Life is good. Somewhat crazy--but hey, I can see (there was a huge vision scare that thanks to the surgeon is going to be okay) I can walk (yeah, there's arthritis coming on where the hips were dislocated all those years ago, but it's manageable). I have my son, my family, my animals and my friends who love me.
So, one step forward. Then another. I'm starting a new health program to lead into retirement prep. I'll let you know how it goes.
"Well, whatever it was, we need to get back to work." The vet tried to sound businesslike, but there was a tiny tremor in his voice. He was tough, and hid it well. I doubt any of his staff noticed. But they hadn't been in battle before.
God help me. I had.
# # #
They worked on Shameless with even more than their usual brisk efficiency. I was embarrassed about my outburst and they were embarrassed for me. It was awkward as hell. It was even more awkward when, after I paid my bill, the wide-eyed receptionist thanked me for my service.
I managed to nod and make some kind of noise of acknowledgment--the kid was trying to be nice. But I felt like a freak already, and the reminder, on top of what had happened so far this morning, was just more than I was ready to cope with. I wanted to go home. I wanted to crawl into bed, pull up the covers and just be alone, with my dog, in a quiet, safe place. Yes, I'd witnessed a murder. Yes, I should go to the cops. But truth was, I couldn't do it. Not in my current condition. I'd come off as a lunatic. They wouldn't believe me. They'd be kind. But there would be whispers of "PTSD" and, God help me, I just wasn't up for that. Later maybe . . . probably. Not now.
I ran into a police roadblock two blocks before my street. They'd blockaded the road by parking the car with its lights flashing cross-ways in the middle of the street so that there wasn't enough room to get around it. I turned where the nice officer directed me, but then pulled to the curb. Leaving Shameless in the car, I walked over to ask the cop what was up.
"There's been a gas explosion a couple of blocks away. We're not allowing anyone in the area until it's safe and everything's been dealt with."
"My house is a couple of blocks away." My voice was shaky. I was trying to sound calm. I wasn't succeeding. My mind was racing--my car had been unlocked. My registration is in the glove box--with my address on it. It would be just like Winston to say he was giving me time and not do it. "Element of surprise" and all that happy crap.
"What's the address?"
I told him.
"Wait right here."
I ran.
"Hey Irish."
Irish--I hadn't been called by that nickname since the service. I hadn’t much liked it then, which was probably why it had stuck.
"Yeah, I saw you. And I know you saw me."
He paused. "You've got a dog."
Jared Winston always said he didn't "like" dogs. The truth was he was afraid of them. He'd been mauled by a neighbor's dog when he was ten or so--and while he'd never admitted it outright, I got the impression it was after he'd tormented the poor beast.
"I don't like dogs. But you know that. Just like I know you. You're such a tight ass. No way you're going to be able to walk away from this. Doesn't matter how much you owe me. Your sense of 'right and wrong' won't let you let it go."
I didn't answer. First, I wasn't stupid. Second, I didn't have one. I did owe him. But he wasn't wrong. He'd murdered that man. I'd seen him do it. No way at that close range the poor bastard would've survived. Jared was good at killing--just like everything else he did, and thorough. The man was dead. If Shameless or I moved, or made a sound, he'd kill us too.
"I don't have time for this now. Sun's coming up. But we'll talk. Soon."
I waited a long time before I left the water. The sun was well up by then and Shameless had grown increasingly restless. Soaked to the skin, bug bitten, and worried, I hurried to where I’d parked the car before starting the run.
It was unlocked.
Had it been unlocked before?
I didn’t think so. But I wasn’t sure.
I swore. Maybe I was just being (more than usually) paranoid.
Maybe I wasn’t.
Jared Winston is a scary bastard. I’ve seen what he is capable of, and it had worried me, even back when we were supposedly on the same side. Now, clearly, we weren’t. And while I’m relatively bad-ass, I have limits. He really doesn’t.
I drove home pondering what I should do. Once there, I gave Shameless a wash down, then myself a long, hot shower—both to get clean and to try to relax. The latter didn’t work. My muscles were still in tight knots when I heard the ruckus in the back yard.
I didn't smell gas when I was getting ready to leave. The dog didn't react either. I suppose that doesn't mean anything, but the gas company deliberately puts that scent in to what would normally be an odorless gas just to make sure people have warning and can get clear in case it builds up enough to set off an explosion.
