Scarlet Homecoming by William Allen

Author:William Allen [Allen, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Malleus Publishing
Published: 2022-06-18T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I was on pins and needles all that evening, wondering what Detective Mitchell might have discovered from his interview with Mike Bascomb. Walt noticed at dinner, and when Bill and Jess went back to the steam tables to refill their plates, he asked me what was wrong. I told him why I was so anxious, and Julie just shook her head.

“So call him,” she suggested. “Worst he can tell you is he’s got nothing. Then you are no different than you were before.”

“That’s not quite true, honey,” Walt interjected, speaking to his wife but looking right at me as he spoke. “I can see it in him, Julie. Dylan’s sitting here with us right now, so hyper-vigilant he’s almost vibrating.”

Julie lowered her voice before responding.

“So, Dr. Tatum, your diagnosis is PTSD?”

“Uh, I supposed to be seeing a counselor for that,” I volunteered, feeling a bit awkward but knowing these two knew me well enough for me to be honest. “But I missed my appointment the other day when I got the call to come here for Dad. You think that’s what I’m dealing with, Walt?”

Walt frowned before answering, checking to make sure the kids were still occupied with raiding the hush puppies just added to the food trays.

“Actually, that’s not what I meant. Dylan, this is your hometown, and these are people you know. Or at least, know of, in a general way. And you’re sitting here, having to wonder all this time if somebody in this restaurant, somebody walking by this very minute, is the person that killed his father. That kind of stress can wear you down. And that, seriously, can lead to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. But right now, honey,” he continued, giving his wife a warning glance, “his fear isn’t an irrational one. Somebody in this room, in this restaurant, might very well be the killer.”

Julie visibly shivered at Walt’s words, no doubt imagining just what he described. He was right, though. I knew what he was talking about. Sitting here for what was supposed to be a pleasant meal, I still scanned the room constantly, looking at faces, body language, posture. I’d probably been doing it since the second attack. Maybe since the first one, in the parking garage.

“But if the detective can tell Dylan that his father’s assailant was someone from out of town, or somebody brought in, then he can relax a little bit. Get a sense of closure on this whole sad mess,” Walt finished, and I could feel the truth in his words. I’d unconsciously walled myself off from the community, insulating myself from old friends and acquaintances under the guise of being too busy.

“If you two will excuse me, I’ll just step outside and make a call,” I said, acknowledging Walt’s point.

“Go ahead,” Julie waved, seeing the sense in her husband’s advice, “we’ll keep the kids occupied.”

Nodding, I rose from the table and headed for the lobby. The hum of conversation in the large open room made phone calls

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