, to herself. Just like Jack did.
And I hated myself for sending her away … for abandoning her when she needed me.
I continued the cycle: breathing, compressing, then listening for what felt like hours, my lips and arms growing heavy and numb…
When the paramedics arrived, I didn’t even hear them coming. Someone had to shove me aside to get to her.
“Good job. She’s still alive,” one paramedic said.
I stood out of the way, the room spinning as I watched them take over. Moments later, I heard the most beautiful words, “Her pulse is thready, but it’s there. I think she’ll be okay. We need to transport her now though.”
I watched them load her into the ambulance, barely breathing myself.
The people in the crowd were following … chasing behind the ambulance, shouting obscenities or laughing.
I turned and looked at the room, really seeing it for the first time. What did Chrissy take?
There was nothing in the room to make it obvious, but I found her backpack under the bed. I snatched it up and looked inside.
An empty pill bottle of Oxycodone,