"It's okay." The doctor lied and shot a meaningful look
at his staff. "It's fine."
I ran.
I'm not proud of the fact, but I did. I turned tail and ran back the way I'd come, then took off of the track to wade into the shallow water at the lakes edge to hide in the tall weeds and flickering shadows next to the walkway. I didn't go under the arch, that would be the first place I would look, and probably the first he would as well. I knelt in the muddy water, holding Shameless next to me with my fake arm to keep it out of the water. I clung to him and shook, the hood of my sweatshirt pulled down to cover most of my face and keep my eyes from shining white in the shadows. I held my right index finger against my lip in the gesture I'd used to teach Shameless to be silent and still. God love him, he obeyed. It wasn't usually his best thing, but this time, he obeyed perfectly. And while I felt his muscles tighten as footsteps approached, and his hackles raise, he didn't make a sound. Even though his lips pulled back to expose his teeth, he didn't growl, didn't move a muscle.
A flashlight swept the shadows under the little bridge looking for us and I was glad we weren't there. It swept nearby, across the reedy weeds, revealing some deadwood and a couple of Canada geese that shifted irritably.
He didn't find us, but he knew we were there.
"Hey Irish."
Irish--I hadn't been called by that nickname since the service.
"Yeah, I saw you. And I know you saw me."
He paused. "You've got a dog."
Jared always said he didn't "like" dogs. The truth was he was afraid of them. He'd been mauled by a neighbor's dog when he was ten or so--and while he'd never admitted it outright, I got the impression it was after he'd tormented the poor beast.
"I don't like dogs. But you know that. Just like I know you. You're such a tight ass. No way you're going to be able to walk away from this. Doesn't matter how much you owe me. Your sense of 'right and wrong' won't let you let it go."
I didn't answer. First, I wasn't stupid. Second, I didn't have one. I did owe him. But he wasn't wrong. He'd murdered that man. I'd seen him do it. No way at that close range the poor bastard would've survived. Jared was good at killing--just like everything else he did, and thorough. The man was dead. If Shameless or I moved, or made a sound, he'd kill us too.
"I don't have time for this now. Sun's coming up. But we'll talk. Soon."
Shameless O'Houligan is a big boy. He can keep up with me running without any trouble at all. Hell, truth told, he could easily outpace me. But he doesn't. When you have a big dog whose a bit of a handful, you need to train them properly or all kinds of bad things can happen. And if they do, I don't consider it to be the dog's fault. Dogs are dogs. Humans are supposed to know better. So he stays at heel on my left which is precisely where he was when we jogged past The Mourning Mother, a metal, marble and crystal creation that towers twenty feet high and looks nothing at all like a human, mother or no.
With the sun coming up the sculpture cast oddly shaped, deep shadows that blended into the darkness of the trees a few feet off of the running path. Something moved, or, more accurately, someone moved, shifting their weight impatiently. I heard the crunch of dead leaves underfoot, saw a face briefly, by the flickering flame of the lighter he brought to the tip of his cigarette. An ordinary face, not especially handsome, male, heavily freckled. His hands were rough, a laborer's hands, or maybe a fighter. Not a boxer, a street brawler. He was too well dressed to look homeless.
All that, in the time it took him to light a cigarette.
I kept jogging. The scent of tobacco lingered in the air as I turned along the path. I crossed the bridge and he was out of sight. I didn't think any more about him until the dog and I had finished our lap around the lake and we were headed back that direction. I figured he would probably be gone having done whatever (possibly, hell probably nefarious) deed he'd been up to.
I was wrong. He was still there. The sun was a little higher now, not much, it had been a quick lap. But I could see his general shape and follow his movements as he ground the cigarette butt underfoot and prepared to light another. I saw the movement behind him as well, and when he lit his next smoke I got a quick glimpse of a familiar face over his shoulder before I heard the soft cough of a suppressed gunshot, and the lighter flickered out.
I don't like to talk about my service. I try not to think about it too much either. That latter is harder, because the nightmares . . . well, PTSD is a bitch, let's leave it at that. Shameless is not, technically, an assistance dog, but he serves in that duty anyway. He wakes me from the dreams with a cold nose and wagging tail, runs with me when I have to burn off excess energy, and leans into me and lets me hold him when I'm shaky or a little paranoid.
