Those Weekends In New England

Chapter Seventeen

Even the death march is made up of musical notes.

Officer Strang stood at the Watergate's front desk with three others: the concierge, a bellman, and one other person, someone who said they were there to find out about Hannah Jergen. This person claimed to know she was there, and said he had a right to see her. This minute.

The policeman wasn't about to give out details until he had more information. Everyone was a suspect, so he thanked the hotel personnel for their help and led the newcomer to a seat in the lobby area.

"Okay, why should I give you any word on Hannah Jergen? You haven't even had the common courtesy to introduce yourself."

Once inside that motel room door, the scene made Denny scream out in a hoarse growl, "No!"

Hannah's arms and legs were tied to the bed. Her breathing was so shallow she couldn't have moved the flame of a candle. Clothed in remains of the silk blouse he remembered with such clarity, and nothing on below the waist except what could be called granny underpants, her skin looked pasty gray. A whimpering moan came from her lips as she tried to toss her head. Vials of a dark green-colored liquid were strewn all over the dirty nightstand. A glass with what to Denny looked like whiskey sat next to the bed, on the floor. He knew well when he was in the presence of whiskey. His wife drank a lot of it.

He was paralyzed by the disastrous sight. He didn't know this woman. She was a stranger. She couldn't be the same beautiful lady who had sat in his arms earlier, the one he had tried to comfort with sincere-but-hollow words only a few hours before. The one he had told he loved, more than once, meaning every syllable. That woman had been vital. Capable of thought and maybe a little confused. But totally alive, mind and body and soul.

"No! Please, no more!" Hannah's voice cried out and to him, the sound was overly strong for the sight of her. Her words mobilized him; he had no idea if she was conscious. Her eyes were closed; no movement. He rushed to her side and started in on the ropes binding her.

The knots were tight, but amateur. Denny visualized the ferocity, the frustrated anger which clearly was used in securing her, and that thought made him work harder. After a few minutes of impotent cursing, he freed her arms. She writhed and cried out with his last tug. His eyes hardened and his body convulsed as he noted the blood caked on the bindings he tossed out of the way.

"Hannah love, it's me. It's Denny. I'll get you out of here." He spoke as if to himself. No sign of recognition crossed her now-open but staring eyes.

He knew he wasn't alone with her. He felt another presence, heard sloppy breathing, but he ignored whoever was there. He couldn't unleash his shuddering rage right now. That would be dangerous for Hannah.

One thing at a time. One problem at a time. The woman on the bed was the only importance right now. Rage and revenge would quickly overtake him if he let them. And then he would be of no good to Hannah.

"Love. Listen if you can. You have to help me help you."

No response. With a hopeless, vacant stare of his own, Denny raised his eyes to the ceiling, vocally cursing his inability to make everything right. He feared he'd never hear her speak another word, or laugh, or see her dash back one of those disrespectful curls. He'd even be happy to hear her tell him to leave her alone, for good. Anything.

A figure walked out of the shadows of the bathroom with a gun pointed directly at Denny's head. Hannah shivered.

So she was conscious. Denny breathed a guarded sigh. On his knees beside the bed and still holding her head, he half-turned to take his first direct look at his enemy.