My current problems came as a result of a morning run after a night of shattered sleep. It was early. The first hints of pink and orange were barely tinting the edge of the clouds on the eastern horizon. The moon was still bright and visible in the sky. It was not quite full, but certainly enough to see by, particularly since Heroes' Park is well lit 24/7 -- to light the monuments, yes, but more in a (vain) attempt to inhibit crime.
Heroes Park is a fairly new addition to Denver. The put it in when they tore down an old school and abandoned hospital next to Sloan's Lake Park in 2025. It was meant to honor veterans and patriots who put down the 2021 uprising. But it's close to Colfax Avenue, and the homeless (many of them veterans with "issues") like to sleep there. Drug dealers do business in the shadows of the various statues in "off" hours when the park is supposedly closed, in between the police patrols which are supposed to be random, but really aren't. Don't get me wrong, the cops do their best. But its a game of numbers and they are frequently both outnumbered and outgunned.
On the very borderline of night and oncoming day I didn't expect to find much going on. The sleepers would be sleeping and most of the crooks weren't liable to bel up and about for a couple of hours yet--and those would be the early risers. That's what I thought.
Sometimes I can be remarkably short-sighted.
My name is Erin Murphy. I am thirty-six years old. I am 5'5" Brown and Brown per my (Colorado) driver's license. Until it exploded, I lived at 3135 N Julian St., Denver, a small brick bungalow that I was paying exorbitant rent to stay in and an even more exorbitant pet deposit--neither of which I could really afford on my military disability and Social Security, but were better than my current dilemma of homelessness.
I served with distinction as a medic in various conflicts from the time I had enlisted bright and early on my eighteenth birthday until injured in the line of duty. I am right handed-which is good, since it was my left arm that was damaged. I have a prosthesis from the middle of my left forearm down. It works well, but it will never be a "hand" to me. It's a machine. A useful tool. It's not a part of me, and it sure as hell doesn't replace what I lost.
And yes, now, that you mention it. I do have just a teenie weenie bit of bitterness about that. But only a little. I could have died. Hell, I probably *should* have. I owe my life to a man from my unit who got me the hell out of that mess, and into the middle of this one.
I wasn't home when the house exploded. I was three blocks away, taking Shameless O'Houligan to the vet for his shots and stitches. Shameless, according to Dr. Conner, is 110 pounds of Irish Wolfhound Scottish Terrier mix. He is also, as his name would imply, a handful.
This morning he had caught wind of Norman, the squirrel who had been tormenting him for weeks by pelting him with acorns from my old oak, in time to actually do something about it. One bound from the front step, a mighty leap, and he had a shocked and terrified gray squirrel by the tail, fighting for its life.
Squirrels have wicked claws, sharp teeth, and an attitude problem. This one, however, had pitched its last acorn. Scratched and bloodied Shameless may have been, but he was prancing around the yard with Norman's severed tail. No dog, ever, had been prouder or more satisfied.
I loaded Shameless, and his prize, into my battered old VW and to Dr. Conner.
It saved my life.
They said it was an accident--a natural gas explosion.
But it wasn't.
I was left with my dog, my car, the clothes on my back a whopping $300.00 in my checking account, and a killer on my trail.
My name is Erin Murphy.
Welcome to my life.
As I type this there is (again/another/maybe the same one who the hell knows) a bat in my bedroom. I've discovered it's getting in through the vent to the attic and the vent from my bedroom. James and I spent a hectic two-in-the-morning the other morning trying to get it out of the house without injuring it, or us (because bats can carry all kinds of disease including rabies) or any of the pets. By the time it was over it had turned into a fair ordeal and "ding" the bat was evicted but all hope of returning to sleep had flown out the same damned door as the bat.
So, middle of the night again, the animals start acting weird. One of them (a fierce hunter/dominant type) was staring at a corner of the unlit ceiling, clearly enraptured.
I swore.
I turned on the light.
Sure enough, little brown bat trying (and failing) to pretend he's part of the woodwork.
(Not actually "Ding", but a photo of a brown bat from "Bing")
I shooed the pets (including heap big hunter/dominant) out of the bedroom with vigor. Grabbed my glasses, pillow and blanket, and moved downstairs to the recliner. I was not, NOT, going to try to deal with this at O dark thirty AGAIN. If I was lucky, maybe he would crawl out the way he came in. If I was not, then he could darned well wait until a decent hour when I've had a chance to buy a long-handled fishing or butterfly net so that it will HOPEFULLY be easier to deal with him safely and some sort of cover for the fripping vent so that I won't ever have to do it again.
I went downstairs and slept, dreaming about bats. LOTS of bats. Big bats, baby itty bitty bats. Not restful sleep. The stores aren't open yet. I can't get the net. But peering into the bedroom (while holding back the hunter/dominant pet) I saw that Ding has not, in fact, crawled back out into the currently cold wet world.
I will deal with it. Of course I will. But right now I'm going to blog, figure out what video I'm going to record for the website later, and write before I go get ready for the day job.
AND YES, I said the word WEBSITE. It is in the process of being edited by my trusty Webmistress/Guru/Bud Karenne after I went through it and explained all the things I didn't get done when life went sideways after we built it. The chapters will (hopefully) be up. A video will (hopefully get made and posted). Pages on Celia will be written (it's moving fast folks.). Wait until the afternoon and then go to www.authorCTAdams.com send an email to catadamsfans@gmail.com to let me know what you think.
I BELIEVE
I believe in the power of belief
to overcome limitations and obstacles;
To heal this world, not only of the
virus that stalks us all, but of the
divisions, fear and cruelty that
separate us from each other. I believe
that if we work TOGETHER, in BELIEF we
can and we WILL overcome.
Why?
Because belief has pulled countries from
the ashes and devastation of war;
Has given us “A DREAM”;
Has taken us to the moon and amongst
the stars.
I believe in human beings and in the
power of our belief.
If we are willing to
try, and to work past our differences
in our shared humanity.
Please share if you do too.
Hi.
Thought I would drop by to let you know how things are going.
Latest mystery will be off to the editor at the end of the month (which is coming up ridiculously rapidly).
Celia Graves draft is moving along nicely.
I still need to edit the website (BAD author), but a family member is reaching the end of his life and that weighs heavy on my mind.
A friend sent me a reminiscence piece a while back about his uncle who was killed and how time rolls on and how soon he (we/everyone) is forgotten and just a part of history. It was a beautiful piece. And it was very, very true.
The generation of my parents is almost all gone now—the World War II generation a part of history that, for people two generations down i
sn’t “real” at all anymore, not any more real than the Civil War or the American Revolution. I am a part of the older generation.
Things have changed, and keep changing—sometimes, like this year, at a breathless, breakneck pace that is hard to keep up with.
Will things ever be the same? I don’t know. Probably not. And if they will be, I don’t have time to wait for it. I will move forward in the now doing the best I can with what I know right now.
We only have so long here. I have wasted enough time. I want to make the most of the rest of mine.
Best.
L
Never, ever, ever give up.
Life has gotten very weird for everyone. The pandemic is changing/has changed everything externally. But internally people are people. We are still strong, courageous, and inventive.
And right now inventive is a BIG THING.
One of the few things I've always admired about myself (normally I'm pretty hard on myself, but I like this thing) is determination. I will find a way. Okay, the car won't start--I'll take the bus. Bus running late? Okay, I'll walk. Too far? Okay, I'll call a cab. You get the drift. I find a way.
This attitude annoys the hell out of a lot of people because of the sheer pig-headedness of it. The WILL and determination that just KEEPs going. (To quote one of the motivational videos I've watched. "Crawling is acceptable. Quitting is NOT acceptable.") But the attitude has gotten me "out of the woods" that I was lost in for a long while. I am happy again. I have a new life, a new job, my son is improving, I'm healthier, I'm WRITING (and I actually have an OFFICE AGAIN!!!WOOOT). And I've signed up for a 5 day challenge to learn more about branding and business.
Because I'm back. I've made a decision. I'm an essential worker during the day, making the contribution I can there. But I am an author. It's who I am and what I do. And I am now going to figure out how to get back on that horse and make it work for me.
I sent out a newsletter. I have no idea if anyone will respond. I may be starting over from absolute zero. But that's okay. Not great--I mean, yeah, I want a fan base that loves me and will have stuck around, but okay. Because I did this once. I can do this again--and better. I've learned so much more and I'm so much stronger.
So here I am again.
Welcome.